perhaps more.
My silence here has been down to the simple fact that my head is mostly a jumble of sounds which don't seem to translate into anything as neat and orderly as WORDS.
It even sounds far fetched to me, but it's one of those 'you just had to be there' things.
Unless you've been in my shoes (and stomped round and around the same hospital building three times a day for twenty minutes 'fresh air') my ridiculously dramatic sounding excuse for silence just won't wash.
(Cue Persil ad...)
No really.
Prompted by a friend to describe what it's like to be restoring weight, I wrote that it's like...
...having your skin peeled off in long strips, and then your body being rolled around on a grater, with pressure being applied in varying degrees in different places
and sometimes
it makes you bleed purple rivers in hidden places
or mouth short
breathless
cat-screams
and other times
anger-fear juices inwardly curdle
with an inverted agony
that leaves me folded on the floor
pressing cold fists into my eyes
to stem the red pain seeping out of my sockets
and in me, a mighty snake twists
my colon, a strangled tree trunk
and the more I eat
the more it turns and thrashes
against the raw muscle tubing
***
Okay. So every word is wringing with pubescent angst and perhaps the silence, if not golden, is at least preferable to the torture - jargon.
But this is the truth of it.
This is how it feels for my anorexic head to be growing a body.
And no amount of Seroquel or Pregabalin or Duloxetine is going to make it okay.
It's not supposed to be a joyride, this recovery lark... but six months in... it hasn't got easier... just...
... different.
... different.
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