The Story So Far Pt 3

*This should be the last of my stupidly long, trying to catch up posts. Hopefully :) *

Obviously, being faithful to my somewhat disorderly lifestyle, I’m getting a LITTLE bit low on potassium, according to my doctor.

I wasn’t terribly concerned, but that’s just who I am. Supposedly I SHOULD have been concerned, but I couldn’t really bring myself to care, I felt fine. They could cart me in when I collapsed somewhere, then I wouldn’t have to be conscious for at least SOME if my time in hospital. I fucking HATE hospitals. They’re full of people who confuse lack of concern for stupidity and irritating beeping contraptions. We’ll come back to these strong feelings frequently throughout the post, I promise.

But doctor was concerned. And unable to prescribe me supplements to fix it without a hospital visit. I had figured they’d test my blood, give me the supplements and send me on my merry way. Quick and easy, right? I was forever hearing about how the NHS was always woefully short on beds, or staff, or… whatever it is they were constantly short on. Disinfectant, I imagine (Ooh, check out the cutting social commentary). But the point is, they’re WAY too busy to admit me with my tiny little potassium deficiency, aren’t they?

Wrong.

Within an hour and a half of walking into A&E, I was naked save for a hospital gown, heart monitor ON, ECG ON, Potassium drip IN. And a temperature strip under my tongue. Obviously.

It was like kidnapping!

Up to the ward with me, and there I would stay until told otherwise. Or until my serum potassium climbed from 2.3 to a reasonably safe, not about to die 3.5.

Can I go for a cigarette? No.

Fresh air? No

Can I use the FUCKING TOILET? NO

Not that bad for now, I just won’t eat OR drink anything. Ha! Fuck you doctors!

I HATE hospitals (I told you we’d be coming back around to that). I ALSO hate not being in control EVEN MORE. The ONLY thing in the WORLD I loathe more than that is being treated like I am stupid.

I started to have a panic attack, pretty standard for me at this point, I didn’t want to be there, I had decided I was leaving and two of the aforementioned three Big Hates begin pressing in on my brain. The heart monitor and drip pump both went FUCKING CRAZY on both sides of me as I panicked and struggled in the bed, trying to temporarily silence or just switch off the GODDAMN MACHINES, and this tall Aryan male nurse turns up – I’m sure he meant well or whatever – but at that point he bore the brunt of my rage and frenzied panic.

Maybe I was wrong.

Maybe I overreacted a TAD

Maybe I didn’t NEED to tell him I would break his FACE.

But he brought in the big THREE. He completed the trio of HATE. AFTER being told that I suffered from regular panic attacks, the tall simple-looking murse, treated me like I was FUCKING STUPID. He attempted to explain to me – MID-PANIC – that hyperventilating was only going to perpetuate the panic attack, and that ALL I needed to do was simply RELAX.

He had it coming.

And he looked afraid.

So, I got my (piss-weak) sedative, and for a while I felt better. I drank my oral potassium supplement like a good little patient and sat quietly amusing myself.

Then, a rumbling low down in my abdomen, twenty minutes later.

Eh?

OH FUCK! FUCKFUCKFUCK!

The unabsorbed liquid from my oral supplement is threatening to FIRE out of my arse RIGHTFUCKINGNOW.

They’ll let me go to the toilet now, right? Right? OBVIOUSLY.

No. I’m hooked up to too many machines.

Oh really?

There was the brief suggestion of a ‘commode’. I don’t know what a ‘commode’ is, but they bring it to ME. I have HEARD them lower the obese emphysemic middle aged woman in the curtained off bed next to me onto it. And off again. A COMMODE, you say? Surrounded only by curtains…

OH REALLY?

Well… all of their precious machines unplug, don’t they? The wheels of a control freak begin to turn in my brain. They unplug from the wall AND FROM ME. Give me some credit where it’s due though, it’s not like I ripped the cannula out of my arm, I let the SECOND nurse I had frightened and offended that evening unplug me from the IV. The heart monitor I took care of myself with a suitable amount of fury then LEAPT for the toilet.

Ahhh, much better. Secure. Four walls. A LOCK. Practically toilet heaven, I tell you. Comparatively speaking, of course.

The rest of my hospital stay was actually largely uneventful, interrupted only by the grunting, wheezing, FARTING and genuinely walrus-esque SNORING from the gargantuan woman on the other side of the curtain. Oh, I DID also make an origami lily for the tiny Californian nurse, who was so very lovely :)

See? I’m not all rage and disgust!

But the scales, they never EVER lie. And as soon I was home, I HAD to see what they thought about the SIX LITRES of fluid pumped into my arm…

The scales were not pleased.

Ten pounds, they whispered malevolently, ten WHOLE pounds heavier than when you went in. Look how bloated you are… Retaining water? Excuses… Disgusting…, they told me, all your hard work, set SO far back in just two days. Unacceptable. DISAPPOINTING. Revolting.

And those pounds are clinging to me like herpes on a cheap back-alley WHORE.

DAYS of fasting.

Digesting precious little. THEN digesting NOTHING.

PAINFULLY thorough purging.

And I’ve lost HALF. HALF fell away like they were fucking SUPPOSED TO! And the rest are crawling off me like I’m having to STARVE them back off.

What fucking NONSENSE is THIS? What fresh HELL is THIS?! Whatever happened to peeing away all that WATER?

*Shrill incoherent noise of disbelief*

Et voila, the basis of my newfound RAGE.

Sigh.

Pointe: Thankfully not, another pound down from yesterday! I'm still quite annoyed I haven't lost the 10 pounds I gained in hospital though. Stupid bloody hospital

Alice: Thanks love :) The weight loss has picked up once more!

Adieu, my lovelies. Adieu.

Hope?

Down a pound and a half since yesterday!

Light at the end of the tunnel?

x

Rage

Today, I am mostly feeling: ENRAGED.

Today, I fear going outside.

Today, I MAY kill a passerby.

Today, is the THIRD DAY my weight has stubbornly refused to budge downwards.

Therefore, I hate EVERYBODY. The weather is lovely, I HATE the fucking weather. I’m not thin enough for it to be this sunny. I am WAY back on schedule. I FUCKING HATE BEING DISORGANISED.

But what I hate even more than EVERYTHING, is the fact that my rage is ENTIRELY IMPOTENT.

I cannot MAKE my weight slip downwards any faster – I am already eating NOTHING, I can’t eat less than NOTHING. I cannot MAKE my period go away, if I could have it’d already be GONE. And I cannot make my psychiatrist’s appointment come any faster; I must simply wait impatiently until my referral comes.

I HATE THINGS I CANNOT CHANGE.

Couple that with my decreasing ability to not voice my horrible thoughts and I am wound SO FUCKING TIGHT, if I swallowed some coal, I’m fairly certain that I’d soon crap out a fucking DIAMOND.

*impotent flail of rage*

Starve on, ladies. I certainly am.

PS. I recently discovered the joys of screaming into a pillow. Try it.

CyberFaerie: Don’t worry, my newfound rage isn’t directed at you too, I LOVE comments *hint?*

I understand your reluctance to comment. Despite my blogging, I still feel that I am too fat to start the recovery my doctor keeps not-no-subtly suggesting AND that I’m too fat to legitimately wear the red ribbon around my wrist. For now I am content with a red hair band that I use to hold my hair back when I purge. But, I hope you continue to read and continue to comment :)

I hated fat people while I was overweight too, I don’t think it’s too weird, but somehow I doubt I should be anyone’s moral compass or sanity yardstick. Fucking congratulations on not wanting to be a statistic, it takes dedication to choose to take on a hormonal problem through sheer force of will and I am honestly impressed.

I know my opinions are… somewhat inflammatory, and that is right in there with the limited understanding of Thyroid problems etc, but it’s NEVER where my mind goes first.

Starve on, hun.

The Story So Far pt2

So. I’m getting worse.

I think I might merit an increase in dosage pretty fucking soon. As I’m writing this retrospectively, I can say that they DID in fact increase my Prozac again, I can ALSO clarify that my doctor doesn’t expect it to help me anymore. Apparently, she doesn’t think there’s anything more she can do for me.

I reckon that’s hilarious and concerning in equal measure.

Recently, I freaked out pretty hard. Let’s call it a Major Depressive Episode. It sounds marginally better than a Psychotic Break, doesn’t it?

There was a day; my self-loathing might have been simmering at a slightly higher level than usual, gently coming to boil in the evening, at which point I started uncontrollably flinching away whenever my boyfriend tried to touch my skin. Oh, I felt so dirty. So disgusting. So WRONG. Right then, I illustrated everything that was wrong with the world, I was a scab on the face of the earth, and GOD I have never wanted so badly to take myself from it. I didn’t want to be touched. I cowered in the corner trying to cover myself, make myself smaller. I was TAINTING my very surroundings, dirtying my boyfriend by mere proximity.

I was incoherent with confusion, panic and self loathing.

Then came the scratching.

So hard it left marks on my arms.

Apparently I was screaming about ‘getting it all off’, ‘ripping it all away’

I’m not certain what I wanted, but I had never been surer in my life that ripping myself apart was the way to get it.

For nearly two hours – I was told later – I squirmed and scratched and screamed, forcing myself further and further into the corner, making a concentrated effort at peeling my flesh off my arms. I could barely even hear my boyfriend trying to stop me over my own now hoarse voice.

…

Eventually, my mania ran out. I sat silently crying, staring vacantly at the welts on the backs of my hands.

I don’t remember very much of what happened.

Dissociative.

Compartmentalised?

Crazy?

Whatever.

Onto marginally more sane things; I have developed – under MUCH duress, might I add- Cheat Day rules.

URGH, I KNOW, how nauseatingly LAX!

I don’t want any part of Cheat Days. I do not NEED Cheat Days. Cheat Days are for the WEAK. ‘Cheat Days’ are not even deserving of the capitals I am giving them.

But apparently, I NEED them, everyone I know has an opinion; *mocking whining voice* I NEED them to REWARD myself. I NEED to learn to TREAT myself. Obviously I NEED to turn my back on all of my restricting and all of my purging and eat whatever I want for a day. As a REWARD.

Like watching those numbers creep down on the scales isn’t REWARD enough. Like feeling my clothes hang off me, feeling my collarbones, my hipbones, my RIBS more prominently day by day isn’t REWARD ENOUGH.

They HAVE to be fucking kidding. Getting thinner is ALL I need.

Unfortunately, however, due to necessity, I have disdainfully developed my OWN version of what constitutes a Cheat Day. I have certain RULES, and as with all of my food related rules; they will be followed to the LETTER. What I do NOT have is a day where ‘the diet doesn’t matter’. The disorder ALWAYS FUCKING MATTERS.

1. Cheat days will only occur out of necessity*, NOT out of desire.
2. On my Cheat Days, I will restrict as much as I possibly can without drawing attention to myself
3. I will eat ‘normally’ only when there are witnesses.
4. Due to the presence of these witnesses, I will only be able to purge once – without my rinsing processes – and thus I must aim to purge as quickly and as effectively as possible.
5. I will have a collection of viable reasons for my somewhat extended – but actually greatly reduced – time spent in the toilet.

* Reasons so far include; when visiting my parents, while eating in public/at a restaurant, while members of the family/friends/acquaintances unaware of my disorder are present.

Recently, I was forced to implement these Cheat Day Rules for TWO consecutive days -some friends, unaware of my condition, stayed over. They marvelled and praised me for my weight loss, but nevertheless proceeded to encourage me to ‘be bad’ and eat what I ‘wanted’. For two days of meals and infuriatingly frequent snacks, I was unable to properly purge and wash my insides out.

I felt dirty.

Coming up soon, part 3; Oops, low Potassium! Time at the Hospital and other such tales.

My behaviour is beginning to upset people

Lately my tongue has been harder to hold. My brain/mouth filter is cracking, splintering and failing me. Occasionally I actually say what I’m REALLY thinking and it’s going to get me in trouble...

I think I have a finite quantity of focus.

And right now it’s all used up on believing that I am MEANT to be thin.

So things are... slipping through.

Exhibit A: Discussing fat people.

Right. I think fat people are disgusting. I’m not ashamed of my opinions, but generally it’s something I keep to myself PARTICULARLY as my boyfriend’s mother is... somewhat rotund. And sensitive about it.

In my opinion, they should just put down the fucking cake. Stop having crisps for breakfast. You DO NOT NEED a plate of food heaving with fats and carbs. Its disgusting, the lack of self control that can allow someone to eat and eat and EAT until they reach obesity. I imagine the sweat between a pair of glistening stomach rolls and vomit (water and acid technically) rises in my throat. An obese person sits next to me on the bus and I shift in discomfort, and imagine a certain distinct... smell. Of course, it may not be entirely imagined, the warm damp conditions inside a fat fold are fucking IDEAL to cultivate MOULD (this is actually accurate btw, look it up and shudder in nausea with me).

I understand thyroid problems, glandular problems, retaining water. To a degree. But my initial instinct whenever I encounter an overweight person is to wonder if they REALLY needed the two pizzas they probably had for lunch or to presume they’re just retaining the grease soaked carbs they shovelled in at breakfast that day. And EVERY day for the last fucking DECADE.

Revolting.

But generally I’m pretty awesome at compartmentalising my crazy, biting my tongue, smiling tightly and feigning sympathy for the poor fat fucks.

But no more, apparently.

Extended family meal. Close friend of the family brings up obesity. My mouth opens and the filter is GONE.

Forth spews a stream of disgusted vitriol, and I just can’t seem to STOP myself. Despite the pointed kicks and looks from my boyfriend, my mouth just WON’T STOP. And I can see his mother turning pink over her steaming bowl of syrup sponge and custard, and appearing uncomfortable with the turn of conversation, but still, I do not relent. Under the guise of friendly heated discussion I continue to attempt to hammer home my point, as if I somehow expected her to eventually agree.

Then – PING! Back to reality and I realised exactly what was coming out of my mouth. FUCK! I immediately excused myself before I could do any more damage.

Exhibit B: Baking

My boyfriend’s mother is a baking whiz. And she knows it. She points it out and rubs it in at every available opportunity as if to INTENTIONALLY grate on my last nerve. Generally I pull out the tight smile, phase out her words and nod interestedly until she’s finished explaining in EXCRUCIATING DETAIL with a bright smile how we are wrong and she is, inevitably, right.

Not this time, apparently.

THIS time, I whirl on her furiously and literally SNARL at her to get to the point, before realising my slip, whipping out the tight smile and the wide eyed innocence and hoping to GOD she wasn’t about to reply with an equally sarky comment. Mainly because I wasn’t entirely sure I could hold back the roiling mass of foulness and cruelty I had barely leashed in the back of my mouth.

I would have destroyed her.

She’s too sensitive.

And I can be SO malicious.

But it was fine, I quickly threw out an apology then pulled the confused, yet very convincing ‘Ohmigod, did I just snap at you? I didn’t mean to, I’m SO sorry it came out like that!’

And nothing more was said about it.

Thank fuck.

Exhibit C can be illustrated by just this;

“Are you okay?”
“NO I’M NOT OKAY! ARE YOU FUCKING BLIND!?”

An increasingly common occurrence.

Weird, huh?

Bits of my facade of confident amusement and claims of ‘making my disorder work for me’ are beginning to fall away to expose the screaming, frightened, angry and CRAZY woman beneath. I’m not sure how long I can hold on anymore, sometimes I am literally SHAKING with the effort of not lashing out verbally or even physically over a small annoyance. It appears to be getting worse and I have been referred to a psychiatrist.

Recently, I nearly punched one of my closest friends since I was 12 in the face.

I turned to her after the baking incident, facade sort of back in place and muttered my amusement at requiring psychiatric help, to which she, somewhat callously, replied with something along the lines of; ‘perhaps you should use some of your newfound self control’. And dear GOD I actually found myself straightening my back, squaring my shoulders and realising just how much taller than her I am (while we wear a similar size, she’s six inches shorter than me). I imagined breaking her face. Making her hurt. Making her BLEED*. Just for a second though, then out came my ever present tight smile.

And it was all FINE.

Facade back.

Disaster averted.

I promise I WILL write part 2 of The Backstory soon, but y’know, shit’s still happening :)

Love you guys

*And I’m generally PACIFIST, make love not war, calm down and have a fucking spliff kinda girl

The Story So Far pt1

I’ve finally sort of secured a laptop and a way in which I can still blog! I don’t expect that you’ve all been waiting such a long time for me to get it together, but I’m still going to write in the faint hope that some of you might still be listening, or that I might win some of you back...

Anyway, as the OCD part of me prompted me to writes detailed notes on the past few months, so that I might regale you all the –and I hesitate to the use the word, but I’m going to run with it – wacky twists and turns of my crazy ED life, I thought that I might split the back story into three, so as not to overwhelm.

This is part one;

To begin with, my medication was changed, and WHOA did it fuck with me big-time. Citalopram is NOT FOR ME. I became crazy, paranoid, anxious, suspicious and terrified; I stopped leaving the house, stopped leaving the ROOM, stopped speaking to ANYONE other than my boyfriend. When he went out, I huddled in the corner of our room under the duvet and hid like a frightened animal. I started to think people were talking about me, watching me, avoiding me, possibly even planning something. Basically, if I’d achieved any more paranoia, I would have needed a tinfoil hat to keep in all my thoughts, you KNOW how the government like to steal them...

So obviously, I was unable to blog, due to my overwhelming suspicion that SOMEONE could be watching me write, reading my thoughts and potentially singling me out for something.... Laugh if you want, retrospectively I find it fucking HILARIOUS.

And as if all of that wasn’t enough, it did the worst thing a medication possibly could do, literally the unthinkable – 

IT STOPPED MY FUCKING WEIGHT LOSS. 

That part isn’t funny, is it?

I’ll go on answer myself, shall I?

NO! IT’S NOT FUCKING FUNNY!

For the 5 days I was on Citalopram my weight did not budge downwards a SINGLE FUCKING POUND, despite my shiny new fear that someone was tampering with my food – leading to me eating even LESS than normal.

Basically, I went apeshit crazy, marched down to my doctor and DEMANDED my prescription be changed back IMMEDIATELY. She protested for about three seconds, before succumbing to my wrath (and wild eyes, I imagine) and giving me back my Prozac. Amusingly she suggested I return the Citalopram to the pharmacy I got it from. Ha! I flushed that shit down the toilet, never to be seen again.

Following this I think my body might have kicked into high gear – as if to make up for the five days of stagnation – the Ketosis nausea knocked me flat COMPLETELY for about three days. I could honestly barely move enough to weigh myself, but at least the weight FELL off me. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you exactly what my weight was, how much I lost etc, as my ‘Weight Loss’ excel file  was corrupted on my laptop when it fucked up. Bad times. I miss my organisational madness like I’d miss a limb :(  And OBVIOUSLY that is NOT something I can chart on ANY laptop other than my own private one.

From here I shall segue neatly into the tragic demise of my laptop. It is important for me to clarify here that, upon deep personal reflection, I am no longer angry with my Toshi-chan (YEAH, I named my laptop, and what? She’s a Toshiba and I am QUITE the anime lover (ten lovingly gifted otaku points to anyone who can get the anime reference in my blog name and header picture, and another ten if you know what otaku means :) )and therefore her name is Toshi-chan) The water spill, tragic as it was, was a complete accident and no one’s fault. And god damn my little laptop is struggling on, especially as water got into her motherboard I think, at least when I explained it to the tech man on the phone that’s what he thought (BTW £250 to get it fixed, PLUS £150 to retrieve the data, not including a storage device to put it all on. Are they fucking kidding?!)

But despite all of this, plus a few corrupted files, my little Toshi still lives! Her keyboard doesn’t work – apart from the aforementioned K – but she is almost fully functional! I still watch things on her, download onto her, listen to music on her and even surf the web. The only thing I can’t do unfortunately, is type anything, which makes a life and blogging alike quite complex. The onscreen keyboard suffices so far, and I am getting pretty adept at using it. I’ve got my style down, move the cursor with one hand and click with my other.

This has, however, indicated to me how much I LOVE my laptop. I think I’m a bit unhealthily attached to her... It’s a bit weird. I’ve named her, we know that.

There’s more.

When my boyfriend spilt the water, I fucking crumbled into tears and wails of ‘NOOOOOOOOOO! MY LAPTOP! NOT MY LAPTOP! NOOOOOOOO’

Which degenerated into combined mumbles and gut wrenching wails of ‘NO! IT CAN’T BE! NOT MY LAPTOP! NO! PLEASE MAKE IT BETTER! PLEASE! MAKE IT BETTER! PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE NO! IT CAN’T BE TRUE! NO!

So... that was a bit concerning, no?

When the laptop wouldn’t switch on, and whenever it managed to it would grind and whine and cry out with five deafening beeps before switching off again – and my use of language here is both poignant and VERY telling of how mental I am about my laptop – I was inconsolable.

Meanwhile my boyfriend was frantic with worry that I blamed him and apologising almost maniacally, in tears at the thought of me being angry at him. Incidentally I wasn’t. Hand to my heart, I did not, I love him WAY too much to be angry about the laptop, it was an accident (cue mega mushy ohmigod I love him so much moment), so we had the comforting cuddles and hugs and he calmed me down – after TWO HOURS of sobbing. And so Toshi-chan had to be put somewhere. He suggested the floor – I should clarify, our room is tiny, and I have a lot of shit. What is important is where on the floor and how carefully, LOTS of shit unfortunately goes on the floor in various places – but I FREAKED. There was no way I was laying Toshi-chan to rest on the fucking FLOOR. MY Toshi-chan got a space on the SHELF. And a SHROUD.

Oh yes.

Because I love to sew and make things – I made my very own iPhone case, with pretty batik fabric on the outside, padding to protect it if it’s dropped, and lined with lens cleaner fabric to SHINE my phone when it’s pushed in, or pulled out, as I ALSO, made it quite tight so the phone won’t fall out. In a word, it’s BUFF. But alas I digress. But anyway, I had a sizeable section of LUSH burgundy silk left over from something, it was Toshi-chan’s shroud. Draped over her on the shelf, with love and tenderness.

Yeah, I’m completely fucking crazy.

I’ve accepted it.

And so should all of you, or you’re going to be eternally surprised at the depths of mental I am willing to explore

But I am ALSO, a very, VERY fickle creature. And shiny things are hard to resist...

I met my father later that week at Currys, and I am somewhat ashamed to admit that my eye wandered at the shiny hussies, the new laptops displaying their wares like cheap whores. But wander my eyes did and they were all so... pretty.  I felt a bit like I was cheating on Toshi but I didn’t get a new one, it’s not that easy to manipulate my dad. But you know, if I’d got one, I’d have transferred all my shit over like a SHOT.

It’s cool, she never has to know.

I still don’t think I could ever throw Toshi-chan away though, that would just be WRONG.

After this, I was a bit weird for a few days, like my head was full of cotton wool. I just couldn’t seem to... concentrate on or finish ANYTHING at all. I don’t even know what else to say about that bit. It was just SO weird, it was like I turned into the complete opposite of who I am, I was vaguely lucid, compliant and quiet.

That was just all wrong,

Anyway, on that odd note, I shall end this here. Next, pt 2! An extravaganza of getting crazier, grudgingly developing a cheat day and THEN, OMG I can’t throw up properly with all these people around, FUCK!

Laptop woes

After the lovely message from P.D. I felt I should explain my prolonged absense from my blog and beloved readers :) Unfortunately, my laptop has been struck down in the prime of it's life by a cruel splash of water to the keyboard. And now it doesn't work.  Apart from K. The obviously HIGHLY useful K.

Fucking laptop.

I also live with three highly computer literate men, plus a nosy mother, and am left with no other secure computer to write a full length post. Currently I am thankful for the full non-touchscreen keyboard on my boyfriend's G1, but my thumbs are starting to hurt.

Rest assured I WILL be returning to write again and that I have not wavered from my food schedule!

Stay pretty :)

Holy Motherfucking Back Pain Batman!

Today after the second of my daily purge and rinses, my lower spine actually tried to kill me. Honest to GOD, it leapt out of my lower back and tried to fucking throttle me.

Really! It did!

HONESTLY!

Okay fine. Mayhap I exaggerate a smidge. But it really hurt! 

I should elaborate. When I purge, I’ve found it all comes up easier if I’m standing up, legs locked straight and bent at the waist with my left hand braced against the toilet seat. Bit painful for my back, but, due to gravity, or me just being weird or whatever, everything flows out of me SO much faster if I’m standing up rather than kneeling down. 

And I DO also have to wiggle myself around pretty vigorously - as the rest of the family downstairs will hear jumping up and down - to mix everything up before I purge again. 

So yes, I understand that it's not a great back experience, but generally, I’m cool after like 5 minutes, it's not like I’m aged with chronic back problems for Christ sake, I’m 22! But THIS time, I came back to our (I live with my incredibly understanding boyfriend) bedroom, collapsed face down on the bed and was actually shaking in pain for a good 15 minutes. I shudder to think what it would have been like if Awesomeness Personified hadn't remembered we have ibuprofen gel and offered a quick back rub. And then after that, passed me the spliff* he rolled me! POW! Decadent relaxation ahead!

* Yeah, I know, a stoner with an eating disorder is weird**, but the munchies don't hit me that hard that often, and when they do, purgetastic

** Weirder than that, is the fact that I really like to bake. I rarely eat anything I make recently, but let me tell you, my biscuits, cheesecakes and chocolate and Guinness cake (props to Nigella) are legendary in some circles. I think it's the 

Oh! I'm seeing my doctor tomorrow for a check-up, to let her know that I freaked out the last therapist she sent me to, to get some more fucking Prozac and to find out if one of my spasming hands might fall off soon.

Oh and BTW, I’m down 2 lbs from last weight in. Boo-yah!

Starve on :)

Aggressive Feeding

Right so, my dad has deemed the best way to deal with my somewhat unorthadox eating habits is scare me into eating. And not the traditional 'you'll die if you don't eat', the very African if 'if you dont eat then i might kill you'

I dont live with him, and he's old and his hearing is diminishing a bit (but he's certainly not frail) so i have to visit him once a week. On my last visit, as soon as i had arrived, before i had even taken off my fucking coat he dumped a huge plate heaving with steak, chips and a nauseatingly creamy looking sauce then told me - with a look that said 'do it, or you are in for a world of hassle' - to eat it.

I did. UGH. However afterrwards i nipped upstairs and immediately threw it up again, before my body could absorb any of the revolting fat i'd just attacked it with. I used water from the sink to gulp down, wriggled my stomach about then threw up again. And again. And again. And again. Until i threw up nothing but water and my stomach muscles and throat were sore from the abuse. I felt... revitalised! So thoroughly CLEAN!

And lo, i discovered the purging works for me! Not instead of restricting, but alongside! A lovely little ana/mia mix you could say i suppose... When the hunger is just too much to bear (i'll get into why later), or if i'm aware someone is monitoring my eating; eating then purging seems to be my answer. And god, when i throw up nothing but water after my third rinse and i KNOW there's nothing left inside me... it's fucking amazing.Cookie Eyes: I know what you mean, that greyout was like a huge sign saying 'things are going well!' I'm following your blog now so i'll be with you along the way :) Stay strong honey, you can do it!Two things i'd like feedback on:

- Since i started the restricting and purging thing i've noticed that four or five times a day i end up with severe pins and needles in my hands and feet, not painful though, just VERY FUCKING TINGLY, and mild spasms in my hands and feet. Again, nothing painful just slight involuntary bending of my fingers or foot which i can always shake off my flexing my fingers or rotating my ankle. It's just a bit weird. 
Has anyone else noticed symptoms like this? And if i just ignore it, will it get worse?

*If it helps, the only things getting past my stomach and actually into my intestines are, daily 1-2 glasses of watered down still sicilian lemonade, 1 tangerine (along with a multivitamin) at approx 2/3pm, and 1 tangerine/apple at approx 8/9pm. As well as about a litre of water. (There's dinner as well at 7 which is prepared for me and what i leave behind tends to be monitored, but i always throw that up. Obviously)

- For me, hunger pangs are fine, hell, bring 'em on. I fucking RELISH hunger pangs. Honestly, when my stomach rolls with hunger and lets out a huge growl, i often get a sense of euphoria and purity, it's awesome. It even tried incessant fucking heartburn. I ignored it and it gave up that too. What i CANNOT deal with is NAUSEA. Lately every time my stomach decides to let me know i'm hungry, it bypasses the hungry signal COMPLETELY and heads straight to FUCKING NAUSEA. And not minor nausea, ohhhh no. PROPER 'oh god i think i might die, or turn myself inside out trying to vomit NOTHING' nausea. At least twice a day. Now, it makes me not want to eat, granted, but it also makes me want to rip my stomach out and teach it why it shouldn't fuck with me. But that may be a tad counter-productive. Has anyone else's digestive system reacted like this? If so, is it a phase? And dear GOD, HOW DO I MAKE IT STOP?!

Answers on a postcard?

You know, a lot of people ask me if being thin is worth all the hassle. The nausea. The dizzy spells. The throwing up. The complete lack of energy and weakness from digesting almost nothing.
Are they kidding? Of course it fucking is. SIGH

Stay strong.