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.

Less Than Positive.

Headaches.

Stomach bloating.

Whole body aching.

Exhausted, but can't sleep.

No concentration.

No motivation.

Tears.

Fears.

This week's been a downer - though I'm not all that surprised. The week after weight-gain is always the hardest to get through. I'm struggling through, but my body is really taking the mistreatment of the past and running with it.

And running.

And running.

And running.

I haven't been sleeping. I lie awake, and I'm bothered by this irritating feeling on my back and hips.

I turn over on my back; there it is again.

I toss, I turn, and I'm hit with a disgusting revelation. It's my back bones, rubbing against my skin. My bones, aching, cold, sore, bruised.

Thrown about with reckless abandon.

I'm appalled. I'm sickened.

I feel so ashamed.

I've missed so much school. I'm not coping mentally there. The workload is huge, but it's the same for everyone else too. Why does it seem like I'm the only one struggling?

I know staying home from school is only going to heighten my fear of the place; if I sit through the uncomfortable feelings of it I'll become more immune to it.

I don't want to fall back. I can't. Not now.

I had a doctor's appointment yesterday, just to get me checked out. A flu has been making its way around the school, and my family has been touched ever-so-lightly by it. Perhaps I have flu symptoms, on top of everything else.

He takes my BP, pulse, heart rate, whatever it is.

I stand up, and he takes it again.

He says there's a big drop. But that doesn't seem to phase me.

...Later on.

Mum comes into my room.

She mentions my heart. The strain on my heart. The effort it's putting in to keep me going.

"It might not have any immediate effects, but in 20 years time..."

This has never occurred to me. I've read about the signs, symptoms, the effects, the damage to the body, but it's never sunk in that any of that could happen to me.

"If your heart stops, that's it."

Oh, Mum.

This has to come from me.

My body hurts, my head is screaming, and so is the voice of My Plague.

These physical cues, these mental cues, they all point towards the same thing: My health, and the jeopardy, the danger, I am in.

It also points towards this: I am responsible for my health. I am the only one who can do anything about it.

I am going to do something about it.

I don't want it to be too late.

 loveyourself, loveyourself, loveyourself.

She's Done It.

I did it.

I DID IT.

She walked to the car, her stomach convulsing violently. Never before had she suffered from nerves such as these. Doubt was swimming in her head, the little voice chanting "You're a failure, you didn't gain the weight. But you're a fatty anyway. You think you can beat me? You think you can ignore me? You don't stand a chance. You're nothing!" She sat quietly in the back seat of the car, staring blankly out the window but not looking for anything; she only wanted to escape, to crawl up inside herself and give in to the convincing voice she knew so well.

The car stopped and her father opened the door for her. Without looking up, without speaking, she walked to the building inside which her fate lay. The big, cold, hard medical scales were waiting for her - she had an intense fear, an intense hate for those scales, unsurprisingly so, as they had the ability to dictate her mood, and the overall feelings of both parents and treatment team.

The click-clack of her Dietitian's shoes on the tiled floor of the walkway tore through her state of mental numbness, and she robotically stood up and forced a painful smile upon her lips. The walk to the room gave the voices in her head a chance to blast obsceneties at her; little knives jabbing into her heart.

She sat down in the chair beside the scales, where she voiced her concerns about not having gained weight the past week, but also told of her challenges and her trials, her sickness and her exhaustion, her battles to do the right thing. Her nerves heightened, her stomach was clenched; she took off her shoes and stepped on the scale.

Numbers numbers numbers, ticking ticking ticking.

Surprise.

* * *

I gained weight.

 I gained weight, by myself.

I gained weight by myself, for myself.

To be honest, I don't know how I feel. It's 7 at night now, I was weighed at 9:30 this morning. I've had all day to process my thoughts, but I have yet to come to a solid conclusion. I don't know how I feel, I don't know how I should feel. I was convinced I'd lost weight, and I expected to see a drop in weight, but instead I was greeted with an 800 gram (2 pound) gain.

I felt proud.

I also felt disgusted.

Almost a kilogram in a week? That's a lot. That's a scary amount of weight. That's the biggest amount I've gained in a long time. A long, long time. And I did it myself. I didn't depend on anyone else. This was my doing.

I want to feel proud of myself. I want this to strengthen my mental state, my confidence - I want it to boost my self-esteem and give me a real sense of control. Instead I'm confused, uncertain, and conflicted.

I know that I can't stop here. I have to keep going upwards for the time being. There's no other option for me health-wise... But I have the choice to go up, or to stop trying.

I've scared myself.

But I know what needs to be done.

I need to live.

love, love, love.

Reflections.

The History:

One Year Ago (2009)

Two weeks  from today, Eleanor is officially diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa.

Two weeks later, Eleanor turns sixteen.

---

Eleanor spent her sixteenth birthday trying to understand what being anorexic meant.

Eleanor spent her sixteenth birthday cold, sick, tired.

Eleanor spent her sixteenth birthday in a state of depression.

Eleanor sat in front of a chocolate sponge cake she'd made in Home Economics, and watched it devoured by her family.

Eleanor's plate stayed empty.

Three weeks after Eleanor turned sixteen, she was admitted to hospital.

For Anorexia Nervosa.

* * *

Two weeks from today, one year will have passed since I was diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa.

In 27 days from today, I will turn seventeen years old.

This realisation hit me today. Almost one year has passed since I had a "label", a way to identify my situation.

In less than a month I'm seventeen. The one year anniversary of a miserable day.

I deleted all the photos from that day. From my camera, from the computer. I didn't want evidence of that day; I looked horrible. The misery, the lifelessness... You didn't just see it, you felt it when looking at those photos.

It brings back memories I want to forget.

These memories serve a purpose, though.

They remind me that I wasn't happy. I wasn't happy on my birthday.

I wasn't celebrating my life.

I was blowing away my life when I blew out the candles on a birthday cake I didn't even eat.

Blowing away my life.

* * *

This Week:

Week Number Two on my "Trial of Independence and Responsibility".

Do I feel like I've tried my hardest? No.

Could I have done better? Yes.

Should I have done better? Yes.

But can I change anything about this week? No, I cannot.

I can only accept that this week has been hard, and I have struggled. But I must keep reminding myself that I haven't failed. I have done what I have done, and the only thing I can do is accept it. I must also accept the consequences if I have not gained weight, or at least maintained my weight.

I am terrified that I have lost weight.

That factor alone indicates a change in mental-state.

But if my weight is down, the likelihood of a heightened mental-awareness is not in the positives. I highly, highly doubt my dietitian will believe I'm chipper mentally if I've dropped the much-needed grams/pounds/ounces/kilos etc.

The past two weeks of food independence has been a long, hard battle.

I believe I've come face-to-face with the demon inside me. I can feel it, I can hear it, I can even almost see it sometimes, and these past two weeks have opened my eyes to just how dangerous, manipulative and destructive it is.

I'm terrified that if I have lost weight, I will no longer be trusted in preparing my own meals and 'fending' for myself.

The rational part of me knows that this is understandable; take away some of my 'control' and there is less of an opportunity for me to give in to my demon.

But then, if I don't have that control, how am I to learn to face this demon and overcome it?

I have a head full of thoughts and a stomach full of [metaphorical] butterflies. I am so nervous; I want so bad to prove my worth. To prove to not only my parents but to myself that I CAN do it.

Tomorrow is the decider.

There is no use in worrying about tomorrow, because it will come no matter how much I wish otherwise.

There's no use in worrying about the past, because what's done is done.

The only thing I can do is make the most of the Here-and-Now. This is where I am, and this is what counts.

I can reflect all I want on my past, but that wont change what's happened.

All I can do with my reflections of my past is to learn from them, grow from them, take them with me on my journey to tomorrow, and keep them safe with me today.

love, love, love.

LIVE.

Oh.

Sometimes I just want everything to disappear.

The stress,

The attention,

The expectations,

The anxieties,

The trivials,

The unimportant,

The secrets,

The lies,

The hurt,

The pain,

The sadness,

The hate,

The thoughts,

The voices,

The need to be perfect.

Me.

There is no end to the list of things I wish to be erased.

I feel sick to my stomach. Sick with indecision, sick with stress, sick with exhaustion, sick with denial.

There is no cause, therefore no cure.

But ah, could it be, could it be at all possible, that this feeling of sickness is in fact a starving brain and a starving body, crying out in hungered agony? Could it be that my constant thoughts of food are signs that I am not getting enough of it? Could this exhaustion be due to a body not properly nourished?

Could this screaming mind, this aching body, this hollow thud of a heart, be signalling that I am not taking care of myself in the way I should be?

I'm stressed when I am hungry, I'm stressed when I am full.

I am anxious about choosing foods to eat, which ends with me gorging on much too much eventuating in a bloated & sick stomach, triggering hurtful voices, thoughts and feelings.

I want to be brave and strong. I want to be independent and responsible.

I want to fight and win.

But how, how can I be these things when I continue to doubt myself?

I am scared. The feeling itself is something feared.

Am I dealing? Am I coping?

What if I don't do well? What if I fall? What if I fail? What if I can't?

What if, what if, what if?

What if I believe in myself?

This might just be a down day.

This might just be a down week.

This might just be the shock I need to wake myself up, to realize I'm not invincible, I'm not superior, I can't live off water and air.

I am human. I am a fragile human, but a human nonetheless.

Humans live. They don't just exist.

Pride In A Jar.

The past two days of my life haven't been the most enjoyable. When I should have been at school feeding my brain with lots of useful information, I was at home curled up in bed, wishing for sleep to wash over me and rid me of my horrendous headache and soothe every aching muscle in my body.

Though I wasn't educated in the traditional sense of the word (that is: going to school), I was educated. My body's aching and lack of energy was a delayed reaction to the weightloss two weeks ago.

Sometimes it takes a metaphorical punch in the face to wake us up and see the truth. My body isn't functioning properly because it hasn't been fuelled properly.

To counter that, I did something a little different this morning. Something a little very scary. Something completely unheard of. Something historical in the History of Eleanor's Life Thus Far.

*Drum roll*

I had Oats In A Jar!

Proof!

(As you can see, the photo quality is superb, thanks to my shocking bedroom light.)

Also note-worthy: I ate breakfast in bed for the first time ever.(Hence the shocking&horrifying hair/face/everything)

The contents of the almost-empty PB jar also had more than one TBS of Peanut Butter.

Two feats, in one morning. And how do I feel?
Better than ever!

I kicked some major ass this morning. I feel proud. I feel proud. That's new. Pride in myself hasn't really been very common in recent years. Nothing I ever do is good enough in most cases. But this morning, I felt invincible.

I do expect some repercussions. But if I tell myself that ED's going to eventually have a say, then that's most likely what will happen. It's a trap I've fallen into many-a-time, and one I'm going to try and avoid, not only today but from here on.

Today is my day.

This is my life.

I'll do what I want to do, because I want to do it.

The rebellious teenager has to come out of me somehow. Rebelling against my disordered thoughts might just be the way to feeding my inner-angsty-teenage-self.

My concentration is starting to slip and my headache is beginning to roar again, which is further educating my rational self that my body needs fuel to run smoothly.

* * *

This is such a scatter-brained post, and I apologise greatly for that. I've got two full days of school work to catch up on, tests to study for and a life to live... Along with a body and mind to feed and nourish. That comes first. Because without that, nothing else is possible.

Nourish yourselves. Nourish your bodies. Nourish your minds. Nourish your spirits.

Nourish your lives.

love, love, love.

New.

I'd like to start this off by saying a huge thank you to each and every one of you.
You are all such beautiful girls, whom without my recovery would not be at the point it is now. The Beautiful Award has been passed around (though all of you are beautiful, and all of ou deserve to feel beautiful, regardless of an award!) and the answers have been phenominal.

This dark place may have taken away a lot of the happiness and shine from our lives, but it definitely hasn't taken away our abilities to see our potential. You are al incredibly intelligent and wise (I almost spelt intelligent wrong...), and reading through your answers have given me strength and the encouragement to go on and push through.
I really mean it when I say I wouldn't be where I am today without you all.

* * *

This post is a special post, for two reasons.

Reason Number One:

I am posting this from my... Laptop!
An early birthday/Christmas present... Probably for the next couple of years. But so worth it. I am in love.

Reason Number Two:

This is the more serious of the two. As you know, last week was my trial week for my "Nutrient Intake". Saturday, of course, was my Dietitian (dooms)day. It was to be the defining moment, to see if I had proven myself capable and able to be responsible for myself and my health.

I wanted so much to prove that I was capable. I wanted to show everyone that it was possible, that I could do it. But I couldn't shake the thoughts that I was a failure, that I had lost weight, that I couldn't do it, I was too weak, I didn't deserve the independence. I shook that aside as much as I could, because I knew that I tried. I put in so much effort last week. But I knew I could have done more, I could have tried harder. There were ample opportunities for me to increase my intake but I didn't take them, I ignored them.

Last week was extremely difficult, but extremely beneficial and helpful. It helped me to see just how prevalent the disordered thoughts still are and how big a part of my overall thinking, brain function and mind they take up. It was, and still is, a shock, realizing just how often these thoughts invade my own. The difference now is that I am able to distinguish those thoughts from my own thoughts. This is a process and I am still at the very, very early stages of this, but being able to pick my thoughts out from the disordered thoughts has given me a sense of self that up until recently my life has been void of.

To cut an (already) long story short, I maintained my weight. Exactly. To the decimal. I was bewildered. Dazed and disoriented. I cried. I cried from relief. I had worked myself up into believing that I had lost so much weight that I was only expecting to see a terrifyingly low weight, a weight that would land me straight back into hospital. It was sheer relief that sent the tears flowing. I can't say that I'm proud of myself, because I know I could have done more. But the fact that I hadn't lost shows some sort of strength and resistance to the disordered thoughts is forming and growing.

To further the rate of growth, I know I've got to put in more effort this week and continue to give my body the nourishment it needs.

I've refrained from saying "ED", or "food", or "eating", because I've noticed that for me, it reiterates negative thoughts and feelings.

I don't know what's happening, and to be honest I'm sort of still trying to catch up with everything. This is going to be hard, and I have to prepare myself for that.

But although this new sense of awareness, clarity and certainty has confused me and been a bit of a shock to the system, I'm going to keep going with it, because it might just take me somewhere.

This leap of faith might be what saves me.
I know that if I start to fall, someone will always be there to catch me.

I'm afraid, but I'm determined.

My pieces are finally starting to come together, and you are all a part of the picture.

love, love, love.

Wants.

I am sick of being questioned.

I am sick of being told what to do.

I am sick of doing what I have been told to do.

I am sick of being doubted.

I am sick of being bombarded with accusations.

I am sick of people jumping to conclusions.

I am sick of being sick.

This week has been hard. There's no doubt about that. It has been hard.

Going back to school from the holidays has been hard enough. Getting back into the swing of things, the stress that comes with school work and homework, the demands. The claustrophobia, people everywhere, people I don't know, constantly comparing myself.

To add on to that already massive load, this week I've been completely independent of my food intake. Completely, 100% responsible for myself. This independence has been amazing. It's changed the way I think and how I feel about myself, my life, my future, my health. I've loved it; doing it for me, without having to depend on someone else to prepare my meals and do everything for me - having my independence. Being independent.

It's been great, but it has also been hard.
Extremely hard. Extremely challenging.

There has always been that voice in my head, that thought, that... Presence. When the opportunity presents itself to potentially skimp on food - skip here, have a little less there, no one will know no one will know no one will know - straight away I'm bombarded with those possibilities, those options, and sometimes it becomes a little overwhelming.
I like to think I've pushed through and made progress... But there is a doubt in the back of my mind that can be clearly read on the faces of my parents, the doubt that I haven't made progress, I've slipped back instead.

Tomorrow's the day I find out if I've lost or gained weight. This week has been a trial period, to see how I go.

I want so much to have put on weight, or at least to have maintained. This is something I would not even have considered a few months ago. The fact that I want to have put on weight, truly and honestly, should count for something, shouldn't it?
If I haven't put on weight, or if I've lost weight, I will be disappointed, ashamed, sadened. And I know that my parents will be disappointed. They're goign to be ashamed. And I'm so afraid that this independence will be taken from me.

I want more than anything to prove to my parents that I can do it, that I can do this for myself, I can be responsible for myself.

I want to prove to my dietitian that I can do it, I want to proce to my therapist that I can do it.

I want to prove to myself that I can do it.

I know I could have done so much better this week. I know I could have.

There was a pressure from my parents that I really felt uncomfortable with, a weight bearing down on me that sometimes got too much for me to handle.
I wish I could go back and do this week again.

I want so badly to have put on weight.

I can't have lost.

I can't.

It would mean so much to me to see a higher number on the scale. A slight gain, any sort of gain. I wish I could let my parents know that. I wish they would believe me.

I want to do this. I really want to do this.

I hope I can.

love, love, love.

E-joo-cay-shon.

...Yeah, I thought I'd be funny and pretend to be stupid.

Happy Hump Day, my lovely ladies. It's been a struggle to get to Wednesday, but I've managed somehow, and I am more than thankful and grateful for the support you've shown me in regards to going back to school. I think we're all on the same wave-length when it comes to school: the stress, the work-load, the expectations, the extra study, deadlines... School doesn't just teach us academia, it teaches us about the world and how to survive in it.
There is no "pass" or "fail" in life. We're either here, or we're not, and that's the sad truth. But while we are here, we have ample opportunities to make something of our lives.

Through the stress, the tears, the tantrums, the "dog-ate-my-homework" standard of excuses, we learn to live. Teachers be damned, it's we who do the teaching; and we learn from ourselves.

I hope that made sense.

School has, surprisingly, been alright. The workload is already working its way across my desk, threatening to spill over the edges of my poor little working-space; maybe it hasn't caught up to me yet, but I haven't actually been feeling too stressed out or panic-y.

Now how's this for a contradiction:

Today was my Literature SAC (Assessment Task). It was last period, and progressively throughout the day I became more and more nervous, more and more sick in my stomach, a headache threatened to split through my scalp, my heart was beating faster and faster, pulse racing, sweats, everything.
Then I actually sat down in the class. My leg was jogging at a million miles an hour, about the same speed as my hand blurring across the page.

What? Actual writing? Actual words making sentences? A PARAGRAPH!? What is this!?Before I knew it, the time was up. I had three double-sided pages almost full up with writing. I honestly have no idea how that happened, and I also honestly have no idea if any of it makes sense, but the fact of the matter is that I did it. I (almost)completed a test in the allocated time, I wrote words, sentences, paragraphs, a dodgy conclusion... I. did. it.

I don't know if what I'm feeling is pride or just pure relief, but whatever it is, a weight is off my chest and I'm no longer sweating, flushed in the face and stressed to the point of wanting to knock myself out to get rid of it all.

I doubt myself so much sometimes; I doubt my ability, I put myself down, I have no confidence, I'm constantly comparing my intelligence to others... For what purpose? I just proved to myself that I can actually, in fact, write an essay. My previous results should have proved that, but obviously it's not something that's going to be eradicated instantaneously. It's a work in progress.

* * *

Onto something completely different and much more entertaining:
The beautiful beauties Tatianna and Becca have kindly awarded me with "The Beautiful Award", for which I am completely and utterly flattered and honored. Thank you, my beautiful girls!

1) What physical features do you love about yourself?
I've always really loved my eyes. Ever since I was a wee little baby Ellie, I've had huge, bright blue eyes. They're almost obtrusive! I love their intensity, their shine, their liveliness. People have often complimented me on their colour, or my eye lashes... It's a confidence boost, but the fact that I love them too means much more. When I got sick, I lost the shine in my eyes. My body was too busy concentrating on keeping me alive to worry about the colour and state of my eyes. Now that I'm getting healthier, though, I've noticed they are increasingly regaining their former character; the dull, lifeless blue is getting brighter, stronger, fuller. It's amazing to watch, and beautiful.
Oh, I also love my bottom lip! It's big. I used to suck on it, as opposed to sucking on my thumb, as a child. Weird, I know! (Angelina Jolie got nothin' on me!)

2) How do you personally take care of yourself?
I'm very concerned about my physical appearance, i.e. my hair, make-up, clothes, etc. I don't wear a lot of make up, but I play up my eyes with eyeliner and mascara every day. I also spend a ridiculous amount of time preparing my hair in the morning. Straighten, tease up, hair wax, mess up/ruffle up hair, make it big, enough hairspray to put a hole in the ozone layer... You get the picture.
I also have a growing collection of perfumes. I love to smell nice. It makes me feel nice.

3) What are you looking forward to?
Corny as it sounds, I'm looking forward to life. Being in this 'barely-existing' place is starting to bother me; I have so many interests, loves, passions, and I want to persue them. I want to go to University, I want to learn about life, people, literature, words, English, language, the history of language... I look forward to learning, learning about the things I am interested in and long to know about.
I look forward to travelling around the world, seeing sights of true beauty, the wonders of the world.
I look forward to sitting in little cafes, watching the world pass me by while, watching people go about their lives.
I look forward to being a part of someone's life, making a difference to one, or many, people.

I look forward to my future, whatever it brings.

4) Who has aided your recovery the most?
The only person who can recover from my Eating Disorder is me. The only one who can make the decision to recover is me. It all comes down to me to recover. Up until recently, I wasn't aiding in my recovery at all. I was working against it. But I changed my mind, for me, not for anyone else.
Although I've started to recover, for real, I've not always wanted to and I've not always been mentally strong enough to make that decision. My parents have been by my side, from Day One, through good and bad and worse. The ups and downs have been taxing, but they've taken it all, they've taken all of my shit, my resistance, my tears and tantrums. Without my parents, I wouldn't be here.

5) What was the very last thing you ate?
I just ate my din-dins, and by golly was it good! Red lentils, sweet potato, pumpkin, yellow squash, brussel sprouts (ewwww, I know, but they actually tasted nice!) with a sprinkling of just about every spice in my spice rack: cinnamon, cardamon, ginger, nutmeg, cummin, ground corriander, tumeric... It was good.

6) What is one material thing you are dying to have right now?
My Dad has been in the process of searching for a laptop for me for... Well, for much longer than my patience can stretch. Finally he found one and ordered one, and it's commmmming! So yes, my laptop is my material object of desire.

7) If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?
I have always, always, always wanted to go to Paris. I've never travelled outside of Australia; I've never actually really travelled much at all. We're not an extremely cashed-up family so we've been pretty restricted in that respect, but as a younger child my Dad, my little brother and I went to a few beautiful towns in my state.
But to answer the question, Paris would be my top choice. Then New York. Then all the small, beautiful country towns around Europe. With the little churches, the small pubs that everyone goes to... That's all probably just a dream, though!
I just want to go everywhere, see everything.

8) What is/was your biggest fear food, and how will/did you conquer it?

I've unfortunately got a lot of fear foods yet to conquer. Chocolate, fast food, ice-cream, cream, candy/lollies...
Although I have a lot left to conquer, earlier on in my recovery I was fearful of cheese, peanut butter and meat. I tackled those three things; I eat fish 3 or 4 times a week, cheese has made its way back in, peanut butter is something I eat just about every single day!
Before I was admitted to hospital, I hadn't eaten bread, or anything bread-y, for over a year. I was thrown in the deep end and I ate bread every.single.day while I was there, and I've eaten bread every.day.since then.
I plan on taking things one step at a time. When I feel the time is right, I may take a challenge and scare myself a little.

9) What are your dreams for after ED?
I just want to find happiness. I want to one day be able to love myself.
I want to be doing what I love, and loving what I do, whatever that may be.

10) What advice would you give to someone concerning eating disorders?
I hate these questions because I am always so hypocritical when I answer them!
Suffering from an Eating Disorder has taught me so many things about life, myself, and others. I see the most beautiful people, going through complete and utter tourment, and it pains me to watch, because I know they are so much more than what they're being told by the disordered voice in their heads.
The advice I will give is to live in the moment. Trust those who are trying to help, accept that help or at least consider what they are saying/trying to say. Take advantage of the support that is being offered because it may be the saving grace. Even if at first you are recovering for someone else, do that, because eventually you will begin to find your own voice.
It is not an easy path to walk, but it's not walked alone. Take a hold of the helping hand being offered to you, walk towards the light.
Hope. Believe. Trust.

I am supposed to pass this on to ten people; I know they've all probably been tagged already but here goes: Amy, Kylee, Jennifer, Emily, Amanda, Eva, Ailsa, Rachael, Rhiannon, Sarah.

(OH you have no idea how hard that was!)

We are all beautiful. Each and every one of us, for so many unique reasons.
Even if you don't believe it now, tell yourself you're beautiful, because one day, you will believe it. 

love, love, love.