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My bed feels larger than when I was small

 

I’m tired of struggling through every day. Of pushing and pulling and forcing myself to at least seem okay. I’m tired of speaking and having the words come out jumbled before they can even leave my mouth. Of sleeping only when beyond exhaustion. Of making excuses. Of seeing the sunrise every single morning, having been awake all night. Of not being able to find a single bit of beauty in it.

Today, I broke all my personal promises and posted my feelings on Facebook. Oh, not the big stuff – that’s for here only – but I went into far more detail than I’ve ever felt comfortable with, and I’m still not comfortable with it now. I only did it because I can’t take unrealistic expectations anymore; I have never, ever been able to cope with being expected to act a certain way and, truthfully, I’m sick of pretending.

I was pulling myself out of it, with the help of antidepressants which have been proven to work for me. I was trying really goddamn hard, and I was almost there. I’d started eating normally again, and having showers. Things seemed to be on the up emotionally, even if they weren’t so great physically.

Then… just one little thing. That’s all it takes.

I don’t even know what that little thing was. All I know is I’m sitting on the sofa after leaving S in bed. I cried all day. I realised I just can’t take this. Everything. The pain. The sickness. The tiredness. Any of it.

 

world

I’ve been vomiting again, and the conclusion my mother and I came to is that it’s stress. Truthfully, I accepted this explanation because the idea of facing just one more doctor is too much to bear. I’ve thought about it throughout the day though, and I realise it’s probably true; even on days when I don’t feel like a total emotional wreck, I’m still terrified of what will become of me, and it’s like a ball of pure acid in my stomach to even consider the future.

Can I even see a future for myself?

Not really.

I’m relying on those closest to me – my mother, S, and a couple of people I’ve come to call friends – to keep me afloat, because if left to my own devices I begin to sink almost instantly. I can no longer talk to Z about any of this; it became apparent a while ago that we’re probably never going to be on the same page when it comes to life.

Just like last time, the vomiting has kicked off feelings I’d rather not have; feelings of calorie counting and tape measures. Truthfully I hardly need to worry about such things since eating has become incredibly difficult with the constant nausea and risk of sudden projectile sickness, but something inside decided to worry about it anyway. I’ve lost a lot of weight without even trying over the past few months, and you’d think I’d be ecstatic but instead I almost feel cheated because I didn’t do it myself. So, yet again, I grab for control.

I don’t even believe my own lies about having control anymore. I know nothing I do gives me the slightest safety.

 

 
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Posted by on May 10, 2013 in Every day life

 

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Slight return

I sit. Read the comments on my last few posts. Sit a little longer. Sleep. Play computer games. Sit some more. Smoke.

Honestly? The energy isn’t there; and it frustrates me because there are so many excellent comments which deserve a well thought-out reply. So I sit, and read, and make myself forget because right now I can’t be doing with worrying over yet another thing I can’t cope with.

Food? I’m getting there, slowly. My mother’s noticed my eating habits – she screamed at me over them, in fact – and although it’s utterly terrifying I’m managing to make myself eat. It’s not easy. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, because I do need to lose weight - genuinely -  and I’m shit-scared of bloating and the idea of calories sloshing around in my stomach when I’ve come this far. I’ve been told in the past to worry about losing weight sensibly when my ED’s are under control, but what nobody seems to understand is that my ED’s are never under control where weight loss of any kind is concerned.

S is being incredibly supportive, in his own way. I feel safe eating around him, and he doesn’t push me. My mother… she thinks she can shout at me until I eat again.

 

I have an appointment at the biomechanics clinic in the morning. Friday, I’m taking my incredibly phobic mother to the dentist. And some time in the next couple of weeks I’m moving in with S. There’s 27 years of shit to sort through before I can even consider fitting it all in a van. Most has to go to charity. In a way I’m glad; I want shut of this life now. I’ve been stagnating for far too long in a seemingly endless cycle of bad boyfriends and ruined friendships, all while festering in this house and wasting my life away. I want to start again.

 
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Posted by on September 6, 2012 in Every day life

 

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Dear Diary: 17th/19th January 2006

< 9th/10th January

< 11th/12th/13th January

< 14th/15th/16th January

Tuesday 17th January 2006

College was just horrible. Felt ugly, fat, and the mirrors just made me feel worse. I always feel so unattractive in college; maybe it’s because everyone else seems to have great hair. Fell asleep at 7pm, woke up at 11 and now I can’t sleep, again. I’m totally dreading being on reception duty in college tomorrow, but I just can’t force myself to sleep.

Ended up crying to O over the phone tonight; he feels so far away. I’m just exhausted, at a loss what to do about a million things. I hate reading back through all this; it’s so depressing. Not the way I wanted it to be at all. But heck, I’m a serial whinger. That’s why I’m public enemy number one, right? Because I dare to have feelings. I’ve faced worse than all this, I know I have. So why does it feel like I’m dying inside?

I can’t decide what to do with my life. It’s getting me down.

Thursday 19th January

Reception training again. It was so unbelieveably busy and I felt like I’d go crazy. Still, I coped with it; which is something. I get the feeling I’ve overbooked someone, but it serves them right for putting someone so inept in charge of appointments.

I’m really worrying about getting all my course assessments finished in time. I know compared to most of the class I’m actually ahead, but still… it doesn’t feel good enough. I’ve only got until half-term (mid February) to complete, then I have to cough up another £52 for a level 2 logbook.

The diet’s going okay. Cheated a bit at lunchtime – pasta – but it’s okay. I can get back on track. It’s hard at college because everyone usually eats out together on Wednesdays and Thursdays, and it’s hard to stick to a diet when faced with all the things I can’t have. Plus, I don’t want to look like a snob if I don’t go with them or don’t eat. I hate admitting to being on a diet, because somebody always says “you don’t need to!” when I so obviously do. It’s embarassing.

When I started copying out entries from one of my old diaries, the idea was to follow it through right to the end. Then life took over a little and I forgot about it; reading about the past and the tangled mess of college, my relationship with S, and eventually therapy… it was difficult. Looking back with the benefit of hindsight can be painful. I did so much wrong. 

After deciding to go back to my old diary, I discovered it’s lost. The A4-sized black book filled with biro scibblings and breakdowns is nowhere to be seen. I’ve searched under my bed and through my bookcase, and there’s no sign of it. Hopefully I’ll find it when I start packing for the move, but for now… it seems the past is lost. I don’t know how it’ll feel if I never find it. Things have a habit of disappearing in this house.

 
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Posted by on September 2, 2012 in Every day life

 

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Sick to my stomach

Sinking to the depths again
the ones you never quite reach
heart in my hands and head on the floor
wishing I was anyone but me.

Falling for my weakness again
and welcoming it like a friend
crushing my heart between my fingers
- that heart you tried to mend.

Sad, tired eyes searching for you
but my hands can’t seem to grip
aching head and swollen fingers
and the shame because I slipped.

sick in my skin and dead to the world
it’s cold on the bathroom floor
smash all the mirrors and hide the pieces
I don’t want them anymore.

(c) 2006

Sick

Bulimia, unlike many of the things I’ve experienced, is strangely easy to write about. The reason for this is most likely because when I think of myself as being “bulimic”, it’s like stepping into somebody else and watching myself from the outside; almost like a movie. It isn’t real. Even after fifteen years of binging and purging, something inside me still refuses to accept that I could possibly have an eating disorder. 

ED’s happen to other people, you see. Not me. I simply… have a little trouble with food. Since I first made myself sick at eleven years old it’s all been a sort of blur to me. I know it happened, but it may as well be somebody else’s story because I can’t ever quite accept it’s not all a big lie I concocted to get attention. 

 
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Posted by on August 31, 2012 in Every day life

 

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Only words

You think that these are only words,
a shameless outpouring you don’t understand,
you thought that this meant nothing to me;
those feelings I offered you in my hands.

The truth should never have been so clear
in black and white, in printed ink,
you should have known what I was saying
but you didn’t see, you didn’t think
that my words could be my only way;
that just perhaps, I’m as confused as you,
you didn’t see that I could also be hurt -
that I could be feeling the same pain as you.

You held the world in your hands,
but they were just words, you just couldn’t see
that those pieces of paper, now thrown away
were everything I had of me.

(c)

Once, I showed O some of the poems I had written about all the problems we were going through together. He’d read my poetry before and praised it, and I felt it was my only way of reaching out with any real honesty. When we sat face-to-face, glaring and spitting out cheap insults, I couldn’t speak properly. Couldn’t get the words out, because I was so afraid of saying the wrong thing. 

I said things I didn’t mean instead. Anything to hide what I was really thinking. I messed up so many times, saying the wrong thing entirely rather than the truth. Things which only made O shout and sulk more. 

I showed him my poetry. He knew I was falling apart.  

He read it, shrugged, said he didn’t understand it and threw the piece of paper on the floor. It lay there, half under his bed, for months. All I wanted was for him to see the truth. He refused to see. 

Posted for dVerse Poets, with the prompt:

 It’s not fall yet, but the promise of autumn seems to tease us from around the nearest corner, and offer us something better to anticipate.

The very real but difficult to express level of delight this caused me made me stop for a moment to think about the nature of amorphous concepts like anticipation, hope, despair and so forth, and how, like so much of poetry, they express something enormous that is neither physically measurable nor concrete, that only exists in the mind and spirit.

We have science for facts and process, philosophy, metaphysics and religion for the questions of existence, but for defining and expressing our own most elusive internal constructs of emotion, we only have art, poetry and music.

That’s the coded message behind the most analytic and dry poem as well as the most saccharine pop song, conveyed with varying degrees of skill and effectiveness: that we have only these tools to try to communicate a vast reservoir of fluid intangibles we all experience but have difficulty defining or expressing any other way.

As for me? I’m doing okay. Yesterday afternoon was spent tidying up in preparation for moving; today was supposed to be an exercise in extreme cleaning (my furniture is filthy from hundreds of spilled coffees and months of dust) but yet again, fibro strikes.

Food… I’m trying. I ate a small bowl of chips last night with some bread, and a pack of bread sticks. Nothing eaten so far today, but there’s time. I’m incredibly grateful for the messages of support I’ve received over the past few weeks; I know I haven’t always responded to comments but that doesn’t mean I don’t read them and take the words on board. It’s just difficult to reply when everything is so up in the air.

 
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Posted by on August 29, 2012 in Every day life

 

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Not that I need proof.

3.30am. We were outside. Me sitting on a slightly damp mesh chair, S standing; smoking and drinking white wine.

S kissed me on the forehead.

Me: “If I had a problem, and felt weird talking to you about that problem, would that be silly?“.

 

So I told him. Confessed I’d lied last weekend about feeling ill, and in fact I was trying my best not to eat. Explained how it’s all about control and, haltingly, listed the reasons why I’m grabbing onto a past ED to cope.

He didn’t ask why.

He didn’t tell me to stop.

And he didn’t get angry.

He just kissed the top of my head and rubbed my shoulder.

“How are we going to fix this?”

 
31 Comments

Posted by on August 28, 2012 in Every day life

 

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None of us are free

Listening to: Frou Frou Foxes in Midsummer Fires by Cocteau Twins.

It’s 5.08am. My stomach is empty and the diet Dr Pepper is making four days worth of heartburn worse. It’s become a toss-up between stomach pain or curbing my appetite, and so far the pain seems like the most sensible option.

See, restricting does strange things to your mind, especially when it comes to rational decisions. I may not have much confidence in my abilities or even respect myself much, but I know I’m not a stupid woman. I can dissect situations, and can think logically. Those have always been my greatest strengths, and though I’d never go so far as to say I’m proud – I don’t think I know how it feels to be proud of myself – it does offer me some comfort to know I at least have something I can do well. Right now though… logic simply doesn’t come into it.

I don’t know how long I’ve been avoiding food for now. Two weeks? It feels longer, especially when every breath brings a mouthful of acid up my throat. Strangely, I’m not dreaming of cake and chocolate. If anything, I’m just not hungry anymore. Or rather I am, but it isn’t registering as anything other than a pleasant sensation of emptiness.  This is what worries me – and worrying about my eating habits is a new feeling – because I recognise that pleasure. That feeling of being on a higher plane because your stomach is empty. Pure. Unspoiled. The only uncomplicated thing in your life. The only thing you have complete control over.

I don’t understand why I can’t bring myself to speak to S about all this. I still haven’t said a single word to him, even though I promised to when the anxiety was kicking off. I know it sounds like an excuse, but there honestly hasn’t been a suitable time to bring it up. “Hey by the way, you know how I used to be anorexic? And bulimic? Well, I’m aiming for like, 300 calories a day and pretending it’s the answer to all my problems. Want a brew?” doesn’t exactly go down well when everything between us is perfect and happy. I don’t want to taint the relationship by bringing up my failings.

I’m beginning to think I’ll never escape from ED. Never.

 
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Posted by on August 24, 2012 in Every day life

 

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Rude Awakening

Another day, another suggestion that I see my GP.

“I think you’re taking the wrong medication, the Daily Mail says Lyrica is used for anxiety but you’re on beta-blockers and Cipralex so you don’t need it all”. 

I curse the bloody Daily Mail.

Yet again, I slept badly last night. I’d napped during the day – an unsatisfying, food-avoiding fibro nap – and ended up awake until dawn. Dozed off sometime in the morning and was woken by my mother insisting I get out of bed and make an effort. Shouting about medication and having to see my doctor. I’m sick of hearing this at least once a week. Of course, I reacted; half-asleep and irritated, I burst into tears. I just wanted some peace. I wanted to wake up naturally on my own, rather than having my sleep cycle decided for me.

I used to try to avoid getting angry, but I’m tired of it now. Yes, I sleep at odd times but I’m not the only one, and is it any surprise?

Moving out can’t come too soon, but even that comes with its own hurdles. For weeks now, my mother has been trying to get me to pack my stuff away. Telling me to measure furniture and asking about curtains and toasters. Although I’m determined not to let her take over this move, I know she’s trying her best to involve herself with every aspect of it and I really don’t want her to. This is my final attempt at freedom; the first time I’ve actually moved out with a purpose. It’s mine and S’s flat, not hers… and I’m not sure how much I can humour her without blowing up in her face.

Don’t get me wrong. I know she’s trying to help. After all, she’s worried about me. Of course she is. I’m moving into a flat where I’ll have to take control of my own prescriptions and moods; but she seems to forget that S will be there too. And with the freedom living away from my mother affords, I know I’ll be happier. I know I’ll be able to move on somewhat, and hopefully work towards maybe getting to the point where I can work from home in the future and get off benefits. Living here… she’d never allow that. She’s too protective.

I’m not saying I’ll magically get better once I move away. I know there’s a lot of hard work to be done; specialists to see, tests to have, and a lot of the past needs to be dealt with before I can even begin to push on in life. I may never improve physically. I may get worse. But there’s a tiny, tiny chance that being allowed my own freedom and personality could relieve some of the stress on my shoulders and, in time, allow me to think of the future.

Yet again, I’ve wasted an entire day. After being so rudely woken I simmered in my own frustrations for hours, only venturing downstairs once to make a coffee. I avoided my mother. Didn’t offer to make a cup of tea for her. Usually I relent and accept things are never going to change, but why should I? I’m so close to that freedom – close enough to almost touch it – and here she is, still insisting I see my doctor every time I sleep in. Still combing the Daily Mail for health articles to thrust in my face as I’m trying to wake up. Still telling me to measure the walls of the new flat and fit furniture in accordingly.

Is it really the end of the world if I don’t put my desk where she wants it?

I’m tired, but doubt sleep will come easily tonight. I simply can’t cope with being woken suddenly. It throws my whole day off. I’m trying not to feel anxious, but having that bloody one-sided conversation about my fucking GP at least once a week is driving me up the wall. I’ve made no secret that I’m struggling right now; to add to the anxiety and panic attacks, I’m falling down the ED rabbit hole again. It’s so easy to do. It’s control, you see. If I control what I eat, things can’t get on top of me. Knowing I’ve hardly eaten for days is a comfort; I may not be able to deal with the stresses of every day life without freaking out, but I can restrict calories like a champion.

 
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Posted by on August 14, 2012 in Every day life

 

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When the past gives me no comfort

Despite my attempts at being entirely honest and bare in this blog, I do hold back. I assume everybody does, to some extent, even in their most secret of diaries. You see, twenty seven years of life is a lot to fit into just over a year’s worth of writing.

At first, I thought running out of things to say and confessions to admit would happen quite quickly. After all, I haven’t lived for that long; most still seem to consider me a child, barely out of my teens. It seems that even after you grow up and become an adult, there will always be somebody older ready to condescend your problems by mentioning how much more experienced they are. However, thousands of words later, I’m beginning to realise I can’t possibly tell my story in such a short time and, if anything, I’m only just admitting to the tip of the iceberg.

Something I’ve learned about writing such a personal blog – which involves sensitive subjects – is that I have to be feeling in the right frame of mind to speak about certain things. Sometimes I have to be angry; I write best about self-harm when I’m furious. Others, I have to be bordering on falling back into the depression pit. Some things… I am never in the right frame of mind.

 

Like tonight. I would much rather curl up in a ball on my bed and smoke dope and watch E.R until the sun comes up, than write about all the anxiety which has been plaguing me. I’d much prefer distracting myself with pointless games than admitting to finding it really fucking hard not starving myself every time I try to lose just a little weight.  And I’m forcing myself to write because I know that if I don’t, I’ll keep doing it. If I don’t have to hold myself accountable, then what’s the harm in letting myself cut a few hundred calories a day, until I’m only eating half an apple and two carrot sticks? At least then less people would judge me. I wouldn’t have to worry about not being taken seriously anymore, because when I was thin… I felt better. I just felt better. More confident. People listened to me more. I wasn’t just a fat loser with a walking stick and too many piercings.

I’m tired, but I don’t want to sleep. I also don’t want to talk about the voices.

They’re not voices; not really. They’re more like obtrusive thoughts which feel like they come from a different brain. They barge in with suggestions and hints, and are impossible to shut up once they get going. Until a few years ago I believed they were entirely valid thoughts, and acted on them. After years of fucking up and putting myself in dangerous situations… I learned – through lots of self-therapy and even more medication – that they’re not my real thoughts. That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t mean I can ignore them. They shout. Loudly. Demand my attention. Grab onto my brain stem and refuse to let go.

I wish I could explain the things they say, but it’s difficult to put into words. It’s bitter and spiteful stuff; reminders of my failings and every single time I said something wrong. They’re the ones who say that everybody in a room is looking at me, and that everybody I know is just pretending to like me out of pity. When I’m holding the lit cigarette in my hand and feeling helpless, they’re the ones who are shouting at me to press it into my arm. They’re the ones who twisted everything; who convinced me that I had enemies in friends and that others were out to hurt me. They made it all sound so real, and they still do. I just know they’re not a part of me now. Not a healthy part anyway.

I don’t know what I’m trying to say here. That I’m tired and need sleep, probably.

 
32 Comments

Posted by on August 9, 2012 in Every day life

 

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Don’t blame your daughter, that’s just sentimental

I was angry earlier – I suppose it showed – and I’m starting to feel a little guilty for lashing out verbally on such a time-worn subject. It’s a story which has been done to death over the years, and I’ve cried more tears over my mother’s control than anything else in my life. Although I didn’t cry this time, I wanted to; the only thing holding me back was a sense of pride in believing I was right, and not wanting to show weakness to her while she had the emotional upper hand.

Understand this; I love my mother. I worry about her constantly – her physical health, her moods, her depressions, the way she rarely eats – and I’d fall apart if anything happened to her. Although I hated her at times throughout my teens, I gradually learned that not everything she did was to spite me; over the years, my mother has opened up about her abusive relationship with my father, her brother dying when he was eight years old, her father dying of cancer when she was fifteen. She’s had a turbulent life – like mother like daughter, I suppose – and the more I get to know her, the easier it is to see that I’ve learned a lot of my behaviour from her, such as my ridiculous attitude to food. She’s obviously struggled with a lot of stress and drama, and sometimes I see flashes of myself in the way she rants and raves; flashes of BPD.

I suppose we’re too alike in many ways. Both prone to sulking and unjustified anger. Both trying to control situations; she tries to control me, I try to control myself. Both living with chronic pain. Both dealing with the stress of illness. Both knowing that men are sometimes unspeakably cruel.

I’ve spent so much of my life feeling inferior to her, feeling pushed out of the family and wrapped in cotton wool. Been the baby of the family for too long. I’ve watched my brother go off to be a train driver. Seen my sisters become managers and childcarers. Felt left behind as they buy houses and settle into their lives. My sister (E) ran away from home in her teens and stayed in a B&B, because she couldn’t cope with the controlling atmosphere in the house… leaving me to receive it all.

In a way, I wish I could hate her. It would be much easier to think she’s just a cruel woman; but she isn’t. She’s ill, she’s ill in the ways I am, but she will never admit to it. I’ve tried; she admits to having depression and I know she’s been on antidepressants in the past, but I know she struggles more than she ever shows.

I don’t know how I feel about moving into a flat with S – possibly next month – because I know she relies on me. As a child, I thought her demands for cups of tea were akin to slave labour; now I know it was because she couldn’t handle the kettle with arthritic fingers in the morning. I thought her hatred of my boyfriends was some sort of jealousy, when she turned out to be right about them every time.

She hurts me, though. Her little comments about my weight – hinting I shouldn’t be eating so much – and piercings/tattoos get me down. Her need to know every single thing about my life is tiring, especially when there’s so much I could never tell her. Her control over my finances… it’s destroyed my trust in her, because I know she doesn’t trust me. I’ve tried my best to be the daughter she wants me to be, but I know deep down I’ll never achieve that because it just isn’t me. I have piercings which she hates. I have ink she loathes. I hang around with people she can’t stand. I wear clothes she may not always approve of. I take risks and make decisions without her input… and that won’t change, because it’s taken most of my life for me to begin to realise who I am. I’ll never be what she wants.

 
40 Comments

Posted by on June 1, 2012 in Every day life

 

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