I shouldn’t be weighing myself (I was keeping the scales for my friend, I forgot to give them to her), but I have, and I’ve now dropped below the 8 stone mark, the lightest I have been in my adult life. Despite being my little eating disordered self, I am not jumping for joy. This is not deliberate; I have completely and utterly lost my appetite due to immense emotional stress over the past few months which have forced me to rethink my life. The last thing I ate was at 11am yesterday.
My friend Sarah came around bearing bread, which I’ll get around to eating when food feels more appetising than the cat’s litter tray. Although I tried to entertain her by making my belly talk to her. WHAT DOES IT SAY? “Hello…Sarah…”
edit! Sarah’s bread is bloody delicious! I am eating it all!
Last week I almost fainted from lack of food and had to be physically steadied. I need to get a grip and force myself to eat. I have yet to get to bed. I couldn’t face my bed, the pillows. Because if I sleep, then I have to wake up. I’ve spent the past seven hours crying on and off as four years of my life hurtle towards me in equal amounts of joy and agony, that I am losing, and although I am trying to do what I know in my gut is best, healthiest, happiest for everyone in the long term, to not lose everything, in the short term, in the now, I feel profoundly alone, stockpiling all my affections to try and get rid of that horrible feeling, and full of rage and grief and sadness and self abasement for not being strong enough, good enough as a person, trying hard enough, for letting people down and wishing so very violently that things had been different, with less endless crap to wade through, so that the purest thing of all wasn’t stifled and changed, so I was less restless, disconnected, and knowing that I could keep trying, but it wouldn’t work, and I would always end up back in the same place, with the same grief which would hurt more and more, still 23, still with no clue who she’s meant to be (and now I am crying again).
My head is killing me and feels gigantic and swollen. I’ll lie down soon. I want a bath, want to clean my flat, want to feel semi-human again. I had a dental appointment at 11am that I can’t be bothered to go to. I’ll get back to looking after myself properly. I’m a big girl, I can do it. I can stand on my own two feet but sometimes like everyone else I stumble to the ground and it is hard to get up. I do look like a lady of the sorrows right now with my cried out skin and bombed eyes.
I’m not mentally unwell at the moment, not more so than usual. People have been questioning whether I might be slightly manic due to my lack of sleep and lack of eating. I don’t think I am. It is pure stress. I am a bit more impulsive than usual but this is a culmination of, everything, to be honest, and kind of losing my rag a bit and knowing that I need to shake myself out of a coma before I become a dead dear at twenty five just staring, paralysed. I’m not depressed. I am incredibly, incredibly sad in a human way (nothing I want to discuss).
I will feel better, just not right now. Instead of doing my usual dusting myself off in that English way I have being an Irish person in England, I’m just allowing myself to bawl.
Ah, sweet self pity, eh. I’d like to thump myself on the head.
Anyway, enough ranting.
I am also stressed beyond belief. My DLA didn’t go into my account- I am on zero benefits. I have no money. I went to sort out Income Support yesterday but everything else has been messed up. It feels like nothing I’m doing in my life, in all respects, has an iota of positive impact. That I make people miserable and even the benefits office seem to have some sort of vendetta against me and are determined to see me scavenge in the bins of the slightly better off than the underclass like me, which, at times like this, is exactly what I feel like. Right now jumping off something high seems attractive because I’m so sick of it all. I could jump and wrap a letter from the DWP around my neck like an attractive bib with the word, “THANKS” scrawled on it.
Now I have to wait for the fuckers to open their phone lines. At least the DLA people are somewhat more helpful than Income Support as they seem accostumed to old dears rather than rambling young whippersnappers like me.
Yes, Radio 4 listeners. FEEL THE TEDIUM OF MY LIFE!
Filed under: Bipolar Disorder