Tuesday, 30 December 2014


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 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.