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,

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


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


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


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


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.