I hate saying the words “I’m fat.”
I never say those words out loud, partly out of shame and embarrassment. I fully understand that I’m not actually fat, so saying it sounds absurd to others and I’m worried about people laughing at me. But I think the real reason I don’t say it is because when I say I’m fat, the response is always:
“You’re not fat.”
I cannot stand people telling me that I’m not fat.
“You are not fat.”
I hate it so much that I even resent the words themselves when they’re written completely out of context. Even writing this blog post is making me angry.
There aren’t really words to describe the feelings that come over me when someone suggests that I am not fat, but basically it makes me so angry that my whole body tenses up and I feel sick in the stomach, I often shudder or have to turn my head away, and suddenly I get a really strong urge to do very violent things to myself.
I’m afraid one day that I will lose control and actually do those things to myself. I’m very, very afraid that that will happen. So I avoid that conversation altogether.
This might seem like a good solution, but what it means is that I am never, ever able to talk to anyone else about what is actually going in my head. All the horrible thoughts just sit there and fester in my mind. The longer I refuse to talk about my body image, the more warped and twisted my concept of myself becomes and the more anorexia begins to take over.
I wish I could speak about my problems, but I don’t know how to without becoming a danger to myself. Years of speaking to psychologists didn’t work, because I was never able to say what I was really thinking.
It’s strange how the illness is so self-perpetuating like that.
I wish I could write beautiful words, but I can’t. I can’t write amazing poems and interesting posts like everyone else. Somehow, in my head, I’ve even managed to turn blogging into some kind of competition where I feel like a failure and I feel like everyone else is better at it than I am. I hate everything that I write. It’s only meant to be my diary. I don’t know why it matters whether I’m good at it or not, but it does. For some reason I expect myself to be brilliant at everything. But I’m terrible at everything I do, and that makes me so sad.
I suppose it doesn’t really matter though, because I feel worthless regardless of whether I succeed at things or not. Being successful doesn’t make me hate myself any less.
I wish I didn’t hate myself so much.
I’m not feeling very well 😞
I’m feeling pretty sad tonight.
I don’t really feel like I have any reason to be here. I try really hard to care about my job, but I just don’t. I only go to work so I can earn money. I’m not in any kind of relationship, I don’t have any pets, I don’t even have any hobbies. When I’m not at work, I’m at home in bed doing nothing. I only get out of bed to eat, wash clothes, or to exercise and burn calories. Nothing really brings me any joy. I don’t really care about anything. I want to care, but I just don’t. I feel like there’s something wrong with me, and I don’t feel normal or like anyone else has this problem. I feel like a defective human being and I really don’t feel like I deserve to exist.
I’m not sure what I’m doing anymore…I’ve started running again.
I love running, more than anything. I did so much sport as a child. I was obsessed with sport. I honestly believe I had issues with exercise addiction long before I ever developed anorexia. So returning to physical activity feels kind of like coming home. I feel like myself again.
At the same time, I’m scared. I’m scared I won’t be able to stop running. I live in perpetual fear of losing control of my mind and ending up on a slippery slope back down to anorexia, hospital and death. I don’t want to go back there. I am pretty certain that I don’t even want to die anymore. So why am I doing this? Is it because it’s part of who I am and I’m still the sport obsessed little kid that I used to be? Or is this just anorexia being as cunning as ever, tricking me into thinking I’m okay when I’m not?
I don’t know 😔
I should be able to exercise and just enjoy it, like any other person. But the worries snowball so fast. I am so afraid of myself. I’m still eating. Theoretically, I should be absolutely fine. But the fear is always there.
I stopped crying about two years ago now.
I’m not sure what happened, but something in my brain just clicked and the debilitating sadness just… stopped.
At first I was confused, then I got frustrated and upset. I felt like all my emotion was at the bottom of a deep, dark pit, and I was at the very top of the pit with absolutely no way of reaching it.
Up until that point, I’d had depression for a very long time- as long as I can remember, in fact. As a child, I spent much of my time at school in toilet cubicles crying. When I came home, I would climb into my wardrobe and close the door. The darkness was soothing to me, somehow, and I was comforted by the four walls around me, holding me tightly while I cried.
I am still not used to the idea of not feeling sadness all the time. I no longer know what to do with myself. It’s like I have all this free time to do… stuff. I have time to do all the mundane things that I never got done because I spent all my time writhing around on the floor, crying my little heart out.
Now I’m just lost.
I used to be ambitious. I used to care about everything and everyone immensely. I used to feel everything so intensely that I could barely cope, and the only way of dealing with it seemed to be crying. As a child, I played in a basketball grand final where I infamously cried the entire game. (We still won, mind you). The parents who watched that game never let me live that down.
Now I feel nothing at all.
I still have a mask of normality that I put on when I go to work, or occasionally leave the house for whatever reason. I laugh and joke with colleagues, I chat about the weather with the lady at the supermarket checkout, yet I don’t really feel anything. At least, I don’t feel anything like the emotional wreck I used to be. You’d think that would be a good thing. Most doctors would hear me say that and think “well that’s great!”. But all that I am left with is a yearning for the sadness to come back to me. I miss being able to cry all the time. It made my life feel more meaningful I suppose. I don’t want to romanticise the illness, but I can’t help feeling nostalgic when I reflect on the last decade of my life, even though it was awful, even though at the time I desperately wanted to die, even with all the awfulness and screaming and the medication and the Ensure Plus being pumped into my stomach, I still think about all that and I want to go back. All my life involves now is dirty dishes and work rosters and mild problems that slightly inconvenience me (which, of course, I ignore until they have become much bigger problems).
I miss being sick and I miss being sad. I feel like a terrible person for saying those things, but it’s true. When I “recovered” I felt like I lost my best friend and life after that loss doesn’t really feel worth it at all.
This is my personal blog. This is my space to write my real thoughts and feelings in a place where I feel safe to do so- anonymously. I am sharing these thoughts on the off chance that there might be someone out there going through the same thing, or something similar, who may feel less alone after reading my posts. I am also writing my thoughts down to get them out of my head, which helps keep me safe and helps me avoid relapsing into anorexia. Writing helps me to generally try and make sense of what is going on in my brain, because I often don’t understand my own mind, and it’s important that I find a way to process my thoughts and feelings. Please, please…if my blog makes you feel “triggered” or unwell in any way, hit the unfollow button. I have nowhere else to talk about these things, I am not trying to hurt anyone, and I am certainly not encouraging anorexia or any form of eating disordered behaviour. I would never encourage anyone to hurt themselves and I very much want to see other people happy and healthy. I honestly think you are all beautiful and everyone deserves to look after themselves and to be looked after by other people.
Put simply, this is my story and this is my place to tell my story. I am not asking anyone to listen, I am not really even expecting anyone to read it, but I want to document it, and hopefully, if nothing else, it will help me to stay well and to stay out of hospital. Just know that there may be some posts in here that might be upsetting to some people, so be wary, stay safe and look after yourself.
Lots of love,