Week 3: Forced Fun

Day 15: Friend!

Once again, I have neglected to write about today, because I’ve been too busy making a meal of last week on my blog. It is now published, and so I can draw a line under what was a very anxious week. Lines can always be blurred, but the only thing I want to take with me into the next is my desire to do better. This week, I want to do well.
I’m sure I’ve had plenty of positive and constructive thoughts on the day, but alas: writing of the last tore me from the present, and I haven’t really been in the moment at all. I have been chewing it all over, rewriting my misery again and again. And now what of today? Where am I, here and now?
So here I shall commence: in the here and now, at my desk and scribbling fast so I can get to bed.

When I got myself to here today, it actually turned out to be really nice. Nice is not a word I use liberally, but it’s quaint and inoffensive qualities render it perfect for this description.
Anonymous dreads her days off. The vast hours of time moving at a glacial pace through the day serve as a tribute to all I have lost by wishing it away. Boredom lurks too close by, and preys on me as I drift.
Today was a day off: ie, a day in my control. This is how I want to think of it, for it is a day that belongs entirely to me. Aren’t you lucky, Ellie?
Ellie decided to do something brave with her precious morning. She took a gamble with how much exercise there’d be in it for her, and agreed to meet a friend from work for coffee. I’ve been trying to keep the extent of Anonymous’ power over me away from her, so glued my tongue into my cheek when she told me she knew of the “perfect” coffeehouse. Two unknowns found in the plan.
I’m so glad I went. Cancellation was a tempting escape route away from the possibility for sitting for longer than usual, dodgy waiters who lie about the fat content of their milk. “Of course this is skinny milk,” they say. I have to drip drops off my spoon, holding it up against the light. Only skinny milk is watery enough to see through. The latte itself came out bigger than I expected. Prickling panic subsided after Ellie reminded me that we’d normally be having a snack too, not just a latte. So it was alright: not ideal, for Anonymous had a slim plan, but alright.
I went because Ellie enjoys spending time with people. She likes feeling together, especially when she’s able to be with herself too.
The activity anxiety stung less as soon as we stood up to go for a walk down the river. The air was cooler today, and I know my body had to use some extra calories to wrap my jacket around my shoulders tightly. I knew the walk was coming, and I wasn’t having to hold off too long because she drank her coffee at about the same pace as me. And so it came to be that Ellie could enjoy the time, the place, the company. We had a very gentle chat on the nourishing pics of literature, family, jobs and gossip. I think I feel better for just having some normal human contact with someone. Working relationships are propped up and unnatural.
Don’t get me wrong: I do like being alone. Most of the time actually, it suits Ellie and Anonymous quite well. One can think, and one can write. Sometimes though, three is a crowd. It gets stuffy stuck in this head.

Mum and Dad left for their holiday today. Not that it makes much difference to me literally: they’re at home and I’m up here. But the safety net of their phone calls has been moved quite far out of reach, out of range and signal. Which is fine. It may do me good to try fighting Anonymous without running crying to someone afterwards. It will do them good too.
I just hope they didn’t leave worrying about me. I’m so selfish: I ended up calling them again last night out of desperation. They didn’t need to hear their daughter being eaten alive by her illness, it is cruel. I just couldn’t keep her in.

The sun came out, and time took it’s course on the day. The afternoon seems to have been trodden into the ground by distraction. I’ve kept busy by prepping tomorrow’s food, finally found a Waitrose, (don’t laugh, where my food comes from it very important to me. I’m anorexic, not just a Surrey girl), and writing this feeling quite pleased I published my blog earlier.

Achieving sends me on a high, and somehow it is just easier to believe that it is all going to be ok. Even if the achievement is something as small as willing something good to happen, amongst all the bad.
Out of a hard week last week, I was able to produce a blog post. Something to write about.
This week, I’d like to cope. That would be a novel idea: plenty to get my teeth into there.

Day 16: Friday 13th, of course.

I just screamed in public.
I will never be allowed back into Clare’s Scholars gardens again, not if any of the tourists reported the strange sight that was myself. Cross-legged and cowering beneath the dahlias, glaring at the glum gardener as he continued to mow the lawn over the spot I had been sitting near not a few moments ago, but had to absent on grounds of rising noise anxiety.
I had taken my snack to the nice corner, the one far away from other people, and so far away from triggers. Just as I spilt my tea over breakfast; as the recycling man clattered as I was taking my first mouthful of porridge; as the traffic lights turned red – it was never to be smooth. I ran from the swarming tourists on the street, and hid in the garden.
Then they all found me. The gardeners emerged from the hedges clutching machines and clippers. Punts drifted to this side of the river, screeching children and screaming babies making their air sodden with alarm. Greasy teenagers lumbered along to the beat of their music that they had to be playing out of speakers: because clearly the revered Cambridge ambience and birdsong wasn’t upbeat enough for them. Noise rose in the air and collected together with the swarm of other triggers following me: exhaustion, fear to eat but fear of not eating, loneliness, and dread of the long shift ahead of me later on.
I so wanted my snack. To curl my tongue around it and savour this: my prize for getting to 11:30. I was so hungry. There was so much noise in my head, and suddenly too much outside it.
And so yes, I screamed.

My anxiety jumped when I arrived in town. I locked my bike up after a bemusing journey in (more on that to follow), and then I was swept up in the clamour and sweat of thousands of people teeming down King’s parade.
Up to the click of my lock, I was doing ok. The morning, in normal circumstances, would have been written off as “pointless”. Turning up to a yoga class in a strange city, anticipating an hour or so of the much missed therapy it gives me at home, had opened the day up to chance. I knew there was a chance the class wouldn’t be as good as my one back at home, I was prepared for that.
What I was not prepared for was to rock up to the studio and discover it was nestled behind a pungent vegan restaurant. Even at 9 in the morning, the stench of seared aubergine soaked the air in oily odours. The floor in reception was thudding from the heavy metal music playing in the kitchen next door. In the yoga studio: a place of peace and contemplation, was tarnished by the screaming vocals tortured by squealing guitar chords. Then the teacher turned up – let me not even start on that. To push up into downwards dog and call it anusara, nose blocked and ears ringing, is something contradictory to the famed intelligence of this city.
I left after nine minutes, my head feeling noisier and shakier than I had when I walked in. Not quite the point, some would agree. No matter. I have my bicycle, so I’m not too worried about missing out on the muscle tone leant by my weekly yoga at home. It just would have been nice to do something familiar, something comforting.
Despite the disappointment, I was a little amused. What would have been a waste of time at home I can simply write off as “futile”. In which case, I have achieved what every explorer aims to probe: pointlessness. For only when we discover something is completely useless do we call it useless, and make it a boundary. This is how we build up our knowledge of the place we are in. I will not attempt to go to yoga here again.

Then I got to town, and to all the people. And now here I am, screaming.

Let me move now along to here: my evening shift.
I already hate this.
Tonight we are throwing the student’s graduation party, and we’ve already had dramas erupt like champagne corks. My worries are threatening to do the same, but with arguably less energy. I don’t have enough to spare. I certainly don’t have enough to get me through the next few days: ten hour shifts back-to-back, with two night shifts thrown in for good measure.
I’m frightened my body will fail.
I’m frightened my mind will burn out.
I’m frightened the cold night air will help me catch a cold.
I’m frightened I’m not going to have enough to time to prepare all my food.
I’m frightened because I don’t want to eat this.
I’m frightened because I have to.
How else will I achieve the week?

Day 17: Shake and rattle

Ok I’m struggling.
Someone is in the flat next door playing jazz. Let me clarify: they are playing smooth jazz from good quality speakers, and have been doing so all evening. There was an interval that coincided (miraculously) with my supper. I suspect the hot date taking place over there most likely gave their ears a break and let their mouths do some work. I’m talking about eating and talking, by the way. Anyway, it has started again. It isn’t hurting me, but it is making me anxious. Mainly because I’m convinced the sound has stressed me out too much, and now I won’t sleep.

I have a 12 our shift tomorrow and two night shifts in the days following that. Does anyone else sense I’m heading for a burnout?

Exhaustion makes me eyes lose focus sometimes. In order to not lose focus on what is on my plate, perhaps it would be useful for me to address my food and exercise in this diary. I can’t hide from it, especially not with another weigh in coming up.
Ok. So.
Today I have been restricting, and have been duly punished for it. I’ve been feeling quite ill all day. Anonymous made me stand all the time. A day catching up with work admin was not going to serve as an excuse to sit at a desk. Instead, I volunteered to run errands and move bags. I fetched students and vigorously put paper through the shredder, flying arms and all. I sat down for 20 mins at lunch, and 10 because I needed some coffee. Why does that still feel like too much?

Tomorrow is the first of three difficult days.
Having indulged my feelings in this notebook, I think I know what I need to do to manage the coming shifts. Survivor’s instinct dictates that I draw on what I know works. So maybe what I should do is force the days to be good ones.
Against their will and the will of fate too, perhaps. But this is a more positive angle than the ones I’ve had before.

I guess for today, I can at least say that I’ve achieved an angle.

Day 18: Difficult Day 1

I’m already not enjoying this.

As I started work at 11 today, I thought it would be a good idea for me to get a coffee and have my snack beforehand. I approached the cafe stemming the cold sweat that has been breaking out since last night. 30 degree heat appears to be doing nothing for my immune system, and I think I’ve come down with a cold. My feet have been dragging somewhat because my thighs are a bit stiff. They still aren’t used to cycling, nor to disrupted sleep patterns. I have really been quite looking forward to this coffee. It has been a busy morning prepping for lunch, snacks and supper, and already getting hot out there. I’ve been wanting to fill you in.
And now here I am, feeling worried.
Perhaps it is because the cafe’s dishwasher has broken, and I now have to drink my coffee out of a paper cup. Perhaps it is because I miss my Mum and Dad, because I haven’t had a hug in weeks. Perhaps it is because whenever I go on Facebook, my newsfeed clogs up with all my happy friends embracing each other in their graduation gowns. Perhaps it is because I have such a long way to go before all that. Perhaps I do just feel a little left behind, and at the mercy of this illness.
Perhaps it is the disgust I feel for all this self-pity.

Ok Ellie, stop. You’ve forgotten to breathe again. You’ve forgotten where you are.

I didn’t check this was skinny milk. Oh no, I’ve already drunk at least half of it. I sigh: how will I think to remember this when I get on the scales tomorrow? That this one latte will have such an influence over my weight.

Stop Ellie. Try and enjoy these 15 mins you have here. Put your pen down if you like: you shouldn’t be writing if you’re only doing to prove something to Anonymous. Sip your coffee, taste your snack.

I think this is skinny milk. It looks watery enough.

1:24am: I just got home. It was actually a pleasant cycle home. The streets are less worrying when nobody else is on them.
Today actually went quite quick, which is really all I’d ever ask for. It was arrivals day for the next batch of students staying here this summer. They seem a little bit, well, cool than the last lot. Which is not necessarily a bad thing, so long as they are not too cool for rules.
In any case, the icebreakers I ran went down a treat. Nothing beats zip-zap-boing. In fact, the games were a perfect metaphor for today’s shift. I approached it thinking I’d be completely out of control. As it turns out, I didn’t have to force any fun. It all just happened.

Day 19: Difficult Day 2

I’ve just been weighed. Was not expecting that.

How exhausting it is to discover that in 5 days, gravity has grabbed every morsel of my body and yanked it up 0.8kg. How? After all these long days, these dodgy mealtimes, these restrictions – how – have I managed to regain the weight I lost last week?

It was a rather horrible experience all in all. I’ve registered as a temporary resident at a GP surgery here, and met the nurse and the scales that will be weighing me from now until the end of my time here.
Today turned out to be very different to last week, when I was shown into a GP with a pair of old fashioned scales. They ticked and creaked, and settled well below the weight I had arrived in Cambridge with, if you remember correctly. Today, I was ushered into a waiting room underground for 25 mins. The room was packed and airless, dark and with very little room to let Anonymous out to pace. I became extremely anxious and burst into tears before the nurse had come to get me.
After all that, I got on these new scales. As my weight leaped up, my jaw dropped. So did my guard. I was utterly overwhelmed by all these feelings.

49.8kg. Back to that weight I had when I arrived here three weeks ago.
How? How did I do that without realising?
How did I lose control?

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How to think straight: drink coffee, write, and just eat.

Now for some logic. Only here, cupping a strong coffee and considering it all, can logic get a word in edgeways. I’m just trying to work out which of these feelings are mine.

First came horror. It still sort of lingers, like a bad aftertaste.

Then I remember logic. Logic reminds me that these were a different pair of scales. These were scales of superior stuff to those I had relied on last week, for they were calibrated and electronic. These scales didn’t click menacingly upon receiving my weight. Last week may have been a lie altogether: could it be that all this worry about gaining weight so quickly could have been the work of misinformation?
Logic also reminds me how focused I have been on my plate this week. I swallowed the shame of bringing in so much food to work, and just did. I ate everything prescribed to me and counted every last calorie.
And the exercise? Perhaps there is something in what my doctor’s say: exercise only does so much to weight. It’s what you eat that counts.
Let it not be forgotten, too, that it is 11:30, and a hot day. I’ve been drinking lots of water and haven’t managed to have the ceremonial poo prior to being weighed.

If Anonymous lets me believe my eyes, and lets me think that this is nothing but a sign that I’ve been good, then that’s another matter.
If what has happened is true, some would interpret it as a good omen, not a threat.
It shows that despite ‘everything’, I can still let go of Anonymous.
‘Everything’ embellishes life here: cycling, sun, snacks, books, work, work, work, the energy to work. ‘Everything’ can serve as an excuse or an explanation for what I did with my food. Whatever happens to ‘Everything’ though, this weight shows I can do it.

Ellie, you can be trusted.
Imagine what you could achieve if it transpires you can maintain your weight alone?

Later On:

Today has just been an invitation to hate myself.
I am so stupid and a burden and utterly utterly useless.
Ellie, you did wrong. And now we’re crying outside the gate of the College for all the world to see. I think that tourist even just took a photograph.
I’m feeling useless and stupid, which is what I am.

If I had been educated at Oxbridge like everyone else here, maybe I would have a few more brain cells to use. Maybe I would have realised how to do my job properly.
Any other student counsellor here would have known how to run detention. Only I appear to be thick enough to think that holding students in solitary confinement for 3 hours in the midday heat is punishment enough for turning up late for registration.
Indeed, I felt I was being punished too. Anonymous hates being left with her own thoughts. I’ve got cramp from pacing round and round in circles; for that is all the exercise I could do in there. It was maddening.
Perhaps I’m just not a punishing person. When one of the students put his head on his book and shut his eyes, I didn’t think twice.
Only now I’ve been chastised for not forcing the students to do their homework during detention, do I realise how stupid I’ve been.
So stupid, that everyone agrees. It must be the talk of the staffroom: Ellie on detention duty, and she can’t even manage that properly. Utterly laughable, it I wasn’t affiliated with her name.

The worst part is is it is supper time, and I’m too worked up to eat. I’ll surely throw it all up in a frenzy. I can’t force any more anxiety into this body.
It won’t hold, and certainly won’t hold over the course of the coming difficult days.

(Disclaimer: I did eat supper, eventually. I really needed it. Crying is tiring.)

Day 20: Third and Final Difficult Day

Yes I may have overreacted a tad yesterday. I took criticism too personally, only because my professionalism was worn thin from tiredness. I know I say it a lot, but exhaustion is very real to me at the moment.

I’ve been watching threats come and go today, and have a theory regarding why they scare me so. They just get too close, too real.
My mind’s eye catches them out and Anonymous drags them in. She turns them over and over, examining them closely. She studies them to know them better, thus making it possible to anticipate their next move.
I watch people walk into a house and know the music will start soon. I see the binmen coming over the hill and know the sound will stay with me long enough to ruin the peace I need to eat.
And now here, back in Fitzbillies’ coffee shop. Two no doubt terribly important and clever people having a loud and egotistic conversation in an otherwise gentle environment. Why do their decibels make me so angry?
Is it because I came here to calm down; are they stopping me? Or are you letting them?
This is me re-angling myself into the here and now. Almost forcing ‘ok’ onto my tongue.

Stop. You’ve forgotten to breathe again.

How are you doing Ellie?
Well, I’m looking forward to my day off tomorrow. That’s after tonight’s night shift of course.
I’m also looking forward to buying myself some flowers later.
And writing in my positivity diary that despite ‘everything’ occurring in this cafe, I’ve managed to move my mind out of harms way. I’m doing ok today, like I said I would do.

I’m so looking forward to tomorrow. Mainly because I’ll be in control of my day and my food. Presuming of course that I make the choice to do so.
I hope I have a good day.

Day 21: Long awaited day off.

Tiredness is pretty. It blurs sharpness into a creamy lather, into which I have been sinking today. On my bike, shopping, wandering the meadows. Today, I have just leant back into tiredness, and let it drift on through.
I haven’t acted upon it as others can: I won’t sleep in or rest of anything. But Anonymous will grant it some acknowledgement at least.

All my work colleagues are in the cinema watching the Incredibles. As I write, they are probably a couple of minutes into the adverts.
I would love to have gone. I was invited of course, and had even allowed myself to get excited. Having been unable to take part in any of the social events happening for staff owing to anxiety, mealtimes or exhaustion, I really thought this would be the one I’d make it to. It transpired that they wouldn’t be attending an evening viewing like I thought. Instead, they are in the 12pm one.
I can’t sit for 185mins in a cinema, in the middle of the day. Anonymous won’t let me.
I told them I wasn’t feeling well when I cancelled, which I suppose is sort of true.

Stop writing now Ellie. You don’t have to write because Anonymous says so.
You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone.
But this week, I can’t help but think I’ve proved something to myself. I’ve don’t well. Because I said I would do.

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I took myself back to the meadows on my day off. Sometimes retreating is the best way forward.

Week 2: Fallen Scales

Yesterday

This grey and drizzly snacktime, I have had to do something a little different.

The first dreary cloud clogged up the skyline last night, and now all that sun has been ruined. I had to slip back into that person who arrived here two weeks ago, clutching a handful of useless ideas of where she might go when she needed her snack.
This is what I came up with. Sat at a bright table by the window, I’m sipping a semi-skimmed latte and bending over this notebook. Semi-skimmed not necessarily by choice, but because that seems to be independant-coffeehouse-speak for ‘skinny’. I think not, but after last night and this morning, I’m actually too exhausted to care. Anonymous can quibble over the handful of extra calories floating in this cup, but I’m having no part in it. Now, this here is a strange occurrence not just because of the coffee quandry. Perhaps you can hear it between the lines, perhaps you can sense the clamour shaking words off the page and out of my head. I walked into this noisy – nay, bubbly – coffeehouse, and felt anxiety turn me right around and march straight out. Grinding beans and steaming pumps, gurgles and burbles and babbling gabbling. It was a clamour to turn any anorexic’s empty stomach.
It was already 11:30, and I was already running late for my snacktime. Anonymous considered our options, and drank the room. We were in Fitzbillies: an iconic Cambridge coffeehouse, that must so happens to be a little too far away from anywhere else. When visiting, everyone “has” to try Fitzbillies. Coming here in the first place had been nothing more than an effort to be more adventurous. A table by the window watched me weigh up my options. Over ten people passed through, ordered, sat themselves down, but still that table remained empty. It was waiting for me to be brave, and so I stayed.
The food here looks delicious. I wonder if I’ll ever try one of those granola bars. No, not today. I’m a bit busy with my latte, see. Look how creamy it is! The milk is like velvet. I wonder how many calories it costs to be so fluffy? No, I haven’t googled it yet. I don’t think I should really, do you?
The noise in here is dying down a bit, and the coffee rush will be over in a matter of seconds. I can hear myself think again, and now I can’t avoid thinking of it any longer.

It is weigh day. I finally patched together a plan to get weighed each week, as requested by my clinic whilst I’m here. After failing miserably to get anywhere with the on-site-fabled-possibly-non-existent who has still yet to materialise, I snatch control before my nerves wrapped their fraying ends around this trigger, and registered as a temporary patient in a local surgery.
The scales have been falling all week. The needle click click clicked, and pulled gravity to my feet. The number was smaller than the number I arrived with, that is all I wish to say. Anonymous cast sweeping assurances that these were foreign scales, that I left my watch on, that I had cycled in, failed to poop, failed to get an appointment at 10 o’clock and instead had to attend at the farcical time of 9:35. So many units to build up to get an accurate weight, but this is the one I have. It is the number that I will work with and negotiate into next week.
I knew I was losing weight, I just didn’t know what that meant.

The whole country has caught football fever, myself included. I seem to be the only one in any discomfort; everyone else rides out the spasms of noise without blinking an eye. Anticipation assaults us all and yet I am the only one to fall.
You’re reading this and feeling revolted, I can taste it. How has anorexia managed to starve me of even the tiniest inkling of patriotism, any sense of fun? Allow me to explain.
No, listen. Actually listen: the explanation is in the air, mingling with all those gasps and cries and endless chanting. The noise is actually excruciating. It cuts right through me, and shakes Anxiety awake just when I’ve worked so hard putting it to bed.
There is still 26mins until the game starts, but the signs of a noisy onslaught have already been sighted.
Seven people clutching beer have just been appeared in next door’s window. Cars clot the drive; the shelves of every off-licence in Cambridge are bare, skeletal. And this: the sinister silence hanging over England, like bait.
I did not manage too well when England beat Sweden last week. I covered my ears and tried not to breathe in the sound. Still something must have leaked in, for an hour or so later I was curled up in my cupboard and howling for it to all be over: please, please let me sleep.
It is all too easy to brush Ellie’s words of comfort to one side: it’s a Wednesday, people need to be up in the morning for work; next door’s flat is tiny, they’d have to decant to a pub for an actual party. As a former student, I can say with certainty that no amount of limited space nor commitments will hold back a rush of alcohol infused desire to have fun. Oh, I wish I could still have fun.
My plan might work. I shall wade through each minute as if time weren’t stuck. There is a small chance the game itself will contain the masses. People will be glued to the screen, and noise will only be unstuck and lodged into my side if something actually happens. This should buy me enough to time to make supper, and eat it battling only Anonymous, not Anxiety as well.
I shall assess the situation when the familiar cries at the final whistle blows. If the decibels ring with alarm, I could put on a film. Not ideal, for I never watch TV in the evenings. Anonymous considers it a waste of time, but in this case she may just have to swallow it. Hard lumps of bad scriptwriting is easier to digest than what I daresay will await otherwise.
In the very likely event it reaches my bedtime and everyone is still at it, I’ll sink. An endless night of worry and exhaustion awaits, pressing in like treacle. Already noise is all over the neighbourhood, like a rash.
One wonders why I don’t just watch the game myself. Don’t get me wrong, I really want to. But it wouldn’t feel right, not all by myself.
Anxiety’s tolerance of noise has not made much progress at all really. If anything, it feels like it just drags me backwards.

Oh, I must just mention hummus-gate has been solved. Prior to my journey up here two weeks ago, I spent a happy afternoon in the kitchen making batches of my Anonymous approved hummus. I froze it in batches, and tried the first defrosted one today. As if it were made fresh, if a little stiff. Every now and then, it would do me good to defrost a little faith.

The Day before Yesterday

I can see my pillow from here, and it is calling. Oh my dear, I have been thinking of you since I left you this morning. All through the day, every word and mouthful, I was just thinking of your plump embrace, your lumbar support. How I would sink into you, and ride a dream out until dawn.
I am so excited to get into bed, so forgive me for keeping this brief.
Having just cycled home at 1 in the morning, I don’t quite see how I plan to actually go to sleep, for the adrenaline is still pumping a little too loud. If only it had hit me earlier, when I really needed it.
The morning confronted me with a grim cloud-clotted start. After yesterday, after the horror that was yesterday, today was promising to be just as frightening. I wanted none of it. I ate my breakfast grudgingly, docking a few calories here and there to start my anorexic sedation from the start.
When going on a school trip, Anonymous has always packed Anxiety. A great bulky load I had to carry all the way to London, again. After an anxious and restricted lunch, we loaded into the cell that would take us to the Strand, straight down the M11. I didn’t make it to work before I bucked under the stress. The thought of having to sit in that bus, through all that traffic, all over again. It was a heavy prospect, and it dragged my calorie count down. By doing so, it pushed Anonymous up. The 1hour 20 mins trip on a hunger high, still flying after this morning’s panic attack.
We arrived and everything left me. Every anxious animal in me collapsed in an exhausted heap. Luckily, the students had free time until the theatre show in the evening, and so so did we. I took myself off to those quiet corners of London that I know so well, and did everything I could to expel any residual worries before the show, and before I had to put on the show of ‘responsible adult’.

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That ain’t Pret food

I was grateful to eat my supper. I packed it that morning, complete with a picnic plate. Pretending it was completely normal to picnic in Pret.
The rest of the trip was fine. I’m good at looking after things, just not always myself.

The heat backed off today, and all this worry has left me cold. Three anxiety attacks in 24 hours: pricking thumbs of something wicked. This way, it might come.

I’m being weighed tomorrow, and I can’t wait. It has been over two weeks and I just can’t take the strain of uncertainty anymore. I care not if I’m losing weight: that much I can sense. What though, if it turns out I’ve actually gained? What would all this worry and incontinence and exhaustion mean then? Is that what recovery is?

I wish I didn’t have to stay up any longer. I wish I could be with you now, pillow. Alas it is not to be for at least half an hour. There are food diaries and positivity diaries to fill in, a plan to be made for the morning.
Ellie, have you soaked your oats for breakfast in the morning? There is much to prepare to meet another day.

02:00am: Hello, pillow.
02:03am: F*** off is there a car alarm going off.
02:30am: F*** off is it still ringing.
02:57am: Seriously.
03:07am: Why tho.

And thus our scene is set for another anxious, sleep deprived day. The perfect conditions to cultivate Anonymous.

The 12th Day away

So today has been a little bit horrific.
I had an anxiety attack on the bus, in front of all the students. Not to say any of them noticed, one hopes. I was fairly well-practised at disguising these assaults at university, and have not forgotten how to shut out my surroundings and turn it all in on myself. Cowering between the seats set a little too far forward for the cool kids to catch, stuffing a little too much of my uniform in my mouth for any of them to hear it. Wheezing engines of static, grid locked cars and thick headphones that beat sweat down everyone’s brows also helped cover for me. I was curled up in a ball, pressed in on myself and felt the heat, the traffic, the ticking clock counting the seconds I was stuck sitting there press in on me too. My phone was clutched to my ear, the desperate reassurances from Mum passing through my ears and absorbed into the anxious pit in between. This, my third phone call home in three days. If only I could stop calling Mum and Dad. I had rather thought this would give them break from me; a few weeks without their daughter ruining the good days.
I hope nobody saw me, I hope nobody heard. These feelings were so swollen, so cheap and nasty, I could have just given them away.
It was hell. Full, fiery hell. Anonymous pointed her pitchfork at my enormous bottom sat in a seat in the middle of the day. She rattled my nerves like the bars of a cell: I just wanted out. I was sitting so long, and was burning up in place of calories.
London’s roads were melting. Roads out of town a vast network of failing veins, with too many cars causing clots and tumours. Red brake likes lit the way out for over an hour. And then it was far from over: there was the great journey north. All the while taking place when Anonymous needs to be standing, moving, exercising. Yet here we were, shackled in place by a seatbelt. Hell, I tell you.

I have been negotiating all day. From the start, Anonymous had imposed traffic restrictions on my food. I was on-shift for a medic trip to a London hospital: of course I’d need to allow time to commute. I had sacrificed some food for that. But the extra time and extra traffic cost me dear calories. I hobbled home feeling disgusted at how empty and tired I felt: all I had done was take students to London and supervised their workshops on a ward. All I had done was a day’s work. Now, all I have is a shell of myself. My stomach is actually singing.

I really tried to help Anonymous survive the day. She leapt at any chance to make random trips around the hospital; she ran coffee and collected samples; replenished the syringe supply and disposed of the sharps. Even when we pulled in at 9am this morning, I let her feed me breakfast standing up. Anything to make the pain go away. War has raged all day.

And now I have to go through it all again tomorrow. I can’t face it. I’m too hungry and too worried, too frightened to eat in case the traffic comes back an tricks me into keeping those calories.
But I will do it. I have to: that’s my job. It’s part of recovery, and what I’m here for.

Oh, wait wait wait! Something good did happen today: in fact I am almost sure it is what stopped me from self-combusting on that bus.
I was published in the Times again! Yay!
(Now – journalists. They have to sit. If I want to be a writer, I will one day have to sit.)

Day 11

I had another panic attack last night, halfway through 2 films I wasn’t really watching. One was being screened in the cinema, a ticket to which I had bought this morning without consulting my energy levels. At 5pm everything was empty. Even stuffing myself with supper hasn’t filled the hole, so I just stayed home, and tried to drown out the ghostly clamour of Saturday nights.
I failed. The noise got me, and Anxiety could feast.

I don’t want to write about last night. For now, let me just tell you that I am safe. I’ve eaten breakfast and my snack (a latte and energy ball, if you’re interested), and am about to tuck into lunch.
Reality is starting to get to close in Cambridge. It breathes down my neck, with condensation breaking out in an anxious sweat. Ellie needed to get out of it, fast. So we got on my bicycle and came here.

Here is where I have come to escape other people. Here is where I thought I could come and just be quiet, be alone. These are the Grantchester meadows: a great expanse of rippling grass that hugs the riverbanks. There, a pocket of willow trees leaning over the water, draping their branches to skim the surface. It is here, in the quietest, shadiest spot I could find, that I am writing to you now. I’m chewing a salmon sandwich, and watching dragonflies lick the lilypads. The light is almost blinding. What a relief to have the responsibility of foresight taken away, even if it is just until another person happens upon my seclusion and shatters my shield.
Here, I can watch the river traffic. Lumbering punts and pushy kayaks, a duck, a swan, a small boy on a SUP.
Yes, I feel safe here. I feel safe away from all that.

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A little slice of solitude

Day 10

I’m going through the day with a fine-toothed comb, trying to find something positive to write. Today, I am pulling apart thick clumps of worry and anxiety, and pulling out microscopic good things like nits. Every now and then I get too close, and a spine of Anxiety gets lodged in my hands, which I must then carry through the rest of the day.

The novelty of being away and living independently has worn away. Exciting places and exciting prospects come away with very little resistance to anorexia. Suddenly, I can see straight through Ellie’s optimism and excitement, and see the vast but thin network of disordered thoughts. “New” has paled under scrutiny: for everything about me is just the same.
Anonymous has been given the opportunity to be everywhere. She is unsupervised, under pressure and armed with a bicycle. Just, I suppose, as I am armed with Ellie, but my weapon keeps getting distracted by the sun or the smell, or just fear.
I’m starting to worry. Now the buzz has dipped off, I can hear it. I can hear the noise. Slamming doors and calls; squeaky railway tracks; spluttering motorbikes and hoarse men asserting themselves the only way they know how. It’s everywhere. A thousand final straws to draw.

I had my first anxiety attack since arriving today, and it was horrible. I was walking through town on one of the busiest streets at lunchtime, and it just happened. Something electric passed through the crowd and sun, and suddenly it had ignited. I couldn’t see for all the stars flashing like falling scales.

I’ll never know what started it, I never do. But we can draw on records from this diary in the moments leading up to it, and build a skeleton out of fragments. I had sat in the Fellow’s Garden with my coffee, and scribbled down any excuse I could for my shaking hands.
Is it simply the unknown I face everyday? The people, the place, my fate on the scales I still haven’t got on? Or perhaps the flat. Yes, Anonymous has gotten over the glamour of having a whole kitchen to herself, and has just noticed how small the flat actually is. She’s been doing the maths: how many steps fewer are you taking by staying here, Ellie?
Or perhaps, it is exercise itself. The happiness gleaned off my handlebars feed both Ellie and Anorexia. There is no greater feeling than soaring down a gentle slope on two wheels. When this gets taken away, as it surely will in four weeks time, how will I cope then? Anonymous will be hooked, addicted. Ellie will be bereaved. I shall deny forever that my grief at not being able to cycle at home is because I’ve taken a step backwards, and dabbled with exercise again.
Or perhaps it is all of it. Perhaps I can cope with these things in batches, but not all of it. Not all at once.

Day 9

There is a quote that comes to mind every time I come here. These Fellow’s gardens at Clare college, set back from the river and the rushing tide of people and places. “I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it” (As You Like It, the Bard himself). This possibly isn’t relevant to anything. But I wanted to share it here. It might give you some sense of comfort I get by retreating into one of the many College gardens.

I have been quite agitated for a few hours now. Every sound a sediment, clamour building up like sand. I pray it does not burst it’s banks. No, this anxiety is louder than noise. This anxiety is Anonymous.

I think I’ve eaten too much. I’m not sure, I might have only eaten enough to meet my meal plan, but it is more than I told myself I’d be eating today. And that makes me anxious.

Put simply, it will be a matter of 140kcal. There is no excuse, but I would like to try and explain what led me to having that snack, instead of the smaller snack I had planned.
So basically I panicked. It was a hot, sweaty day, and I had turned up for my shift at 3pm having had a full day fulfilling anorexia’s walking quota, and had a telephone appointment with my clinic. To say I was tired would be bad storytelling.
I arrived, and was hurled headlong down a list of errands I had to run before setting up for the student’s party that evening. The tasks were simple but geographically complicated. I spent two hours marching about the city, picking up props and paying for punts. And then of course, I had to turn up at the venue to “show face” for the academy lest it be thought that we expected people to do their jobs without up breathing down their necks. By 4:30pm and 30degrees, everything started to go pale. I felt something in me lift – Ellie – and she went to the nearest juice bar and ordered.
I have lived my whole life believing a small Banana Buzz juice was worth 250kcal. I’ve had them before and survived. The hat got to me, and mid-slurp, I googled it. Just to check.
354kcal. Ah.

Anonymous immediately threw away her nightsnack and set about calculating how much of her supper she was allowed to eat. The problem was, it happened again. I excused myself from my post supervising the exit, and found somewhere quiet to sit and have my supper away from prying eyes. And then I ate all of it. Ellie just shovelled the food into my mouth, ravenous for any ounce of energy to help her through her shift until 1am. I don’t understand why, but I just felt I needed it. I was exhausted.

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Smuggled in my supper. DEMOLISHED

It has been a very emotional day, really. Surely that must be worth some calories?
And as my nurse said, I probably need them.
I just don’t believe I do.

 

Day 8

I’ve just published my last blog so I’m going to keep this short and sweet.

Got very bored and agitated at work: too much admin in too smaller office; too many questions as to why I insisted on standing and running errands. Far too many Anonymous eyes watching me desperately try not to have an inactive day. (Ellie: “define ‘inactive’”?)

I will elaborate on the current argument between Anonymous and Ellie another time. It’s a recent dispute over whether or not Ellie is losing control of her exercise levels since she arrived here, and I’m just not wanting to talk about it right now.
I don’t want to scare myself by believing I’ve started going backwards.

Right now

Thank you for helping me retrace my steps through a very difficult week.
Going backwards has spat me out where I began: proud and full of hope.
Tomorrow, I will work to reset myself. Let us hope I can carry myself into the next week, and hold myself as the days rush forwards, clawing and pulling at Recovery’s scaly back.

50 Shades Heavier

(Disclaimer: I just wanted to use that title. There is nothing remotely mediocre or badly written about this body. Not a boring kg in all 50 of them. I’ve worked hard for this shit.)

The 50th May 2018. A day swallowed by history, and devoured by recovery. For it is as we hurl ourselves headlong into summer, on the cusp of all things bright and beautiful, that Ellie performed some sort of miracle.
I’ve made it to 50kg.
Two years, 11kg and several tons of avocados has washed us up here. Tidal tears and volcanic tantrums. I’ve moved mountains: and piled them on. Dragging all this weight up an axis towards a horizon that has finally melted beneath my feet.

The numbers flashed once, twice, then fixed me with their unblinking infra-red eyes. 50kg glared down at itself, and Ellie squealed.
Surprise raised my mood up to dizzying heights for a moment: up there where the air is clear, and anorexia struggles to take breath. As I stood there on the scales, basking in my nurse’s applause, I let Ellie gabble on and on at what this might mean. She filled my head with her future, the one she designs at every mealtime. The one she has haphazardly been attempting to unearth under layers of thick and sticky anonymity.
It was days before I reeled her in, back into this body. Only then did I calculate my BMI, something I find myself doing immediately after any fluctuation in my weight. Anonymous wanted to see how far she had let me wander towards the line between “underweight”, and “anorexic”. 16.6 is a few kilos too far to just do nothing. It must mean something.

Unlike anorexia, Ellie can communicate with weight gain. She can decipher an accurate meaning of it. Yes Ellie, at this moment, I understand. This means we’re trying to get better. This means things will be better.
I clambered off, then got stage fright. That’s when anonymous caught me. This means we’re getting better. Now what would that mean?

I had set short-term rewards for weight deadlines to tempt myself and Anonymous into surrendering to Ellie’s hunger. My reward for this one was exercise: that much was decided on the day I was diagnosed. At 50kg, I could exercise again, so long as the calories were provided for. As I type, every 50 kilos of myself is quivering. I’ve plans for exercise, but have already let anorexia starve me off sharing them with anyone. She has forced words of retribution and denial on my parent’s tongues before they’ve even had a chance to listen for themselves. My body has tuned in to the fear: that I have come so far, chasing a lie. That it is all some nasty trick to make me fat or force me into inactivity. Hang on, let me weigh that up: yes, that feels anorexic. But it also feels real. I want to go to the gym tomorrow, but couldn’t cope with the guilt of doing it behind my parents’ backs. My choices are made shadows when they’re turned the other way. I can’t work out how to bring up my body without dredging up fear with it.
Yes, I can hear these anonymous words: the worst thing is that I’m still listening. I’m heavy enough to recognise her, but too light to throw her off, for now.
There is much work to be done.

I have walked miles to reach this mile st.
This is the highest point my weight has reached in recovery. It has finally starting to pop above the hazy stagnation it had been suppressed under for so long.
I wish I could say that it was Ellie: all Ellie. I wish I could say she was enough for me to pull kilos of myself together, just for her. It wasn’t, not entirely anyway. It is the fruit of the future dangling just out of my reach. If all things good hadn’t conspired to laden the branches so, it would never have leaned in close enough for me to smell it. In Spring’s twilight, it smells more fragrant than all the summer blooms. We are on the cusp of something good, some summery shred of possibility. Thank heavens my parents are here to point it out, everyday.

50kg was set in st as a goal weight the day I as diagnosed. It is a historically significant weight: it is the weight that gave anorexia it’s name, though I never uttered it until I was sure. At 50kg, people noticed Anonymous; they pointed her out in the street and called her anorexic.
50kg was the weight I was pulled out of my university Women’s VIII, weeks before regatta season. It was the first time a flashback felt boring, dull, muted. The first time the pain finally numbed.
At 50kg, I realised I was in a relationship with anorexia, and had been for a very long time.
That was then. 50kg feels different now, somehow. As if something has started to pick at it’s bones.

The time was right months ago. This over-ripe fruit is ready to be picked, but I have to prove I can do it alone. Independence itself is one of the plump, juicy temptations “getting better” has to offer. Sts and all.
The stench does get heavy. It can leer so close that Anonymous becomes afraid of being smothered by it. She will see me bite into it, and disciover it is rotten to the core. She’ll have me choke on it’s imperfect skin, and grow fat and lazy on all the sweet calories it contains.
The problem is, Ellie is still starving. She is hungry to try that sun-pecked fruit, almost excited. Recovery would mean so much if it spoke with a satisfied tongue.

To grow the good things: friends, family, independance, even happiness: I force myself to wake up next to Ellie every morning. She points up at my future, chides me along to get up and try.
I’m strong enough to grab the low hanging fruit most days now: most days, I fulfil my swollen, fattening, weight-gaining meal plan. On the good days, it tastes good.

Recovery has been feeding me small rewards for reaching 50kg without my even noticing. Occasionally letting go the branches of my family that I weigh down so has been delicious. The guilt of placing so much of myself on my parent’s shoulders is squeezed out when I managed to attend to clinics all by myself. I did the car journey and everything. Cruising along to Coldplay felt too nice to be naughty.
The ability to occasionally divert Anxiety away from an attack has meant the days feel lighter. They don’t hurt so much, and pass through with minimal bruising. Blocking Anxiety as it raises itself, ready to pounce, weakens anonymous but strengths Ellie’s cause. If I can only get stronger, surely, Anxiety will be easier to control, even quarantine? My senses are 11 kilos sharper, my mind 11 kilos less empty.

Even challenges are being offered up to Ellie as rewards. A plateful of independence is on my summer menu. I plan to go away for a few weeks, live alone and unsupervised, and work at a summer school. Be a ghost to my former self, who was so good at her job. This particular fruit is, admittedly, shrouded by a thick skin. Sharp spines that threaten it’s failure only serve to back me further than Ellie’s arms. My biggest worry is not having the energy to do my job. One school day at the moment is enough to send me into a sleepy trance. To break through this worry and reach sweet success, I have to eat.

Anxiety is cancerous. It spreads and multiplies, swells something small into a monstrosity. It reached 50kg as soon as surprise died on the scales.

Anonymous has been rattled. She didn’t see 50 coming, not really. It crept up on her and has hijacked her distrust in my own strength. I must have been wearing 50kg without even realising it: my clothes hugged me comfortably, and I still experienced episodes of dizzying hunger highs. Short, yes, but still at exactly the same times. Like clockwork telling time to wait.
Now I have locked eyes with those two red numbers on the scales, I’ve noticed. 50kilos watches my back as lumber along the street, my heavy footsteps clamouring in my ears. Recovery has dilated on my thighs and shrunk my jeans. Bloating drowns satiety into a sinister hum, lost to groaning indulgence.
This is an easy target for Anxiety. In some ways, it is quite nice to have it attack something close to me – on me. Something easily solved should the pain get too much, and easier to manage than the irrationality of another person.
The fruits of my labour make me sick.

Anonymous convinced me I’d be immune to those 11 kilos, that they’d never get near me. Now it is upon me and Ellie yearns for more, the only way I can manage the symptom of recovery is to monitor it closely. See what happens when things start to get better, see how I’ll cope.

Recovery, I understand you believe it is worth all of this.
Don’t show me the incoming hoard of angry thoughts, feelings and memories. It will put me off my supper. You mean well by giving life back to me, but slowly please. It is just too much.

Yoga drip feeds me life, as does my family and my plans. Life is swelling up. I can even turn it on its’ head, and precariously balance the risk of attempting an arm balance. This feels good, I just wish I felt more confident wearing it than I do wearing anorexia. Some things just take getting used to, even the taste of success. It leaves a bitter after taste, but Ellie seems determined to try it.
She think we’ll enjoy it.

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Progress much?!

Reaching 50kg has been gruelling. But as it turns out, I always had it in me. Now I have it on me too.

I’ve recovered 11 kg and have more to go. I’m not out of the woods yet, but at least I now know I am definitely on track. The same fabled track walked thousands of time by thousands of other anorexics, their families, their doctors. Come, heave your weight up here. It will lead us out. Soon, you’ll see the view.

Recovery is happening. A natural disaster shakes the ground beneath my feet, closes gaps and highlights cracks. The 50th of May is just another day in recovery: another day swallowed by history.

On Gratitude

I’ve been trialling a new treatment for Anonymous this week.
It was prescribed by my nurse after she had briefed me on it’s previous success in other anorexia cases. A cheap and sometimes time consuming therapy, to be taken every evening just before bed.
Naturally, I was sceptical. Anonymous is suspicious of anything that might bring about the inevitable: she is wary of change. Why change, when my current prescription is working so badly? Why take the risk of finding something that actually does work, something that will pull me out of anorexia?

After one week, I am willing to believe this could be life-changing. I feel amazing, almost high.
The wonder drug? A “Positivity Journal”.

After I’ve brushed my teeth, put Anxiety in it’s pyjamas and filled out my food diary; I pull out a cloth-bound diary and a biro.
I write the date, three positive things that happened today, and three things to look forward to tomorrow. The first attacks fear, and the second attacks dread: the two strains of hopelessness. Three is a magic number, but doesn’t curse my entries as a rule. One day last week was simply crawling with good things, so I pinned all of them down under my nib.
Something positive is my final written word of the day, and I can go to bed and welcome sleep.

The best part is that I sort of understand the science of it. Whilst other treatments remain mysteries, this one is relatively simple, and completely under my control. Unlike weight gain – which has side effects more grotesque than the illness, so seems utterly pointless (in my anonymous opinion) – “positivity” is a relief. It is an instant painkiller for a bad feeling, and antidote to anxiety. “Antidon’t”, if you will.
Just like weight gain, I notice the medicine as it starts to work. Knowing I have to write three good things about the day later forces me to find the good things as time slips by. Each day has been turned into a treasure hunt for nuggets of positivity: the rain waited to start until I had reached the car; I made two old ladies on the train smile; I woke up to a crying cuckoo.
Better still is what can sometimes happen to the bad things. You see, when one single monstrous occurrence threatens to ruin an entire day of delicately placed positivity, Ellie gets defensive. She leaps upon this selfish fiend and pulls at it’s form, with the intention of turning it into something good. Failing that, she’ll tear off a handful an anxious period and call it a lesson, to be carried around and referred to as WORD. Only good things can come from being informed. It may keep a similar bad thing from happening in the near future.
This may not be a cure nor a sustainable source of help, but it is a diversion away from things that could aggravate anorexia. Fewer flare ups give Ellie more energy to focus on pulling thin pins from the side of recovery.

It gets better. No, it really does.
Writing down the good things in life is a natural remedy. Because it has no hidden agenda, no additives or calories – emotional or otherwise – anorexia just swallows it. It is an easy painkiller to administer.

Essentially, I am drugging Ellie with positivity. She is drip-fed the good stuff all through the day and a final shot in the evening sees the day pass into the night.
Positive features of the day mingle together and become a cocktail. Hope becomes a vision in these fumes. Every night for the last week, I have caught Ellie looking forward; already planning where she’ll look for good. This is a stark contrast to Anonymous, who still casts her eye around, anticipating the bad.

Journalling is a psychedelic experience.
Pulling a thought or a memory out of my head and forcing it onto paper has long been a comfort throughout my recovery. It always looks different down there, smaller almost. Not quite the monster it was when it was locked ink my head.
This “positive” journalling adds another dimension to the whole experience. An extra sense to guide me through the harsh terrain in recovery, which is mined with anorexic traps and triggers. The principal of evaluation remains the same.
Words stare at me from the paper, reflecting my thoughts back to me. There it is, all in writing. I marvel at them awhile. It is in these moments of reflection, that I am learning how to be grateful.

Having good things happen to you makes you grateful, not greedy. This is a pretty detail I’m gradually becoming aware of, even if I’m not convinced I’ll ever believe it. So much life can fall in the gap “knowing” and “believing”.
Yet it is this depraved and frightened belief that feeds anorexia. Anonymous justifies bad things happening by expecting them, almost greeting their occurrence with relief, as if I’ve repaid some of the debt to the universe I owe for simply taking up space.
How interesting it is to write that on paper.

Gratitude is a pleasant side effect to positivity, and is accentuated by reflecting on it.
It is a high like no other. I can’t believe what I’ve been missing, and what I still deny myself when I let Ellie retreat into black space.
By denying myself the pleasure of positivity, I have also been mistreating the good things.
Ellie, how do you treat the good things in life? As though you’re embarrassed by them, perhaps? As if they’re shameful, or somehow incriminating? Why must you push them away, as if you’ve no right to them?
Taking positivity has bought my fear out and demanded an explanation from it. Explain: explain why you cannot accept the good things for what they are.

I am one week into the course of “positivity”, and already I can feel the weight dissipating on my shoulders. Gratitude lifts the day out of my hands and casts it out of my control. It only invites me to chase the sun into the next day.

This week, I am grateful to have heard the cuckoo call. I am grateful to have felt a burst of rain lash against my face before the sun burst out like a boil. I am grateful to have heard the rain’s arrival: the sharp tap on a leaf or a window pane. I am grateful to never hear it descend, only arrive.
This week, I am grateful for space. I am grateful to have somewhere to roam, ponder, and grow.

This week, I am grateful for exposure: for good things to befall me disguised as baddies.
In the cinema, I sat next to large people eating large portions. The salty smell permeated the air, broken only by smacking lips. Ellie endured, and I thank her for proving science right: no, Anonymous, you can’t catch fat from other people.
In the car, I was strapped in with intrusive thoughts. I rode the day with a premonition: a threat glaring at me in my rear view mirror. Ellie endured, and I thank her for getting me home safely; for scrapping Anxiety’s script and rewriting how the day would be.
At home, we have been plagued by noise. Road-works and car horns, the crack of clicking bass from next door’s summer party. The house quivered anxiously. My nerves stretched past the point of anorexia’s tolerance with every day spent under house arrest from other people’s selfish intrusions. Ellie endured, and I thank her for not tearing all her hair out.
This week, I am grateful for exposure, because it shines a new light on my resilience. Still pale and flakey, but a hide strong enough to withstand small portions of life.

This week, I am grateful to have been rootling in the moment for something good, not scraping around in the future for something bad.

Of course, like all treatments, this one has it’s limitations and side effects.
Being on standby for something good is almost anxiety inducing. When time runs dry of nice things and I am left clutching at straws by the end of the day, I become aware of how desperate I feel. My life dwarfs next too everything I hoped to achieve today and everyday. Eventually I’ll retreat into myself to wallow in my misery, and let myself shrink.
Some days are easier to swallow with a positive pill than others. Time sometimes chokes on a trigger and too many thoughts churn reality into a sticky mess. It is easy to lose sight of the good when it is drowned in all the bad. It’s absence haunts me.
And of course, there’s that all too familiar sensation of failure when I am unable to see any good, or even any point. Blinded by anorexia, anxiety, or just the dull, a surrender is inevitable. I am hoping that with time and “positive” treatment, I can turn away from “failure”, and instead learn to manage it as “disappointment”. A hard task for anyone I think you’ll agree, especially if one hasn’t the ability to think straight anyway.

I know one shouldn’t get too excited by the initial results of a new medicine, but I can’t help feeling that this is some sort of magic pill. Time goes down smoothly, like thick drops of syrup.
Can you overdose on positivity? Imagination run away with the idea of the future, and forget that I’m not invincible, only inevitable.

Here are my three biggest positives this week: I made a new friend, I managed to do a headstand in yoga (perseverance and practice pays off!), and I put on weight.
Let me write that again, just so we can reflect on it. I put on weight.

A whole 0.4kg of positive energy, for which I will be grateful. Perhaps not quite yet, but soon, I will believe that this too is a good thing.
This too, is inevitable.
We must be grateful for the inevitable; else we will simply grieve.

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And of course, I’ll always be grateful for caffeine.

Anor-Log: Unseated

I have chosen to write this retrospectively, because I found it too distressing to write about as it happened. Attention agitated it, and it bulged all out of proportion. Anticipation picked up a pen, but dread began the sentence. Words slid in their own sweaty mess, unable to catch reality in all it’s horror. The fear was just too big to confine onto a piece of paper.

The day was coming. I felt the week sink through the thickness of time, and suddenly: there it was. Tomorrow. Behold, Tomorrow.
All I could do was watch Tomorrow heave in it’s final moments, then give birth to the monster. Today.
Today was the day, it had arrived.

The corpse of my fear lay dismembered thus: a full day back in hospital. Two clinics including weigh ins, a psychologist assessment and a key nurse appointment. Food negotiated out, quantities and calories loosely patched up by some stranger working in the cafe. My walks and activity doses crushed under hours and hours of sitting, chatting, thinking.
When it had been alive as Tomorrow, it had been so real. Ellie was already being pushed over the edge by the mere thought of it. The day itself was a fat alien. So unnatural and so unknown, of course it was threatening.
My anorexic routine was being hunted. In one day, I saw an end. An end of my will to go on, to progress into it. An end of reason. Ellie just wasn’t sure she’d make it. She’d never make it to the other side of all that sitting.

Here I sit, on the other side. The monster was slain and here lies Yesterday. What a mess. I have been covered in sticky guilt, but also indelible pride.

One day was serving up a large portion of anxiety. I was being force fed by my treatment: it was clear I couldn’t avoid it, I’d just have to try. Either Anonymous would stand by as I choked, or I’d swallow.
Today was the first of many that will treat my fear of sitting. One day, one pill to kill the pain of inactivity. Anxiety is an inevitable side effect.

Anticipation tested the day’s itinerary on Ellie’s imagination. I fed her small tastes of what the day would hold, to see how she’d react. Feverish panic followed hot and cold flushes. Confidence flared then was smothered by the gravity of what I was about to do: I was about to sacrifice a whole day’s activity.
Ellie’s blood thickened with my thighs.

Ellie chewed the day over for weeks in advance. She broke it into bite-sized pieces, into phases. Each phase was finely furnished with an assortment of chairs. The developing apolstering of my bottom would be crammed into these seats with contempt: I could at least prepare it.

Phase 1: The car journey to hospital. 45mins; subject to lumps of traffic congestion. High time pressure in the passenger seat; angry outbursts possible.
Phase 2: Clinic 1: Key Nurse and weigh in. 60 mins. Time usually smooth and syrupy, easy to consume and digest. Pleasant passing of time depending on what number the scales award me. Lower numbers can dampen sitting anxiety for the rest of the day.
Phase 3: Empty. Hours are steroids to bulk out the time between appointments and lunch. Sedative side effects for anxiety include the possibility of moving about corridors and town a little. Distraction recommended.
Phase 4: Lunch. Highly volatile and often resulting in a drama or crisis. Hallucinations are possible: featuring magnified calories of specific food substances, and anxious trips up and down the menu in search of something smaller, safer. Chair itself invites about 40mins: a neutral time for lunch.
Phase 5: Car journey to hospital. 5 mins: short and hostile. Streets inevitably constipated; anxiety pollution makes breathing here difficult.
Phase 6: The psychologist assessment. The crowning glory of the day: the big one. The one that would come one day, the wonder drug Ellie has been gagging for since Recovery reared it’s scarred head. Nowhere to hide in this chair. An hour, maybe two. Duration subject to reactions.
Phase 7: Car journey home. Please God don’t let it be any longer than 45 mins. Ah shit, another red light.
Phase 8: Anorexic bribery in form of a walk. No chairs here, it’s ok. You’re safe now: the day is nearly over. No chairs, only empty skies and muddy footpaths. Walking is a minor pain-killer to relieve any residual anxiety from sitting and/or eating.

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Lunch was hard today.

Preparing for this feast of fear built the ground up under Ellie’s feet. We hoped it would make a fair and even battleground.
Ellie reduced the day down to numbers. Anxiety can understand those, even futuristic ones. She weighed the minutes she could see would be spent seated, and predicted her activity levels.
45+60+30+45+60 = the edge of anorexic tolerance.
Ellie’s findings were unprecedented and unexpected. Looking at this beast of the day, one would expect the numbers to be bigger. We checked her calculations over and over, but still we had the same result.
On paper, it worked on this one day of my life, I’d be sitting down for an extra 25mins. That’s 25mins more than a normal day at the hospital. Only 5 or 10 mins were shaved off my walks.
Why must this cost you so many calories, Ellie?

Solve that equation, make it digestible.
Let x be Seated Time.
x = (Phases) x anorexic catastrophisation.
Therefore,
x = terrifying.

Now work out the calorific cost.
Let y be excess calories.
y= x – (kcal x catastrophisation)

One can find the value of all this at the end on the world.
I just couldn’t make sense of it: the day was just too scary for reality to be telling the truth.

This is how I worked my way through one of the most challenging days of my recovery. I forced myself from chair to chair, and took care not to begin the next moment when my mouth was full of the present one.

I still carry the guilt I picked up from spending so long in all those chairs. Restricting my food didn’t succeed in making me immune from it. All it did was make Ellie feel like a cheat when she was promised some pride. A survivor’s guilt.
It is an unfortunate side effect to the “sitting” treatment. Anorexia almost always flares up, and restricts my food. Even after exhausting myself with a panic attack before 9 in the morning, Anonymous could not justify fuelling my lazy seated arse. She’d rather see me drained, propped up by the pine armrests.

Let me go.
Please, let this whole horrid episode be over.

And Now we are here. Now is calm, Now let Today go.

I see now why Ellie fought so hard to attend clinics yesterday. She has been desperate for these psychology sessions. The assessment itself lathered over an hour like balm. Words reel off my tongue and show themselves to my doctors exactly as they are in my head. In the stillness of the ED Unit, Ellie can stand back awhile. She reads over the notes on her life, as if it happened to someone else. She sees it, just for a moment, how it is.
Fine.
Sitting here just has to be fine, for it is necessary.

We shall have to wait for my next weigh in to see if all that sitting made any difference to my weight. We shall have to see if my anorexic predictions are correct: if it all as real as it is in my head.
There were so many calories blowing the day out of proportion.There were so many obese thoughts squeezing me tight where I sat, unmoving, in my seat.
And that had to be fine.

One day, it will all be.
Let it all just be fine.
Please Anonymous, even if only for one day, please just let me be.

Bring up a Body

Here, put on my shoes.
Lets take a walk.

We’re going to retrace my steps through the last few weeks. The ground is still very uneven, so tread carefully. There are a lot of cracks we could fall through, straight into the fiery pits of anxiety rumbling away underfoot. Not to worry. My shoes are used to these harsh conditions, they can swing my mood to and from the threat of progress.
After all, they carried me this far. They haven’t fallen to pieces yet, as so many have before.

Come, we’re going to get off the beaten track a little. We’re going to explore the dark allies of myself I’d really rather pretend didn’t exist.
Don’t trip up over the bodies.

The quiet was delicate that Friday night. I was home alone, curled up by the fire with a crossword and a cat. The Beast from the East pawed pitifully at the window panes.
Then it came back. Out of the shadows of my mind, still woozy from Anonymous’ enforced famine, it came back. I was dragged back to that dark place, back into the my familiar prison.
Silence, my old friend.

Silence is strong but brittle, as it turns out. The secret I have held away from me for so long broke out in a desperate rash as recovery threatened to close in on me from all sides. I couldn’t carry it with me any longer: it was too big, too heavy. I just wouldn’t make it out the other side.

I have held Silence carefully knowing it was strong, but brittle. It broke between my teeth. First to my Godmother, for she was the first to discover my body, writhing in horror and shock. Then my Mum. I broke it up, and shared it with my Mum. The next day in hospital, I offered it up to my nurse.
I beg anyone to take Ellie off my hands. Here – help me, help me.
My tongue riled behind gritted teeth. My Silence broke, my secret crushed against the roof of my mouth. Unable to take the weight of Ellie’s secrets anymore, I tore them from my person and spat them out in a sentence.
This rotting body I have dumped at your feet is long dead. Even so, I just can’t let it go.

I cannot show you my secret. Only parts of it’s dismembered body. You’ll get the picture; just not the angry buzz, the bitter taste, the stench of sweat, the crushing pressure. You’ll get a still, frustration bitten idea. It’ll itch, it will be painful. You’re only in my shoes. Imagine how excruciating it is being trapped beneath my skin.
Emboldened by my 13 years, I went on a childish wander. With bare, unprotected hands, I leafed through the world around me. Ellie was looking for Anything really, but discovered Something. That Something changed Everything.
I stumbled upon a Secret. A most terrifying creature, one that grew bigger and blacker before my eyes. It latched onto me and began to mutate. My shadow dilated and leered. My family, my friends, my Self. We were all being watched, we were all being stalked by Paranoia. This Secret brutally trained my senses to be alert. I kept my enemy close to my chest, squeezed it tight and vowed to never let it go, never let it be out of sight of my mind’s eye. Plotting, trying to work out how to kill it.
I just didn’t know what to do with it, nor how to handle it. Should I hand it over, turn myself in? Would it behave differently if it were out of my hands? Probably not. No, better to hide from it.

Hiding from Ellie didn’t make her go away. It didn’t give me any peace.
Only now I’m refeeding her, now the calories are rousing me from my starved sedation, am I beginning to think again, remember again, feel again. It’s all exactly the same as I left it, only heavier, and neglected.
I drugged her. I plied her with alcohol. I watched men circle her like sharks and did nothing to stop them dragging her down, pushing her head down, striking her down.
I was an extra hand held over her mouth after Crackhead no.4 broke into her room, again. 2 inch idiot, Tweedles Dum and Dumber, the-ones-who-were-so-uninteresting-I-never-came-up-with-a-scathing-name-for-them. I can still see the specs of cocaine on his nostils, glittering like stars. The nights are black, but I can still see his stars. The blood never washed off my sheets, the smell of skin and sweat lingers.
And I did nothing, because this is the least Ellie deserved. I could push her further and further, but still she’d stay with me. Still with me, trapped together in the same body. Trailing after me like a ghost.
I met Anonymous when I was 13. Together, we plotted to rid me of Ellie. Only after all else failed, did we begin feeding Ellie to oblivion. Kcal by g, kg by bpm.
Stay away, get away from me.

The fear is still alive, kicking and screaming. My secret died on my lips but it’s legacy lives on. The seeds of self hate grew roots as I grew older.
I’m actually frightened to approach the subject again, let alone start picking up the pieces. There are too many bits to reorder, too many sharp edges.

I don’t know myself anymore.
I don’t know who Ellie is, what she did, what she might do. All I hear are the rumours orbiting the perpetrator of all my pain: Ellie.
I tore Ellie’s shoes from my feet and ran.

Even after lancing my secret, it still itches. It is a different type of itch, an uncertain one. As if unsure why it should be there at all, but persists as a precaution. From the moment I told someone my secret, I felt relief splash on my face like cold water. The pain was numbed for a short time, and now it is back with a vengeance.

Come, let’s leave this now. It has been an uncomfortable journey, so let us turn back to recovery.
As we’ve walked together through this thick undergrowth of my Self, I can feel your attention starting to lag. The relentlessness has made you a straggler, and you’ve struggled to keep up as we wade deeper into the murk.
Now, you are vulnerable. This is where Boredom prowls, and I’m sorry I haven’t been looking out for you.
Careful where you tread, you would not want to fall prey to Boredom.

I have been caught by boredom. As I flee from anorexia and pursue recovery, I entered this long grey grass of endless anxiety and monotony. My routine closed in and winter froze out any variation. I strayed behind time, and now I am trapped by Boredom.
Boredom bites into my limited life, salivates when it catches a whiff of loneliness. This Beast has settled on my job like snow: the hours thaw through the day, dripping and draining until I can crawl home and take refuge in sleepy solitude. Days are swept to one side without having spoken to a single human being outside my house. My phone sits silent, a ghost.
Boredom is excruciating. It is so itchy, but there is nothing Anonymous can do about it. The only way out, is up: I can escape boredom by squeezing weight gain past Anorexia, and drag my feet towards a recovering horizon.

Stop fidgeting. The more you struggle, the harder you fight, the tighter anorexia will squeeze.
And now, it is time we looked down again. You can take those shoes off now, they’re beginning to wear thin anyway. Soon, I’ll stand on those scales, and they’ll fall to pieces again.
They make you uncomfortable. I can read you fidgeting, glancing over your shoulder to check how far boredom is away.
Sharp scratch, deep breath. It’s over. This misery is mine alone to manage.

I have managed to put on and maintain 1kg in a little over a month. Not quite the prescribed amount, but enough to satisfied my doctors that Ellie can do it.
Of course she can do it: boredom and frustration is excruciating. She is pushing my towards the kitchen cupboard, begging me to have my snack. Please, make it all stop.

In my kitchen is a small, unremarkable cupboard. Behind it’s door, lies a monster’s lair. The “Snack in the Cupboard” – a hoard of nut butter, energy balls, dates and mylkshakes I have been stashing out of harms way. Piles and piles of calories.
The increase I have hid from for months, but that I finally put in last week.
I gained some weight.
I held on to it.
The itching never subsided.
We stand here together now, 500 kcal braver. But also, 500 kcal more anxious. For we have inclined our head towards change, at the expense of our mind.

My life is trying to outgrow Anonymous, I can feel it. But it keeps being stunted in awkward places: great tumours throbbing with anxiety protruding in on Mother’s Day, red traffic lights and unexpected phone calls. Any form of social life has been deformed. Friends are ushered away before they can expect me to sit. My travel radius has shrunk and barely skirts London – the journey is just too long to go anywhere else. Anonymous counts the extra calories she could be burning by choosing not to sit and study, but to stand and sneer. Great periods of time drawing blank, and being called a masterpiece.

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Extract from food diary: “Banana approx. 25 lines long.”

My camera roll is stuffed up with pictures of my food. This symptom has got worse as the “increase” treatment was proposed: I feel the need to gather as much evidence as possible to prove why my weight behaves the way it does, week after week. Everything has been put on edge, and sharpened; ready for the charge to recover my body from anorexia.
Under all this thick and thin skin, Ellie still scratches her head, trying to find where it itches.

I feel life bulge from my person sometimes. Sometimes, I can taste the progress as it is made.
Look down at my feet: see the words written here. Read between the lines and find the small changes taking place in other chapters of our life, Ellie.
The violent buzz in my yoga classes is slowly subsiding. I find myself counting breaths in a pose, rather than seconds of being completely inactive. Exercise is being diluted by incense, and for a whole hour Ellie can focus on being, rather than feeling.

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“Thou shalt have a body positive day.”

The relationship I have with my mirror has intensified. It speaks more animatedly, and seems more open minded to what I present before it. It can see through my thigh gap and still isn’t satisfied. Sometimes, it even speaks to me kindly.

How are the shoes? All this talk of food makes them feel tighter, right? More itchy.
You can take them off now.

I’m sorry our journey down memory lane has been trying. It isn’t always that bad down there. Recovery pushes me down there quite often, now I have the strength to explore it.
Yes, there are the ghosts rising from writhing corpses. But there are some bodies there that died properly. Dead and buried by acceptance. There are some bodies of innocent bystanders: times of my life that were victimised by anxiety and tortured out of proportion.
Some of these aren’t dead; they’re asleep. Lost in a dream.

If only I could take you into the dream world.
Standing in my shoes and watching Hopes and Dreams will never be enough. You’ll never feel how excruciating it is to hope and dream, how itchy it makes one feel trapped beneath the skin of an illness.
I have tried to bring my dreams into the real world, by writing them down. I wrote pages and pages on one dream that takes place On A Little Street in Singapore: back to where I was safe, back to where I was saved. Back to listen to the Oriel warble.
Another dream of pulling my skin on in the morning and feeling proud of Ellie.
A somewhat more trivial dream of asking my barista out, now burst by the sharp scratch of reality: how would Anonymous be on a date?

For now, please stay with me as I reach out to touch a dream close by, and make it come true. The dream of feeling 500 kcal more amazing everyday. The dream of making progress and watching it wash over my life, like cold water. I could float on it, perhaps.

I dream finding bits of myself I never knew existed, and piecing myself back together.
That will start, with bringing up a body.

Anorexic Rhapsody

Music is so calorific.

A feast for the ears and heart, a score of temptations.
Ellie used to gorge herself on music, spending years binging behind her harp. She stuffed chords into the air and felt the notes grow fat, wobbling as they resonated off her harpstrings. She’d indulge herself in a joy nobody else could touch, not down there in the audience. Power ripened on her harp through grades and concerts. The horizon dilated, and I tripped towards it high on adrenaline. The strings shook, and notes blurred.
Music was a temptation away from dieting and exercise. It was a safe haven to install Ellie, a place she could lose herself in and know she’d always be able to find herself again. She could hide from herself, and drown her thoughts out in a melody.

To recover from Anorexia, I have been prescribed food.
Food to provide calcium, protein and potassium. Food to fix osteoporosis, amenhorea and a broken body image. Food for thought and food for esteem: food to give me strength to see myself clearly again, and food to pass judgement thereafter. Food to build up muscle, and food to build up self-worth. Love. Love?

Self-love is by far my biggest fear food.
Being presented with it makes my mouth water, and I become afraid. Trapped in this denial is all part of the punishment. It’s all part of the cleansing I must go through to rid myself of Ellie, and become Anonymous.
I haven’t indulged in self love for a very long time. It has always looked too tough, too chewy and complex to swallow, to understand.

My doctors and family sing a different tune. Their’s is a forgiving one. The tone is sharper, but melts into the background of reality like butter.
The lyrics clash horrifically in my ringing ears. The syncopated jangling of my nerves unsettles their “It’s ok” preludes. “Stop punishing yourself” a rhapsodic rasp and completely out of tune with the anthem I’ve sung all my life, and still do.
Anorexia treatment is trying to retune my thoughts so they are brighter, so that I may climb more major scales.
My Anonymous melody works. It speaks for me, sums me up with all my sins and contains me on a downward spiral.
To recover, I must tune in to reality. I listen out for it above the grainy images in my head, and try to sift through each one, sorting fears between ‘real’ and ‘imagined’.

Practising self love is a highly strung affair. Anonymous simply won’t swallow it: most of it won’t even make it to my plate.
A surge of inspiration was washed up after my Dad tuned my harp, and Ellie’s thumbs pricked. I plucked up some courage and a few strings, and with encouragement, I did it. I played my harp, and chewed on a sweet morsel of love and relief, peppered with nostalgia that sprung tears from my eyes in the final bars.

These strings have been plucked a thousand times, but not for the last two years.
Anonymous is a fool to suppose that playing the harp is any less a workout than standing, or taking the only light exercise I’m allowed. Twelve bars in, cramp killed the moment and my arms stiffened where they lay. My muscles froze over, petrified by the work that lay ahead. These fingers groaned in protest and these feet – in those shoes – shuffled clumsily along the pedals. And my back. Oh, my barren back. The ghost of posture’s past rattled in the empty pores of my spine. Holding up an armful of rosewood, 46 strings and a dead harp career, it was my back that cried out first when I plucked that first string.
Anorexia is finely tuned in to any form of sitting, and so harp practice causes a clash of peripatetic emotions: mostly alarm and panic. One or two attacks thereafter.
Over the last two weeks, I’ve managed to ease Ellie into a chair and force Anonymous to sit there and listen for 5 or 10 minutes, here and there.
For now, that’s all I can manage. And for now, that’s enough.

I chewed on this treat, listening to symphonic joy tremble my very being. Somewhere inside, I felt Ellie danceng again. She knotted and unknotted my tummy, lifted my arms like the willow trees in Marraconelo Way – my childhood home – and delved back into the music.

Thought process got caught up in this hedonistic party, and then I gave myself away. In a stuffy staffroom, I let slip to the headmaster that I played the harp.
Ah.
Nice one Ells. You’ve done it now: you’ve sealed your fate and cast it into the music.

I wasn’t sure how to approach it at first. A harp performance in front of the whole school blocked up my future with exposure, humiliation, and ultimately, loosing my job.
My performance lurked in the corner of coming days, a real and gasping fear. There was so much that could go wrong, so many strings to hold and so many thoughts to order, reorder, disorder. How heavy would the silence be when it eventually fell?
I saw how it would be: held down and nerves wracked, fate screwing tighter.

No. Scratch that. We won’t make it to the end of the paragraph, I’ll lose you in the gloom.
I need to change the narrative.
Is it possible, Ellie, that your character had been feeling a little bit excited?

I waited in the wings.
Today, Ellie, you are not anxious. Feel that pleasant flutter, that fluid knotting, that movement? This is not the work of anxiety, who’s hand constricts around every sense and squeezes it tight, tight, tighter.
No, today you are nervous.
Oh, nervousness – my familiar friend! Oh, oh, oh – all is forgiven. Welcome back, you dithering twit. You are quite pleasant in comparison to your high-flying elder sibling. Anxiety is such a bore, you’re much more exciting.
Nerves, thanks for being here. Thank you for helping me.
How lovely it is to write that: that I felt something so normal and benign as stage-fright.

Ellie pulled me on stage, gripping me by my hair as it stood on end.
My fingers hovered over the strings, circling and skirting. They nestled between in the intervals. The silence was thick, and squeezed out from in-between the strings like honey. My fingertips traced the strings. C,D,E.
My harp hid me well. The scene was strung up and sliced into thin, bitesized chucks. Every face in the audience was blocked by a strip of nylon or brass, I couldn’t see my colleagues lining the hall, I couldn’t see the way out.
I had to hold this harp, this head, and the children’s wandering and wondering attentions.
I couldn’t hear the buzz of anticipation, only my silence, quaking in it’s final moments.
The wood weighed heavy on my shoulder, but held me close. I let the silence fall, and embraced music.
A far cry tuned in to where I was, and why.

The first note – that very first B – tore. It grazed the quiet and the melody frayed my nerves. Chords sparkled and strings sang. I nestled closer into my instrument.
I had forgotten how much I enjoyed performing. Enjoyment: another nourishing and indulgent treat.
That first B plucked the poison from my head and I was let go, lost in rolling chords. I played on, on and on, into the softness of the room. Then the peace ended, and I had to stop.
My portion of enjoyment was dwarfed by that of the school. I have never known 200+ children sit so completely and utterly still. One could have heard silence splintering. I made grown men cry and succumbed under the layers of myself.
Then the peace ended, and I had to stop. When the last child had left and the final note hummed, I fell over the stiffened corpse of who I used to be, and burst into tears. Awe-struck by what I had just found, terrified of what to do with it now.

There are so many calories in enjoyment. I was hit by a sugary rush of adrenaline and tripped through a day at work high on endorphins. I had so much energy, I simply couldn’t contain it beneath this skin. Surely, to sustain this feeling, I must make more room for it. I clung to the confused ecstasy like my leggings do my thighs, and let it carry me through the meals, trials and tantrums over the coming days. Eating food, for a moment, was easy. Logical. I had just seen what nourishment meant, how much power it gave me.
Only now, a day later, is that feeing beginning to ebb away.

Anorexic guilt bit gently into how long I sat for, how deceitful it is to pretend I’m anywhere near as good at the harp as Ellie was.
She’s biting down on her own lip. Not out of nerves, but anxiety.
I hope Anorexia feels threatened by my performance. I hope she saw and heard every tiny detail: putting myself out there, facing a fear; identifying and understanding how I felt and what I felt. Distinguishing between the reality of Nervousness, and the monstrous Anxiety that embellished my mind’s eye.

This has to be another step, another push into the next movement of Recovery.
If only a rest could come, and for my thoughts to quieten down.