'I'm glad the rain is coming down hard. It is how I feel. I love you so.'

I know my posts are starting to become really sporadic.
I apologise.
I'm trying to live... trying to be busy...
perhaps I'm trying to run

Anyway.

"I regret to inform you that the Medical Board has decided, having reviewed your medical history....you do not meet the medical entry standards."

I got turned away from two careers this week.

The first I had to have an interview with a doctor. The second I had to have an interview with a psychiatrist. I couldn't lie my way out. I tried.

I have to thank Mia. I have to thank my body. No one wants to employ someone with a 'history' of mental illness. Even though I lied and told them I was cured now.

It's still there. It will always be a black mark by my name, no matter how I try to put a gloss on it.

It's still a blip on my character. It says I'm unstable. It says I'm weak.

It says unemployable.

Anorexics are turned down because: "It is impossible to predict the 20% of sufferers who make a full recovery and the remainder relapse and remit or remain severely ill."
And Bulimics: "may be considered for recruitment if they have been symptom free for more than 4 years, but 30% relapse and so referral is recommended."

It's a fucking hard pill to swallow.

And yes, I shed tears.

I had told them the bulimia was in my past - that I was cured - that I had learnt so much about myself on the road to recovery - and even then they didn't want me. Let's face it. If they knew the truth, if they knew I still stick my fingers down my throat everyday, if they knew about this blog, if they had any idea of the fear in my heart... they'd never even have let me in the interview room.




And that's not where my attempted glossing ends.
I told Alex.
Oh Alex.
I told him I failed my medical for the job.
On Friday evening, I told him why.

"In my second year of university, I had bulimia."

True.

But I stopped there. Silence.

"but you're ok now aren't you." It wasn't a question, it wasn't concern; it was him confirming that I was fine.

I said nothing. I couldn't lie... I didn't want to lie to him, of all people, I don't want what I have with Alex to be a lie... so I said, "I'm on a waiting list for more treatment. Just to get the final demons out of my head. But I am better than I was. It was out of control before. It is better now. But it's not gone."

Half true. It's not better in any sense of the word, but I am on a waiting list... only this is the start of treatment, not the end...

He asked me how often it happens now. I said once in a while... when I eat too much... when I can't stop it. But I am better now. I am better now Alex...

I had to lie.
I had to lie to him. I wanted to tell him the truth, I did. I wanted to tell him I still throw up every day - that it's never gotten any better - that I need him to support me and love me...
But I couldn't.
He doesn't understand sadness like I do. He doesn't understand fear like I do. There would be no point in telling him, "I'm really insecure, I hate myself, I stuff my face and throw up, sometimes several times a day, and then I exercise like a madwoman until I collapse, and then I starve myself until I shake, and I am so afraid, and Alex, Alex I need you to hold on to me..."
He wouldn't understand any of my words.

I spent all of Friday and Saturday with him.
We walked through Hyde Park in the sunshine, sat by the lake and watched the swans, ice cream in one hand, his hand in the other. I stayed in his bed all night, fireworks and laughter, heat and fingertips; he held on to me until the sun rose... until mid afternoon, because neither of us could tear ourselves away. And then he cooked me 'breakfast' at 3pm. Fried eggs, bacon and toast. And I ate it. And it felt wonderful.
I've never felt warmth from someones body like that before. I've never had someone kiss me that way before. I've never felt so right before.

But he can't save me.

He wouldn't know how.

And now, I should be petrified - because I'm really falling. I'm choking on his sweetness.

It's an age old cliché, but really, I've never felt this way about someone before.

This isn't lust. This is something far more scary.

This is something far more painful.






Last night we went to a barbecue with a group of others from 'The Club'.
But we weren't a couple.
To the outside world, there was no hint of anything going on between us. You'd never know I spent the previous 24 hours blissfully in his arms.
The only one there who knew that anything was going on was the girl who was wrapped up with him for most of the night. With their stupid banter, that they're married, 'hubby', hahaha. He doesn't laugh like that with me. He's not sitting alone with me. He's not talking to me.

I had to stand behind the locked door of the toilet to choke back the tears on several occasions. I was slightly drunk, which made my emotions difficult to control, but I couldn't get upset about this. She's my friend. She knows about me and Alex - she wouldn't do that. Alex doesn't like her, he likes ME. They are just flirting as friends. They are just friends. It's just banter. Everyone else is wrong, their legs aren't entwined, something isn't going on...they aren't... they aren't... because he's with me... he is...I have no right to be jealous; no need to feel sick in my stomach... stop being drunk and stupid, walk back in there tall and proud...

As I stood, steadying my nerves behind that closed bathroom door, I made a single note in my notebook. I hate him. I don't want the pain.

I meant it.

Of course we left together; but I was cold towards him. I was hurting and afraid. I didn't hold his hand as we took the last tube and waited for the nightbus. Instead, I walked with a notable distance between us and couldn't look him in the eyes.
I didn't want to care about him. I didn't want to be falling for him. I didn't want him to be capable of doing this to me... But he is.
...and I am weak; my coolness towards him quickly began to melt, and by the time I was in his bed it was gone - I was his.

But it wasn't the same as before. It wasn't quite the same. He knew there was a distance between us. It wasn't quite the same when he held me. In the morning, when I woke up and got out of bed, he asked what was wrong, why was I up so early?... 'nothing', I said.

But he knew.
And awkward as he was, he tried to mention it; 'This is a bit random, but, you know Katie and I have this thing where we pretend we are 'married'...'
'Yeah I know,' I said bluntly. There was a bitterness in my voice that I couldn't disguise, so I didn't say anything more.
pause
'Oh, good... I er, thought you should know.'
pause

He was probably waiting for me to say it was alright, haha how funny. But I said nothing, because it wasn't. Take your victim as you find them Alex - I'm insecure and vulnerable.

It's stupid, I know. There's nothing going on between them. He likes me. He does.
...But I'm afraid. I mean, I'm fucking petrified. Because I'm in so deep now - I'm in deeper than I ever was with James or Jon or anyone - and I remember how much they hurt me. They hurt me because I let them - because I let myself fall for them, and in doing so, laid myself vulnerable and exposed.
Yes, I'm jealous and insecure - and I know those are my faults, not his - but still, they are faults of mine which are not going to go away and are only going to get stronger and harsher the more I fall and the longer I let him keep control of my heart. I need to protect myself.

I want to run
because
I'm scared

'You're wonderful, you know that?'
'I think your body's perfect.'
'I'll drive you there - and you will probably meet my parents - big steps!'
'You're amazing.'
'I think I'm falling for you'.

Why the hell do I want to run from him?
Is it just fear? Or do I know that I can't handle it? Because I'm not better yet... I'm too fragile for this.

I'm still throwing up everything I eat. (Except when I'm actually in his company).

I still spent two hours yesterday trying on every combination of sports kit I owned before I played in a netball match because I knew he was watching. Every pair of sports trousers, skirt, top, t-shirt made me look fat. Everything I tried on I ripped off and flung to the floor in horror until I was finally sat, distraught and senseless, surrounded by clothes that my body couldn't deal with. Stupid, fat, loser. He's gonna see your huge pink legs and flabby arms. He's gonna see sense. He's gonna be embarassed that he ever thought you were attractive.

If I know he likes me just as I am, why does the mirror still torture me? Why am I still so crazy? So full of self-hate? So bulimic?

Why isn't Alex the cure?