Mind: the Gap

Every morning, I unfold Body Image and examine it in the mirror. The glass fogs up with smoke.
From under piles of leggings and wooly socks, I pick out the same pair of words I wore yesterday, and the day before, and the one before that. They don’t suit each other very well, but they’ve been crammed next to each other in a sentence anyway.
The mirror cracks into a smile, and the girl bulges from side to side through the glass. Anonymous leans in and looks for my new number: she looks to see where that 0.5kg went this week. Damage to Anonymous’ shell dimples my cheeks and plumps out the cushions around my legs. Whispers of health pass by in a curl of strengthened hair. A single blush graffitis a perfect shade of pale.
Anorexia keeps my body caged in an image, and accessorises it with her thoughts, and her judgements. They are narrow and unflattering, fiercely protective of the sharp edges the marks her boney borders.
Ellie looked at the image before her and shook her head, wondering why weight must be in the foreground. It takes up the whole picture: the only hard evidence that recovery is passing through. It just seems so out of proportion. Far too big and taking up far too much space.

I put Body to one side, making sure it was folded up so the creases were as thin as possible. The mirror gaped at what was left of my Image. Ellie, Anonymous, and myself. A gathering of unsavoury characters, and a story full of holes.

I had negotiated a 4 week gap between my hospital assessments, in order to prove that I do not need to be admitted as a day patient into the Eating Disorder Unit. It never occurred to me that I had just dug myself another hole, and found another empty gap to fill.
My plate was piled high with promises: the dietary increases would start tomorrow. The scales would fall away to weight welcomed with pride. Time would crack, and prise Anonymous away from my meal plan. Ellie would testify that she could react to Anxiety in some other way than cutting off her crusts, or watering down a smoothie. For four weeks, Anonymous has had nothing to eat but her own words. Here is the bitten word: weight gain.
Anorexia fed me denial for the first week. Surely, I didn’t need to increase my diet. All this food is far too big, and takes up far too much space. It wouldn’t be real, just a trick of gravity.
-0.1kg.
The second week, I dithered in my comfortable gap between an increase, and an intention. +- 0kg. An anomaly, surely. Ellie had been gnawing around the hull of her strawberries, and licked the spoon twice. Those teaspoons of hummus had been heaped for heaven’s sake. Still, the image flickered on the scales.
The third week, I was pushed into it. Anonymous’ logic was sweet as I ate it, and spat it out. A tablespoon of nut butter melted into my porridge, and it conjured up a miracle. +0.5kg.
Don’t let that slip between your fingers, Ellie.

It is so easy to talk myself out of increases, so I literally have to eat my words.

I unfolded up those numbers, and held them up into the light. Then realised what I was looking at. A gap had opened up between my meal plan and my metabolism. That’s the crack my efforts were falling into.
Ellie closed her eyes, and braced herself. It was so deep, and so dark.

Anxiety has been trying to talk me into staying in this hole, I think. It’s hard to tell, because I don’t ever fully understand what it’s trying to tell me.
When it tries to speak, rational words become strangled, crushed by the pressure of so much emotion climbing upon it from such a height. Change looms up there, and it alarms Anxiety. So it starts making all this noise.
Listen, Ellie. What is Anxiety actually trying to tell you?

My brain hasn’t got the kcal to waste on thinking efficiently. Ellie is so out of practice in dealing with her thoughts, that she ends up over-thinking. This often results in a obsessive surge, and then Reason blacks out. Anxiety has to take over: someone has to reestablish order.
It spat thoughts in my face with every mouthful.
An extra centimetre of cucumber burnt my tongue like acid.
A Times article on the possible – improbable – irreversible damage a whiff of bacon can wreck on metabolism crippled me for days afterwards. I hobbled around work in the coming days, desperately trying to shield my nose from the aromas rising off my customer’s plates.
Suddenly, my legs were being prised open all over again. Food blared between the pages of my magazine. I was catching fat from that person on the train and this person in the queue. An angry, vengeful rash of pregnancies and STIs came back to bite me from the past.
Thoughts gathered together and descended upon me like a mob. Time was chewed up and pressed harder against this four week window. Failure stared straight through me.
Of course Anxiety felt threatened. She was crying out for help. Anorexia is in trouble, she is being exposed.
Your friend needs help. She helped you, remember?
Each hour was littered with signs to turn back and retreat into my hole.

There were cracks just waiting to swallow me up as I advanced forward, trembling with fright from the spectre of hospital food.

Looking into the future, Anonymous can already see cracks that will trip me up further down the road to Recovery. That one just there, the one hiding just behind my mirror. And over there, the gap between “weight restored” and “recovered”. That’s a hard fall there: one which nobody cares about, and nobody takes seriously.

Some holes are placed just where Anonymous can trip other people up too.
The space between your mouth and my ears is dangerous. Meaning leaves your tongue with good intentions. Healthy compliments fall ill as they travel over the gap of understanding. When I receive them, they are twisted and tortured into Anorexic weaponry.
It is so easy to offend Anorexia: just remind her she is failing. Just point out she is weak enough to let me get this healthy, to “look so well”. When someone falls into this trap, Ellie gets dragged down too. If we look so “well” at this weight, Ellie, why should you want to gain any more?

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Anonymous worries if Ellie looks too happy in a picture.

Anorexia tries to press her image up against your screen, so the gap in your knowledge widens. My social media pages are subject to censorship: she has an image to uphold. She needs to maintain her anomity: it is what keeps her safe.
Let us unfold a few that have been cast out. I wear them well.
Here, a plate of food. Pictures of food: proof of Anorexic failure. Ellie: are you eating solid food yet? This is one hole Ellie wants to explore. I have now set up a ‘sister’ instagram account where I can put pictures up of some of the (very exciting) food I eat. It can be found @eatenbyellie and is designed to add detail to the picture of Ellie, who is recovering. And she is proud of it.

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I just want to show off how pretty food is 😉

Ah, what about this one: Ellie wearing something nice. I had dithered in front of the mirror for hours. Shall you wear pretty, or thin? Whichever is more comfortable, or whichever you feel the most confident in.
Any image of me is fed to you in self-defence. Anorexia isn’t cool: it is freezing. And so very lonely. I struggle to see friends who will only have a memory of Anonymous. I am still competing against my own ghost; even if Ellie is so much better than she was.
Please, don’t offend Anonymous. She is my friend, and I trust her.
Scrolling through loneliness and desperation and inadequacy: other people can be blind to what is pictured on a screen. Look for that gap. Can you hear the screaming?

In the mirror, I can see holes in Recovery’s smile. The gap between my assessments made it crack from side to side, and reveal a set of perfectly disordered gaps in my understanding of this illness. Somehow, I fell through a crack.
Nestled in Now: somewhere between the past and the future, I am trying to find a face to pull over this gaping hole. Perhaps covering it up is as inefficient as Anxiety’s communication. It’s just that finding something to fill all these holes summons Fear from the pit of it’s hovel.

Recovery will work with Nothing to make Something, and it will possibly mean Everything. I have learnt that it will possibly be drafted and redrafted, edited, scraped, compared and contrasted with the other side of the gap, the other side of the argument. Always trying to be bigger and better and thinner than the last mouthful of words.
Ellie just needs to keep chewing through the knots of her confusion.
Eventually, Recovery will unfold another image of life beyond maintaining the image of a thin body. Surely, it will be more filling than this morsel of life.
Because this just isn’t Ellie. Anorexia simply isn’t me.

Burnt Toast

The Eating Disorder Unit smells like burnt toast.
Secure doors throw open and embrace me into the waiting room. Sharp lights, purring phones, the shuffling of paper and slippered feet. And the stench of burnt toast.
A smell so pungent, it wakes the spectre of family breakfasts, flames in our Bombay kitchen and team briefings at the boathouse. I watch ghosts float down the hospital corridors, devouring slice after slice.
I sign my name in at 08:58. The dates have flipped and fallen away above my signature for a whole year. Welcome back, another week. Congratulations, you’ve made it to the end of another week. My Eating Disorder Unit smells like rotting time: it smells like an Anorexic feast.
I leave with lingering panic, and the smell of burnt toast.

Anonymous has stretched out my time in recovery. It has worn thin, and torn away from countless opportunities:
That media company who commissioned me to lead their mental health campaign frayed. I left a deadline dangling, because Anonymous wouldn’t let me sit long enough to produce any work. Torn fragments spent at my desk saw sentences dissolve into nonsense: I couldn’t get my synapses to sync. I was so hungry. Your time is up. Time to move.
That Russell Group University who gave me an unconditional offer, which I now have to turn down. Anonymous wouldn’t let me sit on a train to visit: it was such a long journey.
That job I was offered in a school, which Anonymous turned down in favour of my waitressing job. There is more exercise involved.
That phone call I didn’t pick up because it wasn’t part of my afternoon routine.
That firework display I couldn’t watch, because the cold air began to eat me.
I looked at the date next to my name, and breathed in burning bread.
How much more time are you going to feed to your illness, Ellie?

Anorexia can remember the future, and it is huge. From the archives of a starving brain, she plays out the disaster of weight gain, and relives the horrors of health.
As I eat, my stirring brain starts working thoughts to the surface of it’s wound. These heavy ones are called memories, and they have caused recovery to go stale.

I have been presented with a mouth watering opportunity: attend a coastal university to read English in September. Plump with juicy promise, it would mean I could leave my job, I could move out. I could begin again.
Opportunity ripens, but it is too far to pluck. Time puts heavy pressure on the doubts that are already shaking Ellie from her daze.
I looked at the date next to my name. It’s May. Surely, there must be more to look forward to than my next meal?

This week, Reality has reeled Ellie in after she spent so long delving into Anorexic archives. Here is my reality: I am Anorexic, and I struggle to function on a day to day basis.
I am surviving on rations. My greedy heart steals calories off my tongue so it can rattle blood past hollow bones. White and red specs bubble in plasmatic rhapsody, rushing to the aid of delirious organs. They move with exhaustion. Sometimes they slack, and the pressure drops. My spine screams in osteoporatic rage. I can’t afford to indulge energy on body heat, so my skin cracks and stains purple. My brain is a corrupt and nervous system being ravaged by two warring minds: I don’t see energy again after it disappears into that shrunken space. Anonymous splashes out on lavish panic attacks to celebrate Anxiety, whereas Ellie wastes concentration until it fuses, blowing thoughts out of proportion. Power surges are followed by instant blackouts. Only weight gain is going to solve this, Ellie.

Every whiff of burnt toast is a reminder from Anonymous that I will not restore weight in time to be allowed to leave the clinic. Every rusty note marks another week that I have dragged Anorexia through, and Ellie still hasn’t agreed to put on any more weight.
There is still plenty of time for you to get better, Ellie. Her whispering logic echoes in my stomach: one smoothie, and you’ll pile on the weight. I have been listening since January, and haven’t put on any weight since. I still haven’t seen any evidence to support my Anorexic logic.
You haven’t earned the right to learn.

Hope is precious, and neither Ellie nor Anonymous want to lose it. Instead they make me gamble away time on an empty promise of the future.
It is true that if I eat, there is a chance I will restore enough weight to be deemed medically fit to start university. It is also true that if I eat I will gain weight, and be left a half-formed but fed body. I will have used up my rationed time and be denied my right to learn.
The face of the future is scarred with this uncertainty, and it’s ugly grimace rattles my recovery to it’s core.

Don’t bite off more than you can chew, Ellie, you’re starving time. I break the day into chunks that are easy to swallow, making it harder to chew over the next one – and choke. This is taking my recovery tactics right back to it’s basics: not trying to reveal what is feeding Anonymous, but rather how to contain her until Ellie is strong enough to take her on.
I don’t have the energy to bear the emotional surge of looking forward, nor have I learnt how to look back without being blinded. Wait Ellie, one day at a time.
In one week alone, I have seen the benefits of moving the horizon closer. Anonymous denied me my smoothie increases since they were prescribed daily. This week, I turned my brain’s energy away from the doomed deadline of weight restoration, and instead focused on finding a small bite-sized win everyday. It has been a delicious week of attritious smoothie glugging.

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The smoothie is back the smoothie is back!! (I call this one “GreenGoddess” – that’s me!)

I can’t call what tomorrow’s weigh-in will provoke in Ellie and Anonymous, but that is for tomorrow. I’m just savouring this chunk of today, I must not think about tomorrow yet.

This blog is a collection of small chunks in my recovery. This is not the long story of my battle with Anorexia: that cannot be condensed into a single chapter. Rather, let it be that this is the tale of Ellie, and her win of the week. A manageable moral, not a myth.

I left my clinic last week with the warm smell of burnt toast lingering in my nostrils. The smell of possibility: something so delicious could come in time. Prepare for the best in everyday Ellie, not the worst in the future.
Not university in sight yet, but a smoothie.

Dirty Looks

Shame is dirty. I have become diseased, and now my writing is all blocked up.
Bloated and blasphemous words rest in the nib of my pen. It is poised motionless above a thin line, snaking across a crisp page. Sterile and empty paper.
Here I violate it’s purity. Black ink slashes a single filthy sentence: I am struggling.

Recovery embarrasses my friend Anonymous. It gets dirt in her eyes, and all she can see is where she has been touched, man-handled and defiled. That label reading “Anorexic” has been scuffed and smeared in Ellie’s efforts to rip it from my body.
Shame stares. A plea for help dies on my lips and Anonymous smiles.

There never seemed to be a cure for Ellie’s Shame. Others tried various practices: venomous maltreatment merely enraged the symptoms, and denial encouraged them. Anonymous licked my wounds and sucked Shame dry. Expectation was lb-ed until it was st. cold. I shrank under Guilt’s glare, and shed the weight of the world.
I was clean, immune, untouchable.
She was rewarded with a label that read “Anorexic”.

We are being watched.
Anorexia never suffered from Shame because she was numb to it, and enslaved it to guard me.

Shame witnesses me making food choices. I can taste rotten regret, and every grimy bite crunches: wrong answer. Restriction is a punishment that must be carried out in silence. Seen on the scales every week but never heard in an answer to that empty question: “So, why haven’t you gained any weight this week?”.
The freedom of choice is ridden with disease. I can numb the painful weakening of Anonymous’ grip by choosing to fill my glass just below the line; by always choosing the smallest half; by always choosing that slice: You don’t need a thicker one.

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Still really struggling with the smoothie increase.

If someone catches me complying with my grotesque, weight-gaining and weakness-willing meal plan, we are humiliated.
In her arrogance, Anonymous climbs into this person’s head, and presumes to tell me exactly what they think of me. I listen to her brag, and brag, and brag.
“Anorexic”.
You don’t deserve that name. You aren’t enough. Morsels of food taste fake on my tongue, so I swallow them with my pride. Paranoia unfolds it’s protective petals over my eyes. Anonymous knows what you’re thinking.
She agrees.
Ellie lifts up a finger, and traces the tears and frays of the label. Then she begins to clean it, rubbing away the dirt and wearing down the calories.

In a mute margin, I watch other people read my tag “Recovering Anorexic”, and wait. Questions ready wounds to become septic with shame: “What do you eat?”.
Accusation breathes in a sigh. Rolling eyes flash in furious frustration. A lingering stare casts a lonely, cold shadow. Other people read my tag “Recovering Anorexic”, and I wait to feel filthy.

I picked up a piece of dirt and presented it: “Please help me, I’m not coping.”
Proud perfection has let my job make demands my recovery cannot meet: 5:15am alarms and clean cutting comments. Membrane grazes the lining of my skull. Impulses itch and squeeze across synapses. Fragments of thought ooze, flash and freeze. Feeble beats flutter, flicker and die. I am swollen with exhaustion. Pride steals the plea for help that sits on the tip of my tongue: we would be mortified.
I called in sick for work, the litter of slashed silence crunched underfoot: an applause. My admission cured a problem, and made me stronger.

Here I present to you a piece of dirt: I have to gain weight, but Anonymous doesn’t want to. I’m all blocked up again, all confused and filthy. I am struggling. Her thoughts are so clean, it’s hard to believe Ellie when she tells me they are poisonous.

Dirt is good.
Nothing grows in sterile safety. Experience is a vital nutrient that festers in the undergrowth, and is needed to germinate seeds of survival. Buds nod their wise heads to Shame with respect rather than revulsion.
Recovery expects me to learn how to cope with a struggle. So yes, sometimes dirt is good.

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My lovely Billy. Thank you for bringing joy to my heart.

A dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human’s: and much less frightening.
A new member of the family arrived this week: cute, cuddly and complete with a wagging tail. Our Billy, a labrador puppy.
As the day of his arrival crept closer. Expectation soiled my excitement: how do I explain myself when Billy can’t make me better? You don’t deserve him. How do I explain myself when I can’t cope?
What if …?
Expectation is a phantom. Oh Billy, what joy you bring. I dusted rigid routine to one side, and we adapted it around Billy, as Billy adapted around us: both in and out of the kitchen.

Moved a little table just in case I need to eat in peace

Thank you for being so happy to see me when I come down in the morning.
Thank you for understanding why I can’t feed you, yet.
Thank you for teaching me how to dance in the kitchen again.

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Showing me how it is done!

Bite-sized

I don’t know what I’d do without Anonymous.
She keeps me busy, and gives me something to think about. This small body has a small life. A little, pointless thing; war torn and shattered from the ongoing battle life serves up on a plate. But Anonymous helps. She keeps me safe in boredom: it is predictable, and manageable.
Anorexia gives me a purpose: to manage every portion. The blitz of chewing fat through the day is something Anonymous and Ellie are both weary of. My meal plan slices the day into bite-sized pieces, each day, everyday. I navigate through each hour-long morsel filling time until my next appointment: my mid-morning nuts, glass of milk, that smoothie.
We fill time to trick it into moving that little bit faster through each day, everyday. We can make it lapse, and relapse. One day at a time.
I go to bed tormented, knowing the whole saga will start all over again when my alarm goes off in the morning. Rising in the morning is rising to a challenge: I will get through today.

Since reaching my first milestone of 45kg, Ellie abandoned me. She was frightened, and I was left with only Anonymous for company.
She has always been there for me, she was always there to contain and content me in her dead line of sight.
Time has turned the act of recovery sour in my mouth, and Ellie is dismayed to say that two months after my biggest recovery win yet, we hid. Anonymous got away, snacking on a few lbs as she went.
This body made it easy for her. Spoilt by a number of calories, the human body will find a plateau to stash them, and then threatens to shrink unless the governing mind gives them more. It demands an increase.
I will not.
Recovery expects so much.

Anonymous is starting to eat me again.
Anorexia is an animal, she adapts to threat. This is the survival of the fittest. She grew camouflage, hiding in the undergrowth of effort in plain sight. Her tactics have changed. I would give a blow-by-bite account of every gory detail, but I can’t. I never see her coming: I just feel warm satisfaction rise like bile when I succeed in cheating. Avoided that snack; choosing that smaller one; walking, walking, walking. You don’t need that increase. You haven’t earned that smoothie. A small achievement, for a small life.
Well done.

The evolution of Anonymous has given her the strength to devour opportunity.
My restless spectre rattles windows of opportunity for movement. If we plan, we can squeeze in exercise, unnoticed. We can wear down the numbers on those scales.
Empty legs are marched along the same footpath, worn down by excuses. Trembling knees are forced into mounting the stairs at work by the hand that volunteers to do an exhausting shift. This decrepit spine is made to stand, because I must not sit.
We achieved something today: we exercised.

Anonymous needs my job to keep me moving, but Ellie needs my job to keep me busy. Life is waved in my face in all it’s colourful forms. Customers, colleagues and catastrophes are clad in stories that could be Ellie’s, if she were allowed. A night out; a dinner; a date. My mouth waters only for Anonymous to clean it up, embarrassed by my weakness.
I dread the long empty days off, where I am faced with filling time as my body weeps with exhaustion from the previous day. I haunt my days off desperate for something to do, something to distract Ellie from her own head.
Anonymous makes boredom salivating. As guilt rots the food on my tongue, I realise I have not lost the desire to lose weight. She is just so tempting.

My clinician’s eyes locked mine in a cold, hard stare. She leaned forward.
“Anorexia is clever, Ellie.” Don’t blink. “If you are not 100% committed to beating it, this illess will chew you up and spit you out. It will beat you.”
I look down.
The threat of forced exorcism still rattles me in my cage. Bitter panic rings in harmony with “pills”; “inpatient”; “hospital”.
No, please, no. Don’t commit me.
I don’t want Ellie to shrink, trapped between the four walls of this ward.
What would that achieve?

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The long put off increase!

It bulged as my straw sank slowly into it’s thick, quivering depths. The scarred surface was flecked with the veins of dismembered mango, and banana torn limb from limb. Spice burnt coconut milk like acid. The aroma rose into my nostrils, and I was bewitched. The little bottle felt heavy in my hand. A little bottle, for a little life.
You have permission to eat.
I felt cold wash over my fingertips as pulp crept up the straw.
I waited, my petrified tastebuds yearning.
I waited to feel it ooze onto my tongue.
Oh.

So Ellie, what does this smoothie mean? What would food, recovery, mean?

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Feeling more and more comfortable cooking new things for myself.

It’s an increase, Ellie, it means more.That sip will make your life bigger. This helping won’t be so small, so manageable, so bite-sized.
It will be fuller, ripe and sun-blushed: the fruit of effort.
That smoothie is an achievement Ellie, well done. I’ve did it once today, maybe I can do it again tomorrow.

Getting ill was easy; I didn’t have to fight anything.
I don’t know when I am going to let Ellie believe that Recovery is an ever evolving achievement. I dragged Ellie kicking and screaming away from death’s door, and have never worked so hard at anything in my life since. It just seems to be getting harder.

I know what I would do without my eating disorder. I would sit and guiltlessly gorge through pages and pages. My pen wouldn’t be snatched from my hand nor my body from it’s seat.
– I would write.

It’s A Family Thing

My parents witness Anorexia assaulting their daughter.
Anonymous doesn’t have to hide at home.
The four walls of my house have watched her evolution since recovery started: now, she wears red.

Triggers have sharp, serrated edges.
Blinking in breathless anticipation, Anonymous courts Paranoia across a carpet of eggshells. The air is concentrated by the breath of Anxiety, who clasps the clock hands as they creep round and round. We wait to hear a crunch slice through the silence.
There is a crackle underfoot, and threat infects the rotting wound. Anonymous raises her head.
Red with rabid anger: I am a monster. I am made a gorgon, petrified by a phantom threat. So I fly, and fight with rupturing, rushing rage. Don’t lose control.
Insults scorch my tongue with acidic satisfaction, and threats taste sweet on Anonymous’ tongue: “I should leave. I shouldn’t be here, look at me. Look at what I’m doing.”
“I was happier when I was starving.”
“It would be easier if I was dead.”

I work in a restaurant. Fat oozed into the air as a vapour, and it stalked me home. I saw it.
Trapped behind the safety of my front door, I release my terror.
I began to claw at my skin, tearing my work uniform from my convulsing, grotesque limbs. My skin was swollen from scrubbing my hands too hard, and it crawled under the stench of that sweat-saturated collar.
This coating of itchy sticky greasy air was melting calories into my pores. They were heaving, suffocating. Airborne food haunted my lungs. My nostrils were raw from huffing and puffing and blowing the calories out. My mouth was dry: spit.
Get away from me, get it away from me.
The fight flew high. I am still violated by that threat: that thought of being tricked by the air I was breathing.
My parents stood by, and were there until the exorcism was over.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise for Anonymous Ellie.”

I looked at my measuring jug. Still sweating from it’s post-wash up wipe down, it sat on the draining board. Used.
Violated.
I blinked.
I looked at Dad, brandishing the fairy liquid.
I blinked again. I look at Dad, then the brush, then the jug.
Then to Dad, back to the jug.
Dad.
Dad, what have you done?

I’m stuck up here, burping and hiccuping from all that air I swallowed.
“We’ve noticed an increase in Anorexic behaviours recently, Ellie. We’ve been walking on eggshells.”
Anxiety laughs, and Anonymous rubs her hands.
What can we tempt you with today, Ellie?
Let’s cut off that crust. You don’t need that much milk.
You don’t deserve them. Let me drive them away.

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Nobody panic: I tried it!

I am constantly trying to excuse Anonymous for being the houseguest from hell.
Babbling outbursts stall the war: if I can explain why – why I won’t try that raw cookie; why you can’t serve my rice Mum; why I don’t like that tin being on my fridge shelf – surely, it could be forgiven.
Exaggeration hides ignorance. Like a terrier I snap at the heels of a threatening shadow, one that only I can see through my watering eyes. I over-explain to excuse, and to hide: hide the fact that I am being tempted by the devil.
Mum and Dad tell Anonymous to leave me alone. Words eat her.

Anonymous controls people.
The more she scares them, the further away they stay, and the longer she can fester. She and my parents don’t get on, because no matter how hard she tries, they will not leave her alone. Her defence has been compromised by their acceptance, and refusal to let go of their daughter who is kicking and screaming to be released. Ellie misses them.

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I had something different for lunch, and that was ok 🙂

I don’t deserve my parents, because I am Anonymous.
I am grateful that they look at me, and see Ellie.
I am humbled by their conviction that I will beat Anorexia, even if taking my time is greedy.
They are my reserves: all I have to offer in this fight that is getting so very exhausting.
“I can’t do it, I can’t.”
“Actually, Ellie, you can.”
I love them so, so much. If I loose them, Ellie will not resist Anorexia. Recovery would be a myth.
That is why Anonymous chooses them. They are her easy targets: so close, so precious, and so threatening.
Mummy and Daddy. Please, don’t hurt my Mummy and Daddy.

We will not let Anonymous consume us.
We feed each other words so she cannot starve us of recovery, hope and happiness.
Honesty is a staple, garnished with frequency. I always over-season it with emotion, desperate for them to know, to understand.
There are some things that they may never understand, and that’s ok.
Dad won’t read this blog: and I am thankful. There are some things I don’t want my Daddy to know.
It is important that space is allowed to reflect on the words we have exchanged. Dad retires to the study, Mum to her crossword.
They have carer’s meetings at my clinic, to discuss Anorexia.
She sits with us: another mouth to feed, another mouth to argue with.
Another pair of feet to trample on those eggshells.

Thick and oozing, Guilt chokes me with the bitter treacle of desperation. That slow, solitary and selfish creature pulls a mirror before my eyes. All I see is me. I am deaf to everything that isn’t me, me, me –
Until they talk.
Ellie’s ears prick: Mum? Dad?

Time swallows morsels of recovery greedily. Effort takes time, but temptation hoards it.
“We’ve noticed an increase in Anorexic behaviours this week, Ellie.”
Oh Mum, thank you. Thank you for telling me.
Please help me fix it.

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Meet the Parents

My parents push Anorexia, they don’t push me.
To Mum and Dad, thank you. Thank you for trusting me, I want to make you proud.

Strength Testing

Anonymous ate my spine.
It was chewy, with splinters from the doormat nestling in the gristle. She slurped the pores dry of the nectar of strength; a rare find, because Ellie never had much to begin with.
Anorexia took my spine, and gave me osteoporosis.
Anonymous took my spine, and gave me nerves.
Emotion rages through the shell of my bones and rattles Ellie to her core.
A gift from recovery, but a tool for Anorexia.

I don’t have the strength to bear the weight of Thoughts.
There isn’t room for them: they put too much pressure on the tottering pile of food and time and adrenaline and numbers and adrenaline and people and adrenaline –
– so they slam down onto my legs.
Blotchy bruises blush in blue and black.
They’ll claw at my skin: grab handfuls of cheek and arm and thigh – then pull – and pull, and pull.
Their fingernails burrow into my elbows and rip ravines up my arms. Frayed seams flood with quivering bulbs of salty blood.
The wall coughs in disapproval when they bounce my head against it. I watch glimmering specs dance, dive and dissolve to the symphony of thunder cracks.
Thoughts are released, and escape me. Ellie escapes them.
The moment is broken. For a moment.

Sometimes, I believe Anonymous: it was easier when I was starving.
Anorexia relieved me of the nebular kaleidoscope of feeling.

Recovery is strenuous.
Becoming ill was comparatively easy: I wasn’t fighting anything. I simply let myself drift into the cool embrace of numb indifference. Nobody will hurt a thin girl.
Please don’t hurt me.

The training programme is extensive, and entails emotional resistance and maintenance coaching.
Ellie is learning to manage the portions life serves up to her: all different sizes, textures and tastes.
I have not acquired a taste for strength, so Ellie makes it palatable by lathering it in thick layers of grotesque effort.

I am building a spine out of the broken pieces of Thought.

Food only cracks Anorexia’s surface.
I do not have the strength to sit. Lazy.
My muscle tissues weep in stagnant frustration. The food – you haven’t earned it – wallows and oozes into my cells. You’re getting weaker.
See, I can feel it. Sitting here, pen in hand, I can feel it.
Feel it.
Fat is not an emotion, Ellie. No, you cannot feel it.
Please sit another minute, please finish this paragraph.

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Discovered the power of green juice to fuel a busy day at work!

I am not pacified until I fly high with exhaustion. You need to earn this.
I have tried flexing my muscles at that thought.
After work, as I hand over, I have accepted the invitation to sit in the office, rather than stand.
I counted a full minute in the car, during which I didn’t twitch unnecessarily.
I chose not to mount the stairs at work. There are 15 of them: they make my eyes drool and Anonymous’ mouth water.
When I cried yesterday, I sat down.

After marching about the floor at work, I applaud my muscles but worry for Ellie. Anonymous has gotten a taste for the activity on a working day, and she haunts me with it on my days off. Move.
I can’t find the strength to sit, and it makes me worry for the future of my recovery.

I shift the weight of thought from one shoulder to the other: when I do something brave, I stand up straight. I use my pride to straighten my porous posture. I choose not to react to a thought, but sit with it for a moment.
Recovery is training Ellie how to stoke fiery melancholy and thaw out anger. She is teaching me how to balance these emotions on my fragile frame.
She has promised to introduce me to Better: I will manage Better, because I will know Better.

An aftertaste: I re read this entry, and felt nothing. There is no room for more triggers, least of all for shame.

An Apology for Sorry

Anorexia gave Ellie a daughter, her name is Anxiety.
She used to be called Insecurity, but she became spoilt.

She wasn’t created this way. She wasn’t always so unstable, so random and rabid.
Anonymous adopted Insecurity and fed her up to make her strong. Together, they starved her into Anxiety.
She wasn’t always quite so cruel.
Anonymous feasted on Ellie and let Anxiety scavenge. She nourished her prodigy by throwing her bones to fetch, and gradually trained her to be a monster.

Insecurity had already achieved so much in her friendship with Ellie.
She lay the foundations for me to see that Ellie was weak and worthless.
She reminded me that I needed to be sorry.
I’m sorry.

I’m sorry sorry for stealing air that would better serve other people.
I’m sorry for taking up this space, I’m sorry for being in the way.
I’m sorry because it must have been me.
It must have been my fault: otherwise, why would you treat me like that? Why would say that to me? Why would you do that to me?
I must have provoked you. It must have been my fault, because you told me it was. I provoked it by standing here, breathing air I had no right to.
I’m sorry.
Apologies burn like bleach on my tongue, cleansing me of shame only I can feel, because you make me feel that way.

“Ellie, stop apologising.” – if I had a lb for every time someone said that, well.

Insecurity made Anonymous’ job easy. She tricked me into thinking she could help me, and make me stronger. She told me she could protect me. That I could take “sorry” to a whole new level.
I let myself overdose on the painkiller that was starvation.

Anxiety’s training programme was structured around Anonymous’ rules and fuelled by my submission.
Together, they put me on a leash and took me on a walk away from threat. We wandered blissfully calm towards a sorry wasteland: free from thought; free from shame; free from feeling and free from food.
We followed time around the clock face, and Anonymous told me I was escaping it.
I was controlling time:
“Get up its 5am.”
“Run, move; don’t stop.”
“Is it 8pm? So why are you sitting?”
“Keep to the routine.”
“You’re lazy. You’re so greedy.”
I’m sorry.

Anonymous now sends Anxiety to do her bidding.

Their methods are different. Whilst Anorexia uses wars of attrition, Anxiety uses guerrilla tactics: surprise ambushes are her speciality.
She hides in Ellie’s shadow and waits until the threat is close enough. Then, with a war mongering spasm of relish, she rises like bile. She sinks her fangs deep into my nerves and holds me in place as Anonymous watches, whispering.
“How dare you.”
“You waste of space.”
“You worthless, useless child. How dare you.”
I’m sorry.
Then I’ll hide. Ellie tells me to turn off her phone. We shy away from everyone: they might hurt us. Together, we hide.

She attacks Ellie when we both least expect it. Mostly, it’s when I dare defy one of Anonymous’ rules.
I slept in by 15mins, and Anonymous sent Anxiety.
I stood next to a plate of food reeking of rich aromatic spices, and Anonymous sent Anxiety.
I ate breakfast 20mins late, and Anonymous sent Anxiety.
The telephone rang at lunchtime, and Anonymous sent Anxiety.
Fear should have murdered me long ago. It is Anorexia’s greatest ally, because it is anonymous.

Ellie is trying to reinforce her defences against Anxiety attacks, and she tells me prevention is the best policy.
I carry sedatives around in my pocket when I leave the house, lest I should discover a minefield littered with triggers.
I try to anticipate obstacles before they trip me up, that way I stunt Anonymous’ element of surprise.
I shut my eyes and try and stop time is I spill me milk, or if there is a pause in the hum of the ECG machine. Fear is less of a shock if it manifests slowly.
Mainly, I say sorry. That way, I can acknowledge the the point of my own weakness, and consider it.
Why Ellie, are you always apologising?

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These are my parents, and they saved my life!

Most of the time, I need help defending myself.
My parents know there is an extra person living in this house with us: they know about Anonymous. We fight her off together. Trust is our most efficient tactic, because neither Anorexia nor Anxiety understand that.
They are my most treasured allies. When an attack is launched against Ellie, they rally at my side.
They talk me out of hell.
They hold me until Anonymous’ screams subside.
They let me climb into bed with them when I’m scared, and I’ll sleep soundly. There isn’t room in that bed for Anonymous.
She isn’t welcome in my family.

Anonymous’ reaction to threat is fear.
This recovery thing is really, really hard.
I know she feels frightened, because she is fighting harder.
Every effort I put into recovering: eating, chewing, breathing, terrifies Anonymous.
And I’m sorry – but I’m really not sorry for that.