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.

Mastering the Art of Time

We lost the summer. My last memory can be traced back from the first week in May:

“Eleanor Davies, please go to Dr A********** in room 6.”
I tottered around plastered arms and hacking coughs, watching wheezing frames double over in the line of patients snaking around the room. I pulled my coat up to my face and breathed into the fleece. A trickle of warm air kissed my chattering teeth. I shut my eyes and tried to drown the cacophony of wailing and moaning and groaning. I tried to think.
Ellie: what are you going to say? What are you doing here?
You are weak.
She had cold eyes. They skated over me once, and a sour smirk unfolded over her lips.
You’re a waste of time.
“I just – I can’t – I won’t eat.”
Pah.
“I don’t know what to do.”
Very convincing.
“I’m flying home in 10 days, I just need some advice. Please help me, I’m frightened.”
Her body shook with the force of that sigh. With pursed lips she began to click, click, click away at her computer. She kicked some scales out from under her desk.
Oh look, she is going to weigh us. How predictable.
“45kg.” Not good enough.
“Yes.” Go ahead, cry. See? Nobody cares.
“So … you think you have an ED. What do you want me to do for you? Why won’t you just eat?”
Nobody wants to help you.
“I’m scared. I just need to make it through the next 10 days, please help me.”
This doctor looked at me a moment, stretching out time. “HA” her laugh rattled through the chair and into my bones. “Well,” she said, trying to composed herself, “obviously don’t eat any less.”
Challenge accepted.
“Well, I could refer you to an Eating Disorder specialist …” Hell no. “… or I can tell you to toughen up.”
We waited. Not good enough. We left.

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At 45kg: my legs have finally joined up and I have … a but crack!!

In those 10 days, I lost 6kgs.
It has taken me 6 months to the day to restore the damage done in that doctor’s surgery.
Nobody cares, nobody will help you.
My weigh in today clocked on at 45kg. BMI: 14.9.
Time can’t be tempted, but Anorexia can.

I can control time.
It is a power Anonymous fed me in scraps. We made it smaller. Time is a wild thing, but I have been taught how to lock it up in a cage to waste away.
Woozy and drunk on depravity, it shrank with and away from me.
Anorexia tortured time: I was stretched thinner and life was squeezed smaller.
Routine rotted the day. Daylight would crawl from my 4:30 alarm to my midday black coffee, over treadmills and trembles, to the turning of Anonymous’ screw.
This will make you strong.

In recovery, I chase time around the clock. I check in at breakfast, lunch, supper. Each day, I am robbing Anonymous of her control over my time.
Recovery tames time so it can be used, not filled.
My days feel small, but are getting fuller, bigger. I can cope with doing more.
I can follow my train of thought just that little bit further; even if time does eventually catch up with me and my mind stumbles into a babbling outburst.
I can think ahead, and plan past the next hour into the next day. I don’t panic quite so often if lunch gets ruined: if I drop a carrot stick or the phone rings. There will be another lunch tomorrow. Tomorrow will happen, because I’ve planned for it.
Time will take me there.

I know time watches me.
Anonymous grooms the clock for opportunity, and makes me move. I still can’t sit still in the day, I still feel her fingernails scratching away at my nerves.
She makes me fill my daylight hours walking, pacing, twitching. Moving from one room to another requires detours up the stairs or around furniture.
Jump up. Move. Earn that food. Get through the next few hours.
My job is exhausting. Time spent at work is never compensated on my days off, because I find it difficult to sit still.
The bar of activity has been set now. Move.
If I keep myself distracted, the seconds won’t creep up on me.
My job may contrary to medical advice, but it is the reason I have clawed back that lost time.

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Celebrating the New Year as it arrived!

Time pushes Ellie through the present because it knows there is freedom in the future.
In small licks, I can taste it. On New Year’s Eve, I stayed up to greet 2017. I watched fireworks, I hugged my friends. Anonymous was collapsed, exhausted from the day’s work, no doubt revelling in the hunger high she had been saving for us to share.
Ellie swallowed her solitude, washed down with supper, and spent an hour with a sparkler in her hand, grinning.

Recovery is like light: just a bit slower. Happy New Year everyone x