...Alanis appears to state rather than question, which is probably just as well given that her definition of 'irony' sometimes (some lines) seems to be a little dubious (at best).
Semantic inaccuracies aside, she has an incredible voice (and tons of attitude) but the reason why I quote h
er right now, is
that I hear that line playing in my mind as I contemplate posting that today, the mind - cloaking darkness that has more or less disabled me since Saturday, was shot through with a narrow laser beam somewhere high above me.
And I've been like a drowning body who, in the last swelling, slipping moments, finds an air hole in the thick ceiling of ice above.
I haven't even been to work.
Can you imagine? Because I can't.
Today I walked around Ikea buying plates and bowls and other pointless porcelain vessels.
I want to move to my own place.
And all the time the Alanis song was playing.
My ray of light beamed from the numbers on the scales.
Isn't it ironic.
The lower I go, the higher I get.
And, I'm walking around Ikea investing in a future that I am doing my damnedest to end before it has the chance to begin.
Actually, 'sad' doesn't really 'fit'... It's just the closest I can get.
I've wanted to write here but have been unable to find the voice / words.
Tonight I'm bad.
I've never binged like I have tonight.
I've been purging for an hour and still feel nowhere near empty.
I don't know how to cope.
Since my last post, I've been threatened with inpatient treatment and forced to have blood tests and ECGs.
I feel a mixture of horror and relief that the funding for inpatient treatment has been cut. I've been 'summoned' for treatment in a day clinic which opens in March.
I'm not sure I will make it that long.
My weight is an all time low.
Work have told me they will hold my job for me if I go away for any period of recovery.
I know I can't 'succeed' here.
I need to go away.
Half of me fantasises about a Greek island for a couple of months.
Half of me believes I will have die like this.
I need to get away but don't have a safe place to go TO.
Where in the world can I go to try and get better?
If Anorexia is a faceless figure in an old black and white horror, then deceit is the dark cloak wrapped around the shadowed form.
As a fourteen year old, I watched as this graveyard figure misted around the sister I adored, breathing lies and cunning into the mouth of her soul.
When she spoke, it was with a new voice; a voice of distrust, defence and guile.
I hated the dainty steps of deception that I heard moving so quietly along the upstairs landing; from bedroom to bathroom; from sink to window, from hand to mouth to toothbrush. I hated watching the cloak pass over her - through her, each time stealing away a piece of the sibling I loved more than myself.
Lately though, I too have taken breath from the figure. I understand now, that same desperation, which shakes the pounding heart, and will go to such lengths to protect and disguise the disgusting truths of an anorexic existence.
Fingers pushing against the wall of my throat, I heave and retch, praying to keep silent.
My dad knocks on the door and asks to be let in.
I am washing the last of it down the basin, frantic, talking all the time.
I let him in.
"What were you doing just then, with your door locked?"
I search in corners furthest from the truth.
It must be feasible. It must be shameful.
"Oh..."
I can't bear the look in his eyes.
"I was... weighing myself".
I manage to whisper,
"sorry".
He wraps me in his arms to comfort my despair.
"Oh love... " Words of comfort pump shame around my body. "It'll all be okay... Just as long as you're not secretly drinking or making yourself sick"
A couple of days ago, a similar scenario. This time, I'm sure he knows.
Eyes watering, throat burning, nose running.
I was washing my hands.
Honest.
***
Not only does Anorexia make liars out of its prey; it is, IN ITSELF, a lie.
It's a throat grabbing, heart stopping, life sucking LIE.
And although one part of me knows that this lie is fundamental to the discovery, diagnosis and medical definition of this disorder, another part cannot possibly disbelieve the truth of what I see and feel.
It doesn't matter that that 'truth' is a distortion.
It doesn't matter that it may be a deception.
What matters is that no matter what the scales say, the truth is, it's never small enough.
Somehow, the monster had fallen asleep in the overlooked shadows of the cave.
And the cave, in it's way, had forgotten the echoes of it's clawing and shrieking; forgotten even the heavy thuds of the desperate turning as it tore deeper at the gashes of its matted flesh.
The cave fast forgot and its rock surface smoothed soft.
In the Friday floodlight, the cave prayed for dimmer light as the monster stirred.
"You're censoring a lot", said The Woman - (not a question, you'll notice).
Despite offering a full English breakfast, Christmas film, popcorn and a Christmas Quiz, we never get a huge amount of kids in on the last day of term. In fact, at particular times of the year our attendance often becomes a real issue.
The kids we DO get in are often either those who might be classed as our more 'phobic' kids, who are too anxious to attend a mainstream secondary school, and those kids for whom home life is just so chaotic that they prefer the safety and security offered by the unit.
(Our very disaffected ones tend to be off mugging people at the first possible opportunity).
I'm digressing.
Over the last 18 months, one of my girls has faced particularly horrendous traumas. As her form tutor, I have had regular sessions with her just to offer support, listening and as much care as is possible within obvious boundaries.
As the last day of term wore on, this student grew increasingly impatient.
Unable to watch the film, she wandered from teacher to teacher, talking about anything and everything. I watched as I sat drawing "Christmassy" things with some of the young people.
I remembered how I had been struck by her reluctance to leave us for the summer... and also how badly her behaviour, her health and her attitude had deteriorated after that 6 week break.
Having a place of safety in the midst of utter turmoil is not just important, it's essential.
It's somewhere familiar, when so often, the world is overwhelming and frightening. It's somewhere predictable, where it's not necessary to walk on egg shells in case something or someone explodes. It's somewhere that nurtures rather than competes with or abuses.
And, perhaps most importantly for a small number, it is a place which will stay safe, stay familiar, stay concerned and stay THERE despite all the railing and kicking and yelling.
(The parallels are obvious...)
For some, coping when the place which holds them together suddenly isn't there for a fortnight (or much longer), is a painful and terrifying concept, which can result in a sense of hopelessness and self destruction.
Before she left, on impulse I ran to fetch the tiny doodle I had been doing.
It was of a small, silver angel.
Pressing it into her hand, I told her that the angel was going to stay with her over the Christmas holiday and that it would bring her back safe and sound.
"Does it matter if t
he angel comes back with me or not?"
(Instinctive reaction = Fear. Will I have to look after it?)
No, I told her. Even if it disappeared, it would still be watching over her and looking after her, but it was a secret. Not everyone had an angel. (And to be fair, a number of the kids would have used it as a roach for a spliff as soon as they got past the front door!!!)
You may well be asking where on earth all this is going... and you'd be right, because I haven't thought it out very well and as a result, it's a very convoluted way of saying something probably quite simple.
In a recent comment, JSS picked up that I had made some progress in being comforted by The Woman's concern before the therapy break.
It occurred to me as I typed the last post, that in some strange way, her insistence that she wrote down her email address (which I did point out was on the Internet) was an angel that she put in my palm. It wasn't about using it, it was about knowing that somehow, although my one place of safety was disappearing from my view, it was still there. It IS still there.
For a person caught in a trap, the knowledge that someone is coming back for them, may offer them enough courage to hang onto life for an extra minute.
For the teenage girl forced to live with someone who ruined her childhood, maybe the thought that an angel hears her cries, is enough to make her feel heard until we can.
And for me, maybe merely having the option of communicating, is enough to remind me that she would still hear me.
If I had less alcoholic tendencies, I'd have stood a better chance of enjoying the first day of 2011. Sadly though, in characteristic pathetic and humiliating style, I was unable to withstand the temptation of hitting the bottle too hard at a party last night.
My body is not a happy one.
I suppose it could be seen as a fitting way to end a year where my mind and my body have been in almost constant conflict. A year of internal chaos.
Perhaps the battle can be added to the fact that I'm 1) very hungover and 2) half bloody starved, as possible reasons for why I begin this year feeling too weak to even get up today.
Unspoken words lie like bricks inside me. To actually write them would be exhausting.
Therapy breaks often leave me in a sort of blogging limbo, although this one hasn't been too bad.
I was comforted that the woman didn't seem to want to leave me. She even made sure I had her email, although I think she knew I'd never use it.
Boundaries keep me safe, even if they also keep me in isolation.
I feel as though I should probably have all sorts of resolutions but in all honesty, I feel too tired and, rather embarrassingly, too hopeless.
It's been tough enough resisting the urge to entitle this post: Same Shit, Different Year.
(Does anyone else remember that trend where nearly every cynical, smart ass person they knew had a tshirt which declared 'Same shit, different day'? )
I've been awake for hours. It's minus six out and I've been lying very still, hands tucked under my pillow to stop the chill.
I've been trying to pretend I'm sleeping. If I pretend perhaps it will really happen.
There's a whole other post in there somewhere, but it's not for today.
Finally I tiptoe out of bed and pull back the curtains.
I catch my breath, startled afresh by the stark beauty of the winter world.
Evergreen branches bow, weighted by heavy snow. The folds of thick coated earth gleam darkly in the midnight hues; The earth is dark blue and black and every shade between.
The neighbour's lights glow orange against the blues and I can't resist opening the window to take a postcard shot.
The cold Christmas air seems to shiver with silent expectation. The heaviness of the snowfall muffles even the sounds of nature itself and I am quieted by beauty.
I light a candle and place it on the windowsill before getting back into bed.
On the radio, the Band Aid hit plays and for the billionth time, I think about those who DO know it's Christmas.
Not in a way which disregards the starving: those afflicted by disease, drought, extreme poverty. That song was for them, and thank goodness for Geldoff and his incredible dedication to the cause.
But I can't help of think of those for whom the knowledge that it is Christmas, brings none of the excitement or seasonal cheer; none of the hope or expectation that glows around us, warming like a father hug; none of the childlike joy that pervades despite having shed the skin of youth.
For some, all that makes us glow, serves as a cutting reminder of what they have lost: loved ones, people suffering with terminal illness, the elderly, the lonely, so many.
I light my Christmas candle for those who have gritted their teeth and closed their eyes in the hope that they can make it through today and tomorrow. For those whose darkness feels even deeper next to the (often superficial) brightness of Christmas.
I pray (in honesty, without much hope) that the true magic of Christmas may be known in hearts that feel desperation and dread at this time of year.
(And yes, it's an almost impossible time for those with eating disorders, so I guess I don't get off Christmas lightly either... but I'm thankful that I'm loved today and I'm thankful that I'm not alone.)
Sometimes I have something I want to say but I can't find the energy to piece the words together. It's been like that for days now, and I'm now expending more energy on NOT writing than I would otherwise do in making the attempt.
So here goes.
My Blog...
When I first entered the blog sphere, it was as a teacher in search of colourful or comical images which I could use to liven up worksheets and teaching resources I was
creating.
A Google Image search for "mountain" may link to a post about somebody's holiday; somebody's love of climbing; advice on mountaineering equipment; an obsession with Everest;
somebody's personal obstacles or victories; the view from somebody's back garden...
I loved it that, just for one moment in time, I could dip into another world, culture, mind, heart. It felt like a privilege to glimpse the world through the eyes of someone I would never know and I loved the bizarre juxtaposition (and I'm sorry to use such a word but I can't think of another) of intimacy and anonymity offered by a blog.
I didn't realise that blogs could be 'followed' by strangers who may become friends in the virtual world. I didn't have a clue that there was a relational aspect to them, and I certainly never dreamed that anyone would sustain interest in anything I wrote.
The notion of blogging became attractive because so much of what I feel and experience feels as though it belongs to a part of me that couldn't be shown to others. A part of me that is too dark, too honest, too pained, too tired... too something.
A diary was too risky. I've kept them before. Dangerous things, diaries. You end up lying half the time... just in case...
I liked the idea that some random person, sitting, standing, lying anywhere on earth, in an office, classroom, lounge, hut, hospital, cafe, bedroom, could hear my voice.
Just for a moment in time.
And that's all this blog was.
A glimpse. A raised eyebrow every now and then. A sound bite.
I like it that I am not 'known' and yet can be heard
I admit to struggling with the fact that not only do some followers feel that they know me, but they have also come to 'care'.
Intimacy is an itchy jumper.
As I type, I am inwardly howling with frustration at sounding so ungrateful.
I have appreciated your words. I have come to care too.
*wince*
The split in me hurts. I am torn by wanting care and wanting to yell at everyone to stay away from me.
Before disappearing into sleep, I should probably conclude by saying that this blog is not about anyone apart from me (yes, it's a very selfish blog).
Anything posted here is an expression of something I am feeling or thinking about. It will have been posted either because of a drive to somehow put it 'outside' of me, or because of an urge to 'create' words for it.
I have no need to be understood or cared about here. I'm not looking for anything other than a little space, on a vast web, where I can be heard without being known.
Intimate and Anonymous.
I will remember, next time I need to exemplify an oxymoron.
Call you up in the middle of the night Like a firefly without a light You were there like a blowtorch burning I was a key that could use a little turning
So tired that I couldn't even sleep So many secrets I couldn't keep Promised myself I wouldn't weep One more promise I couldn't keep
It seems no one can help me now I'm in too deep there's no way out This time I have really led myself astray
Runaway train, never going back Wrong way on a one-way track Seems like I should be getting somewhere Somehow I'm neither here nor there
Can you help me remember how to smile? Make it somehow all seem worthwhile How on earth did I get so jaded? Life's mystery seems so faded
I can go where no one else can go I know what no one else knows Here I am just a-drownin' in the rain With a ticket for a runaway train
And everything seems cut and dried Day and night, earth and sky Somehow I just don't believe it
Runaway train, never going back Wrong way on a one-way track Seems like I should be getting somewhere Somehow I'm neither here nor there Bought a ticket for a runaway train Like a madman laughing at the rain A little out of touch, a little insane It's just easier than dealing with the pain
Runaway train, never going back Wrong way on a one-way track Seems like I should be getting somewhere Somehow I'm neither here nor there
Runaway train, never coming back Runaway train, tearing up the track Runaway train, burning in my veins
Here's my session in words I can only just manage.
Arms and legs crossed.
My leg is twitching restlessly (angrily?)
She is "disappointed" to see me in this space after a positive Friday session where, having starved for a week, I was on a high.
I am worried by the word she uses.
Desperation claws at my insides, screaming that she will never understand.
She asks what I will do when the purging is no longer enough.
I tell her I will begin draining the blood from my body.
She tells me that my body will replenish it.
I don't mention that I am picturing my femoral artery.
I try to resist the urge to look at the clock as she talks.
Her words are like little woodpeckers on the side of my head.
Christmas?
She wants me to think about Christmas?
Did I not explain that two days without work leaves me reaching for death? What will stand between us for two WEEKS?
She reminds me that she won't be able to see me on my birthday (which she is not aware of) and I wonder if it is significant that it's the only day she has had to cancel.
Mostly at a loss for words, I haven't been here much lately, and although a part of me has longed to express something, I confess that I have sought the freedom of release in mediums less healthy than language.
However, so as not to completely abandon my blog, I am stopping by to throw a few words at it before I attempt sleep tonight.
What follows is a list of whatever pops into my head in the next few minutes. Bear with me. It's late, I'm tired and my head is a bit all over the place after a very mixed weekend.
I managed to join old housemates for a night on Saturday. We sang, danced on the sofa, took photos, went to a Moroccan, drank Mojitos (and some horrible purple concoction involving Vodka and Curacao), laughed and reminisced. I felt loved, lonely, terrified, happy and accepted.
Therapy has been just as much of a mixed bag. On Friday The Woman asked me if I needed to get to a hospital. She was worried and I knew why. I think i might have been worried too but I don't remember.
My binge and purge sessions have become more frequent and more violent.
Despite my general "avoid-like-the-plague" maxim regarding hospitals, I recently ended up in A&E because my weight got too low and my heart didn't like it. It gave me a fright... I also ended up in A&E with a colleague and her daughter, who had taken an OD. (Did I mention those things here before?
I have been spending a bit of time with a couple who I used to know a lifetime ago. They have been painfully kind to me and I am struggling to accept anything that they offer. I'm very confused and very upset about this but I won't say more than that at the moment.
I have been thinking about God and how I can ever really be a Christian.
I've discovered that Tesco Finest Turkey breast steaks have less calories than a hell of a lot of other foods and because it's 'meat', it looks as though I am eating a little more normally, thus making other people happy.
I will acknowledge here (for the first time) that I do think my drinking is a tiny bit of a problem sometimes.
I have organised a lot of stuff which has gone well at work lately. It's been nothing short of pure joy seeing the kids get a kick out of doing some of the activities and actually feeling a sense of belonging and worth.
I follow the night Can't stand the light. When will I begin To live again?
One day I'll fly away Leave all this to yesterday What more will your love do for me? When will love be through with me?
Why live life from dream to dream? And dread the day when dreaming ends.
One day I'll fly away leave all this to yesterday Why live life from dream to dream And dread the day when dreaming ends. One day I'll fly away Fly Fly Away
A few years ago, my sister was rushed from the ED clinic to the nearest hospital. Tubed all over, doctors and nurses desperately attempted to find veins that hadn't collapsed in order to save her from the effects of starvation.
Three and a half stone, barely conscious.
My paper souled parents, wrung out from the tortured grief, sat helpless at her bedside.
I don't recall much about that week, but I can't forget Dad's voice down the phone line, a dreadful effort at bravery from a man so broken.
"She's not expected to make it through the night".
Empty, I put the phone down and went to tell my youngest sister.
For that week, for all of us, life just stopped.
Another thing I can't forget, is that for long periods of time, all I could do was to lie, curled up very small, with Bear pressed in tight to my stomach, listening to Bebo Norman's CD, 'Between the Dreaming and the Coming True'.
I literally hung on to the lyrics of the songs on that album; lyrics that, at less hopeless times, I may have branded 'trite'.
Desperation changes the way we hear things. It changes how we hold things, and, which things we hold.
This week these words have echoed repeatedly through the desperate, aching tunnels of my mind.
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