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.

No More Tears

And once again I drifted off topic, a tendency which I always seem to succumb to when blogging, I do apologise for that. 💗

What I really wanted to reflect upon in my last post (and ermm...well, that post before that originally, too, actually) was the factors which played a role in my transition from relapse to recovery once again. Because it's true to say that I was trapped, that I felt like I was drowning. That the world was moving on, without me, hurrying along in its usual bustling, breathless pace, one which I could not keep up with if I tried.

Better to stay where I was, enmeshed within that enormous hole that ED had dug for me. He then coaxed me into it and left me there for dead. Just like he always does, and has done in the past. Countless times of tripping and falling, tripping and falling. And I remember thinking last year, When I was back at Trinity and sitting in a lecture. The words cast upon the board glowed luminously in the sickly fluorescent light, but I could only stare at them, seeing nothing and understanding even less. What was she talking about...? American Noir Fiction, of course. Focus, Emmy, focus. But no sooner had I weakly attempted to fix my brain on a certain point, that very point seemed to collapse, to disintegrate into nothingness. Leaving me suspended again, forever floating in an endless, deathly void.

Is this really it?
Is this really all life has to offer me?

I was so exhausted of it all.

The endless sways of failed recovery, and then relapse. The rows with mam over how I'd lost weight; over how I never changed anything, despite all my claims that Iwas trying so hard to get better. All those bitter words and accusations which cut me right to to the bone. The feelings of worthlessness, utter uselessness, and above all, the guilt. Guilt over being the failure daughter, guilt over being the cause of so much discord and unhappiness.

And there was a point when I very almost gave up; gave up this long and lonely fight which I had been engaged in for so long, I could not remember what it really felt like; to be able to lay down my weapons.

But something changed that month that enabled me to turn things around. To pick up my weapons once again and grasp their handles with renewed vigour and strength. To ignite the few sparks of defieance shooting upwards in my breast, causing them to amplify into palpable, red-hot flames.

Ed, this is war..

Fly free, Emmy.

It's time for you to fly free.

Janauary/February, 2017.

It wasn't just by chance that the tiny spark was initially kindled. A few things happened, looking back at it now, which caused that flame to take light. It's fairly possible that I'm forgetting something here, but these are the reasons that stick out in my mind. And the first is the one which is very much still of relevance to me now: the fact that, at that time of the year when goals are made and potential changes are recognised, it was long, long past time for me to change and change for good. Or to let this year be the same once again, spent in ED's arms. Arms which cling and fondle and grope in all the wrong places. Arms which pinch and won't let go when you struggle to break away.

It's a deadly embrace; more so more because it is so seductive. You're seduced as well as repulsed and horrified, but because of that seduction it's so hard to pull yourself away from it. Like a reluctant lover trying weakly to withdraw from the bed. So much of you is screaming in defiance, telling you to remain where you are, to not move. It's easy and more pleasurable if you stay right here with me, Emmy.

But we all know that courting ED is a act that might bring one benefits, for a certain time, anyway. But then the marks of abuse begin to show.

For too long had I subjected myself to that abuse without fight. Right until that day in May almost four years ago. And since then I had fought back, but looking back now I know it was not with every fibre of my heart and soul and mind. I want that to be my new goal for 2018. To give my recovery every single thing I have got. 

I want to be a changed girl in 2018...

The closest I ever got to being "healthy".

And another moment of  beauty came to me, drifted timidly into my line of vision as if it were nothing of consequence. But yet despite its modesty I was transfixed, in both the eyes and the heart. Last night, following a spell of heavy rain, the temperature had dropped below freezing, meaning that the bog was like something of a frozen sponge, still soft and swampy but yet with thin sheets of ice lining the ground. And, on every quivering branch and twig of the dew-laden trees, suspended droplets of frozen rainwater; hanging like glassy tears poised on the rim of an eyelid. It was as if the trees had donned their own jewellery in order to honour the beauty of this crystal clear morning.

And, as I have been inclined to do of late, it seems, I found myself pausing to gaze upon the delicate beauty of this scene; and, in doing so, reflect upon the ways in which an indiscernible similarity could be made with my own life path. And it came to me almost instantly: No more tears, Em. It was time to let my sadness, my melancholy go. Not to force it out; or to hold back the tears if, for whatever treason, they come - as for all we know, that never works - but to actively work on it, to make a conscious effort to drive those clouds away, and work on being positive, more confident. To foster belief in myself that I am able to do this, and to let go of all the fears and anxieties that, for so long, have held me back, kept me hanging in the same place, much like the frozen raindrops on the branches.

So here's what I'm going to let go in moving forward, in this brand new year, of hope and promise and change.

Let go of the fear of eating too much, because I know, all to well, I still need to gain a bit more weight.
Let go of the fear of the stomach distension. It's normal and expected in recovery and will only get better if I don't restrict and keep on eating well.
Let go of the belief that it's "okay" that I'm still technically a bit underweight. A bit underweight is not good enough for someone who has had anorexia for as long as I have. My body is too fragile to be eternally locked in a state of even slight malnutrition. No. It's time to say goodbye to that part of me that says I have to be "skinny Emmy" for eternity. I know now what is best for my body and I am going to take active measures in order to achieve it.💕

Breaking the Law

The Gospel according to ED.

You shalt not have more than you normally do.
You shalt not say thank you for your food, or that you are hungry or that a food looks delicious.
You shalt not do any less exercise than xx amount.

etc. etc. etc.

signed, by Emmy, and also signed and authorised; by ED.



For as long as I can remember, I have lived by certain laws, certain rules. Certain codes of behaviour that I went out of my way to obey, at all times. And God forbid if I ever dared to disobey them. The repercussions of even contemplating doing so were always positively hideous.

Ed would do more than kick up a little fuss. Oh no, it was always alot worse than that. He would scream and shout and tear at me with cruel sharp talons. The channels of my brain would suddenly be overflowing with garbled, tormenting comments. You are fat. Eating that will make you fatter. Oh my God Em!! What are you doing??!! You are going to blow up! Don't you dare even consider it, girl!! 

It was sort of like the equivalent of being imprisoned in a high walled jail. Every failed attempt at escape would be met with torture, and threats of further barbarity if resistance did not cease. For a very long time I simply stopped trying to object. ED would nod, suitably satisfied, as his captive became weaker and more submissive with every passing year. She became too weak and too withdrawn to even think about escaping, again. The walls of the prison stretched higher and ever higher.

So that's why I suppose, upon that day three years ago, when I first made that first crucial, tentative step, onto the road up the mountain which we all know as recovery. That the anxiety, that horrible, screeching Voice, as loud and as piercing as a siren that can not be terminated, was enough to cause me to crumple to my knees with agony, if I had let it. But. There was something there that was just as strong as the anxiety. That being the pain of the guilt I had felt, when I had looked into Mam's eyes and told her I had been lying to her, for so long, about everything.

And that guilt and pain then were enough to drive me forward. Along with the love that I felt for my Mam, and the knowledge that if for nothing else, I could do this, for her.

Years later and I'm a different girl to the one I was those three years ago. A different girl, but in some ways, unchanged. And one of those ways in which I have remained the same is that I still abide by ED's many rules.

To fling wide the gates

and escape from Ed's prison,

once represented, for me, an impossible dream...

And as I walked tentatively forwards in recovery - choosing to gain weight, being admitted to hospital; allowing myself to tell those I loved that I had an eating disorder - I in time began to recognise and question ED's rules; and then - slowly but surely - I began to disobey them. It was not easy. By God, it was hard. But I knew that I had to do it. Whenever I found myself faltering and afraid, I closed my eyes and thought back to that day, the feel of Mam's warm hand on my shoulder. And I used that to drive me on. Because I knew that Mam would forever blame herself, if I died.



But now back to the half-recovered ED girl. Yes, she has broken many, many of ED's rules. She is no longer in medical danger. Some might think that she is recovered.

But she isn't.

Rather, this girl has a good long way to go, yet. And still many of ED's rules are still in place, and fully intact. She's escaped Ed's gaol but the oppressor is following her trial, coming after her. He steals in front of her and throws bricks directly across her footpath, blocks that collaborate to form obstructive grey walls and block the winding road up the steep sided mountain.

She knows that if she is to have any chance of ascending that mountain, she is going to have to break and destroy every single one of those walls.

But how?

Well I have some tools. These are my weapons of choice for chipping away at the cracks in ED's wall. I will use my own hammer and chisel to prise away the building blocks of ED's walls.

If I could leap straight over them, I would. But this time instead of wringing my hands and hanging my head in defeat, telling myself that I can't get over them...

Instead I approach them with my tools at the ready. Ready to start working on these walls. It's going to require time and patience and effort, and strength. And bravery. Yes, because the gaoler that initially constructed these walls is a fucking scary thing.



But.

I've figured that I have all these things.

I've figured that I've got what it takes. I've figured that I am capable of breaking the Law, and making my escape from custody.

ED's custody.

And I've got something now that I did not have before. Something that has given me extra strength. I'm doing this for me, as well as for mam and all those I love. That crucial, crucial recognition; the actual acknowledgement of which  I have been unable to make for so, so long.

For now I have began to realise that the real Emmy wants to escape from custody, too.

She's now willing and ready to break ED's Law.

What it would be to be flying free,
like those bubbles..💙

ED's rules...

• You can only have the amount set by me of any particular food. 
• At breakfast: no more than 100 ml of milk, less than 30 g of cheese, etc. And minimise everything as much as possible.
• Always take the smallest/thinnest part of everything. The thinnest slice of bread off the sliced pan. The smallest potatoes in the serving bowl. The smallest crumpet in the packet. etc. etc.
• At dinner if I think you have too much on your plate then put some back in the serving dish when noone is looking.
• You must always pick bits or crusts of bread, potatoes, etc.

The rules extend to how I act around food and how I speak about food too. For example.

• You're not allowed to say that looks lovely I'm hungry thanks Mam that was really nice, I enjoyed that etc.
• When you eat you always have to appear as if it's a chore. Show total lack of interest in what you're eating and push the food around the plate. 
• You also have to eat as slowly as possible and cut food into tiny pieces.
• You're forbidden to clean your plate, your bowl, your mug. You have to always leave something behind.

And to top it all off...some more general rules..

• I have to do at least xx amount of exercise a day, and the more the better.
• At all costs you must not gain anymore weight.

I could go on. And on. And on. Because Ed's rules are endless so long as I remain with him.

What Ed says...
I have to do the opposite.

It's time to break His Law.

From Darkness into Light..

My hands trembled as I held out the blue answer booklet. The invigilator, having not noticed my shaking fingers, took it from me with a smile, and moved on.

I sat there dazed, not quite able to comprehend the feelings that surged in my breast, crashing against one another like the white tipped waves of the ocean.

I had done it.

I was here.

My time at Trinity was finally, finally over.

And so I stepped out of the stuffy, artificially lit exam hall, stepped out from that crowded space in which the dozens upon dozens of  excited human voices intermingled and wove into one another to make one confused, violent cacophony of sound. Stepped right out of there, towards the square of yellow light which led into the outside world. 

Another world, to me. I felt as if I was making both a literal and figurative transition, from one place to another.

Into a world of sweet and beautiful freedom; a world in which my sorrows would melt away like chips of sharp ice being thawed by the delicate kiss of the spring sun. 

I was free. I had done it. I had finished my college degree.

And it did not matter that my exam hadn't gone brilliantly, and that I had ran out of time on the question involving a discussion of two of the course texts' lack of human empathy. It did not matter that, when I had entered that very same exam hall two days before to sit my first exam, it had suddenly hit me, like a stinging blow to the face, that I knew not a soul in that place. I had felt like Robert Neville at the end of the I am Legend novel, looking out at the face of the brave new world and feeling totally, utterly isolated. That was what I had felt like. I don't belong here.

But now it did not matter.

Now, I no longer cared.

For I was free. Free to be me, to forge a new and beautiful future for myself, far separated from the pain and struggles of the past. I was stepping out from the darkness of my loneliness, stepping from that crowded world - a world in which I had been surrounded by people, but had always, no matter how many faces I could see, felt so, so alone, like a lonely, plain-feathered songbird struggling to fly amongst a flock of beautiful swans.

I was leaving behind the loneliness, the sadness, the pain of unbelonging. The constant feelings of not being good enough, that my existence was worthless to everyone and everything.

I was leaving behind that world, that day.

And so I stepped into the light.

And so I ran through the streets of Dublin towards my train, my hair streaming behind like wild uncurling banner, the late afternoon sunshine casting dapples of light upon my face as I passed beneath trees laden with the sweet green foliage of May. People turned to stare at me in surprise as I ran past, their curious gazes following me as I dodged between them like a minnow between reeds.  I suppose what they saw was sort-of  young looking girl, with a full, glowing face, purple runners on her feet, a black skirt with tiny roses, a white top which left her arms and shoulders bare and exposed to the sun. 

But over the past few months, that girl became wiser.

She learned quite a few new things. Things that weren't just related to the degree she was trying so desperately to achieve.

She learned things about herself, her world. Things about life. And ultimately things about her recovery.

She learned that she did have the strength to do this.

She learned to care less about what others think, and to just be herself.

She learned that she was strong and capable. That she has what it takes to achieve her dreams and goals.

She learned to take care of herself.

She learned that she didn't have to be the thin, skinny girl, whose potential to be loved by other is wholly dependent on the severity of her illness.

She learned to be the Real, True Emmy.

She learned that she could leave the thin, scared little girl behind.

And I think it was these vital lessons which got that girl through her exams, to the light beyond. It was these lessons which filled her heart with joy as soon as she stepped into that light and felt the warmth upon her face, felt the heavy, dragging weights being  lifted from her shoulders. It was these lessons that lightened her steps, that day she ran through the streets of Dublin, towards Heuston, and home. It was these lessons which taught her that she could be free. Free to break free from the crippling fetters of loneliness, pain, self-doubt. And to render ED ever weaker.

And though she still has some way to go, she learned that she will see this battle out to the very, very end.

There can only be two possible outcomes to this fight.

I can choose to let ED destroy me...or I can choose to destroy ED, and win the pure sweet freedom that true recovery inevitably brings.

And I've learnt now that I can make the right choice.

For it is time for me to be free, in heart, body and soul.💕

And then, the petals opened...

It didn't come to me as I had first thought it would: that day, all those years ago, when I took my first tentative step along the road leading up the steep, steep mountain.

It came slowly, gradually, softly. As gentle as a soft summer breeze; one which drifts its way across the heathery slopes of the mountains; rustling tender green shoots and saplings, delicately touching flower and leaf and stem.

It didn't come to me with the speed of a lightning bolt, hurtling down out of a cloudless sky to charge me with the fiery strength of the sun.

It didn't crash into me like a wave, hurtling against the stony outcrops of the windswept cliff face; showering me with foamy droplets of resilience; cleansing me, wholly and completely, of my fears of the unknown deep.

But it came.



It came to me like the tentative first few rays of the early morning sun of the dawn, rays which run their probing fingers gently over the contours of the land.

It came to me like the delicate first touch of spring: a touch which loosens the frozen soil of the ground, gently touching and caressing, calling to the buried seeds to awaken and grow.

That something being a true willingness to recover: a tangible, perceptible, vibrant burning to break free from the illness that became such an innate and seemingly inseparable part of me. It's more than just a feeling. It is a pulse that I can feel deep within me, right to the very depths of the innermost part of my soul. It bludgeons like a beautiful heartbeat, thrumming and pulsating like the rhythmic hoofbeats of a galloping wild horse.

It's more than just a flimsy little wish; floating, like a wispy strip of fine, filmy cloth; across the landscape of my dreams and whimsical fantasies: perceived only in my mind's eye, never to be seen, or felt, and impossible to realise.

But no, I want to recover. Right here, right now: regardless of the fear, regardless of the anxiety; regardless of the discomfort and uncertainty which I know will inevitably be involved. Because the previous times I know that I was never quite strong enough. The flower did grow, but it did not grow enough; for its roots became entangled in the tough, rope-like stems of the choking weeds which have so long pinned it down to the earth. Weeds that wrap their thick tendrils around that flower's tender, newly forming stalks; encircling the buds and pressing them closed, forcing that flower to bend backwards into the ground.

An ED is like that weed.

Stifling and twisting and suffocating, depriving of life and light. Enmeshing us in its vines; its vice like grip; a grip of pain and despair and wretchedness, a grip equatable to that of the predator's jaws upon the throat of its helpless, bleeding victim,

A grasp of death.

And for so long I remained locked within the cold, hard grasp of ED, entrapped and unable to grow.

Because the petals are opening and the newly formed buds are reaching towards the glorious sun. And like that sun casts its rays upon the land, illuminating it in the dusky glow of early morning, so too did the realization dawn upon me; gradually and gently, softly and slowly.

That now my own sun is rising...
That now, my petals are opening, and blossoming.
Now it is time for me to grow,
and to become the person that I truly want to be. 💜

And I know that this renewed sense of motivation does not mean that there will be no more tough times ahead. But. It is a feeling I have not felt for such a long, long time: and I can tell you now that that feeling is so, so incredible.

I realise now that there is no limit to my strength. That I can be as brave as a lioness, streaking after her prey: or as strong and as powerful as an eagle taking flight; beating her snowy wings together to soar and glide across the endless stretches of the soaring, white-tipped mountains of her home.

I feel like that eagle now. An eagle who has so long been a captive with a fetter upon her leg, tying her down.

Each time she tried to raise her wings and fly, that chain would drag at her, pulling her back down to the familiar, hated perch to which she had remained for so so long.

And so all escape seemed so impossible....

until the day she realised that she did have the power to break free from her chains.

It is time for me to soar to new heights. It is time for me to spread my wings and fly away from the clutches of Ed, forever. It is time for me to reach out my petals and grow. Now, not later. Right here, right now, right today. I will not put recovery off till college is over. I have made my decision, now. I can feel the palpability of my new strength coursing through my wings.

I write this post with tears of gratitude in my eyes. Gratitude for the amazing people in my life - they might or night not know who they are! - and to you, my readers..all of you, who have helped me so, so much in my battle against the illness which very nearly destroyed me and all that I loved, that I hold dear. You helped me to see the light and reach out to it with renewed strength in my soul; you helped me to find the path which I have sought and fallen away from so many, many times over the four years.You helped me to step onto that path with the knowledge in my heart that it is the right thing to do: that no, recovery is not something to be casually parceled and put away to one side, to a time when I am ready for it...because no, that time will never come. None of us will ever be truly ready to recover. There is no such thing as that perfect time. As a dear friend told me today, tomorrow is the first day of the rest of our lives. 

Now is the time to recover. Now is the time to give this battle our 100% of every minute of every day. Nothing is more important or as valuable than a healthy, functioning body. Getting a college degree should never be prioritised over health; for health, ultimately, is a precious and infinitely fragile thing.

 And you all helped me to see that, and realise it: and here, I just want to thank you; thank you with every part of my heart and my soul.💙

From the Web of Deceit, flew that butterfly...xxx

Looking back on the past 10 years of my life, I recognise fully the extent to which I was entrapped within a stealthily spun web.

A web made of lies and manipulation and deceit. A web in which I had got myself so hopelessly enmeshed; a web from which there appeared to be no escape.

And within that web, a cruel little voice spoke to me. A voice which I still hear even now; a voice as soft and as cruelly ensnaring as the pale silk of a spider.

You see the thing is, Em. When you reach this healthy weight that Mam has set as your target..well, you are going to have to drastically reduce your intake again. Otherwise, you are just going to be huge.

No more toast and no more banana and custards. No more dipping into the peanut butter jar with a spoon. No more snacks and no more treats and eating six times a day. You might even need to start thinking about dieting...

Lies, lies, and yet, more lies.



Now I suppose it is a measure of how stronger I have become over the past few months; that I recognise these lies for what they are. Pure. Bull. shit. Since when did ED tell me anything that wasn't untrue? And even now, when I am near enough weight restored. Of course, this doesn't mean he is prepared to swallow his ceaseless fabrications.

He is nothing but a cruel, sly, and utterly merciless manipulator....

And for too long, have I believed, and obeyed, his lies.

So here is my plan. To keep sticking to my meal plan every day until I reach my target weight. And then, what will happen next? Will I immediately restrict my intake, just as Ed tells me to do?

But I was deceived before and I will notbe deceived again. For this girl has become wiser, and stronger. I am no longer the vulnerable, innocent little fly, which has been drawn, weak and defenseless, into the spider's web. No. Now I am a butterfly, a butterfly which is ready to spread its wings and fly. My wings are no longer clipped: this time, I will fly free.

And so when I reach my target weight...I aim to eat more or less the same as what I have been eating for the past few months.

Of course, I plan to make things alot less rigid - it's true to say I have been quite strict with adhering to my eating plan over the past few weeks and months -  but in terms of snacks and meals, I am going to keep things roughly the same. Because I like eating well, and regularly. And anyway, I know deep down, that just because this target weight is healthy, it doesn't necessarily mean that it is the weight at which is most healthy for my body. So I am going to be steadfast, and fight on. I'm hoping that in time I will know what is right and healthy for me. I think one of the best indicators I will have is my periods, which, at present, are still conspicuously absent.

Because I want to be free and to be healthy; to be strong. I want to be able to chase Benny across emerald green fields of soft summer grasses; leap wildly across the streams and brooks of the hills with their fringes of ox-eye daisies and lustrous clusters of marigolds. I want to be able to stand at the top of the great mountains and gaze upon the view stretching out in front of me. I want to be able to dance and travel and to learn and speak and feel. I want to be able to go out there, to see the world in all its sublimity, to feel its pulsating, ceaseless beat. To experience, to live, to love. To die knowing that I lived a life that I loved, and that behind me I left a legacy, a legacy that proved to others like me that there is always, always hope. xxxxx

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.

Entrapment...

Not far now. The one sentence which I keep repeating to myself, over and over again: sometimes spoken outloud, softly so no one else can hear; sometimes over and over in my head, so that the three words echo and reverberate through the tunnels and passages of my mind.

I am referring, of course, to college. It's the final stretch now of what has proven, once again, to be a difficult and painful year for me. The essays are all done, now. All that remains are the exams, which i now lok towards with fear, dread, and apprehension. But behind all that fear and the doubt and the uncertainty, there burns this one small, barely distinguishable, but fervent light. I fix that light in my mind's eye, now, protecting it as I would a fragile little candle with its tiny, flickering flame.

Summer. The season of warmth and colour and sunlight. The season of long, sun-soaked days of sublimity and cloudless skies, when the blazing orb of the sun casts down its rays of gold and liquid amber to caress the shimmering face of the earth. The season, that can be seen to revive each and every part of that world. The idyllic country garden or the pebbly, windswept beach; the lonely  mountain top or the bustling city. The season....the season of freedom.

But I chose not to go away this summer. Mam and Dad will be going to Mallorca again; but this time, I will not be going with them. And it is not because I do not want to. With every inch of my heart and soul I wish that I too will be sitting in the car with them, with my battered sunhat and faded flipflops and mucky runners wrapped up in an unsightly plastic bag. But when mam and dad were arranging the holiday and finalising their decision about whether theywere going or not, I was in the depths of my relapse. When Mam asked me that anticipated, dreadful question, on that bleak rainy day last October - that being, of course, if I would like to come with them to our long-established favourite holiday spot - my immediate reaction was one in which I experienced an assortment painful, conflicted feelings. Sadness and longing, fear, anxiety, desperation. But, most of all, the sharp, throbbing ache of regret.

I desperately yearned to reach out to her, then. To make her realise…just how badly, I wanted to go with them. Mallorca. Beautiful, untainted, unforgettable  Mallorca: that little gem of an island set in the sapphire blue waters of the Mediterranean . But I can no longer hear that picturesque island’s name, without feeling the hot and bitter tears of remorse fill my eyes; without reflecting, with a heavy heart, upon the extent to which that single word evokes for me a series of painful and memories. Memories of tears and anger and pain, where there should have only been joy and laughter and happiness. Of the chill, the chill that had encased my heart in ice and stole the glow of pure, blissful happiness from my cheeks ; a chill which into even the glorious radiance of that Mediterranean sun could not eradicate; or even touch. Because every single time that I went to Mallorca, i know that Ed was there with me. With me, every time I sat with my family in our favourite restaurant in the little square, whispering into my ear and filling my head with its lies. Lies, of what was going to happen to me; if I dared to order that meal which sounded so scrumptious; if I dared to even attempt to break through the unfathomable spell of its fear. With me, each and every time I would slip off my top and shorts and immerse my body in the cool, rippling waters of the pool outside the villa. I was its ever obedient subject, its most unquestioning and piteously compliant servant, completely and helplessly subordinated to the force of its will and the strength of its malevolent power. One lap would swiftly lead to another; each stroke, becoming faster and more vigorous with every breath that I managed to take. On and on I would go, surging through that water until my lungs felt like they were going to burst and I would be left gasping and floundering like a fish entrapped in a net. 

I hope with all my heart though that this summer will be long and golden and beautiful. But there is something which I want to...I want to feel this summer, which I have never, for the past ten summers of my life, have been permitted I want this Summer to be different...this time, I want something to change.

Because yesterday I turned twenty two and I realise that I don't want to remain entrapped, no more. I have been entrapped for almost half of my life... This Summer I want to be free.

i was not free, the first time i went to Mallorca, all those years ago in 2009. Neither was I when I returned back to that special island, several years later in 2014. Then,in 2015, last year, I went back to Mallorca for the third time, with a new, "recovered", body..

2014- start of my recovery journey

 2014

2015

And even though people would look at me, and think, there's a happy, healthy, "normal" girl...
They couldn't see the storm that raged deep inside...

They couldn't see the chains that bound my heart and soul and mind.
For then, even then...I was anything but free.

No matter where I turned, there was no escaping you...

...Because the thing that I was running from, was a Voice, in my very own head.

And so, it's true to say that I had a setback. Probably my worst setback since I started fighting my recovery, in terms of how I felt deep inside and my apparent inability to resist the anorexic Voice. And it was all sort of, unconscious, in a way. I didnt even seem properly aware of what was going on, on what I was doing every single day. The habits which I thought I had forever cast away, had returned again in force; becoming habitual, automatic, instinctive,  ; the "rules" ED had long ago slyly made for me, bending me to its will and forcing them to obey them...they had established themselves once again, as if they had never really ever been broken.

ED was becoming ever stronger, I, ever weaker. The days flitted past, and not one of them passed upon which I did not restrict or follow the soft, snarling dictations of the horrible little voice which had taken over my mind and brain. I could feel my willpower being ruthlessly crushed, like a daisy being trampled beneath the callous heel of some cruel, malignant beast, intent upon the little flower's eternal destruction. Trampled, to be scattered like dust upon the wind.

And so, there I was. Stuck in a hole again. And then I bbecame more aware of the familiar telltale signs. How secretive I had become, for one thing. Little rituals which I would go out of my way to conceal from everybody; and my snappy, angry response if any of my loved ones ever broached the subject of my weight. And college...college. i had gone back to Trinity: that had been my decision, after so much painful deliberation, so many tears, so many sleepless nights when I would sit up late just...thinking, thinking until my head felt as if it were about to split in too. I had wished in a way that it would. I just wanted the thoughts, the noise to stop. I just wanted that voice to be silenced.

The Voice that told me I was useless, worthless, a waste of time, a burden to everyone I loved, the most stupid and pathetic girl who had ever lived.

But the Voice was a thing that seemed to intent upon touching, tainting, corrupting ever branch, every little thread of my life...

And so I went back - or should that be, we went back - Me, and my little Voice. And I made a solemn promise to myself, to not let things get on top of me, ever again. That no matter what happened, I would be stronger than my inner demons - I would not allow myself to slip back, one bit. But another thing that the Voice apparently seems to excel in, is making up, oh-so-plausible excuses which crowd in on one another in the brain, throwing a dark and obscuring shadow over my hopes and plans and good intentions; quashing my resistance, making me believe that what it spoke was final and true.

It follows me everywhere. It first came to me so long ago, that I can't even remember, what it was like to not have my little voice. It crouched upon my shoulder in my early days at secondary school, whsipering in my ear that I needed to make myself skinnier in order for the other girls to like me. It travelled with me to America, to england, to spain, to Mallorca. Every single holiday that I had, my Voice tagged along too, not wanting to be left behind; not allowing me to leave it behind. And it came with me to college, too, of course; and it was there where my Little Voice was enabled to grow and fester, like a small but deathly fungus sporing and spreading itself across the flowerbed where the tiny, weak little flowers struggle desperately to grow. But the flowers are choked and suffocated; the fungus is too powerful, too strong. There is nothing small, nothing little about the potential deadliness of that fungus. Just like there was not about my own Little Voice.

Another Dean Clinic appointment, of Tuesday. I havent been back there, for a whole three months. Three months, since I was discharged from their care...I was so , so happy, and I truly believed that I was free, forever...free from the control and rigidness of the hospital, and free, so blissfully, happily free, from my Little Voice.

But I was never free, and I know that, now.

Knowing that once again I allowed the Little Voice to be stronger than me; that once again, I allowed it to hold and control my mind and my heart and all my actions, is enough to cause me untellable shame, and pain, and self-disgust. But that's not going to get me anywhere. So I will be strong and brave, and go along on Tuesday. I know for a fact, after all, that accepting you are struggling. Doing just that, is being strong. Doing just that, takes enormous courage, and strength, and wilpower. We have to all remember, there is no shame in asking for help, and that asking for help does not make us weak. Asking for help takes enormous strength.

I am going to go along, no matter how scary, how hard, how difficult and painful going through those familiar doors is going to be. Because I know that I need t move forward, but I can't just do this alone.

I hope that they will give me the help and guidance that I need...to support myself, to manage my own recovery, by my own. And to give me the courage and the strength that I need, to lay aside the oppressive chains of that Little Voice which has stayed with me for so, so long, and then, to walk away from it, towards the beauty of the horizon. To be free.

I will not look back.

The courage to be Me...

It was the day which I thought might never, ever come...

But here I am, sitting at home with my hot choc and laptop, a real, true smile upon my face as I write to you, a smile that reaches my eyes and makes dimples in my cheeks as I feel as if I could literally burst with happiness, excitement, and joy, at this precise moment in time.

Because yesterday, the 16th of July, 2015, I left the hospital for the last time..I am no longer a patient. I am free.

It took alot of courage for me to go in yesterday and tell the staff - the dedicated team on the ward who have cared for me, supported me, and essentially managed my recovery for the past six months - that I felt that the time had come for me to move on.

I know that my journey to recovery continues on from here, and that i am not fully recovered from my eating disorder. But today, for what feels like the first time in an age, I experienced a sense of freedom. I am no longer a patient. I no longer have to travel up and down to a hospital several times a week. I no longer have to go into the environment where I was first received professional treatment for my eating disorder. I am now free to move forward, leave the past behind, and forge myself a new future without an ed...

And I made it, I got through it all, despite all the odds, the uncertainties, the tears and the fear and the constant anxiety. I spent the first half of 2015 being in and out of a mental services hospital, both as an inpatient and an daypatient. And I survived; it didn't kill me, it only made me stronger. And though it was one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do in my whole life - both mentally, and physically - I am glad that I did it, that I forced myself into that strange, unfamiliar environment, an environment which might as well have been a prison to me, despite the gaily coloured walls, the posters and pictures with their smiley faces and motivational quotes, the softness of the carpets and the warmth of the dormitories. I am glad that I went to the doctor that day, all those month ago, now, back in October, over the foot injury which would change my life forever; the injury which I now see as representing so much more than a normal, ordinary injury. No..I now see that that very foot sprain as being my body's cry for help. It was a message from my body to myself, that it could no longer keep up this battle, and that, if I did not act now,

And so, I am no longer a patient. I am free from the restrictions, the responsibilities, the obligations that I was forced to observe, being a patient of an eating disorder ward...

Now, all I have to do, is free myself, wholly and completely, from my greatest ever nemesis...the demon which placed its hand upon my shoulder all those years ago when I was only a young girl of thirteen. I was as helpless as the butterfly which has flown into a spider's web. Tricked into thinking that what I had just found - and this thing, this "friend" who had suddenly caught hold of me with a gentle, but vice-like grip - was something which would keep me safe, which would help me, which would give me everything I had ever wanted, which would make everything perfect, for me. But ED continued to spin its endless web of lies and deceit, continued to enmesh me tighter and tighter in its trap from which there appeared to be no escape. And from that day on, I was no longer free...ever since that day when I first felt its touch: so gentle, or so it seemed; almost like silk...but as cold and as heartless as death itself. No longer free to fly, I became a shadow of the girl that I once was, an empty, hollow shell.

But that was the past. Now is the time we take courage and break though those snares, spread our wings - our beautiful, free wings - and fly again...

I have began to find the courage to be me...not to be someone else...not to be the girl with the ED...

I know now, though, that with my new found freedom from the hospital ward, there is a new onus on me. I know, I have tofight harder than ever against ED, and take care of myself, so that I become the person that I want to be. Emmy. A baker, dog-walker, hiker, animal-fanatic, nature-enthusiast, cook, writer, blogger, medievalist, scarf-knitter,self-confessed chocaholic (or should that be...HOT chocoaholic?? Or maybe even both! ;) ). A girl who struggled, but survived, and RECOVERED, from her ED, and went on to help and inspire others to do the same!! <3 xxx