Why?

What does it feel like? What do you think when a big cup of full fat milk is put down in front of you and you are expected to drink it. A plate of macaroni cheese you are expected to eat. Pudding afterwards, ice cream, yogurt, all to be consumed. How does it make you feel? It hurts, God it stings. I am burning when I think about all I have consumed this week. I am panicked, I must be spinning out of control. Bite by bite moment by moment I am being assaulted. "YOU PIG" "WHY ARE YOU SITTING DOWN?" "WHY ARE YOU STANDING STILL?" Then, as if for conformation, I am weighed every morning, 6am, woken and weighed, recorded, the numbers going up. It is terrifying, but it must be done. I am very lucky to have a caring mother at home, someone to look after me, because being in hospital all the time proves to be too much. I beg and plead with the doctor, hyperventilating when he says "You are too ill to go home", I need to be comfortable, I need to sleep, I need my mum. I cannot have those things here. Finally, he goes to get a second opinion from another doctor, I am granted leave for the night, I can go home to my mum and cuddle up and let her hold me whilst I eat. I will be good. It will be hard. 
It's tricky to explain what it's like, half of me is happy that I am doing this, I know I have to, I look and feel like shit. I am exhausted and boney. Poor Jacob was scared to cuddle me too hard, frightened of breaking his girlfriend of fragile bones. I look like hell, yet my fragility reflects my insides. Inside I feel fragile, I do not feel strong and ready for the World, I am in pain and screaming and the lack of nourishment reflects that. That is what anorexia can do, gives you a platform to reflect how you are feeling. To get better, I must disentangle all my feelings of self loathing, disappointment in myself, feelings of low self worth, from my feelings related with food. I must put all of them to one side, and food on another. I must feed myself for my brain to work though. That is what I will do. Bite by bite, moment by moment, things must get better. Please, I beg of you, do not say to me "you're looking well", or "oh Maya, you're looking much better". Not until I am ready. Those throw away comments can throw me into a depth of despair I cannot explain properly, I know it must seem silly, it is the aim of the game to look well, to get better, to move on, but right now I cannot hear those things. Also, until I truly am 'recovered' (in a weight sense) it is not helpful. Hearing how 'well' I look, when I may still have another 5kgs to go will make me feel as if I needn't bother, and I am sure that is not what you mean. Anorexia has the capability to twist anything and make it into a verbal assault. I am hoping that over these next few weeks I will work to restore some of my weight, and work to feed myself, as I am unwilling to relinquish all control. If I give up all control, then I have not really fought the battle, and I have to to recover. I have to look the monster square in the face and say "FUCK YOU-I am worth getting better". So I will. I will munch and guzzle and it will feel crap, but I will do it for me, so that I can get on a plane and use the rest of this year to do lovely things with my mum and friends. I will get over this. I will be proud to say 'I am recovered'. I will listen to what those who love me have told me, that I was so much more attractive curvy. I always wanted to be thin, I always hated my hips. How many young women have struggled with hating their bodies? How many times a day do you hear people making comments putting themselves down or talking about things related to their appearance? Think about it. It's like a girl code, self degradation, I will put myself down to fit in "You look nice", "oh no, I look a bit chubby in this". On my birthday my gorgeous Grace uttered to me "Boobs look GREAT in that dress Maya". Anorexia reared up, ready to whisper about mounds of fat, but I battered her. I took the compliment, I did not shoo it away. "Thanks GC". It felt good. Good to be a girl. I want to be a woman. I want J to be proud of his girlfriend. To not have to hold the hand of an emaciated 8 year old. My big strong man, over double my weight, well over double my weight, it's not right. I truly believe that in order to combat some of the causes of eating disorders, we need to stop putting ourselves down. We need to take the compliments and just say "thank you", or offer one back, if we are being sincere. Why not? It makes you feel good. I must also learn this skill to beat my monsters. 
Along with others.
For now, I will lift my fork and eat.




I'd love to hear what you all think about the way we bash ourselves and about feeling fat/dieting etc. It is estimated that 1 in 5 people are dieting in the UK at any one time, this number is phenomenal, and I want to know why we cannot just have a healthy relationship with food? Please comment if you've got any thoughts, what body parts get you down, if you think we go self-bash and why etc etc. 
Would be really interesting for me and others and you can even comment anonymously now, whether you have an account or not!
Thank you
Maya 

White Walls

“When you're lost in those woods, it sometimes takes you a while to realize that you are lost. For the longest time, you can convince yourself that you've just wandered off the path, that you'll find your way back to the trailhead any moment now. Then night falls again and again, and you still have no idea where you are, and it's time to admit that you have bewildered yourself so far off the path that you don't even know from which direction the sun rises anymore.” 
― Elizabeth Gilbert

I am back in a plain walled room. The tide was too rough for me to steer. Every part of me aches and I am tired. My body is exhausted. I have been plunged into a world that turns skeletons into goddesses, and it is here I must try not to burn. Things were too difficult, I tried and strived to scramble out of my rabbit hole, but it was just too deep. To say I am disappointed would not cover it. I am angry that I was not strong enough, I am sad that I am once again in hospital, I am terrified of what is to come. A little ball of emotions. I forgot that in here, people are not still. We are all tired, exhausted, little bodies under so much strain they are close to giving up, yet there is constant movement. Jiggling legs, rocking bodies, every opportunity to stand, taken. In here, it is these things that mark you out, that mark out those who want to recover and those who are forced in here. This is also defined by the brash question "did you agree to come in or were you sectioned?" "Agreed", I smile. Met with shock. I was clear, always have been clear, I will not be sectioned. This is a chapter of my life, I will not let it define it. A section and half my job prospects would disappear, so I came when I was told to. Like a good girl I shuffled in, with my entourage of mum, dad and lots of stuff. Sunken, hollow faces are real life in here, not only the thing of nightmares. It baffles me, I look at them and I do not find it attractive, I do not yearn to be like that, I want to run away, my response is still natural, yet part of me still wants to lose weight. A bit of me screams "BMI OF 13 YOU PIG, they are all looking at you and thinking fat fat fat". Maybe some of them are, maybe those with a BMI of 10 do find me abhorrent. I spoke to Claire, in despair that I would be the biggest, she laughed "of course not, God Maya". Her American twang makes me smile, makes it easier. I trust her. I will get my weight up enough to be allowed to get on a plane, to go to Australia and see my family, to lie on a beach and bask in the glorious rays and heat of the sun, next to my beautiful cousin, to run by the water and enjoy it like I used to, not just to skip away the calories. I will finish my weight gain there and get back to health, happiness. The truth is, this is not life. This is a surreal parallel universe where starvation is a preference. My brain is not working and tricks me into believing things which are just not true. I must reprogram, reboot, and get back to the real World. Where I can be warm. I do not feel safe. An hour and a half with a doctor when I arrived. A doctor who was surprised I could sit up and do his "squat test". Thousands of personal questions, with the answers they will draw a picture of who I am. Who is Maya? Why does she want to be thin? Is what they mean. I don't know the answer to either completely. I know Maya is a daughter, a friend and a girlfriend. I am a student. I like to play music. I like to act. I like to write. I like to run and dance and play tennis. I often look at my feet. Right now, most people would say "oh, the anorexic one?" This will not define me, that is not all I am. It is just part of me. A part that is too dominant at the moment and that needs to be quelled. I am not the space between my thighs. I am more.

I think of myself like Gollum. Ugly and widened by my addiction. Anorexia is my ring. I am both Gollum and sweet little Smeagol. Completely wrapped up by the pretty shiny ring, that promises so much, but creates and ugly monster in reality. MY precious. It can't be shared. It makes you invisible. I am blessed to have a team around me, ready to take the ring to Moordoor. My mother joked that she is the dwarf, realistically, she is Sam, reliable and faithful and constantly there. I have Jacob, riding strong on his horse, ready to kill anything that gets in my way. I have Grace and Thea, faithful and loving, ready to show me love and make me laugh. I have all my incredible friends, who I have mentioned many times, ready to help me get that ring and TOSS it into Mount Doom, unlike Gollum, I will not jump in with it, because there is too much in my life to fall in with it. Today, my first on the ward is over, i've left the shire and entered into the big scary World, I can hear Awks all around me, but I will keep on going. I have to.

The first meal was Hell. I am on a "soft diet", because my abused body can't take very much. Everything is white. It is meant to be easily digestible. Each bite was a fight. Each mouthful was of shame. Around me are girls and boys all fighting their daemons. Self loathing and pain drips from the walls of the dining room. 45 minutes it takes us to eat. We cut into tiny pieces, mash and fiddle, anything but eat the food. Then it is gone and we all sit together in an awkward room, being watched. The thought of the next few weeks is abhorrent. I know I will feel many things, disgust and self loathing being the dominant emotions. I will want to curl up in a ball and it all to be over, all over seeing the numbers go up on the scales. Why? It doesn't matter. I love people whether they are fat or thin, yet I cannot love myself. It makes no sense. I need to stop trying to understand it, it will drive me mad. I must sleep as I will be woken through the night to check my vitals.

Not here again...

I am trapped in a corner, a cowering animal running from what feels like the inevitable slaughter. Sacrifice the weak. I am most definitely weak, or I would not be in this situation. Today the call came, as I think part of me knew it would "We are highly concerned" they said "No longer medically safe", "high risk of organ failure" all together equals "we want you to come in next week, a bed will be ready, and we will monitor you heavily up until then". I went cold, my entire body shaking. It seems ridiculous, I got myself into this position, I knew it was coming, especially after my weigh in yesterday. My weight is the lowest it was been, even I was shocked as I climbed onto the scales and the number flashed in front of me. A BMI of 13.2 is not good. How have I lost so much weight so quickly? I do not know, I couldn't answer it for you, all I know is that I am drowning. So what am I doing? I am determined to turn it around before they drag me in. I cannot spend Christmas on the ward, I can't think of anything worse than that. Eating the slop they serve. I asked mum to hold my hand and I said I needed to prove to them that I can do it and that i'm safe, from home my blood pressure, blood sugar and temperature can be monitored. Blood tests every two days and re-feeding. How awful does that sound 're-feeding', it just screams of the brutal images of suffragettes with tubes down their throats to me. I can promise you though, re-feeding at home is a hell of a lot better than in Vincent Square. At least from home I can have delicious food, as oppose to hospital food. So what did I do to prove my strength...we went to Carluccios. I ordered pasta. Pasta with butter and mushrooms and herbs. We asked for a kids portion yet when it came it was terrifying. To me it looked huge, beautifully cut ribbons glistening with butter and sprinkled with golden mushrooms and chives. Bite by bite I ate. Slow. Painful. Each mouthful was painful, but I pictured the ward. I pictured Christmas. I pictured my friends, boyfriend, family and for them I ate. Anorexia has taken so much from me, I have had to defer this year at university, I have not been able to move out, I am not Maya. I am not full of life, vivacious and happy. I rarely laugh like I used to. It came in and pillaged and I opened the door. But now I must try, so so hard, to prove to them that I CAN turn this around. I can. I can. I can.

Any words of advice would be appreciated. 

Photos.

Quotes.

Pictures.

Something to stick up in the kitchen as we prepare food.

I must keep going and hopefully keep out of hospital.

Whichever way there's obstacles...

An uphill struggle, a fight with myself, a battle with and for control. I am burning, yet feed the flames. Never at peace. Even in sleep. Scars on my stomach, could the hatred be marking? My own stigmata. These bones are a blanket. Hide me from the real problems. A soft cover can also be a cage of thorns. Do I look in the mirror and see beauty? Never. Failure stares back at me. Ugly. I will never be enough. Zero is the best number. Nothing. Gone. It is an empty shell. Not enough for most. They want more. Appropriate that is me. In tennis, love. I love.

I sit and help feed Lola, my small niece. She can eat much better by herself than last time I saw her. Little pasta shapes on her spoon, flavored with butter. “I ate a hippo” she giggles at me. I smile at her, baffled, but used to her hilarious statements. “Yum Lols, where did you get that?” She looks at me and then points into her bowl. Animal pasta shapes. She carries on eating, happily, until the bottom of the bowl, when things get tricky. I help her get the last few pieces. She needs no coaxing, she simply opens her mouth happily and hungrily, appreciating the help and lapping up her hippos. Doing all I can to help her grow makes me inexplicably happy. I encourage her to munch away “mmm, delicious” I say, once the bowl is empty. She looks at me, perplexed. Then into the bowl, then back at me. “Still hungry Lols?” I smile. This is unlike her, she has already polished off some eggs, now the bowl of pasta, and she is still looking at me expectantly. Yoghurt next. She munches away, making exaggerated eating sounds as she goes and spreading yoghurt around her mouth. More often than not Lola is not a happy camper at meal times, not wanting to eat very much and taking much coaxing and persuasion. This evening however, she is obviously hungry. 16 years my junior, Lola clearly has more common sense than me. She answers to her body’s needs, sensing when she needs a little more. Maybe she’s going to grow. I am hit by the realization that the meal this tiny 4 year old has just finished off would send me into a spiral of panic. Lola is thin. My sister often jokes that she needs feeding up. Whilst some may not even bat an eye lid at this little girl feeding herself, lifting the cutlery up in to her mouth. Smiling with enjoyment, I marvel at her talent. It seems impossible to me that I was ever so happy with food. That I ever enjoyed a bowl of pasta. I loved pasta. Now I am like a small child, learning to eat again. It is ridiculous. I am ridiculous. I cannot get my head around it. I look back at Lola, she is smiling up at me, both of us sitting at her little table and chair set. I get up and take away her empty bowl. Get her off her seat. “Thank you auntie Maya”, she tots, not realizing the wave of love that her little voice causes to over come me. I bend and give her a huge cuddle, unable to believe that I am going to be on the other side of the World from this little girl once again within 62 hours. I can’t bare it. I see my sister watching us, 20 years my senior, but not looking her age at all. I see smiles and worry combined in her eyes. The guilt this brings on is huge. I hate worrying everyone, and I know she is upset after seeing me this trip. We had spoken about it, of course, but sitting with my niece and helping her eat had really homed in what my illness must mean to others. Whilst at that table with Lola, I was able to keep the monster away. All my strength was mustered, although I was not even faced with the challenge of food. I knew though, Lola would not dine with that daemon present. She is a fiercely intelligent little girl, with an incredible grasp on the emotions of those around her. If I were anxious, she would know it, and it might rub off on her. The amount of love and care and protectiveness I feel towards Lola let me quell the monster, if only while she ate. I did not think about calories, I did not feel my stomach to check it was still flat, I did not let it sit at that table with us. I knew I would do anything to stop Lola ever even see the fanged beast, let alone let it anywhere near her. I would wrestle and gauge and batter it if it came near her. I would know if it was going to. However, those who love me could not have had the knowledge I do of how to recognize it sneaking in. My family, friends, incredible Jacob have to sit and watch as I struggle with what has infested within me, polluting. I could not feel worse about what I am putting them through. What this has done to them. The guilt is crippling. I feel that if I were a good person, I would be better. I would eat. I can’t bare making them so unhappy. They try to speak to me about it. They have been trying for so long. At least I accept it now. I am not still denying it.

I remember the first time I was told I was too thin. ‘Too thin’ was not in my vocabulary. The concept was impossible to me. How could anyone be ‘too thin’? However, although I know it was not meant as a compliment, a little something inside of me smiled. Patted me on the back. “See how good that feels?” It hissed. I looked at my dear Thea’s concerned face. Her eyes looked wet. I felt dreadful. Here she was, taking so much courage and care to try and help me, and I am glowing. “I’m just worried Maya, I’m worried you’re losing perspective, I’m worried, you’re not quite you any more. You don’t look right twin”. Her gentle term of endearment had thrown me, the beast was pushed down for a minute, overruled by the part of me that thrived on being considered as close as a sister to someone. Anorexia detected this moment of weakness and quelled it, although I did not recognize it for what it was at the time. “Too thin? Ha, as if, show her your rotund stomach, grab the mountains of flab that prove gluttony on your hips. You stick out in all the wrong places, it’s a deformity, the way your body is formed, why else would you jut out around your middle, then curve back in before the top of your legs. Violin deformity. That’s what they call it”. When questioned, attack. Anorexia leaves no room for doubt. Once it has dug its claws into its chosen body, it will not give up easily.

       I worry that they all think that because I am not better, I do not care about them. The only reason I care about me is in relation to them. I thrive on looking after others. Not only in the ‘feeder’ capacity, traditional of many anorexics, but in many others. That is my role, although anorexia has incapacitated me of this ability in many ways. My mother always says that to look after her, I need to look after me.

       I thought I was more ‘normal’ now. I thought people wouldn’t really notice my odd eating habits as much. Compared to where I was before, I thought I was doing great. Then reality hit. I am still a freak. Puppet to it. It ruins things. I ruin things. A trip with my girls ended only a few weeks ago in a fraught, emotional, teary conversation. I am not normal. They are so worried. I was hurt, I was angry, I was surprised. Couldn’t they see how well I was doing now? Couldn’t they remember me before. When I would only eat green beans? “Are you sure you should be going to uni Maya? It’s pretty stressful?” “But I’m fine, look, I’m coping, I love uni, I love having another focus, otherwise I’m alone with it, left behind completely, I cant let it put my life on hold”. “We’re only saying this because we love you and we’re worried”. Déjà vu. I remembered this conversation. I’d had it so many times, Thea, parents, friends, Jacob, teachers. “Don’t you think youd look a bit better if you just put on a bit of weight”. Slap in the face. Although I know this is all coming from a place of love and care, that statement knocks me. I cannot even speak. I just sob, harder. I try to say it, but I cant. I’m too hurt and battered and angry to even say the words. It is not to do with how I look. I know I look like shit. I hate that I cannot sit and eat bread and butter and cheese with you all. It is not bread I know. It is foreign and scary. If it were to do with how I look then it would be easy. I thought they knew that. People always say things like “but you/she was such a pretty girl”. As if that is what makes the disease confusing. As if if I were the bearded woman, with a monobrow, warts and 3 eyes, then it would make sense. I could look like Cheryl Cole, Kate Moss (whoever is considered beautiful these days), or look like a baboons backside. It would make no difference. There are many different theories about why it happens. Environment, biological, need for control, pressure from ourselves, pressure from the media, pressure from those around us. I think it is a combination of them all. Maybe I am kidding myself and it is simply me striving for beauty. However, if this were the case, then all those afflicted with an eating disorder are vain, selfish and judgmental. I do not measure the value of others on how they look. I have friends of all shapes and sizes and I do not care. ‘Normal’ is not anything to me. Those with disabilities, I still love. My love for them if not effected by what some may describe as an abnormality. I do not measure in physical beauty. Some have argued that I have surrounded myself with a particularly ‘beautiful’ group of friends. This is true, however, I did not choose those girls because of how they look. We do not sit around discussing latest beauty techniques and how to better ourselves in the looks department (quite the opposite, our common room at school was filled with conversations frequently of toilets, our bodily functions, and other not so ‘ladylike’ topics). If it were the case that this is what cemented our friendship, then even if they had once considered me ‘pretty’, they would sure as hell not be friends with me now. Anorexia is not pretty. Yet they still rally around me and I am lucky.  I cannot argue with the fact that societies weight focus has definitely had an influence, however, the cat walk is not to blame for the curse. If it were not through food, then my feelings towards myself would have manifested themselves in another way, I would have chosen another form of punishment. The worry, frantic conversations, tears come from a place of love, I know that. I know I would be just as frustrated if it were someone else. Everyone has different opinions on how to make it better. Uni/no uni.  Inpatient/outpatient. No one knows. There is no clear path. Trial and error. No wonder drugs. Some that can help, just a little. None that can fix it though.

I wish I could sit and eat animal pasta covered in butter with my niece. I wish I didn’t upset everyone. I wish I could be well. All I ever wanted was to be ‘better’. 

Serotonin?

   Soon, soon the flesh

   The grave cave ate will be

   At home on me

   And I a smiling woman.

   I am only thirty.

   And like the cat I have nine times to die.

   This is Number Three.

   What a trash

   To annihilate each decade.

   What a million filaments.

   The peanut-crunching crowd

   Shoves in to see

   Them unwrap me hand and foot

   The big strip tease.

   Gentlemen, ladies

   These are my hands

   My knees.

   I may be skin and bone,

   Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.

   The first time it happened I was ten.

   It was an accident.

   The second time I meant

   To last it out and not come back at all.

   I rocked shut

   As a seashell.

   They had to call and call

   And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

   Dying

   Is an art, like everything else,

   I do it exceptionally well.

   I do it so it feels like hell.

   I do it so it feels real.

   I guess you could say I've a call.

   It's easy enough to do it in a cell.

   It's easy enough to do it and stay put.

   It's the theatrical

   Comeback in broad day

   To the same place, the same face, the same brute

   Amused shout:

   'A miracle!'

   That knocks me out.

   There is a charge

   For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge

   For the hearing of my heart----

   It really goes.

   And there is a charge, a very large charge

   For a word or a touch

   Or a bit of blood

   Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.

   So, so, Herr Doktor.

   So, Herr Enemy.

   I am your opus,

   I am your valuable,

   The pure gold baby

   That melts to a shriek.

   I turn and burn.

   Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

   Ash, ash ---

   You poke and stir.

   Flesh, bone, there is nothing there---

An extract from Lady Lazarus- Sylvia Plath

The past few days have been stressful and anxious. I caught a stomach bug.When someone struggling with anorexia catches a stomach bug however, it 

is not simply a duvet day in bed. It is my mother making anxious calls to 

various medical professionals, resulting in the final conclusion "Get her to 

casualty as quickly as possible". So we went. As I was bundled into the car mum tried to joke "Car, take us to Ealing hospital" she said, making light of the fact that considering the amount of journeys we have made too and from the hospital, our little Yaris should know the route off by heart. I forced a smile. She held my hand and started up the car. When we got to the hospital I was shivering violently. We proceeded into the Accident and Emergency unit, it was, as usual, busy. The fact that it was a bank holiday seemed to make little difference to this fact. We went to the desk and were greeted by a friendly looking man, he looked over at me and smiled, the way you smile at a young child. Clearly my lack of makeup and normal clothing had led him to believe I was much younger than my twenty years. The man and mum both looked at me, expecting me to say something. I stood, mute. Looked at mum, giving her the message that I sure as hell didn't feel like explaining things, nor did I want to be there, so she could do the talking. "My daughter, Maya, she's got anorexia, she's currently being treated, but she's been sick all this morning and we were advised to get her to accident and emergency". "Self induced?" The man said accusingly. "NO" I offered forcefully. I knew they would all assume this. It made me angry. Mum held my hand "No, I've been with her, she can't control it. We're just worried about her electrolytes, specifically her potassium levels and obviously her heart". I could feel the silent waiting room full of people listening. I shuddered, hating that they all knew my horrible title "anorexic". "Right- take a seat and someone will be with you in a minute". We moved to two empty seats. Compulsively mum pulled off her coat, carefully folded it and put it down on the chair for me to sit on, recognising the hard hospital chairs were not make for my small bony bum. Within two minutes we were called in to see the nurse. The eyes of the waiting room burned into us. We'd skipped the queue. The little boy with a bandage around his head was crying steadily. Yet again I flushed as we scurried into the nurses office. My vital were taken. Very low blood pressure. Very high temperature. I was quickly swept into another room, bundled into a hospital gown, laid on a bed, wired up to a machine to check my heart. Pricked, prodded, blood taken. The nurse fumbled and blood oozed all down my arm. A procedure which once threw me into hysterics has now become routine, however, this blip brought on a wave of terror. I sobbed and sobbed. They forced another needle into my arm, much more painful than I knew it should have been. Quickly I was hooked up to a drip. I put on my iPod and closed my eyes. I lay down. With my right arm hooked to the drip I was scared to move it. My left was soon also assaulted. A second attempt to get blood. This time successful. With my eyes closed, my other senses were sharpened. I knew the drip was not yet on, I had not felt the cold liquid starting through my body. I turned and saw a group of medics fiddling with the machine. "It's saying there's an air bubble". I waited. More people came, fiddled, left. Still no rush of cold. Then, suddenly, I felt it. It was not just cold, it hurt. I breathed in sharply and turned to the doctor "It hurts" I told him. "It's the potassium, it will a bit". He said unsympathetically. So I lay there and fell asleep. Mum by my side reading Harry Potter. Every inch of my waif like body despising the foolish girl who had got it into this position. I woke up suddenly, needing the toilet. "I'll grab a wheelchair" the doctor said "I can walk, I walked in here". "Are you sure, your blood pressure is so low, I don't think you can". "I'm pretty sure I could skip there if you wanted" I told him. He did not laugh. Instead of a wheelchair a large porter was summoned to walk behind me, his arms held in front of him slightly open, shuffling along as a nurse guided my drip. We must have looked absolutely ludicrous. I'm pretty sure if I had seen this performance I would have been hysterical, however, I wasn't, I was pissed off. I was pissed off with the porter, shuffling along as if I needed to be carried. I was pissed off with the doctor, for not allowing me to push my own drip. Ultimately though, I was pissed off with myself, for getting to such a state that a slight stomach bug could lead to such hysteria. 

Hours and hours passed, me, lying in bed, drip pulsing through my arm, mum sitting patiently, reading Harry Potter and stroking my head periodically. Every now and then a nurse would appear, take my temperature, blood pressure, frown. "My blood pressure is ALWAYS low" I pleaded with each one "It's never going to get up to normal, however long we wait". Mum seconded this, until they told her the reading "Bloody hell, that IS low Maya, even lower than usual, lie down". I do as I am told and lie and lie, drifting in and out of sleep, thinking about how the hell I ended up here. Wishing that someone could have shown me a photo of me now, lying in a hospital gown with a drip hanging out of my arm. That someone could have showed me a photo of myself last summer, upon entering the eating disorder unit. That someone could have poignantly drawn my attention to the fact that prior to me developing an eating disorder there were new photos of me every week out with friends and having fun. Since anorexia entered my life however, these photos have slowly dissolved into just shy of nothingness. Kate Moss' mishap line "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" is held up as a holy motto among many wishing to lose weight, as well as those suffering from eating disorders. My response is this...compare me, two years ago, to me now. Skinny does not feel good. I thought it would make things better, that i'd be more confident. That i'd be happy. I have achieved none of this. In fact, quite the opposite. Anorexia is full of such contradictions. People say we are searching for control, ultimately, we end up puppets to the disorder. People say we are vain and starving for attention. We end up wishing we could just disappear. People say we are searching for happiness. We plunge ourselves into hell. So, I know all of this. I am totally aware of the fact that starvation has not made me happy. That it has not been a magic cure to my problems. That ultimately, this lifestyle will lead to my demise. So, you must be wondering...why the hell isn't she sitting eating anything she can get her hands on right now? Well, that's the trick. Anorexia is an addiction. When starving, your body produces huge amounts of adrenaline. This means many of those suffering with anorexia will literally be waifs, as high as kites. This is why even when I was completely empty, literally starving, I was still managing to run like a maniac. This is why I have sleepless nights. You become a manic insomniac, and you are addicted to it. However, you are not a happy manic insomniac. I MUST stress this. There is a reason there has been a noticeable change in my character in the past two years and that is, whilst my body is getting lots and lots of adrenaline, I am not able to produce serotonin, i.e. the happy chemical. It needs food to get into your brain and fill it with happy happy rainbows. No food=no rainbows. This is another thing no one tells you before you begin starving. There is a reason Beyonce looks a hell of a lot happier than Keira Knightly, Posh and Kate Moss. So, the moral of the story? Happiness does not reside at the bottom of an empty stomach, biology tells us this, but if that isn't enough, I am walking proof. 

Stupid bears...

You can't go over it, you can't go under it, you can't go round it...you have to go through it. So what the hell happens if you go through it and end up further back then where you began? Well, the initial reaction is to say "This is bloody unfair", it just fuels the monster, inside it roars with pleasure, applauds you for losing weight, but still kicks you for being so frivolous, weak, such a disappointment and eating. "You dodged a bullet there" it hisses "but you won't be so lucky next time". It is not only the monster that is attacking, you visibly see everyone in the room slump, disappointment pasted across my mother's face, the guilt is overwhelming. I hate upsetting everyone, but I cannot win. If I lose, upset, if I gain, attack. I suppose I just need to bare in mind that either way it will be painful, so I might as well bite the damn bullet and go down the least dangerous path. I will not let the anorexia cause my death, lead me to a wheelchair, wound my family and friends. It is difficult, close to impossible however, when I come to this conclusion, do what I need to do and it does not pay off. It just means I have to eat more, which is never easy, but it has to be done. As my dear friend pointed out, many people would love to be in my position, eating ice-cream, hot chocolate, constant carbs and losing weight, but not me, because I am not allowed to lose any more weight. The more I lose, the closer I get to being sent back to Vincent Square. The thought of ending up as an inpatient once again haunts me, I wake up at night terrified, just at the thought. I am trying to run as far away from that place as I can. As my therapist pointed out I am getting dangerously close once again. My BMI is back below 15, below 15 means critical. It is dangerous, she pointed out, for me to not be in hospital. I was planning to go away, have a break, we were looking at New York, New Zealand, now nothing, I am not allowed to fly, it is too dangerous. I hate that I am back here, being held back by the bitch, even though I am trying. It's just so unfair. All I can do is keep on trying and I will. I am determined to go and see my new little nephews and to beat this.

Can't go over it, can't go under it, have to go through it...

In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was going to get out again . .There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked, and when Alice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to get out again.
Lewis Carroll

Like Alice, when you first fall, you give no thought to how the hell you are going to scramble out. The deeper you get, the more difficult it becomes. Sadly, for most, it takes hitting the bottom and realising Wonderland is really not where you want to be. To get out though, you've got to face it...my dietician, Tom, uses the analogy of a forest. On one side of this forest is doom, gloom and destruction i.e, hospital, wheelchair, misery and death (he paints a jolly picture!) On the other side of this forest is everything I want, a family, a good uni degree, a beautiful house, a successful career, to be happy, my friends etc etc (I don't have high expectations AT ALL?!) But...the forest in between looks pretty damn scary. It's dark and thick with trees and I cannot see what's ahead. It seems easier to stay on the side of the forest I am (doom gloom and destruction), because doom gloom and destruction looks ok at the moment, (it's all painted pretty and pink or something, I don't know, but it's disguised). So, i've got a choice, either I venture into the dark and scary forest, which i'm pretty sure is full of huge scary grizzly bears, ready to eat me, or I stay put and just hope for the best. Recovery is starting through the forest, venturing through Wonderland, and facing my fears. It seems terrifying, every step, every bite, I am on edge, what will I have to face? Tom says there aren't really any bears, I just think there are, I am not convinced. Anorexia is peculiar. It manages to convince you that if you eat and gain weight, you will be in great danger, that you will die, so you become terrified of food. The reality is this fear of food it what is going to kill you. Just like eating will not kill me, neither will the bears. And anyway, Tom says if there are any bears, he'll be in the forest with a huge shotgun, nice to know my dietician's got my back!

So, I have taken my first few steps into the forest after realising Wonderland is not quite as rosy as it looked. I am still pretty on edge, looking over my shoulder at every little sound I hear. I am lucky though, because i've got my friends and family to drag me through the dark scary place, and I know they will take on any bears. The only problem is, i've entered the forest and the other side has got bloody further away. I've been eating what feels like monstrous amounts to me. Piling in the porridge, potatoes, noodles, I have even been eating chocolate fingers (i've gotta admit, although I was pretty convinced the chocolate fingers would kill me and were plotting against me, they're pretty damn delicious). So, after all this fear facing, after donning my ninja gear and taking down the bears, wolves, whatever the hell the anorexic bitch puts in my path I jump on the scales, absolutely quaking in my boots that I am going to be the 50 ton woman and low and behold...I HAVE LOST WEIGHT. The physically impossible has happened. I literally see mum slump and I cannot believe it. "You're gonna need more" Tom says. So more there was. More chocolate fingers, more potatoes, more porridge, more milky coffees, hell, i've even had white hot chocolates and chocolate mousse. So, what next?! Tomorrow I will find out. Yet again, I am terrified. I am dreading getting on the scales and seeing some monstrous number (i.e a HUGE grizzly bear with fangs and sharp claws...that can also breathe fire), but hey, i've just got to remember, the grizzly bear is actually pretty cute and cuddly, if you just give it a chance. The other side of this forest is bright, and i've got to keep going. If not for me, then for everyone I care about.

I remember, as a child I used to love the book "we're going on a bear hunt", it had a pretty good line- "We can't go over it, we can't go under it, we can't go round it...OH NO! We'll have to go through it!" Sadly, recovery is the same, I just wish there were some way to get round it.

I will update tomorrow after the weigh in and such. One step closer to that other side...

I'd also like to say thank you so so much to those who have offered to sponsor me for the 'pound for a pound' idea. It means so much to have your support, I visualise the good I can do if I get to my target weight before I get on the scales and it really helps keep me a little calmer. If you would like to pledge, even if you can only spare a penny a pound, please email me on 'mayapillay@hotmail.co.uk'. Not a conventional sponsorship idea, I know, but it truly is going to two amazing charities (see below).

Thanks again,

Maya

p.s. Sorry for not writing for SO long. I have had an astounding amount of uni work, so have been running around like a headless chicken all Easter getting it sorted!