Tuesday, 26 May 2015

Death of death.

I'm in mourning for being miserable. And it's making me miserable. This is what nobody tells you, because nobody wants to admit- sometimes you have to mourn your own death. Your life. I think it's a bit like anything; when you expect something and then it doesn't happen, even if you were ambivalent about it or even flat out didn't want it to happen, all the feelings and expectations don't just go away. You know how energy can't be created or destroyed? It's like that, I think. It doesn't just disappear.

A year ago as of now, for anybody who didn't know me then, I was close to death. I was a few days off having yet another NG tube fitted and I was so unbearably miserable and ill that all I can remember is how I hoped that after every blink my eyes wouldn't find the strength to open again and feeling that I didn't have a single ally, something that was so unfair to everyone walking on eggshells around me. And that's the other thing- I was horrible. I was a huge bitch who thought everyone was out to get her fat. People put up with so bloody much from me. I mean, anyone gets snippy after not eating enough or not feeling well, so with the fact that I wasn't eating anything, I was in agony physically and my mental health was not even a thing, I was just horrible. 

The thing is, I knew what to expect. I've been down that road so many times that although I never remember with much clarity, I always remember the pain. I've never given birth, but in a way it sounds like every labour story I've ever heard- you know, you remember that it hurts like hell, but you kind of block it. I know I was miserable, but part of me romanticises it. I miss it. I miss knowing what to expect and how it would feel and how consistently crap everything was. I even miss knowing that every day I'd feel worse. I miss knowing that every day I'd be a bit smaller, so there would be a little less of me to hate. 

I miss knowing I was going to die.

Don't get me wrong now, I am not suicidal. Not in the slightest. I haven't felt that way in a long time. What I mean is that I miss the knowing part. Everything was black and white, and I knew where I was going (even if where I thought I was going was going isn't all that desirous now). I wake up now and I don't know how well I'll function, whether it'll be a day where I sleep as much as I can or when I wake up and crack open a notebook and take on the world. I don't know why I miss the being ill part, really, since there were no functional days, but knowing was... reassuring. I have to keep reminding myself that things were so bad that I committed to weight gain. My personal hell. Yes, predictability was reassuring. But that was because I was ill, so being ill was keeping me so. It's a death of a death. A line drawn. Time to move on.

1 comment:

  1. I think we all have to go through losing what we were sure of... even if it wasn't good for us and we know we don't want it back... it's comfortable... we knew where we stood. But we have to step outside those comfort zones... I'm working on it...