Tuesday, 30 December 2014

Anger.

Things are becoming a bit of a mess. I'm angry. I'm constantly angry and I don't know why. Maybe it was because when weight loss and self harm still felt like a safety net, I knew I could fall. Now the net has gone, there are no options but to keep driving, keep pushing, and to end every day vowing the next day will be better. Maybe it's just recovery, or nostalgia for a terrible past that I feel I deserve. Every relapse is like going back to bed with an abusive partner, one who has ripped your sanity and your health and your life apart. And I can't keep doing that and expecting to survive, whilst praying I don't. It's not a lifestyle, it's the very opposite; a gruesome death.

I had a lovely Christmas- my family are so incredible- and I'm going home again tomorrow for a few days, and so I don't want to leave 2014 with negativity, but it hasn't been the greatest of years. Next year, next year, next year. I don't want to be bitter or have resentment or to pass responsibility or anything, but I need to convince myself that a whole year can be a blip, a whole lifetime can be a mess, but there is always a chance to start anew. Every day you breathe is a fresh start, but every year you survive is a true beginning.

As lovely as Christmas was, there were always the reminders of what I've done to myself. The fact that I have to use crutches because my years of self-abuse are taking their toll on my joints. Having to leave our family's Christmas day behind to go home and sleep because of the pain. Being exhausted constantly from the sleepers my body is addicted to, and from trying not to take them. Having to leave a party early, to get back to hospital for the time dictated to me. It all felt like I had a flashing sign above my head, telling of my past, my present, and the future I need to build.

I'm 24 years behind everyone I know who is my age, whilst feeling ten times older than that, in terms of life experience. I don't think that makes sense- or any of this does- but I don't know how else to express it.

Tuesday, 23 December 2014

24 hours, 13 mins.

I'm getting to that point where everything is doing my head in. When I was a kid, the last few days before Christmas dragged, and they seem to be so even more this year. 24 hours and 13 mins until home time. I'm actually counting down now and everything; God, I'd sell my boobs to be home right now, and my boobs are legendary. I need my own space, the opportunity to smoke when I want, not just at designated times, and a bloody great chunk of Christmas pudding, please.

That's about it for my Christmas list, but I'm not one for turning down free shit (I'm from Scunthorpe, let's not forget), so bring on Christmas morning too. And dinner with the fam. And the Queen's speech and crackers and chocolate and Dr Who and even more chocolate (there are no calories at Christmas). Bring on crazy Skype sessions and even crazier than normal fashion decisions. It's hard to feel festive in hospital, so just bring on general festivities.

SO, if I don't see you, bad luck to you. If you do, you lucky sod. Let the yuletide be as gay as I am (that's quite gay).

Saturday, 13 December 2014

Little girl, you ain't going nowhere...

I wrote this about 5 years ago, and posted it on here, back then. Sometimes I just need to remind myself of my own words.

Little girl, you ain't going nowhere...

Before the guilt is the high. You can do less and you can do more. You're on fire, you are buzzing, you are a success. You can do this better than anything you have ever attempted, and you can do this better than anybody who has ever gone before you. You're not stupid enough to take it too far, that's not what you're about- you're in control and you could get out, you really could. But why would you want to? You are electric. People get sacrificed, but that's their fault for not being strong enough to keep up. Feelings get sacrificed, but hunger is more bareable than fear or pain. Experiences get sacrificed, but you're experiencing something far greater- your very own ascension, a shedding of humanity.

But then life... you look around and life has been sacrificed- you're nothing and you realise that somewhere along the way, that became the aim. And suddenly it's not worth it, it's too much. You have a hunger for nothingness and a thirst for destruction and this was never supposed to happen. You can't squash these cravings as you did your physical hunger. You need out, you need to run away from this.

And then comes the guilt.

You're already used to the guilt of eating, of not eating, of purging, of not purging. You've become used to the guilt of stealing to fuel the addiction- food, pills, money. Eventually you even get used to the guilt of what it's doing to your family and your friends, because you learn to pass the blame. It's the illness- it's not your fault you're this way or that you did that thing, it's the disease. It's the fault of everyone around you- they should love you less, they should love you more. They should stop you, they should leave you alone. They don't understand. They're trying too hard or not hard enough to understand. And then further... You have this illness and that must be the fault of the media, with it's unrealistic depictions of perfection. Of those girls you once met online, who told you to Stay Strong and Think Thin. Of your genes. Of the child in the playground who called you fat when you were 6. Of God, for giving you this life. Of your parents, for bringing you into this world.

But you get past that. Then it suddenly hits you, and the guilt is unavoidable. You are stuck, you really are. And why are you stuck? Whose fault is it? It's yours. YOU were the one, all that time ago, who decided not to eat. It wasn't always an addiction, you put time into nurturing the beast. You weren't always stuck and alone, you bit off the hand that may have saved you. And that's what you can't resolve. Ironically, the guilt then becomes the thing that keeps you in the game. The voice of guilt becomes so loud that you can't hear your body crying for nourishment, you can't hear people around you crying for you to nourish it. It's impossible to hear the answers, over the sound of your own guilt. And you take that to mean you're so self-centred, you're vain, you're scum. And that exacerbates the situation further.


Little girl, you ain't going nowhere until you can forgive yourself

Thursday, 11 December 2014

Fraudulent claims.

I've written before about how I'm a genuine, official, professional public speaker. Well, I get paid minimum wage to go to meetings, and lecture at unis and shit. Definitely a professional; minimum wage, baby. I was presenting a short talk today as part of a conference thing and I suddenly realised I'm a fraud. I stand there, looking recovered as an anorexic and feeling anything but. I tell people things are better, and mostly they are a bit. But I'm a long way from recovered and I'm fighting so hard but I can't really claim to be anorexic or recovered. It's like purgatory.

I feel like a joke, a sideshow freak. And at the same time as I feel everyone is doubting my personal hell, I feel invisible. I'm so confused right now.

I can't end on a negative though, I've done that too much recently. So, here are 5 good things:

-I'm going home tomorrow. In 24 hours, I'll be home. In 48 hours I'll still be home. In 72, I'll STILL be home. It's not often I can say that.`
-My tits. No, seriously.
-Yesterday I ate Maltesers and they were bloody good.
-I've pimped out my crutches. Floral cushions stitched onto the handles? Check.
-TOMORROW I'M GOING HOME. That gets two mentions, deal with it ;).

It's not all good, but despite all of this right now, I know, deep down, it will be all good.

Thursday, 4 December 2014

Fuck up.

I'm been dreading writing this, as if once I publish it on here it becomes solidified. Tuesday was horrible. HORRIBLE. Worse than expected. I can't bring myself to say what happened, but see my last post and you'll get it.

I'm feeling like a battery hen at the moment and it's all I can do not to go stark and start ripping my (hypothetical, ish) feathers out. I just need something to go right, to feel proud of something. I feel like such a failure. Such a fat failure. I'm almost crying as I type because I feel so strongly against myself, and everything I do. It's never good enough. And right now I don't even know what precisely I'm doing wrong, just that it fits somewhere in the EVERYTHING category.

And I swear, if I read one more bragging weight-loss thread of facebook I'm out. The only achievable thing for me right now is to lose weight, and I'm fighting so hard to swim against the current, but it's dragging me in. Why the hell does weight have anything to do with achievement-

And now I'm crying. It took a staff member to come and ask what I wanted for supper and I'm crying like a fucking baby. Such a fuck up.

Monday, 1 December 2014

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow will be beautiful or the worst day in a long time. One of the many, many things I hate about being detained in this way is that I have no choice even on something as simple as whether my day will be brilliant or horrific. I've a tribunal tomorrow, an opportunity for me to state the case for me to get off my section (detention in hospital). Chances are, I won't get off. But I'm clinging to the smallest shred of hope, and preparing myself as best I can. So far today that's been sorting my nails, picking an outfit and getting one of the girls in here to wash my hair for me. Later, I'll shave and tidy up and work out the exact amount of make up to make myself look more presentable, balanced with the chances I'll end up in tears.

It's all the little, superficial things that I can do now. My freedom won't be decided on my chipless nails or hairless legs, but I'm hoping if I feel as good as I can about myself, I'll sound more, God, sane? I can't wait for the day I can be judged and judge myself on my real achievements, not the style of my dress or even, for that matter, the size of my thighs, but right now this is what I have to do.

Oh, and I'm still hobbling about on my crutches, which I've made fabulous with the addition of leopard print ribbon. Maybe I'll add some glitter ribbon. Easy tiger, I know. Roar. I went up the road to the shop today and it bloody killed. I was meant to be going to Leeds Christmas market this weekend, but this hip problem, a by-product of years of self abuse, has taken that. Another thing snatched away by anorexia. Fuck this. Get me out.

Saturday, 29 November 2014

Balance.

It seems that I can't balance Anorexia with, well, anything much right now and it seemed to take priority over everything this last week, hence the silence on this place. It's actually terrifying, and in a way, I think it must be a bit like being diagnosed with dementia. You know you're going to lose cognition, but you know you're going to know you're forgetting things until, well, you don't. Knowledge of demise is infinitely more petrifying than I can express.

I won't go back. I won't. I'm on bloody crutches right now, for a hip problem that's incredo likely to be a side effect of years and years of this crap. I could list every part of my body, and tell you what it's done to me. What I've done for myself. I. Me. I don't like thinking of it that way, of being able to stop the train before it ran out of tracks, then watching it fallingfallingfalling.

I won't fall.

Wednesday, 19 November 2014

Knackered.

I am exhausted. And my thighs are expanding by the second. I can keep going so long, then my body erupts and takes my mind with it. Or the other way around; my mind goes tits and so my thighs do? God alone knows. I have so much I could write about, so many things to think about, so much in general to do, and I'm squandering my potential stressing about the irrelevant size of my body. Just for a day, it would be nice not to feel like a complete failure. A failure at recovery, because I'm so stressed and (ever so slightly- don't worry) limiting my diet and I failure at whatever the hell I think I should look like, to carry the label of anorexic.

It didn't help that I was told earlier this week that I don't look anorexic. There's something about that. Is 'anorexic' a label to aspire to? Or should I be glad of the privacy of not having people assume certain things, just because I'm very underweight? Should I be glad that I'm healthy? Or should I worry that I've lost my identity, of being ill? Sometimes I miss, and I hate admitting this, not having to verbally express my struggling and letting the scales speak for me. I hate scales.

Gaining weight is just dealing with a symptom. I wish I could scream this from the rooftops. It was necessary and it took some of my poor health with it, but it was just. dealing. with. a. symptom. Weight actually has bugger all to do with eating disorders. Losing weight is a way of channelling and projecting my own pain and attention onto the surface of my body. And now, it seems that all the help and care from other people only went into my weight. If only people stopped to think about the bare fact that eating disorders are psychological problems and only physical as a by-product, life for those of us trying to recover would be a hell of a lot easier.

I am so, so tired.

Thursday, 13 November 2014

A good feeling.

I have been deleting and re-writing this entry for literally hours (and by that, I mean probably a good 10 minutes). I can be dead eloquent when I'm struggling, but because when something good happens I get borderline manic, my head goes a million miles per hour and it's really difficult to adequately express, well, anything. I can spend hours writing cryptic shopping lists, even, just for the craic. Small things, hahaha.

Yesterday, I had the best day I've had in so long. It started at 4.55am (not that I'm bitter, but as I write this I'm sending death vibes to the member of staff who woke me up), and ended somewhere around 10pm. I went back to Milton Keynes- the town of my conception (did Jesus ever visit Mary/Gabriel's den? He should've, even Harry Potter went back to Godric's Hollow)- which was bizarre, for a conference on pathways to recovery. The conference was incredible and overwhelming; there's something so beautiful about sitting in a room and knowing that a large percentage of us in there would not be alive without both the physical and mental health services that we all complain about. We were saved, and maybe we were saved for a reason, I don't know. All I know is it almost feels magical.

I presented and I listened to a lot of others speak, too. There was such a positive atmosphere, despite the seriousness and emotional aspects of what we discussed. There was so much courage and willingness and it was, I don't know, inspirational.

It was also a brilliant networking event. I've now got contact details from some of the people there, and I can't wait to get in touch with them. Numerous people expressed interest in me presenting in their areas and, God, I'm happy. I'm proud. I kick arse. And if you know me, you know those are not thing I can often say.

(Also, the staff with me were pretty cool and we ended up in a trampoline park. But for God's sake, don't let anyone know I said that they were cool. Ahem. I totally didn't have a brilliant laugh with them. Ahem).

Friday, 7 November 2014

10 things I've just learnt

They say you learn something new every day, but whenever I read something like that, it sounds like a challenge. A bit like when you get something delicious and it say it'll feed 10. As. If. Game on. Anyway, back off that tangent; I think I've learnt a good 10 things over this last week and so I'm going to share my, ahem, wisdom:

1. Being in a room of strangers is an opportunity, not something to cause anxiety. It's pretty cool to know that, chances are, there'll be someone dead fun hidden away.

2. Sometimes, just sometimes, that room of strangers may contain someone who wants to present something really bloody stupid. It's best to question, just to make sure it's not as shit as it sounds. If it is as shit as you think (I'm always right, don't know about you), say 'with all due respect' and 'I'm sorry, buuuuuut...' as much as you can. Make a game of it.

3. You can glitter glue anything.

4. Or add normal glitter to anything.

5. Get involved in everything. The only way to improve things- or even, to get inspired to do or improve things- is to get up, get on, shout out.

6. It's ok to want to always be there for someone, but it's also ok if somebody wants to be there for you. That said, if you need to, take time for yourself. And that's more than ok.

7. The body needs fuel. Who knew?

8. Reading back old blog entries (or, if you keep a diary, read old ones) is a melancholic way to spend some time. But more than that, it's pretty amazing to see how far you've come.

9. It's possible to get 4 tubes of Smarties in your mouth at one time (minus the packaging; that's my next aim).

10. Those 4 tubes? Those are good. They're not to be feared, alright? ALRIGHT.

Tuesday, 28 October 2014

You.

Hey, you. You. Stand up. I didn't mean that literally, but if you did, then stamp. Stamp about the injustices served on you. Stamp on the things you tell yourself in the dead of night. Stamp on everything you've been told, and pause to smile at the good things that you've learnt. Stamp on your demons. In fact, take a dagger to them, because they're not as strong as you are. I know it hurts and I know sometimes the demons are all that you feel you have, but take that dagger. Own it. You have and are so much more. I promise.

You are so damn beautiful and you contain a lot more than hurt and pain. Your beauty comes from so many waves and places, crevices you never knew your yearning body has, as gorgeous as your mind and your love. You are not your past. You shouldn't have to relive what they did to you, and one day you won't. Just know, that every day you make it out of bed, you are a phoenix rising from the ashes of days gone, that burn you from the inside out. You're fighting even harder than you know. And those days where you don't rise are just, well, days. Do whatever you have to, to survive, but remember that although the sun sets, it does always rise.

You're strong, stronger than you feel now. One day you'll see it. See the beauty that surrounds you, see the beauty inside of you.  You'll recognise how you fought for all aspects of life; the good and bad, no longer numbed and explosive.

Please, please keep rising. If I could, I'd introduce my demons to yours, and let them fight each other, rather than us. They will never win, not against us, and the fact that you're still here just proves that. You may have nearly died, you may have wanted to more than you've ever wanted anything else, but it can't last. It just can't. Please, please look after yourself. If you can't be happy- and that's absolutely fine, because one day you will- at least be as safe as you can be. Please. It's ok to ask for help. It's ok not to be ok. But one day, you little warrior, you will be more than ok. I have faith in you, even when you don't in yourself, because you see only the negative and I don't, I love it all.

Fight, I know how much it hurts and it's messy, but it'll be worth it. We'll do this.

Friday, 24 October 2014

Frustration.

I'm starting to get really, really frustrated You know how when you've been seriously ill and you're in hospital or whatever, as you start to get better you just get to a point where you might not be totally well, but you're bored as hell, because it doesn't feel like you need to be there? I reckon that boredom is a pretty good sign of recovery, both in the analogy I just gave, and as where I am now. I'm at that level where I'm so bored of being bored that I can't really be arsed doing anything to combat it. Saying that, there's not much I could do about it even if I wanted to. Just keep on keepin' on, Condron.

I told my psychiatrist et al that I'm being neglected in here and that I'd be better at home. Granted, I was in an awful mood and so I was a bit dramatic, but I stand by what I said. And my anger and progress persuaded them to let me go home later today, until Sunday; home for more than a night, for the first time this year. GET. IN. But back to my neglect- they won't take me off my meal plan and let me sort out my own diet, but instead they're actually going full days without giving me food so I am sorting myself. If I wasn't feeling as strong as I am, I'd be en route to another NG tube, if left to them.

I'm ok, I'm fine, I'm just frustrated that things aren't going quick enough. I'm ready to do this, to kick arse, to get the life I always wanted. I can do it. I will do it.

Sunday, 19 October 2014

Free dumb!

Oh Lawwd, have I lot to write about right now. You know when you're so far into a tunnel that you're just digging your way further in? That was me, up until Friday morning. You know that moment when you realise the light at the end of it probably isn't a train? That's me in my brand new state. Where did that come from? Hope. Not a woman named Hope and not, I dunno, religion or something, but actual hope in the future- in having a future at all- and in my ability to make my ambitions into my autobiography.

So what changed? I feel like I've gone from begging and pleading people to recognise that I'm not the person I was two years ago- the victim of circumstance, existing only at the time that somebody needed something to abuse. The person who drank to the point of major psychosis and emergency psych admissions. The person who over-compensated for her lack of self-respect and confidence by coming over so brash that she alienated everybody around her so as to avoid being hurt. I'm just, I don't know, brand new and ancient- I've gone from begging for acknowledgement to feeling like I've been given it and the release is amazing.

I had a big meeting on Friday. My psychiatrist, doctor, hospital social worker, community social worker, nurse, occupational therapist, ward manager, mum and I. BIG. When you're sectioned, you're meant to have these every 6 months, but mine was supposed to be in June, when I was in the general hospital with the feeding tube and had only just been re-scheduled. Obviously, a lot has happened in the 10 months since my last big meeting, so I was shitting it. Almost literally, swear down. Somehow, though, everything I needed the staff to say, was said.

In short; I'm doing well. I'm on the road to discharge. I WILL BE OUT OF HOSPITAL EARLY NEXT YEAR. It's been literally years that I've been in, and so a couple of months longer is actually nothing. I am reeeeally bloody thrilled (that's me being typically British and understating. Maybe the first thing I have ever understated. Progress, baby!). I keep having to go to my room to squeal. It's so hard not to just type everything in capitals. CAPITALS. With extra letters. Extraaaaa letters.

Shit's coming up Condron :).

Tuesday, 14 October 2014

Physical health + mental health.

'When I saw you a few weeks ago, I could tell you were Anorexic just from looking at you, but now you wouldn't know!'

First off, let me just clear something up- I don't romanticise being underweight. I don't look at pictures of the emaciated without feeling unbearably sad for the people concerned. I don't fantasise about bones and paper skin and physically fragility. I hate my body at low weights, as much as I hate it at healthy one. But with that said, I do have a bit of an identity problem, where it's hard to work out who I am without the eating disorder. I'm not sure, most of the time, that I am anything more than a creaking version of Pandora's Box.

As much as I hate all of my issues being evident to anybody who sees me (or, at least, as much as I hate people assuming they know my issues from the stories of my visible bones), I'm almost missing not having to feel constantly like I have to justify and explain my suffering. I was chatting to Alex the other day, and she made a comment about her head being behind her body, and it's so completely bang on for me, too. My head isn't ready to accept my relatively new healthy body, nor am I as mentally well as I am physically (which says a lot considering I'm always physically ill). I'm struggling even more, now, with food than I was before.

Weight gain is a crucial part of recovery from being at an Anorexic low weight. But it's just that; a part. It's dealing with one symptom- weight loss- and not with any of the issues that caused the weight loss. It's important to stabilise physical health, but it's just as important to stabilise mental health, too. So, to get to the quote I started with, making a comment like that is just so, so ignorant. And unnecessary. I spend too much time already crying over my size, without thinking that others are spending their time too analysing my size, too.

Just please, please don't mention what I'm eating, how I'm eating, what my body looks like, what my weight is... it's pretty simple, because you wouldn't make comments to a non-anorexic about their size if they'd gained a lot of weight, and that unwritten rule applies even more to those of us struggling to conquer our skeletons.

Friday, 10 October 2014

World Mental Health Day

I was going to have a bit of a rant about how mental health awareness is given just one day a year, but you know what? That's not true. Check out Young Minds, par example, on social media- they're an incredible charity, looking all year round at the problems that can cause or exacerbate poor mental health in young people. There are a lot of people working really hard to make it so one year we just won't need this day, we will have a year of awareness, because society will have shifted. Here's hoping, anyway.

I posted on social media today that I'd answer any MH related question, whether about poor mental health in general, or more personal. I'm going to share my favourite question with you, and how I answered it....

Matt- I'm going to ask you the same question Stephen Fry poses in his bipolar documentary (and the one my Mum answered that surprised me!) If there was a big red button in front of you that would take it all away and make you 'normal' ... Would you press it?

Me- Depends on how you define 'normal'- if normal is having no mental health problems, then yes. The highs are great at the time, but the fallout from them- the sections, the vulnerable positions I put myself in, the hurt and worry it causes my family, the relationships that have been ruined- then yes. Definitely. To be able to eat because I'm peckish or fancy something, that would be nice. The lows and anxiety, obviously, please take. But if normal is, well, average, then no way. I'm not my mental illnesses and I think going through all of this, meeting so many people from units, has probably made me a better, more interesting person. Take the illness, but keep the lessons learnt and the complete oddity that is my personality.

Tuesday, 7 October 2014

Dramatics.

Right, it might as well be said (written? Typed? These are the tangents that define my life), I am really bloody dramatic. Even my body does it- like I wrote last time, I've got myself another infection. I've also now got an absolute bitch of a cold, and a gippy stomach. Why, oh why, can I not just get the sniffles? I need to eat a box or five of those strawberry chewable vitamins. Criiikey, I can't even take vitamins in a non-dramatic way, see? Oh, my dramatic life.

I used to love drama at school. I kind of saw it as an excuse to act like a total twat, back when I cared too much what people thought to just act like a twat all the time. It's not a problem I particularly have now. When I got to uni, because I studied politics, performing became doing presentations, and because at that time I confused having no self respect with being free, I would go to confusedly ridiculous lengths to avoid having to do them. I thought I was free, but actually, I was just miserable and more caged than ever.

Slowly, I'm discovering that I can laugh without alcohol, that I'm pretty damn weird and that's all good, and, crucially, I don't always have to be in character.

It's all about getting to the person I thought I was during performances, but actually being that person, rather than a canvas for whomever I was to play. Away from performances and back to presenting, yesterday I went through to York to do a presentation to students on my experiences. I've done it a few times, at different unis, and I love it. It's owning my history and my future. It's speaking about things that Just Are Not Talked About, Ever and feeling comfortable and uncomfortable. I don't know. It was a lovely group we presented to, too, and it means a lot to me, because whether they realise it or not- it's things I need to say and acceptance I need to feel. No more hiding behind characters and masks.

Wednesday, 1 October 2014

Poor body.

I've really been shaking stuff up, getting down and making some changes. Well, ish. I've managed to get me an ear infection that's so bad I ended up at the general yesterday. It is shaking it up from my usual chest infections, though. That's something.

I have a terrible immune system. Thank-you Anorexia, thank you. If there's a cold going around, I end up with a chest infection. Back in the self harm days (besides ED things it's been 9 month. Serious, check me out), whatever I did to myself would end up infected. The effects of eating disorders can be so much more long term; problems arising, still after re-feeding/weight gain. I'm not too far off a healthy weight now, but still the problems persist. Honestly, when I get ill (if you know me from reading this regularly, you know how often I'm ill!), it terrifies me. Not for the infection or virus or whatever itself, but for the question, 'what the hell have I done?'

I've always wanted a big family, lots of kids. My mum has 5 sisters and the stories from her childhood and the stuff they did are hilarious. I want to love and nurture a person who will know that it'll all be lovely. I want to shelter but expose, for my child not to want for anything, but at the same time, not to get all they want, materially. I never dreamt about a wedding, but always I've wanted kids. Named them and renamed them hundreds of times. That's my biggest fear. I don't want to be redundant. But what if I've ruined my chances, in the quest for some peace of mind? I know that there are other options- adoption, fostering, etc. I know that, but, I don't know. All I know is the fear of the heartache that may be ahead.

My body can't cope with keeping me well, even when my mind is workingworking to do its best to keep my weight up. If it can't cope now, what happens after the next time I relapse, god forbid?

Friday, 26 September 2014

An ashtray and a speech.

Life right now is looking a bit like an ashtray at 4am. Dirty; overflowing; full of the sad remnants, the ghosts, of the night before. Whisperings of excited conversations, speaking of sore feet and hearts and screams of horror and delight. Everything is murky and a lot more complicated than it looks. Unless, in romanticising an ashtray (maybe the ashtray has a crude message across it because it was bought in Skegness), I'm making it a lot more complicated and turning it into a lot more than just a saucer for fag ends. Anyway, I stand by my analogy. Life is a bit grim now, but the excitement, horror and delight were here not so long ago.

I'm too tired to explain. I'm too tired to do much apart from berate myself for ruining my own excitement and run of good days. It's been a pretty lovely week. It's ended with my first box of laxatives in years. It's ended with me already pained and dreading the next few days. Where, oh where, is the glamour that the pro-ana imbeciles would have you to believe existed? 

I will explain all, just not right now. I'll explain it all. For now though, here's a speech I read at my hospital's music fest this week:


(feel free to finish reading here. Or anywhere, really)


Welcome to the Big Blue Festival. We're here today to celebrate, support and fund-raise for Jeans for Genes day and MacMillan cancer care. The chances of either affecting you are a lot higher than you'd expect on first thought; I won't go into statistic mode (I'm really good at maths and once I start I won't stop), but I'd definitely recommend digging deep and researching the charities because they're really quite brilliant. Jeans for Genes day is, at its heart, a family day, due to the passing of the conditions the charity hopes to one day eradicate going down family lines. With cancer also having the ability to be passed through, both groups of conditions are pretty much family linked.

My family are so great, that sometimes telling stories of the mad craic we've done feels like bragging. Over the last few years, through the amazing women I live with here, I've learnt how lucky I am to have the genetic family that I do. More than that though, I've learnt how lucky I am to be able to forge my second family here, with those amazing women I just spoke about. I've gained 15 sisters, but we also take in turns to be whatever family role another needs. When I'm sad, like a child, sometimes I just want my mum. When I'm sad, I have over a dozen sisters to let me cry on and more often than not, give me the kick and the fight back, when I feel all is broken.

It's not all miserable. My girls, my sisters, have provided me with more laughs than I've even had in my life. They provide me with music, dancing, laughter, and, naturally, tears. Whether we are dancing in the corridor (strictly off the record), mattress surfing in the corridor (ahem, off the record), or simply sitting around and chatting, I am so honoured to be a part of this family. Blood may be thicker than water, but we are made of stars and that's really bloody bright.

I am just one woman, on one ward in this hospital and so I don't really know many people who aren't from [my ward], I'm sorry for that, because if they're anything like the Bitchez [from my ward] (trademark), I'm missing out. To my girls, thank you for your love. To any visitors today and the staff; thank you for coming to witness the incredible talent on show here. Thank you to those who have played any part in shaping any one of us. Thank you, more than anything, to my [hospital] sisters and brothers who are going to perform today.

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

Age.

We age. It's a straight forward concept, but one that, as you become an adult, seems to be a tide you're to constantly swim against. Physical ageing is kind of beautiful (well, at the very least its better than the alternative; there are no beautiful corpses). As much as innocence is beautiful- I love looking at my cousins' hands and knowing they've not crammed them down their throats or used them to drag a blade across the blank canvas of their skins- there's something about the wisdom of each grey hair and wrinkle, the way that they speak of a past that you can never understand. It's like a book with yellowing pages and loose binding.

It's not just the physical that ages, although that's the easy bit; all you have to do is exist. The mental ageing is a blind tunnel. I've spent some time recently trying to work out whether my ever growing anger I feel towards my past and my previous selves is a sign of mental ageing or if it's stagnation or even regression. Or whether it even matters. Physically, the anorexia is making me feel 85. Mentally, it's making me feel like a child.

It's ok to be angry. So I tell myself, anyway. I've spent so long desperately trying to avoid my own anger because I'm so scared of turning into one of the monsters that have caused me so much pain. I'm starting to feel it, but I'm still taking it out on myself. I need to stop and breathe. I need to celebrate how I became the person I am. The adult. The grown up Condron. The powerful one.

I've written before about how life's challenges do not necessarily make a person stronger, so I won't labour that point. But challenges, for better and worst, do shape the person you become. I have a hell of a lot of anger at who I am and how I got here, but I need to lay it to rest. I need to celebrate that I do have redeeming features and I've found myself surrounded by lovely people, so I can't be as bad of a person as I assume. Is this the beginning of self esteem? Or at the very least, self respect? I hope so. I'll make it so.

Sunday, 14 September 2014

Busy busy.

I'm just about dead on my feet, but I'm forcing myself onto my arse because I could well torture myself a bit more by prancing about. Beware though, I could well end up falling asleep on the keyboard (it's happened before. Even sober, as I sadly am now) and you might just get a string of letters from my nose planting, before my drool trips the laptop and I am electrocuted.

kejlhfsekjjjjjjjjjj
(just kidding)

It's been an excellent weekend. Well. Ish. It involved Young Minds training, meeting new friends, seeing an old one and spending time with the ones I already have. Pretty perfect, eh? And it was. It should have been. But that doesn't take into account my mental state and the effect on my physical. I'm struggling and, anorexia-wise, I'm on a cliff edge. I somehow talked my way off my meal plan, so I have freedom to eat or not eat, which is bloody complicated because all I want is to be happy and well, but my mind is constantly creating new ways to avoid both of these things. I'm struggling with entitlement. I want to be well, but am I entitled? Is my body? Is it better to torture myself physically, by restricting, or mentally, by not? It's exhausting.

My blood pressure keeps dropping and I'm having to hide physical weakness and it's just torture. I need a break. I'm nearly crying, because I just need a break. I'm about to stop tapping about, get up, force myself to potter and prance before I crumble completely. I'll make tomorrow better.

Monday, 8 September 2014

An open letter to a TGI's manager.

Hi, Emma.

I don't know if you remember me. I'm the girl in the heaving TGI Friday in Meadowhall, on Saturday. I'm the girl trying to overcome anorexia. I'm the girl who noticed that there were too many people around, for me to be able to eat. I'm the girl who started what could have been a full breakdown, over the thought of people seeing me eat. I'm the girl you took into the office at your restaurant, sat me down, gave me water. I'm the girl for whom you arranged a table right at the back. I'm the girl who spilled her heart out, because I was so touched. I'm the girl who is still touched.

I've been on the brunt of total ignorance where it comes to mental illness, and it's become something I expect. Having to cover my ears because the voices get too loud, trembling. Petrified by life. When once you meet somebody like you, you who went so totally out of your way to accommodate me, it's such a buzz that I'm still riding it.

I suppose I should expect more from people. I've been hurt so much and so many times that I expect everyone is only ever out for themselves. Your time and care showed me that there are genuinely good people, people who appreciate the difficulty of the battle and the fight. I ate that day, despite me struggling to fight at all right now, because I was so honoured by your actions. I fought because when somebody goes above and beyond, even if it sounds simple, it makes me want to pay it forward. It's the moments like that that makes me thing maybe the world isn't as dark as it often feels.

I'm back in hospital now. Like I told you, I've been in for 2 years and I'm slowly recovering. First thing I did when I got back, was tell my friends here, and the staff, how amazing you were. They've seen me cry over a bran flake, not so long ago, and watched me deteriorate and almost die, a few months back. It's those friends who know best how difficult it is to handle their illness in the public, and how most people will stop and perhaps stare, often afraid.

It's the things that seem small and simple that make the biggest impact.
Thank you so much; I can't even express it,
Rebecca <3 nbsp="">

Wednesday, 3 September 2014

Happy birthday?

It was my birthday on Monday, and I won't lie; it was bloody awful. Without giving too many details, the ward was unsettled as hell, I was hallucinating and I finished the day vomiting for hours because I accidentally drank a smoothie with an orange juice base. I've had some shitty birthdays, so I should really be used to it- when I turned 15, we became effectively homeless. When I was 22, I was really ill and in a psych hospital in Essex, and was woken up, given a shit load of pills and then was out. I sort of came around on a motorway, then next thing, I'm in Scunthorpe's acute ward (sadly, my second home until I came to this hospital). I've had too many hospital birthdays. No more, please. Oh, and let's not forget my 7th, where at my party all everyone was talking about was Princess Diana's death the day previously, and not about how fabulous I am. Woe.

My birthday is always bitter-sweet. Memories of past birthdays and wonder that I've made it to whatever age I become. 24. Who would have thought it?

But anyway, the day before my birthday was amazing, though. This picture about sums it up:

I'm just about managing to get by, being as goal orientated as I possibly can be. I want to become informal (that is, not sectioned) this year. I want to be out really by the beginning of next. To have a relatively normal 25th birthday. I really think I'm ready, but whether I am or not, is more than a bit confusing. Sometimes, I'm not sure whether I'm pushing it because I want to get out and seriously hurt myself, but most of the time I'm certain that's not it. I don't know. I just need to keep fighting.

Saturday, 30 August 2014

An open letter to a recovered friend.

Well hey there, Aimee,

I've never seen you as vulnerable and raw as I did after the last time you seriously hurt yourself. I won''t dwell too much, but I think about it every now and again- the walls knocked down, you standing there as fresh and new and somehow old and tired, the same paradoxes as contained in a newborn baby. Seeing you sit and cry, not at the injustices and pain of your life, but at the idea that you weren't alone and that by hurting yourself you had hurt someone important and loved to us.

It took me a long time to have that same revelation. We all know, on some level, that hurting ourselves hurts everyone around us, but we don't really know until we fully let ourselves accept it, if that makes sense. My revelation came 6 months or so after yours, after my weight had plummeted and I'd gone back to where I said I never would. I said it then, and I'll scream it from the roofs now, because having seen your eureka moments, I can recognise my own. Having seen yours, I can see the value and worth in how you felt.

It's been a painful journey for us all; fighting our own demons whilst trying to fight everyone else's, too. We've fallen down a hundred times, but stood tall a thousand times. You've inspired me more than anybody, and I'd not be anywhere near where I am now without you. You've given me so much hope. Our histories are just that; history. We are our futures and we are what we choose to be, not the people we were once forced to be, and it's you who has shown me that.

You're going to change so many more lives and I'm constantly in awe at your fight for us all.

So much love, Aimes, and so much strength,
Rebecca
xxxxxxxx

PS. You are hilarious and fabulous. Thank-you for giving me the best laughs today that I've had in weeks.


(you can follow Aimee's journey here)

Wednesday, 27 August 2014

Change.

My mouth has always and for ever been getting me into trouble. At school it was being disruptive (worksheets don't hold my attention well. Cooking up plots always does); in the real world, it's being, well, a cocky bitch; in hospital it's, ahem, aggression. I'm not quite 5'3 and not quite a healthy weight right now, so even if I wanted to be aggressive, it's not really my thaang. I'm all mouth and no trousers and I've never really been arsed about upping the ante, size not withstanding. I just get bored too easily and my brain lives in my vocal cords, a long way from my fists.

I keep getting into trouble now because I just cannot keep it buttoned. I'm more than a bit resistant to authority and although I'm nowhere near as resistant as I was a few years ago, I'm getting more than a bit sick of every bloody move I make being watched and documented (if I dance, I lose my leave. Seriously). There are eyes and ears everywhere in here, and it's all a bit 1984.

I spent almost 7 years in a house of domestic abuse hell and that's a lot of why, when I'm struggling mentally especially, I'm so resistant. Sometimes, it's hard to bring myself around to the fact that I'm now an adult and rules are about safety, not control. They always harp on about eating disorders being about control, and I suppose its true. Far easier to control size than anything else. The idea of anyone, especially a man, having control over my life is frightening, and being sectioned is all about your control and choice being taken from you, because you're deemed not able to take healthy control and make healthy decisions.

On the other hand, if I'm feeling somewhat less generous, it's not always safety. I keep mouthing off and being told I'm aggressive, a risk in the community and so not able to go outside. It's a crock of bull and it seems like a game. Either way though, I really must learn to shut. my. bloody. mouth. I've lost my leave 3 out of the last 4 days, and as strange as this is going to sound, I think it's a sign of my recovery. During the years of the domestic abuse, I never fought. I was passive and I took it. I ended up with zero self respect, because I daren't speak up or try to protect my interests. My mouth running away is me finally finding my voice and learning to respect myself, even though it never quite comes across that way. I've never been shy, not in the real world, but I did spend years cowering in the shadows at the place I was meant to be safest.

I'm finally feeling the change.

Wednesday, 20 August 2014

Identity.

I'm petrified of people shouting, to the point it can trigger flashbacks, but I'm also one of those people who can't stand silence. I blame Ginge; she emulates the noise of her childhood (5 sisters, both parents, all in a 3 bed council house) with the tele or music or whatever, and I seem to truly be her daughter on this one. Silence somehow is connected in my head with the idea of being bland and dull, and so, by my ridiculous logic and extension, being invisible, and that's horrible. I need noise to confirm my existence, to keep me from floating off or just generally being redundant. I'm so scared of being redundant. I'm scared of being invisible.

For years, the only way to stop being invisible has been to accept banter and labels around my mental health. It's better to own your nicknames and stuff. I think because of that, I've always found the idea of being 'the mental one' almost kind of flattering. Flattering that people have noticed me, that I'm real and I have an identity. It's not the greatest of labels, but hey, no publicity is bad publicity. I've also spent time as 'the anorexic' and that's a label that I hate. I'm optimistic enough to think that some of my conditions-will be managed better and I'll be able to cope better, but I also know that there's no cure. No vaccination against crazy, would you believe? Recognising that is one thing. I think I've got my head around that, and I have faith enough in myself to think that this will be my last lengthy admission. I don't mind the mental label, potentially offensive as it is, because I know my mental health will never be 100%. What I can't accept though, is the idea of being 'the anorexic' for the rest of my life. This cannot be my life. I don't do anything by halves, and I'll make sure that applies to my recovery.

I realise how attention seeker-y I sound, despite that not really being what I meant, and in a way this is all quite hard to admit to. It's not all bad. I'm not all bad, I swear. Just give me some noise and it's cool.

Sunday, 17 August 2014

Silence.

First off... sorry for the lack of communication. SBIWYB, I love you. You're my favourite of my blogs. Not that I have any other ones, like, but you're alright, son. I've had 89 bottles of Pepsi Max, so no doubt this so far makes NO SENSE. Also, I've not literally had 89 bottles. Stop typing, Condron.

My laptop was playing silly buggers, so that's why all has been silent on here. Shit tonnes has happened recently, and at the same time, not a lot has happened. I'm still not making sense. I'm going to shut up now, but I'll update properly tomorrow. I'm ok, shit's ok-ish and the sky is still up there.

Sunday, 3 August 2014

Fuck.

I'm sad tonight. Sad and lonely and just, well, sad. I've spoken before about my obsessions, and right now I have some pretty irrational, fixed, ideas. Ideas that are shrinking the obscurities and wonder of the world to the bulging ripples surrounding my thighs. Not just my thighs, but that about sums it up. I need to change my thinking, not my image, but I wish either was a simple as an undressing, a walk away from an unflattering body suit (on that subject, I tried on baby pink skinnies today. Don't even ask why, my reflection from that is an image that is burned for ever on to my retinas). I want to wriggle out from myself, kick the discarded glob into a corner and re-enter as something else. Anything else. It's not that I think there aren't worse things to be, it's just that I suppose I'm a strange kind of romantic, an optimist, somebody who believes in the beauty of life, just not myself. There's got to be more. That's the crux of it, I suppose; there's got to be more. Not more self-loathing, not more hatred. Just more. I tried chocolate tea and it's weirdly delicious. I need to try more things, because the old is getting, well, old.

But when once you've entered into a parallel world, you'll always know of the simpleness of the alternative to reality. It's a lot easier to change size than it is to change the world. I want to scream. I want to scream so fucking loud because I'm fucking tired of being quiet. I'm fucking tired of pretending shit is better, just because I'm reaching whatever the fuck healthy is, physically. It's so fucking easy to pretend everything is fucking better because a number on the scales says it fucking must be. I'm fucking tired of not saying fuck, of not being able to tell it to fuck off, to not be able to walk the fuck away. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I'm a fucking mess, to be perfectly fucking honest.

Wednesday, 30 July 2014

Body-shaming.

I'm terrible for making excuses about any changes to my body, and I've recently sort of twigged on to the fact that it's not just a me thing. It's not just an eating disorder sufferer thing. It's not just a young person thing. It's not even just a woman thing, although I do think women are expected more to apologise for weight-gain, in particular. I think already I'm wading into excuses by referring to the general issue- body-shaming, in its forms- by making my previous assessments of those groups of people into a 'just' thing. There's no 'just' about it, it's an issue that claims acceptance, happiness, contentment and life. It's a bigger, more grotesque, issue than my thighs ever will be.

My latest excuses have been to blame other people for making me gain, when in fact it was me who agreed to the NG, and then it was me who finally accepted that I would gain the weight I needed. I've gained roughly 15kg and there are still a few more to go before I reach the point my body naturally settles at. I should be bloody proud of that, and sometimes I am. It's taken so much out of me, but the rewards of acceptance, happiness, contentment and life itself, are what I need to concentrate on. I'm not there, but I'm nearer there than I am the opposite. It's not about the number on the scales, it's my body having a natural shape and natural size. I may never be comfortable with the fact that I view my thighs as so big, but I'm healthier now, and that should be the focus.

But for those on the opposite end, those who are clinically overweight or obese (such a horrible word), they shouldn't have to fear their bodies and have other people judge not only their bodies, but also their lives. Maybe they're happy, and maybe they're not- but until they ask your opinion on their dietary intake, you don't deserve to have one. Anyway, that's kind of different. What I more mean is, right, it's bikini season. Chances are, you look hot in a one piece or a bikini. Every woman does, because whether you're aware of the battle or not, you're sticking two fingers up to your insecurities and the ones society expects you to have. No matter where you fall on the bloody BMI chart (don't even get me started), it's a fight that at some point, many points, you'll probably fight. You can win; you look fantastic.

Society, the media, wherever you want to direct the hate- you go for it. Be a warrior. Be strong. Stop shopping for ways to hide your size, and accept that whether you're an XXS or a XXL, you deserve to dress for you. Wear pretty things, eat delicious things and realise your power. You are powerful. You are strong. And you don't ever, ever need to be ashamed.

Monday, 21 July 2014

Passion.

I'm actually ill, again. I need to stop eating crap and congratulating myself for the fact that I'm actually eating, and occasionally shove in summat healthy. I need to do that, but I'm not going to. I really don't understand the point in calories that aren't delicious. It's a big part of how I got off my last NG within a month. I actually refuse to eat salad and fruit because it's no fun. Everything, everything, ought to be fun.

I'm thinking a lot about the future- being shut away in your room does that. I have a rough idea of what I want to do, and what I need to do to get there, and I think this might be an area of my life where my constant need for excitement and fun and passion might come in handy. To recover, I think you have to kind of think, 'right, I can be thin and miserable, or I can be healthy and mostly miserable, but with the energy to have some bloody great laughs.' I went out this weekend with Ginge, one of my aunties and one of my cousins, and it was so great, in the sort of casual way that I wouldn't have been physically or mentally able to a month or two ago. It's more complicated than just fun- isn't everything, always?- but that pretty much sums it up.

I'm almost constantly revolted by my body, but I'm learning to appreciate what it does. Aimee, one of my closest friends, made a comment about how the worst thing about watching my last decline was when I lost my ability to express myself, because that's such a big part of who I am. I've been chewing this over (ok, ok, slight pun intended), and she's right. I'd rather have my boobs and my brain, than a 3 mile wide thigh gap.

I'm pretty sure that I can make this the home straight. I'm going home for the first time since NYE, this weekend and I can't wait. I'm going to use it to spur me on, because sometimes you need a reminder than life goes on. The mundane activities still need doing. Life isn't always great, but it's far better than the alternative.

Tuesday, 15 July 2014

Get me out.

I've been ill for a couple of days and I'm pretty sure that although the symptoms have been physical, it's probably a bit of a mental thing. I've been exhausted and mentally beaten down and just generally, I don't know, sad. I'm only just realising now how knackered I've been and how I don't think I've had a bug. I know I complain a lot, and I also know I'm really, really lucky. I hate the word lucky, because I'm just about the least superstitious person, ever. Probably all that Catholic upbringing I had, all I feel now is human. I have a great family, brilliant friends and really amazing boobs (that's only slightly a joke). But at the same time, I carry a heavy, old heart and a fire that writhes and dims at the most delicate provocation.

It's been rough, recently, fighting the anorexia. It's always been tough, but I'm so desperate to be done with it that I'm maybe expecting too much. It's weigh day today and I know I've lost weight, despite kind of supplementing my own diet of a night. I add up my calories that they've given me through meals and snacks during the day, realise that it's below even what a dieter would eat, never mind someone who is meant to be gaining, and then add my own, extra, snacks. It's never enough, though. I'm so alone right now, because although I'm on a busy ward, with both staff and patients, it's just me in this situation and just me nobody knows how to help.

It's not really any great wonder I've been ill from the exhaustion. I'm trying to dig myself out of my own grave. My funders want me moved to an alternative hospital and I don't know where or when, or even if any other place would be beneficial, or if I just need to be out, because I'm basically doing everything now I'd be doing for myself on the outside anyway, just without the freedom. Being sectioned is, at times, really quite degrading. I can't keep begging for food, for example.

Get me out of here.

Thursday, 10 July 2014

Complex

"For somebody who is complex, she's actually really likeable."

Let that one sink in a bit. Seems complimentary, but, well, really? The assumption that as I "complex" person I don't get the benefit of the doubt afforded to everybody, makes the compliment into an insult.  Also, I kind of- sappy as this may sound- feel insulted for everybody else who is classed as complex. It's a majorly shitty thing to have on your notes anyway, because complex really means nothing in real life, but in the mental health system it's a code for them not having a clue what to do with you, and so everyone just passes you on. I am, once again, the ginger stepchild. I'm trying to not really draw many conclusions from the original statement, back-handed as it was, but I'm constantly chewing it over in my head.

In other news, there really is no other news. I'm taking it hour by hour, smoke break by smoke break (still not over scheduled fag times. Amazing they don't have organised toilet breaks, to be crude). It's a dull way to live, but I've got to do what I've got to do to get through, and that's about it. Oh, and I have the giant stress of them deciding I'm moving hospitals, but nobody knows where. Life is bloody stressful. I reeeally can't be arsed going into it now, but expect a rant in the next few days about it. Urgh.

Tuesday, 1 July 2014

To love and to be loved.

I love a lot of people. Sometimes so much it makes me angry, because everyone is suffering in one way or another, everyone has those doubts and insecurities and demons, and I just don't get it. I don't get how the people I love, who are so worthy of all the good things in the world, can possibly not see that. It sounds a bit sappy, but I'm so angry because I just can't vanquish the mental demons, all I can do is sit and watch, try to be there, and that's a pretty crap position to be in. I just really don't get how they don't see their power and beauty. I just don't get it.

I love people so much, yet I fail to respect them, in a way. Let me explain. I think part and parcel of loving people is faith in them and acceptance of their beliefs. I think we kind of own the people we love and they own us, because if they love you back, you've also got to accept yourself their love, and therefore, the fact that they have faith and acceptance in you. In being loved, you become real and you have a duty to protect the beliefs of the other person. If I love people, and they love me back, why aren't I accepting them, and their faith in me? Why am I breaking something that they love? What kind of person destroys a loved ones prized possession? Whatever kind of person does that, is a kind of person I don't want to be.

Recovery is a personal journey through a maze towards loving yourself and believing that, loved by others or not, you're worthy of health and happiness. I'm somewhere in the maze, not at the final destination, and so I'm not in a place where I can do it for myself. I hope I'm not far from the destination, but the maze is complicated and sometimes you have to double back on yourself to find another way, and that's fine. I've doubled back, but I've found another route and hopefully it won't be a dead end. I may not be ready to do it for myself, but I think I'm in a position to love and be loved.

I've got my fight and motivation back, I just want myself back now.

Sunday, 29 June 2014

A presentation and a brick wall.

Months ago, I did a presentation on my mental health to students at Huddersfield  Uni. It went will for being a first go, but not as well as when you really get in your stride, and you're truly comfortable, yanno? Fast forward through a bloody awful few months (I promise I won't whinge too much in this post) (that's a lie, because I feel both tiny and unimportant and very, very obese. Work that out), and we had another scheduled for Friday. For obvious reasons- nose, tube, general look of demonic harpy- it wasn't looking overly likely I'd be able to go, but then Thursday night, it was decided I had enough chub 'n' love to do the thing. AND DO IT I DID. I have, though, definitely learnt that maybe I shouldn't improvise because I have too many stories and a necessity too tell them all, regardless of relevance. Or taste, really. I demonstrated my mating dance. Enough said. But aside from slightly inappropriate stories, ahem, I think it really went well. I ended up telling so much that I had to take meds to calm me down off the ceiling, and that's usually a good sign. Thank you Lincoln's second year nursing students, you were an amazing audience and as crappy as I feel, I also know a line has been drawn and I appreciate you offering me the chance to do so.

That said, can I whinge now? I'm feeling huge. I need a few days off food and, actually, life. Just a few days for Pepsi Max, books and solitude. I'm not really a solitary kind of person, I just like the idea of being invisible. It always happens during re-feeding, when all I want is to be invisible whilst I melt down the size of my thighs. I say that's all I want, but that's not true. In fact, I don't really want that at all, otherwise I suppose I would do it. The voice of the anorexia is louder than mine, but not more passionate. I'm the voice at the back with the valid reasoning, trying not to be taken in by the hysterics tyranny of the anorexia. I must fight, even if it feels as if I am doing so alone.

I'm working hard, it's just taking its toll a bit today. I'm drained, hitting a brick wall, and I don't know how long I can hang on. I'm constantly angry and teary and it's just not me. It's a different misery from how I felt when my weight was low and dropping because now I'm more aware. I don't know, I'm sure tomorrow I'll be feeling better; I've been so motivated this week, so don't worry. I'll get back on track. I'm just exhausted.

Friday, 20 June 2014

Before and after.

Well, the NG tube came out on Wednesday and I've been back at my usual hospital since then. There's so much I want to say about it, but I'm disassociating a lot right now, and to be honest I'm a bloody mess. I need to write, to talk, but the words that come out don't even sound like me. I don't recognise my voice or my actions. I'm not me at all.

I so desperately need, well, I don't even know. I don't think my meds are right, I'm not sleeping and I ache so much, because I've gone from a wheelchair to constantly being on my feet. I hurt.

I don't know what else to say, so I'm just going to post a before and after pic, because when I look at it, I realise how much better I look. That scares me. I'm petrified of that kind of attention right now, but at the same time I need to keep telling myself that even though my anorexia has shit all to do with looking pretty, health is the ideal. I'm proper confused.


Tuesday, 17 June 2014

Picturesque survival

I am so physically and mentally tired that I want to go somewhere noisy and public and scream myself raw, before succumbing to a hibernating sleep. The idea of screaming back the chokes of sobs sounds so empowering. I'm tired of holding back the crazy, maintaining, as much as possible, the performance and choreography, making myself vulnerable by trying to disguise my vulnerabilities. I'm tired of thinking in circles and contradictions. I'm tired of thinking at all.

Really, I'm tired of the real world. The anorexic word is so small, just a fogged up, distorted bubble and force field against the good and bad, beautiful and ugly. The problem with being tube fed is that the bubble is popped much quicker than it would through oral food refeeding. And I miss the bubble. I shouldn't, it's a horrific place to be, but I do. It was easier than the overwhelming facts of the physical world. I heard the phrase 'picturesque survival' the other day, and that's how it's been the last few months, especially in the few weeks leading up to this NG. As long as things were/are superficially pretty- a nice dress here, explosive laughter there, and always cheerful tweets- and I kept breathing, things were ok. I'd rather not have survived at the time, and I'm not sure, to be honest, how I feel about that now, but it is as it is.

My feed is being decreased from tonight. I'm pleased, mostly because I feel like I've won. I could lose weight on the decrease, if I stop eating, orally, the bits I've been cramming in. I'm also confused, because I think it's more the anorexia making up stupid games to play, without explaining the rules to anybody else, and that's not a real victory. I'm competitive as hell, but I'd rather win on sturdy goal posts. Besides which, I'd really rather not have to go through the physical and mental aches of refeeding again. I'm still quite a way from healthy, weight-wise, and so it's more risky. Whatever weight I lose, I'll always have to gain. There is always an NG tube at most, a few months from the start of a new, hardcore, relapse. I don't coast.

I'm sorry, I'm not sure what point I'm trying to get across. Maybe, it's that I apologise too much. Maybe, it's that you shouldn't assume things are good because I've accepted the feed, taken in food, gained back some of the weight. Maybe, it's that there is no point. Maybe, it's that the point is the charade, the picturesque survival, and how much I need to keep it up.

Or maybe, it's that I'm a time-bomb, mentally.

Wednesday, 11 June 2014

Guilt.

Let me tell you one thing this relapse has taught me; people are incredible. I've had so many visits and so many messages and, God, I didn't realise, I suppose, how many people get hurt and caught up in this shitty cycle. Anorexia is a lonely disorder, it convinces you that nobody cares and nobody is getting hurt, the latter especially being the biggest piece of bull going. Oh, people get hurt. Every kilo that comes off is another worry to everyone around you, and the misery and loneliness is contagious. I'm sorry, I really am. I wish, in a sense, that it was as lonely as it feels, because I really only meant to hurt myself, in the hope of reaching some kind of peace. It's a bottomless pit though, and the peace of solid ground never comes. All that happens is that people are forced to watch the fall, with their parachutes being refused.

It's an unproductive guilt that has gripped me right now, though. I'm caught up between guilt of what I've done to people and guilt of the calories and somehow they've become intertwined. Opposites aligned, to beat me down. I'm writing, really, to try and straighten things out in my head, but truth be told, I'm just confused as hell. It's been 2 weeks since I came in for this NG tube and I thought I'd have been able to talk my way out by now, but I'm being really half arsed in my attempts because of the guilt of knowing that I'm playing the game to get out and get the weight back off. I'm pretty much half arsed about everything right now. The doctor said it could be weeks longer before I'm out, which has petrified me because I have been eating like those people who can't fit through doorways, they're so big (i iz wot i iz), so that I could use it as leverage to get out of here, with reassurances to myself that the weight gain is temporary.

I'm angry. Reading this back is making me angry. I am so, so gripped by this disorder right now, and now I'm kind of crying at how much I've really, really messed up and I'm not even sure by that if I mean messed up by gaining weight or messed up by letting the anorexia win. I don't know what to do, and I'm sorry.

Friday, 6 June 2014

Operation: Get Boobs Back.

Well, we're just over a week into the NG refeeding. I hate the word, I'm thinking more of this time as an excuse to eat a shit tonne of chocolate and marathon Desperate Housewives, with the aim of being able to fill a bra again. It's quite nice being flat chested, dead handy, but the novelty is wearing off. This is Glass Half Full Condron, obviously. She's quite a nice person, especially when given sugar. Glass Half Empty Condron is not quite as amiable- she'll fly into a rage about being denied Pepsi Max, with the argument that she's an 'adult with capacity' and if she wants to fill her body with chemicals and fizz, she's entitled to. She's not so lovely, especially after sugar.

I'm obviously a bit of a mess right now. The highlight of my day is the 300ml of Pepsi I managed to get my consultant to agree to. The lowlight is every single comment around how well I look/sound/seem, compared with before Operation: Get Boobs Back began. I've found myself coming up with an excuse every time as to why I seem better. I can't seem to accept that it's because, yanno, I actually am doing better. I've come to the conclusion that I'm going to have to gain weight, whether it goes in my mouth or down my NG tube, so I might as well eat everything I've denied myself. Yesterday, no word of a lie, involved a cheese sandwich. It was rubbery, institution cheese, like, but cheese all the same. It's like I've been given permission, because like I say, I'm going to be forced to gain weight anyway. For some reason though, I find myself defending the recent improvements I've made, hiding my progress behind crappy excuses. I'm not quite ready for everybody else to realise that I'm changing, in both attitude and body. I suppose I'm embarrassed, but I'm not entirely sure what of. The Anorexia still has its claws in there, and as ready as I am to kick this shit, my changing body is both terrifying and invigorating. I'm two different people right now.

So, with that being said, please don't comment on my physique. Don't tell me how well I'm looking. Pretend you haven't noticed. Do not, under any circumstances, comment on what I'm eating. Just let me get on, and we'll be just fine. I feel huge, scared and alone, and to get on with beating this under those circumstances is pretty hard, but don't make me isolate myself and hide, because of the fear of what you might say. I'm going to be fine, it's just a hell of a rocky road. I need to get the NG out, get discharged from the general, sort my head out, get out of my usual hospital and get the hell on with my life. One hell of a rocky road.

Friday, 30 May 2014

'Smile luv, it mightn't 'appen' (TW)

This is the smile of an under-fed, colour-less brain.

This is the smile of a woman who knows she is nothing but damaged organs trapped inside tainted flesh and covered in a papery skin.

This is the smile behind a tsunami of thoughts and plans and even hopes of destruction.

This is the smile of the woman who is beaten black and blue every time she turns around. Her tormentors fed by the sight of all the beauty in the world, a beauty that includes everything but herself.

This is the excessively fake smile produced with hope of disguising the fact that any smile on this face right now would be fake.


This is the woman behind the smile, who thinks that maybe if she can feed her brain and body, it'll add colour back into her life.

This is the woman behind the smile, who thinks maybe her organs will pick up their function if she nourishes them, and knows that since cells flake and die, she cannot be not the person she was all those years ago.

This is the woman behind the smile, the smile she's going to build protective flood defences around.

This is the woman behind the smile, who thinks maybe beauty is contagious and so ought to spend more time basking in it, than running from it.

This is the woman behind the smile, who is petrified of her body and at the health of body needed for the health of brain. The health of brain needed so that healthy smile she's hiding from is never too far from dancing across her face.

Wednesday, 28 May 2014

Radio silence

Sorry for the radio silence, been a bitch of a time of it, with everyone's favourite demonic parasite. I'm not off to get dead into it now because hopefully tomorrow I'll have my laptop and be able to type better than I can doing this on my Kindle. All there is to say really, is that things got very bad, and I'm back in the medical hospital, not so eagerly awaiting getting an NG tube being forced up my nose, down my throat and into my stomach, in the morning.

I keep thinking I'm lucky. Yesterday I literally collapsed every time I tried to stand, but even then, I'm lucky. I'm alive and demonic parasite can fling whatever shit she can find at me; I'm alive.

Thursday, 15 May 2014

Complicated.

And now... it gets complicated. To follow on from my last post, the consultant on the gastro ward refused to admit me because the ward is mostly used to refeeding drug addicts and s/he didn't think it was the right environment for me. Now, I'm not one to judge; I see a bloody alcohol worker, for a bloody reason (although, she's so lovely that she lets me use our sessions, right now, to rant about my Anorexia and its mismanagement). I really couldn't give a damn who the other people on the ward are, especially given the fact that because I'm sectioned I'd have to have a worker from this hospital with me at all times. I think, really, s/he couldn't be arsed with taking on 'The Anorexic' (in cases like this, capitalisation is necessary). I found this out yesterday and got told that I'd have to be moved to an ED unit.

I saw the ward manager yesterday and she told me that she's working on getting around the consultant on gastro saying no. Then the ward doctor told me a bit later I was getting assessed for an ED unit, on Monday. I saw the ward manager a few hours later and she told me they'd put in a complaint with what's basically the OFSTED of hospitals, because due to my BMI, the consultant can't refuse me. I know, complex. It just really boils down to a bit more time left languishing, a bit more weight loss that I'll have to put back on. In short, a bit more of a bloody mess.

I'm ok, though. I don't want you to think I'm not, because I'm fine. A bit numb and totally exhausted, but I'm trying to just let whoever get on with whatever, and trust in their abilities. I just wish somebody could tell me what's going to happen from here, and I hope that the answer isn't that my weight is going to drop further and I'm going to be further up shit creek.


Thursday, 8 May 2014

One small step for woman, one giant leap for Rebecca Condron.

I love a good conspiracy theory. I don't know that I actually believe man walked on the moon, but I can't deny the greatness of the supposed first line uttered. I took my first, giant leap today, but let me explain the background and then it'll maybe make more sense. I've been collapsing. A lot. I collapsed on Monday and was taken to the general hospital with low blood pressure and low blood sugars. It was such a pointless trip because I ended up refusing all treatment, then there was a big thing about whether they could force it upon me and it was all a bit of a stressy mess. In the end, I discharged myself and got back to my regular hospital at about 3am. Just a tip- never let anything go wrong on a bank holiday. A&E was so busy that even when I passed out in the waiting room, after having been waiting hours, we still had to wait another 2 hours. Horrif. I ended up back at A&E yesterday for the same reason, refused all treatment again, and was sent back to my hospital with a letter to the ward doctor with instructions for her to call the gastro department at the general.

When you have anorexia, being told you're being sent to the gasto ward means one thing. Dum, dum, dum, nasal-gastro (feeding) tube. Between refusing treatment and waiting for my discharge letter, I realised that I've really been a bloody great tool over this whole thing. I look horrific, like a 70 year old prisoner of war, and I feel even worse. I'm fighting with my mum constantly, which never happens when I'm well because the woman is my best friend and completely incredible, and so feels my disorder probably more than even I do. I'm bitching and snipping and more miserable than I thought possible.

So here is my giant step; I've agreed to an 'elective' NG tube. I'll walk in, head held high, not fight and need sedation during it being fitted (they usually bring a needle when they bring NGs, with me, haaaa). I'll accept the feeds, but work on my eating, towards getting off it as soon as possible. I'm just going to get it long enough for my brain to be sufficiently nourished for me to think straight, because that's the main problem  right now. I just can't enact the logical side of me long enough to force calories down. It'll be difficult, but it'll be worth it. And saying this is one giant leap for me- I've never done it this way- even if it only takes a minimum of steps to get to the gastro ward (I am on restricted movement, after all ;)).

I don't know when it'll be, but because of my weight it probably won't be too long. I shall keep you updated as much as I can, and hopefully I'll come out of this kicking arse. No, wait, I WILL come out of this having kicked, and still kicking, arse.

Friday, 2 May 2014

Muddled.

I am officially a wreck. Far too little food and far too much thinking is exhausting. I'm spending most of my life fantasising about food, and the time I'm not fantasising, I'm feeling guilty about fantasising. I'm not sleeping properly and I look a bloody state and I have nobody to blame but myself. I think in the way your brain blocks out the pains of labour and past mistakes and trauma, my brain has blocked out the mental and physical pains of relapsing. It's like it's begging me to repeat the past, on and on and on.

I don't think I've ever truly worked on the core issues of my eating disorder. In a way, this is at least what I hope, because maybe this time will be different; I'll face the issues and finally conquer the beast. I can't live with the idea of spending the rest of my life doing this to myself and the people around me. I'm torturing myself with the facts of what this is doing to my mum especially, but also to the rest of both my blood family and the water family I've acquired- a ragtag bunch of the most amazing people you could ever hope to meet. They don't deserve this and the fact that they assert that I don't either is inspiring, given the pain I'm forcing upon them.

I don't really know where I'm going with this, and by 'this' I mean both this post and this relapse. I haven't a clue on either, in fact. I tried to leave this hospital today and was restrained back (bear in mind that I'm detained for my safety, rather than here by choice). I've been told that it's got to the point where I need to be 'very worried' about my BMI, banned from fizzy drinks, put on 5 minute checks and I lost all my time off the ward, earlier on this week. I'm on a fluids chart, have to keep my door open at all times and further restrictions can be put on me at any time. I'm trying my hardest not to fight them and to accept the help, because I know I'm lucky to live in a place where this treatment is paid for by the taxpayer and to be in a place where people want to help. I want help. I just don't know that I can accept it when I don't feel like I deserve it. I'm so confused and muddled and my brain just isn't working in the way that I'm used to.

I'm sorry this is so whingey, I'm just drowning. Screaming. I can't keep doing this.

Friday, 25 April 2014

Routine.

I really don't handle change. I think because pretty much every major change in my life has been disastrous- even when it's ended one terrible time in my life, it's led to another. Not that all my life has been shit, don't get me wrong. Some days I find absolutely everything hilarious, and others I spend pretending to be a rabid dog or a dinosaur or a rabid dinosaur, it's all good. The shifts and patterns of especially the first 16 years or so of my life were a bit of a mess, though. But then, I might just have had too much therapy and be reading too much into the fact that I'm just an obsessive person (that's the polite way of saying I maybe just have a giant stick up my arse, right?).

The worse my eating gets, the less I eat, the more obsessive I get about routine. Usually, I am both physically and mentally flexible, but that gets chipped away at, by the Anorexia. Today, my bathroom had been locked by staff, which it is for an hour after I eat, if they remember to sort my food or to lock it, that is. After an hour and a half of it being locked today, nobody knew where the bloody key was to unlock it. Now, I can't always be arsed kicking up a fuss every time they lock it, despite the fact I've lost count of how long it's been since I made myself vom, I just know it has literally been months. End of February, I think was the last time. Anyway, I can't always be arsed kicking up a giant fuss about them locking it, but if it's meant to be locked for an hour, after an hour I want to be in there. I got furious today, because I felt I needed to be in there (I treat my bathroom as extra accessory storage, a drinks cabinet and just general junk shop) and so I decided I was going to climb over the door. It's been a while since I've done this, but it's a simple case of hopping over 2m and scurrying through a gap of about 50cm. Dead simple. Ahem. Except I got caught in the process. So then I was wound up because I'd planned on being in there and it had changed, went into bitch mode, and the rest... was a mess. Bad Condron.

I keep being Bad Condron. Literally, just now, I gave the Bad Condron eyes to a member of staff because she came 10mins later than we agreed, for me to eat. I started going into Bad Condron mode even though she was coming to tell me she'd juggled things around so I could eat at 6, rather than half 5, which I prefer. People are bending over backwards to make things easier for me and I know it and I appreciate it... until my routine changes and then I'm horrific. I'm not being fair and I'm not being particularly nice, to be honest. I'm not my biggest fan right now. All the hatred I have for myself is over-flowing and splashing acid on everyone around me and I'm so frustrated.

(I really need this stick up my arse to be surgically removed, please).

Sunday, 20 April 2014

An open letter to my cousin.

Hey, Em,

I remember finding out your mum was pregnant. I was 10, and it was Grandma's, ooh, it must have been about her 65th birthday and we'd all gone out for a meal. Even at that age, I was secretly petrified of eating out and although my eating issues had started, it wasn't quite the beast you know it is now. Me and Rachel were doing our usual thing, at that age, of being horrible to Sophie and James, and were sitting on bar stools when she told me that the grown ups all thought your mum hadn't come out with us because she wasn't just sick, she was sick because she was pregnant. For a second, the world fell away and being mean to my little cousin and big brother kind of lost its appeal. All I could think of was this beautiful baby that would be here that summer. After that, the meal was brilliant. I can't remember much about it, just that I came away happy, in a way I hadn't felt after a meal for a while, even then.

Even then, you made things better for me. Even months from your birth, you made things better. Then, of course, you were born and were even more beautiful than I'd even expected. I can remember the feeling that overtook me, the feel of hope and love and new beginnings, a feeling that I wish I could bottle and share. I knew I'd go through hell for you, but I don't think I was old enough or even mature enough to realise that as much as I would want to do for you, that you also would for me.

I've always been so proud of you. You are the sweetest person I've ever met and right now you're a brilliant combination of young and old- young enough to giggle with me, but old enough to hold me when I cry and tell me it'll all be ok. I believe you in a way I don't believe everybody who promises that, because I know you and I know that not only do you believe it, but your spark means that you'll make sure of it. You make me feel safe. I wish you didn't have to know everything that you do, that you didn't know about my illness, but I'm so grateful that you do, because your strength and love keep me going. Your maturity is incredible and you really are my rock.

I love you so much, and if this is you at 12, the world is going to meet quite a force when you reach adulthood. You make things better and I hope you never lose that. But I know you won't; it's too ingrained in you. Keep being amazing.

Cousin by genetics, sister by life <3 br="" nbsp=""> Love, Becs xxxx

Saturday, 12 April 2014

The case against Anorexia, in 10 points.

-Everything hurts. I'm clumsy at best, which is bloody nightmare when I'm banging bones on doors. Also, sitting almost anywhere now requires cushions. Plural.

-I just had to pluck my torso. You get so much fur your body actually looks blurry and getting rid of it is like trying to effectively remove weeds from a garden by trimming their leaves.

-I can't hold a conversation longer than a few seconds because I can't remember what I'm talking about. Forgetfulness has hit me hard, apart from my daily calorie intake and out-take, which won't shut up.

-The slightest comment can stop me eating. Tell me my skin looks clear? Must be because I'm getting too many nutrients, so I'm fat. Also, if they take my blood sugar and it's even the tiniest bit over the minimum they let me get away from, it must mean I'm fat.

-Major organs. What the hell am I doing to them, when my visual organs (skin, hair etc) are in such a state?

-Emotionally, I'm spent. I'm anxious, hallucinating, just generally exhausted. I can't win or lose this, I'm just holding out on the fence and it bloody well hurts.

-It makes you so demanding and bratty, that I hear myself speak or get angry over tiny things and I can't shut up. I don't know what's going on half the time, and when I do, it has to go just so.

-I don't trust a single person, because they reassure me I'm not fat, and since I know that's not true, I don't know how to filter everything else they say.

-None of my clothes fit. Over the last week or so, I've hit the point where I'm down about a size and a half and nothing fits at all. I know that should make me see, logically, that my weight has gone down, but that doesn't mean much when I look in the mirror. I hate mirrors.

-I'm not hurting just myself; it's affecting everyone around me. I've recently had first-hand experience of someone I love getting so ill; I don't know how Ginge copes with me, nor how I still have friends, but I'm so grateful that it makes me angry at the whole thing, which makes me want to stop eating. I know, no logic. I need to fight, because it's not just my life I'm fucking around with.

And let's not forget- this shit kills.

Sunday, 6 April 2014

An open letter to my mum.

Ginge,

I was going to post this as a facebook status, but not only did it seem insanely tacky, I also have too much to say to fit it in a status. I could have messaged you directly, but that didn't seem enough. I don't think any format would have been enough, but I chose here because this is where I go when I need to think and process things, and there's a lot right now I need to process.

I hope to God I am never in the situations I have put you in, time and again. I'm more anxious right now than I have been in a long, long time and it feels like it's going to kill me, like I'm going to be dragged down to hell and punished for everything I can't do right now. And that anxiety is caused by loving someone more than I've ever loved a non-family member, and her being seriously ill in the ways I have been before. I can't imagine, and, like I say, I hope I never have to find out, what it does when the person you love is your daughter. I'm more in awe of you than I ever have been before, for never abandoning me, listening to my irrational fears and rants, never stopping trying to make sure I have the best care, and finally for what you did today, in taking as much control of the situation as possible, and more than I could have.

You are my hero, and that's not something I say lightly. There have been times when I've thought I hated you, because I was too poisoned by my Anorexia to appreciate that you weren't trying to cause me distress by demanding help, but rather keep me alive. It's a strong bond, no matter how much circumstance sometimes makes me feel. As a parental role model, the last few years have made me yearn to have children and be the lioness that you are.

All I can say is thank-you. The life of my best friend, my soul mate, is such a precious thing to me and taking the phone from my ear and talking to her as a mum, just reinforced everything I already felt. Demanding everything I couldn't and talking to her as an outsider, was amazing to watch. Thank you for respecting our relationship enough to take that step. Thank you for being strong for all of us.

I love you so much, and even though I'm not completely ok right now, I know I will be and regardless, you'll be there fighting when I think I'm losing the war.

Again, thank-you,
Becs xxxx

PS I know you'll tell me not to be daft, so don't even bother ;)

Thursday, 3 April 2014

Pissing about.

I've been pissing about a bit lately. I'm not fighting as hard as I should, I'm not taking the lead when I should, and I'm generally just letting the skeleton have its day. I always expect that should I agree to her (I hate the personification of eating disorders as 'ana' or 'mia'- it's revoltingly cutesie for something that kills. I'm doing it here purely to describe the hallucination), she should be nicer to me. But then the demands get greater and the reprisals worse and it's getting really out of control.

I suppose, as governments always say, you can't reason with a terrorist and Anorexia is that ticking bomb unwittingly chained to my chest. The damage it does is, to a point, up to me. I am the terrorist, the one full of hatred and anger, even if it is just self-directed and I'd not deliberately hurt a fly, although I know this is hurting so many people, besides myself. I'm infuriating; it's me who needs to express the situation, and it's me who needs to make sure that if it should go off, there aren't too many people around to get injured. The latter is something I've been subconsciously working on. I'm mostly keeping myself to myself and pushing people away, and the former I'm attempting, but not very successfully or with all the power I ought to. I've lost a lot to this disorder- most notably, right now, my physical and mental freedom- and you'd think that would make the fight easier. Instead though, it feels like it's just making it tighten its grip; the code for the bomb changes constantly and my head is a mess with trying to work it all out. Sometimes, I think I've almost got it. Then, out of nowhere, it all changes and I'm in deeper than ever. I need to make it stop. And I'm lonely. I'm really bloody lonely.

Like I said though, although I don't take the lead as often as I should, it's not entirely down to me, because of being in a hospital setting, where free-falling shouldn't be much of an option, definitely not the ideal. I need to commit to letting people help, and stop fighting when things don't go exactly to plan. It's so easy to type though, and so different in reality. I mean, I had to come out of a group today because we were planting herbs and I got freaked out because herbs are so linked to food. No reason for a freak out, they were bloody seeds for a virtually calorie-less adornment, but there you go. I'm so logical and insightful until a food situation arises and I suddenly develop petulance and a generally horrible attitude.

Every relapse gets worse, mentally, because I'm so angry that it's another fall I've allowed myself, and indulging the whims of what feels like a different entity makes me feel so powerless. I'm scared and everything hurts and I'm just sick of this shit. I just can't seem to take even the smallest step.

Tuesday, 25 March 2014

The Skeleton and the shit times.

Lately, I've been having some family problems. Nothing that I would want to share on here, because privacy is privacy and I don't want to get more shit, truth be told. I don't like not being completely open and honest on here, but some things have to be protected. The troubles have all focussed around today, and the stress had me not eating at all, until the staff caught on and I was put on supervised Fortijuce and Bran Flakes (weird diet, I know, but whatever), then struggling away at that diet for a week.

With today looming, my intake lessened and on Sunday ground to nothing at all. It's been awful. Sometimes people talk about having an Anorexic voice in their head, but mine's the voice of a particularly vicious skeleton, through my ears, like it's standing next to me, talking away (I know it's a skeleton because when my weight drops past a certain level the audio hallucination becomes visual). The skeleton has been punishing me because of these issues ever since the problems started and I'd got into my head that come tomorrow things will get easier and the eating would re-commence.

I'm quite proud of the fact that today I fought the skeleton and took the Fortijuce. It wasn't easy and I needed an extra anti-psychotic after because the skeleton was fuming, but I made it and now I just feel quite happy and proud. Scared of the calories (I obsessively measure myself), but proud. I did it. And as angry as the skeleton is, I'm sure it'll be easier to fight tomorrow when today is nothing but a shitty memory. I need it to be anyway, because I have a damn good incentive- Saturday night in a spa hotel with Ginge, and the Lion King on stage on Sunday.

Today has been revoltingly hard. I cried all morning, until I fell asleep, then spent this afternoon in a total daze until I spoke to ma wuman Alex, and she calmed me right down.  I'll be ok.

Thursday, 20 March 2014

Kicking arse.

The last few days have been awful. This week in general has been hell-ish. This morning, I woke up early (I used to get up religiously at 8.32, but now I bloody well find myself up before 7. BEFORE 7. AM), and went for a fag. As I stood afterwards, bleary eyed,  trying to shut my bedroom door, I found I physically couldn't. I flooded the ward once (it was pretty hilarious, to be honest), by accident and since them my carpet has swelled and the door is just a tiny bit stiff. It's not major and it doesn't generally bother me, but enough for me not to be able to shut it properly when I'm weak. I'm weak. So at that moment, let's call it 7.22, I decided I was already bored of this relapse and was going to take whatever it took to get better. I was going to kick arse.

Of course, it's waaaaaaay too easy to say that, even convince yourself of that, when you have roughly 5 hours before you're meant to eat. And by eat, I mean drink a Forti-Juice (high calorie/nutrient drink). Yesterday I didn't even manage a quarter of the bottle, so I am kicking arse, theoretically, because the whole bottle went down today. Honestly, though, I feel horrific. I feel huge and guilty and like I'm literally expanding, from the calories. I'd like to be really upbeat and whatnot, but I can't lie. Well, actually, I'm a bloody great liar, but lying here would be like pretending this bitch of a disorder is a bitch in the sense of a cute, newborn female puppy, rather than one of those dogs that maul people to death.

I've got to do it, if for nowt else, so that I can go out with Ginge (mum, in case you're new to SBIWYB) and Emily (technically cousin, but really little sister) on Sunday. The calories I'd have to consume over the next few days to be able to go out with them is insane, and I'm stressing like buggery, but I have to do this. I can't do it for me right now, but I think I can for Ginge and Em, plus my beautiful Alex. I think. I still have more calories to consume today and the thought makes me want to cry. I'm so scared, because I know I'm losing weight and it's making me a bit, well, horrible. When my weight goes past the healthy mark, I get all demanding and pedantic and a bit of a monster. I want to be well and happy, and I want to be well and happy with Ginge, Em and Alex.

I thought I'd beat it this time. Or at least that I was on my way. But nope, a year since I last relapsed badly, here I am. This can't be my life, because this is fucking grim.