Self-inflicted Mind Games

I’ve been back in London a week now and straight into my new house with my new housemates – two very good friends of mine and between you and me, once we get all the boring general admin such as bills and the like sorted, we’ll be ticking over just fine.

However, I feel so incredibly nervous and scared. One friend knows I am recovering from bulimia and the other doesn’t and I have this inexplicable feeling that I’m going to be watched and monitored. Even though it would be from such a good place deep in her heart, I just don’t want pressure to eat…maybe because I still struggle to eat in front of others…because I know it’s still something I’m working through.

It’s funny because I was scared to weigh myself but this time when I plucked up the courage I was actually lighter than I thought I would be. I shook my head and thought, no, this can’t be right, I must be heavier. And so I moved the scales around…same weight…I went and grabbed my laptop…I was heavier…removed the laptop…back to the initial weight.

I was convinced the scales must be broken. Convinced there was simply no way I could have lost some weight whilst away.


But I just realised something this evening.

Three days ago I had to register with a new Doctor’s Surgery and they asked me to weigh myself on some special digital machine thingy-magigy. It told me I was half a kilo heavier than what my scales had told me. This was with some pretty heavy clothes.

But the implication of this simply didn’t register with me.

But today I realised that maybe my scales are correct and my mind is wrong. Why don’t I believe the solid evidence that my regular eating has helped me lose some weight in a healthy manner? Why am I convinced I must be so much heavier than these scales are telling me?

It’s such a vicious circle. If the number was higher I’d be unhappy and yet it’s lower than expected and I’m still unhappy because I’m convinced I’m bigger than what I am?

A lower number urging me to restrict or purge because surely the number is wrong.

It’s a tough one to get past.

Then again, my friends were happily lifting me onto their shoulders last weekend so this short arse over here could actually see something! That in itself tells me that my perception is distorted. I’m not the number I think I am. Even if I was, surely I’m worth more than that anyway.



Dance For Me Baby


You know what I love doing? Putting on some music and just dancing round my room…it’s a lot more fun when I’m just in my underwear too!

Nothing beats literally letting your hair down and just dancing to your hearts content. Nothing I love more than a good night out where I can bust out my definitely-not-so-great dance moves.

The best thing is that when I’m lost in the beat I simply do not care. I’m so preoccupied with whatever fun I’m having with whatever friends are there that ‘looking cool’ is the last thing on my mind.

And I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about getting lost in the music that makes you feel so free, as if nothing could go wrong. It’s as though all the stress disappears when you put that music on and simply dance. The sheer amount of fun can be seen through that smile on my face and in turn you can see the confidence exuding with every move.

I love going to the gay clubs with my housemates especially. It may sound a bit strange but when I’m dancing in places such as Heaven, I feel incredibly beautiful. There’s no guys there (well no guys who would be interested in a straight tiny blonde girl dancing!) and maybe that’s why I feel beautiful…because I’m there dancing because I want to and I’m doing it to enjoy myself. Simply enjoying the music with my friends, lost in that moment, lost in that beat.

I love being lost in that beat.

Dancing to the beat of my not-so-broken-heart.