lalabanana's Journal

Barrage

Jul 11 2009 14:50

Given I have had a bunch of PMs now I guess I will post an entry.

I decided to get the fuck away and, hey, guess what, it's helped. Okay, so my days are empty and slow but I needed to get away from here. The atmosphere is exceedingly toxic.

In terms of life I have bigger matters right now, too. Claire had a colectomy, now has gastroparesis, and is having to be fed and drained through a tube. We got kittens that I am pretty much sole carer of. My weight is fine. I'm waiting for exam results.

I, personally, am fine. I am just taking a break longer than I expected.

Wobble

May 27 2009 12:08

My body is like a wibbly wobbly balancing ball. I don't mean, literally wobbling, but in the way my weight is going up down up down up down up down. This is normal, though, I know that. Except... it's REALLY extreme lately. Maybe my period's due again. Or maybe this is just the time of month my period would be due but isn't actually coming out. :| Still, where Mum's been checking up on me my weight'll go up by 5-7lbs (!?) in a week then back down 5-7lbs, then up again, then down again.

Isn't the body wierd?

Manifesto

May 18 2009 12:27

For general interest, I just updated this.
THE AIM IS TO GAIN: A Guide Weight Gain, Whatever Your Reason - UPDATED

4,508 words of WEIGHT GAINY GOODNESS

CCaversary

May 17 2009 12:37

One year today, I have been on Calorie Count.

When I joined originally I admit it was for sinister purposes. I was plugging in how much I ate (which was basically nothing) and used the website for all sorts of improper uses - looking up calories in almost everything, seeking out low-calorie recipies, putting in the exercise I did and trying to suss how much more I could do.

Then, when I started into recovery, things changed. At first, again, I was just using the website for the purpose of counting calories though this time for the better - I was putting in how much I ate and making sure I ate what I planned to building up to the higher calorie amounts I needed. I also monitored my weight not for the purpose of losing it, but to see if I was gaining or losing and to alter things appropriately.

Then I found the forums. And I was very naive, I was very afraid, and I started reaching out. Back then, I fell in love with the community. These were people who wanted to get better and didn't come in at such dangerous weights that they really needed help. And if they did come in at a weight so low most of the time, they knew when to step away and seek inpatient treatment.

With the nature of my disorder I was very interested in learning everything I possibly could. So I started researching. I found out why it was I was losing weight on such high amounts. I found out why it is the mind is so closely connected to ones eating habits. I started seeking out ways to cope. I attended group at my former clinic (even though I have now left it because of how atrocious the staff were; the group was the only good thing about it). And at the same time, I wanted to be a positive influence. As all the after effects of my eating disorder set in and hit me, including the social aspects as well as physical and mental, I realised I wanted to stop others going down that road.

And apparently I was doing something right as in October, I was offered the position of volunteer moderator. I set about immediately not only giving out more advice where I could but also turning the Weight Gain forum into as positive an influence as I could. No more sitting about griping because someone put on a pound. No more minimal intakes for someone that needed much, much more. I also realised that it sometimes takes more than kind words to get someone motivated; in the case of eating disorders especially, this is somewhere you have to be hard nosed and sometimes, not everyone is going to like you.

But I've finally stopped caring about that. I don't care if not everyone likes me and if it turns out you don't, it's probably because I am telling you a harsh reality you don't want to hear. I care about the people who want to listen, who help ME when I'm down as well as me helping them. I care about the people who want to be cared about.

If you're out to kill yourself, don't expect sympathy. If you're not out to make yourself well, don't expect a helping hand. If you're stuck in destructive behaviours don't ask for permission to continue with them.

And if you make progress, though not enough progress - that's great, well done, but don't think this is where you stop.

If recovery were easy, everyone would be doing it - so don't expect to be easy. Just know, the more you push and the harder you fight the easier it gets. Don't cheat yourself of a life you deserve to live.

I've learned this. In one year, I've learned so much. And in the past week, I've learned as well as helping out I have to also learn to tune out. If I see something that angers me, or someone who is insulting me, I have to take it constructively or just ignore it completely. I've learned so very much and I'll be damned if I let a handful of ingrates stop me teaching it on.

On a happier note, have some music.

Selig - Helium Vola
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NvWfJO5TCVg

While I cannot translate it all, the first lines, roughly:
Praised, praised would be the joy, praised would be that joybringing May time,
Praised would be the singing of the bird, praised would be the meadow, praised would be the forest...

Over

May 15 2009 16:19

That's it. I can't handle this anymore.

I'm going away. I don't know what I'm going to do in the mean time but I have to get away. I am not promising I will be back.

I don't want this anymore. Recovery. Life. Anything. Things were supposedly going to get better, but they're not. I just want to lie under my duvet and sleep.

Blank

May 15 2009 14:20

I love how expressing an opinion gets me attacked. I love being kicked when I'm down. Really, I do.

A Spot of Fiction

May 13 2009 23:21

I am only just getting by. My prescriptions have run out and because I'm 19, I have to pay for them now. Except I can't afford £7.10 x 5. So I have no meds. And I can't sleep. I'm seeing things. I'm really anxious and I keep being REALLY inappropriate. I have no impulse control. At all.

I wrote today. For a forum, for a character I am behind. A perspective piece. He's a scarred fighter and Oracle with a long history who is trying to mend his body and his soul. It won't fully make sense without the full lore behind it but it is appropriate to my situation I guess

Enjoy.

______

Lorelle used to tell me all the time, to take a long, hard look at myself. I don’t know how much she would appreciate me doing so now. I think it is a bit too late.

When I look, I see a maze. My face a complex complexion compromised of blisters, boils and this funny smattering of freckles I have had since I was very young. They used to be so abundant, then. You could have sworn I had basked in sunlight too long to bring them out if the rest of my skin were not of snow-white pallor. Like bone china. Mother used to call me that. China, because I was fragile. To her. A load of bollocks, really. I am a lot stronger than anyone believes. You couldn’t tell that, though, not by the frown lines that crisscross my forehead almost deep enough to seem cut there. Or by the stress marks of age, or the prematurely grey strands on my forehead. I am thirty seven years old and I have sold my life to my scars and stressors. To my tormentors.

Look at me and you will likely miss the way my right eye has curiously long lashes as a frame or this ring of white in its iris, because you are too busy looking at the gaping hole where my left eye should be. Look at me and you will not see fingers fit for a capable pianist, an artful tailor, talented author, and sharp-witted fencer. You will not see this, because you will be too busy counting those fingers and oh – there are only nine of them. Look at me and you will not see a voice of the Gods in the prime of his life, the slayer of demons, the father of two, the proud and fashionable gentleman. No. If you looked at me like I look at me now, pulling down the bottom right eyelid with a clammy thumb, you would easily see double those thirty seven years. A shell of a man.

They do say first appearances mean everything.

It is told that a scar upon the skin of a demonstruck is a signifier of the imprints upon their soul. A memento of the memories they refuse to release; the seconds and minutes and hours of their lifetime that left wounds that could not heal. A result of guilt, or fear, or extreme pain. Of extreme emotion. Ask my friends, and they’ll tell you I’m a pretty emotional guy. I can easily weep at a beautiful orchestra. At a well structured sonnet. At a moment of tragedy - easily. Does this make me weak? No. Not really. Not if I can dry my eyes afterwards and move on. And that is what is key: I must move on. Though if you were to take a long hard look at me you could clearly tell that is one thing I have yet to do, by all my scars, stressors and soul imprints. But so long as I breathe there is always time to change.

Some people go about it with a neat haircut and a close shave. Some people lose a bit of weight, build a bit of muscle, and buy a sharp new suit. Some people adopt a whole new personality, faith, or outlook on life. I have done all of these and still, here I am, burdened by my scars. For them to weigh any heavier, my skin might as well start to sag. Drastic measures are required. How to enact them? I am not yet sure. But when you don’t like what you see in the mirror, you realistically have two choices: break the mirror, or break yourself.

These are the wounds that must heal. Superficial traumas that must be forgotten. Memories that must be let go. Thirty seven years, freed, to see me stronger as an outcome. Those freckles will show through again and you’ll see those eyelashes, those artist’s hands and that proud, proud man. Eventually. For now, I take a long hard look at myself like my ex-wife would nag me to, to survey all that that must change. I do not like what I see, so I will break.

And I will rebuild anew.

Not Your Usual

Apr 29 2009 14:02

I found out today my Media teacher would like to enter my film short into some competitions. Awesome!

Winds of Change

Apr 26 2009 10:20

Thanks to all who replied to my last journal.

I do suppose this is truly the hardest part. As Fidget put it, this is where the change now turns from food, eating habits and calories and to sorting one's life out.

I constantly remind myself if I want to grab life by the horns and do what I want to achieve, I cannot allow myself to slip. I have to work on negative image thoughts, on some of my eating habits still. I still pick the icing off of things, for one. Yes, I do eat it - but I'm still picking it off before I eat the cake or bun or whatever. Or I'll suck the middle out of a ravioli. o__O Is that usual?

I also have a monster to face, a literal skeleton in my closet: my wardrobe needs to be purged. The only dismal thing about this is I do not have a steady flow of money in to replace it right now. My mum still owes me an 18th birthday present though; perhaps I should ask if she'll take me on a spree in Primark and Asda? Hah.

This is hard for me and I would be a liar if it were not, as hard as it has been throughout this whole process. I suppose, now, though, I am trying to express some of that emotion outwardly because - unlike through recovery - I do not want to bottle my fears up.

Part of being strong is admitting when you're weak. Proving that you're strong is doing something about it.

Just Like Me

Apr 24 2009 21:27

The problem with Wagamama is the seating. The food is gorgeous and all but the tables are set in rows, and benches are the seating. You are literally put whack right next to other families with only a small divider of various optional dressings inbetween. Anyway, half of the meal goes grand and I'm tucking into my noodles when another family of four sits beside us. Their daughter is sat beside me.

And she is thin. She is sickly thin. She is that hollow eyed tight lipped thin. That slightly off colour, slightly off kilter sort of thin. She's wearing four layers on a warm April evening sort of thin; she's jerking her foot and she's tapping her fingers sort of thin. Her hand snatches the menu and those sunken doe eyes scour the list. Then the words pour out.
"What about the salad? Oh... but it's got nuts in it. I don't want nuts. And what's in the dressing? Is there oil in the dressing? I don't want oil, I hate oil."

And we're back in the pub that we visited on my Dad's birthday dinner. "Steak. I want steak. But I don't want potatoes. No, I don't want chips instead. NO, I DON'T WANT CHIPS! Or sauce! NO, Mum, not even if they are boiled potatoes! Just give me more vegetables. NO, not with dressing, I HATE dressing!..."

"... Is this fried or stir fried? How much oil do you think they use? Oh, butternut squash. Isn't that like potato? I don't want that."
I hadn't noticed until my Mum reached over to tap my hand that my hand was shaking and I hadn't taken a mouthful since this girl had sat down. Mum looks worried; I look mortified.

When the girl's salad arrives she starts pushing it around her plate. Pushing. Pushing. Pushing, but not eating. Push. Push. Push. Her fork is a calorie bulldozer and it pushes, pushes, until something 'drops' on the floor. "Oops," she mutters. Then finally, she has a small fit, because there is no knife available: "How do they expect me to cut it up if I don't have a knife?!"

And I'm back sat cutting up my steak into tiny, exact, inch by inch cubes. I have to chew fourty times. Swallow. Sip my water. Push the food around a bit. Knock some onto the table. Onto the floor. Cut. Chew by fourty. Swallow. Sip. Repeat.

I would be lying if I said I am comfortable with my weight where it is. This is really, really hard to accept. I know it is healthy but I always say it - it isn't just about weight restoration. Every morning I wake up, and I cannot bring myself to look at myself because I simply do not feel pretty, or remarkable, or happy - just big.

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to be that shadowy eyed wax on bones half-life again, the one that ruins days out and would rather walk for hours than sit with her family in front of the telly for a little while or make a cake with her sister. But of all nights, why tonight? Why tonight to make me question myself? To feel that bit more ugly or undesirable?

She is me. She is me one year ago and she is me today. She is me, just slightly younger, and a lot, lot thinner.