This post arrives huffing and puffing.
It straggles behind the days that have passed since my deadline. I set it myself: this is my own downfall. Late.
I am so sorry this post is late.
I journal every day.
It is a small, achievable goal; one that eases the passing of time. Writing keeps me safe.
Blogging, however, is vulnerable to Anonymous. Deadlines are set to be constrictive, and they always fray a little, forking in different directions. They create a three line whip. My blog is helpful, but this fickle friend sometimes seems like a plot to push Ellie. To succeed, to earn something, prove something.
So here it is: the tarnished edition.
The late one.
Every word gasped in embarrassment for my tardiness in writing this up. Excuses may heave between the lines: I’ve had so many late shifts; my body aches by the time I’m allowed to write; the gaps Ellie squeezes her writing into during the day are getting thinner and thinner.
Days 22-28 have melted together.
Time bared down, the moments swam. Days are slipping between my sweaty palms.
The pages of my notebook have stuck together, and the events that plotted my week have sunk into illegible diary entries. I cannot tell what lead to what, not what lead me to stand on the scales at my weigh in and for it to read 49.8kg. Exactly the same as last time: the fine balance holding my recovery together. Not up, not down, but afloat.
And now, to write. Deciphering where I lost time is like trying to cut water. The days are submerged under work, sweat, and suncream. How can I divide time into paragraphs? How to separate this tender week into days, as if they are somehow apart from one another? What has time to do with wringing out opportunity, and squeezing out these thick, gooey memories?
So I shan’t try. I shall just marvel at this sweltering lump of good and bad, up and down. I shall look upon the week and admire how time changes when it is held up in euphoria, or dropped into the depths of anxiety.
Some things cling to the memory of this week like beads of sweat.
The ones that glitter are tainted golden. Formed as time oozed by pleasantly like syrupy drops of honey.
My body wept in an emotional reunion with the heat. After two years trapped in an anorexic winter, the shock of feeling sweat sweep down my brow was crushing. I am proud to say I moped it up with pride. I’ve worked so hard for the privilege to sweat again.
The sun smiled as Ellie took my hand and launched us into the day. When the endorphins were rushing faster than my thoughts, I found myself sucking every last drop out of the time I had this week. I tried new recipes and plucked up the courage to take on the food challenges I knew I’d win.
Day 24 was positive because I ate an unplanned banana when it transpired I’d be running sportsday. I needed the fuel, recognised this was so, and acted on it.
Day 25 was positive because I began dreaming again. Visions of a good job and a good life. It was only later I realised I was dreaming of recovery again.
There was more – a Shakespeare play, a yummy supper, seeing a friend. Every day, I’ve tasted the time and tried to savour it. Those that are left are rationed, and Ellie wants to enjoy them.
Other moments have made this week humid with worry. A series of consecutive late shifts rendered my body unable to hold itself up. I leaned against the wall, still hot from the heat of the day, and sapped energy from the bricks. On those days, I had to arrange my limbs carefully before my plate of food, and try not to give away to anyone how insufficient I knew those meals to be. Exhaustion is ravenous. I am so tired I find myself wanting to eat all the time, but I’m too scared to just in case my weight jumps again.
The days I’ve had to lock the windows just to keep the noise out.
Some days at work concede to the heat, and melt into listlessness. It is the combination of boredom and hunger that makes the bad moments so sticky. Even at home, when there is nothing else waiting for me but my book and bed, I can’t shake myself out of that hollow place. And still, the heat held me together, in place.
Other things hollowed me out that week. My newsfeeds were drowning under graduation gowns and champagne glasses. Every single on of my friends and several of my foes have now graduated. I’d then step out into the street in a city teeming with intelligence. Success pressed against me everywhere, and crowded me in my own inadequacy. I had to enforce social media quarantines to prevent the spread of shame from one day to the next.
Anxiety did not confine itself to the limits of a single week. No, as I approached the halfway point of my stay in Cambridge, the thoughts rounded on what will happen afterwards. They chastised me for letting my exercise get so out of hand, and began describing in detail how hard I’m going to have to work at reducing it when I get home. How distressing it will be. My thoughts loath the very idea of returning to a routine I now know to be futile: it will never be as good as it is here. Time’s tide turned at the halfway point, and began to suck me out to distress. How will I cope when everything returns to normal?
All the while, in every entry, I’ve just been reminding myself that I’m ok. That it is all going to be alright. I’ve proved I can survive time through thick and thin, and I’m just going to have to keep doing it. One day I’ll believe I can.
As time passed that week: thick, gooey and confusing, I let it lather itself over every moment. Sticky days dripping by, minutes clumped together like dollops of honey.
A warm, sweet taste to every bite at the day.
And tomorrow is Tuesday, and I have to start writing up the week we’ve just endured. Or else it shall arrive late, and the meaning I’m so lucky to have found in it will be lost.