Comparisons

You know, there are some days where I look in the mirror and I don't want to die.

I put on an outfit I like, try my hair differently then change it back, bit of make up on. Try out a smile in the mirror, try a pout, and feel... not happy, but I don't completely hate myself.

Yet the second I step out the door, or log onto fucking FACEBOOK, or get talking to somebody on the phone, I feel an overwhelming SHAME at having not hated myself. Does that make sense? Like the instant I see other people, the feelings of ugliness and self hatred and depression all come flooding back.

It just got me thinking, why? WHY does society teach us to care what other people think? It's all perception; in the eye of the beholder as they say. So what one person thinks is completely different to another. It's like ice cream; one flavour, a million different opinions of it. So why do we seem to give a shit what other people think?

The worst part is, half of the time it's not what people think of me, it's what I think they think of me. When I have to stand next to my gorgeous, sexy, beautiful friends I just feel like the ugly duckling, like I don't deserve a place. And yet logically, when I think about it, somewhere somebody does probably think that I am.. I dunno, pretty. 

And, although I say it's society, I blame society... we comprise society. We are the ones who assume we are being compared to everyone else, and so compare everyone else in return, making these ridiculous comparisons somehow acceptable.

There is only one YOU. Fucking cheesie as it sounds, it's true. We are all different, and there will be a million people on this planet who think that WE are beautiful.

Quit fucking comparing everyone, including yourself, and just... relax. Have a cup of tea, try that new hair style, and take a photo. No, don't care about its facebook likes, don't get all competitive with your friends. Just, let it be.

"Cry For Help"

This phrase is banded about a lot in the world of self harm and eating disorders. I actually think this phrase perfectly sums up a huge part of their very workings, but for some reason, it has become a term of dismission.

"She's just doing it as a cry for help, it's no big deal"

Uh.. what? A cry for help means there is a need for help in the first place, the sheer desperation of people who turn to self harm starvation aren't  just crying for help, they're screaming. Why on earth does this strike somebody as a reason to disregard their struggles? Surely, if anything, they should realise how truly awful somebody must be feeling to search for some kind of deliverance, of salvation even, through such self destructive means?

Honestly, it drives me up the wall. If people hurt themselves as a "cry for help", give them fucking help, they clearly need it!

Now, don't get me wrong, I think "doing it for attention" and "crying out for help" are very different things. Somebody who shouts about how they love cutting themselves, or posts pictures on crazy ass erotic forums, or who broadcasts pro-ana messages of "bones are beautiful", they need a whole different kind of help. They need help to stop being such a dick and get to the bottom of why they're choosing to promote something so blatantly harmful as a good lifestyle choice.

Nobody ever acknowledges they're doing something as a cry for help. I never did, but with the benefit of hindsight, there were times when I just wanted someone to take me aside and say;

"I've noticed. I've seen the scars. I've noticed the weight loss, the disappearance to the bathrooms. And it's okay, I'm here for you, and I'm going to help you get through this"

I once read a very good description of selfharm;

"You scream, in a room full of people, but nobody, not a single person, hears you. So you scream in blood." 

Sometimes, you need to LET STUFF OUT, and you want other people to hear you.

Regardless, in keeping with everything else I used to destroy myself, I never opened up really, not until after a long long time of it anyway. I still wore long sleeves all through the summer, or smeared foundation on my arms. I still laughed off anybody who asked why I hadn't eating, and I still lied about my weight, and how much I ate. But right at the back of my mind, in the deepest, darkest corner of it, lay a desperate me. The rational me. The scared, hopeless, lost me, who wanted somebody to find me. Part of me wonders if that part of me is my inner child, the happy little girl who at times feels miles away, crying out for help.

The other day, I saw a yahoo answers post which broke my heart. A girl had posted this (or something very similar): 

"I am 12 years old, and I have taken 12 paracetemols. I'm 5ft3 and quite a small build, will this be enough to kill me?"

No, there weren't concerned messages urging her to go to hospital. In fact, the highest rated comment was;
"If you really wanted to kill yourself, you would have taken the whole pack sweetie. I think somebody's done this as a little cry for help, so why don't you run along down to A&E to get an ickle stomach pump."

Not sure if I've truly communicated the evident sarcasm of the comment, but it was dripping with it, and many of the other comments followed the same theme.

That little girl could be dead.

She was crying out for help, because she needed it. 

The Incomparability of Anorexia and Bulemia

When people say that they believe one is worse than the other, it pisses me off hugely, particularly if that person has only suffered from one of the two. I've heard bulemia specifically called "the weak person's anorexia", and is generally seen as less dramatic, even though its effects are just as devastating as severe anorexia. My experiences with both have been different, and in their different ways hard to combat. this is in no way a comparison in the two, I'm just going to relay my personal experiences of each, and explain how they are devastating in their own ways.

Bulemia became an issue in my life aged 12, and lasted for just under 2 years, then turned into the occasional purge over 5 or 6 months, before I began starving myself. Bulemia is far easier to hide; there is no sudden weight loss, you still eat with family, you aren't tired and fainting all the time... and although that might sound like "advantages", it actually can be what makes it so dangerous. Bullemics can continue for years without ever being found out or receiving help. During the years I would make myself sick 5 or 6 times a day, I wouldn't necessarily feel like it was affecting my health; I generally felt, fine. Sick, yes. Tired, yes. Sad, definitely. But ill? No, it was just something I did. 

Anorexia was a very different story, and it all began shortly after my 14th birthday. Anorexia is immediate. It's sudden. After just one week of starvation, of the anorexic mindset, my entire life was controlled, thrown into turmoil. I couldn't focus on anything, I felt faint and dizzy and unbearably hungry all the time. It really was horrible. My family noticed after just 4 months of rapid weight loss and a sudden lack of eating, and immediately got me psychiatric help. So it was discovered almost immediately, and my thoughts definitely felt disordered, although to this day I refuse to accept I had an eating disorder, despite having been diagnosed.

So to compare these two experiences is absolutely impossible. Bulemia has been a harder set of habits to break. Even as I type, I can still feel the acid burning in my throat from purging up dinner; the habits are so inviting to fall back into. Anorexia was far harder as I was going through it, starvation is directly proportional to how much you eat: I felt depressed all the time, and I felt very very ill. I think the thing is with habits regarding bulemia is that even if you manage to force yourself through the anorexic heartwrenching before a meal, you still have the guilt there. Bulemia enables you to act on that guilt.

Most people go through these two the other way round for that very reason; in fact, it is very rare to go through these illnesses in the order that I did. I am still fighting my demons, and they both pose challenges for me as I move through my recovery. Never belittle either, for they are unbelievably challenging and traumatic experiences, each in their own way.

The Wake Up Call

When did you guys all SEE yourself for the first time?
I think it's so easy to allow anorexia to cloud your vision when you see yourself. I would look in the mirror and think I looked like a fatass, that my face looked chubby, that you could barely even see my bones. The inspiration from this post came from reading another blog, about a girl whose wake up call was unbelievable. Some of you may have seen the pro-Ana slogan "I want to be so light, I don't leave footprints in the snow"? This girl was walking in the snow when she suddenly realised she was barely leaving a mark.
This resonated with me in two ways.

Firstly, it shows that with anorexia, you think you really want something, but actually when the time comes, you realise it wasn't worth the sorrow and the heartache to get.
The second is the symbolism within this realisation. You're no longer leaving a mark on the world, you're becoming less of a person; you're becoming invisible. This image reflects the way in which anorexia takes away who you are, you don't have as much impact. You are barely even there anymore.

I saw another story of a girl who just looked in the mirror one day, and actually SAW herself. She suddenly saw the ribs, the bones sticking out horrendously, how ugly her skeletal body looked in the harsh light of reality. She realised she looked nothing more than a corpse; no femenine curves; gaunt pale face; bow legged;... unattractive. Anorexia is not beautiful.

My realisation could have come at a  lot of times:
I was in the shower, and as i put conditioner in, I took my hand away from my head, and a huge clump of hair was left in my hands. I sobbed; my hair is the one thing I have ever liked myself. THis was very symbolic too, in that it highlighted anorexia was taking away everything that mattered to me.
The second time I could have had my wake up call was giving my friend a hug at school. "Holy shit, K, I can feel your ribs through your blazer, that's disgusting". My thought process? How stupid, she obviously can't, she's lying.
The third time could have been a picture taken of me, smiling. I thought I would look pretty in it; I'd got dolled up to go out, I felt reasonably okayish. I looked at the photo and I look drained, exhausted, gaunt, sunken eyes.. the lot.
The fourth time? Sat in my psychiatrist's office, he had just weighed me. "K, if you lose any more weight, you WILL be put in inpatient treatment. You now are severely underweight." ... He's lying?

The real realisation came when I was lying next to the guy I was with at the time. He had his hand resting on my stomach as we lay half asleep, and I suddenly became aware of how much my ribs and hips stuck out. I felt... embarassed. What I usually saw as achievements looked so ugly. I suddenly became aware of how much pain I was in, with my bony spine resting awkwardly on the floor. My bones protruding suddenly made me feel ashamed. I had no stomach there really. I tried pushing out my tummy to make myself look bigger, but I physically didn't have the energy.

This sudden feeling of embarassment threw my world into turmoil. What? Bones are how I judge if I'm doing okay?? Why do I suddenly wish I just had a regular non-concave stomach?

I hope you all receive a wake up call sometime soon.

Ups And Downs

Sorry I haven't written for a while, I've had a pretty rough week. The roughness of the week is actually what's inspired me to write on here, because it's only struck me this week that people think once you start eating again, your problem is solved.

Friends think now that I'm not passing out in lessons, throwing up every day after lunch, losing weight at an alarming weight, now I'm not skeletal and I actually eat that I'm okay. And you know what? I'm not. I'm better, much better than I was, maybe even ever happen. But the truth is, even in this stage of recovery, there are days, sometimes weeks, where you just genuinely will feel shit. It's hard though, when something is so much less noticeable or obviously problematic to alert people to the fact that it's still not okay to talk about weight or ask me for diet tips. Not yet. I'm not ready. I just want to shout "guys, I'm not quite healed yet, please just give me a hug". As awful as this sounds, it's almost made me want to cut, to make me see some physical embodiment of this not-being-okay feeling I keep having. The ED thoughts still exist, and a part of me worries they always will.

I don't even think it's just friends and family who think recovery means eating and then, suddenly, you're fine. I think a lot of sufferers will embark on what truly is a long journey to recovery, thinking that they'll wake up tomorrow no longer having these thoughts. That they'll be fine.

I'm not going to bullshit you: Recovery is fucking hard. It really is. You'll have your ED days, you'll probably purge up your dinner, or go 2 days without eating. That's part of the battle, you see. It's how you overcome the bumps in the road that really matters, because recovery requires an inner strength to keep going and keep pushing forward. The first few weeks are instrumental. I read my diaries from around May last year, when I decided to try and recover, and every other day I decide I can't do it. And you'll feel like that! You WILL feel nothing matters anymore, you will feel alone, and scared.

Truth is though, your worst days in recovery will be better than your best days in relapse.

The rest of the world may not understand that because you don't look emaciated you no longer have an eating disorder; or because you no longer are covered in cuts that you're no longer depressed. Almost all of the strength to make it to recovery is needed from within you.

And so I leave you with the ever wise words of my drunken school friend.
I once had somebody tell me "You know, you look so frail and fragile on the outside, and yet on the inside you're one of the strongest people I know. You got some fucking balls, you know that?"

Never Felt So Alone?

I think for me, the absolute worst part of anorexia was the total feeling of being alone. The sense of isolation; of watching life pass you by from within your own little bubble, where nobody sees you or cares. How you can be surrounded by crowds of people, friends and family and teachers and strangers, yet still feel horrifically lonely.

Maybe it's the effect of starvation on the brain, God knows lack of food will cause you to feel depressed and like shit. Or maybe you're so focussed, so totally absorbed in your own personal hell that is anorexia, that you can't connect to anything around you? I would be in his arms and still feel alone. I would be with my family and feel like there should only have ever been three people there. I would literally start to wonder if my existance mattered to anybody at all.

Of course, now I know and see that it does, and always has done. I managed to convince myself that the looks of terror in my parents' eyes were about something else, not the fact that I was becoming more skeletal by the second. I managed to drown out the sound of my sister crying because she thought I was going to starve to death. My friends' desperate pleas for me to eat were them trying to make me feel better, or because they were jealous I was getting thinner, not because they cared. I just returned to my little world where all that mattered was the fact that you could see my ribs through my t-shirts and my hipbones were so sharp my tummy wouldn't touch the floor when I lay on my front. Nobody there but me, and my personified eating disorder.

You see, when anorexia is present, there isn't room for anyone else. Not only does nothing else really matter, but if you don't throw yourself into weight loss one hundred percent, the voice will scream in your ears again.

"Don't be stupid, Kelly, of course you can't go to that party, you'll have to eat food and then you'll get even fatter"
"But, I want to see my friends, I feel so lonely"
"Pathetic, they don't want to see you anyway, they just invited you because otherwise you'd probably cry"
"No, they want me there, I think?"
"You're too fat, they're all prettier than you, why would they be friends with a fat little slut like you?"
"True... *turns down invite*"

On and on this conversation would rage in my head until finally I took the stand.
I broke the little bubble.
I picked up the fork.
I accepted the invite.
I launched back into life again.

"Life begins at the edge of your comfort zone"