Sunday, 19 December 2010

Context

The head never shuts up. And everyday I think a little something and write it down, add a bit, think a bit.

I hate Christmas. No, I don't hate it, I dread it. I find it the most depressing time of year. Empty and terribly depressing. Me and my Mum, pretending to be happy. A depressing meal. Disgusting 'treats'. Food at the centre of everything. Stuck in this sad house choking back the tears. Every year since I was 11 years old, it's been empty and unbearable.
And this year, I'm running away. I'm leaving for Egypt tomorrow morning for a week. I'm sick of the cold and the emptiness. The most wonderful thing about travel is that you can become so far removed from your life back home that it's almost as if it doesn't exist. It's the most liberating feeling.
I don't have to do Christmas. I don't have to do it! I don't have to curl up alone, stuffing my fat bulimic face, wishing there was something stimulating on the TV to distract me.
I cannot put into words how relieved I am to be running away from Christmas.

Anyway, my point is, I felt compelled to post before I went away, although I have not been able to write to all the people I want to and need to... argh! Anyway, as I was saying. I have all this stuff which I jotted down and needs posting, so this post is a bit of a blotch of stuff I just need to put down before I go away and have not had time to make coherent and flowing....


The lovely Cally C commented on my last post how eating disorders are like abusive relationships. Now, there are a lot of songs with a lot of quotable lyrics, but these lyrics really seemed worth putting down in writing. It's exactly what I'd say to Ana/Mia.
Love The Way You Lie Part II - Rihanna ft Eminem

On the first page of our story,
The future seemed so bright,
Then this thing turned out so evil,
I don't know why I'm still surprised.
Even angels have their wicked schemes
And you take that to new extremes,
But you'll always be my hero
Even though you've lost your mind.

Just gonna stand there and watch me burn,
But that's all right because I like the way it hurts.
Just gonna stand there and hear me cry,
But that's all right because I love the way you lie.

Now there's gravel in our voices,
Glass is shattered from the fight.
In this tug of war, you'll always win,
Even when I'm right.
'Cause you feed me fables from your hand.
With violent words and empty threats.
And it's sick that all these battles.
Are what keeps me satisfied.

...So maybe I'm a masochist
I try to run but I don't wanna ever leave...



And some notes on my decision to leave the City and its monetary rewards and move to another part of the country to work in a boarding school - I still don't know if I made the right decision:
Sylvia Plath in her journals states, "I am still young. Even twenty-three and a half is not too late to live anew".
If she says it, it must be true. I must force myself to believe it because so much of my current despair comes from being twenty-three, from my belief that my life is over now, because I have failed to make it, and will never make it, and will only grow older and fatter... because at twenty-three I am finished.
I am still young.

One of my favourite parts in the journals are in the section entitled "Notes on Interviews with RB: Friday, December 12th". These notes reflect a lot of my own thoughts on mothers, men and writing. I could bore you with quotes from the whole thing, but here are the keys ones for now:
On choosing writing as a profession:
"We can't now and maybe never will earn a living by our writing... Weren't the mothers and businessmen right after all? Shouldn't we have avoided these disquieting questions and taken steady jobs and secured a good future for our kiddies? Not unless we want to be bitter all our lives. Not unless we want to feel wistfully: What a writer I might have been, if only....
What do [society] seem to want? Concern with a steady job that earns money, cars, good school, TV, iceboxes and dishwashers and security First. With us these things are nice enough, but they come second. Yet we are scared. We do need money to eat and have a place to live and children, and writing may never and doesn't now give us enough. Society sticks its so-there tongue out at us."

I was bought up in a household where everything was 'too expensive', where my mother bent over backwards to save pennies on her weekly shopping, where I never asked for any presents unless they were 'educational', where I wasn't allowed new clothes unless I desperately needed them and they were massively reduced in the sale.
Needless to say, my financial independence was the best thing that ever happened to me. And the biggest thing I regret in taking the job at the boarding school is losing that. I will have to pinch and save again.

I'm afraid, just so afraid. Afraid of being poor, afraid of never getting better, afraid of loneliness, afraid of sadness, afraid of failure, afraid of sickness, afraid of living, afraid of the world outside, afraid, afraid, afraid,
because every decision I make always seems to be the wrong one - always makes my life worse.
Everything always comes back to this: FEAR

When I was a teenager, I thought after leaving school everything in my life would come together, because I had suffered so much so early on. I've had my share of sadness, I thought, it's gonna be all uphill from here... and I cannot believe, I genuinely, cannot believe that aged 23, every year, it has become progressively worse.
The sickest time of my life aged 20 - unable to leave my bed, unable to leave my room, unable to stop crying, unable to stop self-harming and vomiting. I never, never imagined I'd go through that again, let alone go through worse.
And here I am - worse. Haven't seen anyone I know other than my Mum since the beginning of November. Too afraid. Too fat. Too afraid.

But there's nothing wrong with the world, or other people. There's something wrong with me. I accept that.
...So maybe I'm a masochist

I try to run but I don't wanna ever leave...

There's something very wrong with me.

And I'm very afraid.

I have to believe that I am running away to find happiness. I have to believe that it will be ok. I have to believe that I'm not a failure just because I don't work in the City anymore. I have to believe that it's ok to still be working out what I want to be at the age of 23. I have to believe, STILL, I have to keep believing that I will get better and I will never experience sadness like this again.

And in the words of dear Betty Suarez as she turns down a New York fashion column in the final series of Ugly Betty: "I know it was the right thing to do, but it's still scary... I mean, maybe I was on the wrong path, but at least it was a path."

I can't help but wonder, if I wasn't ill, would I be working in the investment bank, strutting around in new Louboutins I bought with my own money? Or would I still have made this choice and left it all behind... because it was the right choice for me?


Sending you all lots of extra love over Christmas,
for I really love you all so much x x x x

Thursday, 2 December 2010

Old habits...

Anonymous said...

stop binge eating stop throwing up stop taking laxatives and you'll be fine. eat a bit and starve the rest of the time. if you can't starve eat a little bit of fruit or veg. if you carry on like this, if you lose alex, you'll regret it for the rest of your life.
get it together. 14 June 2010 13:18

I never forgot this comment - so I went back to search for it. I never forgot it because even at the time, I knew it was so true, and I wasn't strong enough - am not strong enough - to end the binge and purge cycle.
Sometimes I get these pro-ana comments which are harsh but true. I like them.
I noticed how many comments I have that I've never been able to respond to properly - and I apologise, because I haven't had the time to show how every single one has been read and taken into my heart. I'm going to catch up and write back this next week.
 
When I was at my most disciplined I was wonderfully thin.
In the beginning of my second year of uni, I ate a small bowl of porridge in the morning, hit the gym for 800 calories, ate noodles and veg for lunch and snacked on fruit for dinner. I'll never forget when I went back to Jon's for the first time. He ran his hands down my naked torso and he said wow.
I used to be able to do that.
Men used to want me and be intimidated by me. I used to feel sexy and powerful. I used to be out of their league.
 
I'm in a league of my own now - alone. I should join over-eaters anonymous for company.
Even if I go back to being thin, I'll never get that life back. I'm 23 now, not 18. I'm taking a job in a girls boarding school not a thriving testosterone filled city. I'll have no chance to kiss a guy or sleep with a guy for a year at least. That's just the life I've chosen now in this job.
 
I crave.
 
I crave my old life back.
 
I want to take all these cravings away - not by giving in to them - but by just erasing them. I don't want to crave these things. But I can't seem to shake the things that have given me my highs over the years - they're like drugs.
 
I took a little dose on Tuesday. Burnt 800 calories in the gym on an empty stomach. Just like the old days. High, high as a kite I flew, couldn't even bear the thought of eating...
came home and shut the door. No pretty dress, no party, no fit guy to target.
I needed a high dammit, I needed to do it again and again, I needed to fly... but there's no motivation, for the first time in my life.
And I chose that - I took away all the motivation so that I could get better. Cold turkey.
 
I miss those days. When I dedicated day upon day to the gym, dragging my aching legs up the stairs, starving and drained of everything, feeling my body glowing, feeling my muscles tighter and toned. I can't explain that euphoria and I am craving it so badly. I used to lie to my Mum - saying I was going to the library and go to the gym instead. I loved it dammit. I always did it with a picture of a guy in my mind - or a date of a party. There was always an end goal.
Without those goals I am nothing and I let myself be nothing.
 
It's almost as if living was just too hard in the end, and I had to kill myself in one way or another. So I chose this: I killed off my friends, my love interests and my social life, I killed off my name in the public sphere in the hope that it would kill off whatever was feeding my eating disorder and kill off the monster itself. Instead, it has fed the monster I hated most of all - the one that eats and binges and does not care.
 
...
 
I've lost my train of thought. My arms are bleeding.
I just sat on my bed as my Mum trashed my room. Screaming
You're a waste. You're a failure. Sitting on your big fat arse 24 hours a day in that corner. You're not sick you're lazy. You eat everything. You're a failure. You don't have an eating disorder. You don't have depression. YOU'RE JUST LAZY. FAILURE. Wanting to be 'pretty'! You'll never be pretty!
trashed my room.
When I was younger I used to cry in front of her.
Now I never.
When she slams the door in my face then I break. I cry, shaking, cutting, chasing pills with alcohol stashed in my cupboard.
 
I just went downstairs to take all the pills I could find.
And I stopped after a few. Because i want to live, I believe it will get better, I believe I will get out, I believe I will be happy, I believe I can get out, I believe, I have to believe... I've been believing for the last ten years. It will come, it will come, it will come, you'll get out, you'll get better, year after year, from childhood into adulthood...
 
There you go. The post, live as it happened.
 
This picture would be perfect if I was deadly stick thin. then it would be like some beautiful, tortured tragedy.
Actually, I'm fat. And listening to a video of me and Alex laughing in the Malvern hills. Crying still while the wounds on my arms sting.

My combats have dust on them.