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

The Flames...

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

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

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

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

What is wrong with me?

Have I become completely...stupid? Inept?

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

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

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

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

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

Daisy

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

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

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

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

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

Fact:

I can eat what I want.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every day...

just need to remind myself...

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

I must feed myself and destroy this illness...

Not feed this illness and destroy myself. 

So this is where I fell...

Yes, it was at this very place where I stand now...

A place upon my path leading up the mountain...a moor, where there are flowers trying to grow, but, beyond that, there is a precipice...a precipice I have to cross.

When I was at this place a year ago now, I was, as I am today, weight restored...

People would look and see a girl recovered...

But they did not know what pain I hid behind my smile...

But I was, and am, something else, too, something which other people cannot see. That being free; free from my eating disorder. I was not back then; and I know, that I am not now. Weight restored. A state of being which means that my body is now relatively healthy. But am I cured of an eating disorder? No, I am not. People might look and see a girl who is recovered; but that is where they are wrong, so wrong. How much I weigh is totally inept in measuring how healthy I am inside.

And the last time that I stood in this place, of weight restoration. there was a wretchedness; a bitterness which twisted deep inside my heart, unseen and unfelt by anyone else but me. And a hatred: a hatred of my new body. a hatred which was as audible, as palpable to me as the harshest of sirens: which could not, would not, be silenced.

The compliments that people would give me back then, would burn in my ears like acid upon the surface of the tongue. The words would roar sonorously through each and every passage of my mind; reverberating and echoing, repeating themselves over and over. No matter where I went, no matter what I did, the echoes were there, taunting me. The kind, loving words of my friends, my family: translated into the cruelest mockings by the cunning whispers of E.d.

She said that you looked well today...

she meant, of course, that you have gained weight, that you are fat.

And I believed it. I believed what it told me. And little by little, ed crept up behind me. It's ok to miss lunch, every now and again. You are weight restored, so it doesn't make a difference. It's ok to cut down on your carbs, Emmy, don't worry. Even better if you just eliminate them altogether.

And that is where I fell.

Fell into a place, which I had once sworn to myself I would never fall into again. But Ed is, and always will be, a trickster, a deciever, and a liar.

But now here I am again, at this place. It would be so so easy to fall, I know. The way ahead is as slippery as a glacier. As slippery, and equally as treacherous.

One false step, and I will slip, and fall over the edge. Just like I did the last time.

But since then I have changed, and grown...

The storm might blow over the tender little flowers, at first; seizing them and tossing them mercilessly to the ground. Because they were not ready, or strong enough, for those winds. All that is left then is a barren and broken landscape. Upon which, it seems, nothing can grow...

But there are some things that even a storm cannot touch. That is life, and hope, and the ability to start again.

And even though I fell before, I made myself get back up again.And I changed and grew and learned from my past mistakes. And now I know I am strong enough to face the storm. To stop it from causing me to fall.

And now I know that I do have what it takes to keep me from falling off that precipice...

And that this time, at the place where I last fell, I can be stronger than my eating disorder.

For starters, despite the fact I am weight restored, I am still eating the same amount, roughly, as I did when I was gaining weight.
I'm not going to try to pretend that doing this really scares me...but that, I have learned, is what true, real recovery is really about.

I have pledged to myself to listen to my loved ones, over the manipulative whispers of the Voice inside my Head. For I know what will happen to me if I let myself give in to that Voice. Now more than ever, I have to fight, and stay strong.

And in addition to that I am focusing on my weak points and feel motivated and determined to confront them. I am aware of exactly what they are; and that it will require true commitment and effort from me if I really am going to change. But I know that all I can do is try. If I do not try then I wil never be truly free from Ed.

So this is where I fell.
The same place; roughly, the same time of the year. The leaves of the beech trees are tinged now with the gold of early autumn. The flowers in the garden quiver gently in the soft wind. Their petals are vibrant, but some are already beginning to droop ever so slightly. The brink of another autumn: a time of change and transformation. And soon those golden leaves will shrivel, and fall.

But watching them now, my heart will not ache as it did last year, when I felt like one of those falling leaves; those wilted petals. No: this time, I see beyond the decay. I see instead the infinite beauty of nature; of a cycle which, in its never-ending rotations, there is always new life, new growth; and always, always hope.

So this time I will not fall. I will stand tall and strong  and will not falter. I will keep my head up and my heart strong, and I will continue my ascent of the mountain.

Acceptance...

Sunday. Sunday used to be...different, for me; then the other days of the week. I would wake, every Sunday over the past few months, with a feeling of tension; tautening every muscle of my body. Because Sunday was Weighing Day. Because Sunday was the day I would have to see, and know, my weight.

At the beginning of my fight back against the relapse, me and mam would get out the scales every Sunday afternoon: mam had suggested it, I had agreed to it; knowing, in my heart, this was the only way mam and dad would be able to ensure that I would not slip back on myself; the only way that I, too, would know for a certainty that I was actually gaining weight. And of course, I... hated it. I hated stepping on to that detested square object of bright blue metal, with its shiny surface and silvery buttons and the harsh, glaring numbers upon the screen at its very top. Numbers, which would jump out at me; as loud and as blatant as if they were painted in neon yellow. They were cruel: so, so heartlessly, pitilessly cruel. And the numbers would stick in my head for days after, taunting me, teasing me. You are gaining weight, the cruel voice sneered. You are going to be...so...

And thus, that was what I would endure, every Sunday evening. The fear, and the apprehension. And then, afterwards, the backlash of insults, hurled against me by ED.

And that's how it felt, at the beginning.

But now...

But now, things are different. I have changed.

the tables have been turned; turned by me.

And I never thought I would hear myself saying this, but...I am beginning to learn to not give a damn what the number on the scales is. I know what Mam's target is; I know that I am more or less at that, now. I'll find out today what the exact figure is. And that number....that number no longer terrifies me. It daunts me, a little - but no way as near as much as before. I no longer recoil with horror from that figure. I am beginning to learn, and recognise, that weight for what it really is. A number, and nothing more: save representing a rough idea of the weight at which my body is healthy, and able to function at its best.

To be able to accept my body and overcome the fear of being that weight which is my healthy set point...

This represented, at one time, an enormous, seemingly impossible, unachievable challenge, for me.

But I know I have overcome so many difficult challenges, before now. I gained weight by myself. I got myself back onto my meal plan, following months and months of restriction and starvation once again. I did it. It was me who had the strength. And now I know I have to draw on that strength again. Because I know that it is just a number. A number, nothing more. And it does not mean that I am ugly, or fat, or lazy. This number means nothing to my identity, to the person who is Emmy.

I am no longer afraid, of being at that number. The fear, I have destroyed...

All I need to do now is to find... the acceptance.

To learn to accept, like the little caterpillar must accept these strange new wings upon its back when it emerges from the cocoon, after the long, hard winter, a winter which it thought it would not survive. Am I ugly? It wonders helplessly. No, call the other butterflies, soaring in the sky. These wings are a gift. Your new body is a gift. It will lift you, take you high into the sky. You just need to trust those wings and let them grow and become stronger. You have to learn to accept them, accept the newness, the strangeness, the change.

And then the little caterpillar spreads its wings and flies, high into the sky, high towards the golden, glowing sun.

We can accept this, too. Because a healthy, strong body is one of the most amazing things that God can ever give to us.

One thing I have learnt in this post-relapse recovery, is this. You can and will conquer your greatest ever fears. You can, and will, achieve what you never thought was possible. For me, this meant gaining weight without a hospital admission, getting back onto my meal plan, and learning to accept my body at a higher, healthier weight. And I know that I still have alot to work on, but I know, that I am getting there, slowly but surely. And I hope, that by sharing my story with my readers today, that you will realise that you can do this, too. yes, you. You can overcome an eating disorder; you can and will reach the top of the mountain which is recovery. You can and will find acceptance.

and this is where I stand... xxx

Now believe it or not, THIS post was what I originally intended to write on Thursday - but then, as I was sitting there contemplating what to write, it occurred to me just how tricky beginning a piece of writing can really be, and that in turn led me to the reflection of how often, in human life, beginnings can be very, very hard. Especially in regard to recovery. So needless to say I ended up blogging about something completely different from what I initially I planned...but I guess that's all part of being a dreamy writer like myself ;)

So...before I go off on a complete tangent AGAIN. I wanted to tell you a little about where I am at, now. Five months have passed since I initially set out on a new journey, my battle against the relapse.

Firstly, in regard to weight gain. as i mentioned before, I am more or less weight restored now. Mam and I are both very much determined that I don't get too caught up in, or bogged down by, an exact number or particular "ideal" weight. What is an ideal weight, anyway? Why should I live my life in fear of that certain number, the "threshold" which I cannot cross? That voice in my head is telling me now that I cannot go beyond this certain weight. But I know..I need to find a place where I am at peace with my body, but at which my body is at its healthiest, the best it can be. And this number could be higher than that which Ed has set for me. I know, in my head, what this number, this limit, is. Its what I am at now: Ed screams at me that I cannot go any further.

Does a flower have a target height at which she ceases to grow? Will she stop at a certain limit; even though she has not gained her full strength? 

Physically, I am healthy. People might look at me now and see a girl who has recovered.

But I know my journey is far from over. I know, I still have many miles left to climb.

But just how am I going to do this? Well, I suppose now I need to take my own advice. To stay strong and positive, and believe that I can and will get there. And actively work on accepting my body and treating it right. I have made progress in this area already. I just need to keep this up now and work on every single one of my weak areas.

As regards to college...well, I got the results of the exams about two weeks ago. I looked at them, expecting , and prepared, to see a fail. A fail, because my second attempt at third year English in Trinity inevitably turned out to be as hard, as painful, and as exhausting as all the years which preceded it. I struggled. I relapsed. I faltered and didnt think I'd be able to go on. I was in as bad a state as I was, before I went into hospital last year. But then, something clicked deep inside me; and despite the terror and the pain, there was that little light. A little light which fed me strength, and courage, and hope. And suddenly little Emmy found that she did have the strength to stumble on.

I thought the recovery road had disintegrated into nothingness; that I had fallen from the wayside into a deep and bottomless pit from which there was no hope of  escape. But it was my strength which allowed me to pull myself out of that abyss. The hands of my loved ones were stretched out towards me, and this time I reached out to them, rather than let them slip away from me. I tore down the walls that I had built around myself: walls of isolation and loneliness and pain.

I realised that I had to make recovery my new priority. Doing so was extremely difficult: it went entirely against my nature, for this time to put myself first. Branding myself as lazy and selfish and greedy...that was my first, initial reaction, and I very nearly fell right back down again. I was so, so torn; and indeed, heartbroken. I just wanted to get through this course, and make my loved ones proud of me. But I knew, if I dedicated myself to recovery, and exposed myself to the pain and discomfort and anxiety that recovery inevitably involves - my studies would take a massive hit. I was already struggling as it was; but to face the distress and pain of weight gain, while attempting to study at university, was something which I knew This might sound strange to a non-ED person, or someone who does not know alot about anorexia. Weight gain? Sure thats easy, some might say. The reality, of course, is the entire opposite. My new mission to gain weight following my relapse was every bit as painful and every bit as difficult as all of the times in the past. But I knew, that this time, I could not let college get in the way of my attempt to free myself from the thing that was destroying me.

Always , always remember...

There will always be another chance:

Another chance to sit that exam.

another chance to get that university degree.

Another chance to get that new job, or that promotion.

But there will never ever be, for each and every one of us, 

another body; another heart,

another chance...at life.

So don't wait until tomorrow,

To make that change.

Act now, before it is too late.

The one, and only one, that I will ever, ever have...

This morning after breakfast saw me sitting at the table in front of my laptop screen once again, gloomily pushing my memory stick into the side of the computer with not the slightest degree of enthusiasm. The reason for that being, this particular memory stick was the one upon which I have saved my two 1500-2000 word essays due in roughly a week's time. Writing essays like this, or anything really to do with my college course, is something which, for me, more likeable to being tortured with hot pincers than having to compile a supposedly engaging and stimulating piece of writing; something which my fellow students in English would probably have no major difficulty in producing, at all. But that's not the case for me, of course. Because I am the girl who is different. I am the girl who is different from everybody else.

I scanned the various sentences and paragraphs upon the pages before me, and felt tears of frustration prickle my eyes. It's...crap...it doesn't make any sense. There is absolutely no chance that it is ever going to get past the pass mark. 

I had been sitting there for almost fifteen minutes now, and I had not written a single thing. My hands slowly began to tighten into fists; and a steady bludgeoning began to reverberate through my skull, resonating along every artery and every vein. My whole body became taut with tension, a tightly wrapped coil which has been stretched to its absolute limit. And then...then, there was the Voice.

I desperately tried to calm myself, forcing myself to breathe deeply and slowly through my nose, straightening my spine in my chair; pushing back my hair from my face in an attempt to cool down my flushed, hot cheeks. It was a mammoth effort. Like trying to push an elephant up a mountain; like scrabbling, in futile desperation, for the coin that has slipped from your fingers to tinkle away down the dark, greasy plughole. That's how it feels like for me, sitting there, trying to write my third year English essays. The words, the sentences, the arguments that I want to make, come floating towards me like wispy, paper-thin clouds, so close I could almost reach out and grasp them; but then, they always, always slip away. Leaving me fumbling around in the emptiness, groping desperately from the words that are there, so close to me, but always, always just out of my reach. 

And this is what I know is proving to be such a massive, enormous, soul-destroying struggle for me. Trying, struggling so desperately to get through my college degree, pushing and pushing relentlessly until my head feels like it is going to split open and my whole body cries out with the fatigue and the pain of knowing that it is not, and never will be, ever enough. This is my second attempt at third year English Studies at Trinity, and I know all too well, that this course was not and never will be made for me. And it is a struggle. Every single day. There is no escape from the shame, the razor-sharp pain of regret which cuts into you like a knife, embedding itself into your very soul, like a thorn which has wedged itself into your foot. knowing that I chose to take the wrong path, the wrong course. It presses down on me every day, making me feel stupid and useless and selfish, naive and pathetic and deplorable.  with the workload I receive every week, and never, ever get done. And then there are the essays...

Unfortunately for me, the return to college last September was one of the most significant factors in triggering my relapse. I have spoken before about how, in going back, it suddenly hit me hard just how far I really was from real recovery; and how deeply and hopelessly entrenched I still was, in my eating disorder. I had tried to kid myself into thinking that I was ready to go back to studying at a third level institution again; that things would be better, this time. And the fear of the hospitalisation would keep me safe from Ed. But I was wrong. so very, very wrong.

It wasn;t long before I found myself in an all too familiar situation. Crying my eyes over a blank laptop screen, as I fumbled desperately through the empty recesses of my brain; clawing for the right words, the right sentences, hating myself with all of my heart and soul, branding myself as useless, an ineptitude, the dumbest and most stupid person on earth, for not being able to compose what my fellow English students, no doubt, would have produced as effortlessly and as easily as water passes under a bridge. but I was wholly incapable of that. The Voice in my head seemed to have taken over me: it had became so loud, so persistent, so deafening. There was no escape from its cruel dictations; no hiding from the malignity of its penetrating gaze. It knew all my weak spots and vulnerabilities; and took great pleasure in exploiting them. And before I knew it, the restriction had began in earnest again. A skipped lunch or a conveniently forgotten breakfast; a polite shake of the head on being offered a free biscuit by my lecturer who always had them in her classroom. Ed, as it had once before, had become my coping mechanism.

What choice do I have? I would silently weep into my pillow at night when everyone else was asleep; when there was no chance that the stifled sounds of my sobbing could be heard by any living soul. I clutched the lifeless forms of Ducky and Peter Penguin to my shuddering body, sprinkling their soft fur with the moisture of my tears. There's...there's no way out of this. If I choose not to eat the Voice is satisfied; the storm in my head is silenced. But deep inside it's like my heart is breaking; the guilt is tearing me apart; and then, there is the hunger...just...so...empty. But then, if I choose to eat. My head...exploding. The storm raging...I can't focus, I can't do anything. There's no way on this earth I could write a 5000 word essay, like this...can't...escape...the storm in my head...

But that all changed that day two weeks ago now, when I promised Mam that I would never let her down again; that, from that day onwards, there would be no more lies, no more deceit, no more secrecy. That I would give everything to my recovery; and that, no matter how . But before I made that promise, I had grasped her strong brown hand and had whispered to her that I couldn't do it. Im going to fail college, Mam. I cant recover and study at the same time. I cant let you down mam..But I cant waste anymore of your money.

I felt so torn then, at that moment. so lost, so broken, so afraid.

but, like she had done so many, many times before, ever since I was a little girl, Mam was there for me to hold my hand in her strong, warm one. And to gently and firmly turn me onto the right path. So I knew, exactly then, what it was I had to do, and where I had to go.

The road to recovery...

One day, we will make it there, together. <3 xxx

But I guess, since that day, I now realise what is truly important, in this life.
recovery should be, for each and every single one of us, something which should be made our top priority. For, think about it this way...

There will always be another chance in life, to go back to college or take up that degree.
There will always be another job. Another degree, another place at university.

But we only have one body.

You are stronger than you think...xxx

Recovery is...

like walking upon a windswept beach, a beach which is strewn with rocks and sharply edged pebbles; a beach which seems to stretch on and on and on towards the distant horizon. The tide rolls in as you walk along, white tipped waves crashing down upon the grey, gritty sand as the rushing waters advance towards you, roaring and pounding itself against the rocks of that lonely shoreline with all the wild, untameable ferocity of some monstrous, terrible beast.

And still the beach stretches out ahead of you. On and on and on, without end.

And as the waves break upon the shore at your back, icy waters surging towards you with terrifying velocity, it is all you can do to not let yourself be drawn back by the powerful, surging currents that are suddenly sucking away the sands to every side of you. Those waters are all around you, now; and your skin becomes drenched with icy spray off those furious waves. And those waves are so powerful, so strong. They will bear you away with them, out into that depthless sea.

A few months ago, this was what had happened to me. I was the leaf  lost in the gale; the tiny little stone which has been plucked away from the rocky path upon which it was precariously attached, to be tossed remorselessly away into the icy wilderness beyond.  I was the little lost girl who had allowed herself to be carried away from that lonely beach with all its sharp cutting stones. I had lost the strength to carry on. Those cruel, terrible waves, seizing the opportunity and revelling in my weakness, had swept me pitilessly away, out into that terrible grey ocean.

And that's how it remained, for months. Me trying desperately to swim back for the shore, but my weak and feeble attempts were powerless against the raging, irresistible torrent which forced my body further and further into the depths. I was sinking and crying out for help, but noone, not one soul of this earth could hear me; or reach me. My desperate fingers groped desperately, searching for an inivisible hand which would stretch out to me and pull me from this abyss. The sea, the ocean, the abyss which was my eating disorder...it had, once again, claimed me for its own. And that long, hard, lonely path along the shoreline, the shoreline which had been my recovery...now seemed to be a hundred miles away from me, separated by these endless expanses of cold, stormy, grey waters.

It was just...so tiring, so painful, so hard. And there did not seem to be any end to it. It felt like I had been walking for ages..ages, without getting anywhere. And there were so many sharp, cutting rocks. they were tearing my skin and leaving me bleeding; reminding me, over and over again, just how painful and difficult recovery really is. And that shore was just so, so lonely. at times; for I was the different one, the odd one; the girl who was isolated and cut off from the society into which she had been born. And so, when those cruel waves came, I found myself all too easily surrendering to their cold, coldembrace. Recovery is too painful, too hard. I am not strong enough to do this. I am useless. I am hopeless. I don't...I don't have that strength, to keep on walking upon the sand. I do not have the strength to reccover.

But the past few weeks I finally found the strength to push myself upwards through the cold, icy, raging stormy waters. I have finally found the strength to break free.

And as this newfound strength courses through me, I know I am becoming stronger and stronger; and I can see the beautiful light which burns upon the surface of the water. And though the waves still roar and crash all around me....

It is now my turn to be the stronger one. And I am learning to glide across those waves.

I need to believe that I can get back to this...and that I will be happy, and that I will accept myself, and my body...

I am now FULLY back on my meal plan.

I am nourishing my body every day by eating and enjoying delicious, yummy food that I love. I am bloated and full most of the time, but I am not letting this get in the way of what I know I have to do. I tell myself, every time the anxiety threatens to kick in, that my bloated stomach is my body's own way of protecting the vulnerable organs within, and that when, in time, my body is starting to trust me again, the bloating will not be as bad and I will not constantly be feeling so full all the time. I recognise and acknowledge that my body is trying to protect itself and accept that this is a direct consequence of undereating.

I opened up to my Mam about how much I have been struggling. There are now no secrets between us: everything has been laid out in the open. There is no more concealment, no more pretending, no more secrecy.  Mam is helping and supporting me with my meals and snacks and we are going to check my weight every Sunday.

I am giving my recovery everything that I have.

I am getting stronger and stronger every day.

I have found my way back to the shore...

And  I know now that not only do I have the strength to overcome those waves that tried to overcome me. But I have the strength to keep walking, too. And so do you. We CAN do this. And one day...one day, we will get there, together. At the end of that shoreline lies a beautiful, sunlit lagoon; a lagoon where peaceful waters flow.

This time, I won't forget...

All those months ago, way back in March, on that day when I was finally allowed to leave that secluded, detached, imprisoning walls of the eating disorder ward...I felt a palpable, unfamailar sensation pulsating through every vein in my body; an adrenaline, sweet even in the fury of its rush; beautiful, even in its striking unfamiliarity: it was nothin, nothing like I had ever experienced before. I felt as if...as if I had overcome the battle. A Battle which had been so long, so hard, so excruciatingly painful; a battle through which I had shed countless tears; which had cost me, and my loved ones, untellable amounts of hurt and heartache and suffering; blow upon blow falling upon us like the pitiless waves of a maddened stormy sea, crashing against the trembling creatures of the rockpools, tearing and destroying everything in their wake.

I have overcome the Battle, I had thought. I felt like a bell: my whole body was ringing, vibrating, resonating with an unquenchable, indescribable, irresistable, overwhelming sense of pure, vibrant, joy.

But then the days passed and the winds changed...

And I allowed myself to forget....

forget everything which I had overcome, everything which I had been fighting for. Everything which ED had taken from me, everything that it could still take from me...if I did not continue to fight it, fight it with every single bone in my body.

I allowed myself to forget...and then, before I knew it, ED had jumped in, having taken its opportunity when I was at my most vulnerable, and suddenly, my joy was shattered. That feeling of pure happiness seemed as distant and as unreachable as the moon. It seemed as if I had never achieved anything, had overcome, anything. It was as if nothing had ever changed.

But now I realise that I was wrong...and that, no matter how many times I fall down, I can pick myself up again, and carry on with my head held high.

For a stumble in the road does not mark the end of the journey. 

And though there were storm clouds blocking out my horizon,

The winds of change are blowing again, blowing away those clouds.

And in their place I can clearly see, my own glowing, twinkly little stars. :) xxx

And so today I thought I would write this little post, to remind myself of the things that I once forgot, which ED made me forget.

But not this time, Ed.

This Time, I will not Forget. <3 xxx

• That this is my body...my body, the only one that I have and will ever have. But for the past nine years, I have relentlessly abused and mistreated the most valuable and priceless of all of my possessions;  depriving it of its most basic and most fundamental of its needs, mercilessly pushing it to the very brink of exhaustion. And never once did it occur to me to stop and contemplate just how much damage I was causing my body...

Don't forget...Your body is irreplaceable. It will do everything in its power to take care of you, to protect you and keep you safe, functioning, alive. But like all animate things, there is only so much that the human body can take.

I won't forget this time...that every day I spend restricting, every day I spend overexercising, every day which I spend, giving in to Ed, ignoring my body's signals and forcing myself to go hungry...that I am just wasting yet another day of my life, sacrificing it to the cruel voice of Ed. Causing my body even more damage...damage which my body, having been already endured so much abuse for so many, many years, might well not be able to repair, this time...

I won't forget...that if I do not make that change, maintain that change, and learn to take proper care of my body, then there might come a time when it is too late. I will hit rock bottom and then I will realise; realise that every minute of every hour of every day, I should have given recovery all that I had...but then, it will be too late.

So now is the time to stop allowing myself to forget...what truly matters. To stop putting recovery aside; to stop complying with the demands and dictations of theVoice. To never, ever forget the importance of caring for my body, right here, right now. I cannot afford to waste a single day more.

• Thistime, I will not forget...

 That yes, I do have serious osteoporosis. Not just for a day, a week or maybe even a year: no, I have it for life. And that if I do not make that change now, my osteoporosis will only deteriorate ever further: my already weak, brittle, delicate bones will suffer enormously, as a result. I don't like to think of what that will mean for me. All I know is, that I cannot forget that this might well be my final chance. We stop taking calcium into our bones when we reach our thirties, so I have been told. And so, the next few years will be, for me, pivotal in striving to improve my bones. Which is exactly why I must never allow myself forget the importance of maintaining my recovery, and of nourishing my body and giving by bones the best possible chance of strengthening themselves while they still can.

• I won't forget, that now I have the best possible chance of helping my metabolism to recover, if I stay strong and continue to eat well and frequently thoughout the day.

• I won't what I have put my loved ones through. I won't ever forget their unconditional, unflatering love for me, despite all the pain and the sorrow and the heartache. I won't allow myself to forget just how much they have done for me...and how much pride, and joy, it would bbring them to see me happy and healthy.

• I won't forget how fleeting, how valaule, how precious life really is. I won't forget that this is my nly ever chance at life...that tomorrow ould be my last. And that if I chose to remain with Ed, then There is nothing left for me in that place, but pain and and depression unhappiness. I must leave that place behind, walk towards that beautiful yet unknown horizon. <3 xxx

ED watch out!!! :D the Ganache Elf is back and she has a Plan of Action... :) xxx

Polka dots, Morokia, volunteering...and that faithful, chocolate-splattered Kenwood Mixer of legend... ;)

Yes, these are just SOME of the tools I have at my disposal...in my quest to overcome my relapse and forever silence ED...

My plan of action against ED. :D

1.To make a concise meal plan and stick to it every day, NO exceptions.

Designate a particular time of the week (for me I think it will be on one of my hot choc breaks at the weekend! ;) ) to plan out my meals and snacks (I have ANOTHER new noteook for this purpose, this one has polka dots on it...my little catty one has gone walkies somewhere in my room so I had to get another one!! :o ). Let  Mam know what I would like her to get for me when she goes grocery shopping (I used to go with her but I have college friday mornings now :'( ), vary what I eat so I don't get bored of anything and lured into just having "safe" foods.

And of course, one of the most essential components of my meal plan = LOTS of hot choc!!! ;)

2. Make my own list of rules...which are essentially are reversal of the ED ones :)
I will tell you more about this in a separate post as it is a very good and helpful technique I think, for going against the ED voice and destroying the "rules£ that it makes for us, in their various forms.

3. Bake my own snacks so that I will be more motivated to get back into the routine of snacking regularly.
Yesssssss, what better excuse to stick to my meal plan and eat my snacks?? Because by doing so, I will give myself the perfect reason to bake and mess around with my beloved Kenwood Mixer to my heart's content. In a nutshell: eating my snacks and keeping to meal plan = more baking and I will of course post all recipes/photos on here, rest assured.. ;)

4. Make sure I make time for my hobbies and interests and for spending time with people who make me feel happy and loved. <3
I'm going to start volunteering here at home (an hour a week, visiting an elderly person in Mountmellick to keep them company and give them someone to talk to); keeping up my blogging and maybe Morokia over Christmas if I have time; make time for baking, walking Benny, knitting, and meeting a friend for a chat over hot choc - just some of the things I am going to do in order to keep me busy and occupied and distracted from the ED voice.

5. Talk back to the ED voice when it tries to sway me off track again.

Talking back to the Voice: an example dialogue...

ED. No, you don't need your snack...get out the packet of biscuits, take them out of the packet...but then just wrap them in a tissue when no one is looking, and throw them away...then they will be none the wiser...

And the past few weeks, it's true; I went along with what that Voice was telling me, agreeing with what it said, not putting up any fight. Deceiving my loved ones and throwing away food; not eating, even though my stomach felt empty and all I could think about, focus on was what i wanted so badly to eat...but the Voice said, no, you cannot; you shall not, you will not.

But now, I am determined to talk back to that voice: take up a defiant stance. And in that moment of resistance I know I will find my strength.

And so, let's write out the new dialogue.

ED: You CANNOT eat your snack.

Emmy: No.
I want to have my snack.
Why should you get to decide what I can and cannot eat? What right do you have to dictate to me how I nourish my own body?

                                         yes, I CAN!!!! :D

If I don't eat that snack...

I will just contribute to the weakening of my bones...
I will deprive my body of the vital energy it needs...
And ultimately, it will mean that I am just giving into,..the Voice of Ed...
I will just be costing mam and dad more money, more worry, more heartache.
I will just be wasting yet more and more of my life away, sacrificing each and every day to ED.

So I am going to adopt this approach, when ED tries to persuade me to not stick to my meal plan, to not finish a meal/snack, or to engage in any other ED type behaviours. I think it might help me as well to make little memos and stick them at random in places where I can always see them (ie the top of my laptop screen, my food diary, etc. just random stuff which will help keep me motivated...more on this to follow!!! ;)

6. Set myself daily and weekly goals.
And I will tell you more about this in a later post too. But the main idea of this is to set yourself individual little challenges to complete every day, so that I will be making progress week by week at a rate which is very doable and not too overwhelming. I might try sharing my goals on here as I think that will really help motivate me to accomplish them!! And if you have any suggestions let me know, thank you so so much <3 ;)

7. get as much support and help as I can.
I know I have all my loved ones, friends and readers behind me; and that I should never feel afraid or ashamed to reach out to them when things get tough.

8. Charter my progress and share my experience through my blog.
Blogging has always helped me so, so much with recovery...and in a way, I suppose, when I stopped blogging just before the relapse, that didnt really help me at all; but back then, I was in a bad place and felt too ashamed to write about my struggle. But now I am thinking about things in a different way and, though I am finding it very, very hard to let go of the anger and shame at myself...I'm trying, to move on and find peace with myself. And so I suppose you can say that the Ganache-Elf is back on the blogging scene...and her recovery journey goes on from here. :)

The Girl who Can, and Will, Recover...xxx

Recovery...is like a tunnel winding up and up and up a steep mountainside, a yawning chasm of murky inky darkness. Because you dont really know where its going to take you, and how long you are going to be stumbling forwards for. I think that's what makes it so hard, so painful, in a way; there is such enormous fear in uncertainty.

And then in that tunnel there are so many hazardous pits and falls and foottraps...and despite the very best of your intentions, it's only a matter of time before your foot gets entrapped in just one of them, and you fall. But you have two choices here; to lie down and acknowledge yourself as weak, and inept, and defeated...or to get back up, to acknowledge that, yes, I did fall down. But that does NOT make me a failure...and to take one slow, long, deep breath, and pick yourself up once again, reaching out with both hands, and despite the pain of the fall and the shame at having let yourself be tripped, you keep on going forwards once again, with your head held high...it's not the fall that defines you; it's how you reacted to that fall...

And yes, I fell...but this time, it was different. It was more than a simple stumble: it was a fall, and the hole was deep, and I became...trapped. And this time, I know that the effects of it weren't all just, upon me emotionally and mentally...it had taken its toll upon my body too. The past few weeks, my little back has been aching away, as if my body was trying to convey to me a silent, but crucially urgent, message.

And I felt so...so lifeless, so empty and torn up inside. Dark shadows under my eyes. The skin on my hands became cracked and dry; the sore, red fingers taking on the appearance of hands which looked alot older than their twenty one years. And as for college, I might as well not have been there at all, really. For all I was doing was going to sit in a lecture hall or seminar room, but I might as well not have been there at all: I could hear the sound of the lecturer speaking, I could see the words upon the page in front of me...but I wasn't learning, I wasn't taking in anything. All I could hear was this...noise, in my head. I know it might be hard for you to understand this. You might think...why? Why can you not just block out that noise and focus your thoughts on what you are doing? How could just a silly little voice in your head, impact on your studies so profoundly? Surely, it can't be that hard to block it out...?

It's...hard, to explain. But this is something, which I wouldn't want to wish, on my very worst enemy. Because...there is no escape; there is no peace; everything that you do, everywhere you go; then it is there, with you, clinging to your shoulder like a demon, whispering in your ear without cease.

I don't think I could properly begin to describe, the feeling of wretchedness, the self-hate, the self-convictions of stupidity, worthlessness, for being a good for nothing, waste of time, a failure as a daughter, a sister, a friend: an identity, forged through my own branding of myself, as the girl who failed. Because...well, you have, haven't you? That voice snarled in my head. You've failed...at everything.

You are the girl who failed...
You are the girl who cannot, and will not, ever recover...

And what makes it even more so awful, so horrible, is the fact I know I have been in this place, many, many times before. This feeling of ineptitude, of exhaustion, of complete and utter despair - they aren't new, or strange, or unfamiliar to me. I know I have been in this place, so many, many times before. This is what being at college with an eating disorder is really like.

Everything that I loved, everything that I held dear, slowly but surely drifting away from me. I had no joy, no pleasure in anything. For the Voice had taken over, wholly and completely...

And I know that I now have to sum up all my courage, all my strength, every shard of determination and bravery and willpower that I have, to climb up out of that dark, slippery hole, and continue in, along that long and winding tunnel. Otherwise, this monster which has already taken away so much of me, will emerge the victor in this long, hard, bloody, bitter fight. And there will be nothing of Emmy left.

And it was today, the eighth of november, 2015...it was today when Emmy realised exactly what I now need to do. 

I know my posts have been really scattered and all over the place of late - I do apologise for this. It's taking me awhile to just accumulate all the thoughts and ideas in my head and to formulate them into words. I promise to make my blogging more coherent and structured asap. Tomorrow I would like to share with you my little plan of action for fully overcoming my relapse: my mission, to beat this thing, once and for all.

I am not the Girl who Failed.

I am not the Girl who lived, and died, with an ED.

I am Emmy: the Ganache Elf, the hot choc gal, the baking fanatic, the nature lover. I am Emmy and I do not need an ED to define me. I am Emmy, the girl who had an ED...

But who can, and will, recover. :) 

Me... not long after being discharged from inpatient care earlier this year. I want to get back to that happy, smiling Emmy..:)

Thank you so so much for staying with me. You don't know how much this means to me. You have motivated me so so much to take this crucial step forwards and to get myself back on track. I couldnt do this without you...my heart goes out to you all. 

Thank you <3 xxxx

My footprints didn't just end here... :) xxx

Hello, everyone...it's me! I'm back! <3

And after being away from my blog for so, so long, its so hard, really, to know where to begin.

But I think it's time to stop going to such great lengths to make things perfectly right. To make my first stand, against that little voice in my head saying that I am not good enough...

It's time to just let go, and just let myself be me.

it's felt like...an age since a certain day, back in August 2015. It's been over two months. Two months, since I last blogged.

Two months since that day when I, as was often my custom, during those long, blissful, golden days which were the summer of 2015 - sat down one evening in the sunlit conservatory overlooking the garden of my home; a garden overflowing with the rich, vibrant colours and fruitful fertility of late August. The shifting dapples of sunlight beneath the gently swaying, leaf-adorned branches of the maple tree. The sweet pea frame, with its wispy purple blooms above tender, supple green stems, entwining themselves intricately across the expanse of the slender bamboo canes. The neat flowerbed at the garden's very heart, where robins pecked amongst soft brown soils and flowerbuds stretched, with soundless longing, towards the fading evening light as the sun begins its slow descent towards the western horizon.

I had sat there with my laptop, in my little comfy chair by the window, gazing towards the horizon, too, watching as the golden rays slanted upon the gently sloping sides of my beloved Slieve Blooms which guarded the skyline to the west, their peaks ablaze with vibrant patches of rich purple heather.I could picture those moors in my mind's eye as clearly as if I was standing directly above their heathery, windswept expanses: close enough to inhale the peaty scents of the boggy ground, to see how the wind rustled every single one of the tough-stemmed, scrubby plants with their tiny bell like flowers. Such unspoilt, wild, untamable beauty. A beauty that could never be tarnished or tainted: a beauty that would never be stifled or contained, for the mountains, and everything which they nurture and contain, will forever be free.

Beautiful, sweet freedom.

But as the sky dimmed and the sun slipped silently down between the soaring forms of those mountains, the garden was cast into shadow, the warmth of the evening ebbing away like foam being carried away by a stream. A delicate, feather-light chill hung in the air, prickling across the bare skin of my arms and shoulders. But I barely noticed that chill. All I could see, all I could feel was the emptiness that enveloped me, as surely as the darkness encompassed the garden. Because I knew I was not like the mountains. I was ensnared within that darkness, trapped in that gaping, vast emptiness. I knew that I was not free. That I never had been, or was anywhere near, free; ever since that day my eating disorder came into my life; the day when everything changed. And there had been those times when I felt as if I had the world at my feet; times when I felt as if could conquer everything and anything. Times when I convinced myself that I was fre...or at least, closer and closer to my freedom. That day back in May, 2014. The day when I promised myself - promised my loved ones - that I would never, ever give in to my greatest ever nemesis ever again. That no matter how bad things got, I would not give up. No matter how many times I fell down, I would pick myself up, pick up the pieces, and stumble forwards once again. I would never let myself be a prisoner, ever again...

But then, at the eclipse of that golden summer, as autumn leaves began to turn and change and the fragrant blooms which adorned the flowerbeds of my garden began to fade, withering and compressing into dry, brittle, lifeless forms of what they once were as if a single touch would cause them to disintegrate into dust, I could perceive another change in my own little world, too; a change that was occuring deep within my very soul. A change as gradual as the turning of the leaves as green gives in to gold; as steady and as inevitable as the purposeful, cruel, heartless advance of winter. I could feel my inner strength ebbing away, born away like those fallen leaves upon a icy cold wind. To be replaced by nothing but the emptiness, and the heady, crsuhing feeling of shame. because I knew that I was relapsing. The Voice had jumped in at my first sign of weakness, and its soft whispers filled my head with every step that I took, every breath that I inhaled. The shame was as heavy as a lead weight hung across my neck. The guilt was as sharp as a bramble thorn, pierced in my side so that I was left bleeding and crying out soundlessly for someone to help me. Soundlessly..because I thought, well, why should anyone come to help me? I was the girl who had failed. Who had put up such a brave face and had spoken of how she would give everything she had to recovery.. but you failed, Em, you failed. Just as you always do, and as you always did, and always will. You are the girl who failed...

You deserve this pain, this pain of not having your voice heard. 

But then a few days ago...can't even really remember what, or how, or when. All I do know is, I was longinto go back to my blogging once again....

And that, no, I should not feel ashamed.

I still haven't really succeeded in convincing myself this... It is so hard, and the guilt and the shame are still there, pressing down upon me. But alongside the guilt and the shame and that crippling sense of loss - the aching and crushing recognition of being the girl who failed - there is something else now, too. A tiny, quavering little flame of weak and feeble candleight. But it is there, all the same. A single, tiny, minute flicker of light in the yawning chasm of depthless emptiness.

I suppose, recovery is sort of like walking along a windswept beach, with the sound of the waves roaring in your ears as they roll in towards the shore; the relentless, gusty winds tugging fiercely at your clothes and hair and body as if wholly intent upon pulling you down, down into the rapidly advancing tide which approaches the sand upon which you walk without one shard of remorse or pity. And to fall would be to be engulfed by the icy, cruel, suffocating embrace of those rushing, icy waters; to be submerged within the fathomless depths of that sublime and terrible emptiness. No trace of you would remain, save that little set of footprints you made as you approached that beautiful, terrible shore: one single set of footprints in one huge, and impossibly cruel, world.


And this time last week, every single little part of me truly believed, that I had allowed myself to be borne away by that tide. That I had lost in my fight against the malignity which was my own eating disorder: that it had won, and that there was no hope left for me.

But I know now that my footprints don't just end here.

 It's true. I did fall down, in my slow trek upon that beach. I was borne away on the tide. But that did not mean that all hope was lost. I know that the past few weeks I have been drowning, and that it would only have been a matter of time before I was completely and utterly lost beneath the icy waters. But despite everything and how weak, scared, and afraid I now feel, I know that inside me there remains a little flame flickering. Which the icy waters have not - and will not- ever extinguish. I know that I have the strength deep inside me to do this. I know that I can find my way back to that beautiful golden shore. And that my footprints, instead of abruptly ending, will continue on their little path. My little path...the path that I choose. the path of recovery, with all its little slips and bumps and falls.

My footprints didn't  just end here.

Thank you so, so much, for staying with me. Please know that you have touched my heart in a hundred thousand ways and that you all mean so much more to me, thank you will ever, ever know. <3 xxxx

Ups and downs...relapsing. But this time, I will not give in.

Having read alot about anorexia and eating disorders, ever since I came to realise that what I had was, in fact, exactly that, the term "relapsing" has made itself familiar to me. I'm not great at explaining things but basically, if I were to define a relapse for you, I would say I suppose it's when someone like me, who is in the recovery stage of their ED, undergoes a period when they lose the motivation to recover/gain weight, they let the ED take control of them one again; they may become at risk of reverting to their old ways.

It is very easy, to let yourself relapse. I should know, because when I was sick, when the ED really was very bad back in those days...I made a good few half-hearted attempts at becoming well again. But it never lasted very long...I always relapsed, fell back down again, and was stuck in the very same place as I was before.

What can be said for me now, though? For things are, genuinally, very different. For one thing, I know that I had an eating disorder - something I never frankly acknowledged to myself all those other times. And I really, really do want to do this - as in, be healthy again and gain some weight. That's why, after doing something wrong and feeling guilty about it, I end up feeling so frustrated and full of self-loathing. Why did you do it, if you WANT to put on weight...? You are just so, so stupid!!! But I admit that it does get rough sometimes and I feel as if I have lost the motivation for gaining weight. Is it a relapse of sorts? I don't know for certain. But...I am so, so determined not to let these relapses, if they can be called that, drag me back down to that dark, dark place, like all those other times in the past!

I suppose, what has made me feel a little concerned that I was relapsing was when I looked over my food diary over the past week or so, and realising that there were more days when I hadn't stuck entirely to my meal plan that the days that I actually had. They were all little things, of course...it wasn't as if I had skipped meals, or anything like that. But, as I've mentioned before, these little things are all very much ovious to me, even if noone else might takeany notice of them at all.

The other thing that made me think...no...am I relapsing?? - I feel as if there are odd moments during the day when I suddenly lose all motivation to gain weight. The voice inside me says...

• You don't need to gain weight; you are strong and healthy as you are.
• A skinny body suits you, being curvy and dumpy won't.
• Won't it be terrible to not be the "little girl" anymore? Imagine being "normal"! You will have to think alll the time: it's ESSENTIAL that I don't gain anymore weight or I will become fat!
• You need to stay a size 6...your clothes won't fit anymore! 
• if you love your thinness, you will have nothing left - you will just be ugly and fat.

And so I give in to the voice and consciously eat less, or make the wrong choice, or choose to not eat something even though I really, really want to. And later on when I am in a more reflective frame of mind, I look back upon my day and feel like crying...why did I listen to the voice? Why can't it be replaced with one who reminds me instead of all the pluses of gaining, which I just seem to automatically forget, until it's too late...? I KNOW there is more reasons to gain then to stay stuck in this semi-recovery stage!!

Well, anyway...it's a new month and a new season. My summer has been so, so wonderful. Like that near-perfect  day I talked about in a recent post...it would probably have been perfect. if it hadn't been for the few traces left of my ED which still get me down. But perhaps, this month, this season...I can learn to battle those few bits that are left and eradicate them completely. Starting today. Today...

• I am going to write down all the reasons to recover on sticky notes and stick them on the top of my bunkbed so whenever I go to sleep or am sitting there in the evenings like I sometimes do, I will see them.
• I'm going to write out my goals, my aims, what I want to achieve, all that there is to be gained by putting on weight, and put them on the sticky notes, too, as well as in my food diary.
• I'm going to writer out all the ED habits and ways which I am worried might still be affecting me, and focus on beating them...bit by little bit it might be, but I'm hoping, by the end of this month...I might be rid of them entirely.
• I'm going to have a big bowl of Shredded wheats for breakfast with my toast and pour lots of lovely warm milk on them.
• I'm going to have a toasted roll for lunch; with cheese, and I'm going to leave it under the grill so that the cheese melts and goes gooey.
• I'm going to have that white-choc coated oreo with hot choc.
• I'm going to not pick bits off from the food on my plate at dinner, and consciously eat slowly, or spread it around my plate or anything.
• I'm going to have those chocolate Celebrations that I found in my room the other day...yep, there were MALTESER ones, and galaxy, and twirl...all my favourites...on top of my banana pud. And I'm not going to feel guilty or bad about any of this!

Starting right NOW. It's breakfast time. Time to pop the toast in the toaster and put some milk in the microwave for those Shredded Wheats.;)