Sunday, 30 November 2008


Or Sunday Roast, courtesy of Mum.

Uggghhhhhh. I feel awful.
I downed a bottle of wine to get through the mammoth meal, and I hate the way she points out how thin I am, when inside I'm screaming that I'M NOT I'M NOT I'M NOT.
I've gained weight again, I'm sure of it. I want the scales, but I can't weigh myself until the morning. I was standing in Topshop yesterday, trying on some ridiculously flamboyant high waisted shimmery gold trousers, size 6, eyeing myself up in the unforgiving changing room mirrors. They weren't hanging off my hipbones. I wanted to cry. I drank two bottles of wine yesterday night, and didn't eat today until the meal this evening.
I'm working on my Shrink to refer me to Mind or another organisation, to see if I can get a free membership to the gym or swimming pool. If I'm doing more exercise, then I'll be more likely to eat little and often. I might even manage breakfast, lunch and dinner for more than two days in a row! My eating habits are ridiculous at the moment, I go from consuming stupid quantities at my Mum's or Boyfriend's house to appear "okay", then I'll starve for a day or so, then it's back to 400 calories of low fat yogurt and cereal, occasionally throwing in some soup or vegetable chilli. Oh, and my drinking is definitely increasing, even though a pint of cider gets me bladdered. The two bottles of wine had a serious effect on Saturday.
It sickens me that the 26 inch jeans I was so proud of squeezing into are now hanging off me, where they once clung in all the right places. I can grab handfuls of material round the bum, and they are so baggy around my calves. I'm dreading my next work placement because nothing is going to fit.

Friday, 28 November 2008

Multiple Choice Exams and The Depressed Mind

Quite simply, it is not a good idea.

The written questions weren't too bad, I just wrote down whatever I could vaguely relate to the topic, and attempted to stay on the topic. Multiple choice is really not a good idea for me right now. I can spend hours in Sainsburys debating over whether I should buy chickpeas or lentils. I can't pick between two flavours of soup, and don't even get me started on buying things like shampoo. They all promise so much!

The exam was a bit disasterous - I was desperate for a cigarette, and being given 4 slight variations of essentially the same answer was confusing and frustrating. I kept getting stuck on words, going round and round until I couldn't tell you which one I originally thought was most probable.

The worst part was that itchy feeling, the one I get when I desperately need to make a list. Pre-exam, list making isn't really an option. I ended up being escorted to the bathrooms, where I proceeded to scrawl some meaningless crap about plucking my eyebrows on my inner calf.

I'm supposed to be going to my Mum's to do some Christmas shopping. It's cold and horrible outside, and I want to get back into bed. I also need to eat the cottage pie I defrosted, but I know that she'll force me to eat again tonight.

On the plus side, my curtain rail decided to fall down on me at 3am. How fun!

Thursday, 27 November 2008

I'm Not Eccentric, I'm Too Poor

I have spent this evening once again avoiding revision. My biology exam is tomorrow morning, and it appears I am totally ignorant of the working of the human body. Maybe it's because my own body is so frustratingly confusing. How the f*ck have I gained 5lbs? I blame the indulgence of a whole bottle of rose, and quite possibly the roast dinner I was forced to eat on Sunday. Bastards.

Moving swiftly on, I've been shedding weight in another way. I decided to collect together all of the paperwork, final demand letters and correspondence which has made me want to slit my wrists in the past year, and dispose of it. I've had to keep a few necessities, until the council tax have stopped trying to take the clothes off my back, but other than that I'm throwing it all out. I hate being scared of the post, of the debts, of the bailiffs.

This is one way which mental illness breaks you. It steals your dignity, your self respect, puts you in situations which you couldn't deal with normally, let alone when getting dressed is the equivalent of climbing Everest. For example, have you seen the size and complexity of the average housing benefit form? I couldn't fill one of those out when I was well, let alone navigate it since I've been on the brink of f*cked. I am living on the breadline, because I can't fill out the forms, gather all the evidence, sit for hours in the waiting room surrounded by screaming children and their oblivious teenage mothers.

I've been spending a fortune on medications, and burying my head in the sand when it comes to my bills. Bills have a nasty habit of becoming final demand letters, and court orders. I guess that since July I've been spending at least £20 a month on prescriptions for various medications, and it doesn't sound like much, but that is basically all I have left after I've paid for rent and food. I've been keeping my receipts, and trying to get a HC1 form [for help with prescription costs] for months, but to be honest that was pretty low on my priority list. I've got the form, and now it turns out that my carefully hoarded receipts are worthless. You need a special receipt, signed and stamped by the pharmacist, which you can only get on request and at the time of collecting your prescription. Therefore, the NHS handily avoids paying out to any of us who don't know the complete ins-and-outs of the system. Once again.

I've never been in debt before. I've always paid everything up front, been extra careful so I had a bit of money behind me. I had quite a tidy sum when I moved out of my Nan's, from working and saving EMA payments. That paid for the deposit on my house and the first months rent, leaving me a little bit just in case. Becoming ill again and getting fired soon used up that. Then my lovely ex-housemates leaving all the bills to me, plus the house in a state, resulted in me losing a lot of money. Would I have let myself be walked all over if I was well? No. I would have done something about it. At the time, I couldn't do anything about it. The direct debits just kept going out, and the rent money stopped coming in.

The problem is, you see, that when I was well-ish, I thought I could do everything. I could, most of the time. i handled all the money, because I soon discovered that they were both pretty much incapable. When the bills arrived, they stuck them under the sofa. No joke.

I take everything upon myself, because depending on others generally means that nothing will get done. At least if you do it yourself then you know who to blame. I'm ashamed of the financial mess I've got myself in. I can't even show my Connexions PA most of it because I don't want to admit that, deep breath, "I can't manage".

I found a ridiculously cheap one bedroom flat to let today, and realised with a bit of belt-tightening, I could afford it. Think about that - no more living with strangers, sharing the bathroom with unknown men, and having to make polite conversation when all you can think about is the kitchen knife he is holding. Back to the good old days of, shock horror, having your friends over a couple of nights a week, getting back to having a social life even when you have absolutely no money, even just having Boyfriend over for more than one night. Leaving the washing up on the side until the morning. Eating somewhere other than in bed, because nobody is watching anymore. Hogging the bathroom, dyeing your hair, waxing your legs, whatever reason, just because you can. Only having safe foods in the house, rather than staring longingly at the block of cheese or packet of Jaffa Cakes that your inconsiderate housemate left on the side.

The downside? I'd be in even more of a mess. I can't remember to buy loo roll, let alone pay the gas bill. By the time Boyfriend gets back from uni in May and moves in with me, I'll be living in a bare flat hugging my eviction notice.

All I can think of is me and Boyfriend snuggled up on the beanbags in our humble little flat, ignoring the threadbare carpets and dodgy shower, and just having our own space. Oh, and the added bonus of having some money for once, seeing as this little apartment is £20 a month LESS than my little room. I know I'd have bills on top, but I don't pay council tax 'cos I'm a student, and who needs heating anyway? Being cold just means I'll burn off more calories.

Wednesday, 26 November 2008

Damn That Boyfriend Of Mine...

He's gone back to sodding Oop North. I feel like I've been kicked in the stomach, it's winded me, as it always does.
I'm also extremely on edge, as the council tax c*nts have sent me a lovely letter informing me that, whoop-de-doo, the bailiffs are coming for my meager possesions. Good luck flogging my battered books, oversized dreamcatcher and graffitied rubber duck. Touch my laptop and I'll bite your f*cking hand off. I'm mental, donchanooooo???

Grrr. I'm a student. They told me I had been removed from the council tax list. Chase my ex-housemates for the £53.43 that we apparently owe you. I've lost so much money over that sodding house, not to mention been fired, and had a severe relapse of depression. I can't take any more of this shit. Hence, my Connexions PA got a rather incoherant text begging her to sort it out. She is rather useful. Otherwise, I think I would have gone on a bulk-buying mission of paracetemol and vodka. Bye bye liver!

My Nan has decided she is dying. I'm not very impressed.
She has heart failure, and they are giving her lots of medications which seem to interact badly, and also slow her pulse. I checked it before she took the pills, and it was under 50 bpm. This, coupled with her hallucinating ["there's little furry weasels running around the living room", apparently] meant that I've lost faith in Middle-Of-Nowhere's medical team.
I blame myself. I do that with everything, but especially this. Since I moved back to London 18 months ago, she has gone from independant to housebound. I can't believe how much her health and spirit have declined. This was a woman who would go to Alice Cooper concerts with me, and the only alcohol she touched was straight vodka.
I'm also angry. How dare you threaten to die on me? You're my Nan, you practically brought me up, and I still need you. You ain't going nowhere, missy.
Mainly, I keep crying. I can't even phone her, because we both end up sobbing down the phone.

Argh. Apologies for the disjointed post.

Shrink was his usual self, eg. asked a few questions and did absolutely nothing. Oh, and he said he'll transfer me to another Shrink, because I've moved. He said that in August too.

Right, I need to wash my hair, because my new fringe is greasing itself to my forehead. Uggghhhhh. I am rather gross right now. My guinea pig Paddi left me with some lovely scratches on my chest, because it rained when she was in the garden, and she hates being soggy. I must bath tonight. I have clean bedsheets, so if I don't bath, I'm sleeping on the floor.


Tuesday, 25 November 2008

I'm Not Dead

I've been at my Nan's, and yesterday I went to see Dylan Moran. Mood has improved, eating is so-so, another exam on friday so this is a quicky post.

Going to see Boyfriend's band practice tonight, have the "other girlfriends" to chill with, and a bottle of rose wine, which could prove to be my downfall. Must make sure Ladders & MissRockabilly outdrink me....

Love to all

Friday, 21 November 2008


I don't think it went to well.
How many actual quotations could I remember & reference? Zero*. Zilch. Big Bad Nothing.
However, I think I babbled as much as possible, plus I didn't fall asleep. Actually, some of my stuff on attitudes might drag me over the 40% pass mark. It sounded academic-ish.

On the plus side, I got 90-something% on the Mathematical Calculations test, and I just found out that my pathetic attempt at the Critical Incident Exam got me a fantastical 50%. The pass mark was 40%, and I only wrote 1300 words out of the required 2000, so I'm pretty chuffed.

Pat on the back, GG.

*Same size as the jeans I'm wearing. Pfffft. I'm useless at the willpower thing. £5 in Asda? I don't need a litre of Ben&Jerrys, I'll have the jeans instead!

Thursday, 20 November 2008

A Master of Avoidance

I have successfully managed to avoid studying. I decided to print out all the missing lecture notes for Psychology & Sociology, but when it came down to actually reading them I didn't do so well. You see, I don't actually know how to study. My brain used to work like a sponge, absorbing information, and then I used to just "mentally vomit" onto the exam paper, and somewhere out of that I'd get an A. I tried to study, but it usually consisted of reorganising my notes, or reading up on some morbid off-topic subject which had caught my interest. It used to work, but now my brain takes a hell of a lot of abuse before it accepts information. That's in all areas of life, not just studying.
GG, for fuck's sake EAT SOMETHING. Um, no. I don't need food. It's a government conspiracy to make us all fat, haven't you all worked that out yet? The re-education of my mind is proving rather hard.
I tried reading some psychology stuff, things which usually would have caught my interest, but none of the important information is sticking. Maybe if I ingest some Pritt-Stik?
I think I should just give up and get some speed. Me and my friend Ladders used to talk all the time about getting some speed and spring-cleaning the house. Maybe that would work with studying? However, the horrific comedown would not help with the examination itself.
I'm wondering how I'm going to be awake enough for a 9.30am test anyway, considering that I haven't managed to surface since I started the Venlafaxine. No doubt, my mood has definitely improved, and the late afternoon-early evening has proved relatively productive, as far as bathing and washing bedsheets goes. I even treated myself to a bit of Russell Brand last night. I just need to get through the exam without falling asleep, or being in a general zombie-like state.
On a lighter note, my guinea pigs have been in the garden since 11am, I just put them back in the hutch and Paddy was very displeased. She was squealing at me in her pissed-off tone, like she does if Guinness steals her food. I've got an appointment with the counsellor soon, and I was going to leave them out until I leave at 4pm, but next-door's cat is taking a keen interest in them, and I don't trust it. It sits on the fence pretending to ignore them, then when it thinks I'm not looking it stares intently at them, licking it's lips. I can imagine it prowling around their run, singing "I'm gonna eat ya little guineas, I'm gonna eat ya little pigs...". Think "The Cat" from Red Dwarf with the robotic goldfish.
I try to make myself relatively presentable when I leave the house, and this also applies to going to see the counsellor. I'm not to bothered when I go to Dr Oddie's, as it's a 10 minute walk, but the counsellor is in town, right by the pub, and to be honest a bra, deodorant and brushed hair are kind of required if I'm going somewhere where I'm quite likely to see friends, and to avoid abuse on the bus.
I have a Shrink appointment next week, Connexions PA is attending to make sure that we actually discuss certain issues and to see if she can help with anything. I think I'm being referred to my new area, but I'm not sure. This is a bit of a conundrum, because Connexions PA usually sees me when I'm not-overly-repulsive, and I made an effort the last time I saw Shrink. This approach has got me nowhere, so I'm considering welcoming them to my world, eg. the one where I don't spend the whole day pulling myself together to get ready for the appointment, and just show up in whatever was lying on my bedroom floor. Maybe I should take my duvet?

Wednesday, 19 November 2008

Home Hairdressing

I'm actually quite good at cutting my own hair. I just gave myself a rather fetching fringe, and I'm quite please with the result. I'm also quite pleased that for once I cut my hair because I wanted to, rather than as an alternative to self harm.
I had a bit of a habit of cut/shaving chunks out of my hair whenever I thought that I'd go much to far if I self harmed
I gave myself an all over number 1, pure skinhead chic, when the Citalopram decided it just wouldn't work. I grew to quite like it, but at that point I liked anything which screamed "for fuck's sake just HELP ME".

I'm quite glad I have hair now, and that I've managed to make it look quite, well, pretty.

I also succeeded in eating some noodles today, which have been a banned food for about 6 months, so I'm quite proud of that as well.

I just read Lola Snow's post on TIDYING, and I've been there a few times. Today, however, when I got stressed over revision, I organised my notes - it gave me something to do when I needed something, and tomorrow my revision will be easier.

See. I can find positives. I can be positive.
Hmmm. Fag break!

Taggededed By Lola Snow

Lola's was quite apt, so I think I'll give this a go...

Pass it on to five other bloggers, and tell them to open the nearest book to page 56. Write out the fifth sentence on that page, and also the next two to five sentences. The CLOSEST BOOK, NOT YOUR FAVORITE, OR MOST INTELLECTUAL!

The nearest book to me is Prozac Nation by Elizabeth Wurtzel

Page 56 is the end of a chapter, so this isn't going to be very long.

"Lizzy, everyone likes you fine just the way you are, she says, because that's what people say in these situations.
I sit there with my face in my hands as if to catch my head, to keep it from falling off and rolling across girls' campus like a soccer ball that someone might kick by accident."

I still want to know what fuzzy creature would be on Page 56 of Lola's Pets with Tourettes book, if the author had made it longer...

Um... And I tag the next 5 people who happen to come across this, and you have to copy your answers as a comment so I know when 5 people have actually done it!!!

Tuesday, 18 November 2008

How Mad Are You?

"Schizophrenia is the psychiatrist's equivalent of diagnosing someone with cancer".

This sentance shocked, saddened and angered me, but unfortunately, the man has a point. The social stigma attached to a diagnosis of schizophrenia is terrible.

It seriously saddened me, because of a young man I knew. He had spent most of the past 6 years as an inpatient, and the lack of effect of every medication and treatment I saw him try was another kick in the stomach. I can't bear to think of him, so full of promise and potential, losing his family and friend's because of an illness which he can't control.

At least with cancer people don't cross the street, because they read The Sun, and think that schizophrenia = murderer.

Poppets, New Rocks and Turquoise Hair Dye

Today I have eaten two slices of toast, some yogurt and muesli, and two packets of Poppets.
The Poppets were compulsive. We have a box of 36 packs on the kitchen tables, and all I want to do is cram the whole lot down my throat.
I'm back to the point of having almost no proper food left, just some tinned soup.
I have some sauces, pasta and rice, but they aren't allowed.
Poppets are though?!?
I don't even like the toffee flavour ones, yet that is what I'm eating.

I have an exam on Friday, and I just looked at some past paper questions and have absolutely no clue. No surprising, as my attendance is awful. My counsellor keeps saying I shouldn't be doing this course, but her idea of the alternative is to go and get a job. I can't make it to lectures a couple of days a week, how am I going to work enough to live? How am I going to hold down a job, concentrate and be productive? I lost my last job after missing two weeks of work following the A&E incident, but I'd been a complete mess for quite a while prior to that.

I'm reasonably functional at the moment, I'm out of bed by midday and I washed some clothes this afternoon. I'm dressed, I need a shower but I'm not filthy, I can't cook but I should be able to microwave some soup later. I'm drowsy and a bit lightheaded, but I haven't collapsed.

However, I'm aggressive and agitated by the smallest thing, and I am not usually that sort of person. Every little thing winds me up, particularly human company. I'm snapping at people, I'm increasingly sarcastic, patronising and short tempered. All I want to do is turn round and say "for fucks sake, can you just fucking LEAVE ME ALONE???".

I want to make something of myself. I want to make people proud. I don't want to be like this.
I've wanted to do this City & Guilds Corsetry qualification for ages, thought I could make time to do it once I'd qualified and then maybe sell some handmade corsets and lingerie online, as a hobby at first but see where it leads. Now, I'm too scared to do it because how can you run a business, and complete your orders correctly and on time, when you can't look after yourself? Sometimes I just want to crash and burn, so that people around me will understand the effect this actually has on me, on my life, so they can understand some of the things I've done and the mistakes I've made. I'm not trying to rid myself of all blame, but some things are related to my illness or my medication.

I have this image of myself in years to come, where I'm happy. Socializing in a club with friends and acquaintances, handing my card to the girl in the toilets who compliments my corset, measuring eager Suicide girl look-a-likes in the back of my boyfriend's record store, sewing perfect seams on frozen winter evenings while he plays guitar, and we are both so happy. I don't spend days in bed, I don't push him away or hold onto him too tightly, instead we can both be ourselves, but better. A day when I don't longingly gaze at pots of turquoise hair dye or lust over piercings and tattoos which aren't suitable for my work.

I love what I do, but now I wonder if it isn't much too close to home. After all, I am a little bit jealous of people I see who get an inpatient admission and leave us with support, fixed. I know that's probably not true, and most cases are much more ongoing, but sometimes.... Well, at least they get taken seriously and not as attention seeking, pessimistic, moaning GG, 19 years old and still can't stand on her own two New Rock clad feet.

Sunday, 16 November 2008

Truimphant and Sickened

Triumphant at the fact that I got into a pair of gorgeous size 4 grey Dollhouse skinny jeans.

The name "Dollhouse" is perfect, everything in perfect miniature, the way I sat for hours arranging the tiny beds and chairs in mine as a child. Sitting in the spare room at my Grandmother's house, rain pattering against the window, perfecting the contents of my Grampie's labour of love. The wallpaper was remnants from the house, so it was a perfect miniature, until the cat decided that she liked to squeeze through the impossible small window and sleep amongst the matchstick furnishings, tail curling out of the front door.

I got into them. However my large high hipbones gave the impression of FAT. Now, I know that if I out on a stone, I would have curvy hips, an hourglass figure. I know that what I perceive as "overhang" is just my hipbones sticking out over the low rise waistband, and not FAT. However, it still looks too big. Fleeting thoughts of "hip surgery", ways of fixing them, if I wear a corset constantly could I force my hipbones further in? Have a bit sanded off the bone? Is there fat cushioning the sockets, and if so by losing more weight will that knock off that extra half inch?

This is sickening. Mum grimaced as the size 6 dress slid down my depleted chest, and she spent the rest of the day coaxing me to eat. I eat around her, just to stop the fights. I only have to do it once in a while, I make up for it over the next few days, and at the time I push it to the back of my mind. There are ways to get rid of a few extra calories, and I use them. My cat is very useful, and little brother can polish off my dessert.

The worst bit is, I'm not even that small.
I weigh myself first thing in the morning, on the same scales, on the same floor tiles. I weighed myself a while ago, which I know I shouldn't have done, as it was 9pm and I wouldn't get a "true" weight. With my dinner inside me, I appear to have gained 6 pounds since Friday. I know this is probably mainly water weight, food and a small gain, but I feel like a failure.

I know I can be down to a beautiful, previously unreached weight before Christmas, and I might go back and buy those jeans as my motivation.

Then again, that's the exact same reason I left them on the rail.

Friday, 14 November 2008

Neurotic And Agitated.

I have a diagnosis of Severe Depressive Illness [apparently!].
Unfortunately, a diagnosis doesn't come about in one session or meeting. Originally it was an "Adjustment Disorder", but sometimes it takes time to assess an illness. My psychiatrist and various GP's have written a whole variety of different things on assessments and sick notes.

Personally, I'm pretty neurotic about BPAD. I have a strong family history of BPAD on my maternal Grandfather's side, and depression on my Father's. I didn't know any of this until after my 4th depressive episode [except about my Grandad, that was after my 2nd], so I do not count myself as "self fulfilling prophecy" in terms of Depression at least.

I do worry about BPAD, purposely inform my Doctor of the family history as I know some medications have a greater likelihood of triggering a manic episode, and I do worry more now because most of my BPAD family members had their first manic episode in their late teens/early twenties [I'm 19].

Sometimes, I hate being more like my Grandad. His siblings had a diagnosis of BPAD and in terms of medications etc were managed relatively "consistently".

My Grandad was the least understood, I still don't know his official diagnosis as they just weren't sure. I suppose the closest they came to it was again, Severe Depressive Illness. Cue a long stream of anti-depressants, mood stabilizers, good old Lithium and countless other treatments. Chuck in a load of inpatient admissions and you'd think they'd have an answer by now.

I know that if I became full blown manic, I would probably be unable to see anything wrong. I'd be in complete denial. It's a mixed state that I'm more concerned about.
My Grandad' siblings have an alarming habit of what I presume to be mixed states. Either that, or they like blood when they are high as a kite. There's a lot of slashy-slashy going on just when they seem to be out of the Depression. The mood lifts, you think they're fine, then you find out Aunty-So-and-So is back on life support or has giving herself some interesting arm decorations.

Grandad himself... A mystery and yet the person who understood me best? I don't know. He would be so low for so long, then be irritable, argumentative, then decide we had to go to the Millennium Dome. Again. Suddenly this need to go to a museum, where he'd refuse the wheelchair until he couldn't walk any further, which usually meant he would use it like a Zimmer frame whilst pushing me around in it. Art galleries, where he would get so excited.

Yet, somehow, he was never as manic as, well, manic. He seemed to gain this "zest for life", but I don't know if that was part of his personality or his illness, because by the time I arrived he had been ill for many years.

Then, one day, he took to his bed and stayed there for 8 months. I couldn't bear to see him like that, partly because of my family's reaction to it, and partly because I would do the same thing when depressed. My Nan went out for an hour to get some shopping, and he took every prescription medication in the house.

They wouldn't let me see him. My Nan said he wouldn't have known I was there, "better to remember him how he was". I regret that so much. Two long weeks of tremors, fits, coma... Then he died.

I'm 19, I'm on my 3rd antidepressant, I'm messing up my life and all I want to do is stand at the weekend of Walton Pier where the lifeguards scattered Grandad's ashes, and cry and cry and scream and cry. I want all the pain and anger to wash away with the tide, and if it doesn't then I might as well throw myself of the f*cking pier rather than struggle for another 55 years before topping myself in a similar fashion.

Thursday, 13 November 2008

Homemade vs. Tinned

My Connexions PA is lovely, she helped me sort out some debt issues* today, but she doesn't seem to understand that cooking is a huge effort. I mean, come on, I tried to go to uni in my pajamas today [I had my jeans on over them, but still...]. She suggested making homemade soup, but here's the other big problem - calorie counting.
I have enough trouble trying to ignore working out how much my vegetarian chili contains, let alone adding another mystery-calorie food to my diet.
Obviously, there is no logic to eating disorders. One minute I'm crying over the increase in calories of my usual soup, the next I could be binging on whatever unsafe foods I can get my hands on.
Currently, I only eat 3 different meals. Low fat yogurt and muesli for breakfast, although I've resisted weighing the muesli so far, I do use individual 100-cal yogurt pots so I know how much I'm eating.
Depending on how I am, I may have lunch. That's where the soup comes in, with one or two slices of wholemeal super-seedy bread. Nasty fact, but this is to avoid constipation, which is a bitch. No laxatives allowed in the house, I am not going down that road again.
Dinner is the veggie chili, onion, pepper and mushrooms with a variety of beans, pulses, lentils and tinned tomatoes. The beans and lentils contain Tryptophan, which is used to make Serotonin, and then I chuck in lots of chili powder, because apparently spicy food ups your metabolism?
I haven't got a clue how many calories are in a portion of that. Honest. Ok. I lie. I refuse to work it out properly, but probably around 250?
If I'm feeling extra good [or extra faint!] I chuck in some mozzarella cheese. Once it's melted, it's hard to pick back out, see?
Throw in the occasional binge, and the mandatory "see, I eat normally" meals at my Mum's or Boyfriend's house, and you have it.

I originally dropped 20 pounds by just, well, not eating. Now I'm on this, not purging [much], and not using laxatives and diuretics, I feel a lot better.
I gained back 6 pounds in the first week [ouch!] but I've lost 4 of them. I think I was just on starvation mode, plus water weight...

So. I'm now a size 6.
I was fine with being an 8. I don't like double figures, but an 8 was nice and comfy. Now I'm a 6, all I can think about is dropping to a 4.
That little voice, pointing out the size 4 little black dress in Adsa, "Look GG, you could be in that by Christmas. Make sure you've got a bit of room though, you don't want to look like you've squeezed into it. Fat bitch."


*When they stuck me on Prozac and everything got a bit sparkly, not only did I start my nursing course, I also got some books out of the library. I don't remember this, but I received a £200 fine last week, and found the offending literature under my bed. I think I still have to pay £75, but we'll see if they take pity on the mentally f*cked. What interests me is how I packed and unpacked them whilst moving house, and still didn't realise?

Wednesday, 12 November 2008

La la la la la!

Babble babble babble.

Anyone else hate being an in-between?
Not mentalistic enough for inpatient or intensive treatment, but just f*cked enough in the ol' brain department to scare yourself?

I was sitting in the kitchen, half-watching Scrubs whilst attempting not to consume the contents of my cupboard.
Enter my housemate. Early-forties, mature student, irritatingly cheerful. Wants to share every little giggle with me, and doesn't really pick up hints.
I mean, I'm sitting here, answering your constant spew of absolute drivel with occasional grunts, with absolutely no interest in having a conversation, and yet you just keep trying to make me join in. You're just making me feel guilty for being "mean" to you, not joining in your enthusiasm over a psychotic cat on Youtube.

I had to get out.

I took a trip into town to meet a couple of friends, and although I was dreading it and nearly cancelled, his arrival meant I was keen to get out. Queue GG, sitting in a pub garden, with a pint of lukewarm water, smoking like a chimney. Oh, and shaking like a leaf of course.
I can hear this tap-tap-tap, and I realise it's my right leg, with a mind of it's own, knocking against the bench. I firmly plant my tootsies on the ground, problem solved, right? Nah. Now it's my hand, then my little finger just won't stay still.

I'm sitting there, feeling like I'm levitating and about to float off at any moment, and my friends arrive. Hmmmm.

Act normal, GG. You aren't mentally interesting. You are mentally concerning.

I managed to hold out for quite a while, although I alternated between laughing hysterically and fighting back tears in the loo.

Walking home from the bus stop was a nightmare. I don't exactly live in the best area, but it's the best of a bad lot, if you get my drift.

I was petrified. Every shadow, dark doorway, and parked car was hiding a multitude of sadist rapist monsters who fancied ripping me limb from limb. I was scared shitless, walking right down the centre of the road, with the local paper headlines for the next week whizzing through my head.

"Local Teen Raped and Beaten"
"Girl Commits Suicide After Assault"
"Body Found In Bin"

There's a little selection for you all.
Why am I such a bundle of nerves?

Hmmm. This Venlafaxine stuff had better improve.
I'm all for sticking it out but I'd rather be the beast-from-under-the-duvet than crazy-girl-attacking-imaginary-foes-in-the-street.

Awww F*ck!

I've bathed and washed my hair, and feel a lot better for it.
However, the price was a small amount of self harm.
Nothing serious, just some superficial cuts on my leg.
I hate the way I did it some calmly, so detached.
In a way it was more conrolled, but at the same time... not in my control?
I don't know.
I'm stuck on the essay, need to find at least 600 words and some references.
I keep looking through my books and coming up with NOTHING.

Tuesday, 11 November 2008

Firmist Butt In Britain

Or possibly just the most bruised.
I am attempting to relax at the moment, but I am extremely restless. I attempted to watch a film earlier, as a break from numerous attempts at completing my essay. I paused it at least 8 times, not for toilet or tea breaks, but just to do RANDOM CRAP. I got up and moved all my DVDs from a shelf to a storage box under my bed. I sorted out the rest of my fire damaged items. I keep finding things to wash. I went to town earlier, and spent ages in the supermarket, almost in tears, because my 3 usual flavours of soup have been replaced, and there are only 2 new ones with low enough calories. I then ate a packet of biscuits, because I couldn't stop. I was just trying to be normal, have a biscuit with my tea, squeeze in a few more calories to make up for my erratic eating. Last night I tried to go to bed at 10pm, gave up after an hour, went back to bed at 1am, was up at 3am, 4.30am, 6.15am, 7.45am, 8.50am, 9.45am, then dragged myself up at 10.30am. over 12 hours of attempted sleep. I'm sitting here, typing this, constantly alternating clenching my buttocks, because for some reason that is something I have to do whilst sitting down. My bum hurts. I can't have a bath, because at the moment if I get a slashy-slashy impulse I'm pretty sure I'd act on it. I keep opening files on my computer, or grabbing a notebook and pen, then wondering what it was that I so desperately had to write down. I don't think I'm manic, I managed to cook a chili earlier without burning the house down [that way I have food for the next few days, I just have to microwave it]. I'm not myself though. Normally I'm pretty happy to curl up on my beanbag with a movie or a book, but today I'm not. I'm really irritable. My housemate was laughing in his room whilst watching a program on BBC2 about people with mental health problems. I wanted to rip his head off and spit down his throat. instead I just snapped at him to close his door next time he wants to laugh at other people's expense. I mean for f*uck's sake I'm a trainee mental health nurse, does he really think that I'm going to appreciate his ignorant jokes?

When I see my psychiatrist in two weeks, I am going to beg for support getting council accommodation. I can't live with other people when I'm like this, I'm a nightmare and then I just feel so guilty. I'm trying to be civil and "normal", and yet I want to tell them to F*CK OFF!

This is from the girl who turns everything inwards. I can't even do that now. Hiding self harm scars isn't fun, and I promised Boyfriend I wouldn't shave my head again.

There is nothing left to CUT.

The Clown Photo

The sad clown photos were taken by a friend of mine as part of her photography project. I love those pictures, I loved dressing up and messing around with make up and clingfilm and stockings for my friend's photographs. Two of my friends have asked me to pose for them, one for an underwear shoot and the other for a burlesque style piece using a chaise lounge. I really want to do them, but since this photo was taken a few months ago, I've not been very nice to my body. I lost 20 pounds, I've gained back about 6 pounds now because I kept collapsing, but my breasts are ruined. To put it bluntly, they look deflated. My thighs are still large and scarred, and I haven't got a nice toned stomach because I don't have the energy to work out.
I look at that clown photo, and I miss my body when it was just a little bit fat. It had potential, I should have just toned it up rather than starved it. I miss those little dimples on my arms, and the way my body wasn't covered in bruises just from sitting in the bath or crossing my legs. I'm in limbo, and part of me says that if I've ruined it this much, I might as well resume the restricting and exercise, and get THIN. Right now I just look beaten, run down and all I can see is the fat creeping back on. I need to stop hiding in bed and get out there, walk, swim, run. Stop mindlessly eating crap and pay attention to my food. I have to eat [apparently!] so I should ensure that it's the best food, to improve my skin, hair, nails. I need to get back on the multivitamins and drink more water. I'm aiming for healthy and toned.

With more pronounced hipbones.

Monday, 10 November 2008

So It Continues.

This abnormal dreaming is quite confusing, and is affecting my sleep quite a bit, but I can deal with that. Hopefully it will settle down soon, and then I can work out if it's the medication or the depression. My dreams are often odd, but these are a whole new league.

On a lighter note, I'm definately much better today. I was up at 10am, despite waking up loads during the night, and bathed and dressed appropriately by 1pm. I know that 3 hours sounds like ages, but it's amazing for me! I actually feel happy with my appearence today, and I've eaten a can of sweetcorn soup and two slices of very seedy wholemeal bread, plus a cereal bar that wasn't even low calorie.

I've been drinking loads of green tea because my mouth seems quite dry, but I don't feel 3 feet to the left of life. I feel a bit more sorted. I can think [!] and I just whacked out 800 words of my essay. I've been alternating between consuming my fingernails, lying under the duvet and just plain avoiding it for weeks, because of this huge mental block, but now I can write.

I'm not great, I'm not 100%, but I'm certainly better than I've been in ages. Possibly the best I've been in over a year. I finally sorted out my "Fire Box", which contained all the fire damaged sentimental objects, photos, everything that I managed to salvage after the fire we had last year. All the important things, the things on display, on the wall, on the shelf, were just coated in thick black smoke. Today I've washed quite a few things, including my MONKEY:

Ha! My monkey is so getting a pirate costume now!
Well. I'm sure you can tell I'm rather brighter... [don't be manic, don't be manic...]
Back to the essay tomorrow morning, for now I think another cuppa, some monkey snuggles and possibly a film before I get an early night.
I need to go and buy more soup tomorrow, so I'm planning to be up and dressed bright and early-ish to go into town. I might even pop into Peacocks and see if they've got any corset-ish-belt-thingies left...

Sunday, 9 November 2008

Slight Delirium...

... Or just overly surreal dreams?
I took my first dose of Venlafaxine, and maybe it was because I was nervous about it, but I had some very odd dreams/delusions.
I'm siding with the "it was a dream" idea at the moment, but I'm pretty sure I was awake, or almost. However I managed to convince myself that there was a man in my bed [to the point I nearly called Boyfriend to apologise for cheating], that I had spoken to my friend when I got home that evening, and that my housemate had woke me at 7am for a fry up. I've been in a huff with him all day, and can't exactly explain that the reason is that I'm a bit nuts.

I'm thinking it was just dreams, my over-active mind, but the medication leaflet says that less than 1 in 10 will experience abnormal dreams, and less than 1 in 10,000 will experience delirium.

I'm going to take my second dose now, so hopefully this will settle down. While I'm experiencing it, there is to be no watching horror movies or reading serial killer books before bed time!

Saturday, 8 November 2008

Drinking Again Missy?

Ha ha ha TRUMPETS!

That is, quite possibly the cheapest advert ever. Three camera shots, and nothing moves!

Yeah. I've been drinking again, because honestly, the idea of a night without Boyfriend to curl up with was unbearable.

I think I might get Miss Bending, a lovely singleton-ish mate of mine, to come for sleepovers, just so I'm not so lonely.

Maybe my friends are right. If I come off the meds, and don't think about everything, then I'll be okay? Fixed? Normal?

Thursday, 6 November 2008

Focus On The Positive

... Says my counsellor, and my Connexions PA.

Now, they do have a valid point in saying that, but giving yourself Brownie Points for every little positive step just seems a bit like cheating. After all, the positive isn't important, it isn't what people remember you for. It's always the negative stuff they pounce on, using it to rip you to shreds, whereas the positive stuff is so easily ignored.

Lets try listing "good stuff" since returning from 'Oop North.

Here goes nothing.

Kudos for going to Connexions session, counselling and Doctor's appointments this week.

Double Points for doing my jobs on the cleaning rota.

Smiley Face
for making (and eating!) a veggie chilli, and for going food shopping.

Gold Star for bathing, washing hair and de-fuzzing legs without any slashy-slashy business.

.... ignore "not going to uni"....

GG's Best Friend

I want a Papillon dog. Papillon means "butterfly" in French, on account of the big ears and symmetrical markings.

Dogs give unconditional love, even if you haven't washed your hair in over a week and you've been eating dry pasta because cooking it takes too long.

They don't stare at you when you're taking an assortment of pills for breakfast, and they certainly don't tell you to pull your socks up, take life by the horns and for God's sake smile.

I've wanted a dog for ages.

Now, I just need to hold out until Boyfriend or I have qualified and obtained some form of employment, then we can get our own place rather than renting rooms 200 miles apart, and I can get a dog.

I really need my own place, or maybe a place with Boyfriend. I've been renting rooms and staying with relatives since Mum threw me out over 3 years ago, and I want a place to call "Home".

Tuesday, 4 November 2008


I still can't sleep and I have a desperate urge to eat EVERYTHING in the cupboards. However I have no mustard powder, therefore cannot guarantee a thorough purge, and I've already eaten 3 portions of yogurt.

I don't think the void is my stomach, but I can't work out what it is that I need.

I want Boyfriend to love me, want me, keep me safe, but I'm becoming even more of a clingy emotional moody cow every day, and I'm so paranoid that he can't put up with me, he's going to dump me, which just makes me even more needy.


I'm working so hard to keep my disordered eating tendancies at bay, when half the time I want to embrace them, let them become who I am because surely that will be better than the inner turmoil. I can't be taken seriously as having disordered eating, because my BMI isn't low enough, I don't purge enough and sometimes I manage "normal" eating patterns because at work or with family, I don't want them to suspect, or to accuse me of attention seeking.

Remember. It's all my head. I'm just like everyone else, and if I really wanted to be happy, I would be.

Shiny Pretty Bright New Drugs

Venlafaxine [Efexor] is the new drug of choice. Fluoxetine [Prozac] has deserted me once again, and that was 60mg daily, so we're trying something else.

Dr Bill Oddie apparently used Venlafaxine for a while. He described it as "very strange, feeling like you're three feet to the left of life". Hmmm. Not instilling much confidence, but that "three feet" maybe put me slap-bang in the middle of real life, and I'm ready to try anything. I have exams in a few weeks, and an essay due, so I need my brain to start working. Pronto.

Boyfriend's bolthole 'Oop North was just what I needed. TLC, lots of hugs, encouragement to eat/shower/get out of bed. Slight moan though - I told boyfriend that I keep a blog, for venting etc, and he thought that it was a really bad idea, and would just encourage me to dwell on my problems.

Not sure whether he has a valid point - I think it comes back to the lesser of two evils concept. When I would normally binge, purge, self harm or drink myself to oblivion, I blog. It may be a web page devoted to my endless whining, but this doesn't involve scars or throwing up blood. Also, how come I'm training to be a mental health nurse, I suffer from a globally acknowledged condition and yet so many people still believe that if I really wanted to be happy, I would just snap out of it, pull my socks up, THINK POSITIVE.

Maybe it is "all in my head", in which case, I want to get out of my head.
Pass the horse tranquilizers.

Ah. Crap. You gave that all up with the heavy drinking, remember? F*ck it. I'm at least having a fag.