I never expected to encounter further major transitions to take hold of my life so soon. Last year was already unsettled enough. If anything, the only change I would be experiencing any time soon would be progressing to University this September.
I'm having to take a step down. It's not a step backwards; if anything it's a step forward. However this doesn't mean that this is an easy process: it's a battering assault to my pride and if I wasn't clinging onto any residual hope within the situation I would consider it an emblem of uttermost failure. In a sense, it negates everything that I've strived for and in the context of my 'all-or-nothing', perfectionist tendencies I can't deny how disappointed I am that it has come to this. The greatest challenge is accepting the disappointment of the situation - avoiding allowing that to translate as a disappointment with myself.
At this point in time I would have envisaged myself making decisions as to which University offers to accept and how to organise finances and accommodation, whilst flourishing in my studies at Sixth Form. I never imagined that I'd be confined to rest, undergoing a period of convalescence right back where I started - at my Mother's house. Of course I'd always, always known that I would struggle greatly with independent living in the context of my inability to nourish myself. There had been a notion however, desperately believed yet feebly grasped, that I could somehow work around it through dedicating my efforts into finding support, even if this entailed something as seemingly simple as visiting friends who I could eat with, and spending time with my boyfriend regularly. I suppose that I could only last so long by engaging in that routine; that has been utterly proven. Suddenly I have reached that point where everything has taken its final toll; I'm forced to admit defeat.
Even though my mind often preys on the past I don't see much value in regrets. In all optimism therefore I don't regret anything: the University application process was blood, sweat and tears from the start, only to culminate in the bitterest devastation. When I received the rejection from Oxford it felt as though the rug had been pulled from under my feet. It was, undoubtedly, heartbreaking after having dreamed of studying there since I began secondary education, and in light of the anticipation of those who know me to have achieved the aspiration with ease. I soldiered through my despair and adapted my ambitions like any good player would; but even these endeavours proved in vain when University College London, the institution I'd been hinging on with all I had left, offered me the same response. Rejection always hurts; no matter how many suffered - and I've certainly suffered an abundance of loss - there is always some flimsy hope that the next time might just be different, and my efforts would prevail at last. Having devoted most of my life to the education system, only to come out with a lousy certificate of merits which apparently mean fuck all is bound to leave even the strongest of souls with a woeful sense of disillusion. Filtering through the excuses and reasonings for being declined was like investigating a painfully intimate legal enquiry; but I'd always known the fundamental cause. It was a direct and critical attack on me - nothing 'it's not personal' about it. Whether it was the magnitude of the competition, there would only ever be one distinguishing factor between other high-achieving applicants and myself. Me. Whether it was put down to my personal statement bringing a more 'creative, emotional' aspect which was not as grounded as the factuality of other applications, I have found an uncomfortable closure in the inevitability that I simply don't conform to the ideal. I am not the best. No matter how unprecedented my academic ability, there is a facet to my personality, or, more profoundly, my condition, that universities are wary of. Sadly it is the way that higher society functions. Money dictates all; risks therefore, calculated or otherwise, are scarce - favour turns instead toward what will guarantee a result. 'Too creative for an English degree' epitomises the injustice of it all, even though that eventual excuse was a weak rephrasing of the truth. Anything slightly divergent from the norm is unsettling, too unsettling for the authorities to take a chance on developing the potential of. I have always been described as 'different', 'mysterious', even 'weird' or 'crazy'. It's harrowing to think that my most natural idiosyncrasies have proved my tragic flaw as oppose to engaging intrigue, but it does reveal something that's quite affirmative. I suffer from a multitude of psychological disorders, many of them bearing severe physical implications - that's undeniable. To be discriminated against because of them, or in their words the more superficial aspects of my tendencies that derive from my experiences highlights not what I lack, but what I have that others do not. I might not be the clear-cut, straightforward vision of an English student, or an Art student, or a History student, that those above me expect. I might be a more complex case whose individuality is slightly more 'out-there' than they'd anticipate, and whose personal situation is equally obscure. Being 'different' in a world that craves uniformity, desperately pursuing some functional, reliable entity where there is otherwise chaos and unpredictability, will consistently prove an uphill battle. My personality and, to that end, my condition cannot sway disfavour forever - I can only demonstrate that my circumstances can transpire to be conducive to success as oppose to dooming me to disservice. Ultimately, rising above the stigma surrounding mental illness will prove a lone mutiny against an army much richer, vaster and more powerful than myself; but someone did remind me recently that it's always the strongest soldiers who are given the hardest battles.
It has been hard not to let myself sink entirely. In the early days following the rejection from UCL I was inconsolable as well as outraged. The entirety of the first morning back at school was spent sitting in complete, motionless silence; dead from the inside out except for the distraught contemplations of severely or even fatally injuring either myself or someone else, or engendering some act of petty disrespect such as smoking in the building or vandalising the Sixth Form centre, if not causing some vast gesture of destruction on the school that had given me nothing for my efforts. It was an emotional intensity, a never-ending blackness, which was almost impossible to see sense through. The injustice of it all was enough to make me lust after some epic gesture of mutiny against the system - I would drop out of school (what was the point anyway?), turn my back on the regime that had betrayed me and absorb myself in an alternative lifestyle whose hedonistic feats would guarantee me satisfaction. That would get their attention, that's unquestionable, but it would hardly prove me to be anything other than a caricature version of exactly what they had been so prudent about. It's taken immeasurable resolve to see past such an overwhelming misery and rage, but taking positive steps toward securing myself the best future possible - though a more laborious course than opting for a less exceptional university or throwing the idea of Higher Education away completely - will hopefully prove worthwhile. Saddening though it is to be forced to extend my studies once again in order to give me time to become stronger and more prepared for uni when all my friends will be thriving in their second years, I'm faithful that I can only come out better for it. Not many will be able to emerge from a gap year with a business in London and a Higher National Diploma or Foundation Degree in English and a wealth of experience under their belt - not to mention improved psychological and physical stability. Though I do tire of the phrase 'everything happens for a reason', particularly in circumstances so morose, it does ring true: now I have the luxury of time to become wiser and stronger and more adapted to the undergraduate environment before I commit to the final phase.
It hasn't solely been my education that has been impacted by physical deterioration. I've had to renounce my independence. Leaving home to become homeless, before eventually moving into the Foyer was an immense upheaval and the time I spent there was often challenging. Even though I certainly appreciated it as a base - a place I could sleep and work without the stress I was suffering at my Mother's house - it was far from ideal. No matter how homely, how communicative, how friendly anyone tried to portray the environment to be, there is never any escaping the reality that it is ultimately a place for young people who have nowhere else to go. In that negative sense it is a shelter for the unwanted or unfortunate - some residents having lived their whole lives in care, others having escaped from damaging or unstable domestic environments, many simply having been cast out. Though any one of these stories evoke sympathy, and certainly my appreciation that such an organisation can provide residential accommodation for those desperately in need, the situation leaves little positivity besides. The grittiest aspects of life there - the culture of disrespect amongst some sects of the residents; the earthy, grassy odour of skunk drifting through the corridors in the evenings; the incidents of vandalism or theft or worse - though rarely intrusive to my own habits most of the time did remind me that this place could never be the stable home I longed for either. Nevertheless, I don't regret the experience. I might not have made many friends after an incident caused me to become more cautiously reclusive in the latter period I spent there. Those nights were certainly lonely. I might have undergone immense financial strain in having to wade through the bureaucratic bullshit throughout the shambolic benefit system. Living well under the poverty line yet still having to attempt to support myself in terms of rent and travel left me completely broken at times, without the change to buy coffee for weeks let alone the will to live. I might have declined physically due to being unable to nourish myself independently. Perhaps that is the gravest impact of the experience - though I had expected it to a certain extent, it frightens me that it might be something which proves far more difficult to recover from. To these respects it may seem that I only made losses in the process, but that would be to dismiss the universal gain: I have learnt. I have acquired a far more worldly understanding, not only regarding the reality of homelessness and poverty and all their unforeseen consequences, but of myself, and of those around me. I have had the time and the space away from a tormented family situation, as well as the opportunity to pacify my own anguish - securing some mutual relief for relationships and circumstances to improve. Though the situation is far from resolved, at least it stands now that I have somewhere to turn back to.
Of course, with all the stress of the experiences, I've been left entirely desolate. I have no energy left. My legs are weak from running towards goals and away from distress, my mind is barren and depleted and my heart absolutely drained of the conviction it put into its endeavours. I have finally realised that I can't continue the way I'm going now forever. If it wasn't for Iain, bringing it home to me that I need to make my health a priority then I would most likely continue going to and fro from his house, the Foyer and Sixth Form - but I highly doubt that my body could have coped with that routine for much longer. As it is I very nearly suffered a serious accident whilst at his over the weekend when I stood up too quickly after leaving the bathroom - it was only gripping onto the banister and managing to stumble into the bedroom to collapse on the bed that saved me from passing out where I stood and falling down the stairs. At the moment, in functioning on so little reserves, I'm purely living on borrowed time. I feel pitiful and shamefaced to be back at this lowly point again, where, having descended that forecast 'slippery slope' I'm once again being forced to reconsider my priorities and ease my activities. It's devastating to find myself back in this position where I can't seem to rise above what I've lost, to the point that I have to make sacrifices. I know though, this time, that if I don't slow down now I'll be forced to through a more drastic intervention. It's rare for eating disorder sufferers to even be allowed in the community at my level, let alone consider full-time education - sadly my determination to prove myself as an extraordinary case is reaching its limits. To be researching inpatient treatment options alongside Further Education courses is demoralising to say the least, but I hope that I can turn things around without hospitalisation - or at least hang on to what remains enough to strive through it.
I may have come out of this journey battered, bruised and exhausted, but what I have gained exceeds my injuries. Finding myself fallen to my knees at these crossroads is a bittersweet instalment of my journey, for sorrowful though it may be, to reach this point I have made progress. To be moving back to my Mother's house I have made progress. To take time out of school I have made progress. To defer my University entry for another year I have made progress. I have had to learn that I simply cannot do it all.
There is one thing, one thing that remains constant throughout all of this. There is one promise of salvation and security that I will not compromise, and it's the very thing that has revealed to me some insight into the severity of my situation. The one thing I cannot and will not stand for is breaking his heart. It has been the ultimate lesson and the ultimate reason and the ultimate assurance in not only driving me beyond the darkest moments, but in waking me up to the demons that I've been fearing to tame. I'm not sure that I will ever possess the rationality above distortion to see myself the way that others do, or believe what everyone else claims would be best for me; but now I'm in a position where I desperately want to believe. I hate myself for making him so frightened, for me and for us; for being fragile when I should be strong, and weak when I should be brave... but perhaps it's time that I gave up turning hatred inward and directed it instead at the root behind this degeneration of events: Anorexia. I can't conquer her alone, and even conquer seems too strong a word in the context of such an enduring struggle. Much can be said for romantic spirit however - whatever the challenge in receipt of its devotions - and with that in mind I'm going to put up my best fight. With the knowledge I have acquired so far I can only hope that I can cover some ground, even if that merely entails survival for now. One step at a time: day by day, task by task, minute by minute. I've learnt by this stage that, unfortunately, I'm not a superhuman with all resources at my disposal - so expecting myself to miraculously recover would only ever end in disappointment. My main objective for the present is simply to get through it. I have a reason to now, and to have been blessed with a motivation to be alive has been the most remarkable gift of all: one that I will take with me wherever my path leads.
