Oh I'm so soft and I'm so safe and I'm so warm and I'm so loved and I'm so OKAY and I'm so free and I'm so safe and I'm so sound
And it's so wonderful because we have each other
Forever
Inside me is a river of bones
A quivering heart within an alabaster cage
Lungs beating like wings
There are bruises that have blushed the blood.
Inside me there is a gnawing void
Which neglect has starved
And pain has inspired
But his hands will heal
Inside me there are tempestuous thoughts
Cascading from ear to ear
Screaming their sour solicitations
Or jubilant calls
Inside me are fears that are flurries of passing ravens
Darkest plumage tessellate the walls and the floors and the doors of my mind
The sky yawns above
Whilst the birds cry for food
Inside me bleeds the pain of sentiment
Excruciating in its depth
Whether affection or despair
Within moments, always
Inside me are the ghosts of the past
Haunting the lowest recesses
Whispering in night’s silence
Their vapour stains
Inside me is a chasm of uncertainty
And I’m walking its valleys within
I don’t know where I’m going, how I became, why I can’t recognise my own labyrinth
Quite lost in an obscure place departed from consciousness of myself and seeking a way out
Until I find a guiding hand
Inside me is something new
Celestial promise of salvation in love
A sacred vessel
Quaking oceans
Within my skin
Dancing in my soul
Inside me is an embryo of a future
A vow of a dawn to come
The sun will rise as a phoenix
Born from us
One day we’ll fly far, far away
Inside me is him
Inside him is me
One divine entity
You would think I am a different person when I am with him. It is though my problems cease to exist; or, at least, they diminish to a degree to which they are no longer monsters in my mind and heart and soul. I am no longer a monster. I am no longer an emotional wreck: one moment elated and bright and lively, the next spinning into an escapable, impenetrable tunnel of absolute darkness until I am sunk in the very depths, lost and dead, paralysed by the totality of misery. I am no longer so volatile and on edge inside myself, as though I’m not even yet certain of what my next movement will turn out to be. I have no idea who I am - how on earth could I ever predict my actions or temperament? I am no longer riding on the cusp of perpetual anxiety: not only troubled the constant, dampening notion of the horrors that are bound to occur at any moment - my mother will leave me, everyone will leave me; but suffering the jarring evocations of the past - echoes of trauma pervade every room and plague my mind wherever I go. I am no longer so gripped, so utterly incapacitated by overwhelming terror at the sense of food; though a drifting cooking scent can stir my apprehensions and the plate in front of me will have me daunted motionless for perhaps twenty minutes or more there is a new sentiment which counters fear - a light, a love, a strength that will in time overcome the demonic force prowling in my skull. I am renewing. I am being born again. I am becoming me, and, for once, that is okay. I can tolerate my reality. My worries are drifting on a breeze somewhere beyond the space between us. There is a mellow ambience of healing somehow, when we are together. Nothing matters because we have each other.
The lovers sink quite gently under the tides of sleep amidst the protective lattice of one another's limbs. Though during the tossed course of slumber's wildest depths they may, for moments, part; come morning they will be found locked once more in their intertwining embrace: the velveteen petals of flesh blushing under the tenderness of their counterpart's kisses, the fusion of their polleny breaths composing the sweetest scent between them, this florescent wreath of the vine-like limbs clinging in some remarkable, coupled sculpture.
There is a widespread misconception that those battling with self-destructive psychological conditions such as eating disorders are merely attention-seeking. It's frustrating, as someone afflicted with Anorexia since the age of eleven, to hear the cold judgments of objective outsiders who accuse sufferers of being selfish or pathetic, when we are ultimately all crying out for what every human being needs to survive. We can live without sleep for a given time. We can live without money. Fuck, we can even live without food and water to a certain extent. Of course, to have the luxury of all three would be the optimum lifestyle, but I challenge any one on this earth to attempt to exist without the slightest degree of human contact. It would be a world of senselessness: no sound, no touch, no vision, no taste or scent. Relation to others, acknowledgement, care and attention is our life blood: our elixir of existence. Why are so many condemned for reaching for such a means of vitality in the only way that they can?
One that makes the situation more acutely resistant to change is the complexity of an eating disorder sufferer's mentality. Idiosyncrasies aside, lack of self-worth, low self-esteem and a sense of isolation are often regarded as commonalities amongst those unfortunate enough to spiral into these disorders. Having so little regard for oneself only invites us to crave the respect and recognition and reinforcement from others to compensate for what, quite simply, isn't there. When you're growing up in an unstable environment in which, amidst the chaos of a life-threateningly ill younger sibling followed by the birth of another brother with severe learning difficulties, psychological distress being thrown about the household to an extreme degree and to top it all off the frequent fighting between parents whose relationship is falling apart with disturbing severity you become neglected, it's no wonder that you resort to desperate methods in order to have your voice heard. And, of course, it works. You can get away with nourishing a high-achieving child with an occasional appraising remark, but a daughter who becomes so malnourished that they collapse and begin falling into a coma isn't something that anyone can take so lightly. What a ridiculous thing to do to oneself - driven to the cusp of a self-induced premature demise simply to gain the love so absent within ourselves. But can anyone really be blamed for it? It's more than a coping mechanism, it's a survival strategy. What else is suicide other than a desperate struggle with being alive in a loveless world? None of us want to die - we're all simply searching for a way to live. The physical manifestation of our deepest internal sorrow can seem the only means of having any impact on anything or anyone, most of all ourselves. Misery is inevitable in life but surely no-one could adore such a crippling condition. Has it ever been heard for someone to say: 'Oh, I'm so exquisitely depressed I no longer wish to be alive. What a wonderful, pleasurable feeling.' So of course, we seek an escape. We can't heal our own woes without any reserves to provide the strength, so we cry to others for relief. We'll bleed out the pain, or swallow it down with spirits or substances, or starve our systems dry of it.
The notion of seeking attention is weighted with various negative connotations in a social structure with a paradoxical concern over such egotistical modesty. Therefore those experiencing psychological disorder, if perceived to be practicing such pathetic provocations would naturally be at least somewhat ostracized by their close critics. The sense of rejection and isolation thus experienced by the sufferer proves to accelerate the vicious cycle even more. No-one cares about you anymore. You might as well disappear. Perhaps your ghost will leave more of an impression. Unless of course the means to your end does generate a reaction: not the elementary intention of course, more a by-product that both saves you from the desperation of loneliness and worthlessness yet also fuels self-destruction through its evidence of success. Our minds and bodies and souls are quite remarkable instruments - the needs we possess as living, breathing creatures transpire in physical behaviours which echo our inner-most cravings.
What, therefore, could be the remedy for such an acute condition of self-neglect? Some carers practise deliberately ignoring the cries of their child when simply demanding attention, and this approach can have positive results in proving that 'acting up' neither wins favour nor guarantees victory in the power struggle between parent and child. However, there is always a limit to how much anyone can deny their affection from someone they care so deeply about. Even their desperation will come to a climax. There is no easy answer; no guidebook for parents, friends, relatives and carers eager to acquire the secret of how to best nurture their loved one. Succumbing to our destructive attempts to gain the attention we need not only commits the impression that those in authority have given in their control and power to a condition that is far stronger, but it also proves that the injurious cycle does in fact succeed in generating a meaningful emotional response. Rewarding negative behaviour - whether it's through pity, or sympathy, or desperate gestures of intense love - ultimately only compounds it. Absolute neglect on the other hand can be equally detrimental, if not fatal. Eating disorders are known to have the highest mortality rate of any mental illness - with 1 in 5 of those afflicted dying at the hands of their condition it is clear that intensive support and medical supervision is essential.
In reality there is no perfect equilibrium between distance and care that guarantees that everyone will prevail to be healthy and happy, although I do believe that there are some measures that we can all benefit from. Like raising a child, or disciplining an animal, it's important to remember that caring for anyone is a treatment process. You are treating the individual as much as you are treating the condition. Anyone suffering from any psychological torment, no matter how severe or entrenched the complexities, remains a living, breathing person just as the rest of the human race. They are simply struggling to feel that way. Heal self-loathing with love. Heal deprivation with nourishment. Heal unhappiness with hope. Heal distress with comfort. Appeal to the lost child beneath the manipulative disease that has possessed them - they are still in there, and always will be if you maintain faith in their existence. Becoming frustrated is quite natural but in my experience rarely productive for either carers or sufferers given that it typically only further dampens the spirit of someone who feels guilty for existing. Positive reinforcement from a caring place, provided it is a non-excessive gesture delivered in the right context and manner, can naturally encourage positive behaviour; whereas overt emotional responses and remarks to negative aspects of the treatment process often only fuel the part of the mind which thrives on the attention obtained through regression. Optimism won't always be met with gratitude - 'you're doing so well' is rarely what someone mourning the loss of a loved one for example would wish to hear when it feels as though their world is crashing down around them - but it can be an illuminating prospect in dark moments. We all want to be able to have our faith in life and belief in ourselves restored, but it's a delicate procedure of trust, positivity and caution.
Loving someone is a difficult balance to maintain. It's important to remember that learning to love yourself is harder still.
Eating shouldn't be processed as a negative exchange in your mind. It should be a positive: that function is completed, now to get on with the next task which I will now have the energy to accomplish without intrusion from that darker side of my brain, thank you very much. You might get the odd funny thought. We all do. The fleeting, bizarre idea to commit strange acts - stopping dead still and ceasing to live quite suddenly, or taking a machine gun and doing away with lots of bad people without remorse - the condition of the mind's obscurest realms saturated with dark secrecy seals our occasional seduction by the macabre and the morose. We are human. We will have the odd depressive thought. Switch it off. Go somewhere else. Take your mind away from it. Say no. Disengage in the excruciating cycle of negativity which will ensue so viciously if you allow it to.
You've deceived yourself for so long now into a trap of fatalistic thinking: believing what's good is bad, what's bad is good. Recovery then, is perhaps another process of kidology: an art of teaching yourself the exact opposite of what your entrenched beliefs suggest. The hardest part is that there is a distinct awareness, deep down, that your thinking is wrong - but the thoughts continue to revolve until they are satisfied. I know that I should accept food, but it doesn't change the reality that every part of me wants to reject it.
It is a dangerously distorted mindset to be in, but I know I have to conquer it. I have to find my way once more amidst this surreal fucking landscape I am lost in. I do. You do. We all do.
We have to put aside these soul-destroying fears and extinguish the reactive guilt complexes that flare when we confront such anxieties of natural human processes. We're all bound by this mortal coil. We can't ignore our most native survival instincts.
We all have these instincts. Even the animals possess them. The tigers have them. The cats have them. Even the fucking bees have them. In fact the former feline goes as far as to chase and kill his meaty fare before he eats it. Imagine that. They go to the lengths of savaging and hunting to survive where you turn your nose up at sustenance! As though you have the choice to avoid it. Try to argue that to Charles Darwin. "A living creature - disbelieving, as much as rejecting, the vital function to eat and drink? Preposterous. Lock her away. She's mad I tell you!" It is madness. We're all the same, us living, breathing creatures.
I tell you though that these cats are a lot wiser yet a lot cruder about it than we are; they rely a lot more on pure predatory instinct than the complex emotion and psychology our instinct is abstracted by. You can re-harness that. It's just an operation of adapting your coping mechanisms and manipulating the energies invested to them toward the functions compatible with sustaining existence. You're young. That's not your fault. You're just not quite yet so experienced at the ways of life as I. But, therefore, your pliant vernal mind rendered by youth as lacking in the cluttered remnants of age and time has much room to grow and generous potential to accommodate the acquisition of fresh knowledge. You have the capability to learn quite quickly. You will get there.
But such bright perceptivity dictates that it is not solely good attributes that are so quickly attained but also detrimental behaviours. Ceremonial distress induced by mistreatment and malpractice are just as swiftly absorbed, perhaps more so, than examples of healthy behaviours and circumstances which remain buried under the ghosts of pain. We tend to remain quite irrevocably heavied by past experience of suffering, whilst light aspects are far more difficult to upwardly reach from our groundling's inelevated mileu. Thus such dampening influences can more readily impress our hearts and minds when facing life's necessities now poisoned by their presence. They prey on the mind and make it difficult to normally function, after the severe impression they have left our foreheads branded with as though we were the oppressed female victims of a bygone patriarchal society who said they had sold their souls for make a living. It's no wonder our practices of our existence have been jolted and confused in the context of such disturbance. How can we continue to live after years of indoctrinated torment?
You can choose to be a twisted fuckup if you want to. You can choose to succumb to your fearful delusions - anyone can - or we can expunge those pervasive negativities in favour of what we know, deep and deeper down, what is the truth. The truth is the stone-grounded foundation upon which we can stand in absolute confidence without the dizzying vertigo of living within a cloud-foggied reality. The truth will catch us if we fall or falter upon fear. The truth is the eternal assurance we can always rely on. And the truth is in this life that we all need to eat and drink to survive. We know it so we must trust it in spite of our fear's distortions.
'Unless one is wealthy there is no use in being a charming fellow. Romance is the privilege of the rich, not the profession of the unemployed. The poor should be practical and prosaic. It is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating.' Such austere judgments, as expressed by Oscar Wilde's Hughie Erskine - a character suffering from that sorry condition of idle charm himself - would typically make me wince at the pain of such pragmatism. Tragically now these tidings ring true in the bleakness of my circumstances. Forgive my coldly-lit cynicism but recent poverty has persuaded me to the bitter conclusion that this world does run on little else but money, in which case men and women alike are hardly much more than utterly ineffectual without it. The festive period has proved to be salt in the wound for me: being both impoverished and burdened by Anorexia in the context of a 'time of plenty', with shoppers in town splurging on luxury gifts whilst a day of business in Littlehampton has at times left me without even the train fare home or change for a coffee. The most poignant aspect is that my seasonal depression is far from a solitary case.
Watching the news: three women in London suspected to have been living for thirty years in slavery. Families in Britain without the finances to afford anything else but tins of beans donated from the food bank over Christmas. Children in Syria lying in blood pouring from their own skulls.
Look at the world. Christ, isn't it terrible. It's so terrible. That's like something you'd hear in fucking India. We're in a state. It's just that everyone's so fucking blind to it. It's everywhere. There is horror and debauchery and suffering lurking behind every closed doorway. No-one knows it because we turn away when we could look more closely. I can see it. I know it. It troubles me so deeply - I care so much I'm sick - and I don't even know it all. Many people advise that you shouldn't watch too much of the news for it will only keep you awake at night. The truth is that what the world is seeing on this television screen at this moment isn't even the worst of it, it's barely half the fucking story. They only publicize what they want us to see and no more than that - it's all tempered to fulfill their ulterior motives: whether those entail inspiring nationalistic passions, motivating community efforts of proactive response to challenge the injustices that higher powers are too otherwise 'occupied' to lift a hand to change, or generate the funds required to keep the world turning, the wages producing, the broadcasts blaring. Anything with a profundity that may transcend these objectives and threat to truly pervade our hearts is censored from public knowledge. We all play the game because it's all we're led to believe. Jim Morrison spoke more sense than those in power in this fucking country rife with corruption: 'You're all slaves! You just don't even fuckin' know it.' The reaction from the officer, of course, would only epitomise the nature of this 'democracy' we are hypnotically enticed into believing that we exist in: 'Sir, that is an act of disorderly conduct.' We are indoctrinated with bullshit and then indoctrinated over and over again; any gesture of non-compliance reciprocated with nothing but further social conditioning. Times are hard, and have been for some time. This year has been one of great change for me: finding Iain, becoming homeless, finding my own place, starting a business. All whilst suffering pervasive psychological and physical trauma. It has taught me a lot, least of all what horror goes on in this world. I suppose that 2013 has brought with it a heightened sense of disillusionment with the troubled scheme of life. Perhaps there should be a sense of pride that I have survived it, that I'm still here to tell the tale; yet the intense exhaustion over it all is the only thing I can seem to express.
There's so much pain and I can't stop noticing it.
It's mid-November in Buchy, not far from Rouen amidst a crisp, sunlit region of SouthernFrance. Carved leaves of slivers of purest amber are kissed with almost imperceptible crystals of dewfrost at the rise of the sun, but over day's leisurely course transform into damp, crushedsilks underfoot on the cobbles. Two brothers are approaching along the humble tributary of the boulevard which branched from bridge across the canal. They share the intent to lavish their morning together with a pleasantstroll exploring the locality whilst they stop off en-route back to their home on the East Sussex coast, Angleterre.
Each of the couple seem wearied by the lengthytimeliness of their journey from Paris, but not so utterly exhausted by their adventures as to dismiss an opportunity for furtherexbidition to follow. Onward, therefore, they trudged. Handcrafted brogues rhythmed the streetsurface as they walked in merry conversation. Their demeanour was one of a lighthearted nature ofcourse but in life we cannot suppose that the nakedeye of any givenperson would ever be able to judge the souls of the strangers they encounter. Few possess the cursedgift of perception which allows an insight into another's deepest woes and joys. No-one should ever have to assume that there maywellbe a familiarity with true pain beneath their smiles - memories of loss, of years of corporealsuffering, of the ultimate tormentofheartbreak. Those these understandings are not unknown between the two, their sensivities are never so much as to alter their spiritedstride. Step after step the two take, one assisted by the brotherly arm readily hooked for its counterpart, given that legs so sparrowed by the degenerativeimplications of relievingandresorative medicine can sadly never hope to parallel the span of the sturdier limbs in play. It was not until these men had lost sight of the anticipation of anyother ounce of evidence that human life continued to exist in the area, that uponaglance they happened to distinguish a door amongst the terracedhouses. Certainly, there was nothing remarked about garnetvarnished entry besides its mutedcomplexion; no, it was besideswhich: it was the gaze of the figure behind oysteredlace curtains, the bibliotheque's 'Peeping Tom' incarnate that, barely even halfnoticed by Norman and Roger, remained the most noticed of all. They were nearly passed the wooden gateway before the slightest creak expressed amidst the laughterpeppered silence that another secretsoul may have mustered the courage to make itself known.
The pair greeted the decrepit gentleman with all the semicoherent courtesy of English (and scarcelyfluent) citizens in a foreignregion but not without occasionalglance at the gnarled and stained nails stemming from fingers like roots exposed within the terrain beneath an ancient oak - thus not offering outstretched hands for him to shake.
Though behind the must dusted windows to the front of the shop were abundant in their array - hats of all shapes, sizes, colours: from the rim of the most extravagant of which flourished blooms of seasonal flora or the plumage of fine pheasants; others of a more modest nature including plaid flat caps or sober black trilbies - the shop was clearly closed. It was almost as though the passions of its holder had not yet expired but now, after the years of wear and weight of time no longer possessed the youth of vitality required to expose oneself quite fully to the burdensome energies of the outside world. Nevertheless he greeted the brothers and devoted the best part of an hour at his front door passing them hat after hat to try. The travelers were acquiescent to the recluse's efforts, gratefully accepting each item that was passed in their direction and taking endeavours accentuated with boyish delight to position each upon their heads. They followed polite nods at the aged orchestrator of the performance and muttered 'Mercis' by expressively glancing and smiling at one another as they displayed and adjusted their new accessories with such due tentativeness. Needless to say the caution remained whilst being handed each hat: the convenience of the communicativebarrier rendered by the players' divergence in language allowed one brother to deftlyutter 'Careful R, those fingernails look like they could have been anywhere,' to the other who chuckled under breath at the curious notions of the filthiest possibilities in such a suggestion.
It's the hidden gems that make life precious. Finding an obscure hat boutique tuckedaway amongst the cobbled streets of Buchy; that tarnished coin left unnoticed by passersby, oblivious to the fortune said to be blessed to the discoverer of the smallcopperedwealth forgotten upon the stoney terrain at the harbour in the eveningtime; the faint suggestion of a smile upon the countenance of the sober streetwoman as she hangs out her children's and her grandchildren's and perhaps even her greatgrandchildren's laundry from various suspensions around the front garden with an apparent bitterness - or at least melancholy - that one would assume might betray any glimmer of warmth left in such a heavyheart. These are the things which lift the soul. As such was this mysterious character's undusted emporium. Though hardly refined like the sparkling shopfronts amidst the main streets in the town, even its inhabitant so seemingly weathered by time, the place sung of a rare authenticity and true, avid spirit which almost suffused through the thick mist of alabastersoot which threatened to billow in clouds at any sudden movement. Even the old man's beard, tinged still with the slightest russet hue within the curlmatted wires of silver, grew thick and nearlyaslong as his waist as though inviting the lateautumn leaves fluttering in the breeze (on the remarkable occasion that he opened his frontdoor) to become entangled in unbrushed mane and remain there for perhaps more than weeks before detected by the fellow. There was even the most bizarre conviction prowling within N's mind that the gentleman had surely died forsometime and had only momentarily awoken from his mortal stupor in order to settle his culturallyenthused visitors before returning to his deathbed for his final and eternal rest. Perhaps these jewels of age were the source of its Gothic charm. The indeterminable light fused with its gloomy opponent that its breathed thick, unilluminated heaviness in every corner caressed by shade. The touches of the ornate, of the sublime, of nature's fruits and delights - from the pages endowed with reams of scrawled calligraphy or musicalphrasing which spilled from the mahoganyleather spines of gold leafed folios, leaving only the scarcest glades of woodenfloorboard underfoot; to the vast landscape prints of the oilpaintings by Turner and Monet and Boudain adorning the farthest walls in obscurity; to the greyfaceted glass in solitude on the windowsill beneath its accessorial accompaniments, from which bowed a withering neck nearly bowed nearly double under the weight of its wiltingcrimsoned head; to the liminal atmosphere rendered by the ghostly presence of the landlord. There is something almost strangely romantic about deathshadowed aspects, a certain enticingflavour to the scents through which they've breathed. A Freudborn thinker might suggest that the appeal lies in the bittersweetfaith that death remains the one certainty, the absolute nonpareil that we all in time will grasp without exception or mercy from life's feeble clutches - its irrevocableness, though sobering, remains a higherpower that we can rely on withoutanydoubt. Fear may tincture our pansophy at the inevitability of our fates but there can be nosuspicion that in this we can wholeheartedlybelieve; for the truth of our prophetic prediction is proven manytimesover each flittering second of everyday. We are born, and from that very moment we all experience an incongruous process of growthanddecay until the hands of the clock coalesce and finally chime at their eleventhhour, when we will expire at last. Some, too intune with the pathetique melodies which pur beneath their lifeblood, a dissonant, flattenedseventh humming on the footpedals of the cathedral orchestra as some exultant hymn is playedabove by the choirboy, can do little else but be prematurely crushed by the prospect of their demise. The fragile yet feeling of those few may even unconsciously expedite their finale - seeking an end to suffering such a ceremonial affair that remains inarguably brief amidst the infinitude of time in which we are born, in favour of the groundingstate of satisfiedpermanence. Death is the lover upon which we can always depend. Indo-European mythology's Grim Reaper will never be the seducer to whisper sweetnothings in the crookbetweentheneckandthe ear one night before fleeing in advance of sunrise. Though chosen walkers of this earthly realm may glimpse him round a dark corner, perhaps even greeting him directly in his menacinglybewitching eyes, or even coming close enough to brush his icyfingertips or closer, or closer still. No-one will evade this childsnatcher's embrace eventually. There is something perpetually comforting in the things that we know.
Evening's sultry imminence swooning toward those standing impressed that headway must be made and swiftly if the misfortune of a missed ferry departure was to be avoided. Twilight's glowing affection upon their inklyfelted hats was enough to indicate that it was time for hats were due to be gratefully returned to their owner, sincerest yet mispronounced thanks given, and obsoletely though notimmodest merchant's offers to be declined with a register of utmost respect. After incomprehensible attempts for his impassioned last sale and stuttered farewells the door was drawn oncemore with such poignant finality that the solely quiet tone of the closingclick might shed a tear in an outsider to the event, let alone the brothers who had seemed to learn and love so much in that brief instance. With that sound the chapter was complete, and the artists parted. As the immemorial fellow gathered his mostdelicate curtains to impart their finishing tapestry, the brothers went on their way to conclude the coda of the piece. Gentle, hearttouched steps upon the cobbles round the last of the street until the detour would lead them to rejoin their original path toward their everpatient vehicle at the port. Then, home.
I wrote an abridged list of my miseries - forgive the total lack of eloquence as well as the many things I omitted - in the hope that the cathartic process of their expression will give clearance for brighter things to grow. It's time to burn this all and start a fresh tomorrow for the very last time.
I have no place to call home and sofa-surfing is incredibly draining and demoralising
I am a problem - I'm a burden to anyone and everyone I spend any length of time around given that I can't control my emotions or my eating disordered behaviours and I'm tired of making everyone's lives a misery as well as my own
I don't have the money to find my own place and the services can't work quickly enough
This has quite possibly been the worst half term of all time - I spent my Halloween trekking around Sussex for six hours looking for somewhere to spend the night instead of having a good time with my friends or family
I don't feel supported or cared for anymore; not even by my own mother who I had thought I could depend on. Even though I forgive her I cannot forget the hurtful things she has said and done. I cannot shake the feelings of betrayal, and for her now to deny moral support in me finding somewhere else to stay is only making me feel more alone than ever. I didn't watch her spend years in a severely unhappy relationship with my Dad and learn nothing - there is no denying that we need time and space from each other before the situation deteriorates any more. Right now it is only a ticking time bomb before another dangerous situation explodes between us when I feel suicidal whenever I am in the house
I don't want to be sad anymore but I don't know how to be happy
I can't find peace anywhere
I am ugly and fat - I'm not even thin enough to be deserving of pity
I can't seem to do any work for sixth form as I'm overwhelmed by misery and anxiety at my situation
My bedroom is a mess
I can't sleep without having horrible nightmares - when I slept last I dreamt that I was being raped and no-one would help me and then that someone attacking me leapt onto my back and I didn't have the strength to shake them off
I'm exhausted by the constant battle against food, against fear, against sadness, against anger; against myself
I feel physically terrible - I'm tired of feeling like shit 99% of the time and being under the weather with a cold coming on doesn't help AT all
I'm worried about my brother Tristan as I know he is struggling mentally but there seems very little I can do to help him
Every effort I make to help others is never enough - if I make breakfast in bed for my Mum, babysit my brothers and cook them dinner, get myself to work without troubling anyone for a lift to save me struggling all the way to the station… it is only appreciated for the briefest of moments before I get shit for something else
I'm tired of being spoken about so negatively behind my back by members of my own family and I'm sure thought of negatively all the time
I'm horrifically worried about the ELAT test on Wednesday as I'm the least prepared I've ever been for any test in my life. I gave one of the books from Oxford University I could have used to revise from to a patient at my last unit to read and I think she has died which makes me more miserable than you can imagine and also means that there is no chance of me getting it back
I feel like I am letting everyone down by failing to reply to messages or letters in good time but I don't want to respond when I'm in such a bad place when I desperately wish to be a positive influence to others
It makes me bitterly sad to see all my friends getting on with their lives - my sixth form friends now flourishing at university, many of those I know from various inpatient units now recovering from their conditions and loving life again - all whilst I remain stuck
I miss my friends more than I can say
I can't forget the things I have seen: E being brutally force-fed as I cried and girls screamed and tried to escape; L slitting her wrists with my paint tile that I had left on the table and seeing the blood that drenched her bedroom floor; T vomiting in the washing machine before she was restrained and injected in her room where she screamed 'rape' for hours on end; walking past the isolated ward on the AMU a few days following my worst overdose and seeing a lady being resuscitated after a heart attack, then returning after my cigarette for her to be gone...
I can't forget the things that I've experienced: being taken advantage of by a guy I didn't know when I was paralytically drunk those years ago; having the naso-gastric tube inserted up my nose and into my stomach to be sedated and drip-fed constantly for three weeks; watching my life slur by in strange dream-like scenes as my present senses began to diminish and vitality faded whilst I was at A&E during my physical worst; being conspired against by mental health professionals when they assessed me for sectioning without my knowledge before admitting me to an institution that has left me permanently traumatized; being screamed and spat at by a woman suffering from severe Anorexia herself and told I was a selfish cow who didn't deserve to be here; being rushed off in an ambulance after my fourth major overdose, impaled with needles and wires as the sirens screamed; having my own mother grip my wrists nearly to breaking point before we fought so viciously until she called the police…
No-one understands how I feel
I want everything to go away but I'm judged for any means of escapism that I resort to
I don't know where to go or who to turn to
I miss my boyfriend and I am ashamed to see him tomorrow when I don't deserve him and he doesn't deserve to be burdened with me. I am terrified that I will lose him for I know I will not survive that loss
Fame is a unique and seemingly surreal state which epitomises being known by many - though that's relative, I suppose. Everyone has their own judgement of celebrity, and their own motive to seek, or to avoid it. For me beginning a social support network via youtube was never about gaining popularity, or attention or fortune of any kind; it was about sharing my experiences in the hope of helping someone out there suffering similar misery to feel less alone. That isn't to say that it was instigated without any suggestion of subconscious selfishness: perhaps there was always a part of me that relished having a means of venting my woes, and even a faint hope that it could somehow serve as a form of self-medication, persuading me away from the self-destructive tendencies that I preach to others to avoid. Sadly it hasn't revolutionised anything in terms of the ongoing struggle with psychological turmoil experienced by many others as well as myself in the way I so blindly hoped it would.
Being so acutely perceptive of the world around me, unconsciously or otherwise, has rendered me with an awareness to the general conception surrounding the process and effects of being so widely known. One pervasive assumption I have noted entails the belief that figures in the public eye cannot cope with the overwhelming effects of fame: the perpetual scrutiny, not being able to leave the house without being recognised, a great pressure to consistently achieve. This sudden and intense influx of public speculation triggers these individuals to succumb to universally-considered as 'unhealthy' means of coping including promiscuity, addiction or eccentricity; or, 'go off-the-rails' entirely in a spectacular fall from grace ending only in insanity and shame. There is truth in that, of course. Bowie's alter-ego, Ziggy Stardust was broadly suggested to be his idiosyncratic mechanism for dealing with fame - Bowie itself was a pseudonym, his real name was David Jones. Amy Winehouse's battle with addiction and mental health ultimately leading to her tragic death was, I have heard, an attempt to survive the vast impact of being so renowned.
The truth is, for me, and I imagine many, that degradation, delirium or decline isn't a natural response to fame itself. It is in fact, an answer to the mystifying injustice pervading the world outside it. The fact that these things happen often at the height of public adoration, or at least speculation, is merely coincidence; guaranteed by the bitter disappointment at the reality that no matter how acclaimed you are and how far-rangingly your voice is head, it can never change the cruelty of the world you are experiencing. Taking a philanthropist approach to your swelling income and funding charities will never stop children starving in Africa. Producing videos discussing mental health topics can never change every stigma, raise all the awareness needed for true change or inspire the hope to stop someone taking their life. Not even creating a melody so blissful to the senses and nourishing to the soul like the silvery tongue of a deistic power could switch every being on earth into a state of perfect harmony. We hope that every effort helps, but in truth it will never be enough. Nothing ever changes.
There is an uncomfortable collective atmosphere associated with knowledge of the 'twenty-seven' club - that is, the group of celebrities including Jim Morrison of The Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Amy Winehouse, Nick Drake, Brian Jones of The Rolling Stones, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, etc. - but there really is no eerie coincidence to it. The fact is that talent is both a blessing and a curse: it makes you extraordinarily good at what you do given your heightened perception and depth of emotion; but accompanied to these accentuated factors you cannot help but notice the state of the world around you. The world around you kind of hurts, but it's not something you can get out of in a hurry; thus forms of escape such as psychological distraction become a means of survival. In the words of Nietzsche: 'Examine the lives of the best and most fruitful people and peoples and ask yourselves whether a tree that is supposed to grow to a proud height can dispense with bad weather and storms; whether misfortune and external resistance, some kinds of hatred, jealousy, stubbornness, mistrust, hardness, avarice, and violence do not belong among the favorable conditions without which any great growth even of virtue is scarcely possible.' Suffering is an inevitable component of personal growth, for those exceptionally gifted in particular. Apparently it's hard being brilliant. It just so happened that was the case for these musicians - their age shouldn't distinguish that as curious.
'Ziggy' was in fact an elaborate take on the common tendency of the rich and famous to indulging in the strange or condemned, not a genuine attempt to follow suit. I'm sure there was heart in it somewhere, I'd love to ask Bowie myself; but I tend to foster the belief that it was more of a fantastic parody of the ways of the world which people eventually began to adore the man for even more. Either way it goes to show that there is some bizarre ritual for stars to behave in certain ways or follow certain downward spirals, which is even alluded to within the industry itself as the former example would show.
We all pray that our actions and words will count. Maybe our glory will set hearts on fire and our voices will motivate millions; but maybe not. I frequently doubt the positive impact that I have had on those who claim to praise and appreciate me. This is not intended as a brutal declaration of damnation toward the situation I have got myself into for I do recognise the vast benefits that come with it - I value the support of the community more than I will ever be able to express; but when all is said and done it cannot save me. Salvation can only come from the self.
Fame doesn't change what you need it to. It doesn't change the fact that my personal statement for Oxford University has to be severed by some hundred precious words as a consequence of my recent discovery at the (intolerably pedantic) character count being at 4000 characters including spaces as oppose to the 4500 I had believed was the case; and, following that, incorporated into my UCAS application that I cannot even access given that, fate being against me as ever, the website is declining my login details despite every conviction that I am inputting them correctly for it is their mistake not mine - in the context of the deadline for the whole process being tomorrow night, with me unable to articulate any means of linguistically outstanding and persuasive résumé amidst my total exhaustion, only this ridiculous blogpost which only proves what a pathetic human being I truly am. It doesn't change the fact that I have achieved nothing with my day besides crying; venting my aggressive despair in screams or curses or general aversion upon anyone who dares to aggravate my emotional instability further through their incessant demands and complaints; as well, of course, as becoming utterly consumed my this demon that is known as anorexia. I've been self-inflicting absolute turmoil from the moment I woke up when I should have been completing my personal statement, or doing the artwork which is due for sixth form tomorrow, or, given that Iain is unexpectedly working in Leeds this weekend maybe even moving the stock into and setting up the market stall in Littlehampton which, having signed the lease and paid for, we will be launching on Tuesday - the one task I had set myself which even I had falsely maintained the faith would be achieved over the weekend's course.
In truth fame merely adds to the commotion of everyday life. Rushing between my home at Barnham with Mum, my home at Eastbourne with Dad, sixth form and my new home at Iain's in Worthing is essentially a juggling act, and undoubtedly taxing on the emotions as well as an already sleep and food-deprived body. Waking up and leaving him in bed most mornings to catch the earliest train I can manage back to Barnham for school is painful, and, increasingly, a stark reminder of how difficult it all is... even dare I say it how curious it feels to be leaving behind the adult life of the previous night beneath those sheets and in his arms in exchange for a day of something so disparate: with superficial gossip which of course I will duly smile along with, and homework tasks that I promise to all parties that I will accomplish, and, during minutes snatched for a quick cigarette the comparatively dull sting of the October air invading my ears as oppose to his tender words. At times it all feels rather strange, and something I think very few could understand, no matter how many people think they know me and my life. Of course I could never try to explain every aspect of my existence to those around me for I'm expected to stay strong, if not from others then from myself. I must give the advice people want, answer their questions about their symptoms or suffering, and be a good example in return - glimpses of the true severity of everything that is going on are rare, even rendered insignificant in contrast to the reality of my circumstances. There are few who I can turn to to divulge everything now. My closest friends have essentially evaporated from my life after leaving for university - besides the odd communication which, although always lovely to receive can never compensate for face-to-face daily contact. It's hard to see everyone getting on with their lives, making their way in the world whilst I stay stuck in this mess. My relationship with my Mum is often particularly taught of late, and it's quite clear she has very little time for me, understandably perhaps, diminishing any chance of an emotional alliance forming. Unfortunately I feel I cannot burden my Dad with it all either given that he has only just been discharged from hospital after having to have three stents inserted into the arteries in his heart. Remaining upbeat is beginning to feel like a personal responsibility particularly in terms of him, when I always feel guilty for being the reason of his health problems - "...caused by all this stress.." he would always empathically say. The duties I appear to have landed myself with are quite literally never-ending. It is incredibly hard to be committed to so many things at once, when you have very little commitment to life at all.
Fame doesn't change the morbidly depressive weather outside, which not only restricted me being able to go for a walk with my dog to boost my spirits but also the convenience of stress-relieving cigarette breaks. This considered I was forced to resort to having this evening's desperately needed smoke in my bedroom, hoping that the odour wouldn't somehow escape through the rolled up dressing gown beneath door and permeate the surrounding areas downstairs - not that I could hardly inhale it anyway given that I am evidently incubating a horrible throat infection or virus of some sort. That combined with feeling like shit ninety percent of the time anyway as well as (let's not forget) a foot apparently quite severely injured after falling down a flight of concrete stairs over a week and a half ago whilst running for the train from Worthing to make it on time for sixth form do NOT constitute as someone fit and ready for whatever challenge they face.
No degree of distinction, unless it were to accompany a substantial fortune, could alter the hugely unsettling reality that our house is officially on the market due to circumstances pertaining to my parents' divorce last year; and that, finances, logistics and lack or resolve as to where we are going to end up considered, soon we may find our struggling family in undersized and inadequate accommodation. Whichever angle you consider it from, even with optimism promising a 'fresh new start' for us all, moving house is an upheaval to say the least and only adds to the growing sense of instability upon which my existence is currently founded.
Irrespective of what our situation is financially, our family crisis will persist. My brother's (assumed to be) post-traumatic stress induced period of psychosis, or perhaps even developing schizophrenia is a source of great worry which no height of popularity could alleviate. No matter how many hands there are somewhere in the world to applaud me, or comfort me, or guide me, there will never be enough to go around managing all the responsibilities within the household; including looking after Tristan when he is in distress, attending to Rowan who - despite all joyfulness - has energy levels at time so boisterous that they demand more attention than any superhuman could devote, and caring for me. It seems more often than not I fall to the bottom of the pile in recent times, amidst the frenzied chaos of sorting the house and doting on everyone else. All the fame in the world can mean nothing when you feel neglected, even frequently unwelcome, in your own home.
Even though I have so much support and thousands of people apparently taking an interest in my experiences I am still struggling beyond belief. Every day is a battle that I could never even begin to describe. With such expectation placed and such inspiration seemingly evoked I feel guilty for failing to eat little more than a small meal each day, and often failing to allow this to nourish me: instead resorting to what I realise are repulsive behaviours to expunge what seems like poison from my body. It does not stop me from feeling worthless, grotesque and pathetic. It does not settle the volatility in temperament - the moments of acute misery or rage or terror; the truly disorientating episodes of dissociation; the sense of being so overwhelmed with the world that I'd be better off out of it. Fame certainly does not bestow miraculous cures.
In essence, fame may change your future but it cannot change your past. Its effect on the present even has its limitations - its tendrils are not so far-reaching so as to benevolently transform the muddied chaos of your personal life into a field of roses. And never can it ever hope to change the world.
What has been the precipitating factor behind any change I am experiencing at the moment has been, as trite as it may sound: love. Amy didn't become trapped in a fatal cycle of self-abuse because she couldn't stand fame. It's because she couldn't get the one person she truly loved. No-one can imagine the magnitude of love and everything it entails until they are, quite simply, in it. It is a bittersweet thing. It can make you want to laugh and it can make you want to weep; it can give you lust for life for once but it can also make you want to die. The only certainty is that we all long for it and would go to any length for it: whether it be romantic love, platonic affection or devotion to a child. Why? For me, it makes things feel valuable. It puts things in a pleasing geometric arrangement that somehow seems so much easier to observe, or at least worthwhile enduring. Feeling loved, really loved by someone else - despite every wavering moment of disbelief I have that any such feeling toward my pathetic self could ever be sincere - almost conveys that I could have meaning on this earth, that perhaps I do deserve to be cared for, maybe even by myself. The shifting ground beneath my feet owes most of its movement from that abstract state we call love.
The judgement of others is a source of great frustration for me. Accusations (whether valid or not) that I am clearly 'going downhill' physically with weight declining and blood levels becoming increasingly unstable, not to mention slipping into new means of 'abusing my body' through being, quite frankly, out of my head on something - are undeniably hurtful: is humanity truly that shallow that the state of my life can be assumed by the way I outwardly appear? Does anyone care that since being in a relationship I have eaten for the first time in seven years with someone who isn't either of my parents or a nurse? Does anyone care that I have put enough trust in someone to allow them not only to become close to me and to love, but even to feed me? No-one gives a damn about the courage and strength it takes to get through a meal, let alone how much of myself I am putting on the line when I eat new foods (which by the way have not always been oil-free) or close my eyes and allow him to place another bite in my mouth when I can't do it myself. Perhaps I'll get a small round of applause for my efforts, but there will always be the nagging complaints that it still isn't enough, or that it doesn't matter anyway because you were on drugs while you were eating. I can only wish that people could understand that I am trying harder than ever before. Really trying to eat for something other than simply the immediate threat of hospitalisation is quite foreign to me but something I am just beginning to comprehend. That is what I want people to see. I want it to be known that despite it all, this is enriching me in every way. I feel alive for the first time in years. I still have my faults and don't I know it - but apologising for being human is something I need to grow out of.
As much as I adore my followers and wish them every goodness in life, I know that I'd instantly trade the small fame of being loved by many for being loved by this one forever.
