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.:)
Tuesday, 7 July 2015
Picking up the pieces..:'(
I write this with tears in my eyes, because I feel as if I was so, so close to achieving what I had been yearning for: a perfect holiday, with no upset, fights, tears or disagreements. But yesterday destroyed all my hopes of that. To be brutally honest yesterday was an awful day. And I suppose the pain is even worse, because I feel as if it was completely out of my control, what happened yesterday. And it wasn;t because I messed up, it wasnt because I refused to eat or paniced at a restaurant or went off cycling for three hours plus and got caught in the act: no. But I think ED was in there, somewhere: subtly entwined into the things I said and the things I did yesterday. And overhanging it all is the knowledge that I could have avoided this..I could have prevented it. But those three demons of my own making - those being, my depression, my immaturity, and of course my eating disorder - were either too strong for me to fight against, or I too weak to oppose them.
Yesterday got off to a bad start: I woke up feeling really down. Not really for any apparent, or logical, reason: but as I looked up the weather forecast online to read that it was going to be yet another hot, sticky, sweltering day, with temperatures ranging from 35 to 38 degrees celsius in blistering heat, I couldnt help but groan inwardly. The heat has been really getting to me on this trip much more so than it has done in the past, and as I sat and contemplated another scorching hot day at the villa, doing the same old things that I have done for the past week and a half - for noone except me seemed interested in going sightseeing or actually leaving the villa, and I of course was too embarrassed to speak up - I began to feel more and more down, thinking of home, of the soft cool breezes of the Irish summer, thinking of Benny and Maisy and Felix, and just yearning to be back at home with them. I have enjoyed my time here, but it has been too long, for me.
And the day just got worse and worse from that point onwards: a number of things happened then, which further augmented the building sense of depression welling up inside me, threatening to overwhelm and submerge every other feeling in suffocating, engulfing waves. It was a scorching day, and I felt sick and wishy-washy and had to sit inside after lunch with the AC on. At snack time noone offered to support me again:it was as if they had completely forgotten about me and what I should be having. We had had a somewhat tense discussion the other night about my future and treatment once we return home, and the conversation had sat heavily on my mind all day, filling me with doubt, melancholy, and immense apprehension. And then, to top it all off, we were eating out that evening. I did not want to go, but I wanted to put on a brave face. However when it came to washing and brushing my hair, I discovered that it had become very matted and tangled during the course of the day, and now ressembled a blonde streaked brown bush of sorts when I went to go and brush it out. After about 40 minutes - no word of a lie, for that is exactly how long it took - of brushing and futile detangling, I was hot with frustration and angry tears burned my eyes, threatening to fall. You are such a BABY!! a voice screamed at the back of my head. Crying about knotted hair!!
The evening was ruined for me, basically: I sat in the restaurant that night and said not a word, having come under hevy critcism from Mam for looking and acting so miserable. I think she mistakedly assumes that the main cause of my distress was having to eat out, but there, this time, she was wrong. That was only just one of the coals tossed into the fire, a fire which simmers and burns with sickly, heavy, oppressing heat.
Now it is morning and I am wide awake, despite the fact I slept for about 5 hours last night, despairing and miserable about the one day that destroyed everything: my positive approach to the holiday, the peace and tranquillity I had managed to uphold so far, and, of course, the possibility that this holiday could almost have been a really, really lovely one. One free of any discord, rows, fights or heated arguments. But the words exchanged last night testify to me that this is not the case. My little bubble of positivity has been ruthlessly burst: my happiness, once again, broken and shattered into fragments before my very eyes. And now I am left to pick up the pieces and try to move forward. The thing is, I don't know what moving forward actually is.
To get a job? To try and go back to college, with the little money or funding that I have? To keep on going to the hospital in the knowledge that they have done all that they can possibly do for me, in terms of my recovery? I thought initially before writing this post today, that I had only one demon: one terrible, hideous, crippling demon. But it turns out I have three: I know I do, and they are ruining me. Yesterday was merely a snapshot of just how much control and influence they have over my life. Just how exactly do I move forward and pick up the pieces, and patch together my torn, broken heart?