The drugs don’t work.

Resorting to drugs is the last thing I ever thought I would do again. Addicted to sedatives aged 14 was quite enough. But here I am… relying in Diazepam to calm me down.

I think there’s a lot of realisation, resentment and anger going on. Two major things happening making me realise I should have trusted my instinct all along, but being too stupid to believe in myself.

I think I’m starting to realise that I’ve spent the last 5 years pretending to be someone I’m not, and coincidentally this falls into line with my recovery. I feel I have to be and act a certain way, to keep others happy. I’ve said I’m fine, I’ve pretended I’m okay, and I don’t even know why.

I realised this when I went for my first session of CBT. I was able to convince the psychologist that I was absolutely fine… when I’d been having suicidal thoughts just days before. I don’t know what makes me do this? Fear of failure I guess… Recovery was a path I chose, and falling off it would be outrageous, or so I believe anyway.

I wish I hadn’t put on this fake appearence. It’s backfired.

Only bones between us.

Do you remember the pain you felt when you embraced me?
Do you remember the fear in my eyes? The silence in my speech?
I carried on living.

Do you remember the strength that took me?
Do you remember the smiles that I faked?
I do.

Back then, there were only bones between us.

I’m not a selfish girl, so I will never say these words to you. But open your eyes. Look at me now, and look at me then. It took years of effort. You could at least pretend you care.

Note to self.

Wandering down roads and I feel alive, nothing could take this freedom from me.
Warmth coating my anxieties and soothing my flaws,
The softness of spring brushes against my legs, like silk on my skin.
I’m never going back.

I made a promise to myself, and I’ll keep it.
No matter how tough life gets, I will hold it together.

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I’m tired of fighting a fight that’s not my fight.

I’m not trying to shift blame, but anything that has ever stopped me from living life to the full has not once been my fault, but the fault of others. Yet I’d still happily give anyone the time of day.

Maybe it’s the same for everyone, and I’m just being moany, but I really am starting to find this unfair. I have a taste for life much bigger than others I know. I don’t let depression and anxiety get in my way anymore and I realise how precious life is. But I swear I haven’t been given a chance. Will I ever get the chance I so badly want?

I guess my chance is that my illness isn’t terminal, and maybe I should adopt a ‘live fast, die young’ way of thinking, but I don’t want to die young either.

I just want to get better, and I’m tired of hearing that I won’t.

Clutching at straws.

I’ve spent the last week dealing with constant nausea and I don’t think it’s doing my brain any good. The only reason I’m writing this is to get my thoughts out in the open so that I don’t keep them locked away.

My nausea has meant my appetite has decreased and I’ve hardly been able to eat anything. This plays games with my mind and makes my ribs more prominent.

I’m done with eating disorders, I really am, but a lot of my reasons for being better off without one have been taken away from me in the last year.

When I recovered, I found freedom. I was no longer controlled by an illness. I was able to go out with my friends for a meal without needing to rush home straight after, I was able to exercise without overdoing it and most of all I became independent, no longer watched by family or friends.

Now, I’m back to square one. I am controlled by an illness, I can’t go out with my friends and I feel like a child who needs looking after.

The thing that bugs me the most is that I have absolutely no control over my weight. I eat a normal diet, but have no way of exercising.

I almost feel like I did when I had a tube stuck down my throat feeding me and was also being expected to eat three meals a day.

I’m not writing this because I think I’m relapsing, far from it infact. In an hour or so it will be dinner time and I will eat like I do any other day, apart from the days I’m nauseous. I’m writing this because I know myself, and I know that if I get it out here, I will be fine.

 

“If I live my life for aesthetic gain, will you repay me with all your shame?”

Eating Disorders Awareness Week.

I was 12 when I was admitted to hopsital. I hadn’t been eating properly for months. No one knew why, myself included. Anorexia wasn’t a word my family were aware of. I can still remember the look of oblivion in my mothers eyes when I was first diagnosed.

I spent almost three months there. I went out at the same weight I came in at. Those three months were filled with meals, appointments with psychologists, cameras down my throat, needles in my vains and twice weekly weigh-ins.

I was allowed out sometime in June. Summer went by and before I knew it, I was back in hospital. This time, I was sent to a more specialised unit where I was told I would have no contact with my mum, brother or friends. Infact the only people I would have contact with would be the other patients, the doctors, the nurses and the psychologists. I spent a total of four months here.

During all this time, I never once admitted to wanting to lose weight. Not once did I cry when I gained, instead, I walked out of the weigh-in room with a big smile on my face, screaming inside. I told all the doctors, the psychologists, that I had a tummy ache. And that tummy ache was the sole reason for my reluctance towards food.

This was never the case. Yes, I think eventually I did have a tummy ache. I was close to death, my body stopped working properly, and my stomach took the brunt of it. But originally, no.

I was so ashamed. Too ashamed to tell the truth. How would my mother react if she knew all this fuss was for nothing? For the sake of wanting to lose a couple of kilos? Or at least that was how it had started.

In reality, I hated my body so much I wanted it to disappear. I wanted to be invisible, and in my eleven year old mind, starving myself was the way to do it.

The reason I’m writing this is because I am now fully recovered. I went from barely speaking a word, to accepting I needed help and recovering.

Eating disorders are nothing to be ashamed of. Eating disorders can be beaten and no one should have to deal with the pain of one alone.

 

What if?

Since fully recovering from anorexia, all I can think is what if? What if I hadn’t got better? What if I’ve done permanent damage? What if I die because of it? I think myself lucky to even be able to think these things.

The words ‘you will die soon if you don’t eat’ will always be with me. They weren’t said as a threat, they were said in pure honesty.

I think about death a lot, I think about how it would affect those around me if I died, I wonder if they even know how I truly feel about them and what I think of them, and I wonder.. what would I do if I only had a year to live? How would I communicate my love for these people and how would I choose to live it.

I know, this sounds negative, but it’s not. I should hopefully have years and years ahead of me, so why not act now?

If I did only have one year to live, there are a lot of things I would do. Firstly, I would travel. I know how cliche that sounds, and how it would probably be first on everyone’s list, but I would. I have a passion for seeing new things and meeting new and interesting people. And for some reason, when I am in another country, I come out of myself. I’m more confident, happier and much less stressed. Where I would go is another question, I don’t know. I’ve never properly looked into it, but I would take my loved ones.

Secondly, I would write. My knowledge may be limited, but I would write what I have learned and hope to pass on my lessons learnt.

I would photograph every moment that meant something to me. Even the small, insignificant events that happen in daily life. I would make sure all these moments were captured.

I would be happy. I wouldn’t let pointless things get me down, or anyone around me. I wouldn’t fight with the people I loved over who does what or what goes where.

I would write to the people I cherish the most, attaching something to remember me by. Something happy.

I would try my damned hardest to make sure those people had the best chance in life once I was gone. That they learned to live life to the full without dwelling on what could or might have been.

I would not waste a moment, nevermind a day. So why do it now? Why spend time thinking about the past? Why spend all my days in bed? If I am cursed with this illness for the rest of my life, why sit back and watch my life fly by?

I’m intelligent enough to realise I can’t just jump out of bed tomorrow, and start living. But I can keep trying my best to get to the point where that is made possible. And it will be made possible.

I beat anorexia, and I will beat this too.