Nightmare Realities

The illness crept up on me full force when I was reminded over an awful night that happened almost a year ago…wow, it’s almost a year ago now…one year…12 months…52 weeks…365 days ago.

Can I even call it an anniversary? Surely that day doesn’t deserve to have an anniversary? Nevertheless, the date is fast approaching and I can feel the pitch black darkness of that day catching up with me.

I’ve been running through mud trying to escape it and now I’m stuck. I’m stuck in the illness that’s got so much worse when the memories were triggered. When the pain came back. When the fear infested me all over again. When the nightmares became more frequent and more intense than ever before.

It’s like I can’t breathe. He’s there on top of me and I can’t move. I’m weak and I can’t get him off. My chest tightens and I can’t breathe. Can’t breathe, can’t move and it’s all because I’m weak. I was too weak to stop it then and I’m even weaker that I’m letting it affect me now.

That’s what the voice tells me. It was all my fault and I could have stopped it and if I had stopped it I wouldn’t be having the problems now. I wouldn’t be bouncing from restriction to purging like the broken boomerang I am. I let myself be in that position when I was vulnerable. I could have stopped it. I could have prevented it.

But no.

Because I was weak.

Because I am weak.

He’s there. His hands, his body, everything and I can’t get him off me. I can’t move, can’t breathe…I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. I just want him off me. I can’t breathe. Just get off me. Please stop. I can’t breathe. I’m dreaming. I need to wake up but I can’t wake up. It’s not happening again. It’s a dream. But it’s happening and I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

Can’t move.
Can’t breathe.

Eventually I do breathe but it’s a scream that escapes my mouth.

I wake up crying and shaking. I’m covered in sweat and my heart is beating so fast I feel like it’s going to burst out my chest. The fear sets off my epilepsy and I’m sat having seizures in bed. Crying. Shaking. Sweating. Fitting.

I smashed a bowl that was by my bed one of the last times. I actually reached out from one side of the bed and smashed it on the wall in my sleep because I was that convinced the dream was real.

Each time it happens I’m feeling weaker and weaker. There’s nights I’m scared to fall asleep and I feel so weak.

I. Feel. So. Weak.

I. Feel. So. Out. Of. Control.

I should have been in control of that situation, it’s my fault I was there. I should have known better. I should have been strong enough to stop it and I wasn’t. I let myself down. I wasn’t in control and I was so damn weak.

Fucking stupid girl.

I know my ED is based on control and feeling weak…maybe there’s a bigger link between my recent relapse and that upcoming anniversary I can’t avoid.

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A Beautiful Ticker

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The thing with broken clocks is that you can tell exactly when they stopped ticking.
With people it isn’t so easy. Sometimes you can’t even tell they’re broken.

I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s broken but it’s definitely been hurt. It’s been picked up and carelessly shattered into pieces a few times but it’s still there. It’s still ticking, beating away to the sound of my consistently crazy life.

Going back to Law School meant that whilst the gossip had spread, most people hadn’t gotten to speak to the actual source: me. I don’t blame them but it took a lot out of me having to tell close friends what had happened yet again. It was draining to go through the evening over and over again: his words, his actions, my feelings.

Just like last year, my exams had been the perfect distraction. However, the post-exam come-down made me realise that I was still hurting. Not over the boy but, rather, his actions. I don’t need nor want a liar in my life but the situation just echoed my past. No, it didn’t echo it, it amplified it. The contradiction of words and actions was one of the cruelest things I have ever experienced.

I still don’t believe he meant to hurt me so bad but that doesn’t exactly make it hurt any less. I don’t need people to tell me that it wasn’t my fault. That sometimes things don’t work. That I’m fine just the way I am. I do know that and I’m still that optimistic girl full of hope that one day, someone perfect for her will think she is perfect for him.

Nevertheless, my confidence has taken a massive hit. My focal point of happiness has shifted back to weight loss and I need to pull myself up and climb over this rocky patch and remember that there is so much  more to me than a number on a scale.

Everyone needs to take a time out every now and then. Just press pause for a few moments, take a breath and reflect. We have all, at some stage or another in our lives, been presented with challenges that we have either overcome or are still pushing to overcome. We have all experienced darkness and failure. We have all been taken advantage of and let down. We have all been hurt and not once did any of us deserve it but whilst the pain makes our confidence drop, don’t you think that we are actually so much more beautiful for it?

I think so.

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Kintsugi is the Japanese art of restoring a broken piece with a lacquer that is mixed with gold or silver. This craft is based on understanding the spiritual background and history behind the material and is interwoven with the philosophy of finding beauty in broken things. To appreciate that the piece is far more beautiful for having been broken.

My ticker needs some time to heal right now but it’s going to be more golden than it ever was before and someone who truly deserves it will appreciate the artwork that is this broken heart of mine.

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Be mine

I feel terrible saying this because of what happened last week. I tried to talk about it but it was still too raw, and he felt I was justifying what happened. I do understand that.

But I want to go out. I want my boyfriend to come with me.

To be proud to come out with me. To want to be seen holding my hand.

To show everyone that I’m his.

I hate going to parties and the like without him. Everyone asking why my boyfriend wouldn’t come with me.

I want to have romantic meals, or a walk in the park.

I want him to show me off to his friends and to let me show him off to mine.

I want to go to a party and dance with my boyfriend rather than dancing on my own.

I hate seeing other couples there, holding hands, dancing, cuddling, kissing.

I love him so why does he not want to come for a drink with me, to a party, to a BBQ. He doesn’t even have to pay for it.

Just come with me. Be with me. Outside of the flat.

I want to go to a party, have a drink and a dance but with him. Not with my friends…not having to stop guys from trying to dance with me.

And the more I drink the more I wish he could be there with me, dancing, holding my hand. Just there with me.

So I drink more.

I drank more.

But I have no argument. No leg to stand on. Not any more.

I want to be looked at as though I am the most beautiful girl in the world. I want him to hold my hand on the walk home. I want to be treated like I’m not something to be lost. I want him to be there and just know that he can’t be without me.

I want him to meet my friends and I want to meet his.

I want him to show how proud he is to be mine…

How proud he is, for me to be his…

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Whats another crack when you’re already broken?

I’ve never felt so weak, so confused, so unhappy, so broken.

I’ve never been this down. I’ve never felt as if I have absolutely nothing left until now. When I relapsed in January I was convinced with the help of my friends I’d get better but now we’re almost at the end of May and I’m worse, not better. Five months later and I’ve spiralled downwards more quickly and worse than ever before.

I don’t understand. I don’t quite know how I’ve gotten so bad and I most certainly don’t know how the past five months have just passed without me even realising.

I’ve been drifting along and not really paying attention to the things I’ve been doing or the choices I’ve been making.

Last night was an all-time low and I’ve never hit rock bottom so hard. A vicious cycle of eating and purging which ended in me cutting the back of my wrist. I don’t feel anger or hatred. I just feel hurt. There is so much pain aching in my heart and I can’t get rid of it. I feel like a failure. I’m a weak disgusting failure and no wonder no one wants to be with me. I’m alright for a bit of fun when they need it but nothing more. But how could I expect to mean something to anyone when I don’t mean anything to me?

In training last week I hit the shoulder recovery milestone of 5KM only to spend all afternoon in A+E on monday to find out that I had prolapsed my lower discs again and could barely walk. I tried swimming yesterday and only managed 750m. Not even 1KM. Lost more than 80% of my milestone. Injured. Injured Again. Weak. Failure.

Just when everything looks like its getting better something happens. That girl gets injured again. Even my friend made a passing comment of ‘you really are that girl‘, it didn’t upset me at all, in fact I laughed because all I can do is laugh….and cry…and feel hurt and upset…feel weak. Failure. I reached a milestone only to fall back further than before.

I’ve been physically broken since I was born so what difference did every broken bone, severed nerve, ruptured muscle, misplaced organ, skin disorder, torn tendon, muscle defect, joint damage, slipped disc really make?

I was born broken, it  was only inevitable that the cracks were going to get deeper and deeper.

I wasn’t born mentally broken but the physical cracks most certainly didn’t help.

And now look at me.

Almost 23 years later and i’ve got every scrape and bruise, scathe and scar to prove it.

And they knew I was cracked. They knew I had cuts and scars deeper than the normal person but instead of handing me some glue they bullied me. They picked at the scabs and dug at the cracks until there was nothing left. And people let them. Until I couldn’t hold all my broken pieces together anymore. Until I cracked completely. Until I broke.

And I spent two years fixing myself. Slowly picking up the pieces and putting myself back together. And for what? To end up more broken than ever before. Shattered into a thousand pieces instead of a hundred and with far less glue at my fingertips

I used to be angry. I used to have hatred towards the bullies who made me feel so small and hatred towards myself for developing an eating disorder but now I’m just sad. Now I’m just hurt and upset and I want to be happy but the girl I was seems like such a distant memory I almost don’t remember her. I don’t remember how she ignored the world and lived in her own little bubble loving her life. I don’t even know how she could have done that in the first place.

All time low.

Brand new rock bottom.

But what’s another crack when you’re already broken?