and an old fear rises

"While Jesus is saving I'm spending all my grace on the rosy red pallor of lights on centre stage." 

So yet again I've let this blog lapse a wee bit. Work gets to me in a weird way now. I miss boys, so, so much. Cam, I miss Cam especially. It breaks my heart to know I won't see him anytime soon. And still, I'm still spending money, the only difference is that I feel more guilty for doing it. 

I feel like I'm on the precipice of getting my life back together though. Some old way of living is creeping up inside me. Op shopping at cheap places and getting that high off a good find, putting together outfits with a lot of thought. Saving money, working out, losing weight, studying and generally progressing. I used to be that person. And there should be no reason why I can't be that person again. 

For the past few days I've been drowning myself in thinspo and fitspo. Mostly I've been feeling increasingly weak. Less fit. Walking up stairs makes me short of breath. I want to be fit again, and skinny, with a wee bit of muscle definition. 

I'm starting to give up fatty hospital lunches for a bottle of water and a piece of fruit. I'm buying fruit to have for dinner, to eat before dinner so I eat less normal food. I'm hoping, praying, please, this time, let me get this together. I need to get my life together. 

I'm going to start working out after work. Every hour counts doesn't it. It must count for something. I'm going to travel to Melbourne in a month and a half, and by that time, I want to be visibly thinner. 

I read somewhere that it takes 4 weeks for you to notice a change yourself, 8 weeks for friends and family to notice, and 12 weeks for the world to notice. I'm hoping that with some wild restricting and bumping up exercise, in 6 weeks friends and family will notice. It's been a long time since anybody noticed me. I'd love to just be noticed. 

This all must sound so very desperate, but I really miss those comments, I miss people telling me that I look thin. Of late, I've had far too many people call me fat and ugly. 

hoping for the best

"Problems have solutions. A lifetime of fucking things up fixed in one determined flash."

You know your life has problems when your hairdresser can see something is wrong when you show up for a ten minute fringe trim. Skye has been the first person in a long time to recognise how hard I'm working, and that yes, it is fucking difficult. That's what happens when all your other friends are doctors, when you're all working the same fucking job, you don't want to be the one loser to complain about it. 

I book in to see her in another 4 weeks. She looks at me, and I know that I don't need a haircut in 4 weeks time, even with my high maintenance cut. But I'm near tears at this point and she comes and gives me a hug and books me in anyway. I walk out as fast as I can, because if she hugs me again, I will cry. I feel angry and upset that I'm still fucking working. I've only got 7 days left in my marathon month of work, but I'm growing impatient. 

I feel like such a whiney ass. I just need to suck it up, box it in, man up and get on with it. This is no different from any other doctor. I hate being this frail when everyone else seems to be so strong. 

My weight is...I have no idea. I've been way too scared to weigh myself. Given that the last time was 118lbs, and I know I've gained all the weight back since then, I just know I'm going to have some sort of mental break down to see a number back in the 120s. 

I had another sort of wake up call today. My Vivienne Westwood dress has arrived. It's IT40 in size, which is my usual size. But it doesn't fit. It's too small. I can't button it up past my waist. It fucking sucks. It FUCKING SUCKS. It's an expensive dress. And maybe in 10lbs time, I will be able to fit it. I should be able to fit it. Fuck. It makes me wonder how much I actually weigh. My only hang up is that, it doesn't button up over my boobs. Now, my boobs are one of the only good things about me. 

When I say that, I mean, my boobs are the only thing about me that I think guys like. I'm not pretty or skinny, or anything. But I have a great rack. I wear a 32DD size. Which I find absolutely ridiculous, it doesn't feel like a real size at all. I do feel that I would rather be skinny, and ditch the boobs, but I'm so torn because men so obviously like them. 

That last sentence sort of makes me feel like I will end up as some serial killer's victim. Which tells me that I should stop my serial killer documentary marathons. 

I'm hoping night shifts works its magic on me again. I'm hoping and praying. I dropped 6lbs in 4 nights last night. I'm working 7 nights this time. I'm praying I lose at least 10lbs. If I'm up for it, I might try to do some exercise at the same time, but realistically, I know that probably won't happen. 

All this, all of what is going on makes me feel like I'm more depressed than I give myself credit for. And I know I need to get some sort of help for it. But really, when do I have the time. If I had the time, I'd get enough sleep for a start. 

On top of all that. Joe. Ugh. I was going to say that I don't know where to start but the truth is that's is because I have nowhere to start. Nothing has happened. I text him a few times, no reply. Fuck. Okay then. The logic tells me he's just too busy, sees the text and forgets to reply but it doesn't feel great. 

And the more I think about it...well. I remember seeing a patient with him, one with a history of self harm. He saw her scars, she said, I used to self mutilate and his response to that was "what gives you that?". I mentally facepalmed so hard. What gives you that? Fuck. He's too unobservant to notice my scars, either that or he doesn't think I'm capable. Fuck. Makes me realise I don't think I'll be able to tell any man about this, ever. Only one of my friends knows about it. And besides her, only the professor. 

There is a whole other story about the professor. But this post is full of enough self pity already without me going that way. 

NOTHING IS GOING RIGHT. I fucking hate it. This has to change. I need something to start going well. I don't know how much longer I can carry on like this. I need something. ANYTHING. I need something to go well, I need something in my life to be right. And please god, let that be my weight. 

I am a monster that needs to be spayed.

"The two of us, all used and beaten up. Watching fate as it flows down the path we have chose. You and me, we're in this together now."

I LOST 6LBS ON NIGHT SHIFTS!!!! 119LBS FTW!!!!

I have just spent 10 hours over the past 2 days wondering how to write this post so I guess that's a leeway into how ravaging it has been for me. After all this thinking I still don't have an answer as to how I feel or what the hell is going on with me. I have spiraled from being deludedly happy to being tired and angry to being wistful and hopeless to finally feeling like I'm some sort of monster. 

It's Joe. It's fucking Joe's fault. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Whatever is happening, and I'm really not sure what, it's wrong. It's not supposed to happen and a part of me is very, very angry about that. 

Whatever it is, I have never felt so ill in all my life. Admittedly, some of that is probably the caffeine withdrawal and the night shifts screwing up my biological clock. I've just spent the past four nights with Joe. No, not in that sort of way, we were on night shifts together, I was the house surgeon and he was the registrar. And we were the only two doctors on for orthopaedics overnight. So it was kind of hectic to say the least. 

I spent a lot of time with him, in those nights I probably spent more time with him than with any guy I've known (bar my father). That was weird. I was supposed to spend most of my time on the wards, while he was in ED, and that's how it's been for other house surgeons.  But I was in ED for most of the night. I seriously hope that the ward patients were okay because I wasn't really there. 

Not that I did much in ED. Mostly just sat there and wrote notes for him. A bit redundant really. The smarter, more efficient thing to do would have been to split up and divide and conquer the patients but Joe was having none of that. He got in trouble for not seeing patients fast enough and I heard him on the phone, several times, telling the ED bosses that it was very important that I stay with him. 

Here is the be all and end all. I wish with all my heart that I wasn't attracted to Joe. There is nothing about him that goes along with what I've always liked in guys. But I am attracted to him. I have never flirted so much than those 4 nights with Joe. Having said that, I am probably the clumsiest, worst flirt in the entire world so he probably didn't even know. 

I can't tell you how many times I wished Joe would just put his arms around me and just hold me, or just grab my hand. Dammit. When and why did I turn into such a desperate bitch? I am hating on myself right now. The bad thing is, I can imagine myself dating him, and having a good time too. 

And I'm sure Joe doesn't feel anything for me. There might be sparks flying for me but there is absolutely nothing going on from his side of things. He doesn't fancy me at all. And that just breaks my heart. 

But everything has an upside right? I can't eat, I can't sleep. I'm so numb. At least I will lose some weight. 

Damn, feeling bad because Joe feels nothing for me. Feeling like a sinner for flirting with him. I wish I could just feel something else. Dammit. 

Just let me be weightless and numb. 

crawling back into the hole

"Head like a hole, black as your soul. I'd rather die than give you control."

I don't know what came over me. I don't know what happened but suddenly, suddenly I feel it all rushing back. 

There is an uncontrollable desire to look at thinspo, which I have been doing for hours. And all this is horribly triggering. I can't stop looking though. The bones. The collarbones, the ribs, the thigh gap. I'm drinking it all in. All of it, back into the space in my head that I've kept reserved for it. And now my whole body is itching, all of it itches to get rid of the fat. At whatever cost. 

I've got another problem. With the desire to lose weight comes the desire to self harm. Always, hand in hand, the two of them come walking. One is screaming "disgusting fatty, no more food" and the other is silent but smiling and hands me the knife. 

I need to cut, I need to cut, I need to cut. I can't sleep. I need to cut. I need to stop watching these goddamn anorexia documentaries. I need to cut it all out. 

This fucking sucks. It sucks. It's far too overwhelming, seeing how little I've progressed. It makes me hate myself even more. It makes all my flights of fancy seems stupid. Why should anyone like me. Fat, ugly me. Ugly, disgusting, fat me. 

Does anybody else get that? It's a kind or restlessness that fills you and stops you sleeping and stops you working and stops you doing anything but think about how fat and ugly you are. And what a failure you are. 

Input and output. Fucking hell. I need to stop shoving food in my gob and I need to run like the fat girl that I am. Fuck. I fucking hate myself. I need to cut. 

I need to cut and let the suicidal thoughts come and wash over me. In a strange way I've missed feeling like this. A part of me misses going to bed each night hoping to not wake up again in the morning. It misses the secret stash of blades, which I'm staring at right now, and the ability to reach out, grab one and peel open the metal packet and slice through my skin. I miss the stinging pain, the rush of warmth and the pearls of blood that bead up and up and up and then run, run, run. 

I miss the cold tears that can only be stopped by blood. I miss the fear and panic and misery and frustration that can only be put to rest by blood and thoughts of death. I miss fantasizing about stepping out in front of a train, about being in a car crash, about slitting my wrists in a bath after a bottle of benzos, about collapsing at work with a stopped heart that won't start again. 

I want to be thin. I want to die. I want to cut and bleed and die. I want to be boney and bruised and dying. 

H-E-L-P help me, help me

I wish I had a gentle mind and a spine made of iron. 

Oh my fellow skinny-lovers, you have guided me thus far in my journey and have not lead me astray. Lead me not into temptation! 

I need help. Muscle connects to the bone and bone to the marrow and ire. I wish I had a gentle mind and a spine made of iron. H-E-L-P. Help me. Help me. 

It's currently one of my favourite songs and the mantra the defines how I feel about my current situation. 

A recent change in circumstance has sent me spiraling into a world of confusion and I can't even begin to think straight. I don't know what to do. Help me. 

Today, one of my friends, let's call him Ben, asked me out. I don't quite understand what this means. I thought he was joking for the longest time, but then he just flat out told me that he's interested and that now it's just up for me to respond however I want to. I don't quite understand what that means either. 

All I know is that I am filled with a sense of dread. For the first time in a very long time, I have absolutely no idea what is going on. I don't even know what to think of it. 

My first instinct is of course to say NOOOOOOOOOO. But then again, I think a bit more about the situation. Ben is a really nice guy. A REALLY nice guy. And we get along quite well. And he's kind of cute, in a little boy sort of way. It's not as if I haven't thought about dating him. On the more boring moments on the ward round, when he is joking with me and standing really close, I can imagine him wrapping an arm around me and giving me a quick hug. 

But I also know that Ben is the sort of guy who falls for girls really easily. REALLY easily. I also know that he really wants a girlfriend. And out of the people that he sees most often, in our rotation group, there are a few couples, the only single girls are me and my flatmate and I know she isn't his type. So he almost has to like me by default. 

I don't trust that he likes me for me. I think that he likes me because there is no one else to like. I don't want to hurt him because he is my friend and a really nice guy, but I also don't want to lead him on and then upset him later. 

Yet at the same time some crazy part of me is in a frenzy. I'd love to know what it feels like to have a boyfriend. I know Ben would be a great boyfriend. He would be so caring and supportive. I'd love to know what it feels like to be cuddled and kissed. 

I would not be so cruel as to drop him in the middle of my weight loss attempts and the cutting and the depression and the suicidal ideation. I don't know. 

H-E-L-P. 

Help me. Help me. 

the fat blonde bird.

Thank you Deuce, Alice ana, Christina and Outside in to thin for your lovely comments. As always, I love reading them, I love your thoughts and I deeply appreciate your support. You help me get through the day, you really do.

Recently I've taken up running. I did my first half marathon and let me tell you, I thought I was going to die for the last 6km. I don't know why I did it. The longest I've ever run was 8km and suddenly I was like 22km? Easy! So I stupidly worked out a 22km course and just ran it after work yesterday. Foolish! But it did prove that I can do a hell of a lot more than I think I can. I did run the whole 22km, albeit slowly at times and I finished in 2hr 20mins which is slow, but not as slow as I thought I'd be.

Running is an amazing feeling, I think I'm slightly hooked. I've been running nearly every day now and I can feel myself getting better. Usually it's only 8km a day, which I worked out to be roughly 400cal. Not much! But still, it raises my BMR and it's better than the big fat NOTHING that I used to do. Once I get used to this, I will somehow drag myself out of bed earlier to do boxing or yoga.

But finally, onto the subject matter of this post, the fat blonde bird. I go for my run at around the same time every night, and every night, I run into the fat blonde bird. She walks with her husband/partner/boyfriend and a dog.

I look into the face of the fat blonde bird and I see a Caucasian version of myself. It's easy to see that she was once beautiful. Maybe that's how she got her husband in the first place. We are of similar height, similar bone structure, when I see her, I see me. She is always dressed in a track suit, sometimes with a polar fleece jacket. The sort of outfit that you wear when you've all but given up on life and given up on hoping that there might be something good in this world. Her hair falls just past her shoulders in strange dirty blonde limp strands. Nothing that a quick visit to a hair stylist wouldn't fix. It has no shape, no purpose, it's trying so hard to not try at all. Not a single dime has been spent on that head of hair for the last 5 years, yet it is parted perfectly straight down the middle; a sight that makes me sadder than if it had been a complete mess.

That perfect parting is resonates so much desperation, a woman who hates what she sees in the mirror but somewhere deep inside her, a woman who she used to be is bursting to get out. And it is this woman who makes her pick up the comb and part her hair like that. "Do the best with what you've got honey, it ain't great but we gotta try and salvage something." Words that she'll never speak, words that she might not even know she's thinking, yet the action is automatic and the parting is perfect.

The little rosebud that is her mouth is smothered in bright red lipstick, applied perfectly but unfortunately draws attention to the fact that her cheeks are so fat that her lips can no longer sit properly. They protude outwards, in a permanent little fish pout. Her full face of make up does not go with the old, shabby polar fleece track suits that she always wears. I want to stop my run and say to her, honey, no amount of make up can cover the fat. You know it's there, I know it's there so let's all just stop pretending.

Her body shape is hard to describe. One only has to glance, but it is obvious that she has a shape. She's not one of those people who is rotund naturally. Even at her size, she has a waist, boobs and a butt, all clearly defined. Yet she is expanding so much that these features are all ballooning to the extent that these separate balloons threaten to merge into one big one, upon which she will become rotund. She gives one the impression that she is literally bursting at the seams. Her small frame shouldn't be supporting this sort of size. When I see her, I can feel her skin stretching to accommodate the ever increasing fat cells. The bits of her that stay reasonable the same size (like her knees or wrists) are the last bastions of hope in a body that has gone to the dogs. Bits of skin tagged down so that they can't expand outwards like the rest of her.

And so she strolls, with her husband and dog in complete silence, along the same road that I run down. And she'll look at me, she will sometimes move out of the way to let me pass. She's always got that strange look on her face, and I think that she can see in me what I see in her. We are almost the same person. When I see her the same message always flashes across my mind "run fat bird, run". And it's not a message for her, it's for me. She's like my mirror. I tell myself, look how disgusting you look to other people. Run fat bird, run. How can you be tired when you have that much fat to burn. Burn it off, run fat bird, run. Look how pathetic you are, how drab and frumpy and sad and unattractive. Burn it off, run fat bird, run.