The one, and only one, that I will ever, ever have...

This morning after breakfast saw me sitting at the table in front of my laptop screen once again, gloomily pushing my memory stick into the side of the computer with not the slightest degree of enthusiasm. The reason for that being, this particular memory stick was the one upon which I have saved my two 1500-2000 word essays due in roughly a week's time. Writing essays like this, or anything really to do with my college course, is something which, for me, more likeable to being tortured with hot pincers than having to compile a supposedly engaging and stimulating piece of writing; something which my fellow students in English would probably have no major difficulty in producing, at all. But that's not the case for me, of course. Because I am the girl who is different. I am the girl who is different from everybody else.

I scanned the various sentences and paragraphs upon the pages before me, and felt tears of frustration prickle my eyes. It's...crap...it doesn't make any sense. There is absolutely no chance that it is ever going to get past the pass mark. 

I had been sitting there for almost fifteen minutes now, and I had not written a single thing. My hands slowly began to tighten into fists; and a steady bludgeoning began to reverberate through my skull, resonating along every artery and every vein. My whole body became taut with tension, a tightly wrapped coil which has been stretched to its absolute limit. And then...then, there was the Voice.

I desperately tried to calm myself, forcing myself to breathe deeply and slowly through my nose, straightening my spine in my chair; pushing back my hair from my face in an attempt to cool down my flushed, hot cheeks. It was a mammoth effort. Like trying to push an elephant up a mountain; like scrabbling, in futile desperation, for the coin that has slipped from your fingers to tinkle away down the dark, greasy plughole. That's how it feels like for me, sitting there, trying to write my third year English essays. The words, the sentences, the arguments that I want to make, come floating towards me like wispy, paper-thin clouds, so close I could almost reach out and grasp them; but then, they always, always slip away. Leaving me fumbling around in the emptiness, groping desperately from the words that are there, so close to me, but always, always just out of my reach. 

And this is what I know is proving to be such a massive, enormous, soul-destroying struggle for me. Trying, struggling so desperately to get through my college degree, pushing and pushing relentlessly until my head feels like it is going to split open and my whole body cries out with the fatigue and the pain of knowing that it is not, and never will be, ever enough. This is my second attempt at third year English Studies at Trinity, and I know all too well, that this course was not and never will be made for me. And it is a struggle. Every single day. There is no escape from the shame, the razor-sharp pain of regret which cuts into you like a knife, embedding itself into your very soul, like a thorn which has wedged itself into your foot. knowing that I chose to take the wrong path, the wrong course. It presses down on me every day, making me feel stupid and useless and selfish, naive and pathetic and deplorable.  with the workload I receive every week, and never, ever get done. And then there are the essays...

Unfortunately for me, the return to college last September was one of the most significant factors in triggering my relapse. I have spoken before about how, in going back, it suddenly hit me hard just how far I really was from real recovery; and how deeply and hopelessly entrenched I still was, in my eating disorder. I had tried to kid myself into thinking that I was ready to go back to studying at a third level institution again; that things would be better, this time. And the fear of the hospitalisation would keep me safe from Ed. But I was wrong. so very, very wrong.

It wasn;t long before I found myself in an all too familiar situation. Crying my eyes over a blank laptop screen, as I fumbled desperately through the empty recesses of my brain; clawing for the right words, the right sentences, hating myself with all of my heart and soul, branding myself as useless, an ineptitude, the dumbest and most stupid person on earth, for not being able to compose what my fellow English students, no doubt, would have produced as effortlessly and as easily as water passes under a bridge. but I was wholly incapable of that. The Voice in my head seemed to have taken over me: it had became so loud, so persistent, so deafening. There was no escape from its cruel dictations; no hiding from the malignity of its penetrating gaze. It knew all my weak spots and vulnerabilities; and took great pleasure in exploiting them. And before I knew it, the restriction had began in earnest again. A skipped lunch or a conveniently forgotten breakfast; a polite shake of the head on being offered a free biscuit by my lecturer who always had them in her classroom. Ed, as it had once before, had become my coping mechanism.

What choice do I have? I would silently weep into my pillow at night when everyone else was asleep; when there was no chance that the stifled sounds of my sobbing could be heard by any living soul. I clutched the lifeless forms of Ducky and Peter Penguin to my shuddering body, sprinkling their soft fur with the moisture of my tears. There's...there's no way out of this. If I choose not to eat the Voice is satisfied; the storm in my head is silenced. But deep inside it's like my heart is breaking; the guilt is tearing me apart; and then, there is the hunger...just...so...empty. But then, if I choose to eat. My head...exploding. The storm raging...I can't focus, I can't do anything. There's no way on this earth I could write a 5000 word essay, like this...can't...escape...the storm in my head...

But that all changed that day two weeks ago now, when I promised Mam that I would never let her down again; that, from that day onwards, there would be no more lies, no more deceit, no more secrecy. That I would give everything to my recovery; and that, no matter how . But before I made that promise, I had grasped her strong brown hand and had whispered to her that I couldn't do it. Im going to fail college, Mam. I cant recover and study at the same time. I cant let you down mam..But I cant waste anymore of your money.

I felt so torn then, at that moment. so lost, so broken, so afraid.

but, like she had done so many, many times before, ever since I was a little girl, Mam was there for me to hold my hand in her strong, warm one. And to gently and firmly turn me onto the right path. So I knew, exactly then, what it was I had to do, and where I had to go.

The road to recovery...

One day, we will make it there, together. <3 xxx

But I guess, since that day, I now realise what is truly important, in this life.
recovery should be, for each and every single one of us, something which should be made our top priority. For, think about it this way...

There will always be another chance in life, to go back to college or take up that degree.
There will always be another job. Another degree, another place at university.

But we only have one body.