Skip to main content


On Thursday I gave the keys back to the house in London I was supposed to be living in with my two friends.
That door is shut now. It killed me to do it.
It was great to go there on Thursday, and be with friends, to laugh, to forget about the pain. To be the girl I used to be. To laugh. And it killed me because I had to walk away from it and come back to this room in this house I hate. That door is shut.

I got the job offer from the Investment Bank. But I can't take it - sorry - I won't take it - because I won't live this nightmare anymore. Living in this house, trapped, and working a job, trapped. dead. trapped.

It's as I said in my last post - It was two choices - live or die - take the new job and move out or stay here and rot. And when I came back home my Mum saw that I wasn't kidding. I'd shut the last door that led out of here and back to life. And I resigned myself to suicide. I told her so, frankly, as I had warned her the day before she made me do it.
She got scared - scared now by the blankness in my eyes - and she told me I could move out now. 
I had to laugh. OF COURSE. Of course I can now, now that it's too late.
I told her it was too late. Decision made. Door closed. Another girl has moved into the room with my friends. Congratulations, you got what you wanted now, a daughter who doesn't live.

I went to my first appointment on Friday morning with the NHS psychologist. Session 1. Charts. The cycle. Snotty nose and tissue after tissue after tissue.
She's nice though. I know she will look after me.
But she wants to weigh me at every weekly session. So she can force me to maintain.
"I won't ever force you to do anything you don't want to in these sessions, of course."
A somewhat pointless statement in my opinion - for it would be pointless for me to go to therapy and refuse to do what I'm supposed to.
And yet, to be weighed once a week - and to have her... to have her stop me from losing weight.
I really don't think I can do it.

Decision today: I'm taking the job at the Investment Bank, Canary Wharf, and I'm going to move out, I'm just going to have to move out to somewhere else. I HAVE TO LIVE.... because now, I am just sitting in this house EATING and growing FATTER than my wildest dreams.
disgusting, slob, fat running through my veins, fat for blood,
This is not the way my story is going to end dammit, this not not what I dreamed of and what I've been killing myself for. I will not let the memory of Alex or my Mum or this depression destroy the dream.

I am still the girl that wrote this

Sometime at the end of August, I saw this face staring at me amongst the rows of usual fashion magazines:

This is the face of 'Buela', an enchanted doll. It's not very often when something captivates me so completely, but this cover, the whole cover had me spellbound. I stood there staring.
Ms Perfect
The Mannequin
I had to have it. She was perfect, even just as a 2D picture, perfect. That's it, that's her.

I knew it was going to be a post - but I just wasn't in the right mindset - until now.
So here she is. The girl that made me stop and stare. Give her dark brunette hair, and dark brown eyes, and that's me - that is a perfect me.

Of course it's ironic. The most beautiful cover I've ever seen is a doll. Of course. It wasn't a real woman. (God, don't you just hate that term "real woman"). My ideal was drawn and crafted and painted. Of course I cannot do that to myself - no living person can. God the irony, that I can only find a doll so perfect and beautiful, out of all the stunning models gracing the other magazine covers, I desire to be the fucking doll...

Here is the text next to the full page picture of Buela in the magazine:
"Sublime. That's how the French would describe it: the highest level of beauty, so giddyingly unreal it transcends the usual realm of the senses. There's no exact translation, and 'gorgeous' isn't quite as mysterious, but you get the idea. The divine beauty embodied by the women here is on a scale that's simply too epic for words."

I've sat here, stuffed my fat face and let my mammoth body balloon.
Next time Alex sees me, he's gonna think my arms and legs and cheekbones have been carved from finest porcelain.
Because I am Ophelia and I will win this battle.
No question.
No fucking question -
I starve.


  1. oh bother. now you've got me thinking. i'm not sure what i should say. i hope tomorrow is peaceful for you. &cheers for not giving up. you get kudos for that.

  2. The doll is truly enchanted.

    I hope all of your life decisions eventually lead you to true happiness. ♥

  3. Your posts are just so...well, they hit home. You can become that doll. I know you can. I believe in you <3 I know you can succeed...
    xoxo <3

  4. I just wanted to say that I relate to your posts so much. I'm glad the psychologist was nice, and I hope she's helpful.

    If you do take the job, just be careful. Although it's often helpful to get going, to remind yourself of what you'll be missing if you do give up, an investment bank is an incredibly stressful atmosphere, and you need to look after yourself.


Post a Comment

Don't be anonymous, leave a name at least so I can identify you back :)

Popular posts from this blog

"Here I am, sane and dry"

"I stayed there, staring at myself in the glass. What do I want to cry about?.... On the contrary, it's when l am quite sane like this, when I have had a couple of extra drinks and am quite sane, that I realize how lucky I am.
Saved, rescued, fished-up, half drowned, out of the deep, dark river, dry clothes, hair shampooed and set. Nobody would know I had ever been in it. Except, of course, that there always remains something. Yes, there always remains something....Never mind, here I am, sane and dry, with my place to hide in. What more do I want?....I'm a bit of an automaton, but sane, surely - dry, cold and sane. Now I have forgotten about dark streets, dark rivers, the pain, the struggle and the drowning...."
Jean Rhys, Good Morning, Midnight

Love. Sick.

And finally, today, I cried; soaked the tissues and pillowcase like I had been longing to do for weeks. The most I had been able to manage recently had been dry crying with a scrunched up face and aching heart. Such relief now to be able to physically release emotions other than vomit.

What words do I use to write about the last few weeks? Crippling, torturous anxiety, studying for finance exams, exercising and exercising, bingeing and vomiting, seeing Gareth, fucking Gareth, hating Gareth, exercising and exercising, bingeing and vomiting. Overcome by the fear and confusion and heartache. Studying for finance exams, but really just exercising and bingeing and vomiting.

The exams are done now and I have been free from those chains for a week - definitely alleviating a great deal of the pressure from my mental crumbling. I was close to slipping back under into the darkness. The darkness of having complete loss of control, complete loss of everything to the sickness in my brain.
days …


We both knew what we wanted - of that there is absolutely no doubt.
We didn't have to say anything, from the start of the week, right up until the point where I was naked in his bed; we both knew.
About two weeks ago Gareth and a few of our colleagues had arranged to have a night out this Friday. We had a pretty tight knit group of 6 who often lunched together at work, but this was one of the few times we were actually going out together. From Monday Gareth was pestering me like he had before:  "Are you coming out on Friday, are we going out out, are we gonna have a big one..."  "Yes", I had replied, "of course." And I booked my waxing appointment and blowdry for Friday lunch, my mind made up about what I wanted.  I had been thinking what would I regret more; sleeping with him or not sleeping with him. I decided on the latter. I'd not been with anyone since Joe left in January and more than that, thoughts of Gareth were continually running through…