Smokers outside the hospital doors

Finally, after two years of hospitals, clinics, GP surgeries, waiting rooms, needles, tests, being weighed, being measured, having my blood pressure taken, having my blood taken, of needing diaries to keep track of all the different dates and times and locations… finally there’s a reprieve, and it feels good.

My rheumatologist has agreed to allow six blissful whole months between check-ups, sometime earlyish next year the blood tests can (hopefully, assuming nothing changes dramatically again, which it has done a few times) be done every three months. My GP is also in the process of trying me on monthly – rather than fortnightly – appointments.

Therapy still happens once a week, and I’m waiting to have a molar removed and some fillings done, along with other dental work, but things feel quieter.

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In a strange way, getting ill has been a blessing. I can’t remember when the relationship between my mother and I turned to fighting – probably as I approached puberty, when everything else seemed to fall apart – but knowing it’s ended is a wonderful feeling. We still bicker; we’re very alike and both very stubborn. I still fly off the handle on the odd occasion when everything becomes too much. She deals with it pretty well now, and on the whole we’re close.

It’s an odd feeling, finally being the sort of close to my own mother where she can link my arm and I don’t pull away from being touched, and I will confide in her about some incredibly personal things from the past without worrying about being judged. I’ve learned she won’t, now. Sometimes, I juggle with the idea of telling her about that thing – she occasionally says she wonders what the cause of BPD was as I wasn’t abused and it’s horribly common to find abuse in a BPD’s past – but the time is never quite right to begin that conversation.

Therapy is a struggle. I used to think my teenage obsession with psychology articles, books, and a couple of college courses was enough to make any therapy a breeze, but then I never responded to it before. It’s a mixture of CBT and DBT, with immersion therapy, and my current task (tasks are set every week) is to go for a walk alone.

There was a time not so long ago where I’d scoff at the idea of not being able to do that; I spent most of my life out walking alone, either along the embankment near my mother’s house, through the park into town, or just around my stomping ground. Now, however… I’m finding it incredibly difficult to step outside. Again.

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Going outside if I’m meeting my mother isn’t too difficult, so long as I can get a taxi. Buses are out. Going out with S is difficult, and it’s never far from my mind that this introverted, reclusive, hermit of a girl is very different from the woman he met years ago in a pub on a whim. He’s been incredibly patient and I’m thankful as hell for that, because I don’t know if I could have got this far without him.

For somebody who is terrified of being outdoors, I spend most of my time thinking about all the things I miss about the outside. Autumn leaves. Friendly dogs. Different smells. Trees. Buildings. I miss looking at things, seeing new stuff instead of the same walls. I adore these walls, but I dearly miss seeing the grassy hills of the local park covered in pastel-coloured tulips in the spring, and being able to walk into a shop without fear of making eye contact.

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We came along this road

The journey back isn’t a Hollywood blockbuster. There are no explosions. No world-destroying earthquakes. Denzil Washington doesn’t turn up with a cartload of braille Bibles to point out the right way to go. There are no maps. No signs. You are entirely alone in the quiet, unassuming task of getting back on your feet, and the act is nothing spectacular. It doesn’t warrant any fanfares.

In Terry Pratchett’s Discworld, there is a Dark Desert, with miles and miles of “brilliantly-lit black sand, under a black sky studded with cold bright stars, stretching away to distant mountains (where judgement awaits).” Thousands of souls pass each other, all walking the same desert, but they never see each other. They just keep walking towards what they hope will happen, locked in their own time.

For a while now, I have been, metaphorically and physically, taking that long walk back home.

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It began with Autumn arriving. Almost overnight, the leaves on the horse chestnut tree next door began to turn a bright, yellowy-orange, and the fir in the front garden began to turn blue in preparation for winter. Red berries briefly appeared on the bushes near the driveway before being eaten by fat woodpigeons, and the nights began smelling of leaves and bonfires; the sea air feeling chilly in the dead of night, a cat cuddling up to my dressing gown for warmth.

After a successful cortinsone injection into my ankle joint, walking has become much easier. This is the second one which has worked; and it’s worked miracles. Today, on the way to the back garden, I kicked through some leaves to entertain Stimpy. This time last year that wouldn’t have been even close to possible, and I’m very aware of the difference both cortisone and Methotrexate have made to my life.

I’m not running marathons; I still need the stick for balance and still struggle to pick things up. S still has to do most of the cooking, although I’m helping more and have cooked a few meals alone recently. I still have bad days. My health is currently compounded by Methotrexate doing the exact job it’s supposed to do; suppressing my immune system, reducing the white blood cells and calming the inflammatory response when my immune system attacks the joints.

That side of it has worked very well and I have far more movement in my fingers, neck and wrists than I did even a few months ago, however, lowered immunity means bacteria and infections have almost free reign and infection can be very difficult to treat. I’ve found this to be the case for a while now, with repeated infected cysts and tooth abcesses – which require constant antibiotics as the infection returns as soon as they’re stopped – as well as mouth ulcers, swollen gums, losing clumps of hair to the shower drain, and difficulty urinating.

It has increasingly been a case of weighing up the pros and cons of taking a disease-modifying anti-rheumatic drug, but so far the ability to walk and go outside (the wheelchair was causing me too much anxiety; I left it at my mother’s house) and have that small shred of indpendence back is more than worth dealing with anything Methotrexate can throw at me.

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So. Slowly, the road is leading me back. It’s a little scary to know how long I’ve felt… muffled by life. With hindsight I can see how the combination of moving in with S after living with my mother – albeit with brief breaks – in the same house since I was born, the psoriatic arthritis symptoms becoming chronic, difficulty getting diagnosed again, so many tests and hospital appointments I lost count, all built up to set a sequence of events in place which, really, I should have seen coming. I have never dealt well with crisis.

Moving away from my mother was emotional in a few ways; my time at the quiet suburban semi was often fraught, she and I fought like cats, refusing to budge on any subject until I became uncontrollable and set to destroying whatever I could get my hands on (my early teens) or saying the worst things I could possibly think of (my later teens) and the majority of the time I lived there was spent sequestered in my bedroom like a hermit, refusing to come out except to go to the bathroom, binge, or, in the later years, smoke. Sneaking down at night to use the phone to call whoever I happened to be dating at the time, trying to break into my mother’s bedroom – she installed locks – to find my confiscated medication.

I slept all day and tiptoed around like a ghost at night, flicking through Teletext at 3am, smoking out of the window, eating everything I could get my hands on and purging silently in the garden.

Despite our lack of relationship, I was nevertheless hugely reliant on my mother even if I didn’t believe it at the time. Without me knowing, she steered me through the important parts of life; albeit in a way which wasn’t always right, but she always tried. A few years ago my mother stopped speaking to my brother, C, after he never repaid her a large debt despite being able to, and yet she has never given up on me despite the years of carting me to psychiatrists, sitting in the ambulance with me on the way to A&E after overdoses, the shouting, the ignoring, sitting up all night waiting for me to come home as the police helicopter passes over me, never stopping.

She says the difference is that I try to fix things.

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I am back in therapy. Somewhere along the road was a stumbling block and I was too busy enjoying my new-found freedom to notice before walking straight into it. Overnight, agoraphbia strolled back in and set up camp without so much as a greeting and, as a result, I am back to sending S on small errands I could do myself and staying indoors for days if no appointments are due; however, I’m adoring being outside once I get through the front door. This is new for me, and I’m not sure how to make myself go outside even though there’s nothing I want more than to put my boots on and crunch through the piles of fallen leaves down the street into the village.

Despite this, the future looks bright. Or brighter, at least. For the first time since I can remember, thoughts of a possible future are beginning to creep in. Reading has become pleasurable again after being used as a distraction from unwanted thoughts and crippling boredom for a long time. S and I bought a new mattress and we’re back to sleeping in the same bed every night; he kisses me in the morning while putting his shirt on for work and I wonder how I didn’t go crazy sleeping in the spare room without him, with just the cats for company. I suppose I did in a way.

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I had a meltdown. That’s why I’m back at therapy, really; my GP referred me after seeing the cuts I’d made on my right arm with a scalpel and hearing from my mother – I couldn’t find it in me to talk and needed somebody by my side – how I’d “spiralled downhill” since a difficult hospital appointment and overhearing an argument between S and a friend in which my so-called friend called me “lazy” for being unemployed; despite him having witnessed the illness at its worse on a number of occasions. There was more to it than that, but… I flipped. Took a scalpel and  harmed myself for the first time in, well, a long time, and certainly the first time since moving in with S. I have never self-harmed with him around, and when he came inside and saw me sitting on the bed with a bloody towel inexpertly wrapped around my arm and mascara everywhere, he panicked and we argued. We both said terrible things.

We made up and the relationship actually feels even better, but ever since that day I’ve been struggling in a number of ways. Friendships are becoming difficult again; S and I are invited to a close friend’s wedding on Monday and I’m terrified of having to cope with, well, other people. Even those I know. I worried I won’t pull it off. It’s a long time since I did anything truly social and since I stayed away from home for the night (we’re staying in a hotel) and I suspect I may be more nervous than the bride.

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I don’t  know. I’m just trying to grab any shred of confidence and push along the road, because what’s the alternative? Another year in bed, on the sofa? Another year of sleeping through the day, seeing S only briefly in the hallway? That was never what I wanted, and nor was hiding inside my flat day after day, week after week, nervously emerging only for appointments and to see my mother once or twice a week.

It feels better to be on the road than off it.

On a weekend I wanna wish it all away, yeah.

Day one of no prednisolone has been a small disaster. With most drugs, the effects stay in your system for a little while, but my experience with steroids has been very different; the day after the final dose is taken, everything returns. It’s what happened with the rash on my hands and feet. Less than 24 hours and I was covered again. So it’s no real surprise that today revolved around a renewed pain and stiffness – especially stiffness. I’d forgotten how limiting it can be.

I’ve been sleeping in the spare room recently, and last night was no different. There are a number of factors as to why – the air is cooler in there, the little white single bed has an orthopedic mattress, I feel safe surrounded by “my things” (it’s almost a copy of my old bedroom at my mother’s house; entirely subconscious on my part but it does give me a recognisable haven to retreat to) and I also feel safe knowing the only person to witness the pain is myself. After all, just because it now has a name and a reason, doesn’t mean I’m not still somewhat ashamed to be seen squirming around like a wounded animal. I feel horribly like a burden when S hears me complaining, so I try to limit how often I open my mouth on the subject. It’s difficult. On days such as today it envelopes my entire being.

 

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So. S and I have lived in the flat for almost a year now. Crazy how time passes in such strange ways. The last twelve months have been some of the hardest of my life, yet I got through it somehow. I confess to having no idea how that happened, as I’ve been stuck behind walls of varying painkillers, watching the world go by. As it is, the morphine is doing very little for the ankle pain – the discomfort and stabbing feelings seem to come from inflammation, and it’s only going to get worse now I’m off the prednisolone. I can’t take NSAIDs either. My mother is going to speak to my rhuematology nurse next week to see if there’s anything at all they can do before I see the consultant in October.

I’m just not convinced I can keep doing this. Waves of pain. Brief relief, then it all comes back, worse than ever.

I’m feeling a little despondent.

I confess

The drugs just aren’t doing it for me,
chemical sleep has lost its appeal
and I confess, I considered tonight
that it might be easier just not to feel.

To slip away, to take a bow,
Admit defeat and fall from my grace
and would you miss me, would you notice;
how long would it take to forget my face?

You forgot me once, you can do it again,
after all, this is only a release
breaking free from the prison we built together
in the hope, of maybe, one night of peace.

I confess, this is serious,
and if I had the strength I would leave tonight
I wish I was brave, that I wouldn’t miss you
that this time I could really give up the fight.

An empty bottle in front of me,
and pills I know I’ll never take
just further proof of my personal failings
evidence of the depression I could never shake.

Another scar to my collection,
a canvas I paint to remind me of you
to prove this reality was never a nightmare
but a waking hell, which I’m still going through.

I confess, it would be so easy,
Just a slip of the hand, just one step too far
but I’m not brave, I feel too afraid
to let myself go, to reopen these scars.

Yet I fantasise of how easy it would be,
for you to live your life without me there
I confess I think of setting you free
sometimes it’s the only way that ever seems fair.

If I left today, would you notice?
Would you realise, I did this for you?
If I slipped away past an exit sign,
would you see it as failure, or something I needed to do?

I try to remember every word you ever said,
the times you loved me, the times you were sweet
I confess, I want to forget
to make this easier for me to leave.

But how can I go when you hold me like that;
when you whisper so quietly only I can hear?
I confess, you keep me from dying,
from collapsing under the weight of my fears.

(c)

“Suicide” is a word I don’t like typing. It’s such a final solution, and the word itself makes me feel uncomfortable about the actions I’ve taken in the past. I may occasionally mention my flirts with causing my own death, but I try not to go into much detail because, in truth, I’m ashamed.

I’m ashamed to know I even tried, mostly over such trivial things. New colleges and threats of break-ups. Arguments with my mother. They seem such petty reasons but back then I couldn’t judge whether an incident was serious or minor, and everything felt like a horrific attack on everything I am. The panic and psychosis (for there was psychosis; hallucinations and imagined conversations) drove me into a ball of fear and confusion and, somehow, I decided that suicide was the only logical answer to a world of horror. 

Last week, a man lay down on the train tracks between my house and Z’s, and killed himself. I heard the sirens and saw sketchy details appear on Facebook, but I still can’t let myself accept that somebody was in so much torment that they felt the only way to solve it was to climb over the barriers as traffic waited at the crossing, and wait for the train to hit; somebody just a couple of roads away from where I was sitting was going through something most people never – thankfully – have to experience.

I find myself wondering what he was like; why he felt he had to take that step, and do something so damn final. I wish I’d had the chance to know him, somehow.

This is yesterday

I’ve been trying to write a post for the past week or so, with no success. Many have been written in my head – as I’m tossing and turning in bed next to S, trying to sleep through another fibro flare – but when it comes to making myself sit down at the little Ikea table in the kitchen and get those thought out onto the screen, I just can’t do it. So much has changed recently, and my mind is in a constant state of bemused flux; after years – decades- of absolutely everything being out of my control it’s near-on impossible to get my head around it all. I expected it to be difficult, but I don’t think this level of confusion was anything predictable. The excitement of finally standing up on my own feet masked it all for a little while, but now that things are settling a little and a routine of sorts is being established, those little niggles and worries are seeping back. Minor issues. Small things. Nothing important, and nothing which can stop the happiness I still feel at finally being free, but enough to remind me that I can make as many changes as I want and fight as hard as I can but it’ll never be easy.

Which is why I’m taking yet another big step and – against every fiber of my being – have made an appointment to see a new psychiatrist, almost two years after my last very brief foray back into the mental health system.
Like everything, I did mean to write something about that decision last week, and it was briefly mentioned in reply to a couple of comments on my last post, but – again, like everything else – I’ve been putting it off. I’ve always been open of my mistrust surrounding the UK mental health system; past experience has taught me nothing to convince me it’s worth feeling otherwise. While going back on the staunchest of decisions and beliefs is a classic symptom of BPD, I’m pretty convinced that isn’t the case this time. I sat on the decision for months, considering the options available and finally coming to the conclusion that if I want this to last – this normality I’ve found – I can’t go it alone, and although S is beyond wonderful and living together has boosted my self-esteem a lot, there’s still only so much I can speak to him about. I trust him implicitly  but I’ve spent enough of my life being a burden on others and I’m constantly aware that I can’t spend our relationship putting pressure on S to care for me.

The appointment isn’t just about that, though. It’s about everything. Every last little thing since that day in early puberty when something snapped inside my mind.

Over the years, all the things I’ve experienced have fragmented into a thousand threads of craziness. All match yet… don’t quite fit together. The ends are frayed and loose, tangled around each other in a huge knot of confusion. For a long time it was easy to accept that would never change and I would spend my whole life walking around with voices in my head and the inability to stick with anything worthwhile without sabotaging it. Comfort – even terrifying comfort – can be hard to leave behind. I’ve made so many mistakes; walked away from hundreds of chances to better my life, slept around in the vain hope of finding somebody who took all the pain away, thrown pills down my throat just so I wouldn’t have to feel, denied myself even life’s very simplest pleasures for no discernible reason at all. I’ve walked away from treatment. Fought against everybody who tried to help, convinced they were all part of the problem and could never be the solution.

It wasn’t an easy decision to make; not in the least. I’ve been in and out of the mental health system – more in than out, especially in my teens – more times than I care to count, and so far there’s been very little positive gleaned from the experience. My mother, she calls it damage. She says she sees the damage years of questions and let-downs and tablets and therapy has caused; can see it in my face. In my eyes. In the way I react whenever the system is mentioned.

In truth, it scares me. The thought of sitting on yet another cheap NHS-issue chair opposite a psychiatrist who knows nothing of the more subtle details… it’s terrifying. I’ve come so far, and I’m painfully aware that the slightest thing can bring my world crashing down like it always has before. Despite appearances I’ve never been strong – not in the least – and yet another failure is something I simply can’t afford anymore. Life now… I know I keep saying it, but it’s changed and I confess to being tired of change. As wonderful as everything is living with S, I want to stay here for a while. In this place. Where everything makes sense for once. I don’t want to make big plans, or look too far into the future. I just want this. Now. Here. Safety.

Yet, change has to happen.

I’m stubborn; and I’m still not quite ready to give into the crazy.

Last stop: this town

“You know, we’ve spent every day together for a month now. Are you bored of me yet?” 

It was said in jest – I still refuse to be clingy with S – but, as always, there was a nugget of truth in my words; a small fear I covered up with a nervous giggle. Since S and I first discussed the possibility of moving in together over a year ago, I’ve worried that spending so much time in each others pockets will cause some sort of breakdown between us – we’re both so used to our own space – but so far it seems to be working. I don’t want to question why it’s going so well, in case I somehow jinx it, and going well it is. I’m still in some sort of weird denial; I keep expecting to wake up tomorrow in the little white bed in my old bedroom, with the sheets covered in loose tobacco and ash, my head fuzzy from co-codamol overdoses. All that feels so far away now, yet too close for comfort. Life doesn’t work this way for me, it never has. It’s never been so good. I don’t think I can be blamed for worrying, can I?

We’re still living in chaos, but it’s a strange, enjoyable sort of chaos. The large hallway of the flat is filled with boxes, as is the living room and temporary bedroom, and the kitchen and bathroom still have no floor coverings. It’s a bit of an awkward situation; we’re renting the flat from a friend’s mother, who lost her father a few months ago. Her mother is in a nursing home with dementia and arthritis. I don’t think she was quite ready for us to move in, or maybe she forgot when we were supposed to be taking over the flat, but the bedroom is still filled with their belongings – paintings, books, old clothes – which is starting to cause a problem. Perhaps I’m overreacting as usual, but it’s frustrating that we can’t move in ‘properly’. I want to unpack, I want to see our belongings together so it all feels real. I want to sleep in the bedroom with the big bay window and built-in wardrobes, instead of a small room which the bed can just about fit in. I want to be able to make this our home. We’ve been here a month, and the bills haven’t even been sorted out yet.

I’m probably the only person in the world who wants to pay bills.

On the whole though, it’s wonderful. I always imagined I’d end up on my own in a cheap bedsit, living off cigarettes and peanut butter from the jar. If I’d stayed in school long enough to have a yearbook – if we even had yearbooks in the UK – under my picture it would have said “most likely to end up alone, eaten by cockroaches”. Honestly, I never believed that life would throw me the lifeline it has. That it would change so dramatically.

On the subject of change, everything has been shaken up on the medical side of things. I saw my GP on the 9th, determined to finally make my point about the way I’ve been treated; or not treated, rather. Moving out has given me the motivation to stand up for myself, if only because I don’t want to burden S with all my problems. Now we live together – I can’t stop repeating that we live together, it’s still so unreal – I can no longer hide all those freak-outs and breakdowns from him, and the last thing I want to do is make him feel like my carer rather than my boyfriend. Living with J taught me just how difficult it is to be constantly bombarded by mental illness, and S doesn’t need my craziness hanging over him. Neither do I.

So I sat, and explained to my GP just how difficult things have been.

This is probably going to take longer than usual“; and take longer it did. He listened though, and made all the right noises; nodding when I explained how let down I feel by the treatment I’ve received from the specialists I’ve seen recently.

Physio has been worse than useless, referring me to the Biomechanics Clinic, then when the appointment finally came ’round after being cancelled once and pushed months ahead, they referred me back to physio. Told me to keep doing the exercises on my foot, regardless of how painful it is. Told me there was nothing really wrong except for a bit of tendonitis. I can’t walk. I can’t sleep. It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt, and I’ve had gallstones. I don’t think I can take the constant backwards and forwarding anymore. I can’t take the tiredness, the lying awake at night wanting to cut my foot off. I’m sick of it all”.

He looked at me. Put his head to the side, and leaned forwards.

Has the anxiety and depression become worse?

So it all came flooding out. How I simply can’t cope anymore; with the pain, with the panic attacks, with the hospital visits and disappointment. I can’t pretend that things have been rosy over the past few months; the combination of medical let-downs and moving house has sent me somewhat over the edge. Not enough to truly worry anybody; just enough for me to know that things aren’t working properly. My brain… it had become tired. Cynical. I think I’d given up in many ways.

And I didn’t want that, not when I have this chance to assert my independence and live the way I’ve always needed to. For the first time since I can remember, I have a little potential. Not much, just enough to reassure myself that I do have a place in the world.

And the fibromyalgia? Joint pain? We need to deal with that too. I’m going to put you on Cymbalta; it’s an antidepressant and works for anxiety much like Cipralex did, but it’s also licensed for nerve pain. Cipralex just doesn’t seem to be working for you anymore. You need to stop taking it, wait two days, then start the Cymbalta. That way there shouldn’t be too much of a gap where you’re without some form of medication for the depression and panic attacks. I’m also giving you Arcoxia, which should be more effective than Celebrex at controlling the pain. Finally, I know you’re tired of referrals but I think you should see orthopedics. I’d have referred you sooner but with your history I thought rheumatology would be more suitable. We’ll do some blood tests, to check for RA again, and see where we go from there. See me again in a month, and we’ll look at how you’re doing on the new tablets.”

I left the surgery with a prescription, an appointment with orthopedics for the end of the month, and a small sense of hope. Of course, it’s not the first time I’ve felt that hope and been let down, so I refuse to get too excited by the possibility of finally seeing some improvement.

I’ve been taking the new meds for six days now. Yesterday I began to feel the real effects of Cymbalta; fuzzy head, dry mouth, misplaced energy, and bizarre dreams. However, I haven’t panicked, and the dark mood has lifted a little. Taking a new antidepressant after years of Cipralex working perfectly is a little scary – I’ve relied on it for so long – but so far everything seems okay. Nausea, but no vomiting. Stomach pains, but not unbearable. Most importantly, the pain has decreased dramatically, to the point where I can now walk without a stick. I’m still stiff, and I still stumble, but I can walk to the shops; a massive improvement.

Living with S is everything I had hoped for, and more. We cook together. He brings me cups of coffee and rolls cigarettes for me when I’m tired. We have a huge leather sofa with a chaise longue. A low Ikea double bed with new sheets and a king-size duvet. A communal garden – currently waterlogged – and neighbours who say hello when I bump into them. We live in a village now; still in the same town, but nicer somehow. Slower. Less stressful. There’s a grocers. A butcher and a fish shop. Spar. A hairdressers and a shop which sells frozen yoghurt with fruit in.

I know we won’t be here forever. Renting is probably our only option for the rest of our lives – we simply can’t afford a house and probably never will – but for the time being, I’m in my own little paradise. A place I can be myself, without pressure to perform and be ‘normal’. Somewhere I can exist without feeling I should always be doing more to be like everyone else. Most importantly, perhaps, is the fact that I’m getting on well with my mother. We speak regularly on the phone, and I visit at least once a week. She now agrees that we needed to be apart. That I needed my freedom.

I have freedom.

You don’t know how amazing that feels.

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.