Saturday, 24 August 2013

Secrets.

Usually, when you have any kind of secret, you can keep it guarded, store it somewhere past that barely there memory of when you got so drunk you pulled somebody you reeeally shouldn't have, in a more well lit place than your mental to-do list. Secrets divide into good ones, like planning for somebody's birthday (hint: it's mine on the first!), and bad ones, like the time you were hurt so badly mentally that you took to your bed for a week, without being able to tell anybody why.

I'm not always sure what sort of secret an eating disorder would be, if only it was possible to store it away and hold the knowledge close, privately. It strikes me as neither good nor bad, just a basic fact. No matter what my weight is- and there's no correlation between how much a person struggles and their weight, I'm just using it as an example, really, here- I don't think that I ought to feel forced to hide it or make it into a big secret. Sometimes though, it gets a bit much when you know that people, strangers, think that they know you, because they can tell that you restrict the amount of food that you allow into your body. It's human nature to make assumptions and judgments, but at a low weight, people forget that there's a bigger, secret, inner battle, away from the plain idea of starvation.

Food intake to me is an intensely private matter. I would rather stand naked before you than divulge what I have eaten over the last few days; a person knowing my intake makes me feel more vulnerable and exposed than I would feel without any clothes on. I like that now I don't 'look' Anorexic, I can go about my business without people making assumptions and guesses at the sum of my daily calories. At the same time, though, now I don't have that look about me, it's quite hard to take that people assume I don't struggle. I do. Every calorie is a battle and every craving feels like a weakness. The anonymity of not being a skeleton is nice though, I must admit. As much as I don't think eating disorders should have to be complete secrets, not having my bones screaming out my fight to the world, is really, really comforting,

Sunday, 11 August 2013

Optimism.

I'm generally an optimist. As optimistic as it's possible to be, anyway, given my wide hand of mental health diagnonsense (when it comes to diagnoses, I employ a Pokemon style 'Gotta Catch 'Em All' type of mindset), and the symptomatic erasure of any hope that comes along. I reck that as long as I don't act on my impulses and get through the next year or so of hospital, although I might end up on mental health medications for most of my life, I can go from being a revolving door psychiatric patient to being able to manage my conditions as part of a wild but relatively ordinary life. I'll be stable enough to travel and live and love and hate and cry and laugh and all that intrinsically human stuff, which often alludes me at the appropriate times.

The problem is, my optimism is built on wobbly, at best, foundations and my proverbial strawberries get proverbially shat on quite often. I think I might be able to get better, relatively speaking... but I'm also dragging my feet over sorting stuff so I can start OU degree, because I might kill myself and then it'll all be a bit of a waste of time. That sounds really negative, I know, but I think in my head I'm just trying to be both prepared for my future and prepared for my demise. It's probably the same for any serious illness- as much as you'd like to always look forward, sometimes there just doesn't seem to be any forward to look at.

It's not always internal stuff, either. After the build up to Day One, there was a big anti-climax when it wasn't stuck to. They've ironed out some of the creases in communication that led to it, but it still reinforced everything I think I know about my present obesity and worthlessness. Every time I think I can fight, they strip me down and force me in the ring without even boxing gloves. Another meeting was called, more plans were put in place, and so far it's just about run. If not for my inherent positivity (and politeness- I was brung up reyt proper), I'd maybe tell them to shove it. But I know I can do this and I live to fight another day.

Anyway- to carry on from my last post, I'm still struggling. But I'm still an optimist. And I'll be alright, because I don't have any other option.

Tuesday, 6 August 2013

This too shall pass.

It's been a long, hard few days and it's only set to get worse. My best friend on the unit leaves tomorrow, they've started getting stricter on my meals, my nightmares are stopping me sleeping properly and my mood is close to rock bottom, probably as a result. When I struggle, I lose words and my grasp on time and reality, and so it's really hard to try and pin down enough of the words zooming in and out of my tired brain, to form an entry here. The ideas or, actually, even the words just won't come and sentence-forming is a monumental task; even the Guardian's US twitter account picked up on a dodgy sentence of mine (and when Americans question your English, you know it's bad). I know in the past when I've not written here people worry that I've done something- because usually I have, right fair- but I haven't and I won't, so I thought I best put a note in. I've decided to be as honest with the doctors and nurses as I can, and so I've not tried to blag myself some unescorted leave, because I'd only bloody overdose. Well done me.

Stay with me and don't forget me. When people aren't around, I'm convinced they'll forget me and that makes my existence seem shakey. My girl leaving tomorrow is making me think of all the friends that have come and gone. Maybe I'll expand upon that another time. For now, be patient. This too shall pass.