I can choose to be...the passenger or the pilot...

The first week at Villa Selene has almost been and gone. A week tomorrow me, Mam and Dad will be clambering on the plane which will bring us back to Ireland, and home.

A few weeks before our departure for the airport, I was struggling hard to conceal my apprehension about the upcoming holiday from my parents and friends. Unpleasant images from holidays in the past flitted across my mind's eye, further fueling the burning sensations of fear and apprehension that coursed through my body. Endless rows and heated disagreements which would always end in nothing but tears, angry glances, and then me isolating myself for many days at the least, if not for the remainder of the holiday. Crying spells in the night, of a despair so sharp, it wounded me more than any weapon or sharp object ever could have done. of wandering out from the villa first thing in the morning with tears streaming down my face, forcing myself to walk or cycle furiously until my limbs and joints were screaming for mercy, until I felt ready to collapse out of sheer exhaustion.

And, of stepping that close to the edge of the cliff face at the headland of Formentor, to look out over the edge at that depthless expanse of sapphire blue hundreds of feet below me, broken by sharp, jagged rocks, as sharp and as pitiless as the talons of an eagle. Where those waves met the crooked outline of the coast, the water churned and roiled into white-tipped, foamy waves that crashed and roared as furiously as the misery and wretchedness that crashed in my own skull, but, beyond that, towards the horizon where the sea met the sky on that beautiful, terrible day when I felt as close to taking my own life as my feet were to the precipice at which I stood by, the waters were as calm and as still as the silence of death.

But, in the space of just over a year, now, my life has been changed before my very eyes, as has the way that I see my life andthe world, and the place I have upon it.

I realise now, that it was not Emmy who went on holidays all those times, and caused so much upset and hurt and discord. It was Emmy with an eating disorder who stepped on that plane every time. It was her eating disorder which caused all those arguments, fights and endless tears, who caused all the pain, all the heartbreak, all the unhappiness.

I guess back then I was the passsenger...the passenger of my eating disorder, who would choose every single route and path for me; would dictate every single thought in my head; would govern every action and manouvre I would make.

But NOW, I am determined top become the pilot...I need to be the one in control.

This is the seventh day of my holiday now. And you know, I am glad that I decided to be brave and say that I would come.

I admit that it isnt easy - far from it, and every day poses its own little set of challenges, as the ongoing battle between me and the Voice in my head commences - but every day I plough onwards and do everything in my power to defy my ED. It's hard and sometimes I am not quite strong enough, and don't feel brave enough to have a large dollop of peanut butter on my toast like I would really love to; or sometimes, as I go to chop up a whole bar of galaxy chocolate to sprinkle on my banana and custard, a little Voice creeps into my head and before I know it I have put one - just one of the six squares of the bar - back into the packet, folded it over and put it back in the cupboard, simultaneously "agreeing" with the Voice that I surely would not be able to eat six rectangles of chocolate. I can just about manage the five, but six would be much, much too much. I mean...logically, what kind of nonsense is that? One rectangle more isn't going to make any difference whatsoever, and thinking about it now I realise how silly I was for doing that.

So of course, there have been those few times when Ed did win the fight and I didnt and complied with its demands. But there have also been victories, too, victories which I am proud of and are helping me to become stronger and braver in this fight with my ED.

Yesterday was a really, really lovely day, and one on which I did something which I think was a really positive step against my eating disorder, and which, now that I have done it, I know that I will feel confident and happy to do again and again. I suggested to my Aunty that we all go for Ben and Jerry's by the seafront that afternoon, and so we all hopped into the car, granny included, and drove down to the seaside town of Port de Pollenca, just five or so minutes away. I got one of my all time favourite flavours, the famous cookie dough with its divine chunks of chocolate chip biscuit, and it was as scrumptiously irresistible as I fondly remembered. (haven't had Ben and Jerry's for what seems like a very,very long time!!!) It was a perfect holiday moment, and I felt so, so happy. A perfect moment with my loved ones by the sea, the soft, gentle breeze stirring my hair and tenderly carrying away the burdens of my heart.

Enjoying my Ben and Jerry's with my loved ones yesterday!

I don’t want to die, but…surely, that’s better than living?

I don’t think, while I was sick, that I was ever at any real risk of taking my own life...though it could be argued of course that by starving myself I was actually slowly killing myself, anyway…and I see that now. But here I’m just going to talk a little about the thoughts of suicide that I had while I had my ED. And also, so you can get some further insight into the mind of an ED sufferer (though please bear in mind that every case is different, and that though there are lots of similarities there are just as many differences, too), I am also going to share with you some of the other abnormal thoughts and habits I had during that time. As I’ve often said before, writing about them and sharing them with you, my readers, is in itself such a great help to me. You see, even now, those manipulative thoughts do still try to creep back in – not the suicidal ones, I’m glad to say, I seem to have got over those now. But those other ones I mentioned above have been a lot harder to shake off completely. But I am determined to beat them off and am hopeful that I will be entirely free of them.

I look upon my childhood, and the days I spent at primary school, with both nostalgia and fondness because I know, deep down in my heart, that this was the time when I was truly happy. As carefree as a bird on the wing. But as I described to you earlier, I was probably like so many other girls my age in that my horizon became clouded with anxieties and uncertainties when I left that blissful, idyllic period of my life behind.

When did I start thinking, in these sort of damaging, destructive ways? Well, I guess both of them evolved together and that they grew and developed alongside one another. I’ll talk a little about the abnormal thoughts and habits that were directly linked to the eating disorder first before going into a little more detail about the suicidal ones.

I guess…it all began when I started comparing my lunch to everyone else’s and convincing myself that mine was the “least healthiest”, even though, of course, I had no idea what my classmates ate outside of school hours. I just saw myself as being terribly unhealthy and that everything I ate was so, too, and I determined to change al of that and become slimmer. But how to do it without attracting the attention of my attentive mam, my sister, and everyone else? And to not appear…well, stranger to my classmates than I already was? (or so I told myself.) I was just going to have to be extremely secretive about it, I thought. And so that’s how it all started. 

So I dispensed with the chocolate after school, as I’ve already outlined. I used to always have toast and cereal for breakfast when I was at primary school…but I firmly told myself that now, I would have just cereal, no toast. My excuse: I don’t have time, and it’s too early in the morning, I have no appetite. Neither of which were true. And then there was my packed lunch itself, which was what I focused on next.

I insisted on making my own sandwiches and rolls. Usually, I would have had crumbed ham in these, and a bit of tomato, and some spread too... and so what did I do? I decided that I didn’t like my bread with spread on it anymore, which was easy enough to get away with, after all; for no one was going to check the inside of a roll to see if it was buttered or not. The next thing I wanted to do something about was the filling. So whenever I made my lunches I always placed the smallest, thinnest pieces of ham into my sandwiches, usually strategically placing them on the edges of the bread so it appeared as if I had alot more than I actually had. The bread itself I felt as if I couldn't really do anything about - I wanted, of course, to perhaps go down to one slice of bread instead of one, or have the tiniest roll possible, or whatever - but I knew that I wouldn't be lucky enough to get away with that. Though once at school, more often that not I would find myself picking away at the little I had actually got - which I was thoroughly convinced was alot. I would take that tiny, miniscule piece of ham out of the roll and put it in the clingfilm I had originally wrapped the sandwich in. I would crumble up my cake or biscuit and scratch off any icing or chocolate. I would pull crusts or the edges off my bread.

Even when I had the eating disorder, I always disliked the idea of wasting food: of actually throwing it away. Of course I probably ended up wasting a load of food anyway though I was confident that I wasn't (in not cleaning my plate, not eating up some old ham and letting it go off, etc...) - but I don't really recall actually throwing food away literally many times. The ham and the bits of cake or bread or whatever...yes, they would be brought home with me. I let myself be governed by a seemingly benevolent voice in my head: We can just give these to the doggies in their dinners, or perhaps put them out for the wild birds or the animals to feed on. 

I did, of course, end up throwing or pouring away things sometimes... those foods which I knew I couldn't just pretend would be happily consumed by Ben, Maisy, or any of my wild feathered or furry friends. And so all these newly-developed habits established themselves in my daily routine, and, subsequently, I became skinnier, and skinnier, and skinnier. 

I recall the first time I really thought about suicide was...probably, the first time Mam seriously reproached me about my weight and eating habits. We were on our holidays in Kent, where we used to live in England, and we had gone to a country pub for some lunch one wet afternoon after exploring Canterbury, the magnificent medieval city. 

As soon as I realised that we would not be returning to our holiday cottage for our meal I remember the intense feeling of dread and anxiety that suddenly gripped me. For I would have no control whatsoever over how whatever I chose to eat was going to be prepared. They could put stacks of filling in it, perhaps, or spread it lavishly with real butter or even mayonnaise. And, as English pubs often tend to do, any sandwich could be served with a generous plate of chips or crisps alongside...a "terrifying" prospect for someone like me...

I can't remember exactly what I chose to have, in the end; a sandwich of some kind at a guess; but I do remember that it was, of course, a more generous quantity of bread, filling and salad then what I would ever permit myself to have when I prepared my own lunches. I ate slowly and tediously and picked away at it when I hoped no one was looking - though of course, my family noticed. My Mam finally lost her temper and angrily addressed me; though unbeknownst to me at the time, she was more upset, hurt and concerned than angry. "Your eating is appalling...why do you do it to us? You're an embarassment to take out, Emily. And you are so thin as well, do you even realise that?? If your behaviour doesn't improve soon...I might have to take you to the doctor's, is that clear??"

I have never been one for shouting back or trying to defend myself if ever confronted about anything...rather, I've always been a sulker, withdrawing from everyone and everything and wrapping myself up in dark thoughts. So it was on this occasion...though not only were my thoughts dark; they were dangerous. I started to thoroughly detest myself; and every single little thing about myself, and my life, too. I felt truly miserable...I could see now way forward. How was I going to go on like this? I had lost the trust of my mam. We had always been close...but now it felt as if our special mother-daughter bond lay shattered to pieces. And it was all my fault, I knew. But though I was desperate for her to forgive me, I still could not bear the thought of changing my eating habits and gaining weight... 

And so life now appeared so futile and pointless...and, though I knew that before I had experienced so much happiness and joy, it felt now as if...as if it would be better, if I was dead. I thought: wouldn't it be better for everyone, if I just vanished off the face of the earth, never to be seen again? It wasn't as if anyone needed me, or anything. I wondered if anyone would actually miss me, or even notice that I had gone. Would they wonder what had happened to me, would they talk about me, would they finally realise how hard I had tried...and failed...to make my way in life?

I think it was the actual thought of doing it...the actual thought of taking a knife in my hand and placing it to my skin...of approaching the edge of that building, and taking that last step forward into nothingness...of slowly walking into cold seawater and feeling its icy touch upon your skin and knowing that this is the last ever thing you will ever feel; and murky, obscure greyness the last thing you ever see...I think it was the actual thought of doing one of those things that saved me. The fear of doing it, not actual death itself, was what prevented me from taking my own life. And I was afraid of pain too. What if my hand slipped if I tried to cut my own throat, or if, after the jump, I only broke my legs and spine and ended up being in a wheelchair for the rest of my life...

And so...I didn't do it. I was close, I freely admit...but it passed and, though my eating disorder refused to go away, I struggled on, loathing myself every single day for what I was doing and who I had become, but yet, still refusing to change. Though I allowed my abnormal, distorted attitudes and thoughts about food and eating control my mind and actions, I was lucky in that I didn't, in the end, give in and succumb to the lure of suicide...despite the fact that, during that time, it appeared to me as if life really was like hell, that the world and everything in it was hostile, cold, and emotionless...and that death really was the only way in which I could find peace.

i understand now that we as human beings are always longing for something...even when we have, really, everything we need and could, if we just learned to let go and look around us at what we have got, find true happiness in life. But we are restless creatures and, even when things are running smoothly and we are so, so close to finding perfect tranquillity...we always yearn for more and, in doing so, bring ourselves down. And this is so, so true for me - please don't think that just because I am stating this I am susceptible to it or anything, for I can assure you that I am not. I am always grumbling about something or other, and usually it is about the smallest, tiniest little things which, on later reflection when I've simmered down somewhat, I realise were not worth all the hassled wondering and worrying at all. But at least now I can say, with certainty, that I realise now something which I never would have even contemplated back then...that yes life is hard and taxing and draining sometimes, but...it is so, so precious, and if only we could just learn to stretch out our fingertips and grasp it before it steals away from us...and learn to never seek perfection, and to look around at everything we have instead and realise how beautiful and wonderful it all is...and remember that today, after all, could be my very last...do I really want to spend it worrying and complaining and stressing when there is so much beauty and goodness around me...

And so I suppose you could say that I try to keep this philosophy of sorts in my head all the time: and it's been such a help to me in recovering from my E.D. Life is too short, to be constantly fretting over what you look like and how thin you are and if you have eaten too much today... everyone is different, everyone is unique, and we should spend less time comparing ourselves to her, or him, or them, and learn to love life and live it to the full, because that, after all, is what we are here for, and what we are meant to do.