Monsters.

My monster lives inside my mind. It can't be seen, but it's there.
It yells, it screams, it roars.
It can be heard, as loud as thunder.
It can be felt, sharp like knives.
I can't see it, but it's there.

I have my own monster, and others have theirs.
Their monsters can be seen. Their monsters can be heard.

My monster, inside my head, feeds off other monsters.
My monster looks at their monsters. It sees, it hears, it learns.
My monster competes with their monsters.
My monster wants to be better than their monsters.

My monster is roaring. My monster is hurting.
I can feel my monster's jealousy.
It's a green eyed monster, yet so much more ferocious, so much more dangerous, so much more deadly.

I'm afraid of their monsters. I don't want to hear them, I don't want to see them. I don't want to learn from them. I want my monster to fade away, I want my monster to disappear for good.
I don't want my monster.

These monsters roam inside the minds of innocent people, wreaking havoc, causing chaos and catastrophes. These monsters seek and destroy the minds they inhabit, digging, biting, shredding to pieces the innocence and replacing them with their poison words, thoughts, feelings. We become the monster we create. We are the killer, but also the killed. The abuser, but also the victim. The innocent, but also the guilty.

* * *
Being surrounded by the monsters that the afflicted can't see but are in plain view to me, hurts. It hurts so much, because I can feel my own monster roaring with rage and panic. It's lashing and thrashing out, causing me to weaken. Being surrounded by bad influences makes it increasingly harder for me to see what is right.
I know that I am in here for me and no one else. I am in here, mainly because I put myself in here, but also because it's the safest option for me at the moment.
I'm just afraid of the negative effect these other girls are having on me.
I'm here voluntarily, whereas they are not. But that doesn't make it any easier.

* * *
I think I've almost been regretting coming in here. I've found it so much harder this time than I did last time. I want to go home, and I want to do it at home. I want to get better at home, where I am safe, where I am with my parents and those who love me.
I've been crying my eyes out every night on the phone to my Dad, who has been missing me like no tomorrow. It's been a battle I don't want to have to fight here, in a hospital. It's a battle I want to fight at home where I am comfortable and safe and loved.

This is so hard. I don't know what to do anymore, but I know I can't go out just yet.
Another week. And I'll evaluate the situation then.

But for now:

One day at a time.

Week 1.

Week 1 is almost over and done with, but it feels like I've been here for a month. Time has dragged, which has made each day a horror to get through.

Each morning I wake up, and wait for a nurse to take my blood pressure, heart rate/pulse and temperature.
The days are all the same. The same things happen, I see the same people, I do the same things.
Routine. The kind of routine that is safe, because it's within the four walls of this hospital.

I'm here to be fed, and not much else. As I'm on a Paediatric Ward (seriously, I shouldn't be here. I'm as mature as a 57 year old!) there is no coucelling, there's no mental, emotional or psychological treatment. The only thing I get is food in front of me and upping of meal plans if my weight plateaus.
The food is like all hospital food: watery, flavourless, full of oil and sugar and salt and cheese.

Every day has been a battle to get through. I've faced some fear foods! I hadn't eaten pasta in over a year and a half, and last night I had near 2 cups of pasta with ricotta and tomato sauce. Ricotta: another fear food!
I've had to eat desserts with lunch and dinner which consist of custard + jelly, full cream yogurt, cheesecake, mousses, and other sweet things.

My eating disorder has been roaring in pain, in agony, in remorse. And what have I done about that? I've continued to choose the foods that scare me.
My therapist said something to me before I left that has really stuck with me: You're going to hospital to leave your eating disorder there. Piss it off, let it scream, cry, thrash, moan, complain, yell. Let it do all of those things. Leave it all behind."

That has really stuck with me. I've eaten things I'd never think of eating at home, and will probably not eat when I get back. They are things that remind me of my Eating Disorder; they're things I don't want to be reminded of. I've cried a lot, I'm constantly complaining to anyone who will listen, and I'm struggling to keep Eleanor in the forefront of my mind. But I'm doing it. I'm letting it out, I'm letting it go. I'm freeing myself of the chains that bind me and I feel incredible inside. I mightn't feel great physically, being on bed rest and being stuffed full of huge amounts of food; I might be bloated, blocked up, in pain, suffering indigestion and all the horrible symptoms of refeeding, but I'm getting through each day. I'm doing it. I'm learning to let go. I'm learning to challenge myself. I'm learning to be me again. Eleanor.

I'm homesick. I'm physically sick. I'm mentally exhausted.
But I'm alive.

Part of me regrets being here, and part of me knows it was the right choice to make. Which parts are my thougths and my disordered thoughts are sometimes hard to differentiate between, but I'm conscious of both and that is an achievement in itself.

I've achieved a lot, in just a week. I've put on 2.6 pounds (1.2 kilos) this week, which is a terrifying amount to put on. I feel self-conscious, but I'm trying to push past that. I know it is going to be difficult to accept my body at the moment, but it will all come with time.
It will all come with time.

I can't thank you all enough for your support and encouragement. You've all overwhelmed me and filled me up with pride and happiness. So thank you. Thank you for being with me through it all.

 

You're all fighters.

 

love, love, love.

A Few Days In…

…and the only thought I have is that I want to go home.

I can't even begin to describe the battles I've been fighting during the few days I've been here. I can't believe how strong the Anorexic voice is, how much it fights against my attempts at getting well.

"
You don't deserve this.
You'll get so fat, I can already see it on you.
Disgusting, worthless, putrid. You're a disgrace. "

You get the general idea that Anorexia doesn't really like hospital.
Anorexia doesn't like hospital because it believes I'll get fat.
Anorexia doesn't like hospital because they're making me eat foods I wouldn't touch at home.
Anorexia doesn't like hospital because I'm eating a lot more food than normal.
Anorexia doesn't like hospital because I'm constantly bloated.
Anorexia doesn't like hospital because it's going to separate me from Anorexia.
Anorexia doesn't like hospital because I'm getting my life back.

Eleanor doesn't like hospital, either. But she doesn't like hospital for different reasons.
Eleanor doesn't like hospital because she is far away from her family.
Eleanor doesn't like hospital because she is away from her friends.
Eleanor doesn't like hospital because she has no privacy.
Eleanor doesn't like hospital because she is here because of Anorexia.

I don't want to be here, but I know that I need to be here. I have to be here.
Here is the only place I'll be able to leave my Anorexia behind.
Here is where I will leave my Anorexia behind.
* * *

I'm feigning positivity, in the hope that it'll rub off and make me actually
feel positive. As I said before, I cannot begin to describe how hard it has been to be in here, facing my greatest fears every day, every meal. I'm offered the chance of challenging the Eating Disordered thoughts, and I have been doing that. The repercussions of challenging the Eating Disordered thoughts are the constant insults, put-downs and negative mind-frame.
I wake up every morning fearing the day to come.
I also wake up every morning knowing that it's one day down, one less day I have to be here.
The fight against positive and negative is mentally and emotionally exhausting, and leaves me feeling fragile and weak. But that was always going to happen, there was no avoiding that.
Every day is a struggle to get through, but I've gotten through them all so far, so there's nothing to say I won't get through the next.

The constant blood tests, pulse rate checks, temperature checks and blood pressure checks are more that annoying, just as the being followed to the bathroom and shower are more that annoying. But Eleanor understands why it's all necessary. Only Anorexia thinks it's stupid.

It's a fight. But it's a fight worth fighting.
This is my life I'm fighting for. My future.

I'll keep fighting, because I am worth fighting for.
Will you all fight with me?

 

love, love, love

Acceptance.

I have been accepted.
The hospital is now my home for the coming weeks.

Am I happy about this?
To a degree, yes I am happy.
I'm in a safe place, where I can gain weight in a controlled environment. I don't have a choice here. What's put in front of me, I eat, no questions asked. No ifs or buts about it.
I have to realize that it's the eating disorder that is scared. It's the eating disorder that fears the coming weight gain. It's the eating disorder who hates the food.

I'm here because I need to be here.
I'm here because this is the
best place for me to be.
I'm here, but
I won't always be here.

This is another step towards recovery. Another step away from the dark place I don't deserve to be in.

I have to accept that this is what I need. This is the only way that I will move forward in my life.
I need to accept that this is just the means to an end. I will not always be in hospital.
I need to accept the help that's been offered and provided, and be thankful of and grateful for it.
I need to accept that things need to change.

Things need to change in order for me to live the happy, healthy life I do deserve to live.

Thank you all so much, for your support and your love.
I don't know where I'd be without you all; you've given me a direction, you've given me strength, you've given me
hope.
And I have accepted that.

love, love, love.

Into The Deep.

It all seems so surreal; like everything is happening around me while I stand in a box where time stands still. I watch the world flash past: the blur of life.
I watch myself pack my life into a suitcase. I watch myself look into the mirror, staring at a stranger. I see the questions building up behind her eyes. Her eyes are so bright, yet so dull. Those eyes, they were once full of laughter, now full of fear. The eyes that once burst with life now gleam with tears that threaten to spill over and down a face once glowing with life.

Over the course of almost two years, I've watched myself waste away. I've seen it all happen, but being inside that box confines me to that box alone. I am a mere bystander. A watcher.
That box I once called home, I now fear. It's dark in there. It's lonely. I don't want to just watch anymore. I don't want to watch myself cry, I don't want to watch myself hurt, I don't want to watch myself wither away into nothingness.
I don't want to watch myself blossom and bloom, either.
I want to be the one blossoming and blooming.

I can't thank you all enough for your support, your kind thoughts, well-wishes and love. You all mean the world to me, and I can honestly say that being a part of this community has opened my eyes to a much brighter, more beautiful world. I've seen growth, I've seen flourishing life, I've seen discoveries made and experiences had.
It's my time now.

I'm diving into unknown waters, and I am terrified.
I don't know what to expect, yet I am trying to create possibilities in my head that are so ridiculously intricate that I know I'm ultimately setting myself up for disappointment. I do not have control over what happens and I need to keep reminding myself of that.
The possibility of me being admitted is just that, a possibility. There is no certainty, because there may not be any beds.
I just have to let it be.
Whatever happens, happens. I will take it from there.
One foot after the other, one step at a time.

The place I'm going is public, not private. Money doesn't come into it. I know that so many people don't get the opportunity to go into hospital, which makes me feel slightly awful that I'm doing this. But at the same time, the opportunity has been presented to me, and taking the opportunity is the only thing I can do, because I know it's the only thing that will help. I wish that no one had to go through the horrors of an eating disorder.

I don't know if I will have internet access straight away (OH MY GOD THAT CAN'T HAPPEN) so I don't know when I'll be able to update you all on the happenings, but as soon as I can, I will.

You are all in my thoughts.
You are all in my heart.
You are all a part of my journey and I wouldn't have it any other way.

 

I love you all, more than I know how to express. You are truly amazing girls, amazing people, amazing friends.

Thank you.

 

love, love, love.

Mother, Mother.

My mother is the most organised and pedantic person I know. I am the least organised person I know, but the pedantic gene has certainly stayed in the blood.

These two attributes aren't ones I'm particularly proud of. Being unorganised but pedantic makes the whole "preparing for an extended holiday" procedure a very stressful one indeed. I have constantly been writing check-lists, only to throw them away after realizing I've forgotten to write something else down. Lists are supposed to make things easier, so one doesn't forget to pack one's essentials or forget anything of importance; that is what I've been told, anyway, but these lists seem to be raising my stress and confusion to a whole other level. I really don't want to pack that in my bag.

This need to be organised, packed and ready to go, is coming to be somewhat of an obsession. I was up half the night worrying about not having a laptop bag… If that's not out-of-the-ordinary-and-slightly-crazy I don't know what is. Perhaps it's my mother's need to have everything organised and absolutely one hundred per cent ready 4 months before the actual trip that is making me stress to such a degree.

It's all starting to sink in; the fact that I will possibly be admitted into hospital on Friday afternoon has been the cloud above my head threatening to rain, all week. It's there, in my mind, along with the unanswerable questions I need to have answers for.
+ What if they don't have any available beds?
+ What if the other hospital doesn't have any spare beds?
+ What's going to happen then?
+Will it be like hospital at home?

These are all questions I can't have answered because nothing has happened yet. My mind and my concentration have been in the future all week and the snippets of 'real time' I have are so flooded with confusion and uncertainty that I almost feel safe in the unforeseeable/possible futures I create. I can't escape from the confusion, because everyone is confused.

I need to take each day as it comes.

My mother: my organised, calm, composed-at-all-times mother, has been incredible. In one of my semi-conscious states, I began to think of her and all that she's done.

My mother has done everything for me.
She's put on a brave face when all she wants to do is break down and cry.
It's killed her to watch her daughter slowly waste away in front of her very eyes and feel completely useless.
Yet she battles on, she keeps strong, she picks me up when I fall, she's held onto my hand so tightly and she's never let go,
she's never given up.

My mother is my inspiration. I don't know how she's done it and how she does it, but she is amazing. She.is.amazing. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for her. I know it hurts her to have to let me go, but at least she'll know I'm safe. Me being away for a while will give her a chance to breathe and walk tall, she won't have to tread carefully and watch her words. She won't have to worry or stress or see her daughter suffering.

She'll have the break she needs, and I'll have the help I need, so I can come back not as the Eleanor before the eating disorder or the Eleanor with the eating disorder, but a new, fresh, lively and loving Eleanor.

I'm scared beyond words, and I have refrained from bitching/moaning/complaining about the hospital. I'm trying to take each day as it comes and take it from there.

I just want to be happy again.
And if hospital is what it takes, then hospital it is.

One day, I will be whole again.

love, love, love.

Falling Upwards.

I feel change coming.

I fear change.

I need change.

The week's events blurred together in her head; so much happening in such a small amount of time had left her weak, exhausted, vulnerable. So many people, so many faces; conversations of long forgotten words, promises and agreements made in a state of semi-consciousness. She felt as if she were awake but asleep, half expecting to open her eyes and find herself lying in bed surrounded by a pool of tangled blankets and scattered journal entries whose words had coming back to haunt her dreams.

Images of her possible future tumble around inside a mind already fogged with thoughts and fears and questions and concerns and emotions. The anxiety of not knowing what's going to happen next has left her feeling almost numb; the lack of knowing renders her useless, hopeless. She is the portrait of a lost little girl.

* * *
Time has escaped me. I've woken up from the past 4 restless nights not knowing what day it is, knowing only that they will be a fight to get through. Every single thing that has happened this week has all been blurred into one long strip of cinema film, tangled up and stuck back together with sticky-tape and chewing gum.
 So much has happened in regards to the prospect of hospital. There have been moments of complete chaos where everything was up in the air and formless, causing everyone involved unbelievable amounts of confusion and stress. Most of the uncertainty has been settled and put into shape piece by piece, but there is still so much that could happen, but might not happen, or will happen but might change.

To cut a very long, confusing and boring story short, my Dietitian and Therapist have been calling up the hospitals down in the city (which is an 8 hour drive away) and seeing if there are beds available. Nothing is certain yet, but I am going down for an assessment this coming Friday. I have to have my bags packed and ready on the chance that I'll be admitted, but if there is no conformation of an extended stay (that is: a long admission) then I will not be going in.

To be honest, I don't know what to expect. I don't know what's going on. I don't know if I even want to know what to expect. I'm exhausted, mentally, physically and emotionally. I'm absolutely terrified to the point that I'm calm. Calm might not be the right word for it; more like subdued. I've submitted. I'm too tired to worry, too tired to care.

I've made the decision to go IP.

There's a possibility that they might not be able to admit me, but the prospect of actually being admitted this Friday is terrifying. I have no idea how to deal with any of this.
 On the one hand, I'm absolutely relieved that I have such an amazing support system and treatment team helping me through this and helping me to organise my whole life. My Therapist has been superhuman. She's called me frequently, visited me at home outside of her working hours, given me her personal number... Without her I would not be as 'mentally' strong as I am right now. I'm surprised I've even kept this amount of mental awareness up for so long.
My Mum has been equally as amazing. She's kept herself so strong for me, being so good about it all. Without her love and support I'd be doomed, that much I know.

And on the other side of the hand, I'm beyond petrified of being left in a hospital without anyone I know, and without knowing what to expect there. I know I've agreed to this and chosen this pathway, and I know it's for the best, but making that decision has caused me so much hurt. The fear is consuming.

Do I regret making this decision?
Do I really need it?
Will it work?
What will happen?
What will I have to do?
What do I eat?
How much?
How long will I be in there?
Will they let me go for walks?
Do I keep up my schooling?

I need to shut off my brain.
 I'm falling.
There are people who will catch me.
I'm exhausted.
I won't have to wait much longer.
I'm scared.
Nothing bad will happen to me.
I'm trying.
Trying is the best thing I can do.

I really do feel as though I'm falling... Falling upward.
I have a sinking feeling, but where my life is headed is not down, it's up.
Deciding to go to hospital for a while is going to get me on the right track, so I can properly see my potential, and see that recovery is possible.
I can only go up from here.

This might be the hardest thing I ever have to do. But I am willing to do this, because this is me getting my life back.
I'm falling upwards into recovery, back into life, back into myself.


I'm scared. But I'm not alone.
 
love, love, love.

Decisions.

For whatever reason, making decisions has never been a strong point. Being presented with too many possible choices leads to an overactive mind, which then results in a whole lot of unnecessary stress.

Unfortunately, sometimes life is a bit like a questionnaire; the yes or no questions, the true or false statements, the multiple-choices, they all demand an answer, and the act of ticking only one box or circling only one-of-the-above can take a lot of effort.

 

Some decisions are easier to make than others, but when the simple decisions become the hardest to make, the difference between the important and unimportant become skewed.

 

* * *

 

My life is cupped in the palms of my shaking hands.

My future.

That power is terrifying.

The ultimate choice of making or breaking everything:

My dreams. My wishes. My hopes. My wants. My desires. My goals.

Me.

Right now, I'm of sound enough mind to choose to stay at home and get myself to a healthy place in every respect.

That choice brings up many, many questions:

+ Am I strong enough to do it here?

+ Can I do it?

+ Do I want it enough?

+ Do I stay at school OR do I defer for 6 months?

+ Do I do this completely on my own OR do I get help from my parents?

Right now, I'm of sound enough mind to choose to willingly go In Patient down in the city for as long as is necessary.

That decision also brings up many questions:

+ How hard will it be?

+ What will they make me eat?

+ How much weight will they make me put on?

+ How long will they keep me there?

+ What happens afterwards, when I'm discharged?

These two options, these to pathways into my future, have been on my mind since Thursday last week. No matter how many times I run through the pro's and con's in my head, I never end up with a conclusion - a decision.

I cannot thank you all enough for your advice and opinions on the topic.

I know that I'm struggling and I know that I could potentially benefit from IP, but there's so many conflicting thoughts and feeling surrounding the issue that it's almost impossible to make a decision anyway.

The more I think on it, the more confused and less certain I become. But not thinking about it is as equally as impossible.

I have really not gotten anywhere with this post. I guess I just need to vent, and vent I shall.

The next two weeks will determine what happens regarding the hospital situation, but until then

all I can do, is do my best.

love, love, love.

Advice.

Three exams down, two to go.

And lucky little me, the two to go are both Maths exams. My least favourite, and possibly worst, subject in the history of the world.

This week has killed me, mentally and physically. I have been in a state of unbelievable stress and panic, so much so that I have been too wound up thinking about school to even consider the stress my body was, and is still, going through.

The thing that terrifies me the most, though, is that I haven't even realized how much I am struggling. I am struggling, and yesterday's Therapy session made me realize the extent of my struggling and the impact it's had.

My health has been left on the way-side. Trying to balance school and life at the same time has put so much pressure on me without me actually being aware of it, which needless to say has unconsciously given the Eating Disorder free-reign of food choices. I know, I know, that I can't be making excuses for myself. I know that I could have been more vigilant, more aware, admitted I was struggling - but at the same time I was too caught up thinking of school to pass a thought on my health.

My Therapist said something that really hit hard. I could potentially go back to hospital; not to the children's ward I was put in the first (and only) time, but to an adult unit, where I would be for at least a month. Honestly, I didn't think I had gotten so bad. I'm not sure of my weight... I find that out in tomorrow's Dietitian appointment, but I'm almost certain I haven't gained the weight I know I should have gained in two weeks. Tomorrow is a really bit portion of the deciding factor in a hospital admission, but my T has said to see how I go next week.

The decision is ultimately up to me. It is my choice, up to a point, whether I go into hospital or not. I've been weighing up the pro's and con's...

Just the prospect of going away for a month scares me speechless. I can't even put down in words how I feel about this whole mess.

I don't want to have to go back, but at the same time it might be what I need.

I could potentially do this at home, but I've been doing that for a year now, and I haven't gotten very far, at least not physically.

I don't have to make the choice now. I have a week, factoring in tomorrow's outcome.

I am terrified. I am hurting. I am disgusted in myself.

I'm scared for myself.

I don't often do this, but I'm calling on you girls for your opinions.

It's beyond me right now to make any proper sense of the situation, and your words have always been so valuable, insightful and reliable.

Maybe I need the extra help, just for a little while. The push forward that I can't quite manage on my own, or at home.

Asking for help, and recieving help, isn't a sign of failure or weakness.

It is an act of courage.

love, love, love.

Worrier, Warrior.

It is the 6th month of the year, already. A whole five months of 2010 have gone by already, and I am left with the question of: what have I actually accomplished this year?

I really don't want this post to be a downer again, after my last post.

(By the way, the comments left on that post made my heart melt. You girls are amazing, and I cannot thank you enough for your support, understanding and encouragement.)

I have another 6 months of this year left to make something of. I've been given a life... Why waste it?

This week of school has the potential to break me. It's exam week... Although I'm in Year 11, and Year 11 Exams don't technically count towards anything, I can't stop myself from freaking out about them. I'm a worrier by nature - I procrastinate until I get so sick of myself that my brain melts all over the page in the form of words that, at the time, make absolutely no sense to me but manage to get me a decent score in the end. I worry myself about the smallest and most insignificant of things; I worry about tests, assessment tasks, assignments and essays days before, can't sleep the night previous, and end up doing well.

I absolutely detest this worrying problem of mine. It's gotten to the point where my Therapist has assigned me allocated "Worry Time", where I have an hour in which I can worry as much as I like. I haven't actually used that allocated time yet... Only because up until this point I had forgotten entirely about it. I spend most of my waking (and probably sleeping...) hours worrying, about goodness knows what for goodness knows what reason.

My brain is melting right now, it seems. Verbal vomit, or whatever you want to call it.

I should blog more, because it's theraputic. But I worry about what I'll write, how I'll write it, who will read it, how I'll come across...

There. Proof. I'm a worrier.

It's gotten to the point where I actually broke down at school today.

I cried.

At school.

In front of strangers.

God, I felt so stupid. I feel so stupid.

A friend of mine, who has also been through this awful disease of the mind, came up to me today. She hugged me, Tightly. And it hurt. It hurt to be hugged because she was rubbing the non-existant flesh on my back. That makes me sick.

The looked at me, she saw me broken, and she said:

"It hurts me to see you. It hurts me to see you like this. I know how you feel, I know what you're going through, and I know you can get through it. You have me, and you have yourself.

I love you."

This girl... She made me see it. She made me see what's right in front of me.

This isn't living.

This is slow suicide.

I do not want to die.

I do not want to be constantly struggling to get out of bed in the morning, and constantly struggling to go to sleep at night and stay asleep.

I do not want to collapse at school, mentally or physically.

I do not want to be stressing myself to the point of sickness every day, for the smallest of reasons.

I do not want to lie in bed at night thinking about how to skimp at breakfast in the morning.

I do not want this disease.

I know I have said this so many times, but I have to keep reminding myself of it.

The only person who can get me out of this hell is me.

I am going to fight until there is no enemy left to fight anymore.

I'm going to win this.

love, love, love

from a worrying warrior.

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.