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.

Of Mind and Matter

I tore my eyes away from their lips. They were twisting and twitching, with wrinkles rippling over their plump surface. Words tumbled off their tongue and all over the table. The art of conversation was graffiti over this: Anonymous’ final meal of the day. I looked down at it, and felt my jaw grow stiff. Panic paralysed me mid-chew, and the pulp in my mouth began to sour. Stop. I’m losing it. Somewhere in this conversation, I’ve lost track of my food.
I chased confusion from plate to face to plate to fork – trying to catch up with it. I heard humming topics choke and drown under the buzz of sharpened senses. They sliced the scene into fragments: the fume of food, the flare of candlelight, the fug that had tricked me into distraction. The warmth of company began to burn.
Concentrate.
I counted the chunks of sweet potato; one, two, four. Now the salmon, size up the – oh. Oh the ratio is all wrong. You ruined the ratios Ellie. You’ll never achieve an even bite; there isn’t enough kale to cover four flakes of fish. It’s too late, and it’ll be over too quick.
You might as well not have eaten. It had been blissful: I was so busy savouring sweet, lingering words. I had barely noticed the carbs and calories that had flushed down my throat unseen.
Anonymous snarled from the dregs on my plate: What a waste. 

Anorexia and I live in a place called Control. It located in the suburbs of Living. The sun doesn’t set and plunge me into blind uncertainty, nor does it rise to coax change into bloom. In Control, Anonymous keeps me safe from the tropical temptations that lie waiting in the wilderness. Food is a fool to think it can wander aimlessly into Anorexia’s lair.
It is caught and recorded: g; %RDA; kcal. Nothing will reach my lips without passing the scales first. In Control, I never lick the spoon after serving my yogurt. Precision is moreish. I am especially careful when there are grapes in the house. Grapes can cause a leak.
Food must then be tagged and categorised, to ensure there is no over-indulgence of one nutrient. Ellie is not allowed turmeric in her porridge in the morning if she plans to make spiced soup in the evening. It’s not allowed, because I am in Control.
After food has been committed to, Anonymous starts to manipulate it. Anorexia knows how to restrain me into satiety. Everything from utensil size, food shape and fibre content grooms food into submission. Ellie has to talk me into eating an energy ball as I promised, because I can’t measure the pace with which it is consumed. How on earth does one cut up a ball?
Control is a lonely place. Its borders hug me closely, and there never seems to be room for anyone else. Anonymous warned me that other people dilute Anorexia’s acidic concentration. Eating meals at the table together tears holes in my boundaries and exposes the power I cannot catch. Anorexia squeezes my parents to plate up in time to meet my deadline. She stares down wandering eyes over my plate. She dares people to venture out of her control by pushing me under it.
My illness will calculate the risk of another person’s company. Buried under Control, Ellie can’t meet people if they infect time designated for Anorexia’s rituals to celebrate Self-Control. What if I am made to sit? What if they try and make me fat?
My illness controls people, and so I avoid them.

Mind and Matter are walking hand in hand across this plateau of Recovery, trying to drag each other down. My doctors remind me in every session that a semi-starved brain is weak. It is weak, therefore it latches onto strength to make it feel safe. Nature forces me to listen to Anonymous. I really need her to like me.

Recovery is trying to hijack Ellie, and take her on a joyride out of Control. There is a presence out there. Sometimes it lurks in the bottom of an empty bowl. I think It is called Choice.
Choice never comes into Control voluntarily. It is swept in amongst festered emotion and fragmented hopes and dreams: the debris that bleeds out of the wounds inflicted by Recovery. Feeding my Matter has addled the strong Mind that introduced me to Anonymous. The longer Ellie lets time stretch, the thinner her resistance wears. I have noticed how much harder some things have become that were easy a few months ago.

A foreigner arrived this week, called the Flu. I had promised Anonymous I would never get ill. I promised I wouldn’t let it’s propaganda indoctrinate my matter into defying my mind. Denying Flu was easy at first, it’s symptoms felt somewhat comical in the context of starvation. Willpower leaked when time stretched and tore.
My body failed me.
Anonymous snarled. She recognised him as a friend of the weak. We are not weak. We will not rest, not for the sake of Flu.
This is not a choice, but the animal instinct of an illness.

Mind over Matter, Ellie.
Push yourself. 

I have never studied the floor at work before. It’s rather blurry, which is just as well. Those funny shapes and grimy smears trodden into the tiles have always had an air of mystery about them which I am only too happy to sustain. I don’t really want to know what they are.
Up close, things are a bit more black and white. I can fixate on the small things: like my trembling knees that had failed me in such a spectacular manner. My weak body was somewhere out of Control. By collapsing, it had completely contradicted Anonymous and called her a liar.
Mind over Matter, Ellie. Nobody has seen you, you could carry on.
The scales fell away from my eyes. I left work early, instead of completing a day’s exercise. I chose to listen to a voice made stronger by the nourishment of reason. It spoke to my mind and my matter. Ellie must be right: I cannot control someone’s choice to make me a victim. Not another Mind, not Anonymous, not even the Flu.

Ellie would never choose to waste me, this brain, on a rancid Mind. Anorexic concentration is acidic, and it eats into choices I never thought I would have.
Choosing to break her “oil” rule and roast some roots; choosing to sit when my heart fluttered and faltered – faded
only for a moment, because I sat; choosing to have a friend over at suppertime and enjoy her company.

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My first ever roasted (!) sweet potato!

Choosing feels gluttonous, because I am doing it for me. I am doing it for my Mind and Matter.
This is not a choice, but the animal instinct of a survivor.

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Be like Billy.

A Balancing Act

I placed my spoon and fork together, and held onto the silence. The bowl, a crater smeared with the residue of saliva, was empty.
I had scraped the final morsels into my mouth with relish, savouring every last lick:IMG_5280
Almonds had shattered into a cloud of quinoa. Plump olives and pulpy raisins had swollen under the smoke of hummus. Bouquets of broccoli were flecked with shreds of chilli and buttery cashews. The mousse of sweet potato had sponged the lining of my mouth with a spicy lathering, and glazed it in a bittersweet dressing. The marbled colour of my salad bowl snuggled, swirled and separated. Green grew creamy, and the rust of tomato ripened under the sun of a lemony stain. Steam curled its fingers up into my nose, and the aroma of sweet anticipation suffocated Anonymous for a moment. I could only hear clusters of chickpeas crumble between my teeth, and a floret rasp as my tongue caressed it from my fork.
Electrified, the firing of thoughts had ceased.
Pleasure pulled at my cheeks and made me smile: I couldn’t help it. It was just so yummy.

Smudged and smeared, the face reflected back at me from my spoon stared at Anonymous and Ellie. It’s eyes were curious, and challenged one of them to break the silence. “So,” they seemed to ask, “What have we learned today?”
Reflecting on a meal after I’ve eaten it allows me to gather my thoughts together, and order them in a way so that the recovery battle can begin again with renewed vigour. Writing my way out of my eating disorder has taken on many guises: it is an exercise that forces me to communicate with each voice as it prattles in harmony with my cutlery.
This particular moment of recuperation happened just last week, when I took myself to London. The Mae Deli has become an oasis: it is the only place I trust myself to eat in. It is the only place that doesn’t serve threat, in all it’s imagined glory.
I sat beside my empty plate, surrounded by the chatter of other diners. Ellie nodded with pride as she nursed the wounds inflicted by Anxiety during the long journey leading to that first bite. Anorexia’s visions of a certain future wobbles, and neutralises as it dissolves into the present. In the peace of my own solitude, I asked myself: “So, what have you learned today?”

I had walked through the door, intruding on that serene scene of well nourished respect. My eyes darted around the room. I need a table now. Anonymous, high on adrenaline and panic, had pursued me across the city convincing me there wouldn’t be space. There wouldn’t be space, and therefore I wouldn’t eat. I need to eat now, or I won’t. I won’t.
Oh look, you can sit here. Here, next to the flowers.
I looked into my empty bowl, and saw questions swirling in the dregs. What would have happened if you had to wait? Was your metabolism really going to trick you into ballooning seconds after your deadline?
I want to call on Ellie to question her claim of control. Anonymous is in control of when I eat.
– until someone sits at the last table.

The scoop of quinoa had bulged in the ladle, leering at me as it tumbled with muffled thunder into the bowl. It looked so big. I realised I hadn’t noted from which corner of the dish it had been conjured from. Perhaps it had been scraped from the depths of that pot, from the abyss where heavy bulbs of oily dressing had sunk? I hadn’t counted the chunks of sweet potato as they were nudged into place. The numbers were Anomalies: an unknown jumble of carbs and calories. They couldn’t be compared and contrasted with the data I consumed every other day. I couldn’t do the maths: have I earned this? What will the result be?

Those questions weren’t answered that day. Whilst they didn’t sour the enjoyment on my tongue, they did chase me around Hyde Park for the rest of the afternoon. Earn those calories.

Every mouthful was peppered with a question: what does this mean?

The will to try with this recovery battle hangs in the balance each day with how well Ellie and Anonymous can argue.
I swing from one conflict to the next, trying to balance out each argument and identify whose voice it belongs to. The most recent was the Great Grape Grievance: Surely, if I ate one grape now that’s greedy? I had lunch an hour ago, I don’t need it. How would it look in my food diary? A whole extra line, how greedy. How indulgent.
Yes, but how nice it would be.
(I didn’t eat the grape. I’m still trying to work out what that extra grape would say about me.)

Reflection allows me the freedom to engage with my food anxieties after they have climaxed.
I had a discussion with Anxiety in the Mae Deli. I asked her why she was afraid of breaching Anonymous’ rules. Thus began her tale:
Anxiety claims to have travelled to a land called the Future, where she met a monster. That monster was named Weight Gain. Trembling with fear, she retold me a tale that will leave her worthless and alone. Ellie wanted to know what made this demon so monstrous. She began to describe an independent creature with a life completely out of it’s control, with nobody to help it. Horns and fangs had grown from indulging on the forbidden fruit of food and freedom.
Anorexia has helped me keep this beast at bay thus far. Anonymous will stop me from being gobbled up.
Looking into my spoon, I can see through Anonymous’ deceptive tale. She isn’t afraid of Weight Gain, she is afraid of what it stands for. She is frightened by it’s power to control how other people treat me, long after they’ve forgotten that weight doesn’t fill the hole that made me starve out Ellie. She is frightened by how Ellie might treat me.
What would it mean?

Recovery needs to grow a hand for me to hold, because I am hanging in the balance of each bite, each day. My hopes of returning to university in September are slipping between my sweating palms, away into a static space balancing on the scales. It would mean a lot to Ellie if she could cope with going back, it really would. At the moment, that portion size looks a bit too much to ask for.

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Milk meditations

I savour those seconds of silence after a bite. Enjoyment doesn’t sour in my mouth, it lingers. An animal in me stirs: I am meant to eat. I deserve to eat. Somewhere, something swings into balance, and I can smile. These are precious moments, and they give me hope.

An aftertaste: Months before my diagnosis and a year ago today, I had my first meeting with my lovely nutritionist J. She would later save my life with a glass of milk, and give me the confidence to try: try something new, ask those questions, take that challenge. A year a ago today, I presented her with a list of foods I would not touch. I found that list in my diary, and Ellie is proud to say that she is able to cross most of them out. A precious moment, and it gives me hope.

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A year ago I never would have dreamed of making a rice bowl.

Dirty Looks

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

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

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

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

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

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Still really struggling with the smoothie increase.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Showing me how it is done!

Bite-sized

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The long put off increase!

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

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

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Feeling more and more comfortable cooking new things for myself.

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

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

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

It’s A Family Thing

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

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

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

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

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

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Nobody panic: I tried it!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Meet the Parents

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

Strength Testing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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