Tag Archives: panic attacks

advent!!!!

There’s a really annoying boy in my bed right now. The sort of boy that turns up at 6am, drunk, to tell you he misses you then ask you to be his “plus one” at his work Christmas party. I think this is a little bit ridiculous. I mean, its not entirely his fault seeing as I’m totally buff and super amazing, but still, why can’t people fucking chill? Seeing as I haven’t slept at all and he is now sleeping like a really tired, hungover person, I thought I’d catch up on some blogging.

To be honest, I’ve not been blogging much recently, in the reading and posting capacity. It’s mostly because I’m actually doing ok right now. I have my moments, but I’m spending a lot of time with my friends, boys, the Fam, at uni etc. so I am actually busy. I’ve gone from never busy to often busy. And I’m enjoying it. I really like my friends at the moment, a few in particular, and I’m getting my confidence on again so I’m actually talking to people. People are so good. Sometimes you forget, but remembering again is fun.

I’m still under the HTT, which I guess is good because I still have my unstable moments, especially when there’s any contact with the Ex. I literally cannot hack him. He completely ruins anything that makes me feel happy. I know that sounds dark, but he makes me feel so horrible. Like, I spoke to him the other day and ended up crying in Tottenham Court Road, spending £30 on stationary and buying darker hair dye purely because he likes my hair lighter, then getting home, crying, dying my hair and painting my nails black because I was angry and shouting at everyone I spoke to and self injuring. That boy has a lot to answer for when it comes to my mood. He fucks me up so much I swear. And I hate that I miss him. Cunt. And generally I’m not so rude about people. Well I am, but in a lolz way, not a serious way. This is a serious way. Still, he’s fading and I have people shaped distractions.

There is good news though. I’ve finally been seen by my new psychologist. It’s sad because I’m going to have to say goodbye to my super nang therapist who I love and actually sometimes trust, to be replaced by some next woman I don’t even know. The Psychologist is still seeing me weekly right now, but probably not for long. He wants me to write him a goodbye letter, and he will write me one and then we’ll read them to each other. All sounds a little bit too cringe for me really. I’m not sure I’m up to that challenge. I guess I’ll have to give it a go, but I so badly don’t want to :(. Plus I don’t want to say goodbye to the Psychologist because I love him so much. I hate it when people go. I’ll probably cry and look like a dick, but what can you do? I have to be ok moving on to some new therapist who might suck out and I might hate and might be really horrible. I hope she’s not, but who the fuck knows? Soon there’ll be a new the Psychologist and I just have to deal with it.

Still, this change means I no longer have to attend stupid coping stupid skills group. I hated coping skills group so much it’s ridiculous. Seriously. All the way in fucking Essex. So much travel for so little gain I swear. Plus I didn’t like the facilitator that much because she was too loud and in your face and the people in the group we’re all a lot older than me and no where near as logical and scientific thinking, so what I told them didn’t really resonate and vice versa. I don’t say that like their thinking was bad, it just wasn’t at all like mine and it made it hard to feel comfortable. Maybe that’s just me trying to rationalise my own prangs, but it is how I feel. It’s fine though because I never have to go again, which is a huge fucking relief.

But anyway, I still haven’t finished being assessed by IMPART yet. Apparently there’s only one left, but who the fuck knows really. There have been so many assessments you couldn’t imagine. In the whole process, I gained another diagnosis – panic disorder. Gotta catch ’em all in NHS mental health service. Really annoying, but I guess I already had it and now it just has a name.

I’ve been pretty open about my mental health with the sleeping boy seeing as I can’t go out in the dark by myself and he lives about 2 mins from my psychiatric hospital, but he has some pretty wafty ideas about mental health. He’s anti-medications and thinks that treatment doesn’t work and talking therapies fuck you up more and you shouldn’t have them. I didn’t really want to smash his opinions down with scientific research, statistics and generally knowing what I’m talking about because he’s only 20 and I didn’t want to be rude, but I’m sorry what the fuck? Suicide is the biggest killer of men under 25, anorexia the biggest killer of women under 25, people with psychotic disorders really fucking need their medications to stay stable, as do many people with other problems. It really bugs me. I spend so much of my life surrounded by people who either do or try to understand mental health, I forget sometimes how much people opinions can differ and be based on negative stereotypes. Still, at least he’s not rude about my mental health which I appreciate and he does try to get it. Jeez I’m such an over-sharer. He is a bed teef though, which makes him supes annoying.

Blah anyway I’m babbling away, losing my point. Standard though. This is what happens when you don’t plan your blog posts properly. I really should get some sort of structure to my blog. Except I can’t be fucked really. Maybe I’ll do it sometime. It really doesn’t help that I literally haven’t slept at all. No amount of sedatives stops insomnia anymore. Annoying.

The most important thing to mention in this post is the absolute brilliance that is ADVENT!!!! Which means advent calendars and lots of alcohol and festive spirit and mince pies and fun times and everyone is happy and it’s my favourite time of year. I love December. I love Christmas. I love winter. So much. I’m so excited and hyped all the time. Yesterday, me and almost all my S named ladies went to the Southbank Winter Festival to drink mulled wine for advent and it was so fun. Plus really pretty. The Southbank looks beautiful and festive. There’s this igloo outside the Hayward gallery which is literally so cute and pretty. And a bicycle powered light up tree. And so much good food. I had the world’s tastiest lamb burger with harissa and garlic mayo and it was so good. It might not actually have been the worlds best – that may well be the mulled wine and festive cheer talking. It was really good though. So good I could literally smell how bad my breath was and didn’t even care. I ended up getting pretty drunk, but not too drunk. Siblets on the other hand…. Well…

So anyway, I should probably try sleep if I can. Plus this massively horrible, seriously racist and really fucking irritating woman just showed up at my door (unannounced) and I have to rescue the Ma from her because none of us can stand her. Daughterly duty and all.

Here’s the igloo:

20121202-223324.jpgAnd inside the igloo:20121202-223549.jpg

And a festive London Eye:

20121202-223532.jpg

 

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Filed under bpd, coping strategies, general, home treatment team, IMPART, NHS, recovery, shopping, therapy, university

angry.

I guess this could be a trigger. Sorry.

So last night I called the HTT crisis line because I was so worked up and distressed and I’d just got off the phone to the Ex and I felt out of control and fast and mean and basically the whole world sucked and I blamed treatment.

I literally have nothing normal left in my life anymore. Since starting treatment over a year ago I’ve only lost things. I’ve lost thing after thing till now I’ve got nothing nice left. The only thing I’ve gained is a bunch of professionals that are paid to pretend to care about me, but make it pretty fucking clear they don’t give a fuck. I didn’t feel safe.

I told them I never wanted anyone to come to my house again. The guy I was speaking to is actually nice and he got worried. I told him I’d lost everything and that having people barely conceal their contempt for me only hurt me more and I didn’t want any part of it ever again. I told him I wanted out of it all and I didn’t feel safe and they weren’t helping and everything in my life has just be getting worse and worse. This went on for a little while and he eventually agreed to the HTT calling me instead of visiting this morning and told me he cared and was worried and would listen and I should call him back if I needed to.

I didn’t call back. Instead I self harmed. It was quite severe, but I managed it with my now expert injury first aid and eventually felt better enough to fall asleep at about 4am.

I then get woken up by the HTT knocking on my door, and not just them, but also my new key worker from CDAT. I got so angry and told them over and over I didn’t want them there and had been told they wouldn’t come and they refused to leave because I had to talk to the CDAT woman and I hate her and I hate them and they lied and I wasn’t dressed and I hate every single part of my mental health treatment.

After they left, I called the HTT and asked them never to come back again and I didn’t want anymore treatment from them. They lied to me and didn’t care and they make me hurt more. Apparently they’re going to call me this afternoon, but I don’t even think they will seeing as they are full of lies and don’t give a shit. They talked about sectioning me if I didn’t comply with them, but I can’t even see how they have the power to do that. You need like two psychiatrists to section someone, and it’s not like any of them talk to each other. Like this morning I was told they’d come back this evening, then on the phone I was told they’d come back tomorrow morning. None of them have any fucking clue what the plan for my treatment is. I doubt they could get two psychiatrists in the same fucking room.

I then called the CMHT to asked to be discharged from them. The Psychiatrist is on leave so I can’t leave them till next week.

Following that, I called the Psychologist and left a message for him to call back. He didn’t, so I left a subsequent message saying I never wanted to see him again. He eventually called back and said he “hopes I turn up and he won’t discharge me yet” and said he’ll leave it in my hands to contact him if I don’t go. I’m most angry with him because he pretends better than everyone else. And if he didn’t tell me the Ex was a cunt, I’d probably still have someone to love me. If he hadn’t told me it was ok to take time out of uni, I’d probably have a fucking degree. If he hadn’t told me I needed further help, none of the other fucking teams would be involved. And he called my fucking parents. How am I supposed to trust him?

I can’t get in touch with IMPART because I didn’t save their number and I’ve swapped phones. Imma try get their number from someone else, but I don’t know who yet. I fully intend to leave their services as well.

CDAT can go spin to be honest. I told her as much, but she made an appointment for me anyway. I’m not going to go. She said if I don’t go, she’ll call, but it’s not like I have to reply. Calls from mental health treatment places always come up as private numbers so its pretty easy to know which ones to ignore.

I then called uni to ask to formally drop out, but I have to talk to my personal tutor before I can do that and he’s not in so I emailed.

I want to be out of treatment now. Out for good. All I’ve got from treatment is a worse life. All I had left was my fucking degree and that’s gone now so fuck it. If I’d never started treatment, I probably could have aced a dissertation by now and be finished and not care that all my friends hate me and my family think I’m disgusting because I’d be pretty and small and that would be enough and I’d have a boy and future. Instead, I’ve complied with everything asked of me and have essentially lost everything. I make the Fam cry, the Brother always chooses others over me when I really need him, my friends all think I’m rubbish and weird, the Ex treats me rubbish and I hurt him and the DVIP people keep calling me to tell me how shit he is and he calls me to tell me how shit they are and now I’ve lost uni. The one fucking normal thing I had left.

So fuck them all. I did as I was told and tried and now I’m angry and alone and have horrendous withdrawal symptoms. I keep having panic attacks and can’t focus or sleep and get tremors all over and I fucking hate every part of ever having entered treatment. So I no longer have an eating disorder? It’s not like I have anything else.

It hurts me more to be surrounded by people who pretend they care then it does to be alone. It’s better to not have it rubbed in your face that the most important thing you do is provided by people who think you’re worthless. Fuck them all. Seriously.

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Filed under bad day, CDAT, CMHT, fuck, HTT, life, NHS, rant, recovery, rubbish, therapy, university

“this is heavenly. this is nothing at all.”

I don’t really think it’s all that fair that my face hates me right now. I supposed to be going to yoga. I don’t want anyone to see my face. I didn’t go to yoga on Thursday because I didn’t want anyone to see my face, and I can’t go next Thursday as I’m meeting the next psychologist. I have so much guilt for missing yoga sessions. I should go to yoga. I have booked it. But what about my face?

This is my brain right now. This is my brain when it’s significantly distracted from feeling rubbish.

I realised reading this over that actually, this is the most miserable post. Don’t read it if you don’t want to read someone being a dramatic child about life.

The other day, the psychologist told me I think too much. Apparently everyone has the thoughts that I have, but they don’t really effect them. They just continue along, thinking away and not worrying too much. Negative self-belief makes it really difficult for me to just move on from a thought. They stick in my head and I doubt myself so much I end up unable to function. I’m losing the ability to function and it’s worrying me. I can genuinely be ok sometimes. If I have lots of things going on at once all around me, then I’m alright. I don’t think because I’m watching something awful on iPlayer and I’m painting my nails and buying nonsense stuff on eBay. It’s when I stop that’s the issue. Unfortunately, stopping is involved in lots of things from cooking, going to the shop, getting dressed etc. to my dissertation work.

I literally cannot study right now.

Every time I try to study its the same and I wind up desperate and alone. Every time. I start thinking about how I’m really ugly and how I have no friends and how everyone else has a better life than me and how every fucking ending I’ve ever created in my sorry little narrative will never, ever come true because I’m useless and ruining my life and everyone is laughing at how much my life is fucked and how all my peers are working and getting somewhere and care about things and have ideas and friends and go out and look lovely and have money and do all the stuff that I’m supposed to be doing. But I’m not. I absolutely failed at life and now I have nothing at all. No job, no friends, no boyfriend, no confidence, no belief, no passion. Nothing. And I can’t fix it. I don’t know how. I keep thinking how it’ll be ok because someone will see me and want to help me. They won’t stay away because I’m boring and ugly, they’ll see me as interesting and in pain and want to make it better. Except that’ll never actually happen. Everyone is far to busy to save me and I don’t even think they can. Plus what do I even need saving from? My inability to be a productive member of society? My personality failures? The fact that I don’t really have friends? My self-imposed isolation? Every little narrative which fixes how much it hurts is a fucking lie and no one wants to help me and everyone is learning how ridiculous I am and how much they don’t like me and the only thing I have is a stupid internal world that will never happen and just confuses me as I begin to lose track of what actually happened and what I think happened. Sometimes I do nothing for hours but think myself a better life whilst hating myself for doing so because I’m not good enough for it to happen. Genuinely. I just sit there, thinking.

I just really want to be found. I don’t know why. I fully realise that it’s stupid, but I don’t think I know how to make my life more bearable and I just want someone else to do it for me. It can’t happen that way though. For one thing, I have to actually talk to other people for that to happen, but mostly I ignore them. Secondly, I think it’s one of those things you kinda have to work out by yourself. There’s still a really massive part of me that thinks “If I can actually express how much it hurts then someone will see.” I’m not good at communicating it though so any type of expression I have access to is not something I should contemplate really. Sometimes I do try calling people. Yesterday I called someone, but they didn’t answer. I then called someone else but they weren’t in London and I shouted at them for not being here right now and not helping and told them I couldn’t talk to them because I needed someone here right now then hung up. I wasn’t even annoyed at them. I was just really upset. That put me off calling anyone else though, which I actually think was smart. Plus what would I say?  And anyway, as the psychologist says, “Outside reassurance is only a temporary fix and will probably end up worsening your self-esteem.” He’s right as well because whenever I talk to people, I hate myself more, and whenever someone’s nice to me, I hate them because I’m obviously the punchline to some cruel joke I’m not in on. His big idea is that I should never be alone, but that it doesn’t have to be people I know. I should just go to places where other people are so I’m less destructive. I can’t do that though because then they’ll see my face.

Instead, I buy stupid things on eBay with money I don’t really have because focusing on bidding numbs my head out for a little while. Spending money makes me feel better for a little while. I get a little pick me up from buying things because then they’ll be something new, just to get horrid guilt at materialism and lack of funds and the fact that I have no need for new things because they can’t change the fact that I’m terrible. I painted my nails really nice then cried because what’s the point of having nice nails when I’m ugly and have no friends so no one will see them and even if they did, they’d laugh about it because I’m making an effort to not be so hideous and there’s no point because I’m awful. I recently decided to get into The Only Way Is Essex because that is pretty numbing and silly, but I failed at that because it just upset me to watch people with lives. It’s the same reason I can’t watch Skins or Misfits or anything good without crying. Plus they talk a lot about being too fat or too thin or losing weight or gaining weight. So then I watched Secret Eaters because I thought at least the eating disordered part of me would get off on it. That bummed me out too though because a) I don’t think I will ever eat without realising I’m doing it, and b) I eat more food than a lot of the women in it and they get told off for eating too much and being fat. Granted I’m not technically obese and I am fully aware of everything that goes in my mouth and I don’t eat junk food really and whatever else. What upsets me is that the amount of calories I eat is deemed fat and unhealthy. And that I can’t see how I’ll ever be able to eat without realising.

Comparisons never work out in my favour. I think I’m going to try watch the Killing. They all look like they’re having a shit time. Hopefully any comparisons will make me feel ok. But then again, drama involves actually doing something, which I don’t. I tend to be jealous of people having a shit time because at least they are having time.

Compare and despair.

By thinking I should watch something, I’m failing because I should be working. But every time I try to work I end up distraught and wanted to implode in some sort of dramatic way in which I lose a ton of weight and damage my body so much that someone will help me because I’ll be so obviously fucked. Then I work out how stupid that is and how that’ll never work and just don’t see anything at all. My whole life becomes nothing and I lose all my hope. I can never be better, I have nothing, I am nothing, it’ll never change, what point is there, why the fuck bother? By not working enough though, I’m a useless-lazy-unproductive-waste-of-space-idiot-bitch-boring-failure-at-life. I live far too far into my own head. I’m disconnected from my own identity and the world around me. Nothing feels real at all. Nothing I’ve typed even feels real. It’s just a fucking story narrative thing I give myself where nothing I think or feel is actually true fact and I lose bits of memory and make up new memories and don’t know what’s happening around me. I just watch myself and watch the world go by without being in it. Watching myself happen once removed. It’s like watching T.V. except it’s you. You know what’s happened, but none of it seems real and none of it connects with your life and none of it has any consequence and you’ve had no control or impact on what’s gone on because it’s not you, but someone else. There is no consequence to not working because it doesn’t really happen anyway and the idea of time is so fucking vague. Except that’s completely untrue. I duno.

I think I may have reached the point in which I recognise myself as depressed. I’ve been diagnosed with depression, but I haven’t really felt like I’m really depressed. Sure I’m sad, but I can get by being sad because I’m holding on to the fact that I have things going for me. I don’t actually think I can get by anymore. I can’t even listen to music without being devastated. Either the lyrics or melody are really sad and I think about how awful I am, or they’re really happy and I think how that could never apply to me because I’m awful so then end up thinking about how awful I am. I’m rapidly losing the ability to function. I’m unable to do shit because I feel so fucking awful all the time. I think there are two types of depression – the depression you get when you hate yourself and your life and can never win, but still try to change even though you always fail and end up feeling worse, then the depression that comes after that when you realise that nothing you want from yourself and your life will ever happen and trying just makes you a bigger idiot because it’s like you haven’t noticed how truly shit you are, but now you have and you give up.

Depression number two is worth the side effects of getting medicated for. That’s my big plan for Monday. I’m not functioning and see no point in anything at all. I don’t give a fuck about myself and my aspirations anymore because it’s all so fucking pointless. I don’t know how to make this better because the idea of making it better seems fucking pointless because I’m nothing. Therefore, I think it might be time for lots of drugs.

What’s really rubbish is that this all makes me cry and I hate crying. Crying is just a fucking manipulation. I hate crying, even when I’m alone, because I think to myself “Why are you crying Ellie? Is it so you can tell people you cried and they’ll have sympathy? They won’t, you fucking manipulator. Stop trying to make out you’re sad.” How do you even know you’re sad? I don’t know anymore.

It’s Father’s Day. My Dad wants to go to the cinema, but I won’t go because my face is so horrible. He also wants to go for a meal but I can’t do that because I’m fat and ugly. He might get a take away, but I won’t join in because I’m too fat as it is and I had a banana today when I wasn’t meant to. Instead, I’m going to give him his present then hide in my room and wait for the day to end because that’s all I’m fit for. It must be shit having a daughter like me. What a fucking let down. A daughter that fails at life and is living with her parents at 23 with no life and no friends and no jobs because she’s so fucking awful. A daughter that wakes up only to spend the whole day distracting herself and waiting to go to bed again because at least then I’m asleep, wishing that I didn’t exsist. I’m basically a waste of money, space and parental investment. I’m not something to be proud of really. It’s just disappointing. It’d make you wonder why you even bothered.

Fucking hell Ellie. Stop being an emo fifteen year old and get a fucking job. I’m too old for this shit.

* I did go to yoga actually. An hour spent staring at my face and body in a mirror was a stupid idea. I had a panic attack at my fat legs. I’d forgotten my body is covered in sharpie so you can read how I feel when I took my hoodie off, then cried and scrubed my arm raw in the bathrooms. All the while I could see my face in the mirror and it made my heart sink. Sometimes it’s better to stay home.

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tantrums.

So  yesterday was excruciating. Seriously so. After all my talk of feeling a lot better, I get a surprise kick in the teeth from anorexia and end up in a heap on the kitchen floor, sobbing like an idiot. Beware – very long, rant of a post ahead.

I don’t think I’ve been eating enough recently. Stresses of break ups and alcohol have led me to play it a little too safe on the eating front and I don’t think I’ve been hitting my targets. Scratch that – I know I haven’t been hitting my targets. I suddenly just became really, unbearably full all the time to the extent that eating anything makes me feel sick. I’d begun to think (yet again) that maybe my body is done with gaining weight. Stupid I know – my weight was way higher than this, even before I gained weight at uni. I mean, I’m still a stone away from my target weight, which is a stone lighter than the weight of my eighteen year old self, before this whole weight mess started. I’m hoping I don’t have to get that high, though I probably will. But anyway, as I was just so physically full all the time, thought I was eating loads more than I am, maintaining my size (don’t know about weight) and feeling better mentally, I was beginning to hope that maybe I was done with the gaining thing and that if I continued the way I was, I’d probably get my periods back eventually. I was even toying with the idea of intuitive eating rather than sticking to my meal plan because I’m just so full all the time.

In a search for possible answers as to why this fullness suddenly popped up, it was suggested that I may be lapsing and under eating, thus further suppressing my metabolism. After balking at that suggestion, I went back and did some quick calorie math for the past few days. I’ve been eating a lot less than I should. Not starvation levels by any means, but never above my maintenance amounts. I thought I was eating so much more than that, but no. Not even on the days with copious alcohol and drunken crisps. Or even with chocolate pancakes covered in peanut butter, maple syrup and full fat yogurt. Not good.

I’ve believed entirely that I’m doing well, and kinda still do because things have been nicer and I do feel more cognitively sharp and I can actually concentrate on uni work now (finally! Just in time!). But I’m also not sure anymore. In yoga yesterday, we were doing a visualisation exercise where we visualised achieving our main goals. I tried so hard to think of eating more and committing to recovery and I just couldn’t. Not even to myself. I couldn’t bring myself to say in my head “I am committed to recovery”. So I burst in to tears. It didn’t help that I was next to a very small lady and spent the whole session feeling fat and ugly and very close to having a panic attack. Tears at yoga is not good. And the thing is, I have no idea whether she was actually smaller than me or not. Everything is too distorted.

This made me stop and think. Maybe things haven’t been nicer. Maybe I’ve been pandering to anorexia too much and just ignoring it. Maybe I’m just not pushing hard enough. It’s quite obvious I’m still not doing so well if the idea of eating more and being near small people makes me panic and cry in public.

So I really tried to push myself yesterday. I picked some higher calorie options and even had one of those 50g packets of McCoys that had been sitting in my cupboard for a good few weeks. I didn’t feel ok though. Not by any stretch. Eating those McCoys made me want to self-injure more than anything else. I didn’t (thankfully) and am still adding to the number of days self-harm free. But it was hard. Really hard. Just the same thoughts running through my head over and over again without any way to control them. Urgh.

Then came the dreaded discussion with the Mama about it all. I told her I think I’ve been under eating and that I’m struggling to push myself any further. That the idea of actually pushing myself further is something I’m can’t seem to get on board with. I asked her to many count calories for me, but she wasn’t keen on that idea. I asked her to cook my dinners. She said she’d maybe cook for me on Sunday, and maybe a couple of times a week to see how that goes. What I wanted her to say way “I will cook you all your dinners. I will help you make better food choices. I will take away the room for negotiation that your eating disorder likes to take advantage of”, but I let the disordered part of me have a least half the conversation, saying I like eating my meals alone, a couple of dinners a week is more than enough, I could do this by myself, she had to follow my meal plan exactly when cooking for me with no variation right now. I didn’t tell her what I needed. All the while I was trying to formulate a grocery list, knowing I needed to get away from some of the safe food options I’d been making and having no idea where to start. I asked her what I should get, but she told me we needed to rush and we’d sort if out for the next shop. I needed it to be now. I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it in a couple of days time. I tried to vocalise this but it got lost in eating disorder babble, so it’s not the Mama’s fault. I ended up so angry trying to plan my meals and groceries that I ended up saying “I don’t give a fuck. What’s even the point?” and storming out of my own room to cook my dinner.

But then I was faced with the daunting task of having to choose my dinner. The task I’d been trying so desperately to say I just couldn’t do.

I just stood there, tears welling in my eyes. I could not for the life of me chose. I didn’t know what I wanted, was not at all hungry, didn’t know if I should have my usual or aim for a bit more variation (should I eat meat? Or fish? Or should I make a sauce? What sauce? Noodles or rice? Or spelt? Maybe I should just have my usual? But I know that’s not ok! But what is ok? I’ve had crisps and a higher calorie cereal bar, so maybe it is ok? Maybe that’s enough for today? But is it actually? I don’t want too much… I don’t know!). Anxiety levels rose, which led to a full-blown panic attack and me crying on the floor. I was entirely paralysed by choice. I ended up just repeatedly punching my head, struggling to breathe and essentially wailing. Full blown eating disorder tantrum. It is not dignified in the slightest. It’s completely embarrassing. A twenty-two year old woman freaking out over dinner – who does that? It got so bad I’d all but given dinner up. I don’t know whether this sort of extreme choice anxiety is seen that much in people without mental health problems, but if you’ve never experienced it, I cannot describe how awful it feels. It is just so crippling. There are too many variables and too many choices and you just don’t know which one is going to be right and which one will make everything worse and there’s nothing you can do to get the answers you need. This is why people with eating disorders often need meal plans and structure – just eating more can be literally impossible because this happens. It happens to me outside of the realm of food and weight aswell, but because there is just such an overwhelming amount of food to choose from and because of my eating disorder, it mostly happens around food. The only way to lessen the anxiety becomes inaction, which in my case often means not chosing and thus not eating. Which isn’t an option anymore, leading to further panic.

And the thing that gets me is that I do actually want to gain weight. I don’t want to at the same time and I feel really huge but I know I have to. I’m 5’6.5″ and still a size 6 for Christ’s sake. Regardless of the fact that I’m the highest weight I’ve been inyears and that it’s technically regarded as healthy, this can’t possibly be a normal size. And I want to be healthy. I don’t want to settle for anything less than full-blown recovery. I don’t want to manage the illness or still be trapped by rules. Yet I think of gaining weight and my head explodes into incoherent panic babble. It doesn’t even come up with reasons why it would be bad. It feels like an instinct rather than a thought. A couple of days ago, someone said to me “I wish I had your restraint and control.” What control? Honestly, I have no control at all. I’ve managed to beat back any reasons why being small is good, but I cannot control my reaction to more food and active weight gain in the slightest. It’s so physical. I tense up like a ball, start panicking, my mind starts racing, I can’t realise the physical tension, stop being able to think. There’s no control in that. That isn’t restraint. It’s a bloody disaster.

In the end, the Mum did decide what I should eat. If she hadn’t, it would have been a write off. I had to cook it though. God forbid she add too much oil.

By the end of the day, even with the screaming and making higher calorie choices (even at dinner), I was still behind. Not enough higher calorie choices I guess. I did manage to up my calories in the end, but through tears. Tears over 25g of chocolate and half a serving of cashews and cranberries. Is this really what my life is? It’s so rubbish. I hate being like this. Still, at least I’ve learnt that my meal plan may actually be pretty accurate on the calorie front rather than the vast underestimating I’d previously assumed.

All in all, I don’t think I’m doing as well as I previously thought. My diet is still dictated my calories, even if I’m not counting them. I have so many fear foods it’s ridiculous and I’m just not challenging any of the consistently enough to break the pattern of avoidance. I really don’t eat enough fat or protein to promote the most effective repair of my damaged body because they scare me too much. My eating is most definitely not free and easy.

I’m so scared I’m going to end up at the same weight I was at eighteen. I can’t get it out of my head. I don’t want to look like that. I don’t want to be that. There is no reason why, other than the fact that I think it’d be way too big. I don’t want to be big. I’m big enough already. Too big. Except I’m not. And I know that. And I’d probably look better a bit bigger. And I want to be bigger. Except I don’t because I’m definitely getting bigger than Saturn these days. Except I’m not. But that’s what I see. My arms are huge, my thighs sometimes touch in certain position, my face is rounded and my belly is swollen like a hot air balloon. I looked at pictures of my upper body from the other night and all I see is arm. Way more arm than is necessary. I shouldn’t wear strappy tops right now. I have to hide my fat arms. And belly. And face, but it’s quite difficult to hide your face. Maybe I shouldn’t go out. My face is a disaster. All my friends are so beautiful and small. I’m just this ugly, fat planet that stands next to them and everyone wonders why I’m there because I don’t fit. I should really learn to set my aspirations lower and find people who are my level of worth rather than surround myself with people who are better than me. I’m not even funny. I can’t even bring that to the table. If I’m not small, how can I mitigate my broad shoulders, deep voice, wonky face, manly jaw and brow areas, lack of feminine shape etc. And I’m boring. I have nothing of worth to say. And my voice is so off-putting that even if I had good things to say, no one would like to hear it because my voice makes offensive noise. I don’t do anything good. And I look like a boy. And sound like a boy. Being small makes me more feminine. Most people are more feminine and attractive bigger, but I’m not. Because my body is genetically useless. Can’t fight the genes. It can’t be better, only smaller. If I’m not small, I’ll lose the one thing that made me marginally more acceptable. If I’m not small, they’ll all see how useless I really am and reject me. But I want to be healthy. I want to gain weight. I’m being an idiot. Except I’m not. Everyone knows ugly people are only acceptable if they’re small. But I don’t think that. Not about anyone else. But that’s just because the vast majority of people aren’t as horrendous as me. They all have better genes. etc.

This is the noise my brain makes 24/7. All day, every day. It never shuts up. Sometimes I can ignore it better than other times, but it’s always there. Lurking. The background noise to my life.

I hate waking up everyday and feeling ugly and worthless. I don’t remember a time when that wasn’t the case. I’d like to wake up and feel neutral about my appearance. Not even good – just neutral. Neutral would be a nice change.

So here we go again – fighting the same old problems all over again. Trying to make choices that just seem impossible. I thought about eating more today – maybe having two slices of toast over a muffin for breakfast. Or actual dairy milk. I didn’t though. After all, I want to go to a party tonight, I need to save space for drinking calories. I know this logic is flawed, but I just can’t. The choice and panic are too much. Right now, it’s a “starting tomorrow” kinda deal. Hopefully I will actually start tomorrow, and not find more reasons to put it off. I don’t know though. I honestly don’t know if I can choose the right thing anymore. I cannot trust myself.

Fucking eating fucking disorder waste gash self bloody esteem stupid body stupid confidence fucking idiot.

Urgh.

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Filed under rant, recipes

stupidity and fear.

On Wednesday I ate something that really really scared me. It was the whole thing. I had a starbar with warm milk and a banana. All of these foods are fear foods for me and this made me really freak out. I’m struggling to up my eats now and am nowhere close to my target. I’m falling backwards and I’m scared. It’s really stupid to let this disease beat me back like this but it’s all I hear in my head. I started university today, which didn’t help things and I ended up having a minor panic attack in my seminar. I’m just really scared of change. I feel like things are moving forward to fast right now and I can’t keep up with it all. I don’t know what my life will become it I get better and I feel like I have no time to adjust. This is all pushing me backwards and now I’m sitting here hungry but not eating as I’m too scared of what that’ll mean. My b.m.i. doesn’t seem that low anymore so maybe I’ve done enough. I guess we’ll see what the dietician says on Tuesday. I don’t want to relapse but I feel the beginnings of one coming.

In my life right now everything is so timed – I’m supposed to eat 6 times a day, at specific intervals, I have so many appointments and I have so many rules. My life is so rigid. But the rules aren’t mine, and now my own rigidity seems to be clawing their way back. I’m scared of myself, don’t trust anything I think. I’m freaking out so much right now and I don’t even think I’m fighting. Hopefully I can get myself out of this. The world is foggy again. I find comfort in the fog though. I’m just lost and scared and am looking for the comfortable again. I don’t know what to do. Everything is so confussed. Fuck.

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Filed under life, recovery, university