Disappointment

I cannot help but feel like a tremendous disappointment to everybody in my life.

Let’s break this down. I’m very mentally ill. I have indisputable PTSD which comes to haunt me at the worst of possible moments. I am currently also physically ill. Which really does not help. So I feel like death warmed up and my brain is doing its usual job of trying very hard to kill me and it is so fucking hard to handle everything at once, I can’t do it.

Tomorrow, I’m supposed to be seeing my three-year-old niece for her birthday. I am neither physically nor mentally able to do so (although I’m not discounting the possibility of feeling substantially better in the morning). If I cannot go, then I disappoint her, her parents, my partner’s parents, her family. I haven’t been able to see them in so fucking long, through hospital admissions and general lack of sanity. I feel horrendous. I want to be there and support them and love them and I can’t.

Being with my own family is almost fucking impossible. Being with hers is so much worse, because I want to prove that I’m worth her. My partner is my everything, and I constantly constantly again and again show myself to be so utterly and completely lacking. I can’t take care of myself, let alone her.

I want so badly to give her the world. I want to celebrate a child’s birthday and laugh with her brother and his girlfriend, with her dad and his fiancee, with her pregnant sister and her husband, all of these people – I want that.

And instead, I’m here with my brain beating a painful tattoo against the inside of my skull, I am insanely nauseous, I am sweating and freezing and dizzy and I want nothing more than to sleep forever and not remain a perpetual disappointment.

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Bulimia Sucks

My body image is at rock bottom and I’m losing my mind about all of it, but hey, there we have it. I’m crazy. I will always be crazy, to a greater or lesser extent, but you know maybe, just fucking maybe, there’s a future for me where I’m crazy and thin. Wouldn’t that be absolutely fucking splendid?! I’ve been bulimic for thirteen years, thirteen sodding years, and I am one of those fucking nutjob suckers who has the eating disorder that doesn’t actually make you thin. The sheer indescribable levels of not fair is off the fucking charts. I get the eating disorder hell with none of the upsides.

Non PC thing to be saying, but there we have it.

I’m OK

I had a really good day, actually.

Few drinks, saw my old uni supervisor who’s now a good friend of mine, watched my favourite Disney film and am planning to go to bed and have lots of sex. Should make for a fun evening, at least.

My mother and I have a weird relationship where I do whatever she asks and I don’t think about it too much. I don’t have much sanity left.

God alone knows. I feel like a resident whale, and yet I still drink, meaning alcohol calories. I don’t know whether this makes me desperate, or a hypocrite, or both. I’m choosing not to think about it too much.

I’m in trouble, but distantly so.

Eating

With every day that passes, I grow more and more determined to resurrect my life. I am very fed up with the twilight state I currently inhabit. No independence, no freedom. It gets old.

I’m struggling with my body in a major way. Eating disorders are insidious little things. Just when you think you have a handle on it, it all crashes onto you again with nowhere to run.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be free.

Attempting To Be A Success

Every single day, I miss my sister. I shouldn’t, but I do. She doesn’t want me anywhere near her, and that’s okay, but it fucking kills me on an almost daily basis because yes, I miss her.

And because my parents – predominantly my mother – think more of her than me. That has been true for a long time. I realised that when I was reasonably young; I was the problem child. I was diagnosed with bulimia when I was thirteen, and I can pretty much date the deterioration of mine and my mother’s relationship from there.

Because my mother caught me. She noticed. She saw what had been going on for two years by that point: binging and purging and self-loathing and bits of self-harm and while she never saw the suicide attempt, I think in a weird way she already knew. Even though I have never told her, and do not intend to. Our relationship fell to pieces because I was the broken child who was ill, and never got better. And never will.

I’m always going to be ill. I am always going to struggle.

But I have some things:

  1. I’m engaged. And I love my partner more than anything, more than life itself, and she makes everything worthwhile.
  2. I have friends who would end earths for me, and for whom I’d do the same.
  3. I have a degree from a world-class university.
  4. I have a job that I love, both as my money-earner and my more general long-term career goal.
  5. I’m a seriously bloody good actress and writer. No really. I am. I love what I do, and I’m damn good at it,
  6. I’m getting help. And I will recover.

So you know what? Maybe I will be the successful child, one day. Maybe I’ll be the one to remember, at the end of it. The one with a life I’m proud of, in all ways – mental, physical, emotional.

I can, at least, strive for that.

Let’s see how it goes.

Self Esteem

It would be nice to feel beautiful, once in a while. It’s an occupational hazard of having a long-term eating disorder, but I do not like myself aesthetically in any way, shape or form. So it would be really lovely if I could feel beautiful, or you know, passingly attractive from time to time.

I’m really tired today, as well. It is entirely recovery from living with my parents, it’s emotionally very tiring, so today I’ve been exhausted beyond belief.

There’s a strange chasm of communication that happens from time to time with the people I love most. Where I can’t make basic things make sense, or be understandable. It is so frustrating and I can’t work it out. Like when I heavily dissociate and can’t talk, I can’t say the things that are i my head because I’m just not in the building, not how I should be or want to be.

Anyway. Such is life. I’ll get there.

Zodiac Gemstones (and yes, feel free to mock; I already am doing myself)

I am really, truly, properly hilariously drunk.

I’m not proud of myself, I might add. However, it really does the job when the rest of my life is turning to shit. Drunk makes the annoying small bits and pieces of my soul make more sense than it ever used to, so I’ll go with it, at least for now.

And so I watch a beloved TV programme and adore every single moment of it, even when I understand very little. It is so much fun. I am busy and all of the things I have cared about are suddenly relevant.

Like: I used to be a total nerd about gemstones. I know my stones, my partner’s. I know zodiac signs. Of course it is all total bollocks, but I sometimes clutch rose quartz to my heart and breathe my sister’s name and believe, pray, hope, that she remembers me; not the obvious stone, but the complex. I remember her, and I love her, and one day she will remember.

And if she doesn’t, then it is nothing. I will forget. She will forget. It is nothing, I am nothing to her. My sister will never understand the significance of the stone she polished in her rock polisher when she was a child, and I will never confess to the fragments I hold and remember, the weird and stupid and impossible and false things she (and I) remember because it’s not real, because it isn’t there.

Because love and faith and magic are utterly different things. They do not all exist. They are not all real. They are not there.

I only have what I hold, what I remember.

And that is enough, because it has to be.

It has to be.

It is enough.