Crossroads

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.

Glory of Love

I am the princess who lives on the hill

Who loves you in return

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. 

Water Me

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.

Confusion

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. 

Time for some beans on toast.

Modern Nightmare

'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.

Les Retrouvailles

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. 

The Burdens

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

Lou Reed is dead