As promised, here is an update of what has
been going on in the strange old life that I inhabit. So, as many of you will
know, I am no longer an inpatient at Vincent Square. I am also no longer under
section. In fact, I am an outpatient, back home, and the closest to happy I can
remember being. It’s how this all came about that is the interesting part to my
tale. I suppose I better start where I last left off. I’d like to apologise in
advance for a rather ‘to the point’ account of this particular event, it’s
quite long winded, but I wanted to get the facts down so I can finally write
again as I enjoy, without causing too much confusion with any odd references.
Also, please bare in mind it is about 1:30am and I am on a flight back from
Ibiza!
I was at Vincent Square and pretty goddamn
miserable. I was struggling massively and the most exhausted I can remember
ever having been due to relentless upset and the ridiculous regime I was
putting my body through with the exercise. Then I had a ward round and to me,
it seemed as though it was pretty hopeless. The word ‘chronic’ was used and
although everyone agreed things were not working, there was no plan of how to
try and help me make them work, just that I needed to change my behavior’s.
Obviously, I was aware of this, just as you are aware that you ‘should’ get up
now, you ‘should’ get a better job, you ‘should’ do your homework. To me,
however, it felt like every time I got up, I fell. Every time I went for a job
interview, I failed and every sum and question in my homework was unanswerable.
I don’t really know how else to explain it, but I honestly didn’t feel I could
do anymore. I was so incredibly angry I cannot describe. I was angry that it
felt like no one was listening to me. I was angry I was under section and I
felt as if I was being held prisoner, tortured, but failing to have my jail
time cut at all and that I was being wholly blamed. I pointed out that I was
there for help to get better and if I could just stop my behaviour’s, well, I’d
be at home. This did not seem to be the right thing to say and it felt horribly
like being called to the headteacher’s office with all your teacher’s around
the table telling you basically you’re dumb, failing every subject and not
making progress. Even when you asked for extra tuition, more help, you were
told that nothing more could be done. I left feeling like a piece of shit. As
you can imagine, I’m quite sure, feeling, once again, like a failure, was not
at all conducive to recovery or even determination in my case. Slowly but
surely I could feel all sense of hope and vigor ebbing out of every single pore
of my body. I felt disconnected from me, as if I were watching all of these
horrible things being done to another. I was despondent, yet livid. Constantly
arguing with the staff and regime. I felt like a nuisance all the time, as if I
was in the way, as if all of the senior management hated me, I was too much to
handle, I was worried they thought I was the gobby posh girl. The nurses, on
the actual ward all the time, seemed to have much more of a grasp of me, but I
was convinced that the powers that were all loathed me. This, for me, was a
bloody nightmare. And it was with all this in mind and my head in absolute
turmoil that I did the most spontaneous and certifiably insane (baring in mind
I actually was certified nuts at this point, that is saying something) thing I
have ever done. I booked a flight, secretly, to Barcelona the next day. I had
3.5 hours leave for a dentist appointment. I packed a small bag, wrote a letter
for my fellow patients, telling them not to worry and I would contact them upon
arrival at my destination, and prepared myself for the event. I was absolutely
terrified. The prospect of doing something quite so against the rules, about
the reactions of all those I love and care for, hell, the reactions of all
those people who I don’t like, the prospect of all the trouble I was going to
cause, the idea of my parents being angry. The police being called. All of
that, but my desperation over came that all. I knew that I had to get out of
the country. Within the UK, the police would find me and just bring me straight
back, potentially in handcuffs. I’d seen this happen to others before and I
have to say that the prospect of being dragged back to a mental hospital in
handcuffs and a police van was just too much for my pride to handle. I wanted
time, on ground where I was not bound by law to do anything, not trapped by the
dictation of those whom I did not trust. I also knew I didn’t want to go
anywhere too cold (so Paris was out of the equation) and that I needed as
short-er flight time as possible. By my calculations, no one would be any the
wiser for the time it would take me to get to the airport, check in, get on my
plane, even take off. It would be around this time that my 3.5 hours leave
would be over and alarm bells would start ringing. In order to limit the stress
on all those wondering where the hell I was, I wanted to limit the time I was
out of contact. I also factored in that I needed to be somewhere I could make
sure I had access to things I could eat, I speak a bit of Spanish (we are
talking GCSE level, however, I have found that key phrases such as ‘skinny
milk’ and ‘without sugar’ have tattooed onto my mind over the past few years.)
For this reason, I booked accommodation with a kitchenette in a city I knew
there would be familiar food and shops and I could communicate to some degree.
So, I would like to think there was ‘method to my madness’. My best friend,
Thea, now says, whenever the story is regaled ‘May, if you were trying to prove
to them you’re not insane…that wasn’t your smartest move’. I still contradict
her by saying that I’m clearly competent and have some sense of self
preservation, or I’d have absconded to a mountain somewhere and not contacted
anyone. Starting a new life as a little Peruvian girl with a pet donkey. I even
took the little red cup that I had been taught to use to measure cereal and
milk in self-catering, so as to ensure I was equipped to eat. The only draw
back to this whole self-catering, breakfast plan was that, well…id only been
taught how to do breakfast myself. You do self-catering in careful slow stages
in hospital, learning to eat again is not a quick process, and learning to feed
yourself is even harder. If you think about the journey that lots of us had
taken, from being tube fed, to put on a yogurt diet, to softs etc, and before
all of that, rejecting food all together, teaching us to eat again was kind of
like teaching astro-physics to a load of novices with a serious aversion to
science. The lovely Occupational therapists spent a lot of time helping us in
groups of 2 or 3 learn to give our bodies what we needed. So, I had breakfast
down-pat. I bloody loved breakfast. I’d have got a bloody first class degree in
my ‘re-feeding breakfast skills’. But…I couldn’t actually do anything else yet.
I knew that this adventure was going to feature a lot of cereal and toast. But
you know what, I was cool with that. In my opinion, it was better than previous
holidays that had featured a whole lot of nothing, or, me trying to communicate
with an Egyptian man in our lovely hotel that I wanted only an egg white omelet
and that he could not use oil to cook it and then freaking out as he made it in
front of me, convinced there was oil left in the pan from the previous person’s
normal omelet. (How much do you all want to go on holiday with me right now?!)
Just before the plane took off, literally, as we were trundling down the runway
and all electronics should’ve been off (don’t be angry Easy Jet), I hit send on
an email I had prepared for my parents and another I had prepared for my fellow
patients. In both, I explained I was fine, but that I had run away, my reasons
for doing so, and the assurance I would be in contact when I got where I was
going. Apparently, upon getting the message, Finlay (a fellow crazy who I love
a lot) voiced his conviction to the others that I would definitely have left
the country. Everyone told him not to be ridiculous. However, Finlay knows me
well enough to know I don’t do things by halves. He also knew I was at breaking
point and how bloody desperate I was. If only they’d listened to Finlay….
The entire flight I felt sick. I was shaking, so
so worried about everyone at home and how much trouble I’d be in. I was also
concerned that upon arrival, I’d get barred from entering Spain and forced back
onto a flight with a police escort. Thank God, this was not the case and upon
arrival in Barcelona, I breezed through boarder control. I felt in a bit of a
daze really. I had done it. I’d actually bloody done it. This was by far the
most rebellious thing I had ever done. It was at the same time exhilarating and
petrifying and the prospect of picking up any of the calls or replying to the
rapidly building messages on my phone was not a pleasant one. I picked up to my
mum though. I couldn’t leave her in the dark any longer. We had ridden the
anorexic dragon together all the way, we had fought over porridge oats and
laughed about my ridiculous convictions. It wasn’t fair to leave her panicking
when I knew how much she had battled along with me. It was pretty dreadful
telling her, she was shocked, to say the least. But in true maternal style and
instinct, she knew not to yell, or even berate me. She simply said she was
booking a flight for the next morning. Next, I picked up Beth and Finn’s call.
I told them where I was. Again, the reaction was more shocked than anything. I
told them I had somewhere to stay and food to eat and that my mum was coming. I
told them we were going to talk and try to work out what to do on neutral
grounds. I should’ve run to Switzerland. The next few days were actually quite
good, my mum was not convinced of this really, but I, for the first time in
months, felt like a proper person again, with rights and the ability to make
choices other than whether to have one stodgy meal or another. We saw the
sights, we went shopping, and through it all, we talked. A lot. Finally, I felt
listened to and that I was being taken seriously, as oppose to being a prisoner
fobbed off by the ‘but you’re mad, so we will just nod and smile’ look. I knew
I still had to go back though and this felt dreadful. Upon arriving back to
Heathrow I felt sick, this was only worsened by the message that was delivered
over the planes tannoy upon toughing down at Heathrow “Can Miss Pillay please
make herself known to the crew on board”. Bloody bloody hell. It was about to
kick off. I freaked out and burst into tears. My mum went to deal with it, and
as everyone got off the plane I saw it…2 big police men, guns, handcuffs and
all and bloody bullet proof vests. They seemed just as shocked as we were when
my mother ‘made us known’ and they were faced with 2 women, one crying, neither
over 5”3 and both with BBC English accents. Apparently, it just comes up on the
polices screen, a sort of red flag, that someone is coming into the country who
has done something illegal and that they need to be met. Not exactly the hard
criminal types. The police men were lovely about it all once my mum had
explained the situation. They called the station, who called the hospital, to
be assured that it was not necessary for them to drag me back, that I’d come
willingly and that my mum was escorting me. So, what did they do? They asked us
how we were getting back and offered their services for a lift and to speed us
through security. They told me to put my sunglasses on and it would just look
like a celebrity or wealthy person returning to the UK with appropriate
security. Bloody fantastic they were. They even carried my luggage and, once
through passport control, they popped to M&S to get themselves sandwiches
for the journey back. I was still quite mortified to hop into the police van
for the journey back, but, hey ho, the men were lovely and it saved the money
we would’ve spent on a taxi. It was whilst in the van that we all discovered
over the police radio and amidst a lot of confusion that I was no longer under
section. No one knew why and we were very muddled. I was convinced I had been
expelled from Vincent Square due to my ineptitude and general hopelessness.
This was not the case. Apparently, if you leave the country whilst under the
section, it is null and void. Who knew?! Everyone thought this was my plan all
along, but quite honestly, I had no idea. It was just a happy coincidence I
suppose. I was still expected back at the hospital that evening though, and was
not relishing the prospect, I can tell you. So, for now, that is where I will
leave the story. I am sorry it’s been so long. My blog came under scrutiny by
the units senior staff and I was asked to just ‘write my feelings in a diary’,
I really felt I was yet again being misinterpreted, as it was suggested my
writing was lots of slagging off the hospital, it’s staff, the medication,
everything really. I later found out, those ‘telling me off’ had not actually
read it. Anyway, the telling off really battered my confidence and I was
concerned about the effect the blog was having. I was told it was upsetting
others. For me, writing is one of the most cathartic exercises, as well as
giving me a bit of a confidence boost due to it’s reception. This negative
feedback was my first and I concluded that I had to stop to make life easier.
It did feel as if I were losing much more than just a silly blog though, I
felt, once again, like a talentless failure. It is only now that I’ve really felt
able to write again, and it’s been so long, that I’ve got a lot to update. For
now though, we will pause, and I will write the next part of this rather odd
tale soon.
Progress doesn’t always feel good, it doesn’t always feel as if you’re
moving forward, in fact a lot of the time it feels as if you’re giving up on
the thing that you are best at. It even feels as though you’re banishing your
closest friend and loyal ally. But at those moments I stop, I take a breath and
I think. I think about what my friends really look like. I think of all that
I’m working for now and other talents I’m discovering. I think about how much I
want to do in my life and remember that starvation and anorexia are not
compatible with any of these desires. It’s bizarre really, because my brain can
truly make me believe that if I just skip that meal, just lost that bit more
weight, things would be better, I’d be happier, the World would be a better
place. And I know it’s not true, I have clear evidence in front of me, behind
me, surrounding me, but I still buy into it sometimes. It’s hard not to, brain
chemistry is a funny thing. Through all of this though, I am stronger, I’m
becoming proud of my gains (as anyone who follows me on instagram or facebook
will know, sorry about that!) I’m seeing it as not only weight, but life,
strength, experience, courage, all of these things. I’m trying to treat myself
as I would my niece, allowing for mistakes, trips, struggles, comforting and
indulging through moments of distress. I’m doing what I love and I’m fucking
enjoying it. Exercise has once again become a joy. I’m not constantly bombarded
by the demands of a drill sergeant, demanding I do more, I’m doing what I enjoy
and what feels right. It’s making me proud of my physical strength, something
that I know I cannot have if I do not eat. I’m dancing again, and although this
in itself causes many problems (my perfectionist tendencies are still rampant
and struggling with something I used to love it hard), but instead of beating
myself up and fixating on it as I once would have, I’m trying to recognize that
I’ve been too exhausted and weak to walk in recent memory, an imperfect leg
extension is not the end of the World. I’m setting my own challenges that are
conducive to health, as oppose to being self-destructive. I don’t feel so proud
of my anorexic medals of honor any longer. I don’t feel desperate to wear my
bones as prizes on my chest. I recognized a monumental change in myself
recently when one of one of my newer, but so adored friend’s Sam told me I was
looking hot. Instead of freaking out, crying on him and taking it to mean
“you’re looking fat”, or just plastering a fake smile on my face and saying
thank you, I gave a genuine grin of pleasure. I’m embracing being a girl (I
should say woman, but I just feel weird saying that…cue Britney Spears). I’m
posting shameless (I say shameless, but in reality I worry people are thinking
‘shut up you vain and vacuous idiot’ or ‘oh lord, Maya got FAT’) photos of my
body in the moments I’m happy with it and proud of it. Don’t get me wrong, this
is not all the time. A lot of the time I agonize over being too big,
disgusting, you know the score. 
“Another page turns on the calendar, April now, not March.
I spin and weave and knit my words and visions until a life
starts to take shape.
