Monday, 25 November 2013

'5 Reasons To Date A Girl With An Eating Disorder'

There's an article doing the rounds, you've maybe seen it; the title is '5 Reasons To Date A Girl With An Eating Disorder'. A friend from home posted a link to it on her Facebook and after seeing the title, my plan was to read it and then write a revised edition here. That was the plan, heh. What actually happened was I opened the article and was instantly so belittled, so vicious was the attack, that I ended up passed out over my toilet, fingers down throat, and then restrained down the corridor to the- often apparently ironically titled- quiet room of the hospital ward.

I'd like to be able to write a witty yet informative rebuttal, but it's hit me in a way I didn't expect. The internet is full of attention seeking kids, who will write something deliberately to ruffle feathers and garner page views. Generally, little on the internet affects me, because I know that there are people whose whole bloody life is about trying to insult me and I really can't be arsed. Going viral seems to be a pretty pathetic life goal, and that's why I've not linked here to the original article. I also have a bit of a snobby thing about insults- it's not enough to insult me to get a reaction, if you want to do it properly you've got to put some mental ooooompth into it, really go all out. Not much out there is good enough to really get to my bones, but, annoyingly, the writer of 5 Reasons seems to have more than a couple of brain cells.

That's what makes it so vicious, I think, the fact that somebody has written this article with intelligence. It's supposed to be funny, but I'd like you to tell that to my ex-boyfriend. Have a laugh with his about the times he watched the police drag me about because my mental health had deteriorated so much. Ask him about seeing me with a tube up my nose, being force fed. A pint and a giggle about my overdoses. It's supposed to be funny, and sometimes the only way to deal with a situation is through laughter, but I don't think slow suicide is really one of those situations. Especially when you take into account the three girls I met on eating disorder units who died over the last few years, due to their Anorexia. Hilarious.

I'm not precious, I'm really not, and being precious seems to really be what the writer has an issue with. What I wrote earlier about my reaction to the article wasn't me acting on my 'white girl problem', it was me being cut open and having vinegar poured in, then reacting in my most primal way. And as white as my skin is, my eating disorder is a result of a lot of fucked up events, over a fair few years. It's not a 'white girl problem', it's what sometimes feels like the sane reaction to an insane set of circumstances, a consequence of a messed up society. If poverty, sexual abuse and domestic abuse aren't problems that affect white girls, you'll have to colour my skin purple.

I hope you never know the grim realities of this disease. Even you.

Saturday, 23 November 2013

Where in the world is Rebecca Condron...

If you never played Where in the World is Carmen Santiago (I think that's what her name was, but maybe don't quote me; I'm not up on Latino names or early '90s games. I am, however, clearly a poet who know' it), not only are you missing out, but you'll also not have hummed the title of this entry to the right theme tune. Shame on you. The basic game was this bird in a killer red coat bums about the world and chucks you clues as to where she is. Why? I don't know. The whole thing is a blur, apart from that coat. What a coat. I suppose, really, you might as well have just asked the whole world if they'd seen her- that coat was dead memorable. Shut up, Condron.

SO, Where in the World is Rebecca Condron? Clues, um, right. Steelworks. My favourite naughty word is included in the name. Ah, um, this is harder than it sounds, probably why I got bored of Carmen and just enjoyed her coat. Still, though, the game. I'm not sure at what point Carmen revealed her whereabouts, but I'll scream mine from the rooftop- HELLO WORLD, I'M HOME. HELLOOOOOO SCUNTHORPE!

I'm more than a bit chuffed to be here, even if 'here' is currently involving a big tele showing football. It's all good. For the first time in a year, I get a night out of hospital. Maybe, despite, or because of, the struggle, I'm slowly making progress. I've a long way to go to discharge, but I'm still dragging myself along, even if sometimes it seems to be by my teeth. Oh, it's good to be home.

Friday, 15 November 2013

Slipping.

I'm slipping. I'm angry at myself. I'm angry and so I'm slipping further, which is making me more angry with myself, which is sending me further up shit creek. It's when you begin with self-flagellation that Anorexia can jump in and really take hold. I don't know, I just try so hard to keep it together, but I'm sick of how difficult it is and I'm really wound up with myself for the fact that I just can't be the perfect model of recovery. I can't sit and honestly tell somebody that I'm doing as well as I look, because every calorie is still a battle and I'm now starting to lose more and more battles. It's just easier to cut those calories or cut these, just to have a bit of a break of the war. I call myself a recovering Anorexic because in the last few months I re-discovered food, but eating has become... bleurgh. It kind of feels like an experiment that I've tried but is coming to its natural end.

I know, of course, that there's nothing natural about Anorexia. Deliberately depriving yourself of food ends up with depriving yourself of far more. Comfort, warmth, relationships, energy.. it all goes to pot.  It's an unnatural, violent end to health and happiness, neither of which I feel worthy of.

Boredom and being sick of not being able to 'do recovery' perfectly sound like really trivial reasons for a relapse or blip or whatever the hell this is. Even I'm kind of rolling my eyes at this. It's so much more though- it's needing a rush and a change and some sort of, God, adventure or something. Not that losing weight is particularly effective at solving this deep rooted boredom and loss of interest in the pretty uninteresting life I have on this ward, but it's something to pour my energy into. As for the imperfection I face, it's even more illogical to then decide to be the opposite of what you view as perfection. I'm not one of those Anorexics who think being a skeleton is attractive or perfect or whatever, but, again, it feels more natural. I'm feeling suffocated in my skin by my fat, because it feels so alien. This is not my body. I don't even recognise myself.

Please just go easy on me until I can go easy on myself. I WILL get back on track, I will. I just need a rest and some time.

Wednesday, 6 November 2013

The Daily Mail (or, h8rz gna h8).

I have this dream of the newspaper the Daily Mail (also known as the Hate Mail, the Daily Fail and various other names that usually contain the c-word) publishing an vicious attack on me, when once I'm well and working. I hope they'll really push the boat out and get so desperate that they only mention in passing whatever achievement of mine they think is going to threaten their fascistic way of life, and clutch at the straws of making digs about my appearance or mental health or something. You know, really go in for comment on my frizzy hair and messy eyebrows, or, even better, try the mentally unstable card, try to infer that I'm dangerous- that would be something. Not least because the Hate Mail is about as subtle as a sledgehammer, and so their attempts at inference are always hilarious, but also because it's at the point that a person in an argument starts making personal digs that they have intellectually lost. If you're debating a serious point and you get somebody attempting to insult you, they've lost. They can't make an intelligent point, so they get personal. Debate over.

The reason it's the Hate Mail that I really want to throw muck at me is because there's not another mainstream British news source that I have less respect for. Apart from the right-wing political parties, there's probably not another mainstream institution of this country I have less respect for, in fact. The Hate Mail is insidious, and, at times, pretty dangerous for the unsubstantiated bile it vomits out. I think you know if you've really made it when you really get beneath the skin of your opponents and they can't brush you off anymore, they just have to lash out. Ambivalence is far worse from your opposition than hatred is- hatred takes up energy and effort and that's when you know you've done it. There's something victorious to be gleaned from knowing that you've won, almost that somebody has fallen for whatever it is they're accusing you of, especially when that's just a side affect of you living your life and you're not actually trying to win.

As I've written before, my psychiatrist has of late taken to essentially verbally exsanguinating (that's my word of the week- it basically means to bleed dry) me, at my fortnightly ward rounds. It hit me hard because, unlike the Hate Mail, I had a lot of respect for the man; we haven't always got on, but I always respected him. I've decided though that I need to, in equal parts, take on his words and make sure that I'm not doing as I'm accused of- being manipulative, intellectually swiveling (which is another fun word) my way out of things and abusing my intellect- and, on the other hand, to let him say what he wants and, just, well, go with it. This is a bit of a drawn out way of saying H8RZ GNA H8 (to those over 25, that's 'haters gonna hate'). It's all good. And, as the psychotherapist reminded me, when I'm out of this place and I'm a free woman, being intelligent will probably never again be an insult and my so-called 'manipulative' (I still struggle with that, because it's pretty much inherently bad. but I'm pretty sure it's just part of being intelligent) streak ought to be what makes me successful.

A few staff members have now taken to referring back to what the doctor has said in dealing with me, but I'm pretty sure in that case it's just to shut me up when they're afraid of losing an argument with me. It's stupid, because I'm not here to fight or to try and get one over on staff, and that's what it's becoming, with some of them. It's as if they're trying deliberately to get one over on me by upsetting me when I'm actually just trying to have something clarified (I have the annoying trait of needing to understand the ins and outs of things, which I think comes across as me trying to 'out-maneuver' staff) But all I can do is put my head down and let it go. H8RZ GNA H8.