Once Upon A Sleepless Night.

My ability to slumber is about as great as my ability to rumba/cha-cha/salsa/tango, so what does one do when The Sandman refuses to visit?

After hours of lying awake in frustration at being unable to drift off into a peaceful place of rest and comfort, the slow trickle of random thoughts becomes heavier and before long they're coming in streams, which become waves, which eventually end up being tidal waves of thoughts that without attention will end up being the death of me.

So to save myself from impeccable death of suffocation-by-mental-'fluids' (for want of a better word), I do the only thing I can do: I entertain those random thoughts.

One particular thought-wave hit me and pulled me under, so to speak. I followed this stream of thinking - unfortunately it wasn't the most positive of thoughts to be entertaining, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

This thought just so happened to be about me. Funny that, eh?

To cut a long story short, I spent a good chunk of the night exploring the reasons behind my fanatical-blog-reading.

I don't post much; I post a lot less frequently than I'd like to, honestly. I love writing, and I love bringing to life the words in my head and physically being able to comprehend them. I love expressing myself, I love creating and being creative. I love being a creator.

But upon further inspection and thought-diving, I have come to realize that most of what I write on this blog has negative undertones... Or overtones. My words are often tainted with pessimism, darkness, doom&gloom.

I do not like this at all.

I've always been moody and broody - that's just how I am. I am a deep thinker, I am very emotional, and I am very expressive. Needless to say many of my personal writings have some negative aspects to them and oftentimes take the form of melancholic prose. There is a line, though, and I've crossed it. The line between "melancholic" and "depressive"; helpful and detrimental to myself as well as others; a form of expression and a destructive habit.

That line has been crossed far too often in the archives of this blog - I do not want to be seen by others as "the girl who won't let go of her eating disorder".

I do not want blogging to become bad for my health, and painful for those who I am fortunate enough to have read it.

This is one of the thought-streams I trickled down last night.

Another goes a bit like this:

I love the blog world. I love the community. I love following the lives of beautiful, inspirational girls. I love watching them grow, strengthen, face fears, learn to love and to live again. I have come to love it so much that I am stopping myself from growing, learning, living and loving because I am so caught up in the lives of everyone else

I am hiding behind my computer screen and I am living my life falsely through the words of others' lives.

This pains me to admit.

In reading about the lives of the girls who I have come to know and love, I am neglecting my own life. I'm hiding behind my laptop, and when the lid is closed for the night I am left feeling so utterly confused and alone, because I've forgotten how to live for myself.

Well, all that thought entertaining is bound to send me to sleep, wouldn't you think?

I came to some extremely important realizations last night - it was definitely worth the loss of night-time hours that otherwise would've been spent in a state of zombification.

I've worn myself out writing about my thinking...

Now it's time to turn off my laptop and live my life for me.

There's no way in Hell I'll be leaving the blog-world. I just need to learn to prioritize.

My life matters too.

love, love, love.

When The Going Gets Tough...

...Rationality and irrationality fight like cat and dog.

Wars are raging,

tears are shed,

People are hurt,

harsh words are said.

Old scars open up,

old wounds seep,

Daughters become strangers,

mothers weap.

(Warning: extremely long rant/post ahead)

When the going gets tough, the harsh realities of the situation are exposed, in turn making the current situation a much more uncomfortable and painful place to be.

Being exposed to these realities can work both for and against the mind's rational & irrational sides.

There is the realization that things aren't what & how they were assumed and thought to be, which can lead to a positive attitude and actions or a negative attitude and actions - but that's the same for anything, really.

Realizing things are worse than originally thought is a kick in the guts. Like being kicked right in the face by the foot you'd been kissing or being slapped across the face by the hand you once clung to for support.

Realizing that you were living on a false sense of success, that all your hard work was not hard work at all... realizing that you'd convinced yourself into believing what you were doing was right - it poses the question of whether you're strong enough to support yourself.

These realizations can be used as motivation to get back on track:

You've seen that there is a way to go and you know what it will take to get there, but you know that you can do it, with help.

These realizations can also be abused:

It's "proof" that you can't do it alone. You're useless and hopeless, because you haven't done a good enough job and you haven't tried hard enough, so there's no point in continuing because ultimately it will lead to more failure.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, I realized that I've been convinced into thinking I was eating enough to gain weight by the 'other voice' in my head, and through that realization I (and my parents/dietitian) have discovered I'm not yet strong enough to hold my own and look after myself - confidentally and healthily.

I lost weight this week.

Yes, I was extremely disappointed. Yes, I cried. Yes, I am ashamed of myself. Yes, I feel like a failure.

But

I haven't lost my determination to get better and move forward in life.

The food independence has been taken from me, for the time-being. I know rationally that being helped isn't a sign of weakness or lack of ability/responsibility. But there is another side of my brain (mine or not mine, I don't know) that's telling me I can do it by myself. Then there is the irrationality which is doing everything it can do work against my parents. The refusal, resistance... I don't want to make things harder than they already are.

Realizing the Eating Disorder is still so strong has really, really hurt me.

I don't want to be ruled over by something that is not my own.

I don't want to live my life like this.

I also don't want anyone to live my life for me and make all the decisions for me.

God, the going really has gotten tough.

I don't know how I'll make it through this week.

But I'll try.

A Day of Celebration.

My Seventeenth Birthday.

My 100th Blog Post.

What a coincidence that my 17th birthday coincides with my 100th post!

I never actually intended on that happening, but when the opportunity presented itself, I couldn't resist.

I officially turned 17 at 1:30 in the afternoon.

I didn't have a big day.

I didn't eat cake.

I didn't get roaring drunk and run down my street naked, nor did I drown my sorrows in a bottle of alcohol.

I didn't have a party, I didn't get a puppy.

I didn't expect much, but the love I recieved was more than I could ever have asked for.

Today, I went to school, I accepted birthday wishes, I got sung "Happy Birthday" atrociously by my Literature class, and I smiled.

I smiled. I was happy. I enjoyed myself.

That, to me, is enough of a birthday gift.

It was nothing special, it was nothing big. But it was something.

100 posts in, and so many amazing things have come from this blog.

I've met some of the most beautiful people in my life, and made some of the most valuable friendships I've ever had. Starting a blog was one of the best things I've ever done; I can't, and wont, consider what my life would be like without you beautiful girls.

I want to thank you all, for seeing me through, watching me grow and learn.

I want to thank you for lifting me up when I had fallen down, but also understanding why I had fallen down.

I want to thank you for being proud of me when I wasn't proud of myself, and reassuring me that it is okay to feel sad, but it's also more than okay to feel happy.

I want to thank you for showing me what it is to be alive.

I want to thank you all for showing me that true beauty lies within. 

Thank you for being a part of my life, enriching my soul and making my Seventeenth birthday one worth remembering.

love, love, love.

She'll Wake Up In The Morning...

I'm tempted to say I'll wake up in the morning "a whole new woman", but that would be unrealistic for too many reasons not worth going into detail about.

I will, however, wake up in the morning knowing that at about 1:30 in the afternoon, I will have been alive for exactly 17 years. (Yeah, I have a really good memory)

Gone are the days when I was counting down on a calendar the months/weeks/days until my birthday. Gone are the wishlists, the incessant begging for a pony or a puppy or a castle on a hill. Gone is the excitement, the giddiness, the thrills and joys of having a whole day's worth of attention!

I mightn't be a six year old anymore, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't or can't be excited about my birthday. I badly want to be excited, I want to be up all night, waiting for the first "Happy Birthday!" text message, waiting for the dates to change at the strike of 12. 

...I want all of this, so why don't I have it? 

Or, more to the point, why aren't I allowing myself to be excited? 

This doesn't sound like a jolly post at all, and sadly it's because I'm not jolly. 

But tomorrow, I'm not going to try to enjoy myself. I will enjoy myself.

On a whim, I messaged my two closest friends telling them I wanted to have a tea party.

And that was that.

Sunday morning, Eleanor is going to have a tea party in celebration of her Seventeenth Birthday, and she is going to enjoy it.

But more importantly, Eleanor is going to get up in the morning, put a smile on her face and say "Happy Birthday, beautiful. You deserve it" to her reflection.

She's going to accept the birthday wishes from others, smile genuinely, bask in the attention, and allow "Happy Birthday To You" to be sung down the corridors if it comes to that!

Tomorrow, on the 20th of May, Eleanor is going to have a happy birthday.

love, love, love.

A Week From Today.

Seventeen has always seemed like a really 'awkward' age to be. It's a step above the "Sweet Sixteen" and a step below the "Legal Adult Eighteen". It's a year of waiting. A year of yearning to be legally classified as an adult.

In exactly seven days I will be turning the awkward age of seventeen, and to be honest, I am terrified. It's almost a resistance to wanting to age, to "grow up". Just that little bit closer to being fully independent; an adult.

Although it frustrates me to no end that I'm so much more mature than my age, and all the people my age, I'm frightened of moving onwards and upwards - it's another change, another unknown.

Rationally, this day next week is going to be like any other day. I'm not going to feel any older. But it's the knowing I'm older that scares me, I think.

I haven't really made much sense.

To put it frankly; I'm not excited about my birthday, because it serves as a reminder of how long I've been living this half-life.

This time last year, I was sitting at head of the table in front of a chocolate cake I wasn't going to eat, pretending to be happy. I vaguely remember crying at some point during the afternoon, too.

It's not a fond memory. Not the "Sweet Sixteen" most 15 year old girls dream about.

Next year, I'm going to look back on this year's birthday and remember only feigned happiness. No birthday cake, no happy smiles, no family together-ness. A disjointed, "Let's get this over and done with" afternoon. I'll blow out the candle on an imaginary cake, say goodbye to another year, and pretend to make a wish.

I want to look forward to my birthday.

I want to plan a party.

I want to celebrate with friends.

I want to smile.

I want to laugh.

I want to feel alive.

I don't want any presents. I'm not getting any, anyway.

But being asked by friends "what do you want?" frustrates me.

I honestly don't want anything, because I don't need anything.

It's just another day. A day of unwanted attention.

I sound so depressive. Really, I'm not.

I'm just not riding the "It's My Birthday!" wave.

Maybe next year, I will.

My birthday wish?

To make the year to come one worth remembering.

love, love, love.

Starting with no direction - Ending with an actual conclusion.

The delete button has been hit with brute force more than any other button; a crator in the keyboard is threatening to open. Words form, and just as suddenly disappear, jumping off the page before they become permanent, as if afraid to be exposed to wandering eyes.

The beginnings of sentences are the endings of sentences - a steep climb leading to the edge of a cliff, where fullstops don't have a chance of staying put... They're doomed to roll off the edge into the savage waters waiting below, swallowing up any possibility of a complete phrase.

These words don't speak. Their meanings are meaningless.

The jigsaw puzzle that is my mind, my thoughts, my feelings; none of the pieces fit together. If the chaos in my mind was depicted through a teenagers room... My Mother would have a heart attack. Yes, the words and the ability to express myself  are  as impossible to find as those pair of shoes hidden somewhere on the floor beneath the entire contents of your wardrobe.

A horrendous visual image.

I hate having to force myself to write. The act of writing is usually soothing; I'm able to express all thoughts and feelings without actually thinking about it, it just comes naturally. But now, for some reason, it's not so.

I have been so stressed lately. This is probably contributing to my mental blockage. Too busy to think about 'trivial' things such as artfully stringing together words - it's concentrating all its energy into keeping me alive. There's no room to wander aimlessly and freely along because there's a fear of being pounced on in its vunlerable state by a mean, destructive, influencing thing, facading as a sweet & harmless friend. This voice, or whatever it is, the "ED", has wrapped itself up in many disguises in the hope that I'll fall for it, and fall victim to whatever torment is in store.

 I'm sad to say that I've been like a child promised candy by a stranger... Eager, willing, naive.

This morning, like every week since what seems to have been the beginning of time, my fate will again be held by the ticking numbers on the scale. Again, it all comes down to a number. But I have a feeling that this number is more than just my body weight... It's an indication of whether I am able to do this for myself.

Yes, I've been stressed this week - moreso than usual. Yes, I've cheated myself, and probably haven't consumed enough food. Yes, I've tried. But whether I've tried hard enough or not is the real question.

* * *

Something hit home yesterday.

A friend that I hadn't seen in quite some time came up behind me at school and picked me up, giving me a huge bear hug. When I turned around, she was smiling, but there was something in her beautiful, clear blue eyes that wasn't showing happiness. It was fear, concern, pain.

She hugged me, and then:

"Dude, you have gotten so thin. Eleanor, do you realize just how skinny you are?"

She ran her hand over my ribcage, then looked at me again with that pained look. I could see she was sincere. She meant it, she wasn't just saying it.

I looked at her. I looked down. I shook my head.

I honestly don't realize what I look like.

This girl, she's incredible and I love her so much. I couldn't, wouldn't, wont lie to her. I told her, I told her straight:

"I'm getting better. I'm doing this. I promise."

And I mean it this time.

No more bullshit.

No more empty promises.

No more broken promises.

I hate seeing my Mum hurt.

I hate that she ignores me because she's too scared to say anything to me.

I hate that she can't look at me for long; I hate knowing that she is ashamed that I am where I am now, and that nothing is changing.

I hate crying to my Dad.

I hate being out of energy.

I hate getting weighed every week.

I hate battling with thoughts of food.

I hate that I have had to postpone my education in order to look after my health.

I can't be here any more.

I'm changing this.

I. Am. Going. To. Live.

love, love, love.

Question Mark.

A healthy mind needs a healthy body.

A healthy body needs a healthy mind.

A half plus a half equals a whole.

Simple.

So why is it so much harder to actually put those two things together, to make the whole? To make me?

I can't be, I refuse to be, half a person. But unless I actually do something about it, I'm going to continue being this half-human for the rest of my miserable days.

I am worth so much more than that, and deep down I know this. My days should not be filled with thoughts of food, fears of food, guilt about food. They should not be cut short because I don't have the energy to last a whole day at school. They should not be spent sitting at my desk procrastinating and stressing about my school work, or curled up in bed pretending that school work doesn't exist.

I shouldn't be thinking about how bad my life is.

The demands on my health, and the concentration on my health has lead me to push aside the demands of school and my education.

This has caused unlimited amounts of stress, disgust, shame and disappointment.

In trying to look after myself; in trying to better my health and beat this Eating Disorder, my grades have slowly started to recede and my attention on school has drifted elsewhere. This seems almost like I'm being punished for trying to look after myself.

Shouldn't I be being rewarded? Shouldn't me nurturing myself and giving myself nourishment be bringing with it my attention span, alertness and concentration? Shouldn't it be giving me energy? Shouldn't I be feeling happy, and ultimately well?

Am I doing something wrong? Am I not doing it right? Am I doing enough? Am I doing too much? Should I, in fact, actually be doing anything?

All of these questions plague me, day and night.

I constantly feel like I am not ever doing enough. There is always too much of everything to do and I simply don't have enough time and enough energy to do everything. I'm trying to balance recovery with school. But it's not working.

In trying to balance my health (physically and mentally/emotionally) and school (school work, study, homework) I am becoming overwhelmed and failing in both categories.

I'm always lagging behind, trying to catch up with myself.

Like running on a running wheel; the donkey following the carrot but never quite reaching it. Striving for something that I simply cannot attain.

* * *

I'm not sure much of what I've said has made any sense.

I'm so frustrated that my expression isn't eloquent, flowing, metaphorical or allegorical. I wish I could put my thoughts into words that didn't sound so self-absorbed; I wish I could relate my experiences, my thoughts, my feelings, to something of worth, instead of complaining endlessly about problems whose solutions are staring me right in the face.

* * *

The early morning sunlight streaming in from the window bathed her in a warm glow. Her teary, tired eyes watched the steam from her hot cup of chamomile tea cascade into the cold morning air; twirling, dancing with her shuddering breath. It amazed her that such a simple thing could be so beautiful - the movement so calming and soothing.

Nothing else mattered, in that moment. Only the warmth of the sun on her back and the steam drifting up and away into the atmosphere had her attention. If only it could last.

I have moments of tranquility. Moments of peace. They don't last, but when they're there, I treasure them.

I don't really know what's going to happen.

I'm too afraid to go to school, but I'm afraid of not going to school.

I haven't the motivation, but I love to learn.

I don't want to do my school work, but I want to do well at school.

My mind must have drifted away with the steam... I'm uncertain about everything and certain about nothing. The only thing I know for sure is that this place I am now is not where I want to be.

The future is terrifying.

It's coming, regardless. But I have the ability to make things happen.

It's all up to me.

love, love, love.