Number Crunching

I did that thing I wasn’t supposed to do.

I did it even though I knew it wasn’t going to do me any good.

I stepped on the scales and that pain I knew would arrive came rushing, burning through every part of my body.

I stood there, simply hurting.

8 weeks into recovery and I had gained some weight.

I could see it coming, I knew I had. I knew I felt bloated and bigger around my midriff. I mean, I’d spent hours criticising the way I looked before I even stepped onto the scales.

I ignored the fact I was now exercising 4-5 times a week. I forgot that it was the end of the day and I had been eating 3 meals a day like clockwork. I refused to accept I was wearing trainers and clothes when I took that fatal step onto the scales.

And boy, am I struggling with this weight gain?

I’m trying to reassure myself that 4 llb’s isn’t that bad but the Demon inside tells me it is. I’ve spent countless hours crying to my boyfriend because the need to restrict and the desire to purge have been at their loudest for the past 12 days.

It makes me feel embarrassed to need so much help lately.

I’m suffering from this constant fear that they’re all going to leave me.

Most of all, it hurts. Everything simply hurts and there’s no actual medication I can take that will numb the pain.

Going round in circles. Can’t face looking at my reflection but simultaneously can’t stop looking at my ‘imperfections’. Don’t want to eat my meals but fighting to make sure that I do.

At least I’m still fighting.

I’ve just spent the weekend in Manchester with my best friend. A trip we planned a while ago and if I hadn’t paid for my ticket, I may have given into the ED telling me to bail.

We did nothing. A few walks, a few movies and lots of cups of tea. But it was perfect and, as it turns out, just what I needed.

I needed nothing.

I needed time away from my place where, unfortunately, bad memories already exist.

I needed time to stop and breathe and think.

Time to just do nothing.

I feel better for it.

I’m trying to take some time to understand that just because I’ve gained weight, it doesn’t mean I’m fat. Just because the number has increased doesn’t mean I’m unworthy.

In fact, I’ve started to feel more ‘worthy’ than ever before.

And between you and me, I have learnt an incredible amount these last 8 weeks.

I’ve been using a compassionate mind work book, I’ve had 8 weeks of balanced meal plans and healthy exercise. I’ve had a few purges and hardly any binges and I’ve hardly skipped any meals.

It hurts and I constantly feel drained.

But I’m happier.

And whether or not I’ve gained 1-4 pounds…I’m definitely healthier.

And I’m sure that, one day, being skinny will not correlate to being ‘healthy’ but that, maybe those extra couple of pounds will.

Nothing like a train ride to dedicate some time to getting negative thoughts away from me ❤️

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Just say this or that

I slipped up and he told me he was ‘frustrated’.

Since admitting my relapse the other week I’ve pretty much put every practical step into motion that you can think of.

I moved into his for the week so I could have that really close support (supervision too). We sat and made a meal plan, did the food shop and helped me prepare what I needed to. We made food choices based off healthy levels of exercise throughout the week. Spoke to my therapist and even someone at work. New food diary, new journal and off to a new me(!).

But I slipped up.

I tried so hard to battle that Demon’s voice and I lost.

I had one slice of pizza and I couldn’t even cope with that.

I felt forced to eat it, pretty much. Everyone else was. It was leftovers from our department pizza party last night (a party I couldn’t stay at for more than an hour because socialising around the alcohol and pizza physically scared me).

I told myself say no. I ordered myself to refuse.

Some may tell me that it’s as simple as that.

‘You don’t have to eat it. You can say no.’

Saying no is hard though.

Why couldn’t I have said no?

A slice of pizza wasn’t on your meal plan. You’re weak for saying yes. You’re weak for diverting from the plan. You should be ashamed. You’re going to gain so much weight.

All these thoughts running through my head seconds after I finished.

I felt dissociated from my body after that. And all of a sudden it was ‘done’.

I promised to text him if I ever purged and so I did. But my text made him sad and ‘frustrated’. I don’t ever expect him to condone a purge and he refuses to say the words ‘its okay’ to get that across. But sometimes I just need that. I just need to hear the words ‘its okay, we’re going to get through it.’

I’m tired of not being okay. Tired of being up and down with this illness. I was doing quite well and I’m so disappointed I couldn’t keep it going. I’m more disappointed that I’ve made someone I care about incredibly sad.

Shaking these feelings of shame and disgust is tough. I always knew it would be.

I wish I could have said no to the slice but I’ve also been on that awful side of the spectrum where I said no to everything. Where saying yes was the hardest word to get out of my mouth.

Trying to find that balance and trust that it’s ‘safe’ to do so.

Trying to trust myself more than anything, I suppose.

 

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Today

I hate days like today.

The days where I hate every reflection of myself that I glimpse. The days where I have this uncomfortable feeling of disgust about myself and my image.

I hate these days where I become so scared, yet again, that I’m never going to be ‘perfect’. These days where my biggest fear is looking ‘fat’ this weekend.

I hate having days where the Demon plagues my thoughts with negativity. Days where I feel like I’m being swallowed whole.

Questioning every decision to eat, every exercise that doesn’t seem to shift any weight. Constantly questioning when, if ever, I’m going to feel good enough.

It screams at me that I’m huge and ugly. That I’m weak and disgusting. And the worst of it is, I appreciate these words aren’t true, that I am actually worth more than I think I am but that, in turn, makes me feel ashamed and embarrassed that I even have this illness in the first place.

I have these days where I do just fine, great in fact but I really hate that days like today seem to eradicate any progress I make.

Any step I took forward seems forgotten, lost in that dark space that swallows me whole.

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Me Time

It’s easy to forget just how long it’s been since you had some ‘me time’ and even easier to forget just how much you need it. Whether its a day or a week just to sort things out or take a moment to breathe.

I was at the hospital this morning and was told it would last up to 5 hours and so I booked a sick day off work. Turns out the appointment was a mistake…yeah, I don’t know why either.

But it was 9am so I came home and got back into bed. God knows after yesterday’s tough day at work this ‘sick day’ couldn’t have been timed much better.

I finally got some more of that sleep I’ve been missing out on lately. Managed to tidy my room up a bit. Came out for coffee and a slice of cake to try get things in order for next week (I’m going to Malaysia baby!)

I forgot how much I like chilling in a coffee shop with my laptop, writing a post or reading a book. I forgot how much of my ‘me time’ took place in coffee shops all over London last year. I thought I just liked the atmosphere but now I realise that it really formed a big part of my relaxation methods to just lower all my general stress. Taking some time for me, getting my thoughts down on paper or simply loosing myself in a story.

It’s hard to get lost with work when life is just constantly moving. Getting into that working routine (if you can call it a routine as my hours are so varied) whilst fitting in friends and seeing my boyfriend because I now only really have weekends to dedicate to them…it all means I haven’t been taking any time just for me.

So, I’ve decided, albeit a slightly late new years’ resolution, I’m going to make sure I spend some time each Saturday, out of the house on my own just doing something that makes me happy. Whether that’s a gym session, or walking round the park with my camera (my new hobby), or just sitting in a coffee shop with my laptop or a book and letting my thoughts run wild.

I miss my ‘me time’ but I never really realised it had gone because I genuinely love seeing my friends. And now that I work, the weekends go all too fast.

So here’s too taking a little bit more time out. A step back every now and then to just sit, with a cuppa, and breathe.

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Hello 2018

I’ve not really been one for New Year’s Resolutions. I’ve always found the ‘New Year, New Me’ to be slightly superficial but major congrats to anyone who fully commits to their resolutions!

However, I do like to reflect and make goals.  (Same thing, I know!!)

I was at a party again for NYE, the same one as last year and it really dawned on me how quick the year has gone and how much has damn well happened. If I try to compare 2017 to the year before, I can definitely say without a doubt that it was a lot more successful.

I passed my final degree with a distinction. I travelled solo to places I’ve always wanted to see and made more travel plans for 2018. I had some amazing times with my friends. I started my new job after graduating and met someone who makes me really happy. I’ve also made some massive steps in my recovery this year.

When I try to make myself goals or rules, I always make them too strict. When I inevitably don’t stick to them, I feel guilty and it can send me down that awful ED spiral. So, I might not be making strict resolutions this year but I’m going to try make some changes to the usual goals I would make.

Instead of losing weight, I want to exercise 3-4 times a week.

Instead of questioning if our relationship is ‘okay’, I want to learn to trust that it is.

Instead of spending all my weekends in London, I want to try visit my friends more.

I want to reduce how many coffees = ‘lunch’ and slowly increase my intake.

I want to distract myself when I’m stressed with a mentally healthy hobby.

I want to feel less insecure by tackling my insecurities head on.

I want to stop feeling like my past is going to drag me down.

The insecurities one is a big one for me. I know I’m getting less and less insecure in my relationship. I do worry that he won’t want the ‘broken one’ or that I’ll ‘never be good enough.’ He’s definitely not as much of a ‘talker’ – as in, I definitely say those three little words and some cheesy stuff a lot more…but the stupid thing is, I know that he does feel the same way about me.

Because of the relatively awful past I’ve had with guys, I look for affirmation a lot. I need to know people are happy with me and that things are going well, as if to protect myself from nasty surprises or horrible situations that might occur.

So, those words and actions confirming the words mean so much to me.

I want to work on needing less of this though. To stop looking for the signs he loves me. Naturally, if they stop all together then I may need to be concerned! But I’m only going to self-sabotage if I don’t learn to just relax a bit.

When I’m with him, it’s all perfect. But when I’m apart – that’s when the fear starts and I can get triggered. I figured I’d bury myself into a new hobby so I’ve got something just for me to enjoy on my own. Hello new camera and photography courses! I’ve always loved capturing memories and nature, being the country bumpkin that I am, so here goes!

Here’s to an even better year.

Happy New Year Everyone xxx

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Near-Exhaustion

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The pain cuts deep. It stings and it burns and I simply can’t hold back the tears that fall. Taken back to hospital just when I thought I was okay. Just like always, the hope comes crashing down, once relaxed but back on guard.

Always seem to be falling. Always dragged backwards against my will. Weighed down, feeling like I could drown.

It hurts more than the pain that has brought me back to hospital.

It hurts more than the pain I felt from June 18.

It aches and it hurts.

The word that there is something else wrong with me.

Another diagnosis, another condition, another something or other wrong with me.

Another broken piece.

When I feel ‘fixed’ I get broken again.

Whether it’s by family, friends, boys or myself…just constantly being broken.

And I am so tired. I’m exhausted.

‘Damaged Goods’ – that’s what I am and you can tell me I’m not but it won’t change how I feel right now.

Taken to surgery, kidney fixed. Endless list of medication for the time being and review booked in. It wasn’t even too serious; I’ll be better by the end of the month. But a month off work, a few weeks away from my best friend…it’s hard not to feel broken and lonely when that’s all that you can relate to.

I wasn’t able to eat – the illness took care of that. I didn’t have an appetite for 3 weeks and if I ate, my body couldn’t keep it down. Such a triggering situation and I’m working to keep it away. To not relapse over those feelings of ’empty’, the feelings I used to crave.

They said it’s likely to happen again but there’s not much I can do. Just drink excessive amounts of water and they’ll monitor the rest. Just when I was getting a grip on so many things, getting so much happier in myself, just something else. Always something else.

Dragging me back to reality.

My reality that I’ll never be normal. That I’ll always be a burden to those who have to help me. That I’ll always be ill, disabled…used…abused…broken or worse.

Wouldn’t it be nice to eat and drink without fear? To not have the nightmares? To not be rushed to hospital at 4am? To not have to have emergency surgery?

Give me a week and I’ll know it’s not true. I’ll realise I’m tough for dealing with all my crap. I’ll smile because I’ll be proud of every step I’ve had to take in my pretty shitty life.

I know what I’m like…I’ll feel awesome in no time.

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Times Like This

Woken up 4am Thursday morning with a pain in my left hand side. A stabbing pain that made me scream and cry and call out for my flatmates.

8 hours later and the hospital sent me home. Hand in hand with some paracetamol, they couldn’t work out what had happened to me and said I remained a ‘mystery’. Forever a mystery, even a friend commented that I am ‘always in hospital’. Times like this make me feel numb, never knowing what’s wrong other than that there is always something wrong with me. Times like this make me feel broken.

5am Friday morning and the pain was back. So was the hospital and the doctors claiming there was nothing wrong with me. I cried. My boyfriend was there to hold my hand this time and he held it tight as I cried. All of the pain, all the exhaustion and all the stress of being told I was ‘fine’. I’m always fine…

They sent me home with codeine this time and it seemed to do the trick but on Friday the pain never left and neither did he. He stayed the day and rang the doctor who told us to go back on the evening. And so we did. He held me tight and he took me back. He held me when the pain came back and he wiped away every tear. He held my hand whilst they did all their tests and he really helped that fear. He calmed me down. Though I could tell he was panicking, he knew what I needed and he stroked my hair, held me again trying to help me sleep.

Saturday morning, 2am, and the doctors had found me a bed but he wasn’t allowed to stay. That was the first time the fear came back and each time the pain woke me up I felt more scared, more lonely. Counting down the hours minutes and seconds until 2pm so that he could come back and hold me.

On regular morphine now, they ran more tests and eventually found the cause. Inflammation and water on my kidneys along with this teeny tiny 3mm stone. So again, but with an appointment for a specialist next week, they sent me home.

I didn’t expect him to stay. 3 days of hospital was surely enough but he spent Sunday evening with me. Helping me with every little thing. The smallest things that mean the most. I could tell he was worried but together we got through it. He kept me distracted when I needed it the most and he held me when the pain made me cry all over again. He set alarms on his phone to make sure I had medication at 12am, 4am and 8am. He even worked from home at my flat on Monday just to keep an eye.

Times like that make me realise just how much he cares. I’ve always known it, always sure of it but times like this make me feel loved. Spend so much time feeling worthless and unloved and times like that make me feel so wrong. Telling me he ‘wanted his Len back’ made me realise how much he really does. How much he wants me to get better in all aspects . Feeling cared for, loved. All I could want but it means so much more than it did before.

Right where I needed him when I needed him and yet he went above and beyond what I could have ever expected.

Times like this make me want to get better with my ED. What if that ‘one last purge’ made me this ill? It’s been a while but kidney damage can be caused by bulimia so what if…almost not worth thinking about but it is additional motivation.

Times like this, thanks to the illness but mainly thanks to him, make me want to become even healthier.

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