There Are Monsters In This Bed

I'm not certain where I am. It seems a charmingly bizarre milieu nonetheless - almost ostentatious in its agrarian appeal; wild hares prance amidst the verdant expanse as peacocks roam their domain, illuminated by the breath of spring. Who is it who traverses the grounds of the estate by my side? A man I do not know, but one whom I assume to trust. Together we meander throughout the bullrush-terrain, gazing into the crystalline eyes of the torrents which surge the rockery, to which there seems no finite boundary, perhaps no existential premise at all; only an endless, lyrical fluidity. Time and space are merely ghostly reflections within this realm so departed from universal impediment: its dawning-twilight sun paints the faces of the illusory lovers amongst the rushes as we stroll towards the shade.

In quiet repose I seem dazed. My surroundings begin to swim as though somehow, without conscious use of my vice, I am losing myself again in that exquisite silver haze. Perhaps I have become the water beneath the willow upon the knoll where we now rest - reeling idly, endlessly; until the eternal present collapses, to be born again.

The most bewildering absence of any sentient lapse in memory abjures my insight as to the process of transposition from there to here: instead I have only the dullest awareness that some such shift has inspired a new locale. The walls surrounding are stony spectres - those of a Gothic cathedral, or a stately home it seems. Though in spite of obscurity of judgment a chilling surmise grows, breeds, festers within the dark recesses of my brain - a parasite of recognition. Such austere façades belong to only one place. These are the aesthetics of an obsolete mental institution.

Without the grace of consciousness I am on my back again. In my languid state there is little I can do. I writhe and protest but have no hope of retracting the violation. It has been done. Over and over and over again. I can only weep in vain as the imposing figure ascends, the growing clarity revealing if only in part, the monstrousness of his countenance: his stark, uncertainly gleaming skull, his gargantuan proportions, those oddly dawn perennial limbs whose extremities feed from my flesh like myriad mosquito tongues.

His aspect is quite changed now: suddenly the assailant has been displaced by the caress of a comforter. At first his touch is soothing as he consoles my grief, but all too soon that fresh tenderness begins to decay, as though in reverence to the exploits of his predecessor. Gentle hands transmute to a predatory grasp and the terror of realisation to my fate spawns in my veins once more. Despite my outcries I am utterly powerless again: rendered near paralysed by some inexplicable stupor.

Here lies an alabaster shell tossed upon a tempest whose heaving, plunging impetus smothers its tidal trinket.

The futility of resistance is as crushing as the gravity of his pounding torso against mine. Any plea I desperately express is renounced by advancing motion. He tells me that it is too late. Abhorrent to my impotent bids to evade such profane assault he recites: "I am already inside. It's too late."

Grappling now, impassioned by dread, I wrestle in feeble resolution to dismember the weapon of corruption between me. A vicious wrench and crimson flows fast; but without the slightest expression of his pain. As though unmoved, he observes the oozing stump almost in contempt of my fruitless efforts - a hideous shadowy form with lips as ensanguined as his severed appendage. He laughs.

I scramble, stumble, stand, in advantage of his injury. My love told me to fight back. In his spirit I lunge and dig my thumbs deep into his sockets, close to wrenching as the salivary membrane of his eyes cleave beneath my claws. I gouge them, just as I was told, and I run. I run and run and run.

What an availing escape from that place without end. By now, though my sprint is swift, he has caught my shoulder and dragged me backward again. Tumbling, I shriek in horror: his eyes are once more intact, barely bloody, replaced as though I had never torn them from his skull.

Yet somehow I have broken free from those virile clutches and continue to flee one more time to join the mass exodus of nameless, faceless figures stealing from the gates. A clinical brightness elucidates the doors beyond - even amidst my frenzy I can make out the emblazoned insignias of the hospital exit.

I am ripped in reverse despite my tenacity toward escape, each time with greater distress in accordance with every furthered advancement. Even when I reach the pillar penultimate to my freedom, some indomitable force - an army of disembodied fists - tear me, wailing, away. I can only watch as the doors ahead slide to a close.

The carved expressions of the female prison guards, Oriental in semblance, observe my isolated despair from their sentinels' posts. Finally, I resign to my own incarceration and prepare to suffer the next act of onslaught.

But in a dizzying flurry I am in accelerating motion again. My liberator has come at last! Speeding, even soaring we grace the winding passage, approaching the refuge of open air once and for all. Past the gates I am propelled upon a wheeled device - though strapped like a maniac in restraint I sense the thrill of our flight; the desperate hope of success. Past the pillars, inscribed with emblems which recall the entrance of Auschwitz - some unintelligible Germanic epitaph. Past the Japanese prison guards with their crisp, dark uniforms and identical, stony faces. Delivery is surely ours...

The sirens begin to scream. The chase begins again. Terror, terror; as the wardens advance with inhuman speed. I can only scream as the plague threatens to surround me for its final barricade. The prospect of emancipation gives way to one of doom.

I am utterly trapped by horror; embroiled in a perpetual nightmare. Though we hasten still, our pace seems failing in contrast to theirs. We are helpless.

Imminent. As imminent to freedom as we are to their clutches.

At the moment of contact I wake into torment.

Analyse

I am quite departed from a 'rational' reality and the world I am experiencing is inexplicable. Anything I say will make no sense to anyone for I am experiencing a different level of consciousness which is quite terrifying. Life is a perpetual 'bad trip' in which everything is heightened, but to an excruciating, as oppose to a fascinating degree. Here is my painstaking attempt of extracting some of the thoughts which, in their relentless chaos, are rarely within the means of articulation. Much of my mind cannot be spoken. None of what I have managed to abstractly express will make sense to the greater part of humanity, for those objective outsiders are grounded, and in being grounded are blind to the higher meaning invested in all things. 

Everything has meaning.

Everything has reason.

Everything is precious.

Everything must be perfect, in its optimum state, at all times. Harmony can only exist when every element conforms to these conditions.

There are countless consequences to any given situation; thus every circumstance, minute by minute, requires the most deliberate calculation and analysis in order to ensure that the best possible outcome prevails. The best outcome equals precision of meaning, conservation of value and providence of time. Any time not achieving something is waste - pure and selfish waste; and a void in which the torment of my own thoughts becomes intolerable.

I must be prepared for every possibility of every circumstance. If I am not prepared then everything will fall apart. The perpetual sense of urgency is excruciating - if there is one moment during which I am left without distraction from the cacophony inside my skull then I have no hope. The thoughts are worsening. I cannot counteract my thoughts alone.

Everything must be justified in relation to others.

Every action must be determined with respect to its effect on others.

Spending money on myself is only allowed if ultimately to serve the purpose of others.

Sitting is only allowed if enforced, or in a context where social company would necessitate it.

Calorie consumption is only allowed if compulsory.

Independent calorie consumption can only be justified if minus.

I must present the best version of myself at all times in order to be a positive example to others.

I must appear strong.

I must appear optimistic.

I must appear colourful.

This requires excruciating effort to suppress a torturous level of psychological turmoil; and isolation to preserve the welfare of others.

I must protect others from my despair in order that they can find hope.

The true extent of my internal distress would be intolerable for others, and also leave me more alone than ever.

If anyone were to know how I am inside then they would leave me. 

I must cause as little disturbance as possible.

I must be as least burdensome as possible.

I must not disrupt the existential balance.

I must not be seen in the same outfit more than once.

I must not wear the same combination of jewellery more than once. 

Every colour is symbolic.

Every shape is symbolic.

Every form is symbolic.

Every manifestation must also present a sentimental value - meaninglessness is wasteful.

Certain colours have certain moods which I must harness in order to try to influence my own and therefore the wellbeing of others. 

Everything must be an accurate and harmonious reflection of other things. 

Music must be complimentary to circumstance or mood and music must be all the time because silence is space for thoughts. 

Scent is determined by the various conditions of every circumstance.

Everything has reason and requires calculation. 

Substances are most effective on an empty stomach.

I must be as empty as possible at all times in order to gain the best 'escape'.

A cigarette is best when my system is as empty as possible. This entails rationing, and constant calculation of time, with the longest time, and the most physical activity as possible between each cigarette to gain the greatest 'hit' and escape from feeling 'real'. 

All tobacco scraps must be collected in case of running out of money or time. 

Everything must be saved in case.

I must never smell unpleasant in case others are upset. 

Teeth must be cleaned after every cigarette.

Teeth must be cleaned before eating to prepare the palette.

Teeth must be cleaned after eating to expunge any residual calories.

I must use the toilet immediately before every meal in case of needing it after, in which case I would have to request being accompanied to protect me from my own compulsions. Being accompanied would be a burden and I would be ashamed for needing support. 

I must remove any opportunity of hiding food in hair, pockets or sleeves as opportunity for escape is impossible to abstain from. 

I must make every effort to avoid calories without breaking the rules set by others.

I must hide my distress at the meal table as much as possible.

I am always ashamed. I am guilty for being ill. 

Food equals calories. Calories equals weight. Weight equals more of me, who I cannot tolerate.

Consumption is torture and I am ashamed of myself for finding it so.

My bedroom must be perfect at all times and a sanctuary of safety.

Order equals safety.

Cleanliness equals safety.

Comfort equals safety.

Certainty equals safety.

Symmetry equals safety.

Aestheticism equals safety.

Everything must maintain its optimum state at all times in case of being perceived by others. 

Everything must remain as safe as possible at all times in order to alleviate my own anxiety and therefore protect others from the negative impact of my distress.

Rest is wasteful and selfish. 

Any time spent doing nothing is a waste - there are only so many hours to use.

Every minute must be spent achieving.

Any moment of stillness is a moment that could be spent burning calories.

Any moment of idleness is a moment that could be spent being productive - creating, for others.

Sleep is terrifying. 

Sleep equals lack of productivity.

Sleep equals lack of activity.

Sleep is a place where the thoughts I have dampened with obsession will catch up with me and leave me in terror.

Sleeping more than 4 hours equals a bad day to follow. 

Honesty is crucial. Any falsehood is injustice.

I must never lie. Better to say nothing than to tell a lie.

Every moment must be filled with as much activity as possible in case there is no time, or no money, or no energy at a later point.

Everything must be considered with regards to the 'just in case' principle. 

Everything of value must be cherished and memorialised. 

Every moment must be captured to remind of its occurrence and its possibility.

I must take pieces of life and people with me to remind me of who I am.  

If a thought or a feeling or an event is not captured or expressed then it will be lost. 

Loss equals suffering.

Solitude is unsafe.

Solitude is where I am alone with my thoughts and I am doomed to succumb to the voices.

I must be constantly active.

Sitting down is not allowed, for no-one is telling me to.

I must be constantly stimulated with evidence of human contact to save me from being alone with my mind, which is a very frightening thing.

Solitude is terrifying.

Human contact is terrifying given that I may negatively impact others.

I must protect others at all times. 

It is when I am alone that I become overwhelmed.

Sometimes only mindless, meaningless tasks are achievable in solitude in the context of the torment of 'bad' thoughts.

I can only focus on one task in company.

In solitude the oppressive detail and pressure of rules is overwhelming and I lose myself.

There are many rules and routines that I cannot put to words because they are so constant and racing and many so obscure that they become incomprehensible. Fighting the thoughts for others is exhausting, but maintaining peace by keeping to the rules is exhausting.

Everything must be done in a specific order.

Components must consist of sets of three.

Three is a trinity.

Three is fulfils the rules of aestheticism.

Three is magic.

Routines must be completed in multiples of five.

Multiples of five are symmetrical figures: round and whole - nought is certain, five is exactly halfway between nought and ten, ten is optimum. Symmetry, or balance are crucial. Everything is calculated.

Calories must be consumed in order of calories in case some tragedy prevents completion of the meal - in which case only the lowest substance would have been consumed. 

Bubbles in hot drinks must be consumed before liquid as air is the lighter substance.

I must always choose the best possible version of everything. 

This requires calculation of every value - time, financial worth, symbolism, quality, quantity.

I must always choose the option lowest in calories for myself.

When giving, the best version must be saved for others.

Everything must be completed fully and executed perfectly. If one thing is not entirely complete or perfect then everything will start to slip. 

If I am not exactly prepared at the start of every day then the whole day will be a disaster.

If my day is not exactly prepared, filled and  accomplished then it has been a waste.

I must be constantly distracted from myself because I cannot bear myself. Every action is an effort to escape my intolerable reality.

Everything is overwhelming. 

The excruciating detail of all things is terrifying and I cannot stop noticing everything. 

Being alone is where I become overwhelmed and my head travels to another place where I don't know where I am.

I cannot cope with reality, with myself - my brain escapes somewhere completely detached from the present moment and I am no longer in my body.

I cannot remember what happened before or what is to come and nothing makes sense.

Everything is surreal and I am not sure what is going on or where I am. 

I am constantly disorientated. 

I am living on a time limit and everything must be done all at once.

Nothing I do is ever enough.

There will always be something I could have done more or better.

I must help everyone suffering.

Everyone else and everything else must come before myself. 

The suffering is growing heavier by the day.

White Room

In the white room with black curtains

beyond which lies only peripheral oblivion

I'm under my own thumb speculating this

ivory prison chamber, 

my introspective Dalìan scape.

And it's all quite comfortably strange

the phials burning my eyes 

from the walls 

a hedonist's jewels, whispering sweet 

nothings across the void between.

They've locked the door too and good: now

the game's mine, a most selfish luxury upon which I can now freely and privately

indulge.

Who else could deny themselves that one last hit:

since I'm told want is the crime? 

When they let me loose to wander lone they said

that I should, but that I wouldn't

do the things to make me greater.

Instead I'd do exactly what I shouldn't and grasp the prize 

they'd lain before me on a starkly gleaming platter.

Perhaps the gulls still pray outside

the lychgate to my crypt. Will they 

draw the warden's portière to peek

inside the crystalline?

Observe.

My forty days and forty 

nights, inverse: 

this vice hollow yet fulfilled. 

And but a touch by wizened hand

to be mine; I yours.

It tastes! A drop, a drop

amidst the veins and brains to nullify 

like the white across the walls, bleached

poisoned liquor soaking

the soul.

Dizzied, romanced, hungered inebriation -

my parasite crawls on three; she spawns

deliciously

in every shrinking, 

shrunken fibre.

Gossamer wings these 

purest plumes erupt from blades,

yawning over sparrowed 

limbs. The elixir

has borne my flight!

Now sink in stones into the skies, above

all mortal requisite.

Below the tides of many years,

escaped so soon, 

in spite.

This vernal blossom sheds its skins

as dulcet venom shrives 

throughout. 

Though not yet grown to petalline prime 

I'm the ripest babe. 

Woe to the bone for surrender

to sin: did I injure

thee at my expense? 

Forgive the grief - my feathered feet

engraved your earth.

Slave's exodus, my fettered wrists

slip the ravaging chains.

Free! - embark to transcend upon

a crest of 

my nirvana.

No love lost for 

my little husk; these palisades

have grown too cold.

Never shall I covet

such a wintry, wretched dream. 

But regret is spared 

for the keepers, who yearned to preserve

their captive. I entrust my space

with regards, and faith

to suffice another. 

Judas place a parting kiss 

upon my tinctured cherried lips,

and seal with a tear

for the one you caused to 

steal away. 

How could one remain?

Forgo eternal bliss for this:

here I'll only lie

in the dark where the shadows run 

from themselves.

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.