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.