ceasefire.

I’ve been thinking about writing this post for a few days now, but I haven’t wanted to commit to anything. I feel like once I’ve written it down here, that’s it; that’s my decision – whereas elsewhere I can write, I think I might be giving up and it’s just a way of comforting myself. Like, it makes me feel better to think that I could just stop, if I needed to, I could just stop fighting.

But now I think.

I think I’ve reached the point where I believe it is more dangerous for my mental health for me to continue with recovery (right now) than it is for me to restrict. I know the sense of control my ED gives is an illusion, but it is an illusion of control that I need – it is only a defence mechanism, but I still need defending. This time, I’m conscious that I’m using my ED to displace other problems, but the truth is that if I keep looking those problems in the eyes, I think they will kill me. The fight is not over, not at all. But for now, I need a ceasefire.

I ate well, yesterday – a lot, of course, it being Christmas – but I didn’t feel I’d binged, afterwards, or panicked, or felt so full I was on the verge of vomiting and still gone on eating, at any point. But still my body aches from food this morning, and when I put on clean underwear I flinch from the marks where yesterday’s bra cut into my skin. I feel swollen, bruised. I cannot bear to look down at myself, when I get dressed, or when I stand in the shower. I only need a few weeks, just to take that pressure off myself. It is a kind of torture, to be trapped in a situation you hate so much  and know that if you try to change it, you have failed. At the moment, I cannot tell which is the greater and which the lesser evil, and if I were feeling psychologically stronger – the way I felt in October, for example – I would be able to handle it; but right now I’m at the tail end of a bout of very intense depression, and I can’t.

I don’t want to think of this as failing, or as relapsing, because I’m conscious of my decision in a way I’ve never been before, and I’m aware that I’m using my ED to handle something else, and this is all very different to how things have been before. But this is it for now.

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boys & girls.

Truth is, no one’s ever wanted to hold my hand. When I was beautiful, maybe there were people, but there was never anyone for me. But you know what, honest truth: I’m still pretty; I actually am. No one gives a damn.

And you know what else: I’m a good person. I’m kind, and funny, and I’m so brave, and I’ve been stronger than anyone should have to be. I’m insightful, and witty, and I’m cleverer than most people I know (I’d be stupid if I didn’t know that). Yeah, I’m introverted and quiet and geeky, but I kind of like those things. I’m creative, and I write beautiful fiction, and I play guitar, and draw, and sing a mean Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina. And I just feel like no one sees any of that; or maybe they do see it, but they don’t care, like sure, I’m all these things, but I’m not remarkable, and maybe people don’t actually want some fierce, smart, geeky feminist type with serious self-loathing and body-image issues.

When I was seventeen I fell in love with a girl called Clare, one of my friends. She was the most beautiful thing; so clever, so sweet – she was exactly my height, little and slender – and she had these brown eyes and these dimples that killed me. And she was a fucking mathematical badass, and a little nerdy, and what I liked about her was that she understood silence, you could just be with her and she wouldn’t try to fill the space, you could both just be. She was like a little cat, and sometimes she’d fall asleep on the chairs in the common room with her head on my shoulder, all this soft golden-brown hair, and I’d just sit there, I swear, with little hearts bubbling out of my mouth like an anime character. At parties, when we got drunk, we’d snuggle together, our hands wound into each others’, and my heart would beat so fast I didn’t know if I was alive or dead. One time, we lay in the dark on a double bed, sharing a bottle of vodka and playing ‘Rockstar’ by Nickleback on repeat, and any time the song said the word ‘rockstar’ we’d sing ‘Voldemort’ (’cause we all just wanna be Voldemort…!’), and we thought this was the funniest thing in the whole world. On holiday, we kissed in a club, and I don’t know who started it – I honestly don’t – but we made out for like, an hour, and I never wanted to stop. That was my first kiss; she must have known that.

But she was straight, see. Or at least, she thought she was straight; or at least, she wanted to be straight, cause it’s so much more fucking complicated when you like girls, isn’t it. I’d have walked into oncoming traffic for her, I’d have come out on the fucking ten o’ clock news, I’d have been her girlfriend. I wanted to be her girlfriend. I’d never even thought about that before – I’d thought, yeah, I’m probably bi, but I’d never thought, She could be my girlfriend. We could do girlfriend things. We could have hot lesbian sex, you know? I didn’t even know how lesbians had sex.

But she was straight, or she thought she was, or she wanted to be. So I just got my heart broken. There’s not really been anyone since then.

It’s pretty depressing to be bisexual, and to have both genders to choose from, and still not be able to find anyone. I’ve never kissed a boy. I’m twenty years old and I’ve never kissed a goddamn boy (it’s fairly lucky Clare happened, or I’d never have kissed a girl either). The truth is, most people don’t even know I’m bi – my friends at uni don’t, in so many words – just because it’s always been such a moot issue: okay, so I’m not making out with girls, but I’m not making out with boys either. Is that a confidence thing? Is it an eating-disorder-side-effect? Or is it just me, who nobody wants?

So, this is totally irrelevant to the point of this blog. Enough story-dumping.

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i want to tell you everything.

I’m not getting better. Right now, I’m thinking seriously about phoning the Samaritans, just to talk to someone, because I don’t know what else to do. But I think I’m too scared – it’s Christmas, they must have hundreds of people ringing them, and I’m just some privileged kid who thinks she’s entitled to more love than she actually deserves. But surely unhappiness is unhappiness, whoever’s it is? I used to always tell myself, when I came over all self-indulgent, stfu, you know? Like, some people have real problems. But the truth is, I have an eating disorder, a real one: not the kind where you post pictures of pretty, skinny scene girls on Livejournal and Tumblr and sign off with ‘think thin!’, but the kind where you want to tear yourself apart because you can’t stand to live in your own skin anymore. And that is a real problem.

But what would I say, if I called? Would I be able to talk at all, to explain? Or would I talk forever, for hours, would I tell them everything so fast it wouldn’t make sense, and I’d be taking up time that they could be talking to someone who’s – who’s lost a family member, or who’s suicidal, and I’m just sobbing cause I’m twenty years old and kinda chubby and no one wants to hold my hand.

I don’t know if this is a good idea.

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the things of the night.

I know the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started.

Ernest Hemingway, “A Farewell To Arms”

 

Guess who just ate two squares of fudge for breakfast. Yeah. Not in a bingey way or anything: I just couldn’t face actual breakfast food this morning (you know, with nutrients), so because I felt I’d better eat something, I figured, fudge and tea. Except I’m not actually happy about this, because the back of my mind is going that’s the same calorie intake for those two little squares as for a whole bowl of cereal, or two pieces of toast. It’s clearly incredible fun, being me.

Shall I continue with the cheerful? I’m fresh off one of my breakdowns; they happen every month or so. Last night, this involved lying in the dark listening to ‘Without You’ from Rent and crying my eyes out until I had to wrap my arms around my own shoulders and shakily murmur, ‘shh, shh, come on’ until I calmed down. It is my own peculiar brand of loneliness, and it is something I will never be able to explain truly to someone, face to face, because if you have someone to explain it to, you are not that alone any more. I hold my own hand, I push the damp hair from off my own white face and confide in myself all the things that are breaking my heart. I can’t imagine admitting this to anyone, but I can write it here, anonymously. I watch Chris Colfer’s It Gets Better video, but I am not sure it will. I tell him, quietly, in the darkness, I don’t know if I can last. I watch him singing ‘I Want To Hold Your Hand’ from Glee on Youtube, and it helps – not in that way where it actually helps, but in that way where I think, someone else has felt this sadness before, even if it is just an acted character.

Oh God, sometimes I don’t think I can go on.

Because everybody told me, it will get better! And I always thought, once I grew up, once I got out of school and left this stupid town and – and there would be people who understood me, and loved me, and – I had all this hope; that there was more to life, and I was going to escape all of this.  So when I went to university, I picked a city at the furthest end of the country, as far away as I could get, and I left, in a blaze of red hair and red boots and triumph.

But I never really escaped. At the end of first year, when I relapsed into my ED the first time round (it’s always gone in cycles) and lost over a stone in two months, it was because I felt so lonely, so absolutely on my own that there seemed nothing to fight for. I was living in a little box room, like a battery chicken, and every single day was empty. I concentrated so hard on losing that weight, because I needed something to concentrate on. I almost think that I could not have got through those few months without starving myself, because I had nothing else. Then last year, and this year, I’ve lived with my gorgeous housemates – and I do love them, immeasurably, but it isn’t like I imagined.

Loneliness does not come from having no people about one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible.

As a child I felt myself to be alone, and I am still, because I know things and must hint at things which others apparently know nothing of, and for the most part do not want to know.

-Carl Jung

I want life to be all the things I hoped it would be, because the weight of my disappointment, the darkness of my disenchantment is too much for me to bear. It gets so much better, but not for me.

Posted in chris colfer, depression, doubts, my story, quotes | Leave a comment

size.

This is horribly un-recovery-friendly, but I miss being thin so much. I’m internet shopping under extreme duress, because my mum wants me to order something that my brother can give me for Christmas, even though I’ve said I don’t mind, and I’d rather have the money and get something when I see it, or else he could pay for my new year dress, or… but anyway, no, let’s have some body image pressure, why not.

So I’m looking at this:

And all I can think is how beautiful I’d have looked in that a year and a half ago, how little and petite and narrow-waisted. That girl in the picture, my body used to look exactly like hers. And in fact, that girl’s 5’10, and I’m 5’2 (and a half!), so I was absolutely tiny when you think about it.

And all these faded sweat tops hanging off sharp shoulders, and exposing the delicate knit of collarbones. All these fragile wrists and concave thighs, fuck, I miss that. I want to be whisper-thin. I want to be half invisible – not the invisible that people look right through, the sort that they crane to see, that they breathe right in. Like a light you can’t look directly at.

And I can’t

And I couldn’t, not even when I was trying. I mean, before I decided to eat three meals a day, and not vomit up everything I eat, and attempt to live like a normal person. Even when I was desperate, early last summer, going days and days at a time eating nothing at all – even then, I couldn’t get rid of the weight, I couldn’t, it wasn’t working. I’d broken myself, thoroughly. My metabolism was just a myth. I had nowhere else to turn, I had no other alternative. The truth is, I had to start eating properly, because it was impossible for me to eat any less.

It’s hard, because I’m actually feeling better in my skin most of the time, now. I’m sort of adapting to my size, to the new clothes (the ones that actually fit). Even when I weighed in this morning, and holy fuck it’s exactly the same how is this even possible, I was just… I couldn’t even react to it, I was just like, ‘you know, I’m over this.’ I wasn’t even upset. But then I see a photo or something – an unexpected or forgotten photo, one I didn’t have control over – and I’m just any old chubby white girl, when this blog is proving to myself that I don’t eat like a fat person – not even fat, just average, just the upper end of normal, wide, chunky. I didn’t use to be! God, I swear I never used to be.

But what can I do, what can I do.

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135lb, in gif form.

135lb.

Yeah.

Photobucket

I ain’t even mad.

Photobucket

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daily log

Home! Let’s do the log:

  • 2 x wholemeal toast w. soya spread & cherry jam + green tea
  • wholemeal pitta w. improvised bean salad & lettuce
  • ‘berry delight’ nakd bar
  • home: herb-crusted salmon w. potatoes, spinach & shallot butter sauce
  • a few squares of milk chocolate

I’m pleased with how non-disordered that looks! Even though dinner is like, twice the calories of something I’d make normally (and not vegan), I can accept that as a homecoming meal. No exercise though, as I had a five hour train journey today, so that’s the downside.

What I have found quite touching is that my mum did get in some soya milk for me specially, without me even asking her. My choices: respected! So hopefully even at home I can eat as predominantly vegan as possible (today excluded, obviously!), and I usually cook here so – feeling a lot better at the prospect of his holiday. She doesn’t know about my ED, in so many words, but I think she can tell how much healthier I am at the moment, and she’s super-impressed at how my feet have cleared up since I cut out dairy and began eating better. So I love that she’s being supportive.

Plans are up in the air for this week, so who knows what’s coming…

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