hunger buzz – ut pictura poesis Tuesday, Sep 28 2010

The desire to express ourselves bubbles up over the edges, it is not always a need to be understood, just a need to get it all down. When the words don’t come I move to paint or pencil but it’s not the same. I draw a picture of my wrist bleeding. I write about self injury. I cut, tentatively.

All three feel like a kind of art. More horror in the image, so seeped in intent. Poems are slippery, the meaning constantly wriggling free so that the reader feels something close to the sententia, the thought-feeling, but cannot know it. Paintings don’t speak to me like poems do. Poems can break the heart again and again and you can carry them with you, learnt in that broken heart. A salve worn against the world, or with it, to better understand.

Ut pictura poesis

I have the hunger buzz right now. It comforts me. My blood sugar has settled a little, or more precisely, my body has realised that I’m sending it back to a state of semi-starvation and has compensated.

People tell me I’m looking better. Each time they do a little fish hook of doubt digs in: Fatter, fatter, fatter. I am walking around with all my little fish hooks of doubt collected from a look, a word, a nothing substantial and I am thinking: I have to do something about this. I will shed the hooks like stones, pound by pound. I want to be clean again, no fleshy hooks, no fat.

And Ut Pictura Poesis Is Her Name

by John Ashbery

You can’t say it that way any more.

Bothered about beauty you have to

Come out into the open, into a clearing,

And rest. Certainly whatever funny happens to you

Is OK. To demand more than this would be strange

Of you, you who have so many lovers,

People who look up to you and are willing

To do things for you, but you think

It’s not right, that if they really knew you . . .

/…/

… if only for the sake

Of others and their desire to understand you and desert you

For other centers of communication…

4 Responses »

 

such beautiful dignity in self-abuse Monday, Sep 27 2010

Yeh 4st 7, an epilogue of youth
Such beautiful dignity in self-abuse
I’ve finally come to understand life
Through staring blankly at my navel

- Manic Street Preachers, ’4st 7lbs’

Since the last post things have been pretty up and down.

I ended up in hospital with gastric problems.  I have discovered a whole new arena of mortification: being treated by paramedics whilst on the loo throwing up in a bucket, drenched in sweat and shivering.

I was in a world of pain (worse than breaking bones) but nothing was seriously wrong so I got treated like a second class citizen, the old self-injury scars probably didn’t help. The last night I was there I developed a migraine and was given tramadol and oramorph on top of escitalopram. This cocktail didn’t mix well with my distressed stomach and I spent the night throwing up (on myself at one point because I got tangled up in the drip) nor did it do much for the pain.

At ward round I was told I could go home as soon as the pain abated. I was moved to a different ward but the bed wasn’t ready, so I was sat in the day room with nothing but my notes for company. Naturally I read them. I was somewhat surprised to discover ‘patient had a peaceful night‘ as a description for my drugged-out vomit fest of the previous night. Bizarrely the discharge form stated that I was being collected by a relative. The hospital knew I intended to make my own way home on two different buses and that my relatives lived thousands of miles away…

The next time I saw a doctor I told him the pain had gone and asked if I could go home. I left the ward just after 7pm. I stopped at the hospital shop on the way out to get water to take painkillers…

I decided to head for home (I threw up at the airport and on the plane) where my parents took me to their doctor. I was told to eat every three hours and consume build-up drinks. Without scales and scared by recent events I did pretty much what I was told.

Now I’m back, have discovered that I’ve gained 1.5kgs, have panicked and started restricting again. I feel like a whale. I can’t believe I let myself get so disgusting. I want to go around in a giant sack so no-one can see how fat I’ve got.

At the weekend I tried to reverse some of the damage by cycling 30 miles. Now I have sore seat bones and tight muscles.

My chest (well stomach, I guess) aches all the time and I’m popping paracetamol like a regular druggy. I was in pain whilst eating and I’m in pain now I’m restricting. I might as well get skinny and be happy and in pain rather than fat and miserable.

I wish I could get down to 4st 7lbs but my body – or mind – won’t let me. I get sick, or feel weak and scared and start eating. Take today, I ate 200 cals at breakfast having decided to wait until the evening until eating again. But by 3pm I had the cold sweats, shakes and my vision was so blurred that I couldn’t work so I went out and bought organic dried apricots. Ate too many. I fucking hate myself.

I feel like drinking vodka until I’m numb and cutting through the fat until I hit the bone. But I don’t want the mental and physical to get even more mixed up than they already are. My chest hurts and my stomach is grossly bloated, if I start cutting again then I doubt that the gastric stuff will be taken seriously.

I just want to be skinny, but I need dignity in my self-abuse.

Leave a Response »

 

a lower deep, still threatening to devour me, opens wide Sunday, Sep 5 2010

‘i know the bottom, she says, I know it with my great tap root’ – Sylvia Plath, Elm, 1962

What is it with mental illness and the need to know what is ‘at the bottom’?

After all the episodes of anorexia I have had I am still driven back to it by a desire to truly hit the bottom. No, that’s not true, exactly. That’s not why I go back to it, but it is why once it starts I can’t stop.

And now, despite seeing everything I love about life disappearing like a snowflake near Dante, I am driven by that same desire. To go as low as it is possible to go. Or as it is possible for me to go, which may not be quite the same thing.

I am distressed/annoyed by all the physical symptoms I get because I don’t think I’m thin enough yet. I am upset when the scales stay the same for a day or two, partly out of a frustrated sense of fairness. If I am feeling this crap, this hungry and not eating enough to maintain my weight then it should go down. It’s only right, it’s only fair.

I get angry at my body for not losing weight. It punishes me when I do. I feel the urge to cut through the flesh but do not. I am the USA and my body is Russia (or vice versa), incrementally inching towards all out war but still remaining Cold, passive-aggressive… bad analogy maybe. I’ve heard that the Russians and Americans are on better terms these days. They even swap each others’ spies when they happen to have accidentally ended up in the wrong country.

Sometimes when you think an analogy is a bad one it reveals a little of your unconscious:

The line from Plath ‘I know the bottom, she says’ has been circling the drain of my mind for a few days. It wasn’t until I pulled her collected poems off the shelf (shockingly, untouched since I moved house) that I was reminded of how it continues:

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:

It is what you fear.

I believe that once I have ‘hit the bottom’, gone as far as it is possible for me and my body to go, I will not be driven to go back. Yet something in the very next line of Plath’s poem draws me up sharp:

I do not fear it: I have been there.

Without fear what is there to stop any of us? Fear of the impact of our actions is what stands between good and evil; safe and unsafe.

The depths should scare us, and my body has every right to kick up a fuss, only I wish it would wait until we get there…

6 Responses »

 

Need and Attention Sunday, Sep 5 2010

For many years I have been a serial dater of older men. Grown ups with houses and cars of their own, good jobs and occasionally ex-wives.

Between relapses I have not wanted for attention; my cup-size at BMI 20 is a D, I keep marathon-fit, people tell me I’m reasonably attractive and I have a Mensa level IQ (really, I took the test) although the latter comes with the often-prerequisite autistic traits I am told.

Being bipolar hasn’t hampered my man-collecting, the manic episodes merely contributed to the tally. For many years there were too many men in my life. I like having men in my life and yet anorexia drives them away. I have wondered if it only drives away the ‘wrong’ men and whether I am subconsciously aiming for that, but the problem with that thesis is that anorexia is never a good basis for a long-term relationship. Who would want me now? obsessed with food and weight, breasts down to an a/b cup, bags under my eyes, skin – unable to repair itself – covered in small cuts and large bruises, hair falling out, insomniac, listless, tired (too tired certainly for sex), and to top it all off my brain has turned to mush. I don’t think straight, get confused and forgetful and – I fear – a little stupid.

But most of the men in my recent past have been frivolous, fleeting and without serious long-term prospects.

I just want someone to hold me tight and never let me go.

Someone strong and capable and compassionate.

Ultimately I want a family, but what kind of wife and mother would I be? I’m wrecking all possibilities of future happiness, with each relapse I am taking myself further away from the future I want and need.

Leave a Response »

 

40 pieces of ostrich Wednesday, Sep 1 2010

I’ve developed a weird habit of chewing food then spitting it out. Better than swallowing it and having to throw up I guess. Problem with this is that I don’t know how many calories get into my system (digestion begins in the mouth), so I have decided to assume it’s most of them.

Food update (where did all the vegetables go?):

I’ve been waking up freezing, freezing cold lately – it’s September already!! – so have taken to having a 100-calorie bowl of porridge in the morning. I hate myself for this weakness but I simply can’t function without. Added to that I have a protein bar every other day which I cut into 40 pieces so that I can spread it out through the day, generally not managing to swallow it though. In the evening I have a yoghurt or steamed vegetables.

I’m going to make up some more ‘ostrich soup’ at the weekend. It doesn’t actually contain ostriches, it’s basically cabbage with lots of cayenne pepper. The ostrich thing is because it feels safe, I can eat it without feeling too guilty and because I’m eating I can pretend that there’s nothing wrong with me. So it’s ostrich soup because I have my head in the sand

I think I’m going to have to get an electric blanket; I’ll pay my 40-pieces of silver and call it the ostrich blanket…

3 Responses »