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?

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.

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 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.

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 Fairytale

Beautiful. Oh, so beautiful. That is what the life Ihave led for the past eight months, has been like.

Ever since I left university, really. Ever since that day when I sat that last exam. It was upon that day when I felt the yoke of stress and pressure being lifted from my shoulders - a pressure born entirely out of my fears of failure, and not being good enough - to be replaced by a freedom like nothing I had ever felt before. A freedom so sweet, I wanted to draw and draw on it, like the bee sipping on the lily's delectable nectar. It flowed along every channel of my veins, filling me with a new vitality, a new energy that I had never felt ever before. And this marked for me the beginning of a what could only be described as a sort of fairytale.

Because what happened since that day allowed my life path to take on a sort of fairytale like quality. First off there was this freedom. I was enabled to do the things that I had been unable to do for what felt like a lifetime. I was able to relax again, to do the things I loved again, to laugh and know that my eyes were shining with true and unfeigned joy, unlike before. And then there were the things that happened; the experiences I had. There was Barcelona and the adventures that unfolded for me there. There was the summer at home afterwards, in which I indulged in the sweetness of that freedom and the knowledge that I had overcome my greatest fears in leaving to work abroad. There was going away with my best friend and knowing what it felt like to have a proper girly holiday, no strings attached. I can still feel the buzz of our excitement that first day, still hear the sound of our laughter floating gaily into the slate-grey skies above Scotland.



There was that unforgettable, surreal day when I received my exam results, and realised that I had achieved the degree which I had lost blood and sweat and tears over, for five long and grueling years. And then there was October, upon a damp and seemingly non-descript Thursday, when the rain filled the gaps between the cobbles of Trinity and the cherry blossoms seemed to droop with the weight of the water pressing down upon their leaves. It was upon that day that something happened to me. It was upon that day that a girl fell in love.

From then on the fairytale continued, unfolding and unraveling itself to uncover moments so infinitely beautiful and sublime, that they, truly truly, did not seem real; rather, they seemed totally surreal, even magical. It was just like I had stepped right into the world of my own creation - Morokia; a place where goodness and beauty still prevailed; and in which persistence and bravery, in the face of relentless struggles and suffering, would in the end be rewarded in the most unexpected and beautiful of ways. But most of all, in Morokia existed something I believed for me did not exist in my own world. That being love; for ever since I became ill all those years ago, every part of me believed that there would never come a day when I would meet the one.

Because that one did not exist, I believed. How cpuld anyone ever fall in love with a girl like me - with my history, my past, and my current and ongoing relationship with my clinging, deadly nemesis?

But that's where I was wrong.



However, following a heated discussion yesterday at home, the joy I experienced in such intensity only a few days ago has now rapidly disintegrated into tight, icy fear. Its fingers claw into my brain, scratching and writhing, alongside the words that were exchanged yesterday.

 You need to get a job, Emmy. Not just a short term thing like Lapland, or Barcelona. A real job. You know you can't stay here forever, don't you..?

It feels like...it feels like the fairytale is reaching its end. But that's the thing, of course; life was never meant to be a fairytale in the first place. I just stupidly, so stupidly allowed myself to unconsciously fall into the illusion that it could be like one. And now I feel more afraid than ever before. As afraid as I felt when I stared down the page at those dreaded essay titles. As scared as I felt when I sat in the exam hall and waited for the superintendent to give the signal to open the booklet lying before me on the desk.

I don't want to leave. I dont want this life to end. I dont want to leave behind those I love and care for. No, I don't want the fairytale to end.

But now it seems so fragile, so delicate. That any minute now it will fall and shatter spectacularly into a hundred million jagged, broken fragments.

And it shames me to write these words but to deny it would cause me more shame as I know full well that this is true.

That no, I don't want the fairytale to end. But I know that it has to. I know that somehow I need to learn to survive in a place much scarier than that of the darkened woods or the perilous mountains of the fairytale. Monsters may loom there but they're tangible and can be beaten back with a sword. But the monster in one's head is a different thing. The monster in the head is a more difficult thing to kill.

I am doing well. I am doing more well than I ever have before. But will I be able to keep up the fight when the fairytale ends?

But it is not that fact which upsets me the most; which makes me want to cry into my pillow, which makes me want to curl up in a ball and hide myself away from the world's judging, critical eyes. It is the fact that, unless I find something here, I might have to leave, properly leave, for good, this time. And, in doing so, leave behind all those who I love.💔

And suddenly the road ahead appeard so bleak and frightening...😢

Changing Skies.. xxx

Walking through the snow towards the canteen the other night, a flash of moving light to the east caught my eye. I swiftly glanced upwards, and a tingle passed over my skin. A shooting star, leaping down from the heavens, descending towards the earth in a tiny orb of silver radiance.

But that was only the start of the show. As I watched, transfixed, allowing what I had just seen to sink into my consciousness, I suddenly realised that the whole sky was aglow. Given the clearness of the night sky that particular evening, the Northern Lights were given the opportunity to manifest their full sublimity. Pulsing riverlets of soft, glowing colours - aqua green, predominantly; interspersed with rose pink and mauvey-purple - snaked themselves across the sky's infinite expanses, some of them fading and diminishing as I watched, others growing stronger, throbbing like the artery of a quickening heartbeat. It was minus thirty, but at that moment I was totally oblivious to the cold. All other perceptions fell away and retreated from me as I stood absorbed in my spectating of this wonder.

My experience last night stirred many different sentiments in my breast. Awe at the natural beauty existent in nature, in this frozen wilderness so far from my home in which the aesthetic was palpably present despite its raw harshness. appreciation of the moment of being here and now; terror, at the recognition of my own smallness and insignificance as a human being, in the face of nature's omnipotence. But also there was a feeling of enormous and powerful transition. Standing there, I could physically feel the potency of the change unfolding in the skies above me.

It turned my thoughts toward myself, my own life; toward the changes that had occurred within the own sphere of my existence, this year. In 2017, my life path had passed through so many new and unfamiliar landscapes; had taken me to places in which I had I had been challenged and tested and forced to confront my deepest and most paralysing of fears. There had been moments of sheer terror, of discomfort, of deafening and crippling anxiety. There had been times when it seemed all my hope had receded, like the final few dregs of water in a sun-baked desert. There had been times when I had told myself that I could not physically go on.

But 2017 has been a year of a change. And just like those dancing lights in that breathtaking northern sky, these changes have ultimately, been as exquisite as they have been terrifying.

And I, ultimately and crucially, have been altered and fundamentally changed as a result of all these struggles.

And now I know it is time for me to look forwards towards the new year, and reflect upon the other ways in which I can nurture positive progress and personal change. To look back on the year that seems to have slipped by me now so quickly, like darting troat in a stream. And in doing so to recognise what I have achieved and what I have overcome, and to use that recognition of my own strength to power me forwards now in my ongoing journey up the long and steep mountain.


And that is of what my posts over the new year are going to consist. Looking back and looking forwards. Acknowledging the changes I have already made and reflecting upon the ways in which further changes need to be made.

2018 has the potential to be just like the beautiful Aurora. Bright and beautiful and full of glowing colour. And changing. Ever changing. And this time I know I am ready. I am ready to embrace the change. 💗

2017 💚

I do apologise if some of the details of this are inaccurate...I will have to scoop deep into my memories in order to write these posts ;) and though in many ways last Janaury seems less than a heartbeat ago...simultaneously, it seems like a whole millennium has passed since then. And so much has changed and varied since that very month!

Anyway, time to focus on the task in hand.  💕💕

January

The new year often marks a new beginning for many; a time of potential renewal and change, of new beginnings and fresh starts.

And since Janaury 2017 represented the beginning of what was my eleventh year with my eating disorder, it was with some great earnestness that I regarded the new year and its associations of renewal. And perhaps with some urgency. A new year meant I was another year older. Another year closer to hitting that crucial 30s mark; when peak bone mass would be achieved. Seven years remained for me to get my period and make my own oestrogen, and enable my irreversibly brittle bones to stengthen themselves as much as was possible. For once I hit that tirty mark, there would be no other chances.

Following my relapse in September, I found myself in that familiar state of ambivalence once again. There was that part of me which longed to recover, and was trying to make me turn onto the path of recovery, to commit myself to the painful and difficult process of gaining weight once again. And then there was that part of me which recoiled from doing so. And everytime I made a half-hearted attempt at grasping the reins and taking control of my recovery once again, it wouldn't be long before I found myself wavering, losing grip, and then dropping them onto the ground once again.

But in the early days of 2017 I could feel something builidng up inside me again. Something I had been lacking for what seemed like such a long time.

That being that raw, vehement  determination to beat anorexia; and find that beautiful place in which I could blossom like a new bluebell in a meadow. 💗

Through the Rough Waters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crossroads of Thorns

My head was revolving in slowly spinning circles. I could hear a voice on the end of the phone line, but the voice was distant, echoey, as if I was standing in a long, high tunnel.

Deep inside me floated an immense bubble, a bubble of what could only be described as elation, and excitement. It floated tentatively towards the surface, awaiting to be pricked or even burst with the force born out of exhilaration.

But burst it I did not. That bubble floated, lingered, and then quietly, ever so gently, fell back to the ground, to become no more.

This was the afternoon following the telephone interview that had resulted in me being offered the job in England. Now I think this gives me the opportunity to clarify up things a little here. The past few months I have been applying for jobs right left and centre. The main reason being my Oh-god-I-have-to-please-them mindset had gone into overdrive. I had tossed my old plans of local part time job and therapy aside, committing myself to a new course of action. I was driven. Applying for jobs gave me a buzz from knowing that by doing so I was proving a point to others. Because deep down I know I did not want to enter the working life straight away. But. I was applying because I wanted to prove to everyone I was trying.Then no one can say I'm being lazy and sponging off others. Then noone can say I'm wasting time and money by simply devoting to therapy for the year.

And yet even as I painstakingly filled out application forms, I don't think I really heard the voice of my unconscious mind.Im going to apply for all these but I know I wont get them. I just have to try. Try to get a job and prove to everyone that I'm trying. 

I wish - very much - that I hadn't chosen to do it, and had instead heeded the advice of my readers, urging me to follow my heart and focus on myself.

But no. I had to please others again, didn't I?

But let's get back to the story.

And so, yes, the afternoon after I was offered the Shropshire job for February. I received...another phone call. I had had a Skype interview for this one earlier last week. The job? Santa's Elf. All the way over in authentic Finnish Lapland.

Now, when I saw that job, I knew I had to apply for it. The thought of me, dressed in an elf suit, leaping around singing christmas songs and welcoming rosy-cheeked children to a winter holiday resort was one which I could only describe as magical.

And so I applied for it. And was offered an interview. Still hadn;t really hit me, then, that they were actually, properly considering me. In my head, noone could possibly ever want to hire Emmy Snelgrove. I mean, what was there about me, I had thought, that could possibly make me stand out amongst all the others? They're all talented, they all have skills, experience, qualities which I could only ever attain in my wildest of fantasies.

Why would they employ me?

Useless, dumb, pathetic Emmy Snelgrove.

This was what I whole-heartedly believed. And still do, but, for a different reason. I was offered the job.

And yet, as with the apprenticeship in February, now as looming and as ominous as an overhead raincloud...

I find that I'm so scared to do it.

Santa's Elf. Oh god how did I want that role. But where have the bubbles of excitement gone?? Now all that remains in the fear, and the doubt. Heavier and more crushing than a water logged blanket, pulled right down over my head, encasing me in the darkness. So dark and heavy I want to suffocate. I want to scream and shout and cry like a neglected child. I don't want to go! But I do - just not - not now!! Argh!!!

So many reasons...to go. But then, so many reasons not to.

The concern in mam's eyes when she saw how scared I was. Her gentle words, telling me that if I dont want to go, its ok. You can stay here and be with us for Christmas Emmy. But I dont know how to advise you, because you really wanted that job so much.

The wording of the contract itself, repeating over and over in my head in a monotonous, droning voice. It spoke of the challenges involved in working such a harsh and bitterly cold winter environment, and that employees must ensure that they are physically and mentally able for such challenges.

Well. Am I able?? My weight's ok. Depending on which way you look at it. My bmi's just shy of 18. People tell me I look well. No stranger could look at me and see a girl who has had anorexia for half her life.

But most of all, the one thing that is holding me back, is the fact that to go away for over a month over Christmas would mean that I have hardly any time left at home. Hardly any time left with my family, hardly any time left here in the place which I love. Hardly anytime to prepare myself for February, if I go. Hardly anytime left to focus on myself before I enter the working world.

But I mean...I've been trying and saying for as long as I can remember that I will dedicate myself heart and soul to my recovery. But still I seem to put it off. I need a therapist. I know I do. But I can't afford one.

Decisions.

Oh God I hate decisions.

I feel like I'm standing now at the most dark and hateful of crossroads. Thorns beneath my feet standing where I am now, digging into me. Im bleeding and want to escape the pain, but I dont know where to turn to, now. I don't know which way to go to escape the pain; or whether which way, will just bring me more thorns and pricks in my side.

I just don't know which way to turn.

Commitment

Commitment. It's something that I, several times in my life, have possessed. A dedication; to various different people, different causes. I remained committed to my studies at Trinity for those five difficult years, despite the fluctuating state of my mental and physical well-being and the ferocity of the storm raging inside my head. I committed myself to studying for my Leaving Cert, so driven I was by my dreams of success, and the prospect of Mam and Dad being proud of me. And I steadfastly committed myself to Daisy when she was too scared and afraid to eat, coaxing her to take food from my open hands and making her realise that here, with me, in her new home, she was safe and need not fear the cruel hands which had beaten her, ever again.

Committed. It's something which I tentatively hoped that perhaps I was good at essentially being. But now I find myself struggling to commit to that one other thing; one which, for as long as I can remember, I've let myself brush to the side.

My recovery. I see it now as the equivalent of wandering across a vast, arid desert. In the desert there are mountains which rear up tall and steep, but which at their very tops hold oases. But you have to climb in order to reach those beautiful green spaces. And then, once you're done, you shouldn't just stay there. You look towards the next mountain, mount it, and carry on.

But for so long now I have seen the oases; seen, but never approached. They beckon to me, glittering emerald-bright in the golden rays of the sun, but as I gaze upon them I see the climb, and think of the struggle and the pain inevitably involved in reaching their summits.

And I recoil with fear, and resume on, on along the same flat, featureless, bleak desert path. One which just leads on and on across this endless dry landscape, flanked always by those soaring mountains. Each one of which I see, and smile at wistfully, before shaking my head and moving on.

I never struggled to commit to the loved ones in my life. Or to my studies, to concrete things which I believed would make others happy, or which were helping me to achieve the greater good, which I thought would bring me happiness and success. But recovery is a different ball game. The ball was passed to me long ago in 2014, and since then I've been running with it, running but failing to fling out with my hands and cast the ball into the net to score a goal. I haven't dropped the ball and I dont think I ever will. But neither have I scored, for a long, long time. Sometimes I think I'll play on forever. Forever until I die.

Yesterday I was offered my first real job.

Not a five week thing, no. This was the real, real thing. I would be based in Shropshire and England and would live on site and work six days a week. I would be due to start in February.

I did not expect to be offered this job, by any degree. I just saw it, fantasised about it, and sent off the application without even giving it a second thought.

But then the company got back to me. I had an interview, and was offered the job.

But as soon as I put the phone down I was blinded by hot, stinging tears. I ran into the kitchen, where those two beloved doggy faces peered up at me, piercing me to the very soul with those deep brown eyes. I knelt by their baskets and sobbed and cried until there was no tears left.

Why was I crying?

Because I want that job. It is like the dream job that I always wanted. But I do not want to leave home, leave familiarity. I dont want to leave my mum and dad and my dogs. I dont want to leave Felix and my beautiful garden with the rustling eucalyptus tree.

And I guess, yes, that I am afraid.  For another reason.

Because I know that I'm not recovered.

Because I know there's a good chance I could go backwards again. Barcelona was proof of that.

More than ever this year I wanted to take some time for myself, focus on recovery, focus on myself. It was my first chance after five years to do this.This year would be the year. The year I'd smash ED for good and forever. The year I'd show the world what I was made of, and find myself, find the real Emmy. And then, said the beautiful fantasy in my head, I would be ready and able to take on the world, find the job that I loved, find love, find happiness. All as a healthy, recovered, girl. The girl who fought anorexia, and won. And not just a half recovery. Half recovery isn't recovery. Half recovery is half a life, and that's not what I want, or have spent so long fighting for.

But several things have got in the way of this beautiful ideal. The unintentional pressure placed upon me by others. The reality of the job situation in Laois, where part time jobs, especially for inexperienced people like me, have become something of a rarity. But most of all it was myself that stood as the biggest obstacle in my way. As usual I felt this desperate need to please; to prove to others that I was strong and no longer weak, that I didn't need help, that I was the girl who had "sort of" recovered.

And now I feel as if I have become lost in the desert, lost, to the point at which I haven't the faintest clue of where I'm going or how I'll get there. I want this job. But, I do not want it now. Now I want to be able to commit myself, wholly and completely, to recovery. Yet even as I write those words I know that that, too, is not completely the truth. I'm scared to commit to true recovery. Scared of what others will think, scared of what my body will be like, scared of no longer being with ED.

Strange.

Strange how those two things that I want more than anything else to commit myself too, are simultaneously, what I'm so intensely afraid of.

And I know I only have a limited time to decide.

Decide whether to commit to that job or not.

Decide whether or not to commit to true recovery.

If Only...

If only things had been different.

If only things had not had to change.

If only childhood would stretch out forever,

extending out towards the horizon

like a desert's endless, sweeping sands.



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

Ahead of me loomed the darkness of adolescence.

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

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

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

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

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

If only I had listened.

If only I had been stronger.

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

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

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

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

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

I forgot how it felt to feel alive.

My happiness, shrivelled up,

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





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

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

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

But try I must and keep trying, we will.

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

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

Trying to Find the Real Me...

The bog resembled a reedy, gorse strewn paddy field. Water had collected in large puddles upon the ground; some of which had joined together to resemble miniature lakes and riverlets. Water dripped from the saturated leaves of the trees, drops of dewy moisture glistening like carelessly scattered diamonds upon the ground. Every step I took left a deep, malformed imprint upon the marshy soil; soil which now resembled liquid tar as sodden black peat was turned to runny mud.

Daisy, however, was as enthusiastic and exuberant as ever. If anything, the recent wet spell had served to raise rather than dampen her enthusiasm for our little morning walk. As soon as we left the road onto the mud track, she began to prance and buck like a horse that has been kept in over winter, her long pink tongue flapping out of her mouth like a banner. I reached down and clipped off her lead, and she was off, ears and tail streaming behind her, shooting across the field like an arrow from a bow.

I watched her for a while as I always do, the corners of my mouth involuntarily curling into a smile. But then my smile faded as I glanced down at my stomach, bloated, as usual, from the enormous breakfast I had just had. Benny, seeing my hands fluttering from my sides to rest upon my belly, looked up at me expectantly, thinking he was going to get a treat. But I was too preoccupied to notice. Despondent and discouraged, I walked on, Benny tagging behind me, his tail now hanging limp.

I walked along in a sort of daze, the Voice increasing in volume in my head: an insistent, relentless, scornful voice of malice. Oh look at you, oh look at you! Recovery really is great, isnt it?

I turned sharply as I heard a splashing noise behind me, before letting rip a yelp of exasperation. It was Daisy, and she was as muddy as if she had decided to taken a mudbath. Flecks of mud flew off her as she shook, showering me and Benny with dirty brown droplets of peaty, dark soil.

"Daisy!" I yelled, so loudly that a thrush took flight from the adjacent hawthorn hedge. Daisy's tail dropped instantly, and she cowered on the ground in a gesture of penitent submission.

My anger melted away like warmed ice, replaced instantly by a burning sense of shame and selfhatred. I mean what do you expect, you bitch? She's just a young dog!!!

Tears sprang into my eyes and coursed down my  cheeks. I kneeled in the mud and hugged both of my dogs tightly. Im sorry, I whispered into their soft, sodden fur. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. This isn't me, you know it isn't. Please don't think that was the real me.



Its times like that when I realise just how much that Voice has changed me.

It's not only the irritableness; the speed at which I can snap, suddenly and sharply, at the silliest or most insignificant of provocations. It's also the jealousy, the bitterness. The sense of terrible, deeply rooted wretchedness.

This hit me today when I saw mam preparing afternoon snacksfor Daddy and my brother. I had frozen where I was standing to stare, heat rising into my cheeks, turning them to flaming spots of crimson. My own snack was sitting on the counter, awaiting to be toasted and buttered. Prepared in that painful, agonising manner with which I always prepare my own food. Butter and peanut butter would be applied with tediously meticulous carefulness. The numbers of the teaspoons I was taking from the jar or the tub would be resounding through my head, repeating themselves over and over and over.

That's not fair. A lump wedged itself within my throat. That's not fair. Why doesn't she offer to do me anything? Does she not know how easier it would be for me if someone else prepared this for once?

I turned away, not wanting her to see the pain in my eyes. fleeing to the conservatory, I turned my face to the garden, trying to find solace in the dainty, paper thin leaves of the blossom tree.

Jealousy. I...I hate myself, for it, so, so much. And I never, at one time, would have thought that I was capable of feeling like that. But I know, that I am. That incident today was only one drop in the ocean. I know that there's been many, many more.

Surely that jealous, irritable, bitter girl who I have become is not the real me.

The Real Me...is someone else. That's what I want to believe.



The Real Me was a happy girl. The Real Me was a girl who always had a smile upon her face and always greeted the morning with joy and gratefulness in her heart. The Real Me didnt care about how many potatoes she had on her plate, or how many minutes she would walk with her family for their afternoon stroll in the woodlands. The Real Me was not surly and irritable over stupid, trivial things that really aren't worth even getting upset about.

The Real Me would have respected her body.

The Real Me would have done alot of things differently, to that obsessive, short-tempered, depressed girl I have become.

But.

There is still time to find her.

The Real Emmy, the Real Me. A girl who is happy and healthy, inside and out.

The last time I couldn't accept it

But this time I have to fight harder.

This is where the hardest part of battle 

is going to begin ...

Leaving behind the scared little girl...

Mam was cleaning in the kitchen, her strong, brown hands scrubbing vigorously at the stains upon the smooth paneled cupboards. I approached tentatively, my hands curling awkwardly at my sides, feet dragging reluctantly upon the tiles. my hope, flickering like a weak candle flame in a draughty, cold church. 

Seeing me, she stopped, glancing at me enquiringly. "What's the matter, Em?" she said.

My heart leaped into my throat; like a lithe young rabbit jumping towards the stars. The longed for, yet intensely dreaded words. I wanted to pour out everything then - but the moment flitted away from me, flecks of dust being blown away by the wind, passing through my groping fingers. And besides. I had - a question, not a full blown account of how much I yearned for her help, her support in what I was doing.

"I wanted to ask you a favour, Mam," I said. She smiled, straightened, flicked the dishcloth she was holding into the sink.I suppressed the urge to fling my arms around her; to release all of the aching troubles of my heart.

No, Em.

Get to the point.

"I was wondering mam," i began, my voice barely above a whisper. "I wrote myself a new meal plan amounting to about 3500-4000 cals. I was wondering if...if you could look at it for me..?"  My voice trailed off at the end; I had lowered my gaze to the floor as I spoke. But at the final few words I snapped my head up again. I had to see  and witness the expression on her face.

Something flickered across her eyes like the shadow of a bat flitting across the bright surface of the moon. I searched those beloved, dark green eyes desperately, with the fitful, desperate hope of the last survivor clinging to the wave-washed rocks.

"Ok, Em," she said, reluctantly, wearily. My heart felt like it had been cleft in two by a butcher's cleaver. I quickly turned away from her, my own eyes filling with a rush of salty tears. Pathetic, I know: but I had so badly, so intensely longer to hear, to see, that ready willingness to help me, which she had so readily exhibited in a former time, a former place. That being, of course, in the days of my hospital admission; when everything had been so centred on little Emmy's recovery.

But things, this time, are very, very different.

As I turned and went back up the stairs, painful, fleeting images began to dance across my mind's eye. Images of that bitter, bitter time: but embedded in the thick soil of that bitterness there lay a sweetness which now I longed for more than anything in the whole wide world.

That being the open support, and encouragement, of my parents, who at the time  had constantly and consistently advocated every single aspect of my recovery. Mam had sat with me through my most difficult meals and had held my hand everytime I would break down in tears over my bloated, distended stomach. Daddy would often ask me as to how I was coping with the meal plan, and offer gentle words of encouragement whenever we sat together and ate our spreaded scones together at half past 4. They were constantly checking in on me, asking me how I was doing. Every little goal I met, every single step of progress I took: each and every one of them, they would acknowledge with a hug or a smile,

But now all of that is gone.

Now...things are different. Mam and Dad aren't involved anymore. Now it is just me. Me, and a flimsy piece of paper upon which is inscirbed the meal plan that I wrote up for myself. Me and my broken spirit and my cracked heart.

And I know - I know, with every piece of soul - that I am the one who is to blame.

Because I know that they are beginning to give up. All those countless tears and countless promises, that this time, it will be different, Mam. I wont slip up again, I promise. All those countless ruined meals and failed attemots at "true" recovery. Is it any wonder that they have given up on this? Is it any wonder that - whenever I ask for thier direct support - they appear detached, disinterested, distant? Is it any wonder that they think, here we go, again. Emmy says she's going to recover.

I know that Mam and Dad think that this place at which I am now at - this semi-recovered state at which the sufferer is not "severely", dangerously sick, but yet, still sick -is the furthest I am ever going to reach in my recovery. I know this. I see it in their eyes and in their faces. I read it in Mam's face when I asked her that question after breakfast today. I hear it in Daddy's voice when he tells me, in the weary, resigned voice of the defeated soldier, to stop picking at my food and start eating like a "normal person". I sense it in that uncomfortable, loud silence that fills the space between us every time I try to express how much I am trying, or to make them aware of the battle I am continuing to fight, every hour of every day.

Mam and Dad have laid down their weapons.

They think the battle is over; won, by ED.

But this is where I have to prove them wrong.

This is where I have to show them that the Emmy they knew and loved was not destroyed, forever.

I have to prove to them that their little girl is not lost. Well no; let me rephrase that sentence. That their daughter is not lost. Because the truth is I am no longer a little girl. I am a young woman with an eating disorder, who still has, in some ways, the body of a girl. A young woman who has decided to take this fight into her own hands. Because she realises that she no longer can depend on her parents to manage her recovery for her. It's her who has to do the doing. It's her who has to be the strong one, now. For all the love that I bear for them, and always, always will. For all that they ever did for me, and continue to, every day.

Because no girl has known as much love as I have had, growing up here in the sweet leafy surroundings of my beautiful childhood home. And I know that my parents care about me. And that nothing in the world will make them happier..if I choose to recover.

And so I fight on. I look at my meal plan and feel a tiny surge of pride as I think to myself, well done, Emmy. Because I am sticking to it. I am doing it. I am getting stronger by the day. This second relapse has proven to me I am my own source of my greatest ever strength. I am doing it alone but I know that I am not alone. I know there are people in this world rooting for me. Willing me to move on; and leave that sick, frightened, thin little girl behind.

Where the sea meets the rockface....

There's not much to be said for my experience at university. From the very beginning, Trinity became a place in which I felt like a tiny, non-descript, little white pebble; a pebble lying upon a beach of shining, glistening gemstones. Those gemstones never lose their sparkle: they are remarkable, flawless, perfect in every way. And then there is me, the dull, insignificant, pale little rock; not wanting to be noticed while simultaneously yearning for someone to see its pain.When the sea rolls in, the gemstones keep their ground; the pebble, on the other hand, is torn away and dashed haplessly against the rocks.

Tossing and turning, I try to make sense of my situation. Well, I am alive. I know that much. Though it's true to say tht life with an eating disorder is really just like...living beneath a cold, oh, so ice-cold sea. Because noone can see your pain; in here. Hidden beneath those swirling waters, its easy for people to forget that you are still there.

Deep in the water, your emotions become numbed. Hard to see, hard to feel, hard to breathe.

Four more months. That's how long I have left at Trinity. Every day I pray my silent little prayer. Dear God, please, just let me pass. To me these final few months will be like traversing a cliff face of black rocks; black rocks with cruel, tooth like, razor sharp edges. So much rests, it seems, on me getting through them successfully; of reaching that shining, golden prize lying in wait at the other side. That being? A degree. A piece of paper that will certify that I am a Trinity graduate. But what if I don't make it through? What happens if this - the final, final term of the four year degree which has caused me such endless heartbreak and unhappiness - is destined to be the one in which I will trip, and fall?

A failure to me, as I see it, wil destroy me. It will tear my heart and rip me into pieces; break me, as a body is broken when it falls upon those sharp, pitiless rocks.

And then there is this sea. So cold, so deep, so desolate. And those gemstones twinkle all around me, so near, but yet, so impossible distant from me. They are proper Trinity students, a Voice in my head mocks. and you will never be one of them.

You are going to fail and then that will be the end..of everything.



I have to try..try to get out of here.

But what...what is the more important thing..?

To get out of this sea? The sea of my eating disorder?
Or to sacrifice everything in order to traverse those rocks..?

Because that what I have been doing essentially, for the past four, five years I have been in Trinity. Letting recovery fall by the wayside; prioritising college, college work, over everything - including gaining or maintaining an acceptable weight; and all the various other aspects of my recovery effort. The reasons for me doing so are both manifold and complex. But the primary one is that which I know all to well that to dedicate myself 100% to recovery would mean that my college work would inevitably suffer.

This being, of course, because of my fear of the effects of a true recovery effort upon my work ability, my concentration. I will give you an example. Today I awoke and thought that as part of my morning intake I would make myself a cheese and mushroom omelette. The image swelled in front of my eyes, tantalising, tempting. But then, I shook my head, pushing it away. Because I knew what would happen if I did dare to do such a thing: my anxiety would shoot through the roof; I would dwell upon it for the whole entire morning, the Voice would explode through my head, labelling me with no end of obscenities.

And thus rendering any atempt of concentration literally impossible.

But can I afford to really..well, postpone a true recovery effort, now...?

Can I afford to wait for another few months ?

But I am scared and so afraid. The chasms between the rocks loom below me, dark and threatening, insidiously menacing. If I were to fall into them, so much would be lost, it seems. The degree. Thousands upon thousands of wasted college fees. The pride and delight of my parents and family. That security of being the girl who passed. No. If I fall onto the rocks now, I will be forever branded as the girl who tried, and failed.

But...

I only have one body, right?

Can I afford...can I afford to put it at risk? Sure, four months is four months, but I mean...

How do I know how damaged it is right now?



And so the battle rages on between the rocks and the sea.

Put college first Emmy. It's only for a few months, like. And then you can recover, if you want. But I know you don't really want to. I know you want to remain with me. 

No. I want to...I want to recover. Right here, right now. I can't go on like this. I need to regain the weight; yes, the final few kilo, and beyond...! 

No, you selfish b****! How dare you? How COULD you?! You're willing to sacrifice all the money your family threw at your degree, all because you just want to leave the skinny girl behind? That's what you want, is it? You REALLY want to stop being the just-a-bit-too-thin girl? You want to end this, right here? I will not let you, Em. We're in this together, you and me. Emmy and ED, hidden beneath the sea, stuck together forever, like a limpet attached to a pebble wedged in the sand.

If only I - that pebble - had the courage to wrench that limpet from my back. But I am desperate, so, so desperate, to cross those rearing rocks. And as the days flicker past me, that burning question rages across every passage of my mind. What do I do here. Please, someone tell me what to do.

To emerge from the ice cold sea..
Or to dedicate, for that time that is left...
everything I have into scaling those terrible, terrible rocks which I know, if I fall upon them now,
will tear me apart like thorns ripping through paper.