At first glance it might seem that I am just a happy, normal girl who loves to bake and walk her dog. However, I have suffered with an eating disorder since I was 13. It was only in May 2014 when I realised that this Voice in my head was slowly but surely trying to kill me. And so began the long, hard, and painful journey which is recovery...

I want My Cocoa Stained Apron to be a special place...a place for reflection, memories, shared stories...and of course a little bit of cocoa-staining ;) Recovery might be the hardest thing you ever choose to do in this life. But it is also the bravest and best decision you will ever make.:)

Saturday, 20 December 2014

Will I ever retrieve what was lost? :(

At the moment, it is all a bit of a waiting game for me.

My assessment test isn't until next month, on the 20th of January. When the actual date of my test was confirmed, I experienced a range of different emotions.
 relief was the first sensation I felt. For of course, an enormous part of me is absolutely dreading it. Just over a month!! Phew!! I had thought, initially. And it was after Christmas. I would be able to enjoy my Christmas at home with my loving family, just as I always had done. I could almost "pretend" that everything was as it always had been. That there was absolutely nothing wrong with me.

But then, close on the heels of these comforting, reassuring feelings, was an emotion that was entirely different and which I didn't anticipate in the least. A sort of disappointment...which was bordering on despair - a wretched, bitter acceptance that I would be spending the next few weeks wondering, worrying, waiting.

Wondering whether I would be forced to go into hospital or not...
Worrying what they were going to say, what they are going to do to me, what they might make me do.
And the part which is killing me the having to wait to hear and see whether what seems, to me right now, lost, forever...through my eating disorder.

The healthy body that I once had. A body that can stride after Benny as he clambers through the heathery expanses of the boglands near my home, easily and without effort, and not, in doing so, be subjected to any pain, or hurt, or aching of any kind. A body that can dance and be fleet of foot and move with a swift gracefulness. A body that can run, run across a grassy meadow in springtime or pelt across the soft sands of the beach into the silvery waters of the sea. A body that can function to its maximum potential.

But what do I have now? A broken body, skeletal system is in trouble, I know that much. My hormones are damaged, my liver, my brain; my digestive system is all messed up. And this of course has severely hampered on my ability to do the things I love. Walking, of course. Shopping as my feet just start to ache and I have to sit down after about half an hour. Cycling, strolling in the garden, meeting friends. I can't concentrate or focus like a normal person. I am desperate to write Morokia, but in my heart I know that that in itself will be something of an exertion. I know myself that Morokia is extremely complex and requires my utmost attention. I want Morokia to be a gripping, moving, compellingly-readable masterpiece of tangled plots and epic battles and striking, memorable characters and events. But right now, I do not feel capable of producing a distinctive, indelible work of art.

And the healthy mind that I once had, too.
In one of my many rummagings through my seemingly fathomless bedroom wardrobe, I discovered a tiny photo album which was full of photos from when I must have been about eleven years old. There were plenty of them which instantly brought tears to my eyes and a hard lump to my throat.

For example, this was taken when my daddy took me, my brother, and my brother's friend on a camping trip for one night at Nore Valley in county Kilkenny.
What made me want to weep when I looked upon this picture was the fact I looked so happy, carefree, innocent...I wasn't worrying about whether I looked fat or skinny; I wasn't convinced people thought I was ugly. In fact, I know it was such a long time ago, but I believe I actually felt pretty, that day. I was a little girl on a miniature holiday of sorts. And in my pinafore and with my long hair loose and unadorned, I likened myself to a princess on an adventure, and that the world was a beautiful, safe, and idyllic, tranquil place.

I clearly wasn't worrying about what I might be made to eat at my next meal; whether I would be made to eat more than I usually did. I didn't feel like bowing my head with guilt and shame - the guilt of betraying your family and friends and all those you love - for all the lies and deceit, the  unfulfilled promises I made to recover; the crippling sense of failure. I wasn't feeling anxious about what I had eaten yesterday, or whether or not I had done too much or too little exercise that day.

I was not being controlled, held, or governed by that sneering, manipulative, domineering voice which has occupied my head for the last 8 years, and which now, as I struggle to gain weight and move towards full recovery, attempts once more to overpower me. The voice that has taken so much away from me, and continues to rob me of any sense of happiness or self-worth. The voice which is, of course, the voice of my ED.

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