Through the Rough Waters

I have to keep going, no matter what. Whether the waters be still or rough I know I cannot give up now.

I have all the reasons to in my head, crystal clear and sharply defined. The reasons to eat  and let my body be what it naturally needs to be. The reasons to recover. Te reasons to ignore the screaming demands of the voice and carve my own ilittle path.

I have all the reasons. I have all the infomation and knowledge. If there was one thing that Emmy can claim to be fairly savvy on, it's anorexia. I know all about the different ways in which it can affect the body as well as I do the shape of my own face in the mirror. I can recite the factors which can come into play in developing the disorder, and could easily give you a concise account of the signs and symptoms to look out for. I know it so well, after all. ed and I have been friends for a long, long time.

So now it's time to act and use that knowledge as power.

But with me there is always... a but after the if. If I choose to recover I will help to improve my osteoporosis. but then the sly voice breaks in.

But you've already caused enormous damage. Your bones are already ruined. Your short and titchy and have an abnormal frame. The damage has already been done, Em. It's too late to start making changes now.

And I always tend to listen to the last part more than the first, to fixate on what it's saying. You're already short and ugly. That's the one that repeats itself more recurrently these days.

I guess it's because I'm so constantly reminded of it. Being within a group of thirteen girls in my accomodation here, no prizes for guessing who is the shortest of all of us. I feel it whenever I am stnaidng beside someone else or when we take a picture out in the snow.

This morning downstairs in the little warm room where we dry our clothes, I stood and stared at the mirror for a very long time. My eyes travelled from the short legs to the small torso and then to the head. I particularly studied the roundness of the face. Another thing that I hate. Why do I have a face that is so fat and round? I thought to myself bitterly. Self-loathing swept over me in an icy wave, chilling me to the bone.

I do feel it here; the constant feeling of inferiority. It's not something anyone here has caused through actions or words. Rather, it's just me and my thoughts. The thoughts that have the potential to kill my happiness and rip it to bloody shreds. Im The shortest one, the ugliest one. I compare myself every day to everyone else and ruminate miserably on my own deficiencies. And what makes it worse is knowing that I could have changed this. Well, maybe not the face, but most certainly my height, and perhaps my frame. For to me it is all just so ugly. Repulsive and unattractive. I search and search but I cannot find a fragment of prettiness - let alone beauty- there.

Part of me wonders as to why I care so much. Why this, in the face of everything I've been through, is liable to make me so, so unhappy.
If I could escape these thoughts, I would do so in a heartbeat. But it's not so easy when they've been there for as long as I can remember.

I remember the last time I thought I looked "pretty". Standing in front of the silvery length of glass which we all know as a mirror, but to me, as much an instrument of torture as the hated scales are.

That was a moment in a past life, before the transition that changed everything. I was twelve years old and was performing in a school play. I had on a blue dress that twirled about when I spun and emphasised my then newly budding breasts.

That was the last time I felt pretty. Ever since that day, I slowly sank into self-hatred, a deep and murky sea out of which it is not so easy to pull oneself out of.

If only I could find the way, because I know that these feelings of inferiority are getting in the way of my recovery. All those ifs and buts. If I gain weight I will help myself but...I don't really see the point, because I am ugly, and putting on more will simply serve to augment the ugliness which is already there.

Why has my happiness always been so tied up in how the world sees me? I could so easily sink now but I know I will not let myself. I have to kick hard and fight to stay afloat, as I know that these waters which I have to swim through, are rough.

The Final Autumn.

How I have always loved this time of year.

Walking in the forest through carpets of leaves; carpets which are richer and more breathtakingly beautiful than anything ever devised by the human hand. A treasure trove of natural, unspoiled beauty; ripened and matured like a perfect mellow peach fruit in high summer.  Coppery leaves interspersed with gold. Blood red berries and primrose yellow needles upon every sprig of the larch tree. Autumn swirls around like a twirling dancer, bringing vibrance and colour to everywhere she touches.

But she's a different dancer to Spring. Spring lingers to gently nourish her craft, to tend the delicate buds and make them open, to caress the dew-soaked ground in order to make the sweet new flowers grow. Autumn, though, does not pause for a breath. She breezes through those woods to the tune of the winds that she makes blow, winds which are no longer warm and raise a goosebump upon unprotected skin, or which make the scraggly flowers that remain upon the ground shiver and curl further in on themselves, as if striving to protect those petals that remain. Delicate. Oh so delicate, like me. Like the flowers I watch and wait for the inevitable. The transition which is long awaited and dreaded at the same time.

By and by the last leaf will drop; branches, once so bountifully adorned, will be bare and skeletal, clawing a clay-coloured sky with their bony, outstretched fingers. The rich copper carpet will become brown and dull, littered with tiny, broken flower petals and stems. The Change had to come. It was already here. And now Winter has solidified that change, meaning that what was once so beautiful and sweet, is now gone.

And now that is how I feel now as I prepare for the Inevitable Change.

For what was beautiful and sweet to me will now soon be gone. The life at home which I loved; the life at home, which I knew one day must end.

But maybe this is for the best.
I knew that, one day, I would have to leave my beautiful, sweet home.
The home where the conifers grow closely together, their branches forming a tunnel of jade-green branches.
The home where the ebony blackbirds call their sweet songs.
The home where the leaves of the maple tree fall and grow. Grow and fall, in an endless cycle of change.

And for so long, this was me.

I'd grow a little, but every time I'd always fall down.
Over and over and over again I'd repeat this endless cycle.


Home. The home that I loved. But it was here where I did something wrong.

For home is exactly where, for years,
Instead of noursihing my body and allowing myself to grow,

I nourished and sustained a monster.

I've made my decision, for now.

I'm going to go to Shropshire in February. I'm going to go there with an open heart and an open mind because I know - deep down- that there's a good chance that this is going to be a job I love. And if I get there and find I'm really struggling, then I can always come back home. At this point in my recovery, I know myself well enough by now to be able to tell when I'm relapsing.

I've also decided that I'm going to seek therapy once I've started earning. Last night I googled therapists in the nearest big town where I will be based (Shrewsbury). I was pleasantly surprised at the availability of counselors in the area there. And I felt an unfamiliar sense of power and control. To know that once I was there I would be taking steps to tackle ED right where he stands. To know that this time, I would not be alone, and would be given further tools to help me win this fight.

But, even until then, I know that it is imperative that I give this battle every single thing that I have.

I've got a few ideas about how I'm going to do this...

• Talk to Mam about how I'm trying to gain a bit more weight, because I know then she will help me and give me a boost of support when I need it.
• As of yesterday I started my beautiful new recovery journal, which I am going to set aside a designated time each day to write in. Opening up the brand new hardback yesterday to examine page upon page of unblemished, unmarked whiteness gave me a refreshing sense of renewal. It seemed to signal the beginning of something new; the rekindling of renewed motivation. With a few things. Motivation to gain weight and motivation to recover. To get myself fully and completely back on track. And to have courage and be more positive, and fight the depression as hard as I am going to tackle ED.
• And of course..I am going to blog a bit more regularly and write out all my thoughts, goals and endeavours on here (regardless of whether they're successful or not.) Hearing from my readers has always been a source of enormous help and comfort to me. I can't even begin to thank you enough for all the comments over the past few weeks. You might not think that they were of any great significance, but I can honestly say that your comments and support mean the whole world and have got me where Im standing today. <3 
• I also am going to try out some other forms of self-help, namely meditation, which I have never properly done before and really want to try out for myself, and also reading recovery-focused self-help books. I've a list of a few which I really want to try out. I'll make sure to post my thoughts about them on here about each one.

So now I have to look forwards, beyond the winter, beyond the cold and icy pain.

Because beyond the pain and sorrow at having to leave my home behind, I know that there is a new chance, of a new and beautiful beginning. A chance to find myself in a new place. A chance to grow. Like the tiny flowers laid down by the winter's cold, I know that I can grow upwards. I just need to seek out the sunlight, let it pour over me, allow myself to be strong and whole.

And like the darting swallows that return every Spring, I know that I will come back here. The good bye need not be forever.

But I have to give this new seed a chance. A chance to grow, and blossom.

Soul Searching

So I looked at the numbers. And yes. I am, strictly speaking, underweight by a couple of kilo, going by the whole science of bmis, if you can call it that. And when I stepped upon those scales and saw what it was I experienced a range of different emotions. Surprise at first because ED had built it up so much in my mind that I had definitely gained alot since I last checked it. And then - no point in trying to deny it - relief. Relief that I hadn't gained, because since going to Spain and coming back, there has been no further progress in that regard, really - in fact in Spain I was eating less than I do when I am here at home - and the thought of having put on weight while actually eating to gain was enough to freeze my very heart with fear.

So, there was that. And I thought - stupidly thought - that seeing those numbers which I both longed to see and yet dreaded, would be enough to set myself straight with my recovery path again. Or rather, in keeping with my previous post, not set me straight but set me climbing upwards, with a fresh sense of purpose blossoming in my mind. But at the moment I feel as if I am stuck fast in the mud, as opposed to wading resolutely through it. So many different thoughts crowd thick in my head, suffocating and stifling, clogging up my brain like sludge caught in a pipe. What are you doing? Why don't you gain weight? Why are you still eating? What the f*** are you going to do next, you useless, hopeless girl..

The only thing that I can say for myself is that I am still eating. The same amount, day in day out, sometimes that tiny bit less when my resolve weakens and I want to throw in the towel. But every day I feel like falling backwards and giving up, I remind myself of what's at stake here. My bones and my body. My fertility and future life.

At least it seems I have conquered just one of my old demons. That being my former turning to restriction on the days when I feel depressed or upset, or that everything is pointless. The past few weeks, I have had a few of those. Arguments over ED with mam and dad, or over my lack of enthusiasm, so it appears, about what I want to do with my life, with my future. And then I experienced something which I can only describe as the tearing of what was, for me, a slender, beautiful hope. It was needle-thin all along, anyway - as fragile and as delicate as a paper-thin sliver of the finest crystal - but to experience it, to catch that tiniest glint of something so exquisitely, indescribably beautiful, only then to have it ruthlessly torn away from me as the sea rips away the tiny shells from the rocks, was enough to tear my own heart, right in two. That beautiful hope now lies broken upon the floor, shattered spectacularly into a million tiny shards, shards which cut me and make me bleed even as I try desperately to pick them up.

Why are they so..so cruel? I wanted to weep in anguish. Why did X say that stuff if he didn't really mean it? Why can't Dad understand why I am like this, having lived with my habits and compulsions for over eleven years?

All I want to do right now is curl up in my little bed and sleep. Go to sleep singing that Avicci song that I love, of which a certain line of lyrics hold so much meaning for me. Wake me up when it's all over. Because right now I don't want to be awake in this fear-filled, never-ending mess.

But despite these crippling feelings I know I will go on. I will. When mam and dad had gone to sleep last night I went into the shower and turned on the water full blast. Stepped in and let the damp warmth seep all over me. Stepped in and felt the tears trickle down, as steady and as sure as the water dripping down.

And then I sang another song to myself, and by the time I step out of the bathroom and slip towards the stairs leading to sleep and oblivion, my body and my eyes are dry.

I'm all alone,
But finally,
I'm getting stronger...
I didn't know what I had to do,
I just knew I was alone.
People around me, they didn't care.
So I searched into my soul.

It might take me some soul searching before I figure out what to do and where to go from here. But I know I will. I will fight this thing or die trying. A life spent fighting for my recovery is surely better than laying down my arms now and surrendering to the demon's crushing jaws.

We are not alone. xxx

God grant me the strength to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change what I can and the wisdom to know the difference.

This is the quote that a dear friend sent me in the past, upon one of the many days upon which I was struggling, and felt like I couldn't go on.

And last Wednesday was a day which felt vaguely reminiscent of those days. A day upon which the depression came back in force, creeping into my heart and extinguishing the candles of hope which had once burned there.

What I had hoped was an eternal sunrise, was in fact another sunset..

Not because of food, or anorexia in itself. Rather, I suppose, one of the major aftereffects which has been brought about through my illness. That being the loneliness, the constant feeling of isolation. I guess it was naive of me to assume that, once college was over, life would suddenly be as bright and as beautiful as a summer garden alive with roses.The reality, of course, was very, very different. On returning from my Gran's, the loneliness hit me again like a cold, strong wave smashing against the delicate sands of the shore.

It all felt very familiar, that Wednesday. I guess that's because I know that I've been to this place before. I've followed the exact same pattern as I did last year, in more ways than one. Gone from underweight to weight restored again; gone from being vaguely aware of just how lonely I feel, to an intense, razor-sharp consciousness of my solitude, my isolation, and the desolation that comes along with it.

While I was gaining weight, that sense of purpose in my mind seemed to take the edges off the pain of being alone. Once again I was lured into the trap of making naive assumptions about how ideal my new life would be like. I would have tonnes of friends again, somehow. I would be confident. I would appreciate every single moment of every single day, and embrace life with all my heart, as I never have managed to before.

But now once again I feel like the girl who got left behind. The outsider. The one destined to tread her own lonely little path. Do people think that I am happy like this? My heart beats its own desolate little rhythm. 

Please, no, don't leave me. I no longer want to be alone.

Every year of my illness was a lonely one, marked by tears of isolation. But it mattered less to me then than it does now. Because back then I had ED as my...soulmate. There's no denying the fact that I derived a sort of comfort from him. We danced together in what constituted a warped, twisted courtship; a relationship founded on abuse and subordination of the weaker other.

We knew each other so, so well. He knew all my strengths, all my weaknesses. In time, I learned to know his.

And it was then I began to fight back, to struggle to break free. My eyes had been opened. For the first time since the commencement of our relationship, I recognized him for what he really was. An abusive, sick partner who had broken my heart and very nearly broke my soul.

But all those years; all those years, of being alone, of declining invitations to social events, to turning down the friendly offers of former classmates to join in on nights out, to come along to the party, to pop over for pre drinks and nibbles.

Did I fear the thought of being the one left out; did I weep at the thought of being isolated? Yes, I did. But sadly, I feared the thoughts of eating, of anyone finding out my secret, even more. ED convinced me every time not to go, and that's what I always did. I would cry every time, wanting to go, but knowing I would not. And he would comfort me, telling me that whatever happened, I will still be here.

All those years sit heavily upon my shoulders now, as heavy and as crippling as shackles.

Because now I am no longer the girl who wants to be with ED. Now I want to dance upon dance floors, wear pretty dresses and eye-catching makeup, to flutter my eyelashes at boys. Now I want to love, and be loved. Now, I want to live, to grasp the quivering heartstrings of life with my bare, outstretched hands.

But now it seems to be all to late.

My college days are over and gone. I can't go back in time and relive them again; can't grab hold of those opportunities which I, back then, allowed to pass me by.

If only life could be like a dancer progressing from move to move, each one standing as a marker on her journey to success.
If you mess one particular move up, it's ok, you can go back to it. You can go back to it and do it all again. Then, when you have done it the way you really, really want, you can move on to what lies ahead. Learning, and getting better, and stronger. Working at each one until you get it just right.

But life isn't really like that, I know. I can't go back and redo it all again. I can only work with what I have.

But I have learnt. I have got stronger. And, I know, if I try really hard, I don't have to limp my way through the next few stages of my life journey. I hope that I can learn to dance. 💙

If we would only let it,
hope can spring forth, like a beautiful summer flower.💕



In my next post I will talk a little more about what I intend to do to combat this loneliness, and to further weaken the remaining bonds of ED. I hope that this will help all those who feel alone in this battle💙xxx

If Only...

If only things had been different.

If only things had not had to change.

If only childhood would stretch out forever,

extending out towards the horizon

like a desert's endless, sweeping sands.



But things had to change and I was powerless to stop them. Childhood ended; was torn away from me, snatched away from my flailing hands, a delicate leaf borne away by a callous winter's storm.

Ahead of me loomed the darkness of adolescence.

A darkness in which a black-cloaked demon waited, cloaked in its own shadow.

If only I hadn't been so stupid, so stubborn.

If only I had chosen to listen to my loved ones, rather than that monster in my head
which was dragging me down into its embrace, consuming both my body and mind.

Crushing me to pieces, spitting out only the bits which weren't even really me at all -

A hurting, angry, bitter girl, who snapped at everyone and refused to let anyone in.

If only I had listened.

If only I had been stronger.

If only I had chosen to fight back, before it was too late.

But the days turned to months; the months, to years.

My bones became weak and brittle,
crumbling like flaking winter leaves.
My body became weaker. Friends stopped caring, began to slip quietly away.

I was alone. Alone, with nothing, but a broken body and a broken heart.

I forgot how to really laugh, how to really smile.

I forgot how it felt to feel alive.

My happiness, shrivelled up,

like a tender flowerbud exposed to a harsh, cruel sun.





And I look back now and see a countless number of if onlys.

At times like this, it's hard to want to keep on going forwards, searching for that longed for light.

Not knowing whether there is a light, or if there is any point in searching for it.

But try I must and keep trying, we will.

I don't want there to be any more if onlys.

I can only hold on to what is left to me, now. Hold what I love close to my breast, and take those tentative steps forward.💙

The Flames...

Wipe away those tears, Em. They aren't going to change anything.
They're not going to write this essay for you. They're not going to change the fact that you seem to have become a complete and utter imbecile...

A typical day in the life of Emmy, Trying to write her English essays.

So I stood up then and rubbed furiously at my cheeks, angrily chastising myself for letting those tears fall from my eyes. Then, I reread the sentence again, pulling my jumper tightly around me, gripping the soft material with my fingers. The words float around in my head, echoing mockingly; grating together like knives being scratched across a steel plate.

there's that queasy, all to familiar sensation bludgeoning in my head; the subtle reminder that yes, I have been here before. The past few years have been all but the same.

What is wrong with me?

Have I become completely...stupid? Inept?

 I almost feel like reaching out with trembling fingers to scratch those hateful words upon the screen with my very fingernails. Fingernails which are short and worn, on fingers with skin the texture of sandpaper. How I am ashamed of them. Just like I am of everything about my own body.

It seems like forever since I wrote in my beloved blog; though college, of course, did not permit me to do so for the past few weeks, months, of the latter part of 2016. After such a beautiful summer, autumn took on a more darker shade for me. I became weaker and started to restrict again, reestablishing a familiar pattern which seems to be set in motion every fall of every year.

But then, at long last, came the crucial moment of realisation.

Not sure exactly when and where this little moment actually happened. Perhaps it was when I was walking with mam and she said to me, very tenderly, that I was looking just "a bit too thin" again, and I saw the pain in her dark green eyes. Perhaps it was when we picked up our new rescue dog Daisy, four weeks ago, and I took her out on the bog with Benny for her very first walk. I called her by name and she ran to me, placing her head in my lap as I crouched down to enclose her in my arms; wanting her to know that she was now safe, and loved. Noone will harm you here, I whispered. But her big brown eyes were penetrating into my own, as if she, too, was trying to convey to me an unspoken message.

I know that, Emmy. But you have to be well enough to look after me.

Daisy

Daisy is right. I have to keep myself well, to look after her. She is a two year old, jet black collie cross; and is, as the saying goes, as mad as a hatter. Daisy will need lots of long walks. She loves having someone to run and play with, to throw her sticks and then chase after them with her. All things that I want more than anything else to do with her. And which I have been, over the past few weeks. She has already stolen my heart.

But if I were to choose to give up now - to relapse, wholly and completely - than I know all too well that my health and energy will fall, and shrivel, like the fallen winter leaves lying dead upon the cold, hard earth.

My osteoporosis will worsen. the slightest fall or trip might well break an arm, a wrist, a leg.

And this second - or maybe not second; my weight has gone up and down on the scales now for as long as I can remember - has taught me a vital lesson about a fear which Ed had for me established as an undeniable reality.

I realise now that my fears about my "damaged metabolism" were, after all, just that. Fears. All these convictions that I would not stop gaining and that once I was weight restored I would have to revert to restrictive amounts in order to maintain and stabilise my weight. They were lies. Nothing more. From this weight loss I have been able to establish a fact.

Fact:

I can eat what I want.



Yesterday evening I sat by the open fire in the sitting room, watching the golden orange flames leap and dance in the hearth. Transfixed by their beauty, I pushed myself slightly forwards. The delicious heat of those flames drew me ever nearer  I stretched out my legs and wriggled my ice-cold toes. As I gently eased off my socks, though, intent upon feeling that warmth upon the bare skin of my feet, an icy shudder passed involuntarily through my body, brought on by what lay beneath the soft wool. Dry, cracked, broken skin; flaky to the touch, rubbed red raw on the edges of some of the toes.  I hate my feet, I had whispered to myself despondently, and had swiftly pulled back on the socks, so my eyes could no longer look. They are ugly, so ugly. Just like the rest of my body...

But this is Ed. This is Ed and what he has done to me. One thing he cannot touch is my strength and power of resistance. One thing he cannot take away is my resolve to carry on, no matter how many times I may fall.

Though on the outside, in the eyes of the world I was a "healthy", normal girl...

They could not see what I hid behind my smile, behind my healthy, weight restored body.

And that thing which was inside me made me despise what I saw in the mirror.

The storm continues to build. The thunder roils, the clouds bunching together into one thick, inter-penetrable mass. The noise drowns out everything. I cannot think. I sit in class and I cannot hear what the lecturer is saying. I drift in and out of the conversation, a tiny bloodless smile fixed rigidly upon my lips. I don't really understand what is being said. Psychoanalysis. Koros. Something about linear and cyclical time in children's literature. The words float above my head like pollen grains suspended in a summer wind.

There is just so much... noise, in my head. A crashing cymbal and a raging thundercloud. A tornado which keeps on revolving and revolving, threatening to destroy everything in its path.

But though the storm may continue to rage, I know I have to continue to fight on, Despite that bitterly cold wind which cuts into me like a blade; despite that icy rain running in rivulets down my face.

I said I'd do it in 2016. I will make a full recovery. I'll find the real Emmy. Not some twisted, skeletal version of myself. Not a girl who feels like she is dying inside. I'll make it there in 2016. That;s what I said, this time last year, as I desperately fought to pull myself from the wreck of my first major relapse.

But those sentences by this time sound so familiar; because I know I have said them to myself several times before.
In 2014.
And 2015. And now it's the end of yet another year.

I know alot has changed, since this time last year...

But yet, at the same time, one crucial fact remains unaltered.

I am no freer than before..
 This will be my twelfth year, with Ed.

You might as well give up, Emmy, that voice whispers to me. Give up. So much easier. So much more simple. You know you'll never get there...

In a way I suppose, succumbing to that voice will be like drawing so close to those flames in the blazing fireplace, so close that my skin is set alight and I am consumed and completely destroyed by the flames...

As that is what Ed has the power to do, ultimately. Unless I consume the food that my body needs...it will, quite remorselessly, consume me.

Unless I break free. But yet this is the thing that I yearn for so desperately, at the same time..there is that part of me which remains terrified, which wants to remain subordinate to this malignant thing which resides inside my head. And so. Breaking free. It will be no less as painful as reaching out and closing my open hand around one of the bright and beautiful flames in the roaring fireplace; before then proceeding to crush it, crush the hot flame within my clenched fingers. It will burn. It will singe the skin to the very bone.The pain, the sheer terror, will be unlike anything that I have ever before known.But I know here lies the ultimate, defining decision. I can choose to let it win; or I can choose to extinguish it. To destroy that thing which will destroy me if I do not take action first.

Every day...

just need to remind myself...

that recovery, not college, is my new priority now.

I must feed myself and destroy this illness...

Not feed this illness and destroy myself. 

Back to Basics...

The swallows flit across an lilac-peach sky.

The sunlight slants through a canopy of leaves the colour of candlelight.

Flowers fall and blossoms wilt. The branches of the slender-limbed hazel shudder gently in a chill breeze which cuts into the flesh like a knife.

The rowan and the hawthorn hold aloft their garlands of deep scarlet berries. Some of the berries lie crushed upon the face of the earth, shining wetly like droplets of fresh blood.

And though the whole world changed around me,
I still...
remained ...
the same.

It's been a while since I last wrote. Not out of choice, of course; I would never willingly just abandon my blog and cease my weekly writings. But that week two months ago, there was a sense of change in the air; hanging heavy like winter fog in front of my eyes.

And ahead of me, the new college term loomed ominously over my head like a threatening storm cloud upon a grey winter's day.

And so my Morokia notes were tenderly gathered up and put away in the depths of my wardrobe; whereas my various favourite "reading spots" - which ranged in location from the front seat of Mam's Nissan to the petal-strewn table at the rear end of the conservatory - became frequented, not with my dog-eared copies of the Wheel of Time, but with college books and endless piles of refill pad paper covered front to back in my messy, spidery handwriting. The beautiful, golden summer finally had come to an end.

And on a breezy morning in late September, I found myself standing before that familiar arch in Dublin City Centre, the wind tugging sharply at my long unadorned hair as I gazed upon the structure's stony regalness.

Back again. But I don't feel any different.

I'm still that little lost girl at the gates of Brigidine, watching all the people hurry past me, feeling; so hopelessly inadequate, stupid, inferior.

And as I walk these bustling halls and corridors, I have never felt quite so alone.

I sit in the classroom and listen to the chatter of the other students around me. But it feels to me as if I am perched upon the pinnacle of the most desolate, lonely mountain. A mountain from which I can clearly see the signs of human life below me. So close, but yet; so far.

The one companion that I know is here with me - who is waiting for me, at every corner which I turn - is Ed.

Ed was here the first day that I stepped through the Front Arch of Trinity. Ed's been here with me ever since. Sitting in a lecture hall, trying to study in the library; walking through the bustling arts block and trying to avoid every stranger's eyes. Ed is there with me, breathing down my neck. I can feel its hand upon my shoulder, turning me to where it wants me to go.

And this year, I know, is no different.



There are times when I want to be like those falling leaves...

To be blown away with the chill autumn wind, to float gently across windswept moor, to be swept into the surging river, to be carried away, forever...

But no. I know that that is my depression talking; that somewhere deep inside there is a little seed waiting for the light to shine upon it so it can grow. I need to realise that I am not a helpless case. I need to realise that I can nourish that seed, let it push itself upwards, and let it...blossom...

But how?
How do I do it??

Well. I guess it's back to basics...

To nourish myself. And to hell with getting upset about college work I cannot do. Normal reaction: I cry, I weep, I berate myself and label myself as an imbecile. And then? I don't eat properly. My head becomes clogged up with thoughts like I cannot eat that because I know I will just think and think about it excessively afterward and well you will be sitting in that lecture room for a good two hours..you must eat less to provide for that, Emmy. Cymbals, crashing in my head. What I would not give, for them to be silenced.

Ed. Yes. It's time I talked to you. I starved myself for the whole duration of my teenage years and beyond. Because of you, Ed. And now what do you do? You tell me that I need to keep on eating less. That your body no longer needs this food, because you reached a healthy weight, and -

I know it's me and only me who can fight this fight; who can defy and resist these endless, endless lies.

I know that I have to keep on fighting.

Stumbling blindly along this long and lonely road.

So I know that now I need to be open and honest and reach out for support to my loved ones and my readers. To stop avoiding the scales and face up to reality.

And to remind myself, once again...

of why I chose recovery; and why, I chose to fight.

And so this is exactly what I am going to do...

• Get back onto my meal plan, properly, with no little missed bits or exceptions.
• Check my weight once a week, no more, no less.
• Make goals and weekly challenges in my notebook as I know I still have many fears to conquer and disordered behaviours to overcome.
• Get involved with something not to do with college which I think I might enjoy..and which will enable me to meet and interact with other people..hard and scary but I know I need to get out of my comfort zone and I think too that it will help distract me from the anorexic thoughts.
• Be open and honest and seek help and support. 
• Help myself by weekly journalling and self-checks, and try to use some of the tools which I learnt in hospital, but since then have long since completely forgotten about. But it's past time to dig out those tattered sheets and put them to good use.

I know I have said this so many, many times, but...it is the ultimate truth.

Each one of us will only be given one body.

This is the one and only body we will ever ever have.

It's not like an object which you use once and then dispose of. It's not an item of clothing which can be crudely fixed if it has been broken or badly damaged. The body is resilient and will do all it can to keep you alive. But there's only so much that it can take. There's only so much restriction and deprivement of vital energy and nutrition. There's only so much overexercise and starvation and lack of essential vitamins and nutrients. Sostop putting off what you need to start doing today. Today we choose recovery. Because there might well be no tomorrow for us. Tomorrow might just be that bit too late. <3 xxx

Searching for that safe harbour...

Up and down, up and down I go; like a bobbing little sailing boat in the middle of a cold, raging sea. One minute, it feels as if I have crested a wave: next minute, i come crashing down again.

Stormy is a perfect way to describe how I feel right now. My emotions roar through me with enough strength and power, it seems, to knock me clean off my feet into the raging waters which course to either side of me.

When I feel joy, it feels so palpable  that I could almost reach the stars with my outstretched fingers if I wanted to. But when...when I feel pain...I feel as if I am being ripped apart like a piece of delicate paper. But this, I suppose, is what you call recovery. I reach a little high point; then, suddenly and horribly, am flung right back down to the earth again, landing hard upon the cold, unyielding ground. I know the drill. I have to get right back up again; wipe away the tears, dust myself off. And carry on.

I must not...
I must not lose sight...of that beautiful little light...

Yesterday, when I felt the depression-type thoughts begin to kick in - it was late at night; I had had no contact from anyone I knew; the perfect combination, in my case, for the feelings of bleakness and despair which are more or less familiar to me now - I picked up my polka dot notebook, sat down uin my little chair and had a good, long think. About...about numerous things. About the shape my recovery has taken the past few months; and what, essentially, I have to do to brighten that beautiful little light.

Many weeks have passed now, since the day when I weighed myself and realized that I was "weight restored". Nearly two months, roughly; or maybe just one and a half. How long it has been is really of little consequence. That is not going to be the subject of this blog post; but rather, what has happened, since that day.

And also before we proceed any further, just to say that it is fully intentional that I inserted the quotation marks on the final two words of my first sentence. The reason being that I felt that I needed to remind myself - andj, of course, my readers too - of the actual importance of understanding what that word means. Weight restored. Taken to refer to that state of when an individual has reached an apparently acceptable healthy body weight. But does it indicate actual healthiness? Should it be regarded as the ultimate goal of the recovering anorexic; the final milestone upon the road, upon which having arrived at they would be ale to call themselves healthy?

I answer my own question with conviction, as I am all too aware of what the truth of this subject really is. The answer uis No, it does not. Weight restored does not at all necessarily mean that youi are healthy, in either body OR mind. And I - as well as so many others, I am sure - have allowed themselves to be lured into a false sense of security, that the minimum healthy bmi range is what we should FORCE ourselves to stay at.

So yes, I know it is true that there are some individuals who do have naturally low bmis. Buit it's a rare thing, so I have read. For the vast majority of people, the low bmi range is still much too low.

Do not make the mistake and think that I, in writing this post, have successfully managed to take on this scientifically proven theory in relation to my own weight and bmi. Truth is, I have not. Rather, I know it is true - as I do many things in regard to anorexia - but one thing that my Voice most certainly excels in is convincing me that what is right and true for "most" people uis by no means applicable to me. A size 10 looks nice on any other woman, Emmy, but most certainly not on you. Its ok for everyone else to eat like that, Em, but if you do you will most certainly get fat. Most people have a healthy weight range higher than bmi of 19, Emmy, but you are an exception to that. 19 is just that bit too high for you, I think.

And so the lies go on and on. Problem is, of course, that I allow myself to believe them. And today I thought that it was about time that I sat and reflected about the extent to which my progress since reaching weight restoration stage has been controlled and affected by these lies.

Meal Plan

When I reached the target weight mam had set for me, I immediately expressed to her how worried I was about "How I should eat now." Having dedicatedly followed my meal plan for the past five months and not having ever had to worry abouit what and how to eat - all I had to do was stick to the plan; after all; there was no uncertainty; no indecision - this sudden actuality of NOT having to follow a plan anymore was, to me, more than just a little frightening. My mam calmed me down and advised me to keep on eating as I had been. "We need to make sure you maintain first," she had said. "And anyway, it is not going to do you any harm at all to gain just a bit more, Em. Your body might not have reached it's healthy set point yet." Initially, I had felt soothed by her words. Determined. Yes. Who could say, i had thought, that I was at a healthy weight yet? Whatever happened, I would not let mam down. I would continue to eat as I had been before, and we would thus see what happened.

The first two weeks afterward were easy enough. I felt motivated and my appetite was still as good as ever; I stuck to my plan just as I had bbeen since than day in February. But then, slowly but surely, my motivation began to creep away from me. Niggling doubts began to creep into my brain; doubts which were really, of course, the Voices of ED in disguise. I began to question my diet and my food intake again. Was it really right that I ate so much bread? Toast at breakfast; half a bagel with my nuts and mid morning hot chocolate; a roll at lunchtime followed by a toasted crumpet inthe afternoon. Wait, Em, the sly voice whispered. There must be a reason why the media are always slamming bread? Why do you think your mum does not eat bread anymore? I think it best that you cut down, just in case.

That was the fuirst thing that I really changed, that week. A few other little alterations happily established themselves; changes so tiny and minute that I and only I could have noticed them. The contented dipping into the peanut butter jar became more controlled and more regimented; the amount of cereal I ate uin the morning; my servings of carbs at dinner. Tiny, minute changes. But my question - to all of you now - is that should I be concerned about them? Or are these dietary changes all good and acceptable;completely normal for a weight-restored twenty two year old girl?

Weight

Me and mam both agreed that we we were going to try and move away from the scales and the weekly weigh ins on reaching my target; so the Sunday checkups were accordingly dispensed with. A massive part of me was delighted, of course. I hated those weigh ins and the feelings of anxiety and self-disgust that always accompanied them, whether I had maintained or gained that particular week. But to my surprise, when I heard mam say the long -awaited words - no more Sunday weigh ins, Em! - the sense of relief I felt was small, barely noticeable. It was mainly overruled by the strong feeling of fear that coursed through me, right then. If there are to be no more weigh ins..then how will you know if you gain more weight? What if you go over the target??

But..the thing is... I told myself that I would allow myself to get to my healthy set point, and if this meant gaining more weight, I would do it. But of course, as with so many parts of recovery, this is easier said then done. And I am afraid, so so afraid, to let go of this rigid self-control which my eating disorder imposed on me so long ago, and which, of course, still lingers with me now.

At present I am still unaware of what my weight is, still. There is one voice which is screaming at me that I must go and check it - I bet you have gained more weight!! I bet you have gone over your target, you..!  - whereas another part of me is too afraid to go and look. But I will need to know, eventually. Truth is I don't know what to expect when I step on the hated thing again.

Feelings and emotions

I would love to say that I have felt better in myself since reaching the target weight, but the reality is of course that things were never going to be that simple. And, unfortunately, having worked so hard to get to this place, my Voice is now as loud as ever before, hurling insults at me every day about how "awful" I look now that I am weight restored. And worse.

I suppose it is a measure of my own strength that I have managed, so far anyway, to not let the Voice effect me drastically and induce me to turn back to anorexic behaviors. 

But I feel...trapped, and, at times, completely devoid of hope. I want to go on, but I do not know how to. I sat and thought, and I did cry, a little, too, because I just want this to be over. I want there to be a magic button there beside me which I an reach out and press, and then I would fall asleep and wake up...and I would be...I would be recovered...

But is this an impossible dream..?

All I can do is..try to keep going..and use all that I have to try and get through the next few days, weeks, months. Years. How long am I going to feel like this? Is there no end to this pain?

How do I reach the safe harbour?

Everything that it did not take, it left broken.

There was a time when I did not think about how easily things can be broken. The happy, carefree, innocent little girl that I was.

Around the landscape of my childhood I would run and jump and play, my big blue eyes taking in every detail of a world that shone around me in such vibrant, dazzling, enchanting colours. Colours which thrilled me and excited me; which served to irresistibly arouse my curiosity; prompting me to reach out with probing fingers to discover and feel and learn.

And then there came that day upon which I had to learn that vital lesson. The slender crystal glass upon the fireplace in the red-wallpapered sitting room; its brim overflowing with delicate, lush sweetpeas which filled the very air with their fragrance. I was lured to the glass like a bee drawn to nectar: a thing of such delicate, simple beauty that I felt compelled to reach out and touch it. I wanted to brush the tender petals of those dainty little flowers against the bare skin of my cheek; to inhale their perfume into my nostrils; to lose myself in the feelings and fantasies that that scent spontaneously evoked. Suddenly I could be a princess in a story, gazing out of the window with a handful of fragrant blooms clutched to her breast. In that childhood world, I could be anyone that I wanted. It was a world alot less crueler than the one which I was really born into.

But then the glass slipped from my fingers, those beautiful petals fluttering like moth wings as they fell away from me towards the hard ground. My hands moved to somehow save those delicate flowers: at the expense, of course, of the glass in which they had been contained. It hit the wooden floor with an ear-splitting crash; sending shards of glittering crystal skittering to all four corners of the room. Realisation of what I had done hit me like a fist between the eyes. Sitting down amongst those pieces, my fingers still clutching the few flowers which I had managed to save, I had cried bitterly, unable to fully comprehend the devastation I had wrecked upon the helplessly vulnerable object that I had barely seconds ago just held.

So that was the day when I finally realised that things could and would be broken. Broken, so, so easily: All it takesis that one fatal little slip.

And from that day on I was consistently vigilant and careful. My touch was gentle and my hands were meek. I knew that things could be broken. And I was prepared to take all measures to not let anything else in my life be damaged by my actions.

But little did I know that something would do the breaking for me.

It's ten years now roughly since that day. That day in September 2006, when I went into secondary school. Ten years since I became aware of that Voice which I now know as my little Ed.

It began to take things. It did not give them back. The more and more I would give in to him, allow him to take from me, the more greedy he would become. There was no such thing as enough, for him: he would always ask for more. And more did I give, desperate to please him, willing to hand over anything to make him cease his relentless onslaught.

And now so much of what is taken, is broken, seemingly beyond repair. My osteoporotic bones, weakened and brittle, never again to be strong. My confidence. My ability to concentrate and ability to remember things. All of those things, and more, have been taken. But there are other things which I valued yet more, which have been taken, too. Friendships and relationships; trust and love and joy. All gone, broken. Broken by ed. And yet why do i still give in to him? Why do I still let him control me; the thing that has destroyed so much of my life?

There are some days when I just feel so broken. Both my mind and my body feel as fragile as that delicate crystal glass that I destroyed all those years ago. But this, in a way, is worse; as it feels as if this time, it was not all because of me. I was not strong enough; I had allowed myself to slip up, to be broken and snapped like a brittle, thin twig. if only perhaps I had been stronger, then maybe my broken pieces would still be intact; maybe I would still be whole. But no, I was weak. Ed was stronger than I was. At times I want to weep out of bitterness, just like that little girl that I once was: to cry bitterly for the loss of the things that were so precious; those things that I know cannot be replaced.

This is not the life that I want to live; a broken, shattered way of existence. Because even though I am weight restored, I am not by any means recovered. Ed still controls me, Ed still wants to take from me until there is nothing left to take. It wants to break all that I have and that I love. It has already broken so much of what I had. Relationships and bonds that I thought could not be snapped apart; but Ed's touch is sharper than a knife's; just as deadly. I do not know how to fix what is broken. I can only try, and hope, and pray that I can mend them.

And I suppose the only way that I can hope to do this is choose with my heart to recover. To recover full circle; to climb the mountain to the very top. Otherwise I know that everything will be broken. Including, myself: in body, soul, and heart. 

Should I surrender myself to solitude...for at least then I would not get hurt? :'(

I check my phone this morning for the twentieth, thirtieth, fortieth time. The screen is blank; the little envelope sign which tells me I have a message is glaringly, cuttingly absent. So I sit down with my laptop instead, in the hope that I might have a few facebook messages to read. But there is nothing. Nothing, except the pain, and the emptiness. No one to see or meet up with, noone to talk to. I am lost and alone on my little lonely ship, lost and alone on this desolate grey ocean.

It hurts me. It hurts me as much as a knife would slicing across my heart. I scrutinize the messages and search for something in them which might have somehow offended or upset. There is nothing; nothing that I can see; but this does not by any means soothe the anxiety crashing through my head. Then I consider as to whether it is the frequency or persistence of my messages which have somehow annoyed or irritated. I am so angry with myself that I want to pound my head with my own hands. I am so, so distraught that I wish I could just throw away the laptop and the phone and disappear from the world that I know, forever. But where would I go? Would anyone actually notice if I just disappeared? Probably not; a cruel voice taunts at the back of my head. tears crack my eyes and spill in rivulets down my face.

The loneliness, I find, is as hard and as difficult as recovery. I am stronger now then I ever was, stronger than ever against ED. But I suppose I foolishly allowed myself to entertain the notion that, as I made progress with my recovery and the battle against the Voice, that my life would change, too, for the better; that things would be drastically and wonderfully different and changed. but this has not been the case. I am still as lonely and as isolated as I was before. I write countless of messages in the hope that today, tomorrow, the next day, I will get to see those who I love with every piece of my heart. But I guess people are busy and that they have their own friends. Their lives have moved on: but for me, everything remains the same.

I feel such an..an oddity. I often wonder, how many texts and messages an average twenty two year old girl receives in a day. dozens upon dozens? A constant deluge of texts and messages and snapchats? this is not the case for me: My phone usually sits, dejected and forgotten about, in my room every day. I check facebook all the time, hoping, praying, pleading that there will be something from someone I wrote to. there is rarely ever anything. The wound is deepening in my heart.

And so today I wondered...maybe I just need, to stop. To stop being the one trying to arrange things, to stop being the one who always texts first. Because no answers just means more pain and despair for me. And I do not want to infect others with my depression; I would rather die then hurt their feelings, or impinge negatively upon them in the slightest or most minor of ways.

Should I surrender myself to solitude....

Is this the only way I can keep myself, relatively safe? Safe from the pain and the loneliness and the knowing; the knowing that people's lives have moved on, without me?

So I bury my head in my Morokia notes, and walk out alone along the boglands with Benny. He stops to snuffle the ground and I pause to place a kiss upon his head. I take comfort in the softness of his fur. For animals, at least, are not like humans: they, unlike people, remain unchanged.

Finding my little lost gemstones...:) xxx

And so I sit and look out over my sunlit garden, letting the warmth of that evening sun dance upon the contours of my face. A light summer breeze gently tickles my hair, carrying the heady scents of the brightly coloured flowers and the onion-like fragrance of the chives growing on the patio beside me. It is an evening which is just, so perfect: and there is no place on earth now where I would rather be.

At my feet lay several dog-eared notebooks: each one with a cover strikingly different from the other. One is red with white polka dots; the front containing a small, mysterious picture of what appears to bbe a short little man stirring something in a big steaming cauldron. The mysteriousness of the picture is perfectly complemented by the words printed beneath it. The Magic starts here. A notebook which was just made to be one in which I make my scratchy, barely legible notes on Morokia.

Also amongst this unkempt pile of books and paperwork is a number of thick cookbooks; their pages and covers worn and splotched with constant usage and accidental spillages. And then there is the little notebook with the title Lovely Thoughts written on it: one which I designate my little to-do-lists for each day, as well as recovery thoughts and reflections, and also possible dates upon which I will see my friends.

All these things that I love to do: whether that be baking, or cycling, or writing fragments of Morokia. Walking the mountains, and going out for the day with a friend. All of these things, I very nearly lost: for they were buried , buried by the cruel spades and hands of Ed. But now I am beginning to find them again. Now I am able to catch that fleeting glimpse; a glimpse of what life without an eating disorder is really, really like.

Because this is what recovery should be partially about, for you, and for me. To find those little lost gemstones. To reclaim the things that we loved and held dear, but which, in relinquishing to Ed, we allowed to be simply carried away; or buried deep in the cold, unyielding ground. But nothing is ever truly lost without hope. You can, and will, reclaim what is rightfully yours. And if you refuse to give up and continue to fight on with your held high and your heart open and brave...then you will find that special littleplace, again. The peak of the mountain; the valley with the beautiful meadow. The beauty of true recovery is indescribable, valuable, precious. The fake, corrupted ideas of beauty implanted by your eating disorder are nothing in comparison: They, in their totality, must be completely and utterly destroyed.

The one gemstone that for me that still remains to be found is, I suppose, the social life which I once had. well no; if I was very honest, I dont know if I ever had a proper, true social life. Ed has been with me since the very first day I started at secondary school, meaning that when other girls my age would be going to parties and attending teenage discos, I would have been sitting alone at home, head buried in a textbook as I tried to memorise page upon page of senseless information. I had glimpses of what life could be like; especially, after my Leaving Cert. My two close friends and I went out that summer, and danced like there truly was no tomorrow. but then my illness worsened; my friends, began to move on; to different cities and different lives.

Will I ever find that gemstone again? I hope so. I hope so with all my heart. It will quite possibly be the hardest of my stones to find; as it requires bravery and maturity in me; as well as, I suppose, a willingness to put myself out there; to conquer the fear and the shyness and the self-hate.

But for now, I keep fighting, and searching. The sky is paling; the sun slips down below the dusky forms of the mountains. But I do not fear, because soon, the stars will come out. Twinkling and shining like pure, sparkling diamonds; just like the hope that now shines forth in my heart. <3 xxx

Different worlds..

Having written my previous post, I experienced some tiny sense of relief. Just to get those feelings out of my head, to not have to carry this secret around with me for any longer. because it's true to say that it is something which I have concealed from everyone; the extent to which the days I spent in mallorca were not at all as bright and as beautiful as that smiling girl in the pictures might convey them to be. Following our return to Ireland last year, the feelings that stirred themselves deep inside my breast, were not ones of happiness and joy: those ones which one can only ever really, truly experience in the aftermath of something so exquisite and so beautiful, that the mere fact that it is now over is enough to bring tears of gratitude to the eye. But no: these feelings were completely, drastically different.  These feelings were ones of intense and bitter sadness. Like a sharp little thorn prick, tearing deep into tender, vulnerable pale skin; embedding itself beneath; the freshly nicked wound which refuses to cease to bleed.

we had booked that holiday - a two week stay in the quaint Villa Selene; set in the spectacular surroundings of the Northern Mallorcan countryside - not long before my admission to hospital in January, one of the most difficult and challenging experiences in my life. My heart had soared at the thought of it, at the time. To a twenty year old girl facing her first ever hospital admission for treatment of anorexia, that single, beautiful shard of hope was like a sparkling, pure white diamond shining brightly in the pitch black darkness of the coldest and most harshest winter night.

I had believed, with all my heart and soul, that this was going to be my summer: my first summer, without ED. That I would emerge from the stuffy, uniformly white walls of my prison, as a changed girl. That this holiday would be the holiday: that, this time, I would step off that plane and feel the hot Mallorca sun upon my face, and be able to laugh, drink up that sunlight, in the knowledge that Ed was not there with me.

But of course, in reality, recovery is, or never will be, that easy.

And going into that hospital..I suppose, I had let myself slip into a dream world; a dream world which, I suppose, I still am very much lost in, even now, having learnt alot about myself and recovery since then. But my dream world is one which is constituted of elements of both the dream and the nightmare. Because along with the romantic ideals of what I so desperately yearn things to be like..there is thatother half, that other half of the dream world which I have become so firmly entrenched in. A hellish, dark, menacing land of thorns and rocky crags; strewn with withered, shrivelling flowers of dusky blood-red. And this is the landscape of my mind.

Sometimes..it does feel as if I am dying inside... There is just no way out of that world - you can't just simply "wake up". And neither, of course, can you flee from it. you can't escape the forces at war inside your very own head.

And so, here I am now. I know that all I can do is to keep going, even though at times I feel as if this battle inside my head is one which I just won't be able to survive. It is just so exhausting, so draining, so excruciatingly, painfully hard. And its true...sometimes, it feels as if I have no purpose. I'm just stumbling along looking for the light, but not even really quite sure, what that light actually is. What is...what is my recovery?  How will I ever be able to change the way I am?

I am longing now for these exams to be over and done with. To be able to walk away from the Front Arch of Trinity and inhale the sweet air of freedom, allow it pass into my body and enter my bloodstream; let it warm every vein, every bblood vessel, ever aveoli of my lungs. No more exams, essays or deadlines. No more shame and comparison and feeling like the inferior, nonsensical, useless girl surrounded by intellectuals. But I know, even as I look toward the summer with the warm touch of hope glowing in my heart, that there is a sense of poignancy and fear and intense, bitter loneliness. I don't want to be the loner anymore. At one time, it was me and ED and that, much as it pains me to say it, was enough, for me, because I was too sick, and lost, to care.

But now things have changed. I want to get better, I long to be free, with all my heart and soul do I yearn for rtrue, real freedom. A freedom which will make my heart soar like an eagle on the wing; a freedom which will be endure with me, mellowing and blossoming like a budding eucalyptus in the high summer. A freedom which isn't transitory and fleeting, to be granted only then to be stolen away once more, set on a pinnacle far out of my reach: a delicate little rosebud blown away from me by the cruel winter wind, forever out of reach of my desperate, groping fingers.

They are Poles Apart from Me..

The smiling, curly-haired librarian, having taken my library card and scanned it, peered at her computer screen with a thoughtful expression, her free hand tapping the smooth, polished wood of the desk in front of her. "It arrived this morning, Emily!" she told me. I"I'll just run upstairs and fetch it for you." Having said so, she vanished, returning barely minutes later with a massive, bible-like book under her arm.

I stared at the hefty volume in some sort of amused bewilderment, before stepping forwards to relieve her of her burden. "Thanks a million!" I exclaimed, looking down at the monstrous text that i now held in my hands. Iris Murdoch's the Green Knight. And I was supposed to have this read for Friday.

On initially seeing the book, and glancing over the short description the lecturer had inserted at the top of the week's tasks sheet, I was pretty much expecting the text to be laboriously complex, unengaging, and difficult to read. However, a few pages into my humongous doorstopper of a novel,  I discovered, much to my surprise, that I was actually enjoying it. In a strange, oblique sort of way: the story is complicated, full of abstract language and sensuous naturalistic imagery; and as I read I could not help but ponder as to whether or not I was actually picking up on everything that professor Murdoch actually intended an active reader of her text to do.

But yet, despite all that, this text spoke to me, touching my heart and speaking to my soul in ways which I hadn't in the least anticipated. And I could relate, if not palpably identify with, a number of the novel's various and strikingly diverse different characters. One of these was the girl Moy. Naive, innocent, childlike, little Moy's special relationship with the external world is explicit from the beginning of the novel; as is the extent to which she is something of an outsider in her own closely-knit family circle. Because Moy is an oddity, in a way: she is patently, fundamentally different from her bookish, elegant sisters; indeed from all of the other members of the small circle of friends known collectively in the book as the family.

And Moy can be seen to embrace this difference, while at the same time, it can be seen to be tearing her apart...

Reading Moy's story, was enough to bring tears to my eyes and a lump to my throat. Because I could really...feel, her pain; that sense of fragmentation deep within your own sense of self. Because, likeMoy, I know that I am so very, very different. That I am an oddity, that I am set apart from the other girls at my age. It feels as if we occupy two entirely different worlds.

There is that part of me..that part of me which does not care, that I am different. I am a dryad; a nymph, a spirit of the woodlands. I am a flowergirl with wild rosebuds in her hair and daisy chains around her neck. I am an explorer, a tree climber, an elf, a keeper of the forest's hidden and secrets. I can run through daisy strewn fields with Benny at my side, my hair wild and loose and streaming behind me like a banner; my leggings, torn and snagged from branches and brambles, Here, there are no judgmental eyes to gaze critically at me with scorn or disapproval. I can be the wild girl of the woods...I am free.

But then...then, there is that other part of me; where lies a pain so sharp it seems like it might slice my heart in two; a thick, interpentrable root of despair, stemming directly from that knowledge that yes, I am different, I should not be like this; I am so fundamentally and critically different from the other girls my age. That this is not the way it should be, for a bordering on 22 english girlin the modern world of the twenty-first century. No social life, no relationships, no job, no dependence.

How...how do i negotiate my way through this? I want things to change; I want to wear a pretty dress and pencil eyelincer onto my eyes, to go out there into town in a group of giggling girls, and dance my heart out on the dancefloors of those sparkling, glittering nightclubs, feel the beat of the music pulsate with my heart and fill my body with its irresistable rhythm. But yet, simultaneously, there is that massive part of me which is desperate, so painfully, agonizingly desperate - for things to remain the same. To never leave home; the home that I love and where I feel safe, the sanctuary where I can take refuge from the cruel eyes of the world.

I could just let this slip through my fingers...I could just let my life be stolen away from me..

The morning rain fell hard and without pity, hammering itself relentlessly upon the glass roof of the conservatory, beating down upon the bare branches of the blossom tree in a garden still held within winter's tightly clenched fist. Every blade of grass became decked in icy moisture; every leaf of every tree a silvery, dew-spotted shroud. Shivering songbirds huddled together upon those wet twigs, endeavouring in vain to derive heat from each other's saturated bodies, their tiny heads gazing forlornly up a sky heavy with clouds as dark and as unfeeling as hard grey stone, as if sending out a silent, hopeless prayer for that rain to cease to fall.

The faintest glimmer of brightness, shining dully through the clouds towards the western horizon. At first, that brightness appears as little more than a faint milky glow, but then it spreads and grows, becoming stronger and stronger, illuminating the whole of the sky so that the grey is replaced by pure azure blue. The clouds to shrink and retreat, gathering themselves up like the trailing skirts of fleeing dancer.

Slipping on my jacket and warm woollen gloves, I clipped the lead onto Benny's supple leather collar, sensing the transition in that tumultuous, impossibly beautiful, regal sky.

We wander far across the exposed expanses of windswept heathland; a landscape fully exposed to the wrath of that bone-chilling, icily cold wintry wind which hurtles itself down from the distant slopes of the purpley-tinged mountains standing solemnly on guard to the northerly horizon. And then finally, we come to the river. In carefree delight, Benny launches himself into the ice cold water, his little pink tongue lolling, the strands of curly hair at his chest and stomach becoming sodden with moisture as he waded deeper and deeper into the rushing, swirling waters.

Watching him, I could not help but smile, even though my eyes were filled with unshed tears, because seeing him there, contently splashing about without a single care in the world, made me realise how much I loved him; how precious he was to me.And how easy it would be for me to lose him forever: one single little slip, and he could be borne away, away from me by the hostile, inhumanely cruel current; a current which would take no heed of my desperate, agonised shouts to bring him back.

That single one fleeting moment made me cry out in alarm, gripped as I was by a sudden and unstoppable surge of terrified anxiety. I sprang to the riverbank and shouted his name. He turned and swam back towards the shore, soft brown eyes gazing into my own. As he emerged from the water, I enveloped him in my arms and held him tightly to my chest, oblivious to the muddy, cold water that seeped into my clothes from his sodden fur.

Of course, my fear then was more or less illogical. It was very, very unlikely that Benny, being the strong swimmer that he was, was in any kind of danger. But the moment stuck with me, when we finally got home and I was sitting by the fire with my laptop, gathering my thoughts together for a little blog post in which I could inscribe into words the realisation of truth that struck me today.

Because here now is the truth, the real, ice cold, undeniable and inevitable truth.

Life is precious and in a way, so, so fragile. It could so easily be taken away. And once we have lost it, let it slip through our fingers, let it go, just that once...well then, there is no going back. The rushing tide which took it away, will not simply bring it back to us when we realise our fatal mistake.

And yes, it would be so, so easy, for me, to just let life slip away from me, slip through my fingers like tiny grains of sand, grains which I will never be able to pick up again, grains which I will never again be able to retrieve.

I have wasted nearly half of my life, imprisoned and enslaved by ed.

Is it not time that I, that we, break ourselves free...

And not let ED steal away, one single piece more of this precious, transitory thing that we call life.

The New Spring.

Emptiness. The barren moor upon the lonely mountain; exposed and helplessly vulnerable to the harshness of the cruel, pitilessly relentless, bitterly cold winds. The chill that settles and lingers, upon every pore of every inch of the skin, as you immerse yourself in the darkness of the deepest, darkest cavern of the cave which extends into the very bowels of the earth. A chill  which seeps into the very marrow of every bone and claws its way into your very soul.

I don't want to feel like that anymore...

so hollow, so empty, so lifeless and broken deep inside.

Didn't I want this year to be my year. Didn't I want to come alive again, like the vibrant, blossoming, bountiful buds of spring?

But the new spring did not only bring of course, spell upon spell of pure, unbroken, immaculately golden sunshine; days of vitality and growth, spans of fertility, renewal, life. Instead, that spring brought to me rain, and with that rain, the terrible, uncontrollable, wrathful storms. Thick, grey, inter-penetrable clusters of heavy dark clouds crowding in on one another, blocking out the light, casting my world into darkness.

The tender little snowdrops, became soaked and dripping with icy rain.

It's all they could do...that I could do...to barely keep themselves upright, to not be ruthlessly torn from the soil.

I know I have been absent from my blog a little while since I wrote my last post. There are a few reasons for this, all of which I will reflect upon a little more over the next few days. But, firstly...the past week I have felt so disconnected from everything. And recovery is, as always, proving just so, so hard.

And so, yet another week passed me by; another week in which I tried so, so hard to get fully back onto my meal plan, to achieve all of my goals, to give recovery my 100 % ; to never, not once, give in to the cruel, heartless, whispered dictations, of ED.

But...of course, I did not fully, completely, succeed. For every ED victory that I won, there was, eventually, yet another loss.

But if I don't continue to fight...

Then I know I will remain entrapped, within this dark and lonely winter, forever.
So cold, so bitter, so desolate. So deprived of light, and warmth, and life.

If I choose not to recover, I am just going to spend the rest of my life in and out of counselling sessions, sitting in doctor's waiting rooms...I could end up back in hospital, for a second, third, fourth time. Countless times. Perhaps for not as long as I was in there before. Or. Maybe even longer than I was, there before. Weeks, months, half a year. A whole year. And is that the way I want to live my life? Always...a patient? The "sick" girl? The girl who could not, would not, and did not recover?? 

I just need to realise that...I can recover. That I will, if I just allow myself to break away completely from ED.
That I have evry reason to recover, and that I have to fight for it, with every single ounce of strength that I have left in this tired, broken body. Because, as I wrote before...I have two choices, now. Black and white, life and death. Recovery, or eternal imprisonment. For as I well know, a life with an eating disorder is not truly a life at all; and the past few years it feels as if I have slowly been dying inside. torn and bleeding, with the pain, a pain borne out of the fear and the hatred and the guilt.

I need to come alive again...

I need to open up those buds of the New Spring. Let them blossom, let them grow.

I just want to say this, again..thank you, thank you, thank you, for staying with me. My days are just so dark at the moment, but your help and support is like a little candle of light in the darkness. And for that, and for everything else, thank you so, so much, with all my heart. <3 xxx

The maze and the mountain.

For me, one of the most difficult obstacles in my struggles against the Voice of my Eating Disorder has always been my lack of motivation to recover, on account that, aside from the love I bear for those in my life who are closest to me, that I always felt as if I had nothing to recover for.

This type of thinking got significantly worse when I started at Trinity. When I was at school, my eating disorder was kept in a state of semi-containment: i had a goal, a specific aim, in my head the whole time, which kept me off, to some extent, that bloodstained path of self-destruction upon which I suddenly found myself stumbling upon, that day when I left my home in September 2012. the day when I was all set to embark upon a new chapter in my life, away from the insular, warm, safe world of my home.

I have to eat as little as possible, now. Because being skinny is the only one thing, that I have left.
I am not smart, intelligent, beautiful, funny, athletic, studious, talented in any kind of way...

And now, you have lost that one thing that you did have...
you're no longer the grade a student...everyone here is a hundred times better than you. 

being thin, being the skinny one...that's all that I have left.

This was the kind of thing...that I told myself every day. And which I fully believed, heart and soul...which I recognised and acknowledged as the ultimate truth.

And so the two years dragged on, two difficult and painful years full of panic, anxiety, tears and relentless restriction. Because by this time it came so naturally to me; and not once did I stop to consider just what the consequences of my actions could be; stop, to contemplate for one instant, just how much damage I was wrecking upon my own body. And I no longer had that goal, that drive to propel me onwards. I looked no further than the present day, and perhaps, the day following that. And for one single, abominable purpose. my mind was wholly bent, on how, each day, I was would go about eating as little as possible; and how I would conceal my actions from the eyes of the world, and my loved ones. It fills me with shame to write this, but I know that it is the truth; that, for me, was my reality, every hour of every day. Whereas other girls my age in Trinity spent their time planning their future career prospects, perhaps, or where they would choose to go for their getogether on Saturday night... every thought, every priority, every motivation that ever really occured to me...it wasn't my own, it was Ed's. I didn't think about my future; as far as I was concerned, there was nothing really there, anyway. I didn't see where I was going. I didn't realise where this path of self-destruction really led.

Now, things are different. But yet, in a way, some things remain the same.

It's true to say that the realisation of just how much damage I actually caused my body...

What remains unchanged, though, is the fact that I still don't really know where I am going; I still dont really know what I am recovering for...

Because I still see myself, as a lost cause. I feel like a little scrubby dandelion weed, growing precariously upon the steep, barren slope of  some beautiful yet cruelly hostile mountain. The dandelion struggles desperately to grow; but the elements are too harsh, the ground too hard, for it to grow. Further away from the slope grow the other beautiful mountain flowers: tall red poppies and glorious purple foxgloves, regal and exquisite, dainty bluebells. They are strong and successful and flourishing. But I am not, and never will be, one of them.

                                          At times, it feels like as if my life has become as lonely and as heavy as a mountain...

Perhaps, in another time and another place, I would have blossomed; but this is the modern world, and it breaks my heart to say it, but...I will never be like the others. I'm 21 now, and have been for several months, but to be honest, you would not know, if you were to attach a camera to me, and monitor what I do and how I conduct myself on a daily basis.

I still need mam, to look out for me. If it was not for her, i don't even think I would really be here, right now. She was, and still is, to a great extent, the backbone to my recovery... without her, I know it would have crumbled long ago.
I still need mam to sit with me at dinner, because I know that without her I wouldn't have enough and that i would stop eating before I was full. And though I don't really think she is aware of it,in that I haven't really told her...but it is for her and through her that I manage to beat off the Voice and win my little victories with my meal plan. When I had my scone last Sunday, for example...I don't think I would have managed it, if it wasn't for Mam being there. And at that moment I was so, so torn...I wanted to have that scone, but even more than that, I wanted her to get it for me - I didn't want to have to be the one to perform that one simple thing...that simple thing, as small and as insignificant as a speck of dust on a windswept plateau...but yet, at the same time, as huge and as vast and as overwhelming, as the massive gulf that surrounds it on all sides.

Why am I so dependent on others...
Why am I so immature...
What am I really recovering for? Will I ever be able to find my way, in life? or will I just get lost along the way?

Because that's how I feel, at the moment. Just so lost...lost in a never-ending, disorientating maze. A maze which I see others passing through, from time to time. But they, unlike me, manage to find their way out. Some might struggle and some might falter, but in the end, they succeed. But I just stumble on, and on, and on, trying desperately to follow them out...not wanting to be, the little girl who got left behind.

All I know is...I have to keep searching, trying, and struggling up this long and lonely mountain. For my recovery journey is proving very long, and lonely, and hard. But I know I have to keep going. I know that I have to try.