running away in a fabulous outfit

"The best things in life are free. The second best are very expensive." - Amen to that. 

Recently I've been swapping shifts like mad. Swapping all my shifts so that I'm at clinic, and not at the hospital. My registrar Cam, is on nights, and that means Joe is my registrar for the week. Well fuck that. I've somehow managed to spend the last two days in clinic, and somehow I will manage to avoid him. I feel like whenever I see him, I am overcome with a desire to spit poison at him. And I can be hideously bitter when I want to. 

I've been bitter since coming off night shifts. When I was on nights, the night registrar called me fat. We were talking about junk food and he said to me "yeah, you are a bit fat aren't you". Well. Some part of me knows he was joking and that he was just trying to push my buttons, but those words have reverberated in my head ever since. 

I’ve got a growing fascination with Alannah Hill and Temperley London. To be frank I can’t really afford either of those brands, and as of yet I have not bought anything Temperley (except my qualification gown) but I do have half a wardrobe of Alannah Hill. It’s something that I crave more and more. Styles and ways of dressing that has never really appealed to me before. More and more I am leaving the corporate, powerful, structured styles of Cue. More and more I am leaning towards the super feminine, flowing, soft and expensive. 

I think I am doing what I have always wanted to do. Mold myself into something that all men want, but none can have. With my clothes, and my conversation I am clearly pricing myself out of their league. With the way that I act, I make it clear that I do not think they are good enough for me. I’m not sure if that’s the end result I want, or if I am waiting for one guy to step up and prove that he likes me enough to push past all that. Not that I know any of them well enough to make them like me. 

In a weird way I am cutting off my nose to spite my face. I am pushing away what I want to get what I want. It is incredibly counter intuitive to say the least. And I don’t think it’s working at all. 

Now I’m going to be perfectly honest, since this is the only place where I can be that honest. Part of me doesn’t believe Joe is engaged. I know for certain he is, but since I have not heard him directly talk about Stephanie, or their wedding, or any of that, I am somehow holding out hope. I hope that he leaves her for me. Which would be a horrible mistake for him to make since I will not marry him. 

I wish I knew what it is about Joe that I like so much. I don’t get it. I wish I could just forget about him. God, I hope that I can just forget him and just behave normally around him. 

I just. I don’t know what I want anymore. I want a break. I want a rest. I want to get away from the hospital. And go somewhere by myself and think. 

This not having a boyfriend thing, it’s really getting to my head. People are starting to honestly think that I am a lesbian, which really won’t be helping my boyfriend bid. If nobody mentioned my singledom, I may not be so bothered by it. But as person after person after person expresses surprise at me being single...I always feel compelled to tell them that I have never had a boyfriend...it gets inside my head.  I start to ask the same questions. Why am I still single. Why don’t I have a boyfriend. Why. 

I got my lashes put on. And I am still fucking ugly. Only surgery will fix me now. Only facial reconstruction will make me pretty. And I’m seriously considering it. 

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. 

a note on self worth

"Some fools fool themselves I guess, they're not fooling me. I know it isn't true. Love is just a lie made to make you blue."

The bitter acid rises up at the back of my throat as I check my bank account. I have thousands of pounds worth of stuff on my wishlist at net-a-porter and not even enough money to buy myself lunch. Anxiety starts to shake my body, and it seeps into every fibre of my being. I need that Miu Miu coat. I need that Proenza Schouler skirt. I need that Chloe dress. I need that Alexander McQueen bracelet. I need it all. I need more. More than just that. And I don't have enough money for one quarter of one item. 

Then it hits me, this isn't normal. Normal people don't have panic attacks about not being able to afford a horde of designer clothing. Normal people don't look on net-a-porter when they've spent 2000 pounds in the past week on clothing. Normal people wouldn't spend 2000 pounds on clothing in a week. Not that I've ever been normal, but this is too much, even for me. 

How can I explain, not so much for you, my lovely readers, how can I explain to myself what's going on. This growing desire for more clothing, more expensive clothing, more designer clothing. It is a need, a craving that bubbles and builds until I can't take it anymore. Somewhere, deep inside me, is a delusion being who thinks I'm a model. I can strut the life out of me in stilettos and a tight skirt, and in my head the corridors become catwalks. But I know I'm not a model. Even if I was thin enough, I will never, ever be tall enough. 

Some other part of me needs the clothing. It needs the expense and extravagance. It needs the extraordinary value to hang on my body. If people don't see a Miu Miu coat or a Proenza Schouler skirt or a Chloe dress, they won't see anything at all. I'm some transparent being, not worthy of being seen without it all. 500 pounds. That's a something tangible. A number for me to pin on myself. If that's what my outfit is worth, that's the worth other people see. Today, I'm wearing 500 pounds of clothing, and that's what my self worth is. If I'm only in a cheap tee and jeans, then I don't feel like very much at all. 

Recently I've not felt worth much at all. And I guess that's where this drive to buy more comes from. I guess it's just something I've got to get over, but I also think it's something I will never get over. I wish I was on holiday, maybe then I'd have some time to actually try and sort out the mess in my head. 

All my clothing, all my doubts about work, all my insecurities about the professor. But life goes on and I can't do it. I have too much to do, too many people expect something of me. I just want to be left alone for a week, to do nothing. To think. 

Of course being this fat doesn't help. Sometimes I think the professor has the amazing effect of getting into my head. Brainwashing me. "You're perfect, you're slim, you're beautiful, don't ever change, don't lose any more weight, you're too slim, please put on weight, you're perfect, you're perfect, you're perfect." It gets into my head. And I start to believe it. I've spent a good portion of the past week believing it. But the hypnotic effect wears off. 

When it wears off my heart is torn. Part of me is glad it's gone, and now I can be realistic and get down to the real work of losing weight and really becoming slim. The other part of me is itching for another hit and that part of me wants to crawl back to him just to hear those words again. 

So that's what self worth means to me. Designer clothing and the words of a man who terrifies me and whom I only see once in a blue moon. 

and then we came to the end of all things. (and a message to haters who comment)

PRIMUM NON NOCERE

6 years of blood, sweat and tears (all literal) boiled down to one moment that was over in a flash, but also seemed to last a lifetime. I almost cried when I took the Hippocratic Oath. I blew my family a kiss as I walked across the stage. My feet felt like death on daggers in my heels, but I felt amazing. 

It got me thinking, what does this mean for me? I have been heckled, time and again online for writing this blog, with my background. Does it mean I cannot be a good doctor? Does it mean I am a danger? Does it mean I should know better? No, no and yes. Yes. I should know better. But then again, none of us wandered down this path thinking that we would be glamazons. We all know what lies ahead of us or with us. 

And, to make it clear to any of my harshest and most vocal critics, DO NOT THINK I CHOOSE TO BE HERE. I found myself here. Maybe it didn't creep up on me, and maybe I did see it coming but I didn't wish for it and when I saw it coming, I feared it. And now that I am here, I will do everything in my power to prevent another girl from ending up here. This is not somewhere anyone should be. It's the 7th level in Dante's Inferno, we're down here, freezing with the devils in our heads who tell us every second, of every day that we are fat, ugly and totally undesirable. 

Maybe I should have done something about it sooner. But in the same way that deer freeze in headlights, I froze. I was too ashamed to go for help, and now I am too ashamed to go because I don't look thin enough to need help, and I am far too old. You may say that I am resigned to my fate. I see it as embracing the inevitable and trying to do the most good with whatever time I have left. 

Having an eating disorder doesn't make me a bad doctor, nor does it make me a danger. Surrounded by other doctors, they would drag me kicking and screaming to recovery before I became either of those things. 

I hate it when I am judged online by people who have only read one post of mine, and already think I will be a bad doctor. 

There are people in my class with substance abuse issues, there are people in my class who have attempted suicide (and one who succeeded), there are people who are alcoholics, there are people who sleep around like you wouldn't believe, there are others with eating disorders, anger issues and relationship issues, people who are racist, sexist and worst of all, people who are only in it for the money. So don't tell me I'm going to be a bad doctor. We all have our demons, but they are ours, and I'd like to think that most of us would rather take a bullet than let it interfere with patient care. 

All it means is that I can probably spot an eating disorder before most, and it gives me patience. I understand when patients don't listen to advice because it stops them getting what they want. I understand when they try their best but can't seem to succeed. I can spot the lies, but I do not hate them for lying to me. I totally get it. 

Yes, I know I am expected to be super human. I am not supposed to have problems, I am not supposed to have issues, I am not supposed to forget things, I am supposed to be always happy, cheerful, full of wisdom and I am supposed to take all the racist and sexist abuse that patients hurl at me with a large tub of salt and smile and love them like all the other patients. I am supposed to have a wonderful boyfriend, a perfect family, no debt and perfect teeth. I am supposed to be an angel of life. I am none of those things. I'm just a normal girl, with my own demons, trying to do my best. 

I will probably battle my eating disorder until I die. But why should I be greeted with such hate and disgust, why me and not the patient with heart disease because they ate too much? Why me and not the patient with lung cancer because they wouldn't quit smoking? Why me and not the schizophrenic who stabbed his own father? Why does my profession mean that I am not allowed to have a disease?

I wish people would remember that while being in hospital might be a once in a lifetime thing for them, I have 60 patients, 60 patients that change every day. Much as I would love to, I cannot devote a full day to one patient, and all I can do is my best. I am only human, but I shall, like all my colleagues, do my best to be more than that.

They say that you are not a real physician until you have killed a few patients. And that is what they told us on the first day of medical school. So I will enter the killing fields on Monday. Hope to never see you on the frontline, my friends. 

didn't want a day without you but somehow I've lived through another one

And the heart she feared frozen still beats and marches on. 

Each night I sit and listen to the old brag of my heart. I am. I am. I am. The dullness echoes through me and once again it is the only thing to fill me. How can I feel so empty when I am chock full of food. It seems ironic. The more I eat, the more empty I feel. The more I starve, the more full I get. 

Like a tsunami tide that chills to the very core of me, it bursts forth from the pits of my stomach and sweeps through to my extremities and it makes me hyperextend everything. Then it becomes so cold that it all starts to burn and I coil into a ball. Coil into a ball and savour the warmth. 

Pain and nuture mixing together, mingling into a cacophony of sensation, a weird LSD trip of a soundtrack to the flood of images flickering behind my eyes. Ribs showing, hip bones sticking out, a waist small enough to wrap my hands around, a gap between the thighs, slender gazelle legs, collarbones as sharp as razor blades and concavities everywhere. 

I don't want the touch or love of another person. I don't want the success of a medical career. I don't want anything anymore. Just thinness. That's all I want. Surely it's not too much to ask for. 

I hate myself for wanting food. I hate myself when I feel faint. I just want to lock myself in a room with a set of scales and a computer and be by myself to get thin. Wallow in my own bell jar. 

Then I think of the professor. And the warmth that I find in his embrace. The safety I find in his voice. The joy I find in his company. Is it enough? 

No. Love is not enough. 

it's a champagne year full of sober months

If you say it is, then I guess it is. 

Well so I talked to Ben today. More like, he forced me into talking to him. He's been chasing me around, asking me if he can talk to me to clarify what he was saying. I share my life on this blog and so I shall list a few of the comments that he made to me. And I say a few because I can't remember everything that he said to me. 

He said an awful lot. 

He said that he really likes me. 

My personality, my style, even the way I smell. 

That he's liked me for a while now, nearly a year and a half, and that he's always thought I'm cute. 

It's like playing poker. He's laid his hand out for me to see. 

In it is the ace of hearts. 

What happens now is up to me. I can choose to play on. Or to fold. 

It's like a line taken straight from some trashy teenage novel. I want to pinch myself because I cannot believe real people actually ever talk like that. Part of me still doesn't believe it. My sense of denial must run pretty deep for me to doubt the plausibility of something that has already happened. 

I tell him that there is a lot of shit in my life. In my head, I silently list them. Eating disorder. Low self esteem. Depression. Anxiety. Self harm. Attachment disorder. Body dysmorphic disorder. Suicidal ideation. I tell him that I think it's unfair for me to drop him in the middle of so much shit. And that he can't possibly understand the magnitude of shit that I'm talking about. 

He tells me that he wants to put up with the shit.

Is it worth it to put up with so much shit for me? Yes it is. 

But only if I think it's worth it. 

He tells me to take my time to think about it. Everything at my pace. 

Uneasiness wells up inside my chest. I already know that I cannot do this. It is all far too much. It is all far too overwhelming. I cannot deal with this. Not Ben. Not now. There really is too much shit. Too much for me to deal with. Too much for me to express to someone. 

I thought that once this day came, I would be relieved. Relieved to have someone who truly likes me and wants to be with me and to look after me. But I am just filled with fear. All consuming fear. I cannot handle it. There is too much fear. I cannot trust him. I cannot trust myself. And now I'm stuck. 

debts to be paid

So. Just when it was all going so well. One day ruined it all. 

In all honesty, I probably didn't do that much damage in a day. I'm still vegan, all I did was eat an amazing amount of vegetables but I was so full. So disgusting and full. It's been a long time since I was that full. 

This is how I've changed over time. Now I feel disgusting when I'm full. I feel like a failure. I don't feel right unless I feel empty and hungry. I hate the feeling of having anything in my bowels. I hate the feeling of knowing that I ate something. I just hate it all. I just want to be empty and light, floating on a cloud, beautiful and thin. 

Bones and bones and bones. 

Delicate and fragile.

Yet strong. Starve on. I can do something they can't do.

What is size? Does it even matter? It's not enough anymore. It's not enough for numbers to tell me that I'm small. So what if I lost weight? It doesn't matter because I still feel as fat and ugly as I did when I was at my heaviest. I'm only happy when I'm empty. Only then can I step on the scales and pray to the clouds above that the number is lower than last time. 

After several upbeat posts, I'm afraid I have to lumber you girls with another downer. I was planning for this post to be upbeat as well but I got some bad news about a paragraph into writing it. And since reading that email from the professor, I've decided not to sleep tonight and to numb myself as best I can. 

My hands shake. Partly because I've been working hard at the gym. 

Partly because of the shock. 

I can't feel my heartbeat anymore. 

The kiss of the cold metal on my skin. The redness tells me I'm still alive. 

I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. 

I've worked hard. I've worked hard for my papers. To be taken off one of them is almost too much to bear. Yes, it's not my fault that the machine kept breaking. Yes, it would be better for me to have more time to focus on this year instead of working in the weekends. Yes, my name will still be on the paper. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. 

But to ask me to not work on it anymore. 

Why would he do this to me? 

I can't believe that it's because he's concerned about me being too busy. I would have happily worked myself to death for that paper. 

To call it a "crushing blow" isn't sufficient. It's not a crushing blow. 

It's confirmation. I didn't win the Ophthalmology prize because I wasn't smart enough or good enough to get the marks for it. 

I got taken off the paper because I didn't work hard enough to stay on. 

I'm just not enough for this career. I think it's time for me to just face the facts and start looking for another area for me to specialise in. 

What's the point in clinging onto hope with my teeth and nails if I know it's all futile? 

I want to curl into a ball and die. I'm pretty sure I'm halfway there already. 

What is the point in food? 

What is the point in eating when all this is going on? 

I wish I could cry. 

Red tears are for when real tears aren't enough. 

And now for something completely different! 

I hate to leave you girls on such a low note. I try to be upbeat, after all, one of the points of this blog is to perhaps inspire readers to continue with their efforts. 

A friend and I went to Abercrombie and Fitch today. It's one of the only American stores in this country and so I think of it as a good way to gauge my size. Most of the time I don't know what size 0 means. I have no idea how big it is, or how big it is compared with how I am right now. I also don't like converting NZ sizes to UK or US sizes because each website tells me something slightly different and I find it safer to just try on actual US sized clothing instead of trying to rationalise my way into it. 

Long story short, I tried on some stuff at Abercrombie and Fitch...I ended up buying a pair of XS yoga pants. And I almost bought a pair of shorts. That were a size 0. In all honesty, those shorts fit me, but would look a lot better if I lost another 5-10lbs. It's still nice to know that I can fit a size 0, even if it is with some squashing. 

Hopefully that gives some of you a better idea of what size I am. Thank you to Christina, loveylou and strive4perfection for your lovely comments on my last blog post! 

alex.

As always, thank you to Fat Piggy and Miss Burton for your lovely comments. Yay for running! And yay for thinspo!

It's rare for me to meet someone who is everything I want to be and leave the encounter/encounters not hating them. This is why I feel I should blog about Alex. I'm hoping this post will also be a bit therapeutic for me because I've been unable to deal with her existence for a long time.

Alex is a walking talking embodiment of everything that I wish to be and so much more. She is so perfect that she far exceeds anything I had previously thought of as perfect. Perfect in ways and areas that I had never thought of before. This is why I want to hate her. She's like an angel walking among us. No. She is an angel walking among us.

I find it hard to describe Alex. I don't know where to start. She's just a little taller than me, but model thin. Naturally. She's half Asian, and so she has that look about her that only half Asians seem to have. That exotic, yet familiar, the ethereal, the strange quality that you can't put your finger on but you know damn sure is there. There is something magical about her Asian shaped eyes with the subtle double lids and the strange shade of green that shines out. Or is it yellow. Or is it blue. Or is it brown. I swear it changes all the time.

Alex has a beauty that is striking to say the least. But striking because it is so odd. There isn't another person in this world who comes close to her look. She is the sweetest person anyone will ever meet. I don't think she is capable of thinking bad thoughts. I don't think she knows what it means to find fault in someone. Somehow she has achieved what I thought was impossible; she is aware of all the dark sides of life yet is sheltered from it at the same time and can see through it all to the good in someone's soul. The state in which she exists must be enlightenment.

This must all sound like I'm madly in love with her. I'm not. Like I said, I would dearly love to hate her. She makes my life a misery by being so perfect. I look at her and see no hope for myself.

Alex is the professor's masters student. That is how I came to meet her. Clearly, he adores her, but then so does everyone else. Hell, even I adore her. I can't help it. I don't think any of us can. She seems so pure and untainted and eager to help and compassionate and all those adjectives that we apply to people we like. Alex is all of them. You know when she's in the room. With her quiet charm, she oozes goodness from every pore, so much goodness that it seems to coat everything in the room. She can do no wrong.

But I can. And therein lies the problem. Normally, I would deal with this by nitpicking and then finding something I don't like about her and cutting Alex the tall poppy down. But I can't do it, because there is nothing I dislike about her. When faced with perfection, all I can see is how far I am from it.

I can't even begin to think about how superior she is in terms of intelligence and personality and charm and wit and all those things. Just on a physical level, she is so much better than me. She's beautiful, she's super thin, she's got a wardrobe I would murder for. As long as Alex exists in this world, I will never understand why anybody would ever bother with me. Especially the professor.

This is how I talk myself out of every single instance when I think he might like me. As long as Alex exists, he'd be a fool to bother with me. I'm not beautiful or thin. I'm not even pretty or cute. I might be presentable at times, but that's because I work very hard to be. I'm not clever or witty or funny. Come to think of it, I don't really know what I am. But looking at Alex, I know everything that I'm not.

Reading what I've written, I'm understanding why the cutting is getting worse. This is the worst it's ever been. I started cutting at 15 and I think at 18 I had a very long hiatus away from it. I really only started it again a few months ago at 21 years old. And very quickly it became a necessity. I've learned not to do my arms, although I want to, for decorative purposes. My abdomen and thighs have become the areas of choice. Right now I have 50 scalpel blades stashed away, including 2 scalpel handles and 2 15degrees, which are super fine ophthalmic operating blades, great for that intricate design.

And at the next possible chance, I will get more blades. Oh Alex, it has been an absolute privilege and honour to be able to cross you in my life. You make me more insecure than you'll ever know. By your very existence you make me too afraid to enter the professor's office or even speak in front of him. You make me feel utterly unworthy of ophthalmology and medicine. You make me feel utterly unworthy of existence.

I will think you in the moment before my death, Alex, and then you will be a comfort to me. At long last I will get what I've wanted my whole life; confirmation that what I am doing is right.

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.