Who is she?

A low point hits
and I have no way to express it.

I realise this is the only place where I can cry or scream or speak.

I am not a great conversationalist. This is something I have noticed in this job - where I have to sit with people every mealtime, make small talk, engage in conversation, every goddamn day. Sad to say, this is new to me. This is too much.
It is this constant requirement to talk that has shown me something interesting: that I internalise pretty much all my thoughts and feelings. I must come across as the most boring and uninteresting person with absolutely no views whatsoever - because I just don't like talking. I can sit and listen. I can nod. I can sympathise. But I can't talk. I'm not a talker. I'll sit and think, I'll write, I'll think some more. But I don't talk about what passes through my thoughts. I just... don't.

And this blog was a gift. It gave me the voice I never had - not just to voice my eating disorder and my fears and anxieties, but also to simply voice my opinion, my everyday trivialities and heartaches...

When I feel sad, I don't tell anyone - even if I wanted to I can never seem to find the words in speech - and yet I come here and the words flow. Perhaps it is because I think the people I speak to will judge me, perhaps, it sounds stupid when I say it aloud, perhaps I'm simply just a poor verbal communicator... I don't know.


This evening has been bad.
The demons started to come back two weeks ago - when I wrote that last post. Visions of self harm started to flash across my thoughts again.
Overall, the eating has been controlled and my mood has been stable.
Protein. Vegetables. Fruit.
SAFE.
No carbs. No dairy. No wheat.
Running, gym, DVD workouts.
And the figures on the scale are going down again. Soon I will have to start putting weights in my pockets when I go for my weekly therapy sessions. She weighs me every week and I am not allowed to lose. I have to maintain. I wonder if she sees the victory dancing furtively in my eyes as I watch her draw the line on my weight graph downwards.

When I got off the train to London for my most recent appointment I took a mini detour to the Tate Gallery to stop by and see two of my favourite paintings. Ophelia by Millais and The Lady of Shalott by Waterhouse.
Two characters and two paintings that I have loved even as a child, before I understood the depth of their meaning.

The Lady of Shalott



http://www.tate.org.uk/ophelia/



Why do I love to go to that small London Gallery to stare at these two women? What do they represent? Why do I feel a connection to them?

And yet, why do they feel like they belong to another world? - is it death that separates us? imagination? dreams? or something else?

Both these women, in literature and art, were created by men. Funny. If I created a heroine would she die?

This evening has been bad.

The memories have come back to haunt me.

2010. London. The worst year of my life. That horrible, horrible chill in my heart.



I innocently looked at the facebook profile of a friend from the Club and then I couldn't get rid of the chill. That place. Those people. The mirrors. The alcohol. The sexism. The pressure. Alex. That horrible, horrible place. Why did I go there. Why didn't I just stay away from all the things I knew would only hurt me, all the things that had destroyed me while I was at uni. Why did I come back to London and put myself through it all again?

I don't want to remember that place and those people and those memories. It just... there's just a horrible chill, a twisted, sickly chill deep inside. I feel the black clouds rumble over my head and suddenly it's dark again, and I want to starve, just want to feel light and thin and in control, I want to feel glorious, I want to feel powerful, like a winner...

and the moment I got back to my room tonight, I snuck out and ate. Bread, toast, peanut butter, honey, jam.

Throw up. I throw up so it all comes out, all the binge food, all the dinner, all the feelings, all the sadness, all that twisted cold stuff deep inside, out, out, OUT,

damned spot.



I did this, I did this! And I can't scream, I can't say a word, I can't do anything, except sit here and type... and wait for morning. Because no one here knows. I can't even breathe the slightest syllable.

No one here knows Ophelia,

they just see a little girl who says yes and no with a simple smile

I don't know if I can fight this.

One side of me longs to give in, to curl up in a ball and sleep forever.

One side of me wants to fight and live and go back to the world.

And I know I can do one,

But I am not convinced I can do the other.

People like me, we're always haunted aren't we? I've read about them, they couldn't get better, they couldn't shake off the darkness. It's just... the way.

I want to smash my cup against my desk and use the broken pieces to cut my arms.

I need more water to help me throw up. There's still more to come.

I'm not going to sleep tonight. I have to write and work. Must work, must write, like a fever, must not sleep. Sleeping means fatness.

My body will be drained tomorrow. And that will feel good. Then my bed will feel so good. Weak and empty, dragging my limbs behind me. That's good.



I can feel the pressure of the water around my head. My ears still ache.

A dummy at the bottom of the pool. I ducked, kicked furiously and somehow propelled myself to the bottom. Panicking, I grabbed frantically at the body, finally getting a hold and shooting up to the surface in slow motion. Spluttering. Relief.

But what if the dummy was real?



I don't know how to escape my memories.

People say you must learn to deal with them, learn to cope, talk about them, blah blah blah. But I do face up to my memories, I don't suppress them - they are always haunting me. The problem is that I feel constantly haunted. And it's not 'the Club', it's not the memories, it's not the sadness, it's not Alex...

it's the darkness.

The eating disorder came out of the darkness - perhaps it wasn't just a consequence but a way of coping with it - I don't know. But I do know, the darkness came first.

I'm always going to be this way, wherever in the world you put me, however many new chances and new beginnings I get. I am who I am. I am what I am.

I don't know if I should accept that or fight it. I don't know if I believe in fate.