well, i want to die

i can’t stop eating.

i can’t stop exercising.

i can’t stop thinking.

i can’t stop this.

which means i can’t do this anymore. i shouldn’t have to do this anymore.

i’m under no illusion that self harm will kill me. i know it might, if i hit the right spot deep enough. but it’s unlikely, and humans have this nasty self-preservation instinct that always stops me from bleeding out, even when i have hit an artery, even when it was on purpose.

so i need to get my hands on some good stuff, and i need to end this shit for good.

whatever.

for the past week, couple of weeks, month, i don’t know, i have been restricting and exercising all day long, then eating chocolate or biscuits for dinner, and then doing it all over again to make sure i’m burning off all that disgusting fat. i’m losing weight again. i’m 1.1 kg from my first goal. and then 5 to my next.

i can do this.

we can do this – ana is my coach and she is damn good at what she does. we’re ready to evaporate again. this time, we want to evaporate so far that there’s no way to return. are bodies like rain? are disordered thoughts like rain? condense has so many more meanings than condensation.

i turn 21 on wednesday.

starting stimulants!

here’s how i learned i had add (that’s adhd, but without the hyperactive part)

CLUE NUMBER ONE

like most university students, i tried stimulants. not to get high, but because i had already received an extension on a final exam and had been struggling with my mental health so badly that i was constantly dissociating while trying to study. i took vyvanse aka long acting dexamphetamine but unlike most university students i did not get high.

not only that, but i felt like i could think. i felt calm.

CLUE NUMBER TWO

generally, i’m not into any sort of street drug. i don’t even smoke weed regularly. but, i am also believe in trying everything once. so i did speed (aka ecstasy aka molly aka mdma) in a club and …

… had a nap. legit. i left the club after it kicked in because i wasn’t feeling it and then fell asleep on the train home.

if you weren’t already aware – only people without adhd can get high from stimulants, whether that’s ritalin / adderall or a street drug like mdma.

sub clue: mdma is an amphetamine, which is the same basic molecule for adhd meds.

CLUE NUMBER THREE

some symptomatic things. i have no memory. i put it down to dissociating, until i realised i was dissociating less and my memory got worse (conundrum). it feels like i have sirens in my head. my thoughts are constantly bouncing off each other. i am generally very frazzled.

sub clue: adhd does not present the same way in males and females, just as autism presents differently in males and females. so sure, i wasn’t the typical naughty kid at school and i had top grades, but even at my lowest i have maintained good marks at uni. what i was guilty of was constantly interrupting people, saying inappropriate things impulsively and feeling constantly on edge which causes me to stim wildly.

note: people do not like it when you knock against a table very fast to calm down

TL;DR

i started stimulants and can actually fucking think for the first time in a long time


on another note, ana is loving that we are starting a medication which suppresses appetite, since we are so so close to reaching our gw. i’m at what i think is my set weight now but i am determined to push my body and lose these last _ kilos.


love,

your blogger-in-chief who no longer feels foggy all the fucking time,

rosie bogs

this is where i’m at tonight

i sat in the shower crying, eating cold pizza, hating myself with every bite since it seems like all i did today was eat and when i try to count cals all i want to do is die because i broke so many fucking rules and i wish i just fucking wish i could throw up. what kind of shitty bulimic am i? a fake one. the kind of bulimic who purges by exercising.

it’s not fucking good enough.

a friend told me recently that the lack of a gag reflex is entirely wasted on a lesbian.

well fuck her. because i would give anything to be able to get rid of this binge. instead i just keep eating and eating and gaining and gaining. i had reached my goal weight a month or so ago and it felt amazing and then in one shitty week i ruined all that progress. stupid fat bitch. next time i feel like binging i’m going to cut instead. punish myself in advance. with every bite i’ll go a little bit deeper. until i hit the fat of my thighs or forearms and can slice it out from beneath my skin. because that’s the only way i will ever be thin – if i slice the fat out myself.

tonight i am nursing a bottle of vodka. you know you’re an alcoholic when you can have about 6 standard drinks (australian) without even feeling tipsy. i almost had beer for breakfast but i love my job at the pharmacy, and can’t bear to lose the only thing that gives my life any fucking meaning.

so i’m nursing my vodka, proper vodka this time, 37% alcohol, and proper nursing, since i carried it back from the shops clutched tightly to my chest, mostly because my latest set of stitches are MAD infected and really fucking hurt, but the pus hasn’t reached the surface so there’s nothing i can do about it. maybe if i get sepsis i will finally fucking die.


should i write more drunk posts? they’d probably be pretty fucking funny, hey.

byee

rosie bee

Me, Myself, and Ana – A Poem

Terrified of breathing, in case of collapse.

Terrified of existing, in case of relapse.

Fearing the voice clawing this brain,

but craving hunger to flood these veins.

Desperate for relief, for a bite or two,

all this hard work I’ll eventually rue.

Still she screams, oh, how she screams,

this parasitic illness destroying my dreams.

Seeking a way out of one’s own mind,

is successful, sure, but leaves memories behind.

A black pit of time marks the sickest years,

leaving a dissociative gap from a time full of fear.

How impossible it is to escape oneself,

envious of the lives mine might have paralleled.

Instead I exist in an ocean of darkness,

a voice for company tainted by harshness.

There’s no light for me here:

just myself,

and Ana,

and the bones we hold dear.

Broken streaks and bloodied sheets

I was able to go five weeks without self harming. It would have been 35 days tonight.

35 days of urges. 35 days of urge surfing. 35 days of ignoring the buzz of sharps calling me from afar, from the kitchen, from my desk, from the toolbox.

It would have been 35 days if it weren’t for tonight.

I am still addicted to self harm. I still hurt myself badly – deeply, the kind of deep that goes beyond the first few layers of skin and exposes that white bubbly fatty flesh beneath – and think this isn’t good enough. I hurt myself and the voice in my head, the Ana in my head, she cries you deserve to hurt worse than this. It would have been 35 days tonight, except now my thigh is bleeding through layers of bandage because that voice, that pesky little voice, she said this isn’t enough.

Because no matter how hard I try, I will never be good enough for Ana.

I don’t know what triggered me to break my streak. Once I got to 20 days clean it was easy motivation to stay clean. I reached a month, and was hopeful I had proven to myself I could reach three months clean, which was my next goal. Until today, when a few triggering conversations at work – I’m a pharmacy assistant – sent things crashing down around me:

The pharmacist mentions things as we work. Things I don’t want to know about our customers, even though they’re regulars, even though it’s important I understand their conditions and circumstances. He says, this girl, she stays stick thin despite all that seroquel, and all that lithium. He says, she used to have anorexia, poor darl.

And I want to scream. I want to scream SO DID I. I want to shout it from the rooftops until people start to listen. I want to bear my scars and my soul and these freshly puckered wounds I’ve carved into my flesh and I want to scream look at how I struggle. There is no ‘used to’ about this.

I used to be underweight. I used to suffer from post traumatic stress disorder. I used to be bullied. I used to live in a devastatingly invalidating environment.

But there is nothing used to about my eating disorder, about the classic binge purge type of anorexia that enveloped my childhood. There is no ‘used to’, not for me.

Starving myself is a steady state, an algorithm that I cannot perfect the way I used to, but a formula none the less. In must equal out. Hunger is good, fullness is bad. In must equal out. Hunger is good. Hunger is good. Hunger is good.

There’s no train to my thoughts here, only the roaring train I want to leap in front of because I’ve failed. Once again, I’ve failed. And here we are again, nestled beneath blood-stained sheets that seep through to my mattress, with open flesh ready to add to the mess. There is nothing ‘used to’ about my journey.

I used to struggle. And I do struggle. I used to suffer from anorexia, and I still starve myself.

I used to listen to the voice in my head, and I still do. I still listen. Because trying to fight her, trying to win that losing battle, will only cause me more pain than the knives I take to my flesh in desperation. It’s a blood sacrifice; only blood will suffice. Only blood will subdue her. Only the punishment I deserve, the relief to the urges; that’s the only way I can quieten her.

The only thing louder than Ana is the grumble of my empty stomach.

She’s creeping in

There.

Just there.

A little more to the left. Shift slightly upwards.

There.

Did you see that?

I can count every rib.

Wait. No, there’s some missing. There’s too many missing.

There. Just. there. A little to the right, a little to the left. The light is in the wrong place now, and I’ve lost them. They no longer exist. If I can’t find them, even if it’s because the light is wrong, then it’s because they don’t exist.

Lately, my ribs have reappeared. I’m surprised, and relieved, and also excited. It fills me with warmth to see some bones again. Looking down at my wrists, I can see that they’re approaching thinness again, but then I look upwards at my arms and they don’t have quite the concave shape I’m after, and neither does my stomach. There’s no space between my thighs, but at least we’ve dropped a size. Step onto the scales, and then off again – because they’re lying – and then back on and back off before I realise it’s not me that’s broken, it’s the scales, so it’s off to buy a better set, a more advanced set, the kind that determines your fat percentage for you. That obsessive tic has returned, the sideways glance in every reflective surface (I’ve gained weight today), the wrap around the wrist to double check it’s the same width, and if not, then that’s the kind of motivation I need to do better. I take out the clothes I’ve kept specifically for this purpose, to measure my progress back towards my goal, and they still don’t fit the way I like. Deep breath, it’s okay, that just means only coffee today. I slump to the floor in a sudden spell of dizziness and glance at the dark circles in the mirror. I shake when I sleep because my body wants me to eat.

I ignore it.

I only indulge in food twice a day if I can resist the temptation, and if it comes to a third, then it will be once the following day. Nothing processed here, only wholefoods, and if it comes from a packet, then only ingredients I know and can pronounce.

And slowly, she gets louder. Good. Look at us go! Look at our progress! You’re doing so well!

And lately, when I make an inevitable mistake – too much cheese, too much yoghurt, one too many bites, there she is again. Stupid fat fucking bitch worthless useless bitch just go kill yourself you deserve it you don’t deserve life you deserve to be punished fat stupid worthless bitch do it just do it just do it useless ugly disgusting piece of shit. 

And I listen. Because I’m a good girl, and I listen to authority, and in these moments, Ana is my authority.

IMG_0123

Anorexic is not an adjective

This week, I saw something that frustrated me.

It frustrated me to the point of ‘borderline rage’, the kind that hasn’t consumed me for a long time, and the impulsivity that accompanies this. In this case, the impulsive act didn’t cause much corporeal damage – I posted a long, deeply personal post via Facebook. The outcome was that I felt more hurt than I had to begin with, and guilty, and sad, and nostalgic for Ana, and everything that I left behind when I recovered. Anyway.

The topic which frustrated me is a topic which has been in the media so much lately, too much. It is a topic dear to my heart, too dear. It is a topic that is being promoted, and that disgusts me. And yes, despite being weight restored, despite fulfilling the psychiatric definition of “recovered”, the anorexic behaviours, thought patterns, distortions, obsessions and compulsions still consume me.

Anorexic is not an adjective. And it is one used as such too often, by people who don’t understand, “celebrities” like the Kardashians, who have the reach to make real change, but are instead the ones blocking the way. It doesn’t matter who you are: you do not get to joke about an illness you have never experienced, an illness which takes more lives than any other. In fact, the more famous you are, the greater your capacity to create change by not stigmatising the illness any more than it already has been. I’m not one to “keep up” with these particular ladies, but what they said amongst themselves hurt me. It hurt me because they joked over an illness that nearly killed me. It hurt me because they joked over the mental illness with the highest mortality rate of them all.

Anorexic is not an adjective. Anorexic is being hypothermic in summer, and collapsing from exhaustion every night. It’s losing your childhood, your womanhood, your friends, and laughter, and smiles. It’s looking at your reflection and counting bones from your clavicles to your hips but believing you still need to lose weight. It’s yellow skin and a gaunt face and sunken eyes and hair that falls out as you stroke it. It’s wearing children’s clothes because nothing else will fit. It’s being controlled by numbers and calories and food and weight and exercise and a voice in your head that compels you to behave in certain ways, all whilst maintaining a facade of control that you yourself still believe to be true – even as this control spirals away like the soup you’ve been pouring down the drain. It’s hiding beneath baggy clothes, and a web of lies so intricate that a single breath could cause the whole system to come crashing down. It’s eating a single cracker, and punishing yourself for days and days or crying over a carrot that you’re being forced to eat. It’s narrowly avoiding hospital admission by convincing yourself and your doctor that you’re fine, that everything is fine, that nothing is wrong, despite the fainting, the collapsing, the low blood pressure and the anaemias, and the messed up hormone counts and missed periods and reversal of puberty that you brought upon yourself. Being anorexic means having a life cemented in obsessionality and despair and anxiety over the smallest changes to a rigid routine. 

Being anorexic means never being quite enough: not thin enough, good enough, smart enough. Just never enough. Being anorexic means giving up your life, physically, emotionally and mentally; and for some, even literally.

Anorexic is not an adjective. So please, don’t use it like one.

 

Here it Comes

It’s happening as I check this label one more time, just in case I was wrong. It’s happening as I add and subtract endlessly in my head, always overcompensating just to be safe. It’s happening as I consider the lowest carb, lowest fat meal I can construct from the vegetables in my fridge. It’s happening as I step on and off the scales because they’re lying to me again. Why are they always lying to me? It’s happening as I pinch my sides and glance at my thighs as I pass by windows. It’s happening as I fast the time away, as I run, as I cycle, as I shake from exhaustion and low blood sugar, and feel the familiar dizziness of low blood pressure take hold. It’s in the lies and the fake smiles and the dim eyes and dark circles. It’s in that haunted tilt of the head as I eavesdrop – are they talking about me? It’s because I weighed more today, isn’t it? They can see it. They’re staring, they can see it. They’re gossiping about it. They can see it. I knew it. I knew it too. I told you. I told you they would notice. You need to try harder. You need to eat less. You need to exercise more. You need to do better. 

Isn’t it funny, how fast a relapse can take hold? How quickly this disorder latches on to a moment of stress, a moment of weakness and of sickness, and turns it into an opportunity?

Here I am, noticing the relapse begin to unfold, the patterns begin to set themselves in place, yet I feel powerless to stop it.

Or maybe I just don’t want to.

Starvation: the all-too familiar sensation

This sensation claws at my chest, crawls inside my belly, and shivers beneath my hands, an internal shaking that I cannot cease. It’s relentless, and stronger than my heartbeat, stronger than every intake of breath. Clinging to counter tops, resting on chairs, nodding the wooziness away, headaches and brain fog and heart murmurs that don’t recede, and an overwhelming exhaustion, fatigue deeper than my flesh – this is the sensation of starvation.

It returns to me, like an old friend that I once cherished, and parted ways with. Alas, this friend returned without invitation, without so much as a warning, and has squeezed her way back into my life. Ana returns, gnawing at my sides like the growling of my belly. She whispers to me, how much better these jeans would look if you were thinner. How much more they would appreciate you, if you were thinner. How much more they would notice you, if only. you. were thinner.

She whispers to me, praises me, for what I have done. This is how it’s supposed to be, she says. It’s supposed to be constant. Can’t you feel the weight slipping? Can’t you feel that I’m winning? 

And every time she whispers these words, that voice only grows, and multiplies. It only takes a small stumble to lose yourself in a crevasse.

But you need to be exercising as well, she adds. It’s not enough to be hungry before eating again, but you need to be beyond hungry, you need to be starving. 

It’s been a long time since I’ve restricted quite so severely, and for this long. It is both familiar and unwanted. These pathways – the starvation pathways, the rituals and routines and obsessions – were fixed for five years. They are not difficult to find myself slipping back into.

And I can’t even bring myself to care.

I miss my eating disorder – my real eating disorder, not this disgusting bulimia that has taken it’s place. I miss bones and my old body and I miss being thin. I miss the call of death, the oh so close call of death. I miss Ana. I miss anorexia.

There are lots of aspects to this monster that I don’t miss, the things that I couldn’t bear to return to, the things that I wouldn’t wish upon anybody. But I’m ignoring them. My judgement is clouded by her, and her only.

Because if I just listened, Ana would make things right.

So this will continue. And my pants will continue to loosen. My bones will continue to re-emerge. Finally, she will return, starvation will return, and everything will be okay again, because everything will finally be right.