Why, oh why has Ophelia been posting so much?
I drifted so far away recently, posting once a week, once a fortnight....
I used to be a good blogger - good to read, good at replying - an attentive blogger, a caring blogger.
This is the most messed up my life has ever been - Because I'm going to fail all seven exams in three weeks - And not even care.
I'm just an eating disorder.
I don't care.
I had my first session with my new psychologist yesterday.
(Gotta love private healthcare. The speed at which you get seen is scary!- it leaves me no time to think! Am still on the NHS waiting list just because what's the point taking myself off it after all this time!... but this is not a post highlighting the jokes of the system).
So, yes, a private psychologist. Thank you Bupa.
Her name... lets call her 'Miranda'.
Miranda is pretty glamorous for a psychologist - well compared to all the ones I've met before anyway. She was dessed nicely, and wore a lot of makeup - specifially eyeliner - a lot of eyeliner.
It was pretty standard. We just went over everything, my past, where it all started etc,
I cried twice. Once when I talked about my Dad and once when I talked about Alex.
It was exactly the same in my inital assessment session with the lead psychological assessor the week before.
I can't talk about my Dad without crying - or rather I can't talk about his death, my childhood, my happy memories of him. Miranda made me tell her exactly what happened on the day he died. She made me describe exactly where he was, exactly what I saw, exactly what I did next.
The next time I want to self harm and feel pain, I won't get out a knife; I will force myslelf to re-live those moments. I couldn't speak for choking on my tears.
And then Alex. Why do I cry when I talk about Alex?
I've been trying to work it out...
..it's just something about those words:
he loves me
he wants to support me
Or perhaps therapy is the wrong place for him to be present in my thoughts. He has nothing to do with my eating disorder; he has nothing to do with pain; he has no place there; I don't want him there...
I dont know...
Why do I cry when I talk about Alex?
Of late I have been a bulimic monster. I mean a huge, wobbling, fleshy, chocolate biscuit, bed-bound, bulimic monster.
I read back on some of my old posts - the pro-Ana style I suppose it was. I was so committed. There was none of this trash that I write now. Every post was committed to beauty; every post was committed to getting stronger and getting thinner. I was angry, I pushed myself, I punished myself, I wanted it. Spending all this time on blogger has made me remember again - remember how much I used to love this community - I mean, really LOVE it, and how much strength I used to get here and how much strength I used to be able to give back.
To the bulimic monster in me: If you are sick of being sick, you will stop being sick.
Bulimia is sickness and weakness.
Finding my way back to fasting and restricting is strength.
Thank you Eva for holding my hand and walking back with me.
And what if summer... for this:
Ophelia..."she's a stupid byatch"
Hillary Clinton meme
9 months ago