I Am Done

I’m done. I am so, so tired of this illness, and I am done.

As I write this I know that in the next minute, hour, day, I will change my mind. I will want to cling onto it and hide underneath it. But that’s not me thinking those things, it’s anorexia, desperately trying to shrink me down to a shell of not only my body, but my very being. It is a parasite, wanting to overtake me completely until I am nothing but walking eating disorder.

So I write this in one if the transient moments in which my mind is my own, to reflect on when recovery feels too much, too painful, too impossible.

I hate this.

I hate how I can’t concentrate on things I used to enjoy. I hate how the sound of my favourite music now irritates me. I hate that I don’t find comedy funny and that sad films don’t touch me the way they used to because I feel numb. I hate that being out with my friends doesn’t make me happy and that all I can think about when someone is hugging me is whether they think I am soft and fat. I hate that I used to love my nightly bath and how they used to relax me, but now my spine hurts pressing against the hard plastic and I can’t stand the sight of my body. I hate that every time I lose weight I think I will feel happy, but that no matter how much it’s not enough. I hate that my feet are covered in plasters to protect the blisters from my shoes, multiplying with every extra kilometre I walk. I hate that I am so, so tired, but that I can’t rest until I have met my step target, the goal posts of which are constantly moving beyond comprehension. I hate that my favourite outfits hang off my body. I hate that I am always cold despite being shrouded in too big pyjamas, dressing gowns, blankets. I hate that it’s almost my best friends wedding and all I can think about it how I am going to exercise whilst being a bridesmaid all day, and if I will look fat in my dress. I hate that I am addicted to wasting hours mindlessly pinning thousands of Pinterest recipes that I will never cook, and that I have to watch cooking videos as soon as I wake up and last thing before I sleep. I hate that my sleep is never proper sleep, and that I wake up panicking after dreams of binging on all the foods I can’t even bring myself to think about in the day. I hate that I look at my reflection in every mirror, every window, every surface I can, and that I look different every time. I hate that my camera roll is full of photos of my body at a thousand different angles, and that I spend hours poring over these, dissecting every part of myself until I can’t take it anymore. I hate how I start and end every day with overwhelming anxiety, so severe that I feel on the verge of being sick. I hate how selfish I have become, and how the hurt I am causing people around me is secondary to the desires of anorexia. I hate how I am in a constant silent competition with everybody, and that the first thought I have when I walk into a room is whether I am the thinnest, yet never recognising that I am. I hate how every time I shout that I want to get better, it shouts louder that I don’t. I hate how every morning I wake up to a miserable existence, and how every night I go to bed with a little less hope that I will recover than I had the day before.

I hate. I hate. I hate.

I am not living right now, I am merely existing. I get joy from nothing bar the few seconds after seeing my weight drop, after which the goalposts immediately move and anorexia is unsatisfied yet again.

I may need to read this over and over again before it sticks, but if that’s what I need to do then I will do it. This post is for me, but it’s also for every person reading who hovers on the verge of a relapse, who is ambivalent about recovery, who feels anorexia beckoning them.

The root of anorexia for many is thought to be about control, but I don’t think that over the 17 years it’s come and gone that I’ve ever been less in control of it. It infiltrates my every waking minute and doesn’t even rest when I am asleep.

I am so over this. I am done. Recovery isn’t optional, it has to happen.

I am done.

11 comments

  1. Hi Cara,

    The more blogs of yours I read, the more I love reading what you write because you write so well and from the heart. None more beautifully and painful than this months.

    I am so glad that you wrote this blog for you and for those who read it. But primarily for you. You will never fight a fight so hard as the one you fight against yourself. Your inner demons. And this one is huge. Screaming it out into the world of your readers is so much better than fighting it by internalizing. This way, by sharing, you help people like me know I am not alone. Please if you take nothing else from this comment, take away that your sharing has helped me today.

    So many things you wrote I sat here and nodded my head too. I go camping. How many people take a set of scales with them along with their tent? Who walks into a shopping store and checks the scales whilst they are in there? Who has to align the scales perfectly with the edge of the bottom drawer and stand on exactly the same spot to make sure the reading is accurate? Who looks at themselves and pinches their flab with disgust, even if it is excess skin? Or buys food, only to throw it out hours later to make sure they don’t eat it? Starve yourself for days before relenting to eat. Counting every calorie with a dozen apps trying to keep a tally. Starts worrying days before the official day of weigh in each week and makes sure to not eat at least two days before. Can look at a meal and tell you the makeup of carbs, protein and fats. Or can walk through a whole supermarket and not buy anything because everything has too high a calorie count. When a banana is no longer a banana, but a high carb food that equal half what you allow yourself because to go any higher and you might stop losing weight? And the scales. Those almighty scales rule your world. My therapist asked me on Friday why I was so happy. I said because I had stepped on the scales again and had lost more weight. Mistake. Don’t tell your therapist. Don’t tell anyone. Because there is a logical side that knows what you are doing to yourself. There is a logical part which is telling me that its getting to the stage where my professional support team are red-flagging it and will step in soon. So you must stop telling them. You hate your medication because you know what it does to your metabolism, which makes you hate your bipolar, which makes you hate you. Your Fitbit rules your wrist. You continually look at it, check that it says the same as your phone. You try and work out how many steps you have taken on the days you have to have it charge. The link to your phone must stay connected to ensure the distances walked are correct. Those boundaries of how far you can walk must be pushed further and further. To a point where your body literally stops working. When I will have to ring up and ask for someone to come and help me home because my left knee tendons have torn again because I have been power walking up a hill, knowing that I have pushed too far, trying to limp home. With utter frustration because I know that for the next two days I will be laid up unable to walk. Who doesn’t enjoy the rain on the roof because it stops me walking. My arms are flabby, my favourite clothes from when I have travelled no longer fit, they are huge on me, despite trying, again and again, to shrink them in the clothes dryer and washing them multiple times in hot water. Cold. You fight the cold by trying to exercise more. You look in the mirror and can clearly see what the consequences are of losing weight, you can see it in your face, in your arms, hands. Other people buy you food to eat, put food in your fridge, but you throw it away when they are not around in case you are tempted. You make sure you take your sleeping medication on time so you are not tempted when it gets late.

    Control. It has control over you. But you have control over it. You punish it by starving it. That is your control. Punishment. Self-loathing. Self-loathing turns into hatred. Hatred turns into punishment because hatred is lack of control.

    My brain knows what it is doing. But it doesn’t care enough to stop it. It knows that my moods feed off low blood sugar. That lack of iron is feeding my tiredness and muscle loss, it knows what vitamins and minerals it is missing out on, because all that becomes part of the research that you must pour yourself into to try and work out what is safe to eat. SAFE. Nothing is safe to eat. You are subscribed to all the fitness blogs out there. You cook none of them. It On the catastrophe scale, if those scales read higher than they did the last time I stood on them, well, out of 100, it’s right up there. And when others ask you just how high up the catastrophe scale you put that, you can’t tell them for fear of what they will do.

    Cara, I can’t tell you how much it’s helped me to know what you go through. Above is a peek into my thoughts and actions. I have messed up the first person second person when I wrote you and me, it all refers to my thoughts. Sorry. They hardly compare to your fight, but to the extent I can relate, I really do feel for you. This isn’t something you overcome. This isn’t something you gain mastery over. There is no cure I believe. And it probably won’t matter how many wonderful things I say, about your blogs, or the fact that you are now posting without makeup etc, part of your mind won’t accept that. Can I say that’s ok. Because by voicing what you have, others like myself know you are fighting. And to put yourself out there as you have, I applaud you.

    Well done, thank you, and Please keep fighting.

    And keep writing. We need you

    Liked by 2 people

  2. This is so intense and …. Just wow. I am so sorry that this is what you are going through and what you have been going through. You are so brave and strong to share your story with the world. You are helping so many people. 💜 Sending you so much love

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Hello Cara, I feel for you as I’ve been there, albeit many years ago. In hindsight I know for me it was about control. I’d say I’m now a healthy weight but I still hate it. I think I have body dysmorphia because when I look in the mirror I see the real me but, out and about and without a mirror, I feel absolutely massive. Well done to you for sharing your story and I’m sure it will resonate with readers.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. I’ve got tears running down my face. This was me a few years ago and reading this reminded me of exactly how I existed. I have been struggling recently and I am very afraid of falling back into this.

    The awareness you spread is so incredible and I’m sure I am not the only one you have helped to feel not alone.

    We’re all here for you Cara xx

    Liked by 1 person

  5. YOU .are NOT selfish .people never see the every day effects .there views/judgements are very SNOTTY NOSED . ASK YOURSELF why you are Anorexic like say bullying .i have been bullied then i was Abused
    Vomiting all part of it .it has HELPED ME a lot .feel great deal better .these days i sit have a good cry and
    Runny Snot .how do friends family treat you .why has Anorexic effected you .if any thing happened HOW WOULD YOUR FAMILY /FRIENDS FEEL
    my blog.http;//mark-kent.webs.com
    twitter.supersnopper

    if you would like a chat any time please do ..mark

    Like

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