fat and wildly confused

"You've got your reputation and your good intent."

I'm halfway through my 2 weeks of WONDERFUL leave. I cannot say how good it is just to not be at the hospital. To be able to sleep late and sleep in. I wish I had some friends on holiday too, but hey, I will take whatever I can get. Been to Melbourne, shopped up a storm. Came back. Went skiing. Fell down lots but the weather was great and I had a lot of fun. 

And at this point I should offer a sincere apology for 1. being so absent of late and 2. being such a good for nothing fatass. And I mean that. F-A-T A-S-S. 

I am too scared to weigh myself because damn, I ate like a pig pig pig pig in Melbourne, and fuck it, my clothes feel fucking tight. I can't believe I'm not willingly starving myself. I must be stress eating. Swear to God this is stress eating. The hot cop is stressing me out.

This whole thing with the cop is fucking with my head so much that I almost want to just chuck in the towel so I don't have to deal with it. The only reason I haven't done that yet is because it is so obviously the coward's way out. Giving up something that could be great just because I'm scared to deal with old demons. 

But they are seriously fucking with my head. Old demons that I never thought I would need to hear again, old demons that I thought I had buried a long, long time ago. 

(I've had this blog going for a while now, and I don't know how many of you have been with me from the very start, so apologies if I am repeating myself here.)

It's no secret that my parents and I have almost never seen eye to eye. But things were a lot worse when I was younger. I started cutting when I was about 13 or 14 years old. That was around the time thing started going wrong with dad. I can't even remember what I did, but he was always mad at me. I was never good enough. No matter how hard I studied, I was always too dumb for him, no matter what I did, I was too fat. 

Every day he would tell me that I had to study more. I needed my brains, I needed to be smart because I needed an asset. He told me that I was so fat and ugly and utterly unattractive that no man could ever want me. He told me that everyday from about the ages of 13 to 18. Wow. Didn't realise until now that it was 5 years! 

At any rate, his point was that because I was so physically repulsive, I had to be smart to get a good job so that I could support myself. Because obviously I would end up alone and hideous. Or, if I became rich enough, some man might eventually want me for my money. On some level, I believe it was a twisted joke and just his unique way of trying to motivate me to study, but it has since become my reality. 

To this day, and probably forever more, I believe that I am so hideously unattractive that no man could ever want me. It is part of me, I have come to accept it, and years ago I made peace with the fact that I will never be in a relationship. That was just a part of life that wasn't meant for me, and that is okay. 

I didn't really think about it again for a long time. But now there is the hot cop. And my brain is hard out short circuiting all of a sudden. He is by no means perfect (but who is), but he is a really, really good guy. Why the fuck does he want to spend time with me? Since we started seeing each other, I have been trying to find the loophole. He wants to be with me because...he has a short, fat, boring Asian girl fetish?...he was desperately in love with his ex and I was an easy rebound?...he is actually evil and will abuse me because I deserve it?...there must be a loophole! 

I can't reconcile that a great guy like him would want me for just me. And so I'm always on guard, and I'm always non-commital because fuck it, even though this is nothing, I will still be upset when it ends. And the more emotionally involved I am, the more unstable I will be afterwards. It's all self preservation. 

Nothing makes sense to me anymore. A fundamental part of my being is being questioned and I'm hating it. 

If no man could ever want me, then what the fuck does he want with me? 

And the answer isn't even sex. If we were having crazy monkey sex every night and he was booty calling me all the time I would be like, okay, I get it. I'm the rebound girl and he just wants sex. And that would be fine. I am absolutely okay with being thought of as nothing but convenience. I would just wait patiently for him to find a girl he likes and then leave me. 

But it isn't that! Why can't it just be that simple! The whole sex thing is making everything worse. I wish he was using me for sex, but he's not. I never tell him when it hurts but I must have the worst poker face in the world because he always seems to know when it does. And he'll stop, cuddle me, tell me that it'll be okay and that with time, it'll get less sore and I'll enjoy it. At this point my terrible poker face will betray the fact that I feel guilty for him stopping. To which his response is always that we'll go slow, he knows I'm not ready to do any more, and that he really doesn't want to hurt me.

After a survey of my girlfriends, I've come to the conclusion that the above reaction, stopping mid-sex to do that is just unheard of. So much so that he's probably an alien. 

He's not even getting sex out of this, so what the hell is he getting out of it! I mean, I don't have the time to properly spend time with him. I live with domineering parents so I can never stay the night at his place, no matter how much he wants me to. I work so much that I'm always tired. I can't even properly fuck him. Why the fuck does he still want to see me? 

sugar daddy might not be the status quo...but I don't know what is anymore.

"Kept inside our idol race, ghosts of an idol's false embrace. Rest your head now, don't you cry. Don't ever ask the reason why."

I had wondered why people stared, I wondered why people thought it was weird. I have spent much time trying to explain that the professor is not my sugar daddy after discovering, to my horror, what that phrase actually means. It may sound stupid, but I have never really bothered finding out exactly what it meant. To my logic, it should mean an older man who is rather sweet. Makes me feel like I have twisted logic. I was stunned to find out how many people actually held that belief. The problem with trying to eradicate this belief is that I haven't a reasonable substitute to replace it with. 

Rumours can only be replaced with other rumours. And if I'm not fucking the professor to get ahead in my career then what the hell am I doing? I have no idea what I'm doing. 

Went to that bbq last week, and it confused the hell out of me. I thought he was inviting me to introduce me to important people, but that wasn't it at all. The only way that I can explain is that I felt like I was their child, forced to be presentable while they entertained their friends. I enjoyed myself, felt incredibly poorly read and juvenile but also felt young for the first time in years. Mostly because I was the youngest one there by at least 15 years.

I also realised that I eat incredibly slowly. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's just the way I tend to cut things up. I don't know if cutting things up is part of this ED, or if it is more part of my OCD, but I tend to cut things into small squares before eating them and this isn't always easy to do. It can be really quite embarrassing when everyone else is finished and I'm concentrating hard on cutting things into little squares of food. 

Nice to learn something about myself I guess. 

He still monitors what I eat. Which I find incredibly odd considering how fat I am right now, and how I haven't lost any weight for a long time now. Surely he must not be worried anymore. But again, he noticed what I had on my plate, and how much I had left over. I tried to talk it down, and to a large extent it worked. I wonder if there will ever come a time when people will decide that my weight is stable enough to say that I no longer have an ED. 

It's a vicious cycle. When my weight is stable and I'm good from an ED point of view, my suicidality shoots sky high and all I want to do is to run out and get hit by a train. But when my weight is going down and the ED voices are screaming loud, I'm happier than ever. I wish I could just somehow accept this weight, because it tends to be my "usual" weight and just be happy with it. In fact, I wish I could just be happy with having a stable weight. 

I guess I still have some sort of an ED, even though I'm not losing weight. 

For the past month or so there has been a gradual but certain change in our relationship. I'm fighting my basic instinct to treat him as a boss and be super respectful and formal and professional, and my other basic instinct which is to do what he wants me to do because he is my boss. 

Up till this point, I thought we had a very normal, professional relationship. Yes, I knew he favoured me, but I didn't think we did anything that was out of the societal norm. It was only when I arrived early at the bbq, having come straight from work, let myself past their gate and into their house and walked into his friend, who almost leapt out of his skin at the sight of me when I realised that this wasn't quite normal. 

I know it's not normal, but I don't know what is going on. It's weird, yet natural. I don't know. Hopefully it defines itself in good time. 

As unbiased people, my lovely readers, please leave any thoughts you have on what is going on with the professor. After all, you read what the other people in my life hear about the professor, and I'm really curious to know what you think. I get the feeling people are rather reluctant to tell me what they really think, but you all will be honest with me, please tell me what you think. 

plan for tomorrow, I promise you, you're going to be okay

"We're right here beside you, and right here we will stay. Plan for tomorrow, because I swear to you, you're going to be okay." 

I apologise for my absence. The truth is, I'm thinking of taking a wee break from blogging, and from everything. I don't really understand what's happened. Or how. 

Well, that's not true. I think the truth is more like, there is a huge battle going on in my head right now and it makes me utterly incapable of doing anything, including doing this blog. 

The small part of me that wants recovery is rearing it's head again. It's ugly, ugly head. I've been feeling this way since I saw the professor. 

He asked me how many ribs I could see. I told him that right now I could only see 2 of them.  Down from 4 ribs. How I have failed in life. The look he gives me is one that I have trouble reading, and trouble believing. It's a strange mix of concern, amusement and sadness. 

"I know you can still see your ribs because I can feel them when I hug you." 

In my head I celebrate this sentence. 

This must be what it feels like to be loved. 

Part of me is sad. Because now I realise that in all my 22 years of life, this is the first time I've felt loved. 

It's an unspeakable security, an unfaltering tenderness, a place I belong. 

That warmth that spreads throughout a body when one swallows hot soup. That's how I feel all the time. Always warm. Filled with the assurance of safety. 

Filled with the vulnerability that I have been sheltering for so long. 

In a way it feels good to let some of that go. 

So much of what I have worried over for so long is now leaving me. And all it took was for one person to show that they care. 

A new kind of restlessness has filled my bones.

The agitation of joy. Of having motivation. And the relief of not constantly questioning myself and all that I do. 

I feel so blessed.

How did I find the professor?

A man with no children, who can never have children of his own, but desperately wants a daughter. 

How did he find me?

A girl who has spent most of her life wanting the love and approval of a father who can't ever give it to her. 

I know that he hides his affection for me from his wife.

She has her own set of problems. If she knew mine, she'd fall apart. I am a daughter to her. And following in her ED footsteps. 

When it's just the professor, things are somehow calmer. Open.

He reaches for me. Pulls me into his chest. Wraps his arms around me and squeezes. 

"It's so good to see you."

Peck on the cheek. I crinkle my nose and giggle.

In those moments I feel perfect. 

Not a thing that I would change. Not one thing.

Pity it never lasts long.

As I sit and I feel my thighs touch, I imagine getting liposuction in my head. 

I imagine having a gap between them.

I feel so unhappy with how fat I am. Desperately so. 

I hate lying to him. Really I do.

I hate upsetting him, a better daughter would just obey. 

But I'm not a better daughter. And I can't obey this one thing.

Plan for tomorrow. Those three words mean different things to the two of us.

For him it means me getting over this. Looking at food normally. No more cutting. Gaining some weight. And just a little confidence. Then the two of us moving forwards along the same path.

For me it means thin. And thin. And blood and thin. And thin.

I'm a fat pig (who is simultaneously too thin)

"Tell me your secrets and ask me your questions. Let's go back to the start." 

For those of you who have followed my blog for some time now (firstly, thank you so much for following me for so long) may have guessed by the title of this post and by the opening line that I have seen the professor. I was supposed to see him on a weekly basis, but managed to convince him that I didn't need to. But if I'm honest, then I'd say that I love seeing him and his wife. I absolutely adore them. I love being with him.

You don't know how lovely you are. I had to find you, tell you I need you, tell you I set you apart.

That's how he makes me feel. He's not actually quoted those lyrics, although I do think he's said "you don't know how lovely you are" or something along those lines. When I'm with him, and I'm too distracted by him to get into my own head, in those moments, I feel so special. 

He knows just what advice to give me. He knows what I want to say, but am too scared to say, and he knows how to ask me about it. He knows how to make me feel better about myself. He knows not to push me too far. 

It's so odd. He's never said it, but I feel so loved by him. Maybe it's how he always understands what I'm trying to do, even when neither of us verbalises it. Maybe it's how he will give me a big hug and kiss when we say hello or goodbye. Maybe it's how he will randomly hug me as we are walking and tell me how good it is to see me and how good I'm looking. Maybe it's how he will fluff my hair or tuck loose strands behind my ear. Maybe it's how he gives my cheek a little pinch when I blush. Maybe. 

I've not seen him for a long time, maybe 2 months. He tells me that I look very thin. And we spend some time talking about ED. I tell him that I never notice it when I lose weight, but I can feel every ounce of weight that I gain. I tell him that I hate having curves. He says that every man loves curves and prefers curvy women. I tell him that I hate the feeling of having curves, it feels horrible. He looks at me in a sad way. 

The three of us have lunch and spend the afternoon wandering through art galleries. It's almost a surreal experience. Conversation and banter flows so naturally with them. I have absolutely no qualms about asking them for advice about Ben. I love hearing the stories they have. He teaches me about art. And she will roll her eyes at me when he cracks a dry joke. I feel like I belong there, with them, even though I don't. 

as I formulate denials of your effect on me

To start off with, thank you to Rachel, Fat Piggy, strive4perfection and Christina for your lovely comments on my last blog post. 

It's raining outside. I'm upset but I forget exactly why. All I know is that I feel as though the world is ending. Melodramatic? Yes. 

I rush through many sets of double doors, down vomit-beige coloured corridors and I know that I'm in an unnamed hospital somewhere. I'm running and running down my vomit coloured hospital corridors and somehow it is raining inside now. The stinging icy shards of rain melt into the hot tears streaming down my face. I'm cold and tired and devastated.

In that way that can only happen in dreams, I am suddenly redirected from my Newtonian method of running to walking down carpeted floors and richly painted walls. It takes me a while to notice that I am no longer where I used to be. His arm is draped across my shoulders as we walk and then he picks me up and I am being carried through time, and I know I am going to somewhere safe. 

I find myself standing in his living room. He's sitting on his leather couch and he pats his lap. I squirm a bit and shake my head. "Why not?" I shake my head again. "Are you scared you'll be too heavy for me?" 

I sit in between his legs because no force on this earth and in the land of dreams will compel me to sit on his lap. He cradles me and softly croons to me in that deep, melodic voice of his. I slowly drift off...

...I look around my room to find what has woken me. 

My phone is buzzing. New Text Message. I curse it for waking me from such a nice cream. I look at the time and find that it's some ungodly hour of the morning. Who on earth is texting me at this time? 

The professor. The shock of seeing his name immediately after that dream causes me to fumble and drop my new iPhone. His text says that he's in Abu Dhabi. At least that explains the time difference. 

The past week has been an unmitigated disaster. I can't even bring myself to stand on the scales because I know I've gained weight and I really, REALLY don't want to know how much I've gained. And I know it is A LOT. 

I started the week off with binging. I stained my bedsheets with blood from all the cutting and I snuck around at night cleaning them. I felt so full that I was dying for some laxies. And by the time Wednesday swung round, I resolved to fast and go to the gym. Good plan. I was looking forward to getting back on track. That morning, I rush to theatre, scrub in for the first case of the day and faint within the first half hour. Fainting in theatre. I will never live down the shame. 

And this brought on an amazing amount of binging. Endless binging. More and more food. Clothes are tighter, things cease to fit me. I can see the fat piling on. And that's not a turn of phrase. I can actually see that I am fatter. I hate it. I hate it so much. But I brought it upon myself. I am so ashamed of myself. I didn't want to open this blog because I don't deserve to post here and have you lovely ladies read what I write when I am such a failure. 

I miss the professor so much. Somehow, knowing that he is in Abu Dhabi makes me miss him more. I wish he was here. I want to do what I did in my dream and sit in his embrace and tell him about how I hate everything that I have become. I can't even lose weight properly. I want to hear him to tell me that it's okay and that I am a good person and not a complete waste of space and energy. 

But that scenario is really one that only exists in dreams. 

Then I think of J, the professor's wife. She's slightly taller than me. Maybe by an inch. And she weighs 56kg. He told me this. And so it makes me think. J is like a mother to me. So if my mother is going to be 56kg, then I should be well and safely tucked in the 40s. The ideal would be for me to be 10kg smaller than her. I'm not sure why, but I feel like being smaller than her will make them both like me more. 

Flawed logic, yes. 

Next week will be better. Next week. 

blood diamonds

Thank you to Zapfire, Jackie, Domino and Fiona for your comments on my last post. Thank you all for being so supportive of me, and for all your kind words. I appreciate them all and I love reading them. 

I look down at my finger and I see them sparkle like the sun on the sea. 3 dainty little diamonds sitting in a little platinum heart on a thin platinum band. I slide it off my pudgy finger. Such a beautiful thing deserves a more worthy bearer than me. Ungrateful little bitch. My ring cost more than any of the engagement rings of my married friends. I should be happy. Why aren't I happy? 

It means nothing to me. It symbolises the hollowness and ego boost that comes with any consumerist comfort. My father proudly paid for it but it makes me think of all the torment and all the tears and blood that I have spilt on his account. Blood diamonds, that's what they are. Tiffany&Co hearts might be a symbol of love but I don't feel loved at all. It's all a bit too little, too late. 

In a strange way it is better than any cut I could ever make on my body. It's a tauntingly, hauntingly beautiful reminder that I am not enough, that I am not worthy, that I am not beautiful. 

This house holds no sentiment for me. No place ever has. It's just a roof to sleep under, shared with people who all want something from me. It's all I've ever known. I do not feel safe here. I do not feel loved here. I do not feel I belong here. 

I used to want to make it work. I wanted to feel what every child should feel from their parents. I want to be loved unconditionally. Loved for all my faults and all my deficiencies. I used to want a happily ever after. I wanted a fresh start. To go back to zero and forget all the hurt and start new and be a proper family. 

That's not possible. They would never understand. They aren't capable of giving me what I want and what I need. The only option is to go. 

Some people tell me that the professor cares about me. If this is what it feels like to be cared for then it is nothing short of absolutely terrifying. I was hoping he'd forget all that I said to him. I was hoping to let it slide on by into the cold depths of my memory where I would file it under "near misses". But he wants to see me this weekend and I don't know what to do. I don't really have a choice. All I can try to do is damage control. 

Just thinking about it makes me want to cry. Opening up is not easy and I don't want to do it. I have been so judged and held up to ridicule for being Asian and for being fat, for things that aren't exactly bad per se that I can't even imagine what evil I will be exposed to if I confess to what I have been doing. I might be kicked out of medical school. I might be told to take a year off and sort my shit out. 

She's got a ticket to ride and she don't care. I'll be humming this as I wait for my train if that is what it comes to. I don't care about doing something good and leaving behind reasons to be missed. I don't want people to miss me. I don't want people to remember me. Ideally, everyone would just get on with their lives and if I'm lucky enough I will be scattered into the ocean that I love so much. 

But the professor doesn't know any of this. If he did, I'd probably be under psychiatric hold right now. 

Perk up fat bitch. Perk up and say that you are okay. That things will work out this year. Happy and healthy, that's what you are, tell him that's what you are. 

He keeps telling me, in every email, that he wishes me a happy and healthy 2012. It's a very deliberate thing. Happy and healthy, two things that he definitely doesn't think I am. Is it possible to suddenly become happy and healthy in a week? Can I even negotiate new terms? I have a feeling this matter is a very non-negotiable one to him. 

But how will he check up on me? Seeing me once a week isn't going to stop me losing weight. I dare not imagine what threats he might make to force me into compliance. 

This wonderful little world of control that I've meticulously built for myself is crumbling. The professor is blowing away my castle in the clouds. I don't want to let go. 

What am I afraid of? Is it losing my job? Is it the professor? Is it gaining weight? Or is it simply the uncertainty. 

List of things to do this week:

Move out of home to my new city where I will be training this year.

Join the gym. 

Start a new diet and exercise plan. 

Lose some freaking weight! 

See the professor. 

I wish you lovely ladies all a wonderful 2012. I hope it is everything that you want it to be and more. In the words of the professor, full of happiness and health. I love you all. 

recovery

"I'm sure you're busy enough without being a therapist."

"You know what, I actually am. But I care about you. And I want to work with you and I won't be able to if you're sick."

So I blurted it all to the professor today. He saw me in the student room and we chatted for a while about a paper that I'm working on. He suggested that we go to his office and go over the data with another lady that we are working with. As we walk, he tugs at my high waisted pants. 

"I love the high waisted pants. It makes you look very tall and slim." 

I smile at him and he puts an arm around my shoulders and we joke as we walk. I've never felt so cared for. D, the lady we are working with looks surprised to see us like that. After discussing work, he asked if there was anything I wanted to talk to him about. I had spent the entire day telling myself I wasn't going to say a word to him. So what do I say? I tell him I've been making myself sick all week. 

"Oh no."

And so we talk about some things. I think he thinks I'm being a bit too sensitive about them. He asks me if I think I'm fat. I say yes. He asks me why. I answer because I've always been called fat. 

"What sort of horrible people would call you fat?" 

He thinks I'm too thin and wants me to gain some weight. I tell him my dad calls me fat and has done for a long time. He gives me a look. He's surprised any father would call his daughter fat. He asks me if I'm depressed. He wants me to get treatment for it. 

"I can get you treatment, someone you can talk to. It would be discreet, nobody would know."

I refuse. But he says that if I'm not feeling better by Easter then he is going to get me help. Very quickly, ground rules are laid down. 

"Don't lose any more weight for now." 

It's a compromise. I want to lose more weight, he wants me to gain a few kilos so we settle for zero change. To be honest, I think I can lose some more before he notices. 

"I think we should meet every week to talk about this." 

It's going to be hard as I'm living in a different city next year. But he says I can go see him on weekends, especially if I'm going to be working on weekends. He tells me that work is going to be okay. That the delays aren't my fault. That work isn't something I should be killing myself over. That the big prize is mine, I'm going to get it. The big prize that guarantees a position as an ophthalmologist. I don't know what to say. 

We talk about work a little bit more. Then he says he has to get back to work. He stands up, walks around from his huge mahogany desk and comes around to me and just holds me for a while. 

What have I done. Now that he knows, I will never be able to let this go. He won't forget it. He was going to take me to the department scale to make sure I weighed how much I said I weighed. He offered to adopt me. As a joke, but semi-seriously. He wants to ask me over to his house for dinner so that he could make me eat and make sure I don't throw up afterwards. 

Part of me regrets telling him. But all of me has never felt this safe and cared for. I have never believed until now that everything is going to be okay. 

Judith Marie and the meaning of life.

An ambitious title indeed! Especially given that the time right now is 1.30am, I don't feel particularly coherent and I've been doing a strange (but productive) combination of crying and researching for the past few hours. In those hours I have learnt quite a few things and now a whole lot of things that have been floating around have all slid into place and things make a lot of sense to me.

Waaaaaaaay back near the start of this blog I wrote an entry called "attachment disorder". I've always thought that I must have some sort of attachment disorder and this is something that has become increasingly of concern to me. Well, not to me per se, but I have friends who are starting to issue me with warnings about my relationship with the professor. I'm not about to change the status quo, but it did make me think. After some digging, and some info from mum, I think I am fairly confident in saying that I have reactive attachment disorder.

It's rare and hard to diagnose, especially as I am now nearly 22 years old and this is normally picked up in young kids and then they undergo treatment. But there is no such thing as mental health care in China (which is where I was born) and my family have no understanding whatsoever of mental illness and their view is so archaic in that they think mental people should be locked up and hidden from society.

Mum had a hard pregnancy with me. And we were both very sick. And health care in China is freaking awful. So I was born by C-section at 36weeks gestation because my heart had started to fail. As soon as my umbilical cord was cut, I was taken to the theatre next to the C-section theatre and I had a 5 hour operation that included a total blood transfusion and some catheter heart thing that mum can't quite explain to me. Then I was moved to the neonatal intensive care unit which is where I stayed for the first 2 weeks of my life. During this time, no one in my family was allowed to have any contact with me. And my dad was only allowed to see my briefly, once, when I was 5 days old and they thought I was going to die.

So I spent the first 2 weeks of my life alone, not seeing my mother once, not having been touched by any of my family at all. Then I was raised in a strange way. My parents almost alternated with my grandparents in my care because of work. They were away on business trips a lot and so my grandma (who I later found out isn't my biological grandma because my dad was adopted) was my primary caregiver. The first sign of problems appeared when I was 6 months old. When both my parents went away for a week's holiday and left me at home with her. When they got back, I essentially rejected them both. I refused to look at them, I refused to be held by them and I didn't want anything to do with them for a few days.

Both my parents thought I was being spiteful, but apparently this behaviour is rather indicative of attachment disorders. Then as I got a bit older I started exhibiting another symptom, which is getting comfort from adults, any adult, often complete strangers. I remember mum would take me out shopping, and for some reason I would always, always lose her in the supermarket or mall or wherever we were. And when I had lost her, I would grab hold the hand of the nearest adult and just walk around with them. Most of the time they would look for her and return me, but one time mum had to chase down a man who had walked me out of the store and was basically kidnapping me.

Up until 6 years old I had my grandma as a caregiver. But at 6 years old, we emigrated and left her in China and so I was separated from her. I didn't see her for a few years, during this time my parents were busy working multiple jobs to make ends meet in this new country, in this brave new world, they couldn't speak English, they didn't know anybody and sometimes I went without lunch and dinner because we couldn't afford the food. I distinctly remember that mum would go and buy those bones that they sell for next to nothing in the supermarket as dog food and boil those up and that would be dinner.

So I didn't see much of them, we lived with this family, and I didn't speak English and I remember being very scared at home, when their children would try to talk to me and I couldn't understand what they were saying to me. But I was young, I picked up English fast, and by the time my grandparents arrived here a few years later, I didn't speak enough Chinese to communicate with them. It's like I can't win!

By this time my parents were relatively stable, but I wasn't allowed to go out after school to play, I had to come home immediately and study. I was never allowed to go to birthday parties, or any party, and when I was a teenager I was never allowed to just go hang out with friends. And a boyfriend? Out of the question! When I was 12 I had basically finished the entire high school curriculum for maths, biology, chemistry and physics and had a private English tutor and had started on calculus.

Is it any wonder I have an attachment disorder? Then I go and get depression and an eating disorder on top of that. Great. No wonder I'm suicidal.

I've learnt from the second I popped out of the womb that there wasn't a single soul on this earth that I could depend on, there was nobody to protect me from anything and there was nobody that I could trust. And my dad did always say to me, for as long as I can remember, he would get me to repeat after him "trust no one, trust no one." Well dad, it worked a treat, better than you could have hoped for.

When I needed people, on the odd occasions that I wanted my parents, they were never there. And so now I think no one will ever be there. I learned to depend on me. I have total control over my own life and that is the only way I know how to do it. But with everyone around me happy and in love, I'm seeing that I'm missing something. Yet at the same time I know that I can't possibly function in any relationship because I don't know how to function in one. It's always been me against the world, what does the word ally even mean? I want to be in a relationship, but I know I can't be in one...but the sheer fact that I got this far in life without anyone being remotely interested in me makes me think that I'm severely defective in some way.

I've seen some awful girls get guys. What exactly is so unacceptably repugnant about me?

I've told you all that I've been tagged. I'm not taking it very well. I'm crying an awful lot about it. One of my biggest fears was TS and J and the professor finding out and rejecting me about it. I still don't know if the professor knows, but today I found out that TS and J knew about it before I did and have been trying to get it reversed since then. I was so touched that I almost broke down in tears in front of them. Never did it occur to me that they would be angry at the medical school for doing that to me and even go as far as to try and reverse it. I was so scared they would think less of me because of it.

When I told a friend about this she said to me, sometimes it sounds like you don't really know these people or understand what they're like. And I guess it's true. Because I would never expect anyone to try and do anything for me, or to hold an unshakable good opinion of me. I'm just not worth that. And yet, despite what TS and J are doing, despite them being incredibly angry at the medical school (I've never seen J so angry, ever), I am still terrified of the professor finding out and what he will think. Funny thing is, he probably already knows, seeing as he's married to J and all.

This depressing, ED, suicidal thing is getting harder and harder to hide. I've hidden it very well so far, but with my depression spiralling a bit and the added stress of the evil tag, I'm finding it hard to cope. It's starting to show. Not much, only ever in little gaps, little gaps of a few seconds at work. If this keeps going, someone will see. Chances are, they will all see it, but he will do something. If he sees it, he will do something.

And all I can envisage nowadays is me, being thin, very thin indeed, with a lovely gap between my thighs, a happy concave abdomen and arms that aren't so fat that they flap about, a small me, a better, prettier me, sitting on the professor's lap, and him rocking me back and forth. No wonder my friends are issuing me warnings. They're worried I like him too much, that I'm going to get very hurt. And I'm worried too. Because if he hurts me again, it will be the end of my days and I will have to bid goodbye to you lovely ladies and go and catch my train.

Wow, I've typed for over an hour and this is faaaar too long a post for any of you to read.

I commend and deeply thank anybody who actually reads the whole thing. Love you all, I don't think I could carry on without you girls.

accidental intervention

Well if I'm completely honest with myself and all of you right now, I'd have to say that when I set of to go into work today, I had every intention of killing myself. I was going to go in and just sit there for a bit, collecting my thoughts, and then go down to the railway and wait for a train. I was dressed all in black, even my horrific black leggings that show off my HUGE thighs perfectly.

I don't really know what came over, I just had enough of everything and faced with the prospect of seeing my parents when they arrived home from work, I just decided fuck it all. So I left before they arrived home and told my grandparents I was going to work.

Then I arrive at work and set myself up in my little room, I get myself some tea and I see immediately that the professor is in his office. I avoid him. I don't want to see him (but I did want to, so badly). I'm sitting in my room, listening carefully. I hear him leave his office and I decide, I have to just say hi. So I walk out of my room and I see him, waiting for the lift.

[As I am writing this post, I find myself crying. I don't know why I should cry. There is so much emotion tied up in this. So much emotion in every encounter I have with the professor. So much fear, and hope and love.]

And he was surprised to see me, gave me a hug and a kiss and we had a little chat. Nothing out of the ordinary. He told me that I looked too thin, and that it is so easy for young women to become anorexic, especially if there is stress. He said that right now, I don't look anorexic but my waist was starting to look very small. (And this is the repeating tale of how I feel super thin because he says so, only then I look in the mirror to find I'm still fat.)

He asks me how long I will be around this time, and says that it is good to have me back. And now comes the accidental intervention. He asks me about my love life. I, of course, balk insanely at this and end up as a blushing mess. And he says to me, "you're the only family I've got...so I have to ask."

This little comment, coupled with others he's made in the past, just makes me wonder. When we went to lunch, he said that the staff there must think his daughters are getting more Asian and that they'll have to say that they bought me in Asia. He always offers me a ride and says he's just being a concerned parent. He ran through the rain to his car to pick me up so that I wouldn't get wet. He says he gets worried about me when I don't look chirpy. And now this.

In a way, it makes me feel sad for him. But in another way, it makes me incredibly happy. His lack of children and my desire for a functional father makes a potent combination. On some level I am reluctant to accept the possibility that he might feel some sort of fatherly affection for me. I'm so hurt by my own father, I don't want to make myself vulnerable in the same way again. I'm so afraid that I'm imagining it all and it's all in my head and that I'll find out some awful truth that he really doesn't like me.

The professor is so moody, I never really want to waltz into his office because I'm so scared he'll yet at me, and I'll just lose the plot and step out in front of a bus or train. But excepting the time he actually did yell at me, he's always been good to me, regardless of his mood. So I guess in that sense my fear is rather unfounded, but still it persists.

After this encounter with the professor, I just thought, I can't do this. I can't step out in front of a train now. What if what he says is true. If he does consider me as his family, my self inflicted demise could really upset him. And I can't bear the thought of him being upset. I'm so fond of him, and he's such a dear person to me, I can't upset him like that. And he really did seem happy to have me back. So I drove home, and tucked myself up in bed, which is where I am now.

Funny to think, he'll never know that a simple sentence from him saved me from a date with the head of a train. But it's something I'll always remember. The day I almost did it.