Breaking the Mould

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not now.

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

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

The Adventure

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

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

I used to cry alot, those days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daisy - how she once was

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

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

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

And you can do this, too.

Daisy and Me on the beach this weekend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

💙💚💛💜

Straight lines

Several months have passed since I passed through the gates of Trinity, for what was the final, final time.

Several months have passed since I sat my last exam and signed off on the final chapter, the chapter of what had been, for me, an exhausting and painful journey through university.

And even since then my lifepath has been far from a dreamy stroll through a garden of summer flowers. I faced the frightening unknown of what awaited me in Spain, along with the fundamental but overwhelming decision of what path I would follow now, now that my time at Trinity was over.

Because it's true to say that I was fighting my college battle, with no particular destination or purpose in mind. I just knew I had to get through it, no matter what. I wasn't entirely sure what the light at the end of the tunnel actually would mean for me; or if, there even was, a light.



At times it felt as if there was no way out of this mess that I had created for myself. For it was me, after all, who chosen to come to Trinity. It was me who had eagerly sought out, and accepted, this course. And it was me who was now paying for my mistake, and for my rash, hasty decision.

But this year - 2017 - was one in which the path up the mountain touched upon some crucial, fundamental milestones; milestones which I never before even dreamt that I would lay eyes upon, let alone reach out to with disbelieving, trembling fingers. I got my degree at Trinity. I left the comforting surroundings of my home to work in Catalonia for five weeks, thrusting myself into the unknown with both fear and enormous bravery merging themselves within my heart. And, once again, I committed myself to that gruelling, relentlessly difficult climb: the climb up the mountain, of recovery. It was January after Christmas when I took full control over my relapse again, and since then I donned the attire of the recovery warrior, bravely approaching food and eating every day with bravery and determination and persistence.

But now it seems like I am on auto-pilot; that my progress, having reached a certain point, is just continuing on, without the slightest incline or decrease. I eat every day but my eating has become very rigid. I eat the same good amounts every day but I never once even contemplate increasing them. I do the same exercise, eat the same foods, at the same exact times. I feel like a computer programmed to do the exact same thing without the slightest alteration or adjustment.

The reason I don't change my current course of actions is, of course, the uncertainty. I don't know whether I should really try to put on a bit more weight. I don't know what my natural body realy looks like, what other people will say and think, and, of course, how I will deal with it. I don't know what I want to do with my life, what course, what job, what career, what future. And most of all I don't know if I will cope. Cope with that body, that life, that work schedule. Cope with anything.

But now I realise it's time to stop, and take a deep breath.

Auto-pilot mode has been beneficial to me, up to this very point, when all was required of me was to keep on eating the set amounts which I knew were enabling me to gain weight and restore my health. But now, it's time to readdress and rethink. To reflect on now exactly where I stand. And to put into practice all the plans and goals which I set for myself, but did not manage to achieve.

But it is, as with many things in life, the beginning of doing just that, which is the hardest part.

Take breakfast this morning for example. As I sat there at the table I thought to myself, well, Em. Are you going to do it? Eat even MORE than you usually would? And so filled with resolve I went to the bread packet and took out the very top slice, the crust - thicker than any other piece of that loaf - and put it into the toaster, pressing it firmly down with determination propelling my fingers. But then as I waited, the Voice began to murmur, again. It whispered about the profile picture that I had just uploaded to Facebook, exactly a week ago this day. You looked ok in that. your stomach was not so bloated as it is now. And you know Em what will happen if you were to eat that extra bit of bread. You know how fat and ugly it will look, and you know just as well how I'm going to give you a hard time over it.

I thought about the resultant disgust, the resultant anxiety, which I would inevitably come up against if I were to do the thing that minutes ago I had felt so resolute about. How I would spend the entire morning being preooccupied with my tummy, convinced - regardless of whether it was actually true or not - that my tummy had suddenly ballooned up more than ever, all because I ate just that one bit more of toast. (Out of all the foods I eat it's true to say that bread products make me the most bloated.) I shook my head, angrily trying to push away the doubt which was clutching to me tight. But Ed had forced open a crack in my resolve, a crack which was now widening to form a chasm, a chasm which I knew I was going to fall into. And once down there, he would have won. And won he did.

I found myself cutting up that lovely thick crust into about eight different pieces, three or two of which I put miserably to one side. I did not want to do it, but ED forced my hand.And wedged so tightly in that stifling chasm I didn't have the means to resist him.

So auto pilot Emily walks on with a heavy heart. Walks on in a steady straight line which is as flat and as featureless as the dullest, most unbroken landscape. The landscape of half recovery, I guess. I could wander and wander and wander forever here, always going along that same old line.

 Or I could choose...to go up, to go forwards. Starting right here, right now. Today. And I suppose a start would be for me to press publish on this post, now, and go and do the thing I've been avoiding now for a couple of months at least. That being to go and check the weight on my scales, and face up to the reality of whether or not I am still underweight.

With hope in your heart...you'll never walk alone... xxx

So having reflected on this alot over the course of the past few days, I've identified a number of factors which are essentially hindering me from attaining full recovery - both in physical and mental terms - from my eating disorder.

These are, as outlined further in previous posts...

1. Obsession with/compulsion to exercise.
2. Loneliness and isolation leading to depression.
3. My relationship with food as it is now. Because, if I was being really, really honest. Do I eat as a normal person does? No restriction, no holding back, no food rules whatsoever?                      

No, of course I do not. I still hold back when I should not. I still have fears about eating too much. I still have set amounts that I do not permit myself to exceed; certain rules which I go out of my way to follow. For example...this morning. I had my usual handful of nuts. I wanted, having finished them, to dip back into the bag of cashews and take out a few more. But I couldn't make myself do it. Same kind of situation last night: I made myself a gorgeous omelette with my favourite roasted baby potatoes and lots of veggies on side. Having munched on a few of these potatoes, relishing their golden crispiness, I realised that I really did want to have a few more. But no. I could not do it. One might lead to another, the voice whispered hurriedly, intent on warding the desire to have more safely away.

4. Uncertainty as to how and what to eat. Being unable to distinguish what is being sensible as regard food choices and what is essentially giving in to my eating disorder. Same goes for the exercise really: I'm unable to figure out what's healthy and ok for me right now.

5. And a sneaking reluctance - yes, I am going to admit it right now, as this is a very important one. To allow my body to reach its healthy set point, whatever that is. I'm at the minimum healthy bmi now, and I am, needless to say, terrified at the thought of gaining any more weight.

6. Feeling very much at the mercy of the constant deluges of the media and the internet about on obesity and healthy eating. It's everywhere and impossible to escape, and very, very hard to ignore.
And Im not saying one should ignore it. The trick is I guess to be aware of it, but not to be so heavily influenced by it to the extent you're sent down the path of self-destruction again. But how to balance healthy eating with non-restriction? It's something I've never managed to do successfully before; everytime I tried to do so resulted in me just losing weight and restricting all over again.

So first things first..the loneliness, something I reflected on in a post from last week.

And before I begin, I just wanted to offer my sincere thanks, to everyone who posted on here and gave me advice regarding my loneliness and my struggles with extreme hunger. Your comments really meant alot to me and I am forever grateful to you💗💙💕

So this is my plan - the first, of many!! 😊- to overcome this old demon which has been haunting me for so long. And too long. I want 2017 to be the year of the change. A change in my world and a change in my life. A change in both my soul and body. The change that will allow me to reach that beautiful pinnacle of full recovery.

Because it's true to say that permanent feelings of isolation and depression served to form a most effective pithole in my struggle along the path of recovery. In a way, it all acted as a vicious cycle. Giving into ED in the first place made me isolate myself, which then in turn made me depressed, and more inclined to give into my eating disorder. This was because I convinced myself that life was not worth living, and that I might as well starve myself. Disturbingly, I know, looking back now, I also clung to ED in the hope that thinness would help me make more friends. Completely distorted thinking, yes, I know. I can see it all now, as clear and as sharp as a glassy glacier, as certainly as the firmness of the ground beneath my feet.

Why are you eating? There's no point in eating. You're a loner, Em. Noone else in the world cares about you.

But now I have the strength to shake my head, whereas before I would just have nodded in submission. I would have pushed all thoughts of eating away from me, ignoring my stomach's desperate, wretched groans.

But I ignored every signal that my body tried to give me. Back then, I was too depressed and broken to eat. I would creep away with my books and papers, staring at endless sentences and words that were as meaningless to me as the intricate patterns of a Chinese puzzle, seeing, but not reading, or understanding. All I could feel was the hunger and that cold, bitter sense of being alone.

But now it is a different picture.

I no longer see not eating as a way to comfort myself in my loneliness. Neither do I see loneliness as a reason not to recover. In fact, quite the opposite.

I know that if I recover - mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually - I will be able to bring about the change that I desire. And the change has already begun, unfolding in shimmering, golden waves around me, trickling its warmth into my heart and very soul.

So HERE is my plan - informed by my own ideas on how to tackle this loneliness, and of course those of you, my wonderful readers! 😁💚


1. One of the first things that I know I really NEED to start doing is...dispense with the whole I am going to bother her by messaging her line of thinking.                                                            

I do this ALL of the time. With everyone. It doesn't matter if that person is someone who I KNOW could never be irritated simply because I decided to shoot her a message. It doesn't matter if that person is one of my closest friends; or even, my own mam. It's a familiar scenario: I write someone a little message on Facebook, asking them how they are and would they like to meet up for catch up sometime. Then, a few hours later - particularly if the person doesn't respond, or has seen the message but doesn't answer straightaway - I get anxious, fidgety, even afraid.I open up my laptop again, check the Facebook in a state of fretful agitation, clinging to the desperate hope that there will be a little red number above the messenger symbol at the top of the screen. Oh, God, why did I do it? I would groan, furious with myself. Now look at what you've done, you idiot! You just had to send her another stupid pathetic message, didn't you? No wonder she hasn't answered. Why would anyone want to spend time with the likes of you?                                                                                                       So it's true to say situations like this in the past have not done much to help me tackle my loneliness. In recent months, I've often put off messaging other people consequently. The loneliness was enough to kill me, but the fear of "upsetting" others was more than I could possibly bear. I convinced myself, at the time, that stewing in my own isolation was more preferable. 

                          

But now I am saying in a voice as firm as the steel-hard determination building itself up deep inside me. Now it is time to stop thinking like this. To realise that I'm not being pathetic and weak by messaging others..no, in fact, quite the opposite. It's a similar kind of thing, really, in choosing whether to believe ED or not when he's telling you that you're weak and lazy in choosing to eat more and exercise less during weight restoration. But no. You are being the exact opposite. By choosing to defy the Voice and to nourish yourself and rest your body...you are being not weak, but STRONG. And I know that the same could be said for me, in overcoming my demons and developing a sense of my own-self worth.

2.And so with this in mind, I am going to try my utmost best to not hold back from messaging people, trying to organise meet ups and catch ups, or to suggest doing something fun together. I admit, I know I will find this pretty hard. I know there's a very good chance people won't just decide to start answering my messages, just because I've decided to be a bit more resolute and confident in myself. It's true, I can't change that side of things. But there is one thing in my power, to change. That being the way I choose to respond to those no responses.                        

Instead of just jumping to the automatic conclusion that she doesn't care or she's annoyed with me, I know I need to stop taking people's silences so much to heart, and accept that the person in question is just busy. Because I mean, honestly, who would get annoyed simply for getting a message from someone? I know that the people I know would not. As with all my anxieties revolving round food and weight gain, the fear is, really and truly, all just in our heads.

3.I know that it's also important that I work on distracting myself from the loneliness when I feel as if it has become overwhelming. Instead of sitting around letting myself be consumed by the thoughts when they creep in, I know that I'd be much better off actively doing something. Whether that be going out for a blast with my furry friends, ringing my Gran, writing notes for Morokia, or digging out my cocoa stained apron. 

4.Get more involved in stuff in my community. And I'm pleased to say I've made inroads with this: a couple of weeks ago, I commenced my volunteering with my local Brownie (Girl Guides) Unit in Portlaoise. Unfortunately, they're finished for the summer now, but they start up again in September.

5.After the summer, I am hoping to be able to start doing some proper therapy, both for the anorexia and the depression. I know deep down that if I really want to achieve full and complete recovery, I am going to need to seek some professional help. Much as I hate to admit it, my consultant was right all along (as she was about everything!!😡)

6.And last, but by no means least; there is something that I really wanted to tell you about, and which might well need an entire blog post to itself so that I can give you the full details. It's something which, I know, has the potential to be something of a life-changing experience for me, and which I hope with all my heart will help me to further conquer my loneliness and change me, and my outlook on life, for the better.                                                                          

That being....the Ganache Elf finally has a job. A job?? Yes, of sorts. Just a temporary thing - five weeks this July - in the sun-soaked city known as Barcelona....😲

The title of this post is taken from the lyrics of the most beautiful little song that my dear friend Ange quoted in her post comment...thank you mo chroí 💚💜💛

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.💕

From the little seed grew a strong, beautiful flower...

And from such small, tiny steps... a long, incredible journey is made. 💖

My journey began some time ago. But I remember it as if it were yesterday. I remember the tears that I cried as Mam looked at me, the pain and denial in her own dark green eyes striking daggers of steel into my own weary, bleeding heart.

I remember the sense of self-hatred, the shame. The guilt that felt like a lead weight in my chest; threatening to pull me into the unfathomable abyss of despair. The recognition which we both felt, then. That I had anorexia.

But yet, most of all, I remember the warmth of my mother's arms as she enveloped me in a hug, holding me like she would have cradled me as a baby, when I was so young and innocent and untainted by the world's cruel pressures: when I knew nothing - and cared for nothing more - but the palpability of that love which is a mother's love for her child. The scent of Nivea lotion, wafting gently off her skin; entering my nostrils to soothe my thrashing heart. The words that she whispered to me, gently and softly as if I were no more than a baby girl still. It's ok, Emmy. We are going to get through this. After 8 long years, we finally knew it all. That I had anorexia, and had been actively starving myself, on and off, ever since that fatal first day at secondary school, at the tender age of twelve years.

And that's when my journey began. 

Upon that day a tiny seed was planted  inside me. A tiny, minute, miniscule seed: so small and weak and non-descript; so easily, blown away by the wind. But then that seed took root and started to grow. Now pulsing and vibrant, it pushed its tender shoots toward the weak sunlight above.

So many times though the growth of that brave seed was hampered, impeded, damaged. There were storms which bore rain, soaking the tiny seed's weak, newly developing tendrils, forcing them to curl backwards and turn back into the soil. There were weeds which wrapped themselves around the budding stem, pinning it down to the ground with their cruel, unyielding tentacles. There was cold and ice and jail, beating down upon that tiny, vulnerable shoot.

But yet, despite all the odds...that seed did not stop growing.

Recovery is just like that. There will be countless storms; countless setbacks. But know now - as I do - that you are capable of anything. That there is no limit to your strength, your courage, your journey.

I am now approximately 1.2 kg off the "minimum" healthy weight. (But as I said before I do not want this to be my target at which I feel as if I should make myself "stop" at.) As I've mentioned before, this relapse wasn't as severe as that which I fell into last year - I lost about 3 kg, at the most - but I'm not going to write it off as not being a relapse, because I know myself well enough to know that, before I checked myself short - I was falling back into some very, very bad habits and behaviours; and had thoroughly slipped into the mindset of oh, the little, the better. So no: it was a relapse. But I - through the help and support of my readers, my Mam, my Gran and a couple of my dearest and closest friends - managed to get myself firmly back on the right track. Leaving up the mountain, and not back down. And now I feel as if I am finally, finally climbing, rather than just inching my way slowly along the rocks and crevices. No. This time I can be the stronger one. Like the mountain lion which prowls the stony mountain path. Though the way is steep and drop beneath her immense, she is not afraid to fall. As she believes now in her own strength; her perseverance. And with courage in her heart she leaps and scrambles her way up the slope.

Now today I made a plan. A plan to further help me to get to the summit of this mountain. As I mentioned above I'm..well, almost there, sort of, if you are judging recovery from a purely physical perspective. Point is though that I'm not. I want to do this thing right this time. As I outlined before in several blog posts...throughout my weight gain, I found it too hard, too scary to make a concrete reduction of my exercise. Everytime I attempted to reduce it, I panicked. The anxiety hit me like a punch in the face; I found myself tottering, and, in the rush and fear of the moment, I gave in. So much pleasure, but yet, so much sadness and bitterness and frustration. Because I WANTED to do the weight gain this time the proper way. As in, eat 3000 + cals, and consciously reduce my walking/bike rides. The eating I have been managing, sort of: I don't calorie count, but I've been sticking to the meal plan which I was on when in hospital, with my own little alterations, of course ;) . And just over the past couple of days I upped it a little more by adding in another toast at breakfast (yay!! 😊) and some extra protein at lunch or breakfast.

But the exercise..ahh, that remained a stumbling block. But today I sat down here at my kitchen table, and instead of spending an hour doing college work, I said screw that for today I'm going to fix my mind on something which is going to benefit my health and my future. What did I do? Well, I made a plan, of sorts: a little day plan for a typical day at home/college (even though college is nearly over...four more weeks of lectures, and then study weeks and exams....)of how I am going to allot my time in order to successfully manipulate ED and reduce my exercise, for now. This is something I've been meaning to do for some time now, but which I kept on putting off - but no, no longer. And yeah, I know I don't have that much left to gain, technically. But. Who said the minimum is my target? ED? Well, since when was that fecker ever right about anything??

So no. I'm going to keep on going. I'll post my "plan" in my next post, and also my meal plan with all the increases (I hope that doesn't make it too boring for everyone 😞) and if anyone has any comments or feedback or suggestions about either I would be so, so grateful 💓. Now. Before I go. I just wanted to extend my thanks to a number of people who inspired me to write this post. To my two dear friends who have helped me so, so much with their advice and support over the past few weeks (I hope they know who they are 💚) and also all of YOU - you, my readers. Your comments and helpful advice means so, so much to me. I want to thank you with every piece of my heart. It's because of you all that I have made it this far in my journey. Thank you, thank you, thank you. And now I am going to go outside with Benny and Daisy, my camera in one hand. Not for a powerwalk, no: not for now. A gentle 30 minute stroll in the golden sunlight of the sweet new morning.

For today I feel truly happy to be alive...

And that I allowed my seed to grow, that day.

Grow, to become a flower...💚

One of the March daffodils growing in my garden. <3 xxx

She's had her Weetabix in the morning...interpreting Weetabix as a dual reminder of how far I have come, and the importance of continuing to move forward..

Ah, yes. The robust, ever convenient, milk-soaking Weetabix: something which has been something of a breakfast staple of mine, long before even the latter years of my pre-eating disorder days. In fact I have a distinct recollection of eating hot, soggy Weetabix out of a Thomas the Tank Engine bowl, back in my old house at Crabble Close in England while whinging at my sister for having taken my Sylvanian Caravan without my permission.

And so throughout my childhood, I was still munching my way through many a bowl of Weetabix; without care or thought, as I did many other foods. and then, at the age of 12, I entered the world of my eating disorder, and things changed, drastically. As it did with everything else, my eating disorder changed my relationship with this particular food: profoundly, and, unsurprisingly, more than just a little negatively.

Since Weetabix was a food which I very much enjoyed - it has always constituted one of my favourite breakfast cereals -  as well as being something which I generally found rather filling at whatever time of day I chose to eat it, I began to "use" it in a way which fitted in with my eating disorder's rigid system of oppression and restriction.

And I have memories - ones which are just as vivid as that one of the four-year-old me, scoffing a hot, soggy weetabix-resembling concoction at the kitchen table in Crabble Close - of such situations: me, Weetabix, Ed.

Of myself, standing in the ransackle kitchen of the house I rented in second year of college, leaning against the peeling wallpaper next to the fridge with a smile plastered to my face and my arms folded tightly against my breast, conversing gaily with the nursing student girls who I shared with. An outer semblance of a chirpy, chatty little English student, who was just that little bit smaller than the average 20 year old, perhaps. But on the inside, I was churning, tossing, plummeting like a stone spinning in slowly revolving circles over the side of a great ravine. My cheeks burned like two mini furnaces side by side; my palms and underarms itched uncontrollably. Don't let them see, don't let them see. Please, make them go away; please, please, please please make them go...

You'd be forgiven for thinking I'd just committed some sort of crime.I hadn't, of course. But there was something there in that kitchen that I did not want them to see.

There was a weetabix box sitting innocently in the corner of the room.

I had just been in the process of moving towards the fridge to get out my 1 litre bottle of milk i had bought from tesco express that morning - skimmed, of course - when the three student nurses had all come in together, voicing loudly how hungry they were after a long and very taxing day at college. I stood there, trying desperately to conceal how pathetically anxious I was, praying miserably that they would not notice what I was doing - or rather, perhaps, what I was not doing; that being, cooking for myself a "proper" evening meal of some description.

But no. Instead of bags of potatoes or rice, instead of a packet of fish or chicken or a package of noodles or bread - instead, on the counter, there was a box of Weetabix.  

Having starved myself for most of the day, I had just been about to break my "fast" for the evening, by having a couple of weetabix with a little sugar and some milk.My daily allowance. I would savour every mouthful of that bowl. Because it was one of the meagre few things that I would eat in a day.

That was about three years ago now.

And, since then, I have come far. Those days of rigid restriction and starvation are gone, long gone.

Now, I enjoy Weetabix most days - at breakfast, or at snack time, and not as a " meal " as I used to.
I enjoy 2 - not 1 - at breakfast time usually; sometimes with ice cold milk to retain its delightful crispy wheatiness; othertimes, with milk warmed until hot in the microwave, resulting in a delightful, warming bowl of a weetabix-like porridge.

And then, having eaten that, I eat other foods at breakfast time, too, now: something which, at one time, the very thought of which would have filled me with both horror and revulsion. In fact, such a propsect was unthinkable to me, back then. Often then, breakfast consisted of nothing but a single lone weetabix, a little skimmed milk, and maybe a banana or an apple. And then...nothing. Nothing but endless swigs of water, for hours on end. That was how I used to eat.

Is it any wonder my bones are brittle, weak, osteoporotic - forever?

Is it any wonder that I cost myself so much damage - some of which, I know, I will never be able to repair?

One thing today I can assert with conviction. I never want to go back to those days. 
It's true to say that, at the moment, there aredays when I just feel so scared at the thought of moving forward. Over the past few weeks my weight gain has been slow; true to say, I;m around 2 kilos off the "mimimum" acceptable weight (but did not I say that I should aim to go beyond that?) but I know deep down that I should perhaps consider another increase to my current intake. Either that, or reduce the walking again. And the thought of doing either are just...so, so terrifying.

But yet.

Wasn't there a time...

when the thought...

 of eating two Weetabix at breakfast was terrifying? The thought of eating two weetabix and toast; the thought of not eating Weetabix as a main meal, of sorts??

But yet...I achieved all that, and more.


I conquered my fears. And if I choose to, I can conquer more of them: I can reach the top of the mountain.

I feel afraid, I feel terrified, and at times, I feel...completely powerless.

But those oval shaped wheat biscuits are a reminder to me of just how far I have come.

And that, ultimately,

I do have the power to move forward. 

Above, and beyond, that halfway mark...

The half-way line. A point , upon the road leading up the mountain: a certain little milestone on the path of recovery, at which I have come to know more than just a little well.

Because basically this is as far as I have ever managed to go. It's not recovery. True, getting here in itself was a hard and gruelling battle. One in which stinging wounds were inflicted and blood and tears were shed.

True, also, that this place is a far outcry from that which I initially started this journey.That being the cold, dark abyss in which I remained wholly immersed in the depths of my anorexia.

But this place is not recovery.
And I am not recovered.

How I long to go further, now: to keep on striding forwards, with the heart of a lion and the spirit of a prancing gazelle.

But the thing is...

I can.

It took enormous strength to get this far up the road.
Yet I remember the time when I stood at the very bottom of the mountain, staring upwards with fear and despair in my eyes. And I remember believing that I would never make it. Even taking that very first step, and then the second. I believed, with all my heart, that I would not be able to do it.

But yet, I did.

And so my journey began.

Me and Benny 💜

After a difficult week - one which was filled with the usual bloating, anxiety over exercise, and persistent feelings of depression and loneliness, yesterday felt that one bit different.


There was..
travelling home from university and watching the sunlight dance upon the glistening rivers and streams of the sweet, dew-soaked countryside.

Sitting and drinking hot chocolate with Mam, running my fingers through Daisy's soft, jet-black coat, and laughing till my sides ached at Mam's raucous Cap'n Poldark impersonations.

And then talking to my sister on Facebook; sharing with her my current, newfound feelings of motivation; as well as my fears that it will ultimately not last. My beloved sister's furiously typed reply brought a spontaneous smile to my face and a warm tears of gratitude and love to my eyes.

When you feel your motivation going, Em, tell that f***er ED that Lizzy is going to kick its ass if it even tries to creep back in. 

Me and Lizzy 💜

  It was over Christmas when the loneliness really hit me hard; like a sharp, jagged stone being thrust into my body. Despite the twinkling lights and the happy scenes all around me, I had never felt quite so alone. And then, looking up at that lonely, solitary path which seemed to stretch on endlessly in front of me, there was many a time when I felt a desolate sense of utter despair and desperation.

I'll never get there..
Why does this has to be so...so lonely? 

But today reminded me that I am not alone. There are people who I know, no matter what, are here for me. Even if I cannot see them, or feel their hands physically touching my own. Even if I cannot literally hear their voices. I know what they are saying to me. Don't give up, Em. Carry on.

Carry on. Past the halfway mark. Up the mountain, scrambling over sharp-tipped rocks and pebbly slopes. Over yawning abysses and coal-black caverns. Towards the valley. The valley where beautiful flowers grow wild and free; reaching towards the sunlight above: sunlight which spills upon every leaf and every vein and makes their petals shimmer with dancing, sublime beauty.

As that is how I envisage true recovery...
A place in which I feel totally alive, and free, like a budding, blossoming flower.

A place in which I feel totally at peace with myself: a feeling, which I have never felt for so, so long, not since I was that small girl with the long blonde hair who danced and laughed and lived a life that she loved.

And this is how I am going to do it...
By taking small little steps which are also known as goals.

Goal 1.
Follow my meal plan and get to a healthy weight. 
And by a healthy weight, I do not mean simply just the minimum healthy bmi.

Goal 2.
Write down all the eating disorder habits and behaviours and work on picking them out.
It's quite an enlightening activity to do this - to actually sit down and have a really, hard look at just what it is your eating disorder makes you do day in, day out. I can literally think of dozens, and so this is going to take up a whole blog post in itself so I won't blah on about it too much here.

Goal 3.
Compose my reasons to recover list and read over it constantly, reminding myself of just what it is I am fighting for.

Goal 4.
Go to a few counselling sessions at Trinity, while I try to finish off the last semester of my degree. Then, when all this is over, I will hopefully have the time to dedicate myself to proper eating disorder therapy, probably at Marino in Dublin or somewhere more local.
I proved to myself in the past that I can manage to get myself physically well, witht the help and support of my family, friends and readers. But deep down I know that, in order to make the full and complete recovery from an mental illness that has already claimed half of my life and the entirety of my teenage years, that I will need to seek some extra support in the form of cognitive behaviour therapy. When I am finished at Trinity (Hopefully :/) I am going to do some proper research and take stock of all the options which are available to me.

Goal 5.
Facing fears and anxieties.
These include specific foods, meals, and also - yes, the exercise thing, which I still regard as one of the hardest things that I am yet to achieve in recovery.

Goal 6.
Start making plans - both short and long term - so that I have something to work towards and keep my mind focused on why it is so important now that I do not waste any more of my life drowning in an eating disorder's depths.

Step by step, bite by bite...

I stand with my left hand by my side, my right hand holding the milk carton; my body poised like a swimmer about to leap into the murky depths of the sea.

I must take this leap.

I must take this leap...

100 ml...125 ml...over 125 ml...I said I'd have more milk today, more cereal...that was my goal for today...

My hand snapped back then like a door bouncing back upon its hinges.

NO! 
STOP!
Put that extra milk back!! You greedy......!!!!

My hand quivers. I can feel...I can feel him pulling on my wrist, trying to pull it back towards the still open milk bottle; to clumsily slop the "extra" milk I had poured myself - and more, probably - back in through the plastic neck. Yes, I can feel him. A vice like grip; which has held me for so, so long.

The kitchen was freezing , but I could feel my face becoming gradually hotter. As if I and It were engaged in a vicious tug-of-war, one in which we were both clinging doggedly to the slippery rope of control.

Always,  in the past, such moments of attempted resistance on my part against ED would see me tugging desperately at that rope with trembling, clenched fingers; the knuckles white and drained of  blood, the rough fabric cutting into my hands. But I was never strong enough to hold on for too long. Eventually, I would lose hold of it and fall, and then ED would trample mercilessly over my body, reveling in its triumph.

This time round appeared as if it was just going to be the exact same. My hands were wavering, hovering towards the awaiting milk bottle.

No! - a weak voice of resistance, pushing desperately through the heat, the dizziness. No, Em! You can DO it...!!! Just think...

Of what...

HE has done to you...

Slowly, inch by painful inch, my hand withdrew.

I can, I mouthed wordlessly, and then it was going in the microwave and I was pushing the buttons and then there, it was done, there was no turning back, I had done it.

An hour later saw me crying bitter tears all over my Eagle of the Ninth notes, nursing my swollen, bloated stomach. The hateful screen, taunting me. Only 2000 words to go, Em! That cruel, sneering voice whispered, maliciously. 2000 - words - I can't - do this...

I wanted...I wanted more than anything else in the world, right then - for someone to comfort me. But I was alone. And I know that this is my journey: the road I have to tread alone. It is only me and noone else who can save myself from the wreck, pull myself from the freezing, icy waters, in which, if I remain, I know that I will drown.




So. That was my morning. A morning in which I, once again, failed once again to make any progress with my essay.

It's true to say that I am getting scared now. the deadline is the 16th of January.

It's just all getting a bit too much. The extreme hunger; my lack of concentration; my raw, pure terror at not being able to write, one single, single word. My very head feels like it is going to explode with the intensity of the pain; the bitterness of the frustration.

But yet.
I succeeded in just one little thing.

I went against my eating disorder.
I achieved my goal of having extra milk and cereal...

Such a small, small step -to someone who knows nothing about eating disorders, it might seem totally laughable that I regard such a feat  as actual "progress" - but, to me, it constituted a major victory. It was a point scored against my eating disorder; and, though the anxiety was horrible, I proved to myself that I could actually do it.

And as a dear friend told me a few days ago...yes, the time is NOW to recover.
I am 22. 23 in a few month's time. I have seven years left to improve my osteoporosis. Every day matters. Every hour and every bite.
It's a small step, it's true.
But is that not what the longest and hardest of journeys ultimately is made up of? Hundreds, upon hundreds, of small, tiny steps...?


Anyway, today I made a number of important decisions, it being the first day of 2017, and all: that I AM going to make these meal plan increases; as I strongly feel that I would benefit from introducing them because I am, after all, still doing my household chores, walking the doggies, and moving around more than a person in recovery ideally should.

It's just a matter of reducing my exercise a little, for now...and also, eliminating the "obsessive exercise" which yes, it's true, I did sometimes engage in.
I define this kind of exercise as being compulsive and forced; not practiced for reasons of pleasure or enjoyment - but rather, for when any of the statements below ring true:

• I feel like I "have" to do it, even though I do not want to, or the weather is bad, or I am busy doing something else, etc;
• I want to do it because it will slow down/prevent weight gain through burning of calories.

But there's another important reason why I think for now it is so important that I reduce my exercise...the matter of which needs a post by itself, so I will leave it for now and return to very shortly.

Today, I was reflecting upon my current exercise patterns and it struck me that, despite everything, I actually made some progress on this score since beginning  to tackle my relapse:

Before (Between the end of the summer and November 2016):

• I felt compelled to do at least 2 hours of exercise. If I did not meet this target, I would "make up for it" the following day.
• I sometimes - not very regularly, but sometimes - exercised in secret in my room by jogging on the spot for a short length of time. I also got up early and powerwalked for 20-30 minutes down the road. For me, back then, going out with Benny at 9 o clock, and then taking him again in the afternoon, was just not enough. I felt compelled to do more.

Well, Im please to say that I have actually managed to kick these habits - the 20-30 minute powerwalk before everyone else got up; the jogging in my room, and the compuslion to do a minimum of 2 hours. I know I still have an awful lot to work on, but I hope that I am now moving in the right direction. I am going to continue to monitor my walks for now anyway and see what happens. It all depends on how my weight goes , I know.

A close friend and reader of mine, also suggested to me that I perhaps shouldshare my progress on my blog as much as I can, even for small, seemingly trivial things (well, I think anyone who has had an eating disorder will understand just how significant these "trivial" things actually are).I just really hope this wont make it too boring for everyone, that's all. But I hope that they will benefit others as well as myself by inspriing yyou to make changes - no matter how small.

And here are some of the little changes and increases, that today I have started to introduce...

• One of the new things I was contemplating adding into my meal plan was to have some extra protein in the mornings. The addition of these foods is, if I was very honest, a change I felt I "should" introduce solely for the benefit of the health of my body, rather than for reasons of personal preference - if that makes sense!! You see, to be brutally honest, I would personally much rather eat an extra piece of toast and another big bowl of cereal , say, than a slice of chicken of fish or whatever. (And then of course there is my own moral principles surrounding eating meat, which make me even more reluctant to eat it; but again, that's a topic for another blog post). But protein - protein foods, so to speak - is the one thing that I have restricted most severely since becoming ill, and I suppose that is what served to make my osteoporosis as bad as it now is. So that is the main reason why I thought in the mornings I would add in one if the following, probably with either my breakfast or my first morning snack:

- 20 g cheddar cheese

- a soft or hard boiled egg

- sardines

- a slice of chickenor other meat.

I list these in order of preference..a nice slice of crumbly extra mature cheese would be for sure my favourite, though I'm going to try and incorporate the others in too.                                                         Also, I am going to try and lay out the serving on a little plate the day before and put it in the fridge, so when I come to eat it in the morning I can just take it out of the fridge and eat it. Because I find this 

• Now, another change I am going to make is to be MORE GENEROUS with...well, everything. With peanut butter, with cereal; with my nuts and tuna mayo at lunch..you get the idea. 
• I am really going to try to listen to my body and respond to cravings and hunger when they hit me.
• To not hold back from eating more of the foods I love...namely, you know.. ;) hot choc, chocolate, bananas,peanut butter, nuts, cereal, toast, hot custard. Ooooh bring them  on <3 !
• And also, if I feel like them - not to hold back from eating stuff like maltwheats, hot cross buns, scones - things I cut out from my diet despite really enjoying them. I did so purely because I was worried about my sugar consumption, what with having alot of hot chocolate, and chocolate, every day. But I suppose in recovery it's all about breaking those ED type rules one has made for oneself.
• Fear foods..more on this in another post, but I really want to start tackling them soon. I don't have many, but there are a few. But more on this shortly.
• And the change I referred to above and which I tackled today (with success, yes; though I'm not going to lie; I did find it very hard.) that is to make my breakfasts even bigger..I might even try adding in a 2nd peice of toast (and still have my half a bagel later on, too, mind!!)

So, in this new year...

I'm taking it..

step by step,

bite by bite.

Well there's a bridge and there's a river that I still must cross
As I'm going on my journey
Oh, I might be lost...

And there's a road I have to follow, a place I have to go
Well no-one told me just how to get there
But when I get there I'll know...
'Cause I'm taking it

Step by step, bit by bit,
Stone by stone.. brick by brick...
Step by step, day by day, mile by mile...

And so, we have to follow this road now. It may be scary, it may be terrifying, because noone tells us exactly how we are going to get there. 

But step by step, bit by bit. 

We will make our way upon that road,

the road which leads to that beautiful horizon... <3 xxx

 As you can probably tell...I love Whitney Houston..her songs are so powerful and give me enormous strength. 

Happy New Year everyone...

Let's take on this road together, in 2017...

This time, it has to be different...

Reflecting upon the first blog post that I made earlier this month, i realised that what had happened to me over the later part of 2016 stands as the fourth time that I had slipped into a"relapsed" state since I started my degree at Trinity. Each one of these relapses has been marked by a return to college and a resumption of restrictive behaviour patterns; and a consequent drop in my motivation, mood, and then of course the weight.

Each of them followed what I suppose can be viewed as being a "good" period in terms of my illness - being at home, during the summer, with Mam there to keep an eye on me; with no outward pressures of essays and assignments or of just fitting in at Trinity. I say good, but really, I know it has never been exactly...ideal. My weight has dipped and gone up again more times than I care to remember; but my mind, I know, has remained entrapped, all that while, in a state of static, unchanging bondage. My weight was always changing, but my mind remained the same.

 And though this year's relapse was certainly no way near as bad as previous ones, I'm aware, all too aware, that if it had not been for Mam keeping an eye on me; and for the fear of the weekly weigh ins starting again, then things might well have gone a whole lot worse. But, as it happened, me and Mam seemed to "nip it in the bud" just in time: allowing me to tentatively tread back onto that path again; a path I have been treading now, for over two years which have fleeted by like darting dragonflies.

But I mean, I know it is wrong; that it is because of other people that my relapse was not as severe as it could have been. And it is just another testifier to the extent that I am no way near recovered. As is the fact that I was feeling painfully nervous at the thought of going out last saturday night to the restaurant down in Emo. It was mam's birthday and everyone else was looking forward to the evening; everyone, that is, except for me. The only feelings that I had was fear and desperate anxiety; alongside the enormous and crippling guilt that, on Mam's special evening, all I could think about was my own terror.

 Everyone else's exchanges about what to wear and what they were going to order that night floated above my head like little wispy clouds - so distant, so picture-perfect, so far, far removed, from me. How I would love to be able to chat excitedly about going out for a meal like that.

And I wonder, if..
if I ever really will.

Because I said last year that this time would be different.
But yet, ED lingered, and I remained the same.

Every time we went out for dinner in Mallorca,

I never enjoyed a single moment of it.

Now all I can remember of those nights was the fear, the anxiety.

ED took away memories I should have made with those that I love.

Last Saturday night I sat with my sister and her boyfriend who had come down to stay with us for the weekend of Mam's birthday. We chatted and chatted long into the night; about a variety of things, really, including my eating disorder and countless phases of weight gain, then relapse.

Seeing them go the next day was enough to break my heart, as I know it might be some time before I see them again; though I know one thing that will remain with me today is all that we spoke of that night.

It;s me, and only me, who has the power to save myself.

Others can advise you and motivate you and guide you gently back onto the right path. But ultimately it is you who has to fight this battle. No one else can do it for you. The power, the determination, the strength and the defiance in the face of what might be the most harshest of odds. It has to come from you. You have to become your own soldier,because at the end of the day, it is your life which is at stake here. Your life, your body, your health and your future.

"Postponing" real recovery till after I have finished college is more or less pointless. Because when college is over my eating disorder will simply seek out another "reason" to put off what I have to do for another day or week or month or year. The time is now and anyway, I am more than aware that, for me, time is running out.



And so.

Here is a question for you, Em, I said to myself as I sat at the table with my fingers resting poised upon the laptop keys. What's to stop this time round from just being merely a repeat of your last failed attempt to beat this sh** once and for all??




It's blind faith. Like stumbling through a tunnel. A tunnel that winds and winds in endless spirals and disorientating loops; a tunnel lined with sharp stones which cut and shed blood. A tunnel which seems like it has no end; only a beginning, a beginning which leads back to a place in which you have stood for so many days, months , years - looking in. Looking in, yet too afraid to step forwards now and embark into that yawning chasm of darkness.

There was familiarity there, at the place before the tunnel. Comforting, safe familiarity. A familiarity as cold and as final as death.

Because that's exactly what that place was.

And like all things, that tunnel has a beginning, and an end. An end which might seem like the glistening moon of a clear night sky: so beautiful, so distant, so impossibly out of reach.

But there was someone who dreamt of reaching that moon. And he stopped at nothing till he had achieved that dream.

A beginning, and an end. I do not have much, but, I have a beginning, and a dream.

This time it has to be different...

And so this is where I begin.

• Continue to follow my meal plan to the letter, and consider increasing it even more if I feel that I am ready to do so. I've already made a couple of increases over the past few weeks; both of which were hard to make, but..I did it. And now I know I have to Stick to my meal plan, every hour of every day, and allow myself to eat MORE than this when I can!!
• Now, this second thing...is going to be one of the hardest. That being to reduce exercise and physical activity while regaining the weight.                                                                                   Just to explain: during my last relapse-recovery, I continued to walk and cycle every day. I'm not going to make speculations about how and why this happened as to be quite honest I don't know enough about all the sciency stuff and I don't want to mislead anyone. But I knew deep down that I really, shouldn't have been doing it - or at least, not quite as much as I was. My biggest difficulty is that I love it; both walking  my beloved Benny (and now Daisy) and riding my bike through the sweet countryside are two things which give me so much pleasure; especially at this time of the year, on those crystal-clear days; when the leaves are crisp beneath the feet and the sun slips through the sky like a rosy pebble drifting through the still blue waters of a lagoon.  They give me so much joy.                                                                                    But it's true to say that I do feel "compelled " to do it sometimes, even if I don't really have much time on my hands, or if the weather is more than disagreeable, or, in the past, if I had a foot injury - I would still do it. And that, I know, is because of my eating disorder, and its constant and relentless drive to make me burn as much calories as possible.I would find myself prioritising going for my walk over many other things; and that, if I did not do it, I know my anxiety levels would go through the roof. But at the same time...I know it is something that, deep down, I know that I need to do, and that I would benefit enormously from if I were to. But more on this in my next blog post. 
• This past year, just as I did in 2015, I restored my weight (to a minimally acceptable bmi) only to then immediately start to restrict again by consciously reducing my food intake. Both of these times, I was led to believe by my eating disorder that  my metabolism was damaged and that hence I would continue to gain weight on reaching my "target weight" if I did not revert back to restrictive amounts. And so. This time. This time I have to be wiser, smarter. Smarter than Ed. Stronger than the Voice. And on reaching that weight target I know that time time I have to keep on fighting , fighting harder than ever. It's true to say that that is quite possibly the hardest part of the path leading up that mountain; the darkest section of the long, winding tunnel. Because I know, this time, I have to continue eating, continue nourishing, continue to fight and allow my body to find its healthy set point. I don't know what this is and that in itself is terrifying. But I know, ultimately, this is what I have to do. Or I will never be able to improve my osteoporosis; or properly repair the damage that 11 years of anorexia has reaped upon my body.
• And finally, a few other practical things which I believe will help me to make this year different. These include writing a book of which I have been deliberating for some time(more on that later) and continue to blog (which I knowwill greatly assist me in keeping and staying on track through my sharing of progress with my readers - and , most importantly of all,the continuous love, support, encouragement and motivation my amazing readers they share with me every day. <3 xxxx
• And then..what I am hoping to do next year: a year out, in which I might try and get a little job, but also to set aside the time and energy that the hardest part of recovery - that being, of course, the mental part - requires. I would really like to be able to attend proper counselling and get my mind to the right place.

Together...

let's make 2017

the year that we make the Change. <3 xxx

My little candle became a flame; the flame, became as bright as the morning sun...

It started off so small, my rebellion. My rebellion against the relapse.

At first it didnt seem like I had a chance. My heart was broken and my spirit was torn. My fear - seemed so vast, so immeasurable, so limitless. There didn't seem to be any hope left for me. That hope was as slender as the flickering slivers of light on the dying embers of a rain-soaked fire.

But despite all that I still surged forwards, reaching for that change with outstretched hands.

And over the past few months...I know I have climbed many mountains. I have faced, and withstood, so many, many storms.

I reached out for support to my Mam and closest friends.
I dedicated myself to sticking to my meal plan and I got myself back on it alone.
I stuck to my meal plan every day.
I consciously increased my food intake.
I took on the enormous task of battling my eating disorder, by myself. I kept on going to college, I struggled onwards with my course. All the while I was fighting a battle of my very own. The other people at Trinity were oblivious to it. But I knew that I was fighting for my life.
I sat my exams and I got through each one. Even though i felt ready to crack under the strain and the anxiety...I told myself I had to be strong. And on each and every one of those exam days I ate as well as I would have on an average day. And I told myself...I would be ok. This was an exam, nothing more. An exam did not define me. If I failed this exam, than there would be always be another one; another chance to sit, and pass. But this might be the only ever chance I get, to save myself, my body. There would be other exams but there would be, for me, only ever one body. And I knew that the time had come to treat it right; and to prioritise my recovery...

And not once during those storms, did I let my little fire wink out.

Of course, the owner of that Voice is far from gone. It is still there, perched doggedly upon my shoulder every day, bending itself over to whisper softly in my ear and fill my head with its threats and obscurities, its cold, manipulative lies. All it would take would be for one small step back and then my candle will flicker again, be toppled over. But this time, though, something is different. The flames have become more than mere flickers: they are dancing, leaping, glowing like ambers. The girl who is called Emmy has changed. And her flame is stronger than ever before.

So many other things too, try to dampen my flame; try to pull me down. But now I know I need to dispense with each and every one of them. The perfectionsim, the obsession, the constant talking myself down. You're useless. You're a waste of time. You're surely the most stupid human being who ever lived. These thoughts revolve around and around inside my head, echoing and reverberating. Trying to establish themselves as my fundamental truths; striving, with the ruthless intent of a leopard closing in for the kill, to block out all of my light. The worst of it though is that you can't escape it. How can you escape a little, but so cruel, voice which resides in your very own head?

The answer, I have learned, is this. you can't, essentially, escape it... But you can choose to fight it, resist it, defy it with every single breath. The Voice can and will be silenced. But the onus now lies on us to strive against it now, to stand tall and brave and strong.

And my little flame burns brightly, shining like a diamond, a glowing, sparkling star. And it burns and glows and becomes stronger...

And this time I will nurture it. Nurture it, let it grow.

The storm may rage and the rain may fall. The wind may blow hard against me...but this time, the wind and the rain cannot touch my little bright light. This time, my light will not be extinguished.

This time my light will shine on. <3 xxx

Thank you so, so much to evryone who commented and sent me well wishes during my blogging absence. It meant the world to me and I thank you with all my heart.

I thought I just needed to clarify before I sign off just where on earth I have been the past few months since I ceased to blog.

If you recall, back in September last year, I disappeared from my blog as this was the month which marked the beginning of my relapse. However, this time this was not the case. I stopped blogging for a number of reasons which I just want to briefly elucidate now. Firstly, what with the exams fast approaching, I felt as if I could not dedicate to my blog the time and the care that I would have liked, so I thought it were best if I distanced myself a while from my beloved Cocoa Stained Apron for fear that it would interfere with my studying. This was a source of great sadness and frustration to me, as I love blogging and hated being separated from it, but I felt as if I didn't have a choice.
Secondly, and here I am being very honest in saying that of course, there were times in my relapse-recovery that I felt extremely negative, down, and depressed. It was hard; it was so very, very hard. There were times when I felt I had to give up. There were times when I felt ugly, unattractive, fat, a failure, repulsive. And I felt so afraid that somehow, during those times, my negativity would manifest itself on my blog, if I chose to write. Another factor, then, in my decision not to blog. And thirdly, my little negative voice also had allowed me to convince myself that my blog was useless. Yes, this was exactly what I had allowed myself to think and believe.

But now, as I say, Emmy has changed, and grown.

I know I am not ugly, fat, or worthless.
I know my blog is not useless. It is my blog and my place, a place of memories and reflection, of sharing and healing.
I know that recovery is hard. But also, that recovery is possible. That if you refuse to give up, and keep on going, despite all the fear and the hardship and the pain. That one day, we will get there, together. That one day, we can and will be free.

And, last but not least..I don't have any exams coming up!! :D (more on this later - think I need to update you on where I am at at the moment in regard to college :o )

So now the time is right for me, to return to what I love. It is time for the Ganache Elf to resume her blogging journey again, for so much has changed since that day all those weeks ago, when a young girl with fear in her eyes embarked upon one of the most difficult and challeneging stages of her recovery journey: the fight back against a full-blown relapse. But I did it. I did it, and here I am now. A happier, healthier, stronger Emmy who is ready now tomake her voice heard. <3 xxx