After the storm

hind·sight

   [hahynd-sahyt]

noun

recognition of the realities, possibilities, or requirements of a situation, event, decision etc., after its occurrence.

A life-lesson I could have done with learning years ago is that there is no such thing as Superwoman. At least, not in the everyday hero sense. Even if I wore hotpants and a conical bra, I’d still be pretty damn ordinary, and trying to be somebody I’m not has been the downfall to my many attempts at recovery. I know that now.

I’m not proud of my actions last night. Knowing that so many people saw me fall (albeit online) has been a massive reality check. Because I promised myself when I started this blog that every mistake, every slip, every attempt at destroying myself… had to be published. As uncomfortable as it may feel, I can’t hide my emotions and actions away just because I don’t want to be judged.

Sleeping was nigh-on impossible after purging. I confessed to Z, after she became worried about me after a status I left on Facebook. I don’t usually get too personal when it comes to social networking, but I was struggling and needed some sort of outlet other than hurting myself in some way. She said she loved me, and that I could stay at hers if I needed to. I thought she’d be angry with me; that’s how people have always reacted to purging in the past. I’ve come to associate admitting weakness with being shouted at, so to have somebody answer me gently and with compassion… it meant a lot, along with the comments I received on here. I’m fairly sure that they stopped me going further. At one point I was considering breaking apart a razor and continuing the cycle of self-destruction, but after reading the comments and support, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t just be letting myself down, but everyone around me, and that’s sometimes easier to focus on.

After lying awake in the dark for a few hours, tossing and turning and getting more frustrated than ever, I decided to take two 500mg Naproxen tablets. I reasoned that they’re not codeine, and not addictive in the opiate sense, so I haven’t failed in my attempt to give up the opiates. I took a Lanzoprazole alongside, and even though the last lot of Naproxen gave me a stomach ulcer, even a larger than normal dose seemed to sit happily in my stomach for once. I was aching and sore from the stress of throwing up, and I knew that without sleep I’d only sink even further into the massive hole I’d dug for myself. Eventually, nature took over and I fell into a restless sleep filled with bizarre dreams about O and his girlfriend, and about the people I went to school with. They’re pretty common dreams for me to have, but the painkillers must have amplified something because I could remember every detail when I woke up.

Woke to a text off S. I haven’t told him about the purge, and I’m still debating whether it’d be the right thing to do. On one hand, I don’t like keeping things from him. On the other, if it’s just a one-off, a small slip in recovery, is it really a good idea to stress him? S understands better than anyone how I feel sometimes, but I know if he told me he’d made himself sick, I’d be heartbroken. I’m not sure it’s fair to do that to him if it’s just a one-time thing.

Today, I made an effort to give myself a challenge; something to distract myself. I decided to knit a scarf in a day, using four skeins of wool and huge needles. A couple of hours later, here’s the result:

I don’t need another scarf; I’ve knitted loads. Still, it gave me something to do. A purpose.

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