Goodbye Sally.

Grief. I can’t even pretend to understand it. It hurts. It’s hard. It completely and utterly sucks. I’m starting with what feels like the easier of the three – my dog Sally (the others being my Grandma and my sister-in-law’s dad).

I’ve grown up with pets. My family has always had a dog… and usually a cat as well, sometimes rabbits too. I’ve had many, many pets in my life. As an adult I’ve had rats, mice and fish. All of my pets have died, but somehow.. well, I push it away, stop thinking about them and remove any reminder of them from my life. I’m pretty good and shutting things out, ignoring, avoiding etc. I have a talent! Although… maybe that’s not a good thing.

We got Sally when I was… maybe… seven or eight. I really don’t remember what age, I just remember the house we lived in, some friends I had, the school I went to. My friend Jessica’s family had four terriers, all Fox Terriers or Foxie crosses. I remember one dog was called Pip, that’s about it. One of them had puppies, only three or four. I was over at my friend’s house a few days after they were born.

I remember Sally as a puppy – she was tiny, so soft, smooth, and 100% cute. I don’t remember her mum’s name but she had the same wiry coat… and was mostly a tan colour. We didn’t have a dog at the time. Our last dog, Sooty, had bitten a family friend who put his hand through the gate to open it… he was put to sleep, because, uhhhhh, he “wasnt well”. That was the story my mother told us in the car park at Coles after school one day.

So one day, whilst at my friend’s place my parents came to pick me up and told me I could choose a puppy. I didn’t have to think about it, I wanted Sally from the start! My friend’s family had called her Lassie and I still wanted to call her that. My parents, I think, decided on Sally.

Sally as a puppy.

At the time I was obsessed with animals. I wanted to be a vet (and did until I was fourteen or fifteen). I’d play with any cat, dog or other animal I could. I’d play with the neighbour’s kitten that would run away from everyone else. I once encouraged home a stray cat from the neighbour’s farm… he stuck around, was treated for fleas and was quickly named Tom.

Sally though, Sally was special. I don’t remember what happened to many of the pets we had. I remember having them but don’t know why they didn’t stay with us for years and years like Sally did. I blame DID for that. When she died, Sally was at least thirteen, probably fourteen or more. She did incredibly well.

I know I spent a lot of my teen years crying silently into her fur or curled up with her in my bed. As lame as it sounds, I could tell her anything. I’d spend hours and hours walking her… an escape from the crap at home, exercise for me in my crazy, ED addled headspace and exercise for her.

I actually can’t remember much of the time I spent with her, but I know she was always there. I fed her, walked her, trained her, groomed her. She was my dog.

It’s not likely I’d visit my parents any time soon… but if I did she wouldn’t be there. It’s knowing she’s gone, that I will never see her again that hurts. I miss my dog.

Sally as a puppy.

Sally and one of our cats Tom.

Sally with sunnies!

Sally at Christmas!

Sally and me in my late teens.

Sally.

Just being cute on the beanbag.

Sally asleep on my bed :D

Sally and another of our cat’s (Sam).

Sally and Sam were best friends :D

Sally and Sam sleeping together on mum and dad’s bed.

Sally :)

Sally and I whilst I was back at home packing to move to Melbourne.

Sally on an early morning walk we took whilst I was back home packing.

Sally being made to pose on an old ute/horse jump in the old gold course.

F It.

I’ve spent three days in bed. I did have plans, I honestly did. I was going to chill at home for one day then go shopping on one of my other free days. I’ve done none of it. I showered because a friend told me to. I only got dressed today because I sold something on gumtree and the guy was coming to pick it up.

I haven’t experienced depression like this for two years. Not this overpowering and ongoing. I can’t find words to describe it. I don’t want to get up and do things. I don’t want to leave the house. Showering is an unbelievable effort… and why bother if Im not going out? Being awake is emotionally painful. The thoughts in my head are exhausting, demanding, draining.

I fall asleep with the overwhelming urge to self-harm. I wake with that same urge. In the last couple of weeks I have self-harmed. I’m ashamed. I regret doing it. I hate that I’m going to have to hide what I’ve done under tubi-grip until the damage fades. I feel weak that I have given into self-harming in order to cope. It’s disappointing.

The ED behaviours fill me with disappointment as well. I don’t like that I’m engaging in so many self-destructive behaviours. I’m not proud of it. Yet at the same time it feels like these behaviours are keeping me alive. As obscure as it sounds, engaging in less fatal behaviours stops me from doing something more permanent. Maybe that is warped, twisted, depressive thinking but that is how I see it.

The next few days are going to be busy. I have therapy tomorrow, an appointment with my case manager and psych registrar on Tuesday morning, then my GP on Tuesday afternoon. I am rostered to work on Wednesday and Thursday. Friday to Sunday are free, for now.

Right now I do not know how I will get through this week. I’ll survive. That’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. It’s just that it’s not easy right now.

Fuck depression. Fuck eating disorders. Fuck abuse and trauma and all the bad shit that goes on in this world! None of it is fair and none of it is okay!

Worn Out.

“Worn out” doesn’t even come close to how I’m feeling at the moment. I slept for ten hours last night, yet woke up with absolutely no energy.

I’ve worked ten hours over two days. Each day I’ve had the equivalent of four or five energy drinks. ZERO effect. Seriously. I think my body has had enough. Even though I’ve eaten more in the last week than the previous two combined, my body is not happy.

I want to say that I don’t know what to do… but I think I do know. I think I need to be eating more food and more regularly. I need to cut out the energy drinks, the diet pills and the appetite suppressants. That is just to get my body functioning properly.

For my mind? I need to make some changes. I need to…. Well, I’m not sure. I probably need some pharmaceutical help for the depression. I need to do a lot of internal work to help settle things inside. I need… I don’t even know what else.

It’s safe to say that I am most definitely not okay. I’ve worked this week because I’ve been feeling physically better. I’ve smiled, laughed, and joked with customers and work mates. Now I am about to cry. I can’t smile anymore.

I am thankful that I have three days now with nothing planned. Tomorrow will most certainly be a bed day. The other days, right now, will also be bed days. I don’t want to see people because I don’t have the emotional energy left to pretend to be happy, together and okay. I’m not. Not at all.

If I could flick a switch that would allow me to die when I next fall asleep… I would. I don’t want to keep going right now. At some point I know this will pass… Yet I know that the depression is extremely likely to return.

My mood does vary at the moment. It moves slightly up and down… From desperately wanting to die to being able to smile for a few moments. I suppose it’s a plus that I’m not constantly wanting to kill myself. If it were like that I’m certain I would have attempted suicide already. As it is.. the plans that have been created keep me from acting on anything right now.

Self-harming is also allowing me to maintain my sanity. That might sound odd so let me explain. Self-harming, even restricting and binging helps make the overwhelming mess is my head more tolerable for a short time. It’s keeping me from acting on anything more life threatening

I know this is a depressing post, but honestly – I’m sick of saying I’m okay, that things will work out, get better etc. Right now it’s shit. “Shit” doesn’t even come close. I don’t have words for the level of emotional, psychological, whatever, pain that I’m in.

The Pain Inside.

Oh my, this post is going to be, I think, rather dark and depressing. It does reflect my state of mind right now.

I remember being in my late teens. It was when I first started walking out of the house and away from my parents. Perhaps age fifteen or so. I needed to get out. To get away. To be free. To walk. Walk, run, escape.

I was still in the early stages of my eating disorder. I didn’t have much awareness of why I did what I did. I didn’t understand, I just did what felt right. Walking was my thing. I walked and walked and walked. It gave me space. Helped me lose weight too.

Walking helped me to clear my head. To breathe. To have space. To have peace in my head. To just be. To imagine another life. I’d most often walk with my dog (RIP Sally). Walk around the old golf course near my house.

Native trees and grasses had been allowed to grow. Horse jumps had been set up for the local pony club gymkhanas. There was a small creek that flowed through it. Surrounded my trees, shrubs, grass. Hidden from the road. A private sanctuary. A calming space to be. Picture perfect. My hidden oasis.

So that first time I walked out of the house, against my mother’s wishes, that was where I went. It was late afternoon. After school. I didn’t take my dog. I just walked out. I walked for a couple of hours until the rage in me had subsided and was replaced by a deep yet unrelenting pain.

I found one of the more comfortable horse jumps and just sat. I sat and cried. I sobbed until there was no more. Then I sang. Just quietly, but sang. A popular (at the time) Avril Lavigne song – I’m With You.

…and I cried some more.

Eventually the sun started to go down. It began to get cold. I shivered but didn’t want to return home to the chaos that awaited me. I sat and stared at the road. Up the hill and around the corner… that’s where my house was. The road up the hill was a dirt one… steep and annoying to walk up, yet so satisfying to get to the top.

From where I sat I could see the roof of my house. I could imagine that arguments going on inside. My mother complaining to my father. Telling him how I’d walked out. That whatever had started this argument was my fault. That I was horrible, rebellious, needed to be punished, taught a lesson.

The view, from the Old Golf Course, of my old house (orange roof).

I wondered if my parents would come looking for me. Drive around to see if they could find me. No one did. I concluded that I just didn’t matter enough. That I wasn’t important. That me having being gone for hours, and it now being dark, just didn’t matter.

That sense of utter unimportance, of insignificance hurt more than anything.

I know that my life is different now. That I am out of that destructive family, yet my current feelings haven’t changed a great deal.

I am back to believing that my presence is of little significance to anybody. That my disappearance would mean nothing if it were even noticed. I don’t know how accurate my current thinking is. I’ve been told I am severely depressed. Logically I know that depression would significantly impair my thinking. However… I do feel that my thinking is accurate and my beliefs are correct.

I do not feel capable of continuing right now. This, however, is not a suicide post and I am currently safe. It’s just that the pain I have inside of me right now is becoming so incredibly overwhelming. No words can describe the level of pain, the hurt, the torment, the self-hatred I have inside of me.

I heard that Avril Lavigne song on the bus today. I’d turned off my ipod as the movie I’d been watching had finished. I’d spent the last thirty minutes on the bus doing my best to keep the tears inside, to not sob hysterically and uncontrollably in front of so many people. That song… that one song, sent more tears sliding down my cheeks.

Just a Little Unwell

The following does discuss eating disorder
behaviours and consequences -
it may be triggering.

 

 

 

 

I’ve sat here for a while now trying to think about what to write. I desperately want to write about how well I’m coping, the things I’ve achieved, and what I plan to do next.

I do keep slipping back into this belief that everything is okay. All I have to do is ask a friend or any member of my treating team if I’m okay and the answer is “No”. Everyone around me is saying I am not okay. Yet it’s still not quite sinking in.

In the last week it’s sunk in that I’m not physically very well. But ya know, it’s not all that bad either! I mean, well, it’s just not that bad. I’m fine. I haven’t stopped eating or drinking completely. I haven’t passed out. I mean… it could be worse.

I haven’t been well though. That did begin to sink in when I had a call from my GP at 7pm  last week. I missed the call because I was in the kitchen staring at food I wasn’t going to eat. I came back and had the following voicemail:

Rachael, it’s [GP]. Uhhh, your kidney function is not good as a result of not eating or drinking so your kidneys are starting to shut down. Rachael, you need to eat and drink. If it’s too hard to do it on your own you need to go to [local hospital] emergency department. Get a friend to go along with you. Umm, and also call the [crisis] team please. I’m really quite worried and the blood tests are abnormal so you’re doing quite a lot of harm to your body. If you can’t drink enough and eat enough on your own and it’s too hard, please go to the emergency department.

That was the scariest voicemail I have ever had. Ever. I just froze. Then the panic set in. What the heck had I done? Not that I ever intended to cause damage… or set out with any conscious purpose. Or ever chosen to relapse. Then I started questioning how much I needed to drink in order to avoid going to the hospital.

I tried. Tried and failed really. Drinking an adequate amount was completely overwhelming. I felt like a completely failure for not being able to get in “enough” fluids…. so I went to the hospital. Turned out I’d managed enough fluids to get my kidney function back to normal.

I’ve done my best to maintain my fluid intake since then. Some days I’ve done well – like today! I’m somewhat proud because it takes so much effort. Other days I’ve failed dismally. Food intake? Less than adequate. I binged on one night, but other than that food is an issue.

I’ve taken another week off work. That feels like defeat. It feels like failure. Truth is… well, my body wouldn’t, I don’t think, handle five hours of standing. After a couple of hours of slowly wandering shops I’m wiped out and need to sit. Walking up a slope and my heart is pounding and I’m beginning to get puffed and dizzy. I’m trying to take it easy. Trying not to be cruel to my body. I’m already stressing my body with restricting food and fluids.

I have been blessed with a wonderfully understanding manager at work. Last week I called the night before each shift to say I wouldn’t make it. This week.. I went in and spoke to my manager. The store was packed, everyone was busy so I waited a little while. The first thing my manager said to me? That I didn’t look well. That makes my heart sink. I explained to her that I wasn’t well, what, roughly, was going on. I also told her I didn’t know when I’d be well enough to work.

There is also the possibility of a hospital admission. I have no idea what will happen there. It’s waiting and seeing for now. I’m not relying on it. It also makes me feel guilty. I don’t think that a hospital admission is necessary because, well, ya know, I’m okay.

I have to stop hiding in denial. I am not okay.

My psychologist asked how I was going with self-care. Showering? Going out? Work? Uni? When she asked, I paused. I realised that honest answers about those things would let me down in the “I’m okay” argument. I answered honestly. I was showering before I had to leave the house, otherwise I didn’t bother. I was only leaving the house for appointments. I hadn’t worked for a week. I hadn’t gone to uni for two weeks. I was (and am) spending the majority of my time in bed because I don’t have the emotional or physical energy to do much else.

My, oh so honest, answers lead to the discussion of a hospital admission. Seeing as I could do what I’m currently doing in hospital, and have more support. I think she has a fair point. With a friend’s help she’s been given the go ahead to look into it. Not sure what will happen. I’m hoping I snap out of dangerous ED behaviours before a hospital admission becomes a reality.

I wonder if hope alone is enough to turn this around?

Supporting Someone With an Eating Disorder

How do you support someone who has an eating disorder? How do you stand by as someone you care about slowly destroys themselves?

That’s a tricky one. I’ve watched as friends have done this. I’ve cried. I’ve cried so much over the thought of losing friends to this disease. Cried because I can’t fix them. Cried because they seem so lost, so trapped, so controlled by the illness. It breaks my heart. No words describe the level of pain, despair and hopelessness one can feel in that situation.

I’m very aware that my own behaviour, at the moment, can cause that same pain, despair and hopelessness for all that care about me. I am grateful I have so many people that love and care, yet it also fills me with guilt. I don’t feel that I am worthy of that at all. When in the depths of my eating disorder every single little, deep seated fear I’ve ever had comes to the surface. I become 100% convinced that I am unlovable, unworthy, horrible and so much more.

These fears fuel the eating disorder. They give it energy and momentum that it wouldn’t otherwise have. Every single comment (from anyone), every advertisement, anything is twisted into fuelling the disorder. Someone says to focus on an end point, a goal I want to achieve. They meant in terms of recovery and being well. ED twists it to be about reaching a goal weight or dying.

I’ve strayed from my original point though.How do you support someone with an eating disorder? How can those who love and care about me support me?

Honestly? By loving and caring. I know no one can fix me, cure me, make everything okay. It doesn’t work like that. Getting better is something I have to do myself… but not necessarily on my own. I don’t think someone can recover on their own. Yes, they need to do the work to get better, but to do that in isolation would be incredibly hard.

Sometimes I need reassurance. In the past I’ve cried and screamed over food, eating it, and so much more. What’s most useful when I’m sobbing about how much I’ve eaten, how horrible I feel and how I’ve ruined everything is reassurance. Gentle, loving reassurance. Yelling at me about how I’m wrong and irrational doesn’t help. It gives the ED so much more ammunition and leads to, oh so many, arguments.

In supporting others in the past I’ve stuck to the facts. Referred back to what I know the person’s dietitian, GP, psychologist etc. have said. I stick to facts. Body’s need food. Food is fuel. If you’ve been starving and binge - it does feel really uncomfortable and frightening, but it will be okay.

In saying that, when I’m panicking about how much I’ve consumed, there is very little anyone can say to comfort me. Reminders that it will be okay do help ever so slightly. Distractions are useful. It really is a matter of sitting it out. Eventually the intense, overwhelming feelings and thoughts do settle.

One of the most unhelpful things I’ve experienced is the blame game. Over the years I’ve been blamed for becoming ill, for not recovering, for hurting people, for being selfish. I think many, many comments are made out of fear, love and concern. When I’m in a logical space I do understand where the comments have come from. However, regardless of the space I am in, these comments are so unhelpful. They are crushing, destroying, soul breaking.

That might sound overly dramatic but consider this: Someone with an eating disorder, myself included, is already filled with self-loathing, self-hatred and generally appalling self-esteem. Adding blame to someone who is already suffering is just cruel. Family and friends are very much entitled to their thoughts and feelings, it’s just that, it is not appropriate to share some of these with the sufferer. It isn’t useful. It doesn’t help.

All I suggest is that you think about how your comment will be of use and how it may be interpreted by the sufferer. If a negative outcome is a possibility – just leave it for now. Bite your tongue, pop your thoughts and feelings aside for a moment. These can be expressed to someone other than the sufferer. Find someone to vent to. Someone who can listen to you yell and scream your frustration. Your burning urge to shake some sense into the sufferer.

The bottom line – gentle, loving and patient reassurance does help. Blaming, accusing and inducing guilt do not help.

Not Enough.

I’d like to say that I’m well. That life is on track. That I’m happy. That I have goals, ambitions, plans.

Trigger Warning
The following contains Eating Disorder content
and suicidal thoughts.

 

I don’t. None of it is true. It feels like my life is rapidly spiraling out of control and I am doing so very little to stop it. I keep coming back to – I don’t want to live. More than that. I want to die. Perhaps not necessarily that. I just am tired. I don’t want to keep going. I see such little point in it. In saying that – I am completely safe. 100% safe from self-harm and suicide.

I saw my psych registrar yesterday, I think it was yesterday. She offered me antidepressants. I said no. Not yet. Not now. No, because they have side effects. They will make me gain weight. If there is no improvement by next week, I think I am meant to reconsider.

The eating disorder is destroying my life, yet making life bearable at the same time. My psychologist, I think it was her, has said it’s a slow suicide. It is. It definitely is. I’m not consciously doing it to kill myself. It’s just… it makes being awake more bearable. Being awake right now, having days stretching ahead of me is draining and painful.

It seems I’m still medically stable despite feeling beyond crap. My body is fantastic at homeostasis.

I saw my GP today and was warned where engaging in ED behaviours would lead – hospital. She insisted on weighing me. I argued. I weigh myself at home. I can tell her my weight. Apparently it would be negligent of her not to weigh me there considering the ED is back. I laughed at her. She refused to argue. She has this way of just not engaging with my arguments. Telling me how it is and for some reason I comply.

I asked for a medical certificate for work. Walking for ten minutes makes me puffed, dizzy and so, so tired. I’m ready for a nap when I get to where I’m going. Caffeine only makes it harder. I’m mentally alert but even more physically wrecked. I felt beyond guilty asking for that medical certificate.

I don’t think I should be calling in sick. I simply need to eat and drink some more and I’ll be fine. Except it’s not that simple. I have tomorrow off as well and feel extremely guilty for that. I don’t think I could manage standing for the full five hours of my shift. The chest pain, the shortness of breath… and everything else.

It’s just rubbish. I hate feeling so unwell. I hate being threatened with hospital. Yet neither of those are enough to snap me out of this. I don’t know what will. At some point I’ll come to my senses and get back on track. For now? I keep holding on even though it looks like I’m giving up.

I keep telling those around me that I am trying. I don’t think I am trying hard enough. It feels like I am going downhill fast and my attempts to slow it are just useless. Stopping it? I have absolutely no faith in my ability to stop it, not this time.

The Consequences.

It’s funny how you can be doing something for quite a period of time, be aware that you’re doing it, but still be some what shocked, puzzled and confused when the consequences hit you.

 

 

The following does discuss eating disorder thoughts and behaviours.
It may be triggering.

I know what happens when I restrict (consciously or not) my food and fluid intake. I know that I will feel physically terrible at some point. I know that loads of caffeine will make my heart rate soar, cause chest pain and generally make me feel rubbish.

I know all of that, yet when it happens I’m shocked. I didn’t think it would happen. I didn’t think anything I was doing was “that bad”. I haven’t had “that much” caffeine.

Logically I’m very aware of behaviours, consequences and the risks. That would be why, when I’m well, that I don’t do those things. I don’t want to feel unwell, so I don’t engage int he behaviours that make me feel unwell.

That doesn’t mean that I’m engaging in current behaviours in order to feel unwell. I don’t like feeling so physically crap. It sucks. It’s not what I want at all.

Today has been rubbish physically. I, somehow, didn’t think I should feel so unwell given my behaviours. Yeah, not eating heaps but still eating. Fluids? Oh yeah, I’ve had a bit to drink, think it’ll do. But no. Body say no.

My body says “Stop. Stop starving me. Stop with the ridiculous amounts of caffeine. Stop restricting fluids. Just stop!”

I’ve tried today. I’ve felt so rubbish that I’ve really tried. Aside from my sugar free energy drinks, diet pills and appetite suppressants, I’ve had very little. I’m working on the fluids. Sipping cordial is an enormous effort. Sugar free cordial of course.

I don’t know the way out of this. I can explain what’s going on in my head. I can explain all the reasoning behind the thoughts and behaviours. What I’m struggling with is changing the behaviours. To be perfectly honest – I have very little interest in changing the behaviours.

I do want to. I want to be well. I don’t want to physically struggle like this and I know that can get worse. it’s just… the thought of eating. It’s like this – being woken early by  someone pulling the curtains open to bright sunshine. You roll over, curl up, pull the covers over your head and block it out.

That’s what it’s like. Just without any intense emotion. I don’t feel like eating. I don’t particularly want to either because I gained weight yesterday and that does freak me out slightly. Part of me just doesn’t care enough about life to try to eat more.

I don’t know what is going to happen this time around. Last time (towards the end of last year) I snapped myself out of it. I still don’t know how. None of the professionals I see can offer any insight on it either. It just changed.

How long before that happens this time? How sick do I get before I start caring enough to push through it and give my body what it needs?

Unwell

The following does touch on suicidal thoughts and ED behaviours in a very broad way – it may be triggering.

 

 

 

 

I’ve been debating what to write here. It’s not appropriate to write about everything.

I’m not well. I won’t lie about that. I’m smiling, I’m laughing, I’m joking, but I am not okay.

I saw my psychologist and GP this week. I think the session with my psychologist was useful, but when I came home I sort of snapped. Sort of. I don’t remember the specific moment. I just know that things changed. Any positivity or realistic optimism I had disappeared. It didn’t fade. It was just gone.

I came to the conclusion that I would never be able to finish university. Four years of study in total. If I ever got through that, which I wouldn’t, I would never be able to work. I would never be functional enough to do so. So, well, if I can’t work, then why study? The decision has been made to quit university all together. I still have to organise this.

It goes on from there – If I can’t work, can’t do what I want to do and studying is pointless (despite getting some enjoyment from it) – then why bother with anything? I moved on to the logical (in my mind) conclusion that I need to die. That, well, there isn’t actually any reason to live.

I spent hours thinking, writing, planning. None of it was particularly useful.

The only issue with all of this was that I saw my GP on Tuesday. She has a bit of a routine she goes through. Asks how I am to begin with and then seems to have the same set of questions for me each time. Mood? Thought of self-harm? Any self-harm? Thoughts of suicide? Sometimes a question about food and/or fluids, but usually only after she’s seen my BP and/or heart rate are off.

It turns out, quite logically, I suppose, that answering “yes” to having thoughts of suicide makes things a hell of a lot more complicated. I explained that I only had thoughts. I had no means of taking any action. Further questions landed me in deeper water. My GP called my case manager with the public team I see whilst I was sitting there. She demanded that the crisis team be involved because, apparently, I wasn’t safe.

My case manager wanted to talk to me herself so I had to go and sit in an empty office and wait for her to call. I explained the same things to her that I did to my GP. I still got the crisis team. I had a couple of phone calls from them over the public holiday here and that’s it. Nothing more. I had to see my GP again after my case manager spoke to me. It just got worse. My heart rate was too high and my GP wanted to know why. I don’t lie. Usually. There’s no point in lying.

I’d had a stupid amount of caffeine from sugar free energy drinks and diet pills. I was asked if I wanted to have a heart attack. I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t say that, actually, that would be a blessing. She moved on to asking if I wanted to be a vegetable after having a heart attack. “No.” I was then reminded of the risks of starvation, dehydration and excessive caffeine. My arguments were met with nothing but pure logic and fact. She asked to see me in a week. I have an appointment before work next Wednesday.

I’m not sure where to from here. I just don’t know. I see all of my team next week. I have no clue how that will go. Although, how it goes really rests in my hands. I can make choices, can, in theory, change my behaviour so that decisions aren’t made for me.

Pure Revoltion.

The following post does touch on ED thoughts and behaviours. It may be triggering.

Right now, right now nothing disgusts me more than the site of my naked body. Even my clothed body. I look on in sorrow, regret and despair and then turn away.

I don’t understand how I can find my own body so repulsive now when I have lost approximately 20kg (44 pounds). I was very overweight. I was, technically, morbidly obese. Now I just fall in to the “obese” category, based on BMI.

I desperately want to get to my goal weight. This isn’t some ridiculously low number that would have me at a BMI of 15 or something stupid. No. It’s the top of my healthy weight range. The f’ing top.

I’m not meant to be big. My body isn’t meant to be huge. I have a small build…. but I’m fat. I’m so ginormously, grossly, disgustingly overweight. I hate it. HATE.

I’ve had drastic plans forming in my head tonight. This amount of diet pills, with that amount of appetite suppressants, this many energy drinks and just that amount of food. That will make me lose weight. Fucking rapidly. It’s just a matter of sticking to it. If only I had more determination, more stamina. If only I wasn’t so fucking weak.

There’s a lot of anger in me right now. I don’t know where it’s coming from. Restricting usually comes down to controlling something. I do have ideas on what. There are a few stressors in my life right now. Restricting is a way to cope with them… although, not a good one.

Do I want to prevent it this time? Hell no. I’m diving in. I want to lose.

In saying that… I try to remember that losing weight isn’t going to fix anything.

I will leave you all with this song – “It’s Okay to Be Happy” by Jenni Schaefer. Her music is inspirational and has given me hope in dark times. I have a signed CD from her which is a truly treasured possession.