Third time lucky?

Sunday, 27 October 2013

“Recovery feels like shit. It didn't feel like I was doing something good; it felt like I was giving up. It feels like having to learn how to walk all over again.” 
 Portia de Rossi

Trying to eat again releases bizarre feelings. The creature bites, kicks, screams and claws its way through my brain. It feels like you are betraying your best friend, but at the same time slapping your worst enemy in the face. She has stood by me, solidly and reliably for years now, when I was scared or sad I always had the comfort of my rib cage, there to show me that I was good. I was thin. I could always be thinner though. I've been here 2 weeks now and to be perfectly honest, I feel like absolute shit. My weight has bounced around the place. My first few days, it continued to drop quite rapidly, but at that stage I was only having to consume cups of hot milk and two muller corners a day. My poor little body wasn't up to anymore and suddenly coming out of starvation wouldn't have done it any good. Gradually, my diet has been built up, now it is at the stage when I am having to eat: a big bowl of cornflakes and 250ml milk, 2 slices of toast and peanut butter, 250ml hot milk (coffee in it of course), a large main meal (always with carbs), a muller corner yoghurt, 100ml juice, 250ml hot milk with coffee (again), another large main meal, muller corner yoghurt, 100ml fruit juice, 250ml hot milk and coffee, another slice of toast and peanut butter. It is absolutely terrifying and I feel as it my body has ballooned. I am still being weighed daily, every morning at 6am, and whereas before my weight was hardly moving, it seems to now be making up for lost time. It has quite literally been coming on leaps and bounds and I am absolutely horrified. The speed at which it's climbing simply proves to me that my body is not built for food. If I eat, I will get fat. I don't need as much as other people and therefore, it's easier if I just don't eat than having to worry that every bite I take might cause me to balloon. It's insane how warped your brain becomes, a bmi of 15 seems colossal and unnecessary and the apprehension over soon reaching it is keeping me awake at night. I do know, however, somewhere in my rather peculiar mind, that I am doing the right thing. One cannot live a life with anorexia, as it is simply not a life.Every moment is dominated by fear, self loathing, routine and compulsion and there is very little room for anything else. So, although I'm scared, I know I must keep going.

The unit is a friendly environment at the moment,which makes all the difference. There are some lovely patients about, with ages ranging from 18 to 70. All the girls have been incredibly supportive, and one of the most vital part of my treatment thus far has been the sense of solidarity and security. One of the girls said a few days ago,when I was having a complete meltdown..."Maya, you will get through this, even if I have to drag you half the way, you can get better". Her belief in me has made such a difference. Of course, Vincent Square is still rife with bizarre behaviours relating to food, exercise, everything really. People pacing the corridors, desperate to burn a few extra calories, pocketing toast, arguing over the size of potatoes. I am not exempt, behaving in a hysterical way when it comes to food. So, that's where I am right now really. Simply trying to plod along. I have come to realise that whatever I do,it will feel like shit, so id rather try to get over this and have the prospect of a happy life than settle for a half life in a dungeon.

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