It's been a while since I've properly written here. In a way, there's so much to say and so little. Same two hospital corridors, same bland activities, same lack of spontaneity and adventure. Case in point, though, of nothing changing, but everything changing; I happened upon the written record of my weight, last week. I've gone from weighing a very underweight, very horrible number, to a very healthy, but somehow similarly horrible, healthy number. Nowt changed, in real terms, because I saw the number. My thighs didn't suddenly swell and my stomach didn't expand, but seeing the number may have well have done that to me, because now when I see myself, that awful number is scrawled all over my ever expanding flesh. I've gone from being glad that my bones aren't screaming out my diagnosis, to feeling that my fat is howling out from beneath my clothing. What I meant to say, in that convoluted example, is that every day is the same, but sometimes tiny details that can change everything.
The other thing is, events arrive- like my birthday, a few weeks ago- that make me realise that time has passed and the world hasn't stopped turning, it's just that now it's turning without me really being a part of it. The nights are drawing in, and soon it'll be winter, like it was when I arrived here. My place in the world is growing smaller and smaller, if I even have a place out there anymore. I suppose, I'm just sad. I don't seem to be getting anywhere, or gaining anything but weight.
I have to keep reminding myself that this isn't a short term fix. My mental health problems didn't occur over night. I didn't wake up one day hyperactive, just to crash through the floor by dinnertime and to be hearing voices by tea. I didn't suddenly limit my diet to the bare minimum, or suddenly decide it'd be a good idea to eat a week's worth of food, to then vomit until I saw blood. They didn't occur overnight and it's going to take a long ol' time for any type of recovery. And so generally, I try not to think too far into the future. That's a lie, actually, I don't really seem able to do so. I mean really, why bother? I could still be here in a year, two years, or even longer- who knows. Besides which, had I the ability of foresight I'd have never imagined this as a future for myself. I'm all or nothing- in my head I'd be mad-successful or, well, dead. But less of that.
I think the time frame is probably easier for us on the inside to handle, in a way, than it is for our loved ones. Humans are adaptable and it's a lot easier than you'd think to make a home, even in a hospital. My room here has more of my stuff than my room at home, and is covered in photos and pictures and letters from people. Communal areas are very clinical, but I've seen worse student accommodation. This is what I usually think, anyway, what I try to tell myself. With time being such an issue right now for me though, honestly, it broke my heart when Ginge left me on Sunday. You can make a nest in any tree, but there's always that one bit of foliage that really IS home and mine's back in Scunthorpe. And I miss that place. And that strange little half life I lived there last year.