Cloudy with a chance of FAIL

Currently listening to Cracks by Freestylers. Dubstep and durrrrty bass at its best. The whole of The Sound of Dubstep 2 album (compiled by Ministry of Sound) really is worth a listen if you're into that kind of thing.

Bah.

I’m back again (by the way) ;)

For all of my fucking bluster and determination, I am also back up to 130lbs (andsomechange)

My stomach has stretched out in a bid to conceal my hipbones. The little knobble on the top of each shoulder that I finger whenever I’m feeling pudgy? My favourite little bony protrusion. The other end of my collarbone? Whatever it is, it's fucking GONE. Enveloped by my shoulder fat.

Disappeared beneath the surface, like a tiny drowning man in a vast ocean. Nary but a final, sad bubble breaking the surface of the water as a testament to his existence. And then he, like the bubble, is gone. And the surface is calm one more.

Bloop

But I digress (No perhaps about it, I think I definitely did there)

In other news; Planet happened. I came. I saw. I partied hard. Wiggled my hips and all that jazz. Made a fleet of Lego fighter jets with my boyfriend and the two guys we met in the line. And a Destroyer to accompany them too. Because Planet Angel is AWESOME.

I mean, I didn’t get down to my target of 125lbs (THE SHAME OF IT ALL) but I looked pretty good nonetheless, If I do say so myself. I fasted the whole day before so my stomach was perfectly flat – hipbones stood to attention like eager guard dogs – I could deal with the extra three pounds of weight I was carrying around. I measured my waist before we left, 27 motherfucking inches! Hells yeah.

It was a good night, short though it was. The MDMA I took unfortunately disagreed violently with the empty cavern that was my stomach, which retaliated by attempting to turn itself inside out.

Cue, much empty retching.

The night was pretty much over after my third pointless trip to the bathroom to slump in a stall, sweaty and drifting in and out of reality, resting my forehead on the cool wall for a moment, before bending at the waist and submitting to the stomach convulsions.

The silver lining, however, was the complete appetite loss that lasted WELL into the next evening. I managed a single yoghurt, for the whole day! With minimal application of willpower, I mean. After the sweating, dancing and the (somewhat unintentional) fasting I had dropped two of those three pounds!

Or something like that.

I can't really remember now; coming home early did, by NO means, diminish the DIRTY comedown I suffered through for most of the next two days. Shaky and pale, like a hologram running out of power, flickering in and out of existence, I stepped onto the scales. The room was dim – the light hurt my head and eyes, my ears were still ringing. I squinted down at the numbers, closing one eye in a failed attempt to bring them into focus. Really they could have said anything. I leaned closer to read them and nearly fell onto my face. I had lost a few pounds, that was knowledge enough. I climbed back into bed, re-lit my spliff and turned my brain back off for the rest of the day.

But it was totes worth it. I'd SO do it again. In fact I plan to! Imaginarium 2^nd of December. BigtimeRAVE!

In the post-rave lull over the next few days, I fell victim to the lure of refuelling. Still frail, I crammed hummus and pitta, yoghurts, baked crisps and fuck balls, even chocolate, willy MOTHERFUCKING nilly into my face. Seemingly without concern for the ramifications of my behaviour, deaf to the voice in my head screaming at me to PLEASE reconsider the bar of chocolate covered fudge I was about to consume.

But reconsider I did fucking not.

SIGH.

I ate and ate, until I put back on every last pound I lost before AND during Planet.

What a fucking waste.

Time to start again, T – 22 days until Imaginarium. And I've gotta be lookin' my best, right?

NOTE: Exciting news! VERY exciting news! xEllex and Dainty Zen are rejoining the blog-scene! I've missed you both! It's always so much easier to stay on track with two of my favourite partners in crime. Welcome back guys :D

NOTE: I don't know if you're as perversely excited as I am about this, but I'll share it here anyway; The TV gods are making a REALITY show ALL ABOUT EATING DISORDERS. OHMYFUCKINGGOD. It's going to be called 'Starving Secrets' and I plan to watch it OBSESSIVELY. First episode airs on the 02/12/11 (Or 12/02/11 if you're American) at 10pm EST on Lifetime. 

Peace out, lovelies!

An impassioned plea

At some point during my self-imposed hermithood, in the past year and a half or so, public opinion regarding smokers has plummeted down the proverbial scale-of-barely-concealed-horror to somewhere juuuust above the disgust you'd feel if someone nearby soiled themselves.

On a warm day.

I’m extrapolating on the plethora of offended and scandalised expressions shot me as I waited for friends outside a Central London Tube station and dared to light up.

It's possible I’m exaggerating. Somewhat.

But, and I shit you not, last night I exhaled a lungful, considerately aimed up above the head of passers by, and a middle aged couple shot me a look that suggested I'd torn the head off a motherfucking baby, right in front of them. So intense that god, I was actually surprised! I mean, we were outside! A public street. An albeit crowded, fairly touristy street, but a street nonetheless. Fresh air, great ventilation, and all that hooey.

Is this how it is now? London used to be full of fucking smokers! Existing relatively peacefully alongside non-smokers, unmolested. Even after the indoor smoking ban (a sad day, let me tell you) we persevered; banished to the doorsteps of pubs, bars and restaurants city-wide but banding together in a sense of camaraderie. A necessary evil to keep the insides of these establishments smoke-free for their patrons, and we accepted it (somewhat) gracefully. But now? Are we to be pushed off the streets themselves too?

Jesus.

Like a breakup. Except, she took notes.

Currently listening to: My Dick – Mickey Avalon. If you haven't heard it already, you should. It was in Harold and Kumar: Escape from Guantanamo Bay and it's hilarious.

I've been gone a while, I know. It's bad blogger protocol, I suck. Under some misguided need to keep radio-silence (blog-silence?) until I had something less depressing to say, I've been incommunicado. 'Less depressing than what', you say? Really, the less said about my two week emotional downswing, the food-based fallout and the mountain of green I smoked to numb myself, the better. But now, look! It's a long 'un.

My final weekly therapist appointment has left me upswinging quite nicely, on the other hand. The weather as I was leaving was very appropriate too, uncharacteristically sunny and warm for the current season and birds sang as I lit my cigarette – it all felt very 'brand new day, and I’m turning over a new leaf', you know? I had a pleasantly empty stomach and a bounce in my step.

Even if I weren't diving headlong in to what could legitimately be referred to as a 'relapse', you know, if you bandy words like that about, I think that it might have been time to cut the bulllshit with my current therapist (henceforth referred to as P, probably) and explain to her that it just wasn’t working out. I should have prefaced this bit by mentioning that I am a prolific joker, but I’m mentioning it now; If a situation gets a bit... uncomfortable, or if a question hits a tad too close to home, my first instinct is to fire off a quick (and usually sarcastic) joke. I chuckle, they chuckle, the tension is usually broken and we move on. It's a defence mechanism, I know that. The similarities between me and Chandler are frequently noted. But CHRIST, every time a reflex-joke would pop out – and let it be said now, it happened fucking often – she would nod, write it down on her little pad then ask me to explain why I said that. And really, there are only so many ways, or indeed times, you can say, 'It was a joke. Remember how I do that?' before the literal beating of your head against a wall becomes preferable to the figurative, right?

A few weeks back, struck all deer-in-headlights when she turned her Expectant Therapist Eyes and asked me a question about my 'feelings' that I didn’t quite understand, I started comparing my lack of answers to a box with the word Answers written on it. But when you open the box, it's empty. Devoid of anything useful. I kept wittering on, filling the silence. Maybe it contains a lone tangerine, or something, to really drive home the lack of answers. And, bless her, she drew the box on her sheet of paper, labelled it answers and wrote 'tangerine' in it. Then asked 'Why a tangerine?' And for a moment, I was left flapping in the proverbial breeze, staring at her in amazed confusion. But of course, I explained that the tangerine wasn't important, it was a metaphorical tangerine anyway, it could have been a sharpener, for gods sake. But in that moment, I couldn’t help but lose most of my respect for her and her abilities to 'cure me'. Or take her that seriously, to be honest.

SO. Today, I’m not ashamed to say, I took some amusement in informing her that I would not be coming back. She accurately pointed out that this was reminiscent of my need to take control of situations. I agreed, it really is. And I enjoyed that facet of the experience, I like having control. But that is not the point.

The point, is the level of GUILT P laid on me. I mean, I was expecting some resistance, obviously. Words like 'relapse' were deployed, as well as 'healthy weight' and 'unhealthy patterns', they bounced off my anorexia energy shield though, so I’m holding strong. (DING! Video Game Geek) But they were discarded as offensive weapons surprisingly quickly, less than 10 minutes into a 45 minute appointment.

A quick change of tactics and she turned on the Disappointed Therapist Eyes, she spoke (at length) about how far I'd come in such a short time, and how sad it was that I was throwing all that progress away, and how she hoped that it had nothing to do with any personal feelings regarding her. In the internal struggle against the urge to quip that it partly was because she seemed apparently humourless (because the wrong thing to say is always so much funnier than the right thing, isn’t it?), near the end, bucking under the combined pressure of her guilt-trip and my need to joke, I began to compulsively reassure her that this wasn't a reflection on our relationship as therapist-patient and bargain with monthly follow-up appointments in attempts to get her to turn off those goddamn EYES.

I can't handle her eyes. They're so wide and earnest and fucking inquisitive and GOD, at the best of times they make me want to put a physical barrier between me and them so she can't see into my soul and know that I’m lying to her about my intake. But when she turned on the silent disappointed therapist face I was at a fucking loss.

And so, monthly follow ups. Because I am powerless against her eyes. I decided in the stairwell that after one or two of those I might be able to work up to never seeing her again. Ever. Meanwhile, I’m looking into some sort of antidote to her powers.

I’m optimistic.

NOTE: To Elle, you commented on a previous post love, but I can't find any way to reply on your profile. It IS possible that I'm being blogger-illiterate though, I wouldn't rule it out. Help me out?

Interlude: Yoghurt

I've just come to the realisation that I've eaten nothing but Muller Corners for the past three days. Three a day, one for each 'meal' and with no end in sight. It's just past 2pm in London, and I've had my 'breakfast' yoghurt – Strawberry (obviously) – and will be gearing up to have my next one in a few hours. It'll probably be a different flavour though – gotta keep a balanced diet and all that, right?

You know, I think I could subsist on Muller Corners alone and not want for any other foodstuff. Like, ever.

That's not weird, is it?

Beginning of Act 1

Okay, so I’m avoiding my therapist. It's pretty pathetic, I know. I've blamed period pains to end a session early, feigned a stomach bug, GOD, I've even lied about oversleeping and missing my alarm. And when I don't show up and she's obviously wondering what the jumping monkey FUCK I’m doing so she tries to call me – more often than not, I avoid her calls.

What it all boils down to, is that I don't want to get better. And no matter how often my therapist suggests the idea that maybe, just MAYBE, I am more than my losses, the fact remains that I am ultimately, unequivocally not.

Unemployed, depressed, an English degree that isn't worth the paper it's fucking printed on – not to mention its lack of value in terms of job prospects, a burning desire for a course I’m about to fail to land the money for (for the second year running, no less), 10lbs of extra weight due to my er... 'recovery process' and of course my anorexia.

My losses are all I have and at this point In my life, I’m not willing, not even ABLE, to let go of that. I NEED them.

SO

No more of this recovery bullshit.

I’m taking it back to the OLD school.

This is my blog.