losingatanorexia-blog - Tumblr blog

[losingatanorexia-blog]

“I’ve been in hospital for four months now, I’ve spent hours answer doctors, nurses, psychologists, dieticians, occupational therapist questions, and all of them asked “What are your aims?”, “What do you want?”, “What does recovery mean to you?”

I never really know how to respond, I sit there with my mouth pierced close, my mind racing at a million miles an hour, my heart pounding in my throat. You see I never really know how to answer. I want to say “a perfect recovery”. The kind where I wake up and think “I’m going to eat today, and it won’t matter to me”. Where each mouthful doesn’t fill me with guilt and shame. But the truth is that this probably won’t happen.

When I went from general to the eating disorder unit I broke down over the glass of milk they wanted me to drink. I sat their sobbing like it was poison, the first mouthful I spit back into the cup, my mouth simply rejecting the food. I knew I needed to change. But I didn’t suddenly kick into Gera and become better because I walked through doors with the words “EDU” on them. That was two and a half months ago now, yet I’m still struggling. I don’t have perfect meal completion, sometimes I still work out in my room, sometimes I find myself leaning over a toilet only to pull myself back and cry in the corner of the bathroom instead. This is the truthful recovery. This is the reality. In my head it was a “quick fix”. In my head I was going to wake up one day and be “cured”, eat cake, chocolate and sweets like they were nothing, eat anything like it was nothing. I thought I’d be able to lie in bed for a minute past six and not feel awful atomically, because I was “recovering”. I thought that word would put me in a positive bubble, where anorexia can’t touch me, where the past can’t hurt me, where I would be safe.

But the truth, the reality is recovery is eating cake at desert, but maybe only managing one mouthful at first and breaking down that night because you feel like a “failure”. A failed anorexic for eating the cake, and a failed member of recovering for not finishing it. Recovery is the fact that cake was delicious whether I want to accept it or not.

Recovery is feeling the bloated feeling late in the evening, and still having night snack to come. It’s feeling like you possible couldn’t eat another mouthful, like you’re well and truly stuffed, but it’s eating regardless.

Recovery is feeling awful for sitting down after a meal, and the thoughts overwhelming your mind. The desire to sprint around the room, anything, to burn off the food you just ate, but sitting there, putting all your brain power into not. moving. your. leg.

Recovery is shouting “I hate you” at nurses once they’ve cut the ligature from around your neck. It’s watching them leave the room with tears in their eyes, after realising how close you were that time. It’s them shouting “oh God, please no” when they see the rope, them holding you whilst you break down.

Recovery is messy. Recovery is falling face first, again and again and again. Recovery is blood, sweat and tears. Recovery is reliving every traumatic event that put you in this place. Recovery is forgetting what it’s like to live. Recovery is pausing the outside world, putting everything on hold. Recovery is survivng each day, one meal at a time.

Recovery was never going to be easy, it was never going to be a “quick fix”, you were never going to wake up one day and think “I’m going to eat today and feel great about it”, but it is always going to be worth it.

Recovery is messy, but you, family, nurses, doctors, psychologists, dieticians, occupational therapists, will help clean it up with you, for you when you are too tried and weak to hold the broom. Recovery is falling face first, again and again and again, but getting back up each and every time. Recovery is blood, sweat and tears, but washing yourself off, putting plasters on the wound, allowing them to heal for once. Recovery is reliving every traumatic event that put you in this place, but it is also facing it, so you’ll never have to live it again. Recovery is forgetting what it’s like to live, in order for you to be able to live. Recovery is pausing the outside world, putting everything on hold, in order for your life to no longer be on hold, so you never have to lose another second, day, year of your life to this disorder. Recovery is surviving each day, one meal at a time, so you can stop dying each day, and start living.”

What recovery is really like - losingatanorexia

[losingatanorexia-blog]

I am sorry These three words are constantly flashing before my eyes, like big florescent lights on a motorway of pain. The traffic lights permanently on red, diversion signs pointing towards the darkness, they’re not letting me go ahead. They’re to be noticed, again and again, and they won’t just go away. I am sorry That these three words are permanently on the tip of my tongue, and I can’t shake them off, they’re clinging on, for dear life ready to escape my mouth whenever I talk to someone. I am sorry That sometimes I don’t realise that I’m allowed to have emotions and that I forget, I’m human, not an invincible robot, even when you remind me and yet I continue to say that I’m sorry for every time I fall apart or break down, for every time I’m hurting, for when I’m just a broken mess on the ground. I’m sorry,  that no matter how many times you try to reassure me, I still feel like a burden and so riddled with anxiety that I continue to say those three words that you dread anyway. I am sorry I genuinely apologise for the fact I apologise so profusely, to the point that you feel like you should be the one saying sorry. I don’t say those three words to make you feel worse, I say it to protect the evil inside of me, the horrible part that constantly acts maliciously, that I haven’t yet learnt to control, so I’m sorry, if those three words are ones that I can’t let go. I am sorry That I have days where my anxiety, depression and anorexia take turns as they lead their twisted production of my life and so I feel the need to say sorry for not being alright, for dropping my mask and so that I can apologise on their behalf. I am sorry That I say it so much when anxiety becomes so suffocating, when I’m certain that no matter how hard I try that I’m constantly doing the wrong thing. I’m sorry for when my apologies appear, to you, to make no logical sense, like when it gets so bad that they replace all the full stops on the end of every sentence. I’m sorry for the need of reassurance that lies underneath those three words, that I need to be heard. I want to know it’s okay, that I’m safe. Because it hurts. I’m sorry That I whisper it between breaths whilst breaking down, when my voice is barely even making a sound. Because the feelings don’t come out how I want them to, the hurt I can’t formulate into words to explain them to you. With the vast vocabulary that exists in my mind, that most of the time I use as weapons to only destroy myself, I haven’t yet learnt to use them for anything else. But the words forsake me, they abandon and leave me, the sentences trick me, and I’m left gulping the air that was meant to explain the pain, and I’m just sorry, for when depression numbs all else but the burden of my existence, so I feel the need to apologise for all those who have to listen to me. I am sorry That I scream it when you question the control that I have over my life. When I lash out because my anorexia makes me the complete opposite of fine. I am sorry, I struggle to say it to myself, but that I find it so easy to tell it to everyone else. I am sorry That I test those three words for reasons you can’t even understand. That I tell you it through clenched teeth as I leave early because I’m overwhelmed for everything crashing around me. I’m sorry that I sob it out as I tell you I want to be alone because the memories are out to destroy me. I’m sorry that no amount of hugs or love, or reassurance and hours can take the fear away that constantly appears to overpower me, leaving me feeling the need to apologise so constantly, I’m sorry. I am sorry, That not even I can fully understand why I say sorry so much. I can guess a bunch of reasons, but it’s a problem yet to be solved. I don’t mean it to be malicious, or horrible or cold, I mean it because of the fact that I am me, and for that, I will forever be so so sorry.

I am sorry - losingatanorexia 

[losingatanorexia-blog]

When did the happiness stop? When did the adventure end? When did joy become numbness? When did bruises and scars hurt more on the inside then on our bodies? When was the dark something to be feared again? When were nights about anything other then bedtime stories? When did magical dreams turn into haunting nightmares you never seem to wake up from? When did make believe become denial? When did the child with their head in a book rather then their phone become ‘abnormal’? When did hugs and kisses become nudes and sex? When did the need to confirm you exclusivity to one another become a thing? When did my stop mean his start? When did men start dictate the clothes we can wear again? When did the words gay and girl become an insult? When did someone being different become such a bad thing? When did smiles become masks we wear to protect ourselves from the judgment of others? When did family Fridays become monitored family theory sessions? When did food start to become the enemy? When did the prison cell in our minds begin to feel safer then school classrooms? When did imagination become replaced with perfection? When did curiosity become stifled with syllabus’s and lesson plans? When did learning about mitochondria become more important then learning about mental health? When did self defence become a need for people to learn in all girls schools? When did comfort begin to be found in cigarettes and drugs rather then our mothers arms? When did having religious beliefs make us the enemy? When did the need for school lockdown practises begin? When does firing guns at innocent people make you a martyr? When did the voices of so many get silenced? When did our opinions become more important to keep to ourselves then our virginity? When did growing up start filling us with dread about our future rather then excitement?When did everything go so wrong? When did it all get so construed? When did we stop living? When did we start just surviving? And why?

When? - losingatanorexia

[losingatanorexia-blog]

My child, I to have been listening to the waiting tune, whilst I have been trying, desperately, to reach out to you. But I’ve been waiting till you were ready, until you could really see, that I don’t want you to be perfect before you come to me. I know the mess, I know the tribulations, but I also know that I’ll turn them into victories. I’ve been trying to wait till your words were more the manifestations of your hurt. I was standing right there, watching you walk away from me, with my hands outstretched ready to welcome you home like the prodigal son, whilst you just try to pick up some phone. Prayer is powerful, but I’m here regardless, no one picking up? It’s because there’s no office hours. The connection in heaven is perfect, there’s no flaw in my system, no technical difficulties, but I left my desk years ago; it’s now deserted. Don’t get me wrong I am still listening, but not on the end of some call, you’re right here with me. I never leave your side. You can walk right into darkness, but I will be your light. I know you felt abandoned, crushed by all the shame. I did to on the cross, my child I know your pain. But if you love someone set them free, let them grown on their own, but the second you learnt to walk my child you ran away from me. Straight into the sea of misery, the trap of the enemy, the temptation was too great, the prison was furnished too lavishly. I followed close behind, no matter how dark it got, in case you want a rest my child, in case you wanted it all to stop. I know the battle in your mind, I know the war that rages on, I hear you when you say you hate me, and when you say you’ve kept going to long. But the battle it is finished, it was over years ago, so hang up your armour, let down these walls, it’s time to come home. I wished I never had to let you go free, that you could have remained so close to me. I wish that I could have made you stayed, that my love was enough, so you would never have swayed.  But I need you to learn your own strength, to create real faith, so although it hurts to watch sometimes, keep running, make mistakes, keep learning and growing and learn to embrace your imperfections because I made them so perfectly, learn every inch of yourself, your entire personality. There is no shame in my name, there’s no condemnation in salvation, so I’ll be waiting here, with my arms open wide waiting for your return my prodigal child.

My Child - losingatanorexia