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.
