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Posts Tagged ‘bulimia’

>Today has been difficult. Last night was difficult too actually. I have been feeling more and more strongly that I don’t want to be here. I feel completely alone – I know I have the support of people on here, but that is different to real life support, and actually what I feel like I need at the moment is professional support, and that is what I am not getting. Last night I was actually feeling really tempted to discharge myself from mental health services – sometimes it feels like an appointment for an hour once a fortnight is worse than nothing at all, because when it is helpful I still leave feeling hopeless, because I know it is 2 weeks before I will get that again, and then there isn’t time to talk about everything I feel I need to talk about – I found that even with weekly appointments, so fortnightly are even more difficult, and then even when I am really at crisis point I can’t get any more support, so it all seems kind of pointless. Fortnightly sessions feel a bit like ‘so here’s what you could have won!’ L has always been very supportive of me, and I know I have been lucky to have her, but I almost feel like she has given up on me or stopped caring or something. Either that or she thinks I am making up these feelings. I am not sure which is worse. But either way I don’t feel supported at the moment. So I did consider contacting her and asking to be discharged, but I decided against it. She would probably have suggested we discuss it when I am next due to see her, in a week and a half, and by that time goodness knows how I feel or what position I will be in. I could be dead, or I could have attempted suicide but failed, or I could be feeling differently about things. So I suppose essentially it seemed pointless to ask for discharge now, when I am not even due to see her for a week and a half. I am just really struggling with the lack of support when I am feeling so bad. I suppose I just feel abandoned, and like nobody actually gives a shit whether I kill myself or not, which in a way is a good thing, as it makes me feel less guilty.

This evening was really difficult. A friend of my dad had asked him to go to a quiz a couple of days ago, but they only needed one for their team, so my mum and I couldn’t go. My mum was going out with a friend, and asked if I wanted to go with them, but I didn’t. Anyway, my dad phoned me at 5:45 and said he had spoken to his friend and there was room for me at the quiz after all, as someone couldn’t make it, and that we would need to leave at 6:45. I wasn’t actually sure if I wanted to go by that point, as I was anticipating a night here on my own, but I also knew that with how I was feeling that probably wasn’t the most sensible option, so I agreed to go. The trouble is, it wasn’t giving me nearly long enough to get ready – it was about 6 when I started to get ready, and I had a quick shower but didn’t have time to wash my hair, so just straightened it instead. That didn’t take too long. Getting dressed is another matter however. I find it incredibly hard to know what to wear if I am going anywhere other than an appointment or rehearsal, in which case I either don’t give a shit what I look like, or wear dance type clothes. When I am going anywhere else getting dressed is an incredibly stressful and time consuming process. I put on a skirt, top, and cardigan, then decided the tights were no good, then decided it wasn’t the tights that were the problem – it was my huge legs. So off came the skirt and cardigan, and on went skinny jeans and boots and a long cardigan. I decided my legs still looked hideous, and was getting really quite upset and crying by this point. Told my mum I wanted to stay home and that I couldn’t get ready. All along my mum had been trying to be helpful, but was actually making matters worse, by saying that I was being ridiculous and my legs looked fine, and that the jeans looked fine, and nobody else would look at me and think my legs looked awful, and that I was making my dad late (which I was), and I ended up yelling at her that I felt hideous and I didn’t give a shit what other people would think – I couldn’t go out feeling hideous. Was sobbing uncontrollably by this point. Took off the jeans and cardigan and tried on a different skirt, but still didn’t feel comfortable, and didn’t have a cardigan that would go with it so would have been cold. She kept on and on, and it felt like absolutely everything I said she was just dismissing and invalidating, which is an ongoing theme, and I totally snapped in the end and screamed that she was being really fucking invalidating, to which she replied that she didn’t even know what that meant in this context, and so I said that she was just dismissing and ignoring all of my feelings, and she said that was because they were stupid, and I said (when I say I said, I mean I screamed) that they were real to me, and that she was constantly invalidating my thoughts and feelings, and that actually that can be a major contributory factor to BPD. I wished immediately that I hadn’t said that, because I never want to make my parents feel bad, or like they are to blame for my problems – partly because I don’t think it is fair to blame someone else, and partly because I don’t want them to feel guilty, even when I do think they have contributed to how I am now. So I felt like a complete bitch, and was in a complete state, crying hysterically and hyperventilating. I said (cried) that I couldn’t go out and I needed to stay home, and had put my comfy jeans on by that point, not with the intention of going anywhere. My mum said I looked nice in my comfy jeans that I had on and that I should go like that. I just couldn’t stop crying. My dad came upstairs then and tried to calm me down a bit – he asked what the matter was and I said (cried) that I felt hideous in everything and I had made him late and I couldn’t go anywhere, and that it was my mum’s fault (unfair I know). He said we weren’t too late, and that I looked fine how I was, and I didn’t need to dress up or anything and that I needed to just calm down. I think my mum was also quite worked up by this time as she said what I needed was a slap, and at that point I completely lost my temper and screamed that I was going to kill her and my dad had to hold me back from going into her room after her. I don’t think that I ever would be really physically violent – I have been known to hit my dad when I have got really angry and worked up, but it is generally when he has intentionally wound me up, which he has a tendency to do it, but I don’t get any more violent than that – I have grabbed a knife and said I am going to stab him in the past, but I am certain I would never do anything like that – my anger just gets out of control occasionally and I say things that I don’t mean, like I did tonight. I then said that she was a fucking bitch and cried some more. After a minute my temper disappeared and I was just back to being upset. My dad said he really wanted me to go with him and I calmed down a bit, although I was still sobbing, and said goodbye to my mum, and we left. I then sat in the car crying and was talking to myself a bit, but my dad managed to get me to stop. I decided I needed a Diazepam a minute or two after we had left, and looked in my bag, to find that I had grabbed my Zopiclone instead of my Diazepam (and very nearly taken one – they are the same size tablets, and apart from the writing, the blister packs look identical) and so I then had a panic attack and said I had to get out of the car and I would walk home because I needed my Diazepam. A moment more of rooting in my bag produced some Diazepam though, and I took one, and after about 10 minutes had managed to calm down enough that I was just sobbing quietly, and a little while later I started to feel a bit better, and was relatively calm by the time we arrived.

The actual quiz was fine. I only knew my dad’s friend on our table, as did he, but the other people all seemed nice. I answered a reasonable number of questions, although not nearly as many as my dad – he is very good at quizzes. Food was an issue. There was a Ploughman’s included in the ticket price, so there were baguettes and cheeses on each table, and then the people on our table had brought lots and lots of crisps and nuts and things with them, and when there are things like that out I just can’t stop eating, so I ate all evening, and was feeling worse and worse about myself. Then finally there was this chocolate cake thing that someone had brought, and I had a piece of that, and it was incredibly rich (and something has to be really rich for me to say that as I have a very sweet tooth!) and I just couldn’t cope, and I ended up going to the toilets and purging. That is the first time I have purged for ages – it has been months since I last did it, but quizzes are a real trigger for me where that is concerned – there are always lots of nibbles around, and I have no self control where things like that are concerned and so just keep eating, and then feel terrible and go and purge as much as I can. It was also at a quiz that I first ever purged, so I guess they are one of the least safe places for me in that respect. I hate myself for the amount I ate, despite purging. And even though it is now 3:30am, and so it was hours ago, I still feel sick from it. I am feeling really shit about that – my weight had been slightly down this morning, and it made it that tiny bit easier to get through the day, and now it is going to be way up and I just can’t cope with something else going wrong. So it was a really bloody hard night. Although out of 15 teams we did win the quiz, and so my dad and I came home with a bottle of champagne and a box of chocolates.

I am feeling really guilty about the things that I said to, and about, my mum. I feel like a terrible person. When I lose my temper I just seem to lose all control, and when I am very upset and then she says things that upset me more I just snap. My dad does it too, but kind of intentionally – he does wind me up on purpose sometimes. Strangely I don’t think he means to upset me – it is like he doesn’t realise that what he is doing or saying is really upsetting me or making me angry, despite the fact it happens on a semi-regular basis. I think he just genuinely doesn’t realise how his words affect people. I suppose it is just a complete lack of tact, and not thinking before he speaks, and an almost childlike sense of him thinking something is fun, even when the other person quite clearly isn’t enjoying it. And so I do get really furious with him. My mum is different. She means well, and she tries to help, but I really do find her very invalidating a lot of the time, and when I am already upset I just can’t cope with it. My mum and I bicker a lot, but it is very rare for me to lose my temper with her to the extent that I did tonight. In fact I am not sure that I ever have – I have always had the self control before not to point out that there may be a link between her behaviours and some of my problems, and I lost that tonight, and feel really guilty for doing so, as I know it will have upset her, and that is the last thing I want to do when she does so much for me, and tries so hard to support me. I think I am just feeling so awful at the moment that it really isn’t going to take much at all to flip me over the edge in the way that I did tonight. And the worse I feel the more I hate myself, and the more self critical I am, and the more irritable I am, and therefore the more frustrating I am to my parents, so it does tend to be that the lower my mood, the more we argue, which then makes me feel worse and more suicidal, and acts as proof to me that they would be better off without me. I am really not in a good place at the moment, and I don’t know what to do. Suicide looks more and more appealing every day.

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>New Year blues

>Today has been a shit day. I just feel like a tonne of bricks dropped on me a few days ago, and every day another tonne has been added. My aunt was here today, which was ok, but I just find speaking to people, and trying to show any enthusiasm in what they are saying so much effort – I don’t even feel able to fake it properly any more. I ate like a fucking pig – yesterday I weighed less than a pound more than I did pre-Christmas, which I thought was quite impressive in the overall scheme of things. Today there was loads of food out because we had people over, and so I just ate fucking non stop. I felt sick and still kept eating. I desperately wanted to purge, but that wasn’t an option, and so for some reason I just kept eating instead. I am not sure whether it was supposed to be comfort eating, in which case it failed miserably as it made me feel like complete shit, or whether I was punishing myself, and since I couldn’t purge I just kept eating until I felt ill instead. Either way I ended up feeling grotesque. All day I was getting really graphic images popping up in my head of me hurting myself. Mostly bad self harm, which is quite random as I rarely self harm, and when I do it is never deep. But I just kept getting these images of me cutting myself really deep, and slicing big chunks of fat off my thighs. We have a bread knife, which is supposedly ‘The World’s Sharpest Knife’ (says that on it) and every time I see it I imagine sawing through all of the fat on my thighs with it. It will saw through frozen chicken portions, so it obviously is quite sharp. I know I would be very unlikely to do it – that just isn’t my style. I don’t like anything that involves medical attention. Proper suicide attempts are slightly different as the medical attention is not my intention or plan in those situations, but I would never take an overdose or self harm and then present at A&E – I am not judging people who do that, but it just is not something I would want to do. If I want to hurt myself I want to do it in the most unobtrusive way I can find, again barring suicide attempts, as by their nature they have a tendency to attract attention. But if there was a way I could just disappear then I would. Anyway, so I had lots of films in my head of self harming badly, and also of jumping off a multi storey car park, and of hanging myself. My head isn’t a nice place to be at the moment. It is quite distressing really I suppose. Even if you want to die, you don’t really want possible scenarios playing out in your head constantly – it all gets a bit much really.

I loathe New Year. More than I can express. I think it is actually my least favourite day of the whole year. It is even worse than my birthday I think. At least most people either don’t know, or forget, that it is your birthday, and so you can generally get through most of the day without it being brought to your attention, and if you look at it from a materialistic view point you usually get presents and a cake, and so there are some nicer aspects to it, although I have to say that I think birthdays are pretty shit really, and I refused to acknowledge mine on the correct day this year. But anyway. New Year. What the fuck is the point? It is another year. And people actually seem to think that because the number of the year is different, your life will also be different. That things will change for you this year, or that this will be the year that is good for you, or where you will achieve something, and bollocks like that. No. It will be the same – the date will just be slightly different. And then you are expected to stand around drinking Champagne and singing a stupid song that nobody actually knows the words to, and saying Happy New Year to everyone you see for the next couple of days. And I don’t know what we are fucking celebrating. I have never understood that, ever. It makes no sense to me. All it does for me is remind me of everything I have wanted to achieve but haven’t in the past year, and make me realise what a failure I am.

My mother has done a good job of reminding me of that this evening actually. She doesn’t do it intentionally, but she really seems to have a knack of tapping into my insecurities. Earlier on she told me she really thought I should have applied for drama school this year, and that if I didn’t go this year (meaning 2011) she didn’t think I would ever go, and that this would have been a really good year to apply. I said that I didn’t feel well enough, but according to her I am because I can get up on stage and perform, and that is all you do at drama school. Which is of course complete rubbish. She then pointed out that if I didn’t go this year I would be at least 26 when I started, and that I would be getting old, and when I said that actually some people go to drama school a lot older than that she said that they would have achieved something first, whereas I haven’t done anything. Which is all fucking true, and makes me even more angry and upset because of that. If she had been talking bollocks then I could have coped with it, but she was saying all of the things that I always think. That I am getting old, that I haven’t achieved anything, and basically that I will never accomplish the only thing I have ever wanted to do, because I am leaving it too late because of my mental health problems. Great. Just what I needed to hear the day before my least favourite day of the entire year when I dwell on all of those things anyway. She didn’t say any of it in a nasty way. It just felt like salt being rubbed into a very raw wound.

Apparently my sister has invited my parents to spend New Year’s Eve at their house. Not me of course because she still hates me. I was hoping they would go, but it seems they aren’t going to. I had it all planned out. If they went I was going to tell them I would probably be asleep by the time they got home, take an overdose as soon as they had left, and leave a note somewhere where it would be found but not immediately, so that they wouldn’t see it when they got home. Then when they got home they wouldn’t have known I had taken an overdose, and so would just think I was sleeping, then I usually sleep until at least 1, so they wouldn’t come up to see me before that, and it may even have been an hour or two after, and so my overdose would have had a good 18 hours to work before I was found, possibly even 20. Unfortunately it seems they aren’t going to go. Primarily because my dad doesn’t want to, although my mum also said that she didn’t want to leave me here on my own on New Year’s Eve, despite me protesting that I really didn’t mind at all. They know that I loathe New Year and don’t want to celebrate it. They see me having a complete breakdown every year. And yet they still try to give me champagne and say Happy New Year to me. When I said something to my mum tonight about how much I hate New Year she said she thinks someone must have said they hated New Year to me, and so I say it as well. Because I clearly couldn’t actually have a thought of my own – everything I think and feel that she doesn’t understand or disagrees with, she calls my ‘quirks’ and seems to attribute all of them to things that other people have said or done that I have copied. I suppose that fits in quite well with her agreeing with my sister that there isn’t actually anything wrong with me and that I do everything for effect.

I am feeling really terrible. I just want to go to sleep and never wake up again. I can’t imagine anything at all that would make me want to live, or make this constant pain bearable. I really want to die. I don’t want to be told how much I have achieved, or how strong I am, or that 2011 will be better for me, or anything else. I just want my life to end, and I consider myself incredibly weak for not making that happen before this.

‘Turning, turning, turning through the years.
Minutes into hours and the hours into years.
Nothing changes, nothing ever can
Round and round the roundabout and back where you began.
Round and round and back where you began!’
 – ‘Turning’, Les Miserables

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>From the time when my dad moved out when I was 12, things continued in the same way for quite a few years. He would come over some evenings. He would come on holiday with us, and stay for a while over Christmas. At some point he started spending the weekends here. Then there would be times when I wouldn’t see him for a couple of months because of my mum or I getting upset about it all and cutting contact with him. Neither he, nor my mother, were seeing anyone else. It was a fairly strange relationship, as it was so uneven. My mum desperately wanted him back, and so everything was on his terms. He came over when he wanted, but if he wanted to do something else instead then he would, and my mum would get upset, which would generally lead to a period of her not wanting to see him. If she didn’t want to see him then I generally didn’t see him either. I hated going to his flat – I only did it a handful of times over a period of about 6 years. I didn’t like seeing that he had his own life away from us, and I didn’t feel comfortable there. So generally either he came here, or I didn’t see him.

At 16 I finished school and went of to 6th Form College to do A levels. It was a relief to leave H and co. behind – I don’t think I have seen anyone from my year group since I left school over 8 years ago, apart from briefly bumping into a couple of people, including her. Maybe she is a nicer person now. I hope so. I did ok in my GCSEs, but didn’t get the results I should have got, because I did no revision. That is something of a pattern for me. I think my fear of failure is so intense that I take it the opposite way and work on the premise that if I haven’t tried then it doesn’t matter if I have failed or done badly, whereas if I worked really hard and still didn’t do as well as I should then I would have no excuse – I would just be a failure.

Anyway, 6th Form College was a much better experience than school in many ways. It was literally 10 times the size in terms of student population, and obviously they were all aged 16 – 19, rather than 4 – 16 like my school had been, so there were rather more people in a year group at college – about 50 times more…. C was going to the same 6th Form, and I also knew a couple of other people, through performing, who were going there, but that was it. Oh, and a guy from my school, but I rarely saw him. In theory everything should have improved for me in college. I had friends, and obviously I was studying the subjects I wanted to etc. And in some ways it was great. I had some really good teachers, one of whom I am still in contact with now – he came to see me in Carousel. The main problem with it was that I didn’t want to be there. In the summer between finishing school and starting 6th Form, I had done a 2 week Musical Theatre summer course at one of the drama schools in London, and absolutely loved it, and therefore resented going off to study academic subjects when I wanted to be doing performing. I wished I was doing a Musical Theatre BTEC rather than A levels, so that I could be doing what I wanted to do. In retrospect I am glad I did A levels, and I don’t think my parents would have let me not do them anyway, but it resulted in once again my attendance being pretty poor, because I couldn’t be bothered with it, and so that, combined with not doing any work that didn’t absolutely have to be done, and not doing any revision at all, meant that I finished my first year with pretty poor results. I didn’t dislike college – as I have said, I had friends there, I enjoyed some of my lessons. I was very fortunate in that the Head of Music/Performing Arts seemed to think the sun shone from my arse, and so I got quite a few opportunities in that area. I was in the college choir, and got all the solos – I sung the Once In Royal solo 3 years running at the carol service (yes, I stayed 3 years – more on that later), as well as various other solos. I was always asked to perform in all of the concerts, and to record songs for the music tech students etc. In my 3rd year they did Les Miserables, and I pretty much got to choose my role, although that was actually a new member of staff directing that who had never taught me. We had a couple of auditions, and then were waiting ages for them to decide casting, and one day I asked if they had cast it yet, because I said I wanted to include it in my UCAS personal statement, and wanted to be able to say what part I was playing (oh the arrogance!) and got the reply, ‘well we haven’t finished casting yet, but I am assuming you would like Eponine as you sung On My Own in your audition?’ I said I would please, and that was that settled. College gave me a confidence in my abilities that school never had – in college there were 2000 people, all of my age, and yet I was the one who got the solos and the leads, and who the staff knew, even if they didn’t teach me. At school there was a lot of nepotism going on with casting, and so I never got leads, despite being the only person who regularly performed out of school (and regularly was cast in leads there). So college was good for making me realise I must be better than school had lead me to believe. My first year of college was fairly uneventful. I went to lessons some of the time, stayed home some of the time, did some of the work, didn’t do some of the work. I was still doing dance and singing lessons outside of college, and some shows, although I had started doing less by that time.

I had just started my second year of college, and so was just 17 when the next thing happened in my home life. My mum picked me up from the bus one day and was very upset – she had received an anonymous text message saying that my dad had been seeing someone for a year and that she should divorce him. It turned out that it was true – we never did know for sure who sent it, although the assumption was that his girlfriend (another 25 year old who worked for him) had got the number off his phone and sent it, although she denied it. Whilst he wasn’t living at home, and it was now 5 years since he had moved out, he hadn’t seen anyone in that time to our knowledge, apart from the initial affair, and had generally spent quite a lot of time at our house and with us. Of course in retrospect we realised that for the last year he hadn’t been spending weekends with us like he had been before that, and that he had been coming over less often, but since everything always had been on his terms anyway, we hadn’t really questioned it before. I was very upset – not that he was seeing someone, but that he had been lying to us for over a year. It really hurt me a lot, and I think made me lose a lot of trust in not only him, but people generally. I still can’t comprehend how and why he would lie like that for so long – it wasn’t like he was living here – they were separated, and had been for quite a few years. My mum was absolutely devastated. As I said, she always wanted to be with him, and this news was just too much for her. She refused to tell anyone – she wouldn’t even tell her friends or my siblings initially. She kept saying how ashamed she felt and how stupid she was for not knowing, and how if people knew they would laugh at her and think she was stupid. I think that for her too it was more about the secrecy, and not knowing than it was him seeing someone else, although obviously that hurt her too. Yet again, he broke up with her once we had found out. So we were back to keeping secrets (although we had never actually stopped) but this time it was just the two of us, as there were no siblings or friends or counsellors involved this time. And it really was role reversal – she was so upset, and had absolutely nobody to talk to apart from me, and so I listened to it all. Obviously I was older by this point, but she was really leaning on me quite heavily, and I couldn’t rely on her at all emotionally. And I started to crumble. Not in front of her. I didn’t let her know how much I was struggling. But I was struggling more and more. My mood was low and I started purging frequently.

I had a really great teacher at college who I started talking to. She was really supportive, and for a while I talked to her every week. I suppose really she was the first person I ever talked to about anything emotional at all – I had just never talked about feelings before to anyone. She was really helpful – without her I don’t know if I would have gone on to get other help. She listened, and she got me information and a self help book for bulimia. She was also the one who encouraged me to go to my GP to get help (who gave me anti depressants and referred me to the CMHT), and also to see the college counsellor in the meantime. I was very attached to her. I think my issues with attachment can be attributed in some ways to my relationship with my parents, although as I said before, even when I was very young I was very possessive with friends, so perhaps it has always been in my nature. But it was after my dad left when I was 12 that I started getting really attached to people. Never men – it has always been women, who I suppose I see as maternal figures, who I have become attached to. I feel like it should be men, since it was my dad who left and wasn’t there for me, but I suppose emotionally I wasn’t getting what I needed from my mum, and therefore begun to look for it elsewhere. There have been a number of people I have grown very attached to – wanting to be around them all the time, and for them to care about me and look after me, and I suppose essentially to parent me. It is weird because my mum and I have always been very close, and yet I have always had these fantasies of whoever it is I am attached to at the time (only ever one at a time) taking me home to live with them. But I suppose it is due to my mum not being there for me emotionally when I needed her, because she was struggling so much herself. Maybe that is why even now I find it very difficult to talk to her about how I am feeling. I think I can also attribute my eating problems to my parents to some extent. My parents have very different relationships with food. My mum is tiny, but eats a lot of food, a lot of which is crap, and by rights should be enormous. She rarely weighs herself, and doesn’t understand why I don’t just eat what she does – she can’t seem to comprehend that her metabolism is not normal. My dad is much more careful about what he eats – he is a healthy weight, but he weighs himself daily, and hates it if his weight goes up, and will cut out unhealthier foods until it goes back to where he wants it to be. As a teenager he used to frequently comment on my weight, and suggest that I should try to lose weight, frequently citing my career choice as the reason why I needed to be smaller. He doesn’t do that any more, probably because I haven’t been as big as I was as a teenager, although even then we were still talking healthy BMI range, just nearer the higher end of it. But he does still ask me how my weight is, and will make comments about what I am eating sometimes. As a family they (we?) are very sizeist – I have grown up with negative comments about overweight people etc, so I think that, along with comments about my own weight, coupled with a desperate need to feel in control of something when my life felt so out of control, was really fairly likely to lead to an eating disorder.

Despite my mental health problems, my second year of college was better than my first year in many ways. I think primarily because I felt safe there – it filled the same space for as rehearsals had when I was younger and my dad first left – it was somewhere to escape to. I suppose in a large part because college contained the only person I really trusted to talk to – at this point I had been referred to the CMHT, and at some point during the year had an assessment there, and was then on the waiting list for the rest of that year. My attendance was better, and although I was having problems concentrating, I actually did better than I had in my first year, although still not nearly as well as I should have. And then my second year came to an end, I had A Levels, and I didn’t have a clue what to do next. I was terrified of leaving college, because that was where my only support was. I had no plans to go on to university or anything. And in the end I just couldn’t face leaving. So I stayed on an extra year. I retook the first year of English Lit, because I had got 2 grades higher for my second year than I got in my first year, and then I took both the first and second year of Sociology at the same time, so that I got an A level in a year. I also worked part time at the college, as a Learning Support Assistant. Just before my third year started, I started seeing a Clinical Psychologist at the CMHT, primarily for help with my eating disorder, although during the year my mood got worse and worse, until I attempted suicide at the end of the year. This academic year was 2004/2005, and so was 6 years after my dad had first moved out, in 1998, and 1 or 2 years after we found out he had been seeing someone again, in 2003. During this time he had started spending more and more time back at home – staying there more often, and by some point in 2005 he was more or less living back at home, although he still kept his flat, and spent occasional nights there. But he was back home. The perfect fairytale ending right? And they all lived happily ever after….

I do not by any means think that my problems now are caused by my parents splitting up. As I said before, I don’t think things were quite right when I was even younger than that. But I do think it probably exacerbated matters. I find it really difficult to admit that my parents splitting up could have even contributed slightly to me having mental health problems now. What is the statistic – half of all marriages end in divorce or something like that? And people go through much worse and don’t end up with a slew of psychiatric diagnoses, which makes me think that either I must be really pathetic, other people must be really strong, or my problems come from absolutely nowhere, and it is absolutely nothing to do with my parents. I flit from one view to another depending on my mood. But I can see that L had a point when she said how difficult it must have been having to keep it all a secret, and having to try and contain my emotions to avoid upsetting my mum. That was difficult, and probably isn’t a typical experience of parents’ splitting up, although of course I don’t know for sure. I almost feel guilty for having mental health problems when I have been through so little in comparison to other people. Ok, my parents split up, but so what? That is hardly uncommon. And apart from that I had a good childhood. I got to do whatever activities I wanted, I had a good education, I was loved and looked after. I certainly was never abused in any way, or neglected, or anything else terrible. Nothing bad happened to me. And yet here I am, at age 24, with 7 years in the mental health system, multiple suicide attempts, multiple admissions, numerous CPNs and Psychiatrists and other professionals, medications, etc etc. I feel ashamed of myself for being so weak. For having these problems, when others go through so much worse and yet cope so much better. I really do feel guilty when I think about it. I don’t understand why I am in the position I am in, when there has been nothing serious in my life to cause me to feel like this. I can see that my teenage years weren’t perfect, but they were not bad enough to lead to this. So what is wrong with me? I have absolutely no idea.

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>Yuck

>It hasn’t been a great day, and I am absolutely exhausted, so I am going to leave Childhood Part 3 until tomorrow. There is nothing major wrong – I have been been incredibly tired all day, and my weight was up which made me feel like shit, and then I have eaten far more today than I feel comfortable with, and so I know it will be up again tomorrow, and I am just angry with myself and frustrated. It was the Christmas Bazaar at the school where my mum works, and sometimes I manage to pick up a couple of Christmas presents there, and since I’ve still not done any shopping I thought I had better go down, so I did, but I then ended up eating shit loads of cake – I had one little fairy cake, then my mum bought me a chocolate cupcake, then it was the end and they had cake left over so they were just giving pieces away free and so we both had a little piece of a Thorntons chocolate/toffee cake each, and by that time I was feeling incredibly sick and desperately wanted to purge, but obviously couldn’t. And I didn’t even manage to get any bloody Christmas presents there, so it was a complete bloody waste of time and just made me feel crap about myself. And then soon after that we went off to the Christmas late night shopping in the local town – my mum was taking my nephew to look around the stuff on the street – rides and street entertainers etc, and I wanted to go in the craft fair (again, to try and get Christmas presents – can you smell the desperation??). I bought a couple of little bits, but nothing major, and then went to find my mum and nephew, and we ended up having a mince pie each as someone was standing giving them away. I am not even that keen on bloody mince pies – they don’t particularly interest me, so I don’t know why I did that. And then we came home and I had my dinner – a bowl of fruit, and a slice of bread and peanut butter, and yet another bloody little cupcake (they made us take a few home when they had them left over at the end). So I have eaten an absurd quantity of cake today – 3 cupcakes, a small slice of toffe cake, and a mince pie, and then a bowl of fruit, and a slice of bread and peanut butter. I feel hideous and absolutely disgusted with myself. After my weight going up anyway, and feeling so shit about myself because of it, I just can’t believe the way I have eaten today. I am just really hating myself right now. And I am blacming Christmas. And scared because the next few weeks are just going to be hellish in so many ways. I am feeling pretty crappy about everything, and I am absolutely exhausted, so I am going to try and get an early night. I just hope I don’t wake up in an hour or two because my body thinks I am just having a little nap.

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>Dinner

>I think I do have a chest infection. I decided that coughing up green nasty stuff is not good, so phoned and asked to speak to my GP. They got her to call me back, and she said she would send a script down to the chemist for antibiotics. So I will get them tomorrow. Which is leaving it rather late for Sunday, but there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. The Sudafed is definitely helping with the congestion generally – I have gone through far, far less tissues today than I did yesterday or Wednesday, so that is something!

I went out for dinner with a friend tonight. It was the friend I was supposed to go out for lunch with weeks ago ago, and then I cancelled because I was getting stressed about eating out at lunch time etc. She texted me earlier and said she was free tonight and did I want to go out for something to eat. I wasn’t sure whether to or not, I didn’t know if I fancied eating out (well, I rarely fancy out, but I wasn’t sure if I felt up to it) plus of course I am not feeling great physically, but she isn’t often free, so I decided I would. We went out about 8, and I hadn’t eaten anything all day, so it was easier than if I had already had a meal. I actually managed to eat a 2 course meal without even trying to go to the toilets and purge, which is unusual for me. I usually at least go to the toilets and then if they are empty I purge and if there are people in there I don’t, but I didn’t even go near them, so that was good. I knew I really couldn’t purge, since I already have a sore throat, and purging always hurts my voice, and more damage is the last thing I need right now. Which is one of the reasons I wasn’t sure about eating out, but I managed it. It was nice to see her. Despite her living down the road, I hadn’t seen her since August, which is kind of ridiculous really, but she works during the day, and then in the evening I am often out at rehearsals or dance classes, and she is often busy, so there just rarely seems to be time when we are free. So yes, it was good to catch up with her.

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>Fed up

>I don’t know what I am doing with myself today. I am really finding this lack of concentration hard. I don’t know what to do about ballet tonight. I was intending not to go because of hurting my back the other day. But it is feeling slightly better today, although it is still uncomfortable. I suppose I just don’t know what else to do with myself if I don’t go. Dancing on an injury isn’t the brightest thing to do, but maybe it would be ok. I kind of have issues with missing dance classes because then I am not burning calories and so my weight is more likely to be a problem. I found it hard last night not being able to dance at rehearsal – I kept thinking of all the calories I wasn’t burning. And then when I ate I felt like I didn’t deserve to because I hadn’t done anything to burn off the calories. I am supposed to have a dance rehearsal tomorrow too, but I don’t think I will be able to do that. Doing a ballet class is one thing, because I can just do what I feel able to etc, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing lifts etc when I still have an injury because it would be too easy to aggravate it. My weight is really frustrating me at the moment. It is just stuck. Which is my own fault, because I am eating too much ‘extra’ food. Comfort eating. Which isn’t even comforting because it makes me feel like a disgusting greedy pig. Yesterday I meant to have a nap in the afternoon because I was so tired, but in the end I ate and purged a piece of carrot cake instead. I don’t know why. I didn’t enjoy it. I didn’t even fancy it. I wasn’t hungry. I just saw it and felt compelled to eat some, even though I didn’t particularly want it, and knew I would purge afterwards. I felt hideous afterwards, and yet I nearly repeated the whole thing again today. I don’t know what I am doing at the moment. My brain feels broken.

I am tired. I am just not really getting enough sleep at the moment, even with the Zopiclone, and I am still tired when I wake up however much sleep I have had. I want to read or watch a DVD or just do something that feels vaguely constructive and I just can’t because I don’t have any concentration. It is stupid. I really hate myself at the moment. I feel completely useless.

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>Quiter day

>I am still feeling really shit, but it has been really good not having to do anything or go anywhere today. People always say that keeping busy is good for you and will distract you and make you feel better etc, but I just don’t find that works – when I feel really bad I find that the more I do the worse I feel. I just get increasingly stressed and pressured and overwhelmed, and it puts me in a worse place than I would be if I had sat at home on my own doing absolutely nothing. I can cope with doing maybe a couple of things in a week, but more than that starts getting too much, and this week was 2 ballet classes, a photo shoot, 2 meals and a birthday party – that was just way more than I can cope with. I feel pathetic for saying that, as some people manage to go out to work and do all sorts of things, even when they are feeling bad, but I just find the more I do the worse I feel. Next week will hopefully be a bit quieter – I have 2 ballet classes and 1 rehearsal, but I think that is all. Or that is all I have in my diary at the moment – I am sure some other things will pop up, but I really hope not too much.

I have purged 4 times this week. Whilst in the grand scheme of things this isn’t that much – a lot of people do it far more than that, and there have been periods when I was purging that much every day – it isn’t that great for someone who doesn’t consider themselves to do that any more. In my head purging is something I used to do, rather than something I still do, but clearly that isn’t quite true… I don’t want to get into purging a lot again. I am much more comfortable with restricting – I don’t feel bad about myself then in the same way I do when I purge – but if I eat things I think I shouldn’t have, or have the opportunity to purge then I just need to. But it hurts my throat, and therefore my voice, and makes me feel shitty and it is not nice. I need to be able to get back into restricting and losing weight. Since a few weeks ago when I got back from Cornwall and aimed to lose 1.4lbs a week on average, I have gained a pound. That is really shit. At first it was going alright – I wasn’t losing much, but it was at least going the right way. Then this last week I have just gained loads – I think I have just been feeling so low that I have stopped caring in the same way and been comfort eating, but I still do care when I gain, and I feel so terrible about myself now.

The suicidal thoughts are still really strong. I am finding I am constantly thinking about when would be the best time for me to act on the thoughts – when I would have the longest before being found, what the best thing to do is. Just planning basically. Quite obsessively. I don’t know what to do.

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