The Final Leap

What frightens you the most, Em?

The thought of taking that final, terrifying leap into the depths of the unknown?

Or is it the thought of remaining stuck...in this insipid place they call half recovery..forever?

What frightens you more?

The leap; or the prison?

Just over a year ago I composed a short little post entitled the Beginning After the Halfway. Within it, I spoke of how in recovery one may encounter two beginnings : the first, most obvious one being the beginning of the recovery journey itself: the action "phase", so I have heard it called. Initially I thought that was the only "beginning":After that it would be straight upwards: upwards, until one reaches he end: the beautiful summit of the towering mountain.

But now, having trodden the recovery road for many years, I see recovery as having two fundamental beginnings. The actual beginning of recovery; at the very start; when one acknowledges, accepts, and takes the first few crucial steps. The beginning of the recovery journey. But then, within that journey itself, there is a second beginning: one which some travellers upon this road will never know of , because this is where their journey ultimately reaches it end.

That second beginning lies just beyond a critical point: a point where some turn, turn and go right back; whereas others remain forever, unsure as to how to go on. That point is the place of half recovery, and what lies beyond is the beginning of the final battle against anorexia.

At that place, many an anorexic's journey finds its end. They remain there, unable to commence the second beginning; shackled down by the fetters of doubt and mistrust and fear. 

But half recovery is very much like a limbo land. You're far above the hellish domain that was being immersed wholly and completely within the depths of anorexia. And yet, you are equally so far removed from that idyllic place of being fully recovered. And you see, and know it deep down; that there is something more to this. That the life you are living is a far cry from what you imagined being recovered to be. no matter how much ED might convince you otherwise. And knowing that is enough to torment you daily; like an apple being held out to a tethered horse. Close enough to see and smell; Close enough to almost taste its sweet juices. But not close enough to take from that extended hand. The knowledge, the acknowledgement made deep down, is enough to tempt and torture, but yet not enough to spur you into taking that massive, frightening leap.

I said..back in that post just over a year ago now...I said that I would make some sort of beginning , after the halfway. But did I? Did I really throw myself into the deep? A difficult question to which I struggled to properly answer. Because I think...I think it's more complex than a simple yes, or no. I think that I both did, and did not. I took the leap but instead of kicking hard when my body entered the water, propelling myself further into the deep - instead I lingered, hesitant and reluctant to swim away from the jutting rock upon which I had so long been stuck, the rock that served as that crucial milestone which marks having reached a place of half recovery. For that rock had replaced the grim cave of being entrenched within anorexia, as the much hated, yet irresistible familiarity which I found myself unable and too frightened to leave.

It's a struggle. It's a messy, agonising struggle. And every day the same question spins a slow orbit in my head. Are you going to swim yet, Em? Or are you just going to flounder aimlessly around this rock, forever?

At first I saw that rock as a milestone: one which, having reached, I would commend myself for reaching, and then move on. On with recovery. But it feels instead that I paused by this rock to take a breath, and then decided that, well this rock ain't so bad at all. I think I'll take a rest here, now. Just a little rest. I wont let myself become stuck here, though. I will take the next leap and swim on.

One year later, and still, here I am. Still waiting, upon that lonely little rock.

Waiting. For what?

To right time, the right place, to take the dive into the deep waters? To have the courage fight the hardest and most gruelling battle of all: to win back complete freedom, rather than some sort of half freedom which doesn't really feel like  true freedom, at all? To finally feel ready to break every string attached to me - including the subtle, implicit ones which noone else can see?

But if I wait; won't I simply sit and wait here, forever?
Isn't it time to simply stop waiting; and take that final leap?

A Quick Foreword...!!! :/

Hey everyone, I just wanted to post an apology for the untidy presentation of my last post..the font sizes are all over the place I know and I have tried again and again to fix it, but when I press save the changes I make just aren't saved and it goes back to the way it was..! Im really sorry for this, I reqlly don't understand why it's like that  - not sure if it\s because I wrote it on my boyfriend's ipad and the fonts on that arent compatible with blogger's or something. Anyway I do apologise profusely for this. 😓

I know..that this is the Write Time.

Time for me to Write, again. 
Time for me to again find my Voice. 



Not really sure where to begin, with this. As I anticipated, the things that have worked to inhibit me from blogging in the first place - namely doubt, lack of confidence, and that all too familiar fear of being judged - are taking their places in that audience in my head right now, ready and eager to start their boos and heckling. As I sit here my eyes are scanning over the words I just wrote, seeking out flaws, feeding the hungry inner critics that reside within my mind. They're all poised and ready, now - ready to judge, ready to knock me down and smash the flimsy fragments of my fragile confidence, to unretrievable, tiny shards. Ready to cause me to once again do the thing that always follows my every desperate attempt to write. To close my laptop with a frustrated snap, push it away from me. Let one single tear fall upon the ribbed black cover, as I do so. A tear born from a awareness of defeat.

Im rereading and criticising every single syllable that I just wrote, there. But this time Im not quitting the stage. Im looking that scornful audience in the eye. Doubt sneers back at me, fear leers like a grotesque jester, mocking me, trying to make me feel small. Stand down, Em. It’s past time for you to stand down!
Another tear falls as I write. Not with anguish this time. It’s a tear for what I might have lost, alot of: but which has not completely died.

Amidst the cold and the harshness

Upon the bare branches something beautiful may blossom, again.. <3

Its true alot has changed. I believe I have  lost alot of my skill, if you could have ever called it that, for writing. I never believed that I had that much in the first place - despite being praised, back in my younger days, at school, for my descriptive essays, and despite of course going to Trinity College to study English. Despite my former love of writing, making a start on my own novel, and not being physically able to go out the door without bringing one of my many notebooks with me, and a camera for taking pictures, for my blog. Ah, yes, my blog. for me, an untilmate sumbol for my love of writing. My blog symbolised for me, the residing of two powerful passions of mine in the midst of a serious eating disorder: baking, for one thing, and of course, more implicitly, writing, itself. And for years it remained that way - through the storms, through the landslides; the soaring highs and the plummeting lows. My blog was there for me - through all of that. It was the lighthouse, shining a beam of light throuigh the stormy night; the sheltered hollow on the slippery slope, into which I could retreat and take sanctuary from the cold. My blog was all of this to me, and more. It symbolised hope, and strength, and resilience; it reminded me, when the clouds gathered thick and i could not see through the driving rain, what it was I actually was really fighting for, what I had to keep on pushing towards. It reminded me of whao i was - the real Emmy. Who I wanted to be. Writing here became a key mode of expression, for me. it was here where I would channel the emotions, the feelings that were too painful or difficult for me to put into speech. And, having transcribed the pain, the frustration, the fear and the hurt I felt, out onto paper, I would attempt to make some sort of sense of them. Writing had become, for me, an integral part of my recovery.

But it seemed like ED is intent on taking every last scrap of everything that ever meant anything to me.

Many years ago, when I first became sick, it was my body which initially seemed to occupy ed's  core focus in its bid to callously distort, weaken and destroy. My mind and brain, from a cognitive point of view anyway, seemed  at first mercifully unaffected by Ed's taint. Not content, however, with the devastating physical impact it had wrecked upon my body, Ed began to turn its attention to the psychological and cognitive facets over which it knew it could have some sort of control. And just like the physical effects, the process was slow and gradual. At first, I didnt really understand what was going on: why I was suddenly crying over my lecture notes which made as much sense to me as a book written in double Dutch would; why I suddenly could not write a single sentence of my novel in the space of 30 minutes; whereas once, back in some other distant time, I could have written a whole page. Why? I used to scream to myself in anguish. Why? What’s happened to me? How did I suddenly...just...become...so dumb???

And by the time I realised what it was that was actually causing this, it was much too late to do a simple u turn, and go back.

Slowly, slowly and painfully, I teetered from the path towards destruction and ruin; onto a wholly different, but equally difficult, road. The road of recovery. And gradually, with every tentative bite and onerous meal; with every gruelling day of grinding my teeth together and forcing myself to keep on eating, while the Voice screamed like a livid Fury in my head - my body slowly began to heal. Heal what it could after years of trauma and abuse. Heal, what actually still remained, to be healed. I learnt the hard way that you cannot always reclaim what has been lost.

If only I could just walk away 

and leave you behind, ED; forever... </3

One thing though that I was confident would be restored, would be my former ability, to write. But to my horror and dismay, this did not seem to be the case. And instead of writing becoming easier  - and more “natural” to me as it once had been - as I progressed further with my physical recovery, it seemed to become, on the contrary, even the more difficult, tedious, and frustrating. And there came a point, perhaps around January of this year, when I suddenly realised that I didnt want to try anymore. Not even with my beloved blog; not even with the journalling that I had up-kept throughout the strain-filled days of anorexia. Your ability has gone, Em, the voice of doubt and self-loathing mocked. You cannot write anymore. Youve become heavier and uglier and stupider besides. You - are - worthless!!!

I gave up. I gave up, and agreed with Ed that there was not one scrap of a writer within me. 

But now Im looking my judges - the doubt, the self criticism, the perfectionism - straight in the eye. And this time I don’t back away from their glares, their scorn-filled jibes and jeers. Yes, its true. Im not the same girl as i was, 10, 9, 8 years ago. When I was the grade A student of her class, who could write page upon page of fluid composition. Im not even the same girl as I was in uni, who managed - somehow; God knows how I did it; but did it, I did - to write the 6000 word essays that enabled her to attain her college degree. Im not the same girl now. So much of what I had - just like that of my tenuous health which I allowed to become abused and neglected -  has been lost; perhaps, forever. I cant write like that anymore. I allowed ED to take alot of that away from me; my former confidence with writng, my aptitudes as regards composing a piece.

But there is one thing left to me that not even ED in all his seeming omnipotence cannot touch.

That is my love, my passion, for writing. And I know - as long as that tiny flame still flickers within me; that tiny golden candle  - I can write. I can write and I can reach out to others as I used to. I can write and tell my story. I can write and perhaps, some day, some where, inspire and touch the hearts of others.

And I know now that this is the Right Time. The....Write, time. The Time to Write. 



I’ve refound my Voice.

Losing my Spurs

I wonder how others see me now. I wonder if they think eating is easy for me now, that I am recovered. On the outside everything seems fine , even - and I wince as I say it- everything seems normal, or, indeed, "healthy".

 Gone, now, is the skinny bony body, the non existent bust on the chest, the cracked dry skin and stick like legs and arms. And now gone too is the one thing that I used to doggedly grasp at, whenever ed used to tell me I was normal and didn't t need to eat as much good, or any food at all.

 My periods.

 I can eat loads as i dont have a period.

But when it arrived, heralding its coming with a glorious rush of scarlet blood, I did not experience the feelings of joy and relief that I anticipated I would feel in such a pivotal and fundamental moment. Insyead of feeling like I had claimed something back, I felt like I had lost something  instead. That being. An excuse to eat. That knowing that my body really wasn't healthy; that it hadn't got enough food and energy to enable me to give birth to a child.

 For years, that knowledge spurred me on in my most difficult and darkest of moments. I'm underweight. My body is deprived! I must eat well as I haven't got a period. I must keep going on.

But now the spurs have been taken away , and I now feel like I'm riding a horse with no reins or saddle . Confused and frightened, I hang on tight with shaking hands, and allowing it to choose wherever it wants to go.

Fixing

Today I went to see a counsellor. I emerged from the somewhat dreary loooking place some 50 minutes later enwrapped in a cloudy sort of emptiness. It hadnt quite been what I had expected. Indeed far from it. She had more or less admitted that they weren’t quite what I was looking for.
But what am I looking for?
I suppose...the quick switch to my recovery.

But from a physical perspective I am doing well, I guess. But mentally I feel the same. And I still find myself practising every day those silly little ed habits that I have long resolved to work on, and overcome. Yet they linger, as does Ed, and his harsh, whispered dictations never cease to play on repeat within my mind.

The quick switch to my recovery.
If only such a thing existed.

But it doesn’t.

But the one thing that cannot be diminished, is; the love of my babe; the support of my loved ones.
And the hidden strength within Me, to change.

There may be no quick fix; to mend these broken parts, the shattered pieces.

But instead, it is I. I who can do the slow, painful fixing of me.

Leaving the Shadow Behind

It was almost automatic. I'd get up, search hastily through my ever growing pile of notebooks and stationary to find the hardback copy with the pretty colourful flowers on the front, and then set to work, usually over breakfast, in writing down my weekly goals.

The months passed and changed, and I changed, too. And now so much is different from before, there are a few things that remained unchanged and static. 

ED's actual presence is one of these. It's true that his presence in my life is not as perceptible, as manifest, or as patent as before. Sometimes I even forget he is there; in times when excitement or joy, or simply hard work transport my mind to an unfamiliar place which ED cannot touch. But then he gently reminds me again with a cold hand on my shoulder or an insidious whisper in my ear. He's like the that thorn in your side which you can't quite prise out; that fly above your head which you keep on swatting at but can not quite shake off from your back. A thing that doesn't do enough to cause you any danger, but is there, nonetheless, and is enough to make a smile disintegrate into a frown. He is like my second shadow, in a way. Though I run and feel free at times, I look round and I can still see him attached to me, casting a space of darkness upon just some of the ground upon which I tread.

Impossible. Impossible so it may seem to detach yourself from something which for so long has been so intrinsically part of you, just like a shadow. Through darkness and light, through ED has been there, for every step of the way. And it almost seems like he had become part of me.

Not so, of course. The past two years have been critical for me, in the sense that I have finally begun to develop a sense of who I really am. Not the sick Emmy. The real Emmy who wants to live.

Im different from the rest, perhaps, but I'm no longer ashamed to say it. I don't drink, I don't wear ounces of make up or use snapchat or twitter, I don't choose to wear the clothes which might make me fit in a little bit better amongst the other members of my society. But I don't feel bad about this anymore. Im learning to accept, perhaps even embrace, my differences. And I can say that for my body, too.

Though I know I've got a much longer way to go, yet.

I've still got a bit to go along this long winding road.

And, contrary to my former beliefs, I know now that if I walk faster and stronger, I can leave that shadow far behind me. Detach myself from it, like a butterfly breaking free from the spider's entrapping web.

I landed there long ago, in that web of the intricate fine lines fringed with minuscule droplets of shimmering pearl and glistening silver. A thing so beautiful to the eyes of the innocent, but which, to those who know better, has long been the lair of a bloodthirsty creature; a creature which feeds off the bodies of its victims while they still remain torturously, tormentingly alive.

And back then, it was the more attractive fate for me, to be wrapped in the stifling layers of darkness and no feeling. To feel my body slowly be drained of its lifeblood, leaving nothing but an empty shell behind.

But now, for no longer. I want to free myself and learn to fly again, and spread my strong new wings.

And I believe this is where goal setting comes in again. For this, and so many other reasons.
And with this in mind I will use my next post to explore these reasons, and what goals I plan to put in place which will finally enable me to fly free. And to teach me how for the next time, I need not land back in the spider's web; But to alight, like a feather drifting softly to the earth, in the midst of the meadow of bright and shimmering flowers. <3 

A Blank Slate

Beautiful October, so radiant in her gold and copper finery; so richly adorned with the bright treasures of autumn's exquisite bounty. But yet she can also reveal a slightly more malignant side in her summoning of the first dark winter storms.

And Friday was just one of those such days when this side to her became more manifest. Walking upon the bog with Daisy it was as if a giant hand had taken a crayon to the canvas of a formerly blank virgin sky. To the north; the horizon was so clear and radiantly blue; whereas, to the south, an angry shade of steely grey, that spoke of volatility, unpredictability, and anger. And that grey was advancing with all the fury of some dark and dangerous beast.

Gazing upon it, I felt strangely unperturbed. Too engrossed, perhaps, was I in my world of anorexic-type thoughts; those ones which swell up, like some ugly bulging plant, to occupy so much space in my head that there was hardly any room for anything else. Sometimes I fail to even perceive the reality around me, so entrenched I often find myself being in this abyss of worry and anxiety, of fear and self-revulsion.

But then the wind called - called to me; so it seemed - and a flurry of yellow and crimson leaves were flung into my face before spiraling, drawn by invisible strings, in slow figures of eight before alighting to the ground like a dancer who has finally come to rest. And it seemed like the wind had called my name.

Wake up, Emmy! Wake up!

And suddenly I became startlingly, beautifully aware of the striking beauty of the world around me. The dark fingers of the birch trees holding aloft their final offerings of gold and brown. The rippling grass and the purple blue forms of the watching mountains. And, that troubled sky, with all its foretelling of a gathering storm and those furious clouds which would all too soon block out the sun.

But then I remembered that the storm would not last; and that, having blown its full course, the sky would once again take on the guise of a blank, fresh slate.

Though the storm would come it wouldn't last forever; and, once it was gone, the clear sky would reassert itself; as if making a fresh new beginning.

And even though I've been in recovery for a while, I realise that there is ever the potential for starting on a fresh new slate. For the past few weeks have been increasingly messy, with a lot of scribbles and spilt paint; alot of waste. And though I know recovery is never going to be perfect, I still felt like that I could do more. More to get myself away from this fuzzy grey zone, more to allow myself to push myself more firmly away from the Voice.

And one important thing that I want to do, is to teach myself how to pull myself away and out of that deep dark pit of sickly, cloying thoughts. The wind that morning was a blessing; for it enabled me to pull myself temporarily free, and fill my senses with the beauty all around me.

So time to lay out my blank slate, now, and look with fresh eyes upon its untarnished surface. And then to begin again. Not to begin, at the beginning of the very beginning; but, rather, at the beginning, of a renewed effort to break away; to break away from ED once and forever.

The Weeping Fissure

So they said, on reaching weight restored, one should start eating intuitively.

Eating intuitively. It's easy, right? Eat when you're hungry and stop when you're full. Eat what you feel like eating, what your body and mind are telling you you want. Simple.

Easy for them to say. For me, it's quite a different story, indeed.

If I were to do as they say and eat intuitively, I would stop eating my dinner after a couple of mouthfuls as that's when I feel physically full. I wouldn't eat half of what I am currently eating now, because it's rare that I feel physically hungry and therefore, at times, I have to force myself to eat. And then there is the other side of the coin - the constant mental hunger. That's the other extreme. I never really stop thinking about food - about what and how I am going to have it, how much, and at what time. I have cravings and I do not dare follow them. Because to me they do not make any sense. How could I possible crave more peanut butter when I've already had three tablespoons of the stuff that morning? What possibly could be the cause of my desperate longing to have another serving of cereal, when I have just polished off a whole one for my supper, not to mention the even larger one I had consumed earlier that day?

It makes no sense, no sense at all. No matter how hard I try to focus my mind, to pull it desperately away from these intrusive, screaming thoughts, they latch on again, clinging like a limpet to a rock, reasserting themselves with renewed and malicious vigor.

Even though I've gained weight, I can't seem to stop eating.
What happened to that self-control?
You're useless..it's no wonder you're looking so fat and dumpy..

Last night I stood and opened my bedroom window, gazed out upon the rustling, whispering garden: a garden that whispered of secrets untold, a garden in which every tiny plant had parktaken of life's sweet cup; had permitted itself to grow, and flourish. And now that autumn was here, their brightness was fading; but to me they shone as brightly as they had in their summer finery.

Because to look upon them reminded me of the thing that for me cannot be done.
To grow and allow oneself to grow. Without putting a hundred restrictions in place and trying to change, or alter, what was meant to be; what is natural.

Because even after all this time I feel like I am still fighting against my body. Because I've reached that certain point: the glittering milestone with its diamond cut top and polished surface of cold shiny marble. The magic number!! The magic number which is bmi of 19. Once you're here, so they say, you've done the hardest part. You're healthy!! Well done!!

And having reached that number and placed my hand on its unforgivably cold surface, all I felt was panic, not relief. Right. So I've reached the golden number...so God forbid I gain a grams worth more weight.

Something had to give, so I cut a little back. And that's how it remains.

It's like following a precise mathematical formula. As long as the formula is followed, everything falls into place. I feel calmer, more secure, knowing that my weight is not going up, and the volcano under which lies the swelling magma of my anxiety is blissfully, idyllically dormant. The fissure remains sealed and uncannily silent;  provided I stick precisely to the formula.

The formula of how to maintain my weight.

But if I once make the slightest step out of line, the crater is ripped open and the lava surges forward. With the heat  it feels like it has enough power to destroy everything in its path.

That shiny stone may have looked beautiful from a distance, but now, having reached it, all I can taste is the metallic taste of betrayal. Better..?? I dont feel better. Is this really what the land of recovery truly looks like?

It is different, that much is true. For There are trees where once there was nothing but dead leaves and arid earth. But though the trees bear some sweet new foliage, their boughs are still deprived of blossom or fruit.

The Child

Recovery represents a new life, a new beginning. I knew this all along, but now, this concept takes on a new and profoundly beautiful relevance.

For not only does recovery mean a new life for me, free from the shackles of the eating disorder. It also means that, from my body, new life may be brought into the world.

Me this Summer

I've been with my boyfriend for almost a year now. Something I haven't really talked about on my blog; for at first I didn't discern a connection between my relationship and my recovery.

For through this extraordinary and beautiful boy I have found both life, and beauty, in a place where there once was only barrenness. Being in love has taught me alot about recovery. It has showed me what recovery should be like, and could be like. For when I am with him it is like I almost feel normal. Normal and more alive than I have ever felt, in the whole twelves years of my illness.

He has made me realise just how badly I want to be free.

Free, to make our own life together: and, perhaps in time, to create new life through children.

There was once a time I was repelled by the thought of having kids. I love children and always have done; but yet, when it came to the thought of having children myself, my whole being would recoil with fear and abhorrence. Because being a mother meant being a woman. And being a woman meant gaining weight and leaving my thin, stick-limbed child's body far behind.

For me, once; a distant possibility.

For me, now, a close and fundamentally life-changing new reality.

For now I no longer have a child's body: my body is that of a young woman. Just yesterday, I bought my first  D bra. Having been wearing B bras since March this year, it did not escape my notice that my breasts, over the summer, had continued to grow.

Hard to believe that once even my tiny little A bras were much too small for me.



I now have the body of a woman; the body that the person that I am was meant to have, long before now. Now all I need to do is accept it; and perhaps, in time, I will learn to embrace it.

And it is through love - the love of my boyfriend, my Mam, my best friend, and my readers - that I have come to realise that I need not fear being healthy. For being healthy will enable me to fulfill all my dreams and aspirations; for being healthy, I know, will enable me to live my life to the full. A life free from restriction, irrational fears, and obsession about my weight and my size.

It's began, now. And I am near the end of the road. Not there yet; for there is still much to do; still a hill up ahead, for me to climb. But the light is shining, strong and true, through that little chink in the wall; like a beam of golden sunlight pouring forth from the cloud-shrouded heavens.

Now all I need to do is dismantle the bricks that encompass that hole, and step through, into the light.

Finding my own Way

And as the night creeped in like a stalking leopard, so too did the familiar feelings of uncertainty. The claws of doubt raking through my mind, the sharp-toothed fear biting deep into my spine. The jagged self-disgust opening wounds that everyone else thought long since healed; the burning anxiety, roaring like a savage beast, terrible and formidable, in the shadowed recesses of the night.

That anxiety throbs perceptibly, a beating pulse of its own. Every feeling, every thought in my head gradually leads straught back to it, as if they are all connected by a complex channel of veins.

And this is how I feel every day and every night: the constant anxiety, sweeping in like a wave; advancing grimly like the hingry predator, ready to take and kill and destroy. And then all I've ever achieved seems as insignificant and intagible as dust motes blown across the barren desert.

I feel like I have hit a brick wall, a brick wall across the recovery path. It does not appear crossable, while at the same time there are minute cracks. Minute cracks that permit me the barest glimpse of the shimmering idyll lying beyond.

And I can't help but feel that there should be a way across this wall. But I can't help but feel immobolised by my society's definition of what is beautiful in a woman. Slender, tall, and usually done up with layers of makeup which completely change the natural look of a woman's face.  Being less than 5ft 1 and never having as much skill as far as make up applying is concerned, I never felt as if I stood that much of a chance. But I used to be thin. Used to be. But now I am not. And now I feel as if that small, barely significant claim I once had to being even a little bit pretty has been taken away.

But now, as I stand staring wistfully at this wall, I realise that there is something that I could do, right now, which could well enable me to traverse its steep side.

That being, to just start following my own heart, my gut instinct, about what is right for me. After all, no one knows myself as well as one single person: that being, I.

It's time for me to stop trying to fit in to other people's model of recovery.
Those who just see recovery as a simple restoration of weight. This hit me hard when I was talking to Mam the other day. Having refrained from telling her my true feelings for a while, I endeavoured to explain to her the swinging ambivalence upon which I find myself precariously balancing: one minute, feeling ok about my body, and the next minute, full of disgust and self-loathing, adamantly affirming to myself that I am fat and longing with an incensed passion for the "good old days" when I was thin and emaciated.

She had shook her head and told me that she thought I had long since "gotten over that".
I wanted to cry. But I didn't because this merely confirmed what I had already expected. In the eyes of many, I am the "recovered girl". Noone sees or knows the struggle that continues to ensue between I and anorexia.

But there are those in which I have found understanding.

And through that understanding I have began to mold my own vision of what is a recovered Emmy. And that is what I am aiming for now. The perceptions of the others who do not understand, I must learn to pass me by.

For whereas I used to see such judgments as having the strength of those rearing, monstrous waves that have the power and the ferocity to drag me into the sea, I now realise that I was wrong. I now realize that they are more like gentle, curling breakers. Breakers that swirl and rush about my feet, but which do not possess the power to knock me straight over. They do not have the power to drown me.

I just need to stand and hold my ground, in these shifting sands.

My recovery should be about...

What is right and healthy for me.

Me. And this might not necessarily fit in with the perceptions of other people. How could it possibly do so; when those perceptions are in themselves flawed - they are uninformed, inaccurate; shaped by common societal ideals instead of  proven research about real recovery - in both its physical and mental aspects. Rather then perceptions, they are misconceptions - misconceptions about what recovery from anorexia really looks like.

And it shouldn't all just be about how it looks.
Rather, it should be how it feels. How it feels, deep down, inside.

The Beginning after the Halfway

They said that the beginning would be the hardest part.


But why didn't they warn me about halfway? The halfway slope, which rises to an almost vertical climb: steepening and steepening, rising before me like a grim and inaccessible tower. And in the exposed space in my head, the comments wheel and shriek like vultures circling their prey.They bide their time, awaiting the opportune moment, before closing in with talons outstretched, cruel beaks poised to slice flesh and draw blood.

You look healthy now.

Your body looks better than it has done in years.

She has finally recovered from her eating disorder.

She doesn't have anorexia anymore.


And if I could, I would raise my arms and protect myself; but how can I possibly fight something which I know is inevitably, inexplicably, part of this recovery journey in itself? People will look and people will judge; it's part of life; and I would be a fool if I were to go through life expecting people to keep their thoughts to themselves. If you go into the desert, you expect to find vultures. If you make it as far as the land of half recovered, than you have to expect to encounter such comments. That's part of the harsh reality. The harsh reality, of being a supposedly "recovered" anorexic in a harsh, diet-obsessed, thin-loving world.

Its been so long since I last wrote in my blog. But the last time I went to write I found that the words would not come. What to say? What to describe? How to possibly express the feelings and emotions running rampant like racing stormclouds in my head?


They said the beginning was the hardest part. And in this case, perhaps, it was.

But just like the beginning of my first initial recovery journey, four years ago, now, when I realised I had to make some sort of start.

A beginning I will make here, too, on this small and little known blog.

And now is the time to return to my journey, and begin where I left off. The beginning of the hardest part of the journey. The beginning of what is recovery after the halfway mark.

I sit down on the grass and look down at the landscape stretched below me. A landscape alight with the luscious shades and hues of high summer: golden wheatfields bowing in homage to the sun, shady wooded glades of emerald green; clusters of heather, mauvy pink and paling peach, and then the wafting poppy fields, as red and as freely flowing oin that brisk wind as fresly drawn blood spurting from an open wound. The scarlet induces within me a shudder, inevitbly turing my thoughts to the pain deep inside.

I turn my euyes away from this external beauty to examine something alot more closer and known, that being the contours and inclines of my own body. I stare for a long time at the thighs and the arms. 

Freedom. Its a word which I once didnt comprehend the true meaning of. but with the passig of years in recovery came a maturiry, a growth, an increased awareness and understanfding. 

The Task

The writer in me is frustrated and irritable. And has been the past few weeks, ever since I got that little urge, that sudden and unexpected desire to write Morokia again. Come on, Em, let's get back into it. Or the story will never be told.

But it's not good enough, another voice answered it, sadly, to be followed swiftly by another. And we need to focus on the job search.

That's your priority right now, Em. Get a job!! Earn some money!! Too long have you been here relying on mam and dad to provide for you!! Lazy, hopeless girl...

Like a blaring siren the sentences repeated themselves, over and over, in the cramped confinements of the chamber of my brain.

And it was only a matter of time before the siren became too unbearably, painfully loud.



Since I came back from Lapland, trying to find a job has proven to be a source of purpose and direction to me, in the sense that I, as a writer, have always liked to have had a little writing project to focus on - a project which satisfied that occasional need to dabble in the artistry of the written word. And the more I felt that "project" was of some sort of practical use - was going to be of benefit to someone, was going to contribute towards some significant cause - the better. And to that guilty, niggling part of my brain which was squirming in guilt and indignation at the fact that I was still unemployed, the task of finding a job was certainly the most significant task I could possibly commit myself to at this point in my life.

So I turned away from Morokia's unexplored landscapes; the epic battles raging between good and evil, the characters who I had come to know so well that they seemed real, breathing people, with minds and hearts and stories of their own. I turned away from that fantastical landscape, and concentrated all my energies on something which I knew was much more imperative: finding a job. I say "concentrated all my energies"  because doing job applications to someone like me is no straightforward task. The perfectionist streak of me demanded everything to be immaculate and without flaw. Any mistake on my part would result in a fury-filled inner berating which would then in turn leave me edgy and disconcerted for days. But I continued with my teeth set firmly together, as if I was making myself walk through a storm of drenching icy rain.

And so it comes as no surprise that equally my self-set job of finding a job has been a cause of misery, frustration, and more often than not, despair. A procedure so torturous and painful, it seems almost equatable to having the skin torn, shred by little shred, by a toothed bramble enmeshed around the legs, impeding movement, disabling you from moving on: yet biting into you, too, if you remain still and cease to move. At each little tear I would bleed that little bit more. Yet another unanswered email; yet another application which has been ignored, rejected, dismissed straight out of hand? Oh, you're useless, Em. Clearly no one wants to employ you. Save the place in Shrewsbury which you no longer want, and were to weak to take on. Now you've let it go and you're doomed, Em!! No one else will employ you. Ever. You're a complete and utter worthless piece of sh**!!

The other day I could not take it anymore. I shut the laptop with a snap and just cried. Was there really nothing out there? It certainly seemed so. I felt so afraid that it seemed every scrap of my courage had been stretched and wrung out to dry in a harsh, baking sun. That they had been stretched to the point of being snapped apart, leaving me with nothing but untraceable, indistinct fibres.

And that's when mam came and reminded me ofsomething which I, in the chilling depeths of my despairing, had inevitably lost sight of in my mind. Wave upon wave of heavy black misery had washed over me, but when mam reached out and took my hand to pull me from the water again, I could just perceive fthrough the mist and the fog that path through the choppy seas which I know I cannot afford to fall away from.

And mam reminded me of the most important truth of all. That yes, it is important that I try to find a job. But as important as my recovery? As important as beating ED? Not so.

Just don't get so stressed that you fall back into bad habits, Emmy. And right then her words filled me with strength. And even more so that I can attest to the fact that it is not "falling backwards" is not the danger here. No. For despite how stressed and desperate I have felt, I am still eating. Eating well and good. Eating the same amounts every day. But that's where the problem lies. The same amounts. My stress and anxiety hasn't impacted me in a way which has made me go backwards; no. I am strong enough to inhibit that from happening, now.

Rather, it has taken a toll in so far as I haven't quitepossessed the motivation to increase my meal plan that wee bit more, as I know I need to do, to gain the final bit of weight.

And, on reflecting on it all later, I realised that no, I was not quite right in asserting that finding a job as quickly as possible is the most important and critical task for me to accomplish right now. It's important, yes; but I just need to pause now and ask myself a crucial question. Is successfully fulfilling this task going to play any major part in contributing towards my health, my physical and mental recovery? Is bending over backwards to obtain employment going to help me save the most important and valuable asset that I will ever, ever own?

My body?

The answer is to all these questions of course, is no. No, finding a job as urgently as possible isn't going to heal all the damage done inside, or make my periods come. No, getting that job isn't going to help improve my osteoporosis, or increase my chances of recovery.

And this is what I have to remind myself now. My principal task is recovery. I'll carry out all the other tasks alongside that one, job-hunting included. But this one takes priority.

Breaking the Mould

Hopped off the bus, pulled up my hood; scurried along at a somewhat breathless trot along the rain soaked streets of Portlaoise. Across the railway bridge I pattered along, my little black rucksack bouncing upon my back, my hair, having long escaped my hood, fluffing up around my face in messy wet ringlets that held on to the tiny beads of drizzle in the air.

My little red bike with the pink basket on the front was patiently awaiting me at the bike racks. I slung the handles of my bag across the handlebars, wheeled it out, whipped one leg over the saddle, and away I go. And as soon as the rush of the wind roared in my ears and my legs began to turn the pedals, an enormous smile came to my face. It was a sensation of which I would never tire of; a thrill that no matter how many times I had felt soar through my veins before, I wanted to relive, over and over. Faster and faster we go through the streets, past fogged-up windows within which soft lights glowed, past spluttering chimneys and enclosed little gardens.

I soon left the town far behind me to enter the realm of which is more beloved to me than any other. That being of course the countryside, shining and bright despite the drab drizzle and the thickening rain clouds. Everything seemed to glow and glisten like a multitude of scattered diamonds. And in the hedgerows, newly budding primroses; golden and glorious, their paler outer petals framing centres fringed with a slightly darker shade of yellow. The fields, too, were bejeweled with early spring's offerings: tiny daisies, dainty and delicate, peppering the rich green grass with the plentiful abundance of a mellowing fruit tree; alongside fluffy-headed clover and eye-bright golden celandii; and then, flanking the edges of the fields like a guard of honour, stood the blue-green shoots of the germinating daffodils; their trumpet like flowers yet encased within the protective layers of papery buds.

To see all these things caused my spirit to soar till it felt like my very soul was flying above the stars. To see this, and feel it. To be alive today. And to feel the strength in my mind and body which was not there before.

Because I am stronger now; physically and mentally, to the way I was before. I recall the days that I would feel so weak and drained it was almost as if my knees were going to give way beneath me. When I felt so light-headed I could not focus on the glaring words upon the white sheet in front of me. When I felt so lifeless, that all I wanted to do was to crawl feebly into my mam's arms and just lie there and just...die. Yes. There were times when that impulse was there; that longing to put an end to it all, to escape the limitless suffering. But how glad I am that I did not succumb to that impulse. Now, I look back and shake my head in incredulity: not only at that, but just how deeply enmeshed in ED's web I was. And along with that incredulity there is the bitter, poignant recognition that so many others out there are trapped in the same shackles that I once wore.

Ambitions. Do I have them? As regards a career, no, not really. But I have other ambitions; other goals which, in the world of business and profits, might not be worth very much. Not that that matters to me, of course. No. What matters is the fact that my ambition is something which I would willingly put my whole heart and soul into achieving. It's to help others break free from these chains. But to be able to fulfill my ambition I need to first break free myself.

And now I can clearly perceive, feel the changes in my mind and my body; changes which, at one time, would have served to appall or frighten me; but which now I embrace with the exuberant joy of a girl who has just reached a goal which she never thought she'd even be able to brush with her fingertips; who has discovered a beautiful place which she did not know existed, but which delights her, nonetheless, with its newfound delights of wonder and mystery.

The other day, about two weeks ago, now, I got my first B bra.
No, I'm no longer an A.

Now I know all too well what sorts of thoughts, feelings this alteration in my bra cup size would have once evoked. Disgust. shame. self-loathing. and most of all , smarting, pulsing fear. My head would have played host to a massive battle drum; a timpani upon which anxiety thrummed its heavy iron drumsticks. And how that timpani would have rolled. Rolled until I could not take it anymore. Rolled until it was all I could do but to turn abruptly backwards; to sprint, in a wild panic, back into the darkness from which I had only just tentatively, warily emerged. Currents of anxiety, submerging me in fear. Back then I was not strong enough. Back then the enlargement of my breasts would have inevitably led to relapse.

But not now.

When I was in M&S and the lady who measured me told me I was a B I nearly could have hugged her then and there. The soaring joy I suddenly felt right then stemmed primarily from two sources: one, the fact that they had grown in itself; and secondly, the simple fact that those feelings that I described above were so conspicuously, blissfully absent. And if felt like I was running through a summer meadow. Soft moss cushioning my feet and my hair flying free like a horse's floating mane. Because at that moment when I put my new bra across my breasts, I realized just how tangible this was; the feeling that is that when you are really, really breaking free. I'm getting there. Slowly, slowly I am breaking free from the mould. ED's mould. I no longer want to be the skinny girl with the beanpole frame, the gaunt, tired face, the stick thin arms and legs. That was who I used to be; that was how ED moulded and shaped me. But no, not anymore. Now I am breaking free and loving the feeling. Now I know how it feels to be able to make strides, and to be able to relish the freedom which comes in doing so.

So now I'll keep on running through the meadow: a meadow which, at the time, is like that of the early spring; so discernibly similar to the field I passed while cycling home from Portlaoise yesterday. Not everything is in full bloom, yet. Summer has not yet come.  But up through the ground push the tender new shoots which, despite their seemingly fragile appearance, conceal a tactile inner strength.
And now I know that I am at the germinating stage of my recovery journey. All I need to do now is keep pushing, to let myself grow ever upwards. To finally let myself bloom and blossom, and shine in the sparkling sun.

The Impossible Dream

Dear Mam,
Im sorry for getting on your nerves last night, for answering back when you criticised me, and then going off to cry afterwards. I'm sorry that I can't take criticism better, that I didn't manage to do what Matt did last weekend. I'm sorry for letting you down again. I promise I'll try better the next time.

Im also sorry for getting so stressed about the job situation and for not having a job by now in the first place. I'm sorry Im no longer going in April. Im sorry you're going to have to put up with me for this bit longer. I'm -

Stop, Em, a scornful voice raps out, and my hands ceases to write upon the little slip of card wedged into the soil of the plant pot.You can't just write....all that. A siimple I'm sorry will suffice, then. Oh but Em, you've bought her flowers countless times before. Don't you think she's going to get sick of it? That it'll be a source of irritation in itself??

But. But I'm upset because she's angry with me and I don't want that.

I want to make amends. Amends for what?? For just - everything. Everything I've ever done and keep on doing. I want - to be - the "perfect" daughter. I don't want her to be angry with me. I can't bear it! Why do I always have to be the inadequate one??...

Without warning, an image passes across my minds eye, a vision of mam and dad discussing my brother's progress in college, and what a "sound lad" he was. I felt like crying. I want them to talk about me like that, I thought, in agony. But no. I bet all they talk about when they discuss me is the fact I leave alot to be desired. No job, no career aspirations, and still moody and weird about her food and goes around with her head stuck firmly in the clouds.

Yes. That was what I wanted all along, I realise now. All along I, in the words of Moana, wished that I could be the perfect daughter. But like Moana was drawn back to the water's edge, time and time again I always drifted back to Ed, or depression, or something that wasn't compatible with my beautiful, perfect ideal.

I wanted everything to be perfect,

as immaculate as a cornflower-blue sky...

They say anorexia is often caused by something embedded within one's darker experiences of childhood. But the point is I had no dark experiences. All I knew, as that flaxen haired little girl, was kindness and affection; of constant expressions of love. Yet despite all that I created a crevice for myself. Come my early teens, I had latched onto this idea that I had to be perfect to be loved. That I had to be immaculate in every way in order to deserve respect, to earn affection, even friendship. So as well as harnessing ED as a way of bringing about what I back then saw as being the perfect body, I rooted out all the possible ways which I believed would enable me to achieve this golden goal of perfection. I was going to study non stop and get the best grades. I was going to go to Trinity College. I was going to be so demure, so polite, so flawless in every aspect of my character. I'd never lose my patience or make a mistake in any area of my life, whether that be personal, academic or social, as to do so would result in the dreaded and most loathsome thing of all: criticism.

But no. Now I realise I have to, that I must let go of that. I'm not perfect. And I never, ever will be. I see myself as infintely flawed, and at the same time , I realise that there's nothing I can do about that. But then why does my parents disapproval affect me so much? Do I need to develop a thicker skin and not let it get to me to such a great extent when we have these stupid, petty, insignificant little rows?

But yet I say this to myself all the time. Stop trying to please them. You're never going to be able to live up to their expectations. You've tried in the past to make them proud and it never worked, really. So stop. Just stop! Can't you see how pointless this is?

But there's this innate and very much childish desire deep inside me to please others, particularly when it comes to my parents. And I know all too well nothing quite feels as good as that feeling of knowing that I have succeeded in pleasing someone. It's like a sweet rush of warmth and serenity, a security. I feel secure and fulfilled having brought a smile to one's face or an approving, satisfied word. But on the opposite extreme, knowing that another person is displeased with me is equatable to having a mountain collapse on my head. Heavy rocks, tumbling down; bearing me down with them to lie broken and bleeding upon the floor. And last night was just one of those instances. Afterward I went upstairs alone and sat crying upon the floor of my room, trying to gather up the scraps of what was left of a perfect, beautiful day which had now been torn ruthlessly apart like a pretty dress ripped apart by jagged thorns. It felt like it was the end of everything.

Now then morning is here; the night has fled. Im sitting in the exact same place as I was yesterday, though the room now looks subtly different. Golden shafts of sunlight pour through the window, illuminating the tiny dust motes floating in the air; these circulate, like miniscule planets in orbit, in lazy circles before my eyes, performing a slow and and graceful dance to which there is no beginning, and no end. The sunlight advances further, touching and irradiating, outlining the frames of the dusty ornaments dispersed across the bookshelf, amplifying the bright colours of the little duvet strewn across my little bed. The room is different, but I still feel the same. I feel bitter and sad. I look at my bed and wish that I just could climb right back into it, pull the snug covers over my head, escape reality by leaping into the infinite oblivion of dreams.

But I realise now that I am essentially trying to live an impossible dream. It's no good trying to be the perfect daughter. I tried that in the past and it never got me anywhere. In fact, it only served to cause me more pain, and others too. I need to let go. Let go of the impossible dream. But to do so is as hard as fighting off sleep when you're already drained and exhausted. It's as tough as going against an instinctive drive or impulse, or urge; because that is what this feels like to me. And like ED I've been this way for as long as I can remember.To let go of the impossible dream seems, in itself, impossible. And Im afraid to do so, primarily more than anything, because I believe deep down that if I stop trying to please other people as much as I currently do, than they will lose all affection for me, will turn away with hardened faces. And there is nothing I fear more, that that. Of losing the people that I love. That is the nightmare from which I cower before and plead to not touch me. I could not bear to lose them. But am I not losing them, anyway? How do I walk the fine line between making others happy, but not in a way which causes me pain and unhappiness?

The Adventure

More than anything, my recovery journey once closely resembled an uphill battle, a struggle.

A vertical climb upon an exposed rock, with nothing to protect me from the the rain that came pouring down, and the harsh, relentless blasts of cold air slapping against my cheeks. It left my hands red raw and freezing, rubbed and scrapaed at the delicate skin there till it took on the texture of harshly abraded sandpaper. In its wake the icy wind dotted my face with beads of icy precipitation, beads which would remain, suspended there, like frozen tear drops halted in mid stream. They complemented the ones which had already escaped the ducts in my eyes.

I used to cry alot, those days.

Sometimes, the battle was so hard, so exhausting, so bitter. And so, so long.

So wonderful, being back here; to walk upon the endless golden sands of West Cork's breathtaking beaches; to let the sea wind stream out my hair and pull insistently at my clothes and skin. A silent message is conveyed, through words that noone else could hear except for me. Let go of them, em. Cast those worries, those fears to the wind. Let them blow away, to be dispersed upon the sea. Let them fall upon the waves like lightly strewn petals from a wilting plant.

And to look out to sea and whisper the recognition that at so many points upon this journey I thought I'd never, ever be able to say.

I'm glad I kept going, back then.
All the tears, all the wounds that tore and bled, all the times I felt like throwing up my hands and crying out, No, no, please stop. This time I cannot go on.

I'm so glad I did. Because it really has been worth it.

And now in many a sense I am like Daisy on her quest upon the beach yesterday. Watching her when we embark into the wilds has always been a source of enormous pleasure to me, though in the past I don't think I was able to identify with her feelings as much as I do now. She's never still, loping from place to place, brown eyes filled with curiosity. She's like the intrepid explorer, setting sail into unchartered waters; embarking into the spectacular rainforest in which no human has ever trod. Every sight and every smell, every sound, ripe for discovery. It's as if the location of our walks represent for her a marvelous kingdom in which weird and wonderful things grow, and it is her task to discover them for herself.

But I remember the time, back then, not so long ago, when I first met my beloved Daisy. And in many respects she was a shadow of the dog I see now.

But I and Daisy have made a journey together, one of discovery and growth, in which we have both struggled and suffered and fought demons that noone else could see. I remember so well the day when I first saw her, a thin, scraggly little thing with a drooping tail and eyes which spoke of untellable loss and suffering.

It was in November, well over a year ago, now; back in 2016 when I had returned to trinity for what was to be my final year of university. And with that return came the usual flood of doubt, the fear, the constant feelings of inferiority. The relentless labelling of my own self as the misfit and the odd one out, who doesn't deserve to be here. And, alongside all of that. Ed was waxing, waxing and spreading himself out, like a malignant fungi snaking up the tender new roots of a developing sapling, choking out all life.

And I knew that I was relapsing. It was as predictable, really, as the falling of the withered leaves still clinging desperately to the cherry blossom's shivering branches; to the wilting of the last remaining summer flowers, now drooping their mottled heads to the ground as if bowing down in surrender to the triumphant, advancing winter. This had happened every autumn of every month everytime I started back at trinity. And try as I might to resist Ed's pull, I was as defenceless as the faded flowers; the brittle leaves. And just like them I began to fade and wilt away.

But then came the day in November when I first met Daisy. And I recall looking into her brown eyes and feeling a sense of heartfelt empathy, an identification. Hey, it's ok, I whispered silently. It's ok. I'm going to take care of you. Whatever your past, whatever you've been through, I'm going to be here for you. I'm going to help you get through this.

Daisy - how she once was

I soon discovered just what the nature of "this" really was. As a result of her abuse, most likely, Daisy had (yes, this is bizarre, but true; dont they always say a dog is just like its owner?) serious, serious issues with eating. Amongst other things. She was painfully shy, startling at her own shadow, and would run a mile at the slightest noise or provocation.

It was a hard and often exasperating road.
But every time I felt like giving up, every time she yet again turned her nose up at  the carefully prepared meals I would do for her; everytime I felt like screaming in frustration when she would simply refuse to come when called by her name. I reminded myself of that one core truth. Remember what's shes been through Em. Don't give up. Don't give up. We can do this. She...she can do this.

And then a tiny voice, no louder than a breath, whispering softly from the very back of my consciousness.

And you can do this, too.

Daisy and Me on the beach this weekend.

So together Daisy and I embarked upon this journey. For Daisy, it was the first time she had set foot upon that road, I am sure; her previous life of abuse had not permitted her that.

And for me, it was the next of many. For so many times had I stepped upon the road only to fall off once again, months along that beaten, grueling track. Many times I had tried and failed. But having Daisy by my side gave me a renewed sense of motivation. We were going to travel this long and bumpy road, together. And we had eachother's backs. If one of us slipped and fell, then the other would help her to gently get back up.

And looking back now, I can clearly see just how much both of us have changed, and grown. How far we have come.

She no longer lingers close to my side when we go for our walks together, as if there are monsters waiting to pounce on her at every turn. She no longer regards her full dog bowl with disinterest, before turning away as if it contained something vile instead of food. No. Now instead she sprints across the rugged terrain of the bog at the speed of a bolting hare, her paws beating against the soft soil of the ground for the fleetest fraction of a second before lifting upwards once again to alternate with another. Now,  where once was only skin and bone and dull hair, there is now powerful, strong muscles and flesh, and a soft, jet black coat which seems to shine like a blackbird's plumage captured in a shaft of sunlight. And oh how far has this beloved friend of mine come. Yet I know she is not quite there, yet. But she is getting close. So close. We went away for the weekend and instead of refusing to eat in this strange, new environment of the apartment (a situation which always presented problems for her in the past), only once did she not finish her dinner during our stay.

I can't say that we are there, just yet. For both of us the road leads on. And at times it may be an uphill battle. But. At times it is also like an adventure, a quest. A quest in which ultimately, if we both persevere, we will, some day, succeed.

And Daisy and I can lope together through that sweet green meadow, of the soft brown soils and dewy, glistening grasses. Trees grow there, their branches laden with blossom and fruit, and dainty flowers of dazzling colours cluster on the ground in glorious thick masses. There are streams of crystal clear water, in which silver minnows dart and spin in endless, exuberant circles, mirroring the freedom which beats in my heart like the wings of a captured bird which has finally escaped from his cage.

And that is the object of my quest, I know. To break free from Ed's cage. And once that quest is over, another adventure begins.
The adventure that is life without Ed.💓

💙💚💛💜

Journey to the Summit

And so I sat in my little writing room with the laptop open and my fingers resting on the keys; poised to type, but today, the words would not quite come. I wanted to blog but the tiny number on the page view statistic page mocked me. Who cares about your stupid work Em? You might as well give up right now.

I know though deep down I will not. I will always be a writer, and I will be drawn back to it even when - as I do, quite frequently - feel disheartened or disillusioned about my work. Even if noone else is really reading, these words mean still alot to me. Releasing pain through my words; channelling out fears and insecurities out onto that exposed white page. It has always been healing for me. And that little number on the page view screen is irrelevant, really; my blog is worth alot more to me than that. What's important is that is the charter of my own recovery journey. And in chronicling that journey I hope that I help - or at least, have helped - many others along the way.

One thing I learnt as an English lit student is never to underestimate the power of writing. Over the years, ever since the first form of writing appeared, the written word has held the power to inspire and excite, to move not only emotions, but people and nations themselves.: to cause both the weak and the strong to look towards change.

And just like Luther writing his controversial pamphlets; and the Gawain-Poet composing his intricate, beautiful poems. I want to leave my mark, too. I want to make people pause and think. More than anything I want through the power of my words to bring about a real change.

So that's my bit of...warbling done for the day💙
Now what I really wanted to talk about is where I currently stand. Where am I in my recovery? Where do I now stand upon the mountain?

Well I'm climbing. I've climbed high enough now to be able to appreciate just something of that beautiful view.
There's fruit trees growing here, at this point upon the mountain. And I'm enabled to actually reach out and pluck their fruit with trembling, tentative hands. The fruit is as wonderful and as tantalisingly sweet as I imagined. But there is a clause, as ever. Only a few fruit trees grow here. The rest remain far up the path, only reachable if I choose, to go on.

I feel something akin to what I felt, all those years ago, on that sunlit day in late April, when the trees bore forth fresh new leaves the colour of polished emerald; and sweet fragrances, delicate fragrances filled the air, scents of moist earth and blossoming flowers; the fragrances which looked toward the early summer. And it was upon that day that I went with mam and dad to Kinnity in my beloved Slieve Blooms; to do a walk which for constituted my first proper ramble since getting my osteoporosis diagnosis. Having received the devastating news which for me, at the time, had had an impact easily equatable to that of a death sentence, I had been forbidden to engage in any form of physical activity until, at the very least, my weight had reached a certain point, and I had been seen by the rheumatologist for his specialist opinion.

But then came that day when the prison gates were flung open and the sanctions were taken away. My soul and my body felt like they had finally been set free.

We climbed to the midway point of the mountain, and I stood upon the sandy skinned rock of the outcrop, and looked down at the magnificence stretched out below me. I wanted to absorb every inch of the scene, down to the very tiniest of details barely visible to my vision.

Hard to believe that it's almost three years ago

that this picture was taken...

And oh, the feeling.

Looking down at how far Id come. It had taken so much out of me to get here. But now I had done it, and was enabled to perceive myself the wonders of that beautiful, beautiful view.

But then I realised with a jolt that we had not reached the summit. And mam and dad were walking on, not upwards, but along the little path that looped around the side of the mountain. As I watched, mam turned and beckoned towards me. Not today, Emmy, she had said gently. Not today. You're not strong enough, yet.

That day I was not strong or ready enough to go further, despite my fervent longing to do so. And in a way, that has how it has been since then, as regards my ongoing recovery journey. Much as I wanted to move onwards, I just was not ready to do so. The inner strength and resilience required was simply not quite there, just yet. But now, in this brand new year, I feel as if I have finally found somewhere in me that inner strength, which will enable me to climb higher, and higher.

The changes I have put into place, so far this year.

• I renewed my efforts to break down just some of the many, many rules that Ed established for me to keep me in half recovery. 
• I'm due to make an appointment with an endrocronoligist that I was referred to by my doctor in trinity. The cost of the appointment is enough to make me want to recoil, but I am going to make myself go. For too long have I ignored my absent periods, clinging to the lingering hope that they would eventually come back by themselves. I'm really hoping the consultant will be able to give me some advice as to how I should address this, as well as her thoughts on my current weight, bmi and diet.
• I've started the frightening but necessary process of tapping into my oldest fears and demons. The bloating, of course; of no longer being the skinny girl, and the compulsion to do x amount of exercise.  
• I'm no longer content to let ED manipulate my thoughts and twist them in a way so that I am constantly filled with loathing and dislike for my body. Rather, I am striving to accept. Accept and respect, and to realise just how valuable my body really is to me. And then maybe in time, I will learn to love. It's a long and hard road ahead but I know that some day I will get there.

What I need to do now..is...

• Gain the rest of the weight that I know I need to; and allow my body to be the healthiest it can be.                                                                                                                                               But this goal is by its own nature one framed by uncertainty. Just how much exactly do I need to gain? What is the "healthy" weight for my body?
• I'd like very much to find a little part-time job; a job which would then allow me to both earn a wage while simultaneously enabling me to focus on myself and my recovery. I'd like very much to commit to therapy. If only though I could find something. I've been looking since I returned home and thus far my efforts have proved fruitless.
• Dismantle the long-established beliefs ED long ago established for me, about myself and my body.
• Continue to break ED's rules and push myself far beyond his boundaries.
• Seriously consider as to what it is that is going to enable me to climb higher than I ever have done so before. 

Kinnity <3