I am fat.
And yet, I'm the same size that I've been for a year. I'm not
Shut up Ophelia.
I have actually really been fatter than this - and I survived it.
But I'm sure when I was fatter I was just as
anxious and unhappy as I am now.
My unhappiness is not a function of my weight.
Oliver has disappeared off the face of the earth and while any boy would be likely to disappear off the face of the earth during his freshers at university, it left me feeling like a fat old woman.
I can physically feel the grip of my
eating disorder again. I can feel her hands around my neck, the all-consuming
presence of her face in my mind, conscious of my fat body at every moment,
seeing all the rolls, the spread, that face.
The fear every morning when I
have to get dressed, the fear of wearing trousers, a skirt, my bra digging into
my back fat, my arms, my belly. Bend over and pinch the roll. It's not
bigger...and yet it FEELS disgusting and out of control.
I brush my teeth at
the sink, the house echoing with loneliness. The one thing my mother forced upon
me was extreme loneliness.
I came across this description of mental
illness and I thought it was possibly the most perfect description I had ever
"Most of these patients ain't dumb, they ain't crazy, they just have had crazy
things happen in their lives and couldn't handle it, and that's why they're
here."...The best way I can describe most patients' situations is that crazy things
happen in their lives - a kid is witness to domestic violence or is abused
(verbally, physically, emotionally, and/or sexually), a teen feels out of
control when her parents divorce and start restricting her eating, an adult
couldn't handle the pain from multiple surgeries and turns to drugs - and their
minds just can't take it. Something inside breaks and they snap. These people
try to resolve things and find an outlet for the trauma of their minds and find
themselves repeatedly bashing their heads against a proverbial wall."
That's it. I am not a bad person. I am not evil or possessed. Things
happened that I couldn't deal with, things that, for all my intelligence, my brain
couldn't process, because there was never anyone around to love me and comfort
me: the wires in my brain overheated and fried, burnt out.
connected or worked properly anymore. Thoughts became illogical, emotions became
irrational. I became wrong.
I was not born this way. I was born normal and
happy. I just unravelled.
I know that if I was broken, I can be
fixed. I went five days without a binge/purge this week - the first time since May I've managed that long.
So what's been going on? I've been staying pretty safe. Apart from my birthday in which I got dreadfully drunk and cried for three days straight.
I cried it out with my therapist. I suppose I got so upset because I felt so unworthy of being loved and so frightened of losing my friends and being alone. I felt like I had abandoned them by getting drunk. Theo turned up that night and I told him I loved him and why didn't he love me. He told me he wasn't ready. He wasn't ready. He wanted to get drunk and high and fuck whores. He wasn't ready to be loved by me; he wasn't ready to be a man.
A week later I saw him again at a friend's work leaving drinks. He could barely look me in the eye and could only give me one word answers. He hated being seen talking to me. It was like he hated me, couldn't bare to be around me, couldn't run away fast enough.
I hated him. I hate him. I hate myself for giving up so much, trying so hard, having the feelings that I did/do.
I saw Alex on Tuesday at a club reunion - it was the first time I had seen him since we broke up in August 2010. I had just heard a few weeks ago that he had broken up with his girlfriend after cheating on her with the girlfriend of one of our mutual friends. I was more saddened than shocked. When I had met him, he had been the most kind, honest, genuine boy I'd ever known. The Club had turned him into another stereotypical arrogant, obnoxious, mysogynistic, white, privileged public-schoolboy dickhead who think it is their RIGHT to sleep around.
I told him this when I saw him (in much less offensive and aggressive language.) But added that I would always hold him in high esteem because I remembered the lovely boy he used to be, and I knew that he still existed underneath.
He told me he was now getting counselling. I was so pleased, so genuinely happy when he told me this. He was going to be ok, he was going to learn from this mistake and he was going to go back to being the wonderful man that he had been brought up to be.
I was moved by the love that I still had in my heart for him. So different to the love I used to feel, but an overwhelming desire for him to be happy and to be a good person. I did not want to hate him.
My strongest feeling, however was in wishing that Theo would do the same - face up to his problems and get help. He was so the opposite - it was almost as if he wanted people to hate him and think he was an arrogant playboy bastard. Everyone I know thinks this about him. I shake my head at them: "The Theo I know is insecure, awkward and unhappy."
But you know what, it is not my problem to try and help him anymore. I would love to meet him in two years - like I have just done with Alex - and find him on the path to becoming a man. But I know I will find him on a path worse than the one he is on now. But I have done everything I can to try to help him and love him.
There's the difference: those of us who hold our hands up and say "I'm a disgrace and a destructive mess, please help me," and those who give in and say, as Theo often did to me: "I will never change."
I had bigger balls than him, stronger spirit, greater courage, conviction and passion. I didn't want a man to lean on and provide for me - I will always do that for myself. And I don't think he could deal with me being stronger than him.
Anyway, I went out with another guy on Friday. Here's the brief I sent to my friend (who is always lamenting my boy-chasing behaviour):
- I meet cute boy at friends
birthday two weeks ago
- I think about asking him to my
birthday. But I do nothing.
- Boy comes to my birthday with my friend. I am overjoyed. I speak to him.
- I leave without saying goodbye
to him (ok admittedly I left without saying goodbye to anyone because I was
bundled half-conscious into a taxi)
- I think about searching for him
on facebook. But I do nothing.
- Boy adds me on facebook
- I wait a while. I accept.
- I think about messaging him. But
I do nothing.
- Last night boy messages me.
- I think about how right you
Ok - not gonna lie - a lot of my inaction was largely due to my crying over my birthday/Theo. But it was pretty cool and did perk me up somewhat to be chased for a change. (Men are the biggest boost to my self-esteem/happiness).
So he asked me out for a drink, and after some debating (I typically stop fancying a guy as soon as he is in to me and I've won 'The Game'), I decided to give the whole 'nice guy' thing a go. After all, I have to grow up and have a proper adult relationship with someone sane at some point...right?
We went to a bar in Covent Garden. It was raining manically so I spent the whole evening trying to sneak a view of myself in a mirror to see if my perfectly coiffed hair had turned into an afro yet.
Look, the guy is really nice - so nice and down-to-earth he's never been out on the Kings Road. Sigh. What was missing? The fact that I didn't want to push him up against the wall and have incredible sex with him. That was what was missing. I mean. Do nice boys do incredible sex?
I want a challenge, I want a guy who I am not good enough for. I want a guy I can push myself and hurt myself for. A guy who accepts nothing less than perfection.
But I have to stop now. I have to stop and give in to mediocre in-between. content. Dying for perfection, for the wonderful game, for the thrills and challenges and dramas. Is still just dying.
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