Eggscreme

Guys I can’t eat this Creme Egg.

I left a guy my number. I told my Self if he called or texted, I’d have to eat a Creme Egg. A bit of anorexic banter to bait myself with. Except now he has texted, hasn’t he? And I can’t do it. I can’t eat a Creme Egg, I just can’t do it.

I hang my head in shame reading my last blog post. I go over the lines I so carelessly signed away, sealing my pride and integrity in oblivion. Oh Ellie, you foolish child. Look what happens when you take too many calories and too much adrenaline: look at the disorder it brings. Anonymous’ lines have flared up, angry and imposing.
Let me take you back to my dream world. I was lost in it now two days ago: tripping tragically round in circles, apparently chasing a life I have no right to. Chasing not just a life, but a boy.
Having left him my number, I offered fate a deal: if he texts, Ellie, you have to eat a creme egg. You know, the adultered cocktail of chemicals and sugar, the branded bad-guy hoarding your whole sugar allowance in a single bite. The tiny foil wrapped time bomb. The one that haunts you from the fridge door, where it compiled it’s lair after the deputy head so thoughtlessly gave it to you on the last day of term. Yep, you know the one. 150 empty calories, with no nutrition but happiness.
“Hey, it’s (him its him its him!)” – received Fri 22:43.
My personal dilemma beckoned, and swallowed me up on Easter day.
I can’t eat this Creme Egg. Anonymous won’t even peel back the foil; she won’t even expose he fingertips to it’s thick shell. She doesn’t want to see what lies beneath, she can’t imagine the Anxiety that will be unleashed along with all those alien calories.
My body will surely react in only one way: one bite will be enough to pollute my mind and send it on a downwards spiral; up and up and up.
No, I can’t eat this Creme Egg. I’d sooner eat my words, for they are worth less. Yet they are just as scary: see how I have to back away slowly, and explain my way back into the safe predictability of anorexia.

Just because I can’t eat it today, doesn’t mean I ever will. Look around you Ellie. See how your world has changed in a single year. Your plate may put on a sparse spread of anxious mealtimes, food types and absolute reliance on quantities being measured to the g. Please don’t overlook the colour, please don’t neglect to notice how well it goes with the life you lead at the moment. You live a half life, and so your portion of it will provide enough to satisfy half your needs.
There are more colours than there were two years ago on this plate. Angry reds and flushing pinks pepper my days with emotion. Behold the yellow flesh of positivity, and the lush greens of fibrous fulfilment: a good job, a university place. And the thickening dressing that glues your synapses together, and so you can soak it all up and devour it each day, everyday. A high rises from the surface like steam. You weren’t eating like this before now.
Keep your plate piled with motivation and bravery, Ellie, and you’ll soon be able to indulge in the fullness of life.
You’ll soon be able to eat a creme egg. Just not today.

My phone has been humming with messages from this boy for just over 48 hours now. The blue light of a flashing screen has shown how big my lonely shadow is.
This is a whiff of a relationship, caught up in a changing calorific breeze. Giving myself more energy to listen to my chortling feelings has enabled me to engage with them. I have found a ghost: the presence of something so normal as desire. My desire is very, very weak. Anonymous hasn’t the time nor the mental space to waste on anything meaningful. It would be destructive, almost. It could induce change to my routine, and my feelings.
She never thought I’d actually taste my desire. If she had believed he really would have texted, she would never have indulged Ellie on a dream.
Yet here I am, holding my phone nervously, almost blinded by disbelief. This part of life tastes different to how I remember.
Approaching desire after a thorough detox of emotions has taken me very close to it’s surface. Through this thin angle, warped and widened by memory and experience, I can see past the facade of flirtation. I am already finding the blemishes on human interaction. Why is this all so complicated?

Easter is a difficult time of year for me. It’s another time marker, another monument to past years when Ellie was able to enjoy herself, and enjoy time with her family. She cold ground herself in her home and wade through countless blessings. She could let her feelings be comforted, not confronted.

29995248_985832874905478_1013955152_o
Family lunches are going to take some practice.

Pressure pressed it’s face menacingly against my family’s plan for the day. Church, lunch, love. Anonymous cannot bear such a strong force as that of family tradition, and so she and I must withdraw, even if just to avoid a scene. Even sitting beside a relative at the table, surrounded by the feasting and the festivity, Ellie is withdrawn. She holds the event at arms length, and watches herself perform “fine” for as short a time she can, before fleeing.
I cannot enjoy Easter celebrations on the day, because the very nature of it aggravates my illness. Anonymous cannot sit in church, nor for too long at the table. Anxiety devours me faster than my grandfather eats. Anonymous refuses to accept the speed my family eat will dictate how long she must sit at that table.
Easter’s purity has been hijacked and submerged in indulgence. The weeks raced up to the day, a gathering storm of chocolate, diets in the name of lent, and the reduction of our relationships taken from the size of our piles of easter eggs, of things. It is easy to mistake our celebrations to be of greed, not of gratefulness.

29893805_985832918238807_1202011554_o
Celebrating new life – and tastes!

Yet, this year I did enjoy some Easter treats. Whilst I can’t have that Creme Egg, I want to try a little Montezuma chocolate bunny Mum bought me. The terms for an Easter treat were negotiated well in advance: perhaps I’ll manage a little bite out of a raw dark chocolate bunny. Other sugary highs for Ellie included moving her breakfast 15mins later, and forgoing a day at my Anonymous command for one loosely based on my family’s time plan. 45 mins at the lunch table was like nectar. So smooth and easy, until anorexia checked the time. Then I had to leave – I had to get home for a walk.

With anorexia, life is hungry. It is not plump with pride and ripe with success, nor is it fresh with renewed vigour. It functions, mostly on promise.
Recovery is offering Ellie a taste for life, and shows her what it would mean to feel full. For it is the fullness of life which we celebrate at Easter time. What with all this possibility, all these meals and meanings and metaphors on the horizon, it is only right that I celebrate Easter and the renewal of my life. I try to indulge in the novelty of recovery everyday. Each day is a blessing that needs to be counted, and sucked dry of opportunity. It will guide me to a new life, one day. Full of family and fun, and Creme Eggs. Of course.

Oh, the Creme Egg.
Is he worth a Creme Egg? Should I cheat on Anonymous, gamble with her belief so quickly and willingly on chance?

Now that this boy has been plucked from my dream world and splayed on my phone screen, it feels real. Close, and unfamiliar. I can feel the breath of someone watching me settle on my skin like sweat.
Anonymous isn’t coping with the unfamiliarity of normal. She can’t even string the words together to talk about herself: for he insists on asking. How on earth do I talk about myself as if I know anything about it?

It is a shock, dragging a dream down into the real world.
One of the few to turn out better than I could have dreamt, really, is Recovery.
And chocolate. The bunny was delicious. I’m sure the Creme Egg will do too, one day.

(Advice on acting normal appreciated x)

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s