Sunday, 30 May 2010

...another world

My head never shuts down.
If I could only find the switch, turn myself off, I could start living in the real world again, I'm convinced of it... but maybe there isn't a switch. Something I saw on jd's blog struck a real chord with me, I thought it was perfect:

For a head so full of words and emotion, so much of my life is consumed by numbers.
the numbers game
I can't remember the last time I forgot about numbers in my head. I must have been so young.
I wonder sometimes, about the whole genetics argument - that some people are more predisposed to eating disorders than others - we have the genes for it so to speak. Was I born this way?
No... I'm sure I can't have been, but at the same time I'm acutely aware that I've always had the symptoms and the character and personality for it. I was never like other little girls. I tortured myself mentally for not looking perfect. I tortured myself for being 'fat' when I was a skinny little 8 year old. If I didn't always have an eating disorder, I certainly always had an intense hatred of my appearance and was highly anxious because of it.

This morning I went shopping with my mum - just like I used to have to do when I was younger.
I had the same anxiety and panic. I fought back tears as I stood in the mirror, despising myself for not getting thinner, I flung clothes around my room in distress and punched and slapped my arms and thighs for the pain relief.
Just like when I was a teenager.
Everything's the same.
Every last thing is the same.

My putrid body is the same.

Things like today really put it into perspective. The way I used to cry in floods of tears in the car all the way to work, the way I would have to try on everything in my wardrobe to find something that didn't make me look fat, the way I would have to avoid mirrors to stop myself from having a panic attack...
Surely the only cure is beauty.
How else can you fix someone like that?

In the last few days I've been evaluating my relationship with Alex.
Dear Alex; I really couldn't ask for anyone more loyal and devoted and caring. I really couldn't.
But. There's still a terrible, gaping gap between us - a chilling space of void that neither of us can cross - not only because he cannot feel it, but also because I know it would suck him under like a vortex.
I may have been crying all day and all evening, but when I talk to him on the phone, he'd never know. Even if I told him, he'd have no way to comfort me.
If I'm honest with myself, I know, this is never going to work. We're kidding ourselves. He's young, he doesn't know any better. He's never seen me when I'm depressed, when I'm on an edge. He's never witnessed tears rolling uncontrollably down my face or the anxiety when I need to self-harm. He doesn't really know what it's like to love someone with an eating disorder who is so bent on self-destruction. He's never had to live with me.
I'm worn-out, broken and beyond repair. I'm never going to be able to play happy families.
I belong to another world.

When I lie in bed, I can feel that the walls of my heart are getting weaker.
Every time I stand at the platform, as my train approaches, I stand at the edge and stare down at the tracks. How easy it would be to take one more step. One more step, and it won't hurt anymore.
You could save him from yourself.

But I am too selfish. I love him, in all his innocent and unblemished perfection. He brings me joy like I've not had in a very long time. Real Joy.
I cry as I write this, because I want that joy so much.
But I can't have it, not really, not in the long run; I will destroy it. That's what I do: I destroy things.
There is a perfect girl out there somewhere for him. I can lie when we're together, I can pretend to be perfect, but I'm not.
I'm seeing him on Friday for the first time in two weeks. He's been revising hard for his uni exams and they end on Thursday. So I'm treating him to a surprise on Friday evening. I've made a reservation for dinner at a restaurant in Covent Garden, and then I've booked tickets to see the Lion King in the West End.
He says he loves me and thinks I'm perfect as I am.
It means nothing to me. I want to clear my body of every trace of food and channel water through it every day before then. I have a perfect new red dress. It's not worth the torture being fat.
It's really not worth the fucking torture and tears in front of the mirror.

And yes, stranger, I know it's you. But without your name, I couldn't believe it. No name. Gone.
Really. It's not enough to say I miss you.
Just tell me you are happy. Please give me that closure and peace of mind if it is true.
I pray that you are.

A quote from 'Anonymous' on Pasco's blog:
''Dear are so like me that I suppose I said to you what I wanted to say to myself... You do disgust me. You lead this messed up life. You're a waste.
You are a wasted girl.

And so am I.''

Tuesday, 25 May 2010

Dear Anonymous,
Please tell me.

I need to know, who and what. So I know I'm not crazy.

I cannot fast. I need to eat.
I have decided on two apples a day.
A quarter of an apple, eight times a day.


Monday, 24 May 2010

Old Writings... from the same head full...

How far back does my pain go?
I forget sometimes, how long I have lived with this... and no, my pain didn't always manifest itself in the shape of an eating disorder - or at least as ferocious an eating disorder as I have now.
I was trying to remember a poem I used to love... and it led me to search back into my old computer files to look through the poems and writing that I produced when I was 17 and 18.

It struck a chord with me.
The pain was the same back then.
I just hadn't learnt to channel it through my relationship with food.
I never got better, I never got happier, I never found what I was looking for...
I just got worse; I just got older; I just wasted more of my life.

19th May 2006
I am so scared. I am so lost, and so confused. So many times I have been falling, and sometimes I have even been soaring, but right now, I’m on the outskirts of a whirlpool, spinning rapidly, awaiting to be sucked into oblivion. I’m just swirling round and round, feeling sick, with only a blur of my surroundings. I’m not heading up or down, and I have no control of it. For the first time in my life I have complete uncertainty of what lies ahead. It’s not my usual clear cut case of total despair and hysteria or the dreamy promise of joy and success. This time, I cannot taste either happiness or sadness ahead. I have no idea where I’ll end up, what to choose, what is right, what is best, or even what I want. Everything that I held so sure has gone, and I’ve no idea when I lost it, or where to find it. I am so scared.

I want to be safe again, to be held in the warm arms of someone who loves me unconditionally. I miss that so much. But yet I sit here spurning the greatest love I ever had. And for what? I’m pursuing a love that I’m not even sure I want, and am almost certain doesn’t exist. I just wish some greater power could reach out to me and tell me what I need, who I need. But like always, I’m all alone. Just a little girl lost, and don’t know which hand to take or which sign to follow. I am so scared.

I left school today – the place I blame for learning to hate myself and fear myself. The corridors I walked were long and menacing and I stood three inches tall against every doorway. But now I’m out. And though this means I will grow from strength to strength for the first time as a person who I love to be, I’m still frightened, because it’s been so long since I stood completely outside my prison walls that I don’t know if I can survive. Maybe I am too weak, or the scars are too deep, and I will never be anything but a girl I hate to be. I am so scared.

I don’t understand why God made me a human sometimes, or why he put me here on earth, because I seem to struggle with everything he puts before me. Nothing about life makes any sense to me. However much I try to make it work, there is just something stopping me from embracing existence. Sometimes, it feels like everyone else is just living out their lives through the good and the bad, but I am on the outside of my life, looking in at their world and wondering how to be a part of it - and I so desperately want to be a part of it - and I am so scared that I never will be.

I never got out. At 18 years old, on my last day at high school, I was already on the wrong side of the mirror. I've never found my way out.

When I was 17/18 I predominantly tried to write poems. Please forgive the putrid lack of depth in my writing; I am no poet. It took me these few years to learn that my gift for words lay not in poetry but in prose. But still, you can see the fear I wrote of.
I'm not sharing these with you because I think they're any good - in fact I find my juvenilia positively embarrassing - I want to remind myself how far back it all goes. This didn't just 'happen'.

Anything - 22nd March 2005

I’d do anything
To take back the hell I’ve made.
Mistakes sulk by the footsteps
Of the path I walked
The path I walk still.
I see them looming,
The past exists just to haunt
Like a banshee screaming
All my humiliation
In all my desperation
I smother my ears
And gouge my eyes,
And though I choke my senses,
The laughter scoffs louder
The aching stings harder
Until all I desire
Is to cut them down.
Hurl all the pages of my past
All the dried ink written in my hand,
Drown it all in the fire
Of the hell I forecast.

I’d become anything
Just to belong
Don’t care
Just here
I don’t fit in,
So I’m out in the cold
Where I’m losing my hold.
But I’m gripping so hard
That I’m breaking my fingers
And the breathing’s so hard
That my grip barely lingers,
But I hold anyway
Don’t know what for
Don’t know for how long,
Just in that one hope that I’ll make it
To any place I belong.
 I’d give anything
Took my sanity already
Nothing left of value
To hold on to
To keep me steady.
My face is a silhouette
Whose features they design
My life Russian roulette
In their tangled outline.
But if I begged and begged
Would you release me?
Would you deny, that if I try
To cry and cry,
Then weeping the tears
Would make me feel lighter
Since no-body has no concern
For a fighter.

You say,
I’ll do
I’ll become
I’ll give
Just for one


All the way back to 2005. Aged 17.
No one ever knew.
No one had any idea.
I was 17, I was white, I was female:
I was a drama queen.

So why have I not grown up?
I can see now, I'm not ill.
I've always been like this.
It was here in my head long before I learnt to stick my fingers down my throat.
It was crawling inside me long after I tore up the sheets of calorie lists.

I am 22 years old. It is 2010.
I'm not going to get 'better' am I?
This is me. This is who I've been all my life...
what do i do

I've considered, maybe I turned to an eating disorder when I was 20 because I'd finally had enough, I wanted to self harm, I wanted to die, slowly.

Sunday, 23 May 2010

everything is upside down and backward and sad

"You never come back, not all the way. Always there is an odd distance between you and the people you love and the people you meet, a barrier thin as the glass of a mirror, you never come all the way out of the mirror; you stand, for the rest of your life, with one foot in this world and no one in another, where everything is upside down and backward and sad."

I don't want to go to my psychiatrist and put on a brave face anymore.
I don't want to tell Alex how much I want to get better.
I don't want to look into the future and see a happy, glowing, successful mother of two.
Because I don't want to be a failure.

I wrote a letter to Alex:
...There are several reasons why I made the decision to ask my Mum to use the private healthcare cover to see a private psychiatrist...; because you made me realise that I can be happy, I can be hopeful, there is more to life; it is worth fighting my demons for, and because you definitely, definitely deserve better. I think, essentially, because you took away so many of my fears and brought so much sunshine into my heart, I realised that I wasn't supposed to be ill - it wasn't me - it didn't have to be that way. I could step outside of my unhappiness, I was strong enough, capable of being that girl that I should always have been, and ready to be the girl I am when I'm with you permanently....

I'm not a liar. Every word of that is true.
But is it possible?
How can it be possible when everything is upside down and backward and sad and I am so ingrained in it. That is my life.
It's so easy to act the small parts - the happy, cute, intelligent girlfriend when I'm with Alex, the vivacious, playful, compassionate friend when I'm at the Club, the mature, sensible, grounded woman when I'm at work... But they are just parts on a stage - a stage with the backdrop of a straight and narrow world - when I step backstage again, it's a dark labyrinth of tunnels filled with moth-eaten costumes, a musty, suffocating smell of dying perfume where the creatures of my eating disorder lurk like something in a twisted fairytale.
...ready to be the girl I am when I'm with you permanently.
Does that mean I'm ready to act for the rest of my life? No, I know that that would be impossible. Is it possible, is it really possible, that it's not an act, that it is happiness, that it is inside me, that I have been taking steps outside the convoluted mirror world with Alex... and that I can step outside for good?

If you haven't read Marya Hornbacher's book Wasted, I urge you to. It puts things into words that I so often struggle to do.

picture from:

Thursday, 20 May 2010

'Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favour and to prettiness'

Have you seen the fasting? It's beautiful.
There's a light on in the kitchen. She's trying to get out.
The fake sugar chemicals turn black inside me - blacker than blood.
I shut my eyes last night and felt a feeling in my hands. The feeling travelled up my arm and I thought... this was it, I was going, everything was shutting down at last.
I put down my writing pad and pencil and shed tears for him.
But I didn't care if I was leaving - he is young, he'll forget - I didn't mind if I didn't wake up.
I positively wanted it.

I'm terrible, and I'm horrible, I know,
but recovery is not an option.

I can't believe people recover from this.
I'm so far away.
I want to call you. Alex. I want to tell you the truth about how bad it is.

What's wrong with me.

I took photos of myself on my phone today.

I couldn't believe it.

I really, couldn't believe how true it was.
The mirror is kinder than the camera. The mirror has angles and dimensions.
The camera is brutal. If I hated what I saw in the mirror, then I can only describe the pictures on my phone as revulsion.

I am embarassed; truly EMBARASSED to call myself Ophelia.
I'm a fat lump.

I am disgusted at what I have let myself become - no, not even that, I've hardly become this - this half a stone heavier than my lightest weight all year - essentially I've been walking around like this ALL FUCKING YEAR - all my fucking adult life.

I should have been more brutal to myself before. I should have these pictures printed out and stuck in every corner of the house. I should put these pictures on my blog. Because I deserve the fucking shame.
But I am too disgusted and too humiliated.

You know what has done this to me?
That four letter F word.
Filthy and Foul and Fetid Food.
I look at my body now and all I see is food - bread dough plastered all over my belly, cookie dough rolling all around my thighs, marshmallows puffing out my face.
I don't see the body of an athlete or runner; I see the body of an eater.

I'm back, I'm really, really back.

Wednesday, 19 May 2010

Rising Ophelia - the original Head Full of Beauty is returning

Why, oh why has Ophelia been posting so much?
I drifted so far away recently, posting once a week, once a fortnight....
Well, truth be told, Alex has locked me out of my facebook account in an attempt to get me to concentrate on revision.
Oh yes - exams!
Exams... seven to be precise - three hours each - the day after each other.

So instead of sitting at my laptop pressing the 'refresh' button on my facebook homepage and seeing what uninteresting things my 480 'friends' have been doing, I have been sitting on blogger, reading old blogs, reading new blogs, commenting here and there, and of course, posting my usual rubbish!

I used to be a good blogger - good to read, good at replying - an attentive blogger, a caring blogger.
I think it's the slide from Ana to Mia. Ana makes for a good blogger, and Mia makes for a very bad one. Lets face it, what is inspirational about a wobbly white girl stuffing her face and spewing?

This is the most messed up my life has ever been - Because I'm going to fail all seven exams in three weeks - And not even care.

I'm just an eating disorder.
I don't care.

I had my first session with my new psychologist yesterday.
(Gotta love private healthcare. The speed at which you get seen is scary!- it leaves me no time to think! Am still on the NHS waiting list just because what's the point taking myself off it after all this time!... but this is not a post highlighting the jokes of the system).
So, yes, a private psychologist. Thank you Bupa.
Her name... lets call her 'Miranda'.

Miranda is pretty glamorous for a psychologist - well compared to all the ones I've met before anyway. She was dessed nicely, and wore a lot of makeup - specifially eyeliner - a lot of eyeliner.
It was pretty standard. We just went over everything, my past, where it all started etc,
I cried twice. Once when I talked about my Dad and once when I talked about Alex.
It was exactly the same in my inital assessment session with the lead psychological assessor the week before.
I can't talk about my Dad without crying - or rather I can't talk about his death, my childhood, my happy memories of him. Miranda made me tell her exactly what happened on the day he died. She made me describe exactly where he was, exactly what I saw, exactly what I did next.
The next time I want to self harm and feel pain, I won't get out a knife; I will force myslelf to re-live those moments. I couldn't speak for choking on my tears.
And then Alex. Why do I cry when I talk about Alex?
I've been trying to work it out...'s just something about those words:
he knows
he loves me
he wants to support me
Or perhaps therapy is the wrong place for him to be present in my thoughts. He has nothing to do with my eating disorder; he has nothing to do with pain; he has no place there; I don't want him there...
I dont know...
Why do I cry when I talk about Alex?

Of late I have been a bulimic monster. I mean a huge, wobbling, fleshy, chocolate biscuit, bed-bound, bulimic monster.
What's the fucking point. What's the fucking point of endless days restricting, the hunger headaches, the miles and miles of aching muscles, what's the fucking point if you're gonna let some fat bulimic bitch ruin it all.

I read back on some of my old posts - the pro-Ana style I suppose it was. I was so committed. There was none of this trash that I write now. Every post was committed to beauty; every post was committed to getting stronger and getting thinner. I was angry, I pushed myself, I punished myself, I wanted it. Spending all this time on blogger has made me remember again - remember how much I used to love this community - I mean, really LOVE it, and how much strength I used to get here and how much strength I used to be able to give back.

To the bulimic monster in me: If you are sick of being sick, you will stop being sick.
Bulimia is sickness and weakness.
Finding my way back to fasting and restricting is strength.
Thank you Eva for holding my hand and walking back with me.
And what if summer... for this:
Ophelia..."she's a stupid byatch"

I'm back.
Not stupid, mushy, boring Ophelia; worring about recovery.
I mean Ophelia.
Thin. Beautiful. Strong.
Ophelia, draped in flowers, drowned in beauty.
...rising again

Monday, 17 May 2010

Tired Legs/Toned Legs/Strong Legs/Skinny Legs?

I have a new training program in place - a 10k training programme to be precise.
It's hard to have an eating disorder whilst trying to train intensively at the same time - the two things really do conflict...
But the fact is, I'm going to be running some races with Alex and some other super fit guys in the Autumn - after a Summer away on the LDAC that is.
Yes, for any American readers, I am coming over to the US for a month to take part in the ROTC Leader Development Assessment Course.
I have very little idea as to what it all entails exactly... other than it is something similar to the Territorial Army Commissioning Course we have here in the UK at Sandhurst...? If any of you out there have any info or experience of it I'd love to hear!

So, my fitness is pretty good - in fact I can meet the male entry standards for Sandhurst (well on the run and situps anyway - my pressups are sill rather feeble!!) so I know physically I'm in pretty good shape...
it's the perfection thing...
I want to be thin
I want to be beautiful
and yes, I want to be super fit
I appreciate these things conflict. There are probably very few models, with their spindly arms and legs who could keep up with me on a race track or carry loads as heavy as I can. But this is not the point: I do not believe in logic, I believe in perfection.

My new training programme has me running 6 days a week - so it's pretty intense. Post-Christmas I was practically living in the gym and was burning off around 1,000 calories in every session - but even this seems more intense than I'm used to - or rather, requires a lot more grit and motivation. I've always found gym sessions pretty easy and enjoyable - after all, there's a water fountain, TVs, towels, toilets... it is so easy to waste away hours and calories there. However, the gym membership has expired, and I have a serious lack of funds to renew it... so hitting the pavements has become essential.

I have to say Alex has become a great motivator in getting me to run. I want to race with him - don't ask me why, because I can't imagine anything worse than him seeing me purple-faced and dripping with sweat - but I want to prove how fit I am I guess.
Needless to say, he's super-fit.
His body is 100% toned and honed slim-line muscle. (Excuse me while I drool.)
He runs loads more than I do - and loads faster. He competed in Tough Guy this year, and I've promised to join him for the 2011 Competition in January. So, more training, more intensity... after our first 10k race, which is set for September.
He's also going on the ROTC LDAC, but hopefully we'll be in different platoons...

But anyway, I digress, the point of this post is the difficultly in running so much and trying to still eat so little.
I ate a bowl of porridge before I went running this morning. Yes, actual slow-release carbs. I was smart, I was sensible! And then when I got home I had a massive bowl of vegetables - carrots, cabbage, courgette etc - a piece of pork and an apple.
By the evening, I wasn't really hungry - I wasn't! But...
I binged.
I had about 6 slices of bread, several handfuls of salted peanuts and a massive shortbread cookie.
So I threw it all up. Quick and easy.
But the damage had probably already been done. All that calorific goodness must have sunk straight into my blood.


I do find it reasonably easy to restrict when I'm inactive - and the pounds come off pretty easily too. And exercise shouldn't make restriction harder - it's all in my head. My body wasn't craving food earlier, I wasn't feeling weak, I didn't even have a headache! It was just in my mind...

So, now I need to be harsh on myself. I need to get out of the house the second I've had my shower and had my post-run vegetables and protein. I need to go to the library, get away from the computer, get away from the kitchen and it's stupid food, forget the kindly voices telling me my body needs carbs and it's ok and healthy to eat - I don't want to bloody listen - I want to run - I want to be fit - I want to be strong - I want to be thin.

I don't need another book or another pack of worksheets telling me to eat, eat, eat. I'm sorry, for you are a very nice lady.

Sunday, 16 May 2010

Does it get better...

Does it get better?
Does it ever go away? That emptiness in your head; that chill seeping through your blood; the coldness...
I can't get rid of it.
I sit myself on the edge of the sofa and draw my knees up to my chest.
My huge legs, huge pink soft marshmallow legs, scrunching up the rolls on my tummy, big rolls. For all I have done, all week, all day, all night, is binge.
Food is the narcotic. Eating is the addiction.

I want to call him and hear his voice.
I want to send him links to videos, to some of your blogs, to articles, to words, to pictures, to voices, to help him listen to mine. I want him to help me.

But I don't want him to understand.
I can't do it to him.
Not only do I fear losing him (for what 19 year old boy wants to deal with a crying 22 year old falling to pieces on their shoulder?) But I fear I will destroy him as much as I have destroyed myself.

"You don't see the world like I do."
"What do you mean?"
"You don't see pain and sadness like I do; you don't see the pain and sadness in the world like I do."
He's never cried like I have. Why the hell would I do that to him? Why the hell would I make him see the world like I do? why rip the rose-tinted glasses from his face? why kill the pure smile? why darken the bright, innocent eyes?
Why make him see pain and sadness? Why explain it?
I'd be killing him until he's dead like me.
And I know there's no way back. Once you've seen it, once it's touched you, there's no way back from it's grasp.
Reality. Coldness.

I want him to understand me, and I want him to understand the hell I live.
But for him to understand, he would have to feel it from me.
I could give him things to read that could make him feel and understand so easily.
But I cannot have his blood on my hands. I will not.
To the 'Anonymous' who posted the link to Ophelia's Immortal on You Tube in a previous comment, I thank you, for it summed it up perfectly.

'What if summer...' asked me if I wanted to get better.
The truth is... I cannot answer that. My lips and voice will say 'yes'. But my head and heart are disconnected from both those organs. In the real world I have learnt to lie without feeling anything. That's what Ana and Mia taught me.
I want to be happy - I can say that much for certain.
But I don't know how to get there or what that will take.
I don't know what recovery is.
I cannot imagine going through therapy and getting better - perhaps that means I am doomed, I don't know. I cannot imagine my life without an ED, and yet people say it is possible. I don't know that I can give up something that makes me who I am.

I've always wondered, does this blog get read by psychiatrists, students, professors, researchers? Do you read this blog and other blogs to try to understand? And if so, what do you learn? Can it make you help us? Can it make you understand?
I've always thought, rather than me sitting there trying to give you answers, trying to put my disorder into figures and meanings, it would be so much better for the psychiatrist on the other side of the table to just read my blog.
I cannot explain my eating disorder to you in any other way than to tell you this: My life is a living, breathing, beating HELL. And it's me.

Wednesday, 12 May 2010

Doubt thou the stars are fire...

The 100th Post.
I'm tired today. And eating. The fight is draining from me.
It's him.
I was with Alex last night. And at the weekend. 4th Weekend in a row.
I eat when I'm with him. I eat. I don't worry, I eat, I'm happy... with him.

We've only really been 'together' for three weeks. This is insane. I keep pinching myself - surely this can't last.
We think we love each other.
Maybe we do.

I've had to stop to cry here.

He has just sent me a message in reply to a link I sent him earlier - a link to the psychiatrist I'm due to see:

He seems like he knows what he's talking about so no doubt you'll be in safe hands! Good luck!
If you ever need someone to chat to, just give me a ring...I probably won't know what to say, but I'll do what I can! In fact, if there's ever anything I can do, just let me know. I want to help you get better and understand as much as I can.

Love you xxxx

What else can I do but cry; the emotion is pouring out of me. I don't know what emotion any more.

"I want to help you get better and understand as much as I can."

Sunday, 2 May 2010

A commitment to perfect normality

I got an extension for a piece of coursework I was doing for law school and I had to get my doctor to sign the medical reasons on my ‘concessions form’.
You want to know what I think of the fucking health care in this country? Well this should say it all:
He wrote my first name wrong and mis-spelt my surname.
Under medical problems, he wrote ‘Anorexia and Depression’. I've been diagnosed with Bulimia for fucks sake.The rest of the questions he barely answered or ignored.
And I paid £19 for this proof of apathy.

My exams start at the beginning of June. If I do them, I will fail.
I have the option... to not turn up to exams and then give in a concession form like the one I did for my coursework. If they accept the bulimia as a reason for not doing exams then I will get the chance to retake them in August.
Do I do it?
My life is eating, throwing up, exercising, restricting, thinking about food, crying over my body, worrying... I can't do anything else, and I’m never going to be able to work until I get better. Or until I get thin...
So. I have the option now. To get out of this stupid NHS system, get off this ridiculous waiting list, and go into private treatment which would start within a month. By the time August comes, my treatment will be well under way. I can study, I can work, I can live, I can do well.
But if they don't accept my concession form...then I've fucked up a year of my life and wasted £9,000 in the process. That's a big price to pay for an eating disorder.

* * *

So, just like the last two weekends, I spent this weekend with Alex.
On Thursday I decided to make a picnic. I was up baking all night. I cooked sausage rolls. And cheese and tomato slices. When I got to his on Friday, we ate, like romantic children, crossed legged. Happy.
But only because I had fasted the day before and taken laxatives to clear my body out.

We talked. We kissed. We made love. We slept. And then we did it all again.
We were supposed to be going out to an event with some friends on the Saturday afternoon, but we couldn't tear ourselves apart. His little room was a haven; his bed was a sanctuary.

I was wrong about Alex.
I underestimated him.
I trust him.
He is the only man who has ever seen my whole body. No covers, no asking to switch off the light, no nothing; nothing hidden. I don't hide my naked body from him like I have done with every other guy.
Perhaps it's because I know he likes my body.
He is the only man who has ever woken up beside me and looked at my face without makeup. Because I wanted him to.
And he didn't run.

That's not to say I don't hate my body and I don't think I look horrific without makeup. I don't think those feelings will ever change. But I did it: I let someone see my flaws. I let the man I love see my flaws. No more Miss Perfection. No more lies, no more ticks and coverups. I am bulimic Alex. He knows. And he didn't run.

...He knows, but he doesn't like to think about it. He doesn't like me talking about it. And I want to talk about it...

But it's good that I'm with someone who isn't emotional and neurotic like me, because it means he won't sink under with me. He is sound and logical, strong and physically grounded. He is, quite literally, a rock of the earth for me to hold on to.

I was wrong. He is a cure to me. I do have the ability to feel happiness - for I felt it this weekend.
But is this happiness making me weaker? What happens when he leaves? Everyone always leaves.I don't want to rely on him for happiness. I don't want to be weak. Love makes you weak. Only someone you love can truly hurt you. I learnt this when I was 18. I gave myself for a guy, I lived for him, he was my world, he was everything I based my life and my happiness on. When he treated me badly, I still blindly and unconditionally held on tight to him. I've never changed.
And when Alex talks about other girls, even in a joking way, even when I know it's just him being a guy... a little part of me dies every time. For they are prettier than me. They have better legs. They are more perfect.
It's going to be a fight that never ends. I will always have to compete with these women until I die. I will never be able to accept that I am good enough for him until I consider myself to be perfection for him. So I will work and work on myself until I am perfect – or rather I will just work and work on myself to meet an unattainable goal.

When I look like this, I will be secure, I will believe that I can fulfill his needs, I will believe that I'm enough, I will believe that Alex won't leave me for another girl: