graduation perfection

"We barely remember what came before this precious moment, choosing to be here right now, hold on, stay inside..."

I've been traveling on this road for so long and now in a few short hours it will officially come to an end. I will graduate. 6 years for a bachelor degree seems far too long and I seem far too emotional for a ceremony that I didn't even want to go to. 

After the weekend from hell and shedding my first tears at work, I've been feeling too traumatised to be on the wards. But still somehow I've been dragging myself out of bed each morning to go to work. And now I get to graduate. 

I have the dress, I have the shoes, I have the MASSIVE black pearl pendant necklace, I have the eyelashes and the lipstick. And somehow, it feels worth it. Somehow, I am reminded of everything I have gone through. All the mistakes, all the literal blood, sweat and tears that I have shed and all the coffee and red bull that I have flooded my body with in order to get by. 

Somedays it's been shit. Absolute shit. And I spend my time fantasizing about perfection. Lounging around in bed with blankets, dressed in flannel pjs with a good book and a cup of coffee. And walking around in Jimmy Choo shoes, hanging with friends in Michael Kors and Rag and Bone and Alannah Hill and going out in a Temperley gown. Drowning in a world of designer gowns and shoes. On those days I feel like quitting my job and going into a world of fashion. 

Other days it's great. And I feel like a doctor, and that I do make a difference, and that I do help people. Sometimes, 6 years and hanging out at the doors of hell is worth it. 

I have been getting thinner. I don't know what I weigh, but clothes are looser. People are noticing. I've developed a habit where I can't finish a plate. I can't leave an empty plate anymore. I know my team watches me eat, my registrars look at each other when they see me pick at my food but I don't give a shit anymore. I look right back like, what. You got a problem with that? And then they don't say anything. 

Sometimes, everything just fades away. Joe and his fiancee, the professor and that failed paper, the fucking malicious nurses at work. It all just fades away. When I pull and pinch myself in the mirror and see that I'm thinner. That's all there is. I'm loving noticing the change. It just makes me want to step it up, to see a bigger change. 

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. 

skin tight biker pants

"A name in your recollection, down among a million same. Difficult not to feel a little bit disappointed and passed over."

With some trepidation I pull out the black, faux leather, biker pants that I bought in the UK on one of my spending sprees. I didn't really fit them at the time, but it was one of those things that I bought with the hope of one day fitting them. And I do! Well, sort of. I can put them on, with a bit of unflattering tugging and pulling and for the most part I can spend the day in them. They would be a hell of a lot more comfortable if I were a few pounds less, but at least I know I'm making some sort of progress. 

It is a small success in my world that is not so much full of successes. I don't know what the matter is with me. I've been feeling incredibly down. Ancient feelings that I thought were dead and buried are stirring up inside me again. The professor has sent me a rather terse email, telling me not to pester him, he's doing much more important things than my research. And although I know it's true, and I knew I shouldn't have reminded him about my research, it's hard for me not to feel just a little bit shit. 

I worried about how it might affect my career for about half a second when something inside me corrected that track of thinking. Hang on, I'm now 23, going to be 24 at the end of the year. I have always planned to be dead by 27, which is only 3-4 years away. Why worry about a career? I'll be dead before any of that can happen. 

It has been a long time since I seriously thought about suicide. I will always have moments when I toy with the idea of death, but it has been probably years since I last seriously wanted to die and to take my own life. I don't know what changed. Maybe it's because I met all these men...Ben, Mark, Michael, all these guys who gave me a fleeting moment of hope and when I had crushes on them, I felt like I could see some sort of future. I could see marriage, and travel and a family, and a home and I wanted to perhaps be with them and spend life with them. 

Now, for some inexplicable reason, all that has disappeared. Just gone. I don't want any of that anymore. I'm back to where I've started. I don't want those flights of fancy anymore. I don't particularly care if I'm never kissed, never touched, never fucked, never loved. I just want to die, be burned and forgotten. Resources shouldn't really be wasted on me. I've wasted enough as it is and I'm trying my best to balance it out a bit before I bite the dust. 

Mark, Mark, part of me still wants him, but I know he's taken. Last night I had a dream where he was talking to me and told me he was gay. Well, I don't suppose it makes a difference, I can't have him either way. Still, when I'm with him, part of me just hopes and hopes that he will put his arm around me. 

Been thinking that I should just bite the bullet and get my next tattoo. If you look at the two pictures above, I want an anchor on my left thigh, sort of where those girls have tattoos, although not at all like the anchor tattoo she has. It might help to cover the ugly cut mark I have on my thigh. I want something more simple for my other thigh, maybe a barcode or something. 

I've been subconsciously holding back on getting a tattoo. I know not all guys like them and I've been not getting them in case I fall in love with a guy who doesn't like them. But fuck that. I'm not falling in love. I'm getting the tattoos because I want them, not to impress some guy. So fuck it. When I go on night shifts, I'm getting this done. 

I'm still debating what I want to get done on my back. When I touch my spine, I can feel the bones much more easily...I don't know, I will think on that one a bit longer. 

20kgs....for real???

"And I want to have faith to put away the dagger. But you lie, cheat and steal. And yet I tolerate you?"

Tonight is one of those hot summer nights where I'm lying in bed, sticky and sweating and exhausted but too hot to sleep. All the windows are open but there isn't a breeze and the only way for me to feel cooler is to go and sleep outside naked. So instead I start rifling around my room and I stumble across my old journals. And I mean OLD. From intermediate and high school...from 12 years ago. Makes me feel fucking old. 

They also make me feel fucking pained. The old hurt all comes back and I realise that I'm not over it, it's just been long enough ago for me to repress it. I also realised how fucked up I was, even back then. No wonder it is so hard for me to not want to cut, I was cutting myself 12 years ago. It's been 12 years. Okay, so I haven't really cut for the last year or so, and maybe 5 or 6 years ago I had a 2 year gap, but on and off, it's been 12 years now. I still haven't broken my not cutting streak...but for a week or so now I've been going to my box of blades, opening it and just looking at them. 

A part of me can't bear to throw them away. I don't even know what it is at this point in time, to be honest it feels more like an addiction that I can't quite kick. Miss Burton, you're right, it is pathetic, and I certainly thought it was during my breaks from cutting. I don't know about Mark, but when the professor found out about it he totally lost the plot. He hasn't mentioned it since then and I'm sure he hasn't forgotten. The fact that he will bring up my eating disorder but not my cutting speaks volumes. 

Maybe it's because it's been 12 years of me cutting...and cutting has become the norm. I can no longer imagine a life without it and even though I don't do it, I think about it on a daily basis. It isn't a big deal to me. It's like, get up in the morning, make toast, brush teeth, go to work. Another routine thing to do. It's just not a big deal. So I just don't get it when people make a big deal out of it. But the fact that the professor won't talk about it makes me wonder how big a deal it actually might be. 

I have no idea what Mark would think. None at all. I wouldn't dare tell him, not after how the professor reacted to it! Now that I think of it, I have 2 other friends who know about it, but they never mention it to me either. It's one of those things that people find hard to talk about...yeah, it probably is a bigger deal than I think. 

But to the crux of this post, and the reason for the title. 

I've always thought that my weight has always been stable at around 55kg. I've always told people that's my baseline weight. But I'm so wrong! As my journals prove. See, even at that age I was worried about my weight. My height hasn't changed an inch since 12 years old...isn't that sad, I haven't grown at all for the past 11 years. My height hasn't changed, but my weight has changed 20kg between my lowest weight and my highest weight. I'm stunned. 

Apparently, when I was 15 or 16 years old, I weighed 45kg! And within a few months, while I was depressed and comfort eating like mad, I gained 10kg. I mope about it an awful lot in my journals. I'm stunned. I was once 45kg???? Imagine if I hadn't started comfort eating, I might still be that size! Instead I ballooned to 65kg and then worked my way back down to 55kg and just stopped because "oh that's my baseline weight anyway so it's hard for me to get below that". 

Well turns out I'm full of bullshit. My baseline weight is 45kg and I've been too much of a fat, lazy pig to try to get back to that. I get to 55kg and start eating again. WTF brain! How could I forget the 10kg of weight I put on in one year at high school?! I'm in utter disbelief that I managed to put on 20kg of weight without even really trying. 

My brain feels like it hurts so much. I've got to rethink all my weight goals now. I thought 45kg would be quite skinny...but I remember how I looked at that age, I wasn't skinny at all! Admittedly, yes, I was skinnier than I am now, but 45kg is not a skinny weight on me. Dammit! The curses of being short! So if 45kg won't look good on me, and if when I weighed 45kg I wanted to lose weight, what should my goal weight be? 40kg? 37kg? I don't know anymore! All I know is, damn, I have to get to my baseline weight, not 55kg, but 45kg. So fucking far away. Best start now then. 

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. 

and what does daddy say?

"I think I thought I saw you try. But that was just a dream."

Firstly, thanks for your responses to my last post. Sammy, blogger hates our love and will not display your comments. It was interesting to find out what areas bother you most. And that we all hate our tummies and thighs. 

Since that post I've spent a week freaking out about going to see the professor for a barbecue and then actually going and feeling extremely young and uneducated. I'm not sure how well I remembered that night, I had just come off long day, post-take rounds and having worked 12 days in a row I was in quite a state. 

In true me-style, I had panicked as soon as he invited me to this bbq with several other consultants and my boss in Bristol, who is over here visiting. It didn't feel right at all. I was the youngest person there by 20 years and I just kind of sat in the corner with not much to say. I was too tired to be witty or charming. But it was still a nice night. 

So the long and short of it is that I had no idea what I was doing there. It was an honour to be invited, but it was odd. I know for sure the others were surprised to see me there. I felt like I was their child, just there to be polite and presentable. It must be some kind of record, no person as junior as me has ever been invited to anything like that. I felt awkward, out of place and juvenile, but in an odd way, I was totally the cat that got the cream. 

Apart from that, the night was odd in another way. I had a weird feeling that out of the 4 women there, at least 3 of us had had some sort of eating disorder at some point in time. The other women were deadly thin, boney and gorgeous in that way. And he watched what I ate. Didn't embarrass me per se, but mentioned that I hadn't taken much food. 

Another thing that I've only just found out, is that my entire class at medical school seem to think that the professor is my sugar daddy. I don't know what a sugar daddy is, but I do think of him as a father so I guess that's close enough. Josh thinks that the professor is my sugar daddy. Which I find sweet. But I don't know why. 

I still have a huge crush on Josh. He's such a nice guy. Unless I'm barking up the complete wrong tree or am completely stupid, if I tried a bit harder, I could probably get him. He sits close to me, always makes physical contact when he sees me. But as usual, I will just wait for it to pass me by. 

I guess besides this, I don't have much to say tonight. I feel some sort of change in me. And as of yet, I don't know what it is. I will update accordingly, when I figure out what is changing. But I can feel that something is going to happen. 

the inverse of everything

"It's hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain."

Everything in my life is turning out to be the inverse. It seems so unreasonable but there is no point in moping about it. If you're unhappy about something, then do something to make it different. 

I wish I didn't have this fucking ED. My life would be half a miserable if it was gone. It's so distracting and demands attention, though I don't want to give it any. Still, persistently, it floats up behind every moment of every day and I can't help but notice. As soon as I get home, I'm in front of my mirror, trying on clothes that are too small, tugging and pull at myself, looking at how fat I am. After a busy and stressful day at work, this is hardly ideal. 

I just don't understand it. I don't understand why my ED should rear its head now. The busier I get at work, the louder it seems to get. I was hoping that maybe, just maybe, work would help me to forget about it, and that the longer I forgot about it, the more it would just melt away. I just can't get the balance right in my head. I'm busy at work. So I somehow need to regularly eat otherwise by mid-afternoon, everything in my body just halts and I'm incapable of continuing. 

I don't feel like I'm eating too much, but I'm obviously doing something wrong because I'm very slowly, but surely gaining weight. I need to cut back somehow...maybe my dinners. Maybe I can have smaller dinners at home. And also start to work out. I have to be honest, I'm already at the point of physical exhaustion after work, the thought of working out as well makes me want to cry. But if something has to be done, then it has to be done. 

Another problem is the professor. The happier he gets, the more miserable I get. Over the years I've somehow associated him being happy with me with gaining weight. Now that he's super pleased with me, I know that must mean I'm fat. Fat and fat and fat. The more he tells me that I look "well", the more upset I get. I don't want to hear it anymore. It's not quite the compliment he thinks it is. 

I have a question for you girls, what is your most hated body part? I've always hated my stomach and thighs, and relatively speaking, I've not had much of a problem with my bum. But today, I met a girl who hated her bum and also talked about her arm fat. I've never really thought about my arms before, but it's like inception, now I can't stop thinking about them. Now that I'm thinking about my arms and legs and stomach and bum, I just feel like I'm bulging at the seams! 

Yuck. Yuck. 

a game of waiting

"Therefore send not to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

It's an odd feeling, that moment when you know with certainty that hope is gone and we are left searching for something, anything to cling to. Comfort? Although we are taught of its importance, in this moment it seems so inadequate a goal compared with life. As humans, I think we all naturally hold onto hope. We hope against hope. We hold onto it till whatever end. We hold onto hope against science and judgement and logic and reason. But even with this nature, there come moments when hope is lost. 

And when hope is lost, I can't help but feel small. I spend a lot of my life feeling like I can make a difference. In a twisted way, I feel that I am the anomaly, special, but not necessarily in a good way, but in a way that will ultimately be to my advantage. 

So what if I'm eating disordered. So what if I'm not smart. So what if I'm a lazy ass who listens to old school rock and drinks old school drinks. So what if I cry at children's movies and am horrendously simple. So what. In an odd way, it's endearing to the professor, and in my head, one day he will pick me up, lift me up and then I will be riding a spiral of success to the top where I shall perch, clad in Chanel and Proenza Schouler and Burberry Prorsum and Carven, loved, lusted after, feared and admired. And remembered when I'm gone. 

If I am honest, that is how I've always believed life will be. But then, in these moments when hope is gone, I feel small, insignificant, a tiny, undetectable blip in space and time. 

This is not the first time I've known that a patient was dying. Indeed, I've probably seen more than my fair share of deaths in my short training. But when she is mine, my patient, it feels so different. I wish with all my heart that I could somehow crawl into her body, beat out the infection and make everything okay. 

But I can't. And everything will not be okay. Soon a son will lose a mother, a brother will lose a sister, a father will lose a daughter. For them, nothing will be okay. And I will lose a name off my morning list. 

For many, death will be an angel of mercy for the husk of a woman attached to a respirator and that is something that is very easy to say (it's something that I would've said) for someone who doesn't who have to face those eyes filled with fear each day. 

It's hard. I'm so over this job. I wish I could somehow get over it, get over the stress and the heartbreak and the fear and the exhaustion. But for now, I can only take it one hour at a time. 

Logic in me says I should go talk to the professor about this, at the next possible opportunity. Ask to see him by himself, have a little cry on his shoulder, listen to one of his stories that always makes me feel better, and then eventually recover. If the past is any predictor of the future, chances are, the exact same thing would have happened to him and he will tell me of how he got past it. 

Logic. But the devil in my head says no. I can't see him. Not when I'm this fat. A twisted part of me needs to hear him tell me that I'm skinny. So I shall suffer and cry in silence in the dark of the night. I shall mourn her on my own. But she's not dead yet. I'm just bracing myself for impact. 

In its own special way, once again, my ED has creeped into an area of life that I had thought was untainted by it. I wish it would leave me to have this moment to myself. One moment away from feeling fat, one moment away from calories and restricting. Not even the grim reaper can keep it away. 

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. 

I'm choosing my confessions (happy holidays to you all)

"Trying to keep an eye on you like a lost, hurt and blinded fool. Oh no, I've said too much. I've set it up." 

200 posts, 104 followers and I'm still going. It's hard to believe, but it's the current state of affairs. I can't say enough thank yous to everyone who reads this, to everyone who comments, to everyone who has shown me so much support, concern, loyalty and companionship throughout the times. 

You've shared my highs and my lows, my fears, hopes, dreams, suicidal thoughts. You've been there through the shedding of blood and tears and one way or another, you've held my head above water and here we are, at the start of all things. 

I apologise if I sound a tad too poetic today. There are several reasons for that. The most crucial of which is probably the fact that I got a bottle of 20 year old Portugese port today and I've had a fair few glasses of it already. The second reason is that I'm managing to squeeze into some of my size 6 clothes (I believe this is comparable to a UK6, and a US 2) and even though it is a SQUEEZE, it's definitely better than not being able to squeeze at all. The last reason is that I am still buoyed by my last meeting with the professor. 

There have been quite a few occasions where I have waxed lyrical about him, and part of me can't help it. Now, after several glasses of port and a good dose of Joan Jett and Pink Floyd and Depeche Mode, there practically isn't anything holding me back. 

One aspect is that it is terribly flattering to be so petted by such a powerful man. It feeds some sort of hungry little girl inside me who just wants a daddy to come along and take her hand and make everything okay. And that's what he does, literally. The last time that I saw him, he kissed me more times in half an hour than my own father has in 5 years. When my head isn't clouded by my ED and my self esteem issues, it is so clear that he cares. He's been my most trusted friend, least judging, and most supportive. He tells me I'm perfect, beautiful, and after a few drinks, I start to believe that he actually means it. 

Another point is that I just feel so safe with him. In a strange way, we get each other. We are uncannily similar, sometimes to an extent where I will try and change myself to make myself seem a bit more different. Wouldn't want him, or anyone else for that matter, to think that I was trying to be like him in every possible way. 

At any rate, I'm glad he likes me, likes me enough to get me a Christmas present. I'm glad he's still trying to help me and wants to see me more. 

This time of year always brings out the best and worst in me. I won't lie, the food temptations are hell. HELL. All the foods I love, but all the foods I'm not allowed to eat. At the same time that I'm stuffing my face, I'm also making endless resolutions about losing weight. It's around this time that I start doing the work out videos and popping the laxatives and the odd day of fasting. The end result of all this is that I get through the holidays relatively unscathed. Staying the same, no net gain or loss. 

Being realistic, I aim to do the same this year. Get through, stay the same, don't gain, and any loss is a bonus. 

So here's me, wishing all your girls a wonderful festive season. I hope nobody derails too much and that any damage is easily controlled. I hope everyone has a good time with friends and family, do things that you enjoy before it's nose to the grindstone again. Each little step is a step closer, and if anybody takes a step back, don't despair. We all step backwards sometimes. Just recognise it, and try not to do it again. 

I'm here if anyone is having trouble coping. My family are going away so I'm pretty much alone and always happy to give out advice/company/TLC. 

Happy holidays and look forward to a skinny 2013!!!

Every yours, 

Judith Marie. 

I don't give a damn about my bad reputation

"Breaking little twigs with my feet and underneath is a road that's so steep." 

"You're looking well, I can't feel your ribs anymore." He smiles and I shrink away slightly. Suddenly, his mind clicks and he back tracks. "You look perfect. Perfect and slim. Please don't misinterpret that." He pulls me close, kisses me and walks me to my car while holding my hand. 

He kisses me again at my car. I can see how happy he is. He is so happy to see me "so well". Which only means one thing to me, I'm fat. I'm thinner than I was, but that's about the same size as when I last saw the professor, so in his head, I haven't changed weight at all. I still want to lose another 20lbs, at least, but I'm now fighting that same battle in my head, I don't want him to get upset with me. But I don't want to be upset with myself. At any rate, I'm only losing at the speed of about 1-2lbs a week, so it's very slow progress. Progress. But slow. 

Driving home, I clutch a tiny little box in my hand. A present from the professor and I'm dying to open it. Still, best to wait until Christmas. Wind in my hair, rain coming through the window, music blaring. It's been a long time since my heart has felt so much at rest. From the past turmoil of all my self doubt and all the pain after I had convinced myself that the professor hated me personally and professionally, this little meeting has settled everything, if only for the moment. 

For the moment, everything is okay. It was apparent that he was very worried about how I'd cope with starting work. He's relieved I haven't dropped a tonne of weight, he's relieved I don't look tired, he's relieved I seem cheerful. And I guess he's right. I'm handling it. I'm scared. I'm tired. I'm struggling, but I'm handling it.

That pretty much sums up everything. I'm handling it all. Not handling any one particular thing that well, but doing it all at an okay level. So that sums me up. Handling it all. Okay. 

I will update again soon to wish you lovely ladies merry Christmas...but that's for the next post! Want to say a big thank you, to all those who take the time to read this blog, and especially those who take the extra time to comment. 

I don't say it often enough, but I really do appreciate it, and reading your comments usually is the best part of my day. 

shattered and defeated and making decisions

"So make all your last demands for I will forsake you and I'll meet your eyes for the very first time, for the very last." 

NB: I apologise if I've not been commenting on your blogs of late. Blogger is doing that weird thing again where it doesn't tell me when the blogs I follow update. I comment on the posts that I see pop up!

I've worked too long, too many long days, too many long hours. I've been afraid, too many moments of insecurity, of panic, of feeling shattered and defeated. Too many thoughts run through my head, my patients, my boss, my future, my body. Yes, I've lost weight, but only about 4lbs, and only the weight that I had put on when I was eating like some freak. So now I am back to my baseline 122lbs. I haven't moved forwards at all and I hate it.

The flurry of clothes that I had bought for myself, all a few sizes too small, hoping I'd fit into them by now still sit on hangers, taunting me and reminding me that I have failed in another aspect of my life. I must try harder. I must eat less. I must just buckled down and do what I need to do. From deep down inside me an old desire is rising, the desire to cut. I swore so many times that I would never go back there. I swore that no matter what, I would handle it and I would not take myself back there. But let's face it, it's an easy way out and right now, that's all I'm looking for. 

A gush of blood and I can sleep. A gush of blood and I can focus and study. A gush of blood and I am no longer hungry. All I need is to bleed out my anger and frustration and fears and anxiety and insecurity and hatred. Bleed it all out, then I can be just me. Calm. 

But I swore I wouldn't go back there. But I swore. 

It's not the only aspect of me that is being questioned. Every aspect of me is being questioned. I don't know what I want to do anymore. So much for wanting to do ophthalmology. The more I think about it, the more I feel like I can't do it. The intake is too low, 2 per year. With the amount of stress that I feel just working an ordinary job, I can't imagine what it would be to live for 5-7 years desperately trying to get onto a training scheme. And then I think of Alex. Perfect Alex. Thin, beautiful, talented, not a bad molecule in her body. She speaks fluent French and is half Japanese and is femininity personified. She's a warm spring morning in Paris with a black coffee and croissant. I try so hard to be like her, but I just can't. 

I'm not that person. I'm fat and bitchy. I'm spontaneous shopping and designer labels and consumerism with all the letters capitalised and italicised. I'm wobbly cellulite and a lazy slob and a liar and an absolute cow with a bad attitude. I'm full of badness and rock and roll and whiskey and port. I'm full Chinese and I only speak English. I'm a cold, wet morning in the Scottish highlands with black pudding and a fried egg. 

How can I pretend anymore. I can't do it anymore. I think of the professor, and how much I adore him and how much I've let him down. I can't possibly face him again. I can't do it. I can't spend the next decade or more of my life with someone who hates me as he must hate me. I can't be with someone who knows all my problems and wants to solve them. I can't spend my doing something that constantly reminds me of how inadequate and unworthy I am, no matter how much I love it. 

I will do general surgery and be worked to the bone. And be yelled at by my bosses and sleep 2 hours a night in my car and slice my own body to pieces and feel like I'm finally in my place. 

Time to do what I must. Book another tattoo, cut as deep as I want to, eat nothing at all and buy the biggest bottle of port and whiskey I can get my hands on. Fuck what other people think. Fuck "taking care of myself". Fuck it all. I don't care if I'm self destructive, maybe that's how I've always been. But it's the only way I know how to get by and right now, all I want to do is get by, one day at a time. 

If that means being hungry but thin, drunk but calm, put together but cut up then so be it. 

when it all boils down

"I am surrendering to gravity and the unknown. Catch me, heal me."

The past 2 weeks have been an absolute rollercoaster for me. There were highs, and many, many lows that came with a pile of stress. I don't exactly know how I feel about being a doctor anymore, in the past few stress filed days, I've felt less than happy to be in my position. 

The level of stress is almost intolerable. I don't know how to deal with it and apparently I've developed a real psychosomatic way to expressing stress. I don't necessarily feel it, but I will become sick. And right now, I'm really, really sick. It does save me from the hospital, but I feel overwhelming guilt about it. 

There are no words to explain how it feels to make the transition between student and doctor. Nothing on this world could have prepared me for it. Life is so different when it's my head on the chopping block, when people expect me to know the answers and make the decisions. The reality is, nothing has changed inside me in the month between student and doctor, I haven't suddenly gained magical diagnostic skills, magical communication skills and magical insight into the processes of the hospital. But now, I'm expected to know. And it's fucking scary. It's fucking scary when I am the only on one the ward at 10pm and somebody is spiking fevers or has high blood pressure or is having chest pain and the nurse calls me and I don't know what the fuck I am supposed to do. 

Up until this point I have only had one situation in my life where I have been too stressed to eat, and that was when I thought the professor was going to fire me. But now, that level of stress is daily, even when I'm not at work, I have no appetite. I can't stop thinking about my patients, I can't stop thinking about all the times when I didn't know what to do. I can't help being scared about the next day. 

Everybody told me that the first 2 months of being a doctor is absolute hell. And I still wasn't quite prepared for it. I can't tell you how much I've cried the past few days. This is a whole new level of feeling inadequate, a whole new definition of fear, a whole new way of life. 

But there must be some sort of silver lining to all this. I am trying to retrain my body into not getting sick when I feel stressed, and I'm trying to express my stress with a loss of appetite. A lot of people lose their appetites when they are stressed. It will also be less suspicious, because all doctors lose a bit of weight when they start work. Or they gain weight because they are emotional eaters. 

My paper is also a massive stress factor for me right now. My co-author has been procrastinating his part for months now, and now the professor is making a big push for it to be done this weekend and he's freaking out. On top of that, his laptop isn't working, and he's asking me to do things that are way out of my depth and I'm freaking out. Sick as a dog, guilty as hell, freaked out to death and scared out of my wits. What a great end of the year. 

I better get some decent weight loss out of this, it will be some sort of consolation. 

buoyed by painkillers

"Learn and love and to do what it takes to move through." 

Being sent home has been one of the low points of my life. Not that being sick at work was that much fun. Now that I'm home again, I have resumed by schedule of painkillers that I had foolishly given up. 

I'm always convinced that painkillers don't work. Then I stop taking them and boy do I feel the pain. I'm floating, floating on a mass of paracetamol and ibuprofen and I've just dug out some codeine to add to the mix. I'm really not some druggie but this cold is hitting me hard and it feels like it's literally hitting me. No, that was not not a clever simile, but I can't do any better. 

At any rate, I will drag my sorry ass out of bed tomorrow and go back to work. I wish I could just kick it out of my system and go to work. I hate being this useless. Or I just want to stay at home and get better with no guilt. 

The lovely striveforperfection has nominated me for the Liebster Blog Award, so in addition to my previous blog post, I shall be answering her questions too. 

Strive for Perfection's Questions:

1. What would your ideal day be if you didn't have an ED?

Oh gosh. I can't even imagine. Let's see. It would be waking up in London in a stylish Soho penthouse at mid morning. Then I would have a nice pot of tea and a full English breakfast. There is almost nothing that I love more than a full English, but really, all those calories. But this is supposing I don't have an ED and so I don't care. After breakfast, I'd head for a wander around the British Natural History Museum before heading down Oxford Street and New Bond Street for a spot of shopping. I'd buy everything in Marc Jacobs. Then meet up with friends at Claridges for some high tea. We would all go back to my penthouse, tart ourselves up and go to dinner at Sketch, and we'd eat in the Michelin star Lecture Room. Post dinner, we'd see Phantom, or Les Mis, then to a nice bar for a port or sherry. 

Well, turns out I could imagine it very well. Very well indeed. And sometime this coming year, I will make it happen. Maybe not the food bits though. But minus the food, it's still a good day. 

2. What was the moment you realized you had an ED?

I can't say the exact moment, I do remember the exact moment I realised I had a self harm problem though. It was quite soon after that that I realised I had an eating problem too, but the exact moment isn't clear. I can remember so well what set it off, but the realisation of having an eating disorder and not just trying to lose weight is a bit fuzzy. 

3. If you could travel anywhere in the world, where would you go?

Scotland. The Highlands. No, wait, Iceland. One of those places anyway. I love both of those places so much, but right at this moment, I think I'd sooner fly off to Edinburgh, then get my ass into the Highlands and just sit and stare. 

4. What is your biggest fear?

Spiders. Heights. Spiders. Heights. It varies, depending on which of the two I am facing. That and facing a medical emergency and not knowing what to do. 

5. If you could ask someone anything and they had to be 100% honest with you, who and what would you ask?

Oh, that's easy, the professor. I've spent so long speculating over what he thinks of me, it would be such a relief for him to just tell me. Chances are, I could just ask him, and he would be 100% honest, but then he would ask me why I wanted to know and I would have no answer for that. 

6. If you could tell someone anything without fear of judgement, who and what would you tell?

Well, there's really no one. I'm pretty blunt in my life, so everyone already knows what I think of them. Even the people I hate. Problem is, I'm so bluntly honest that not everyone believes me. The only thing they don't know is the ED, and the self harm. And I don't want them to know that anyway. Sometimes I want to tell the professor and his wife how much they mean to me. But then at other times I think it's best they don't know. 

7. Describe a time when you were truly, unquestioningly happy.

Front row at the Trend show at London Fashion Weekend. 

8. If your house was burning down and you had time to save one thing, what would it be and why?

My handbag. My life is in my handbag. Not to mention my wallet. If I have that, then I have the means to sort out the consequences of all the other things I lost in the fire. Nothing is of such sentimental value to me, or rather, too many to choose just one.

9. How has having an ED affected you?

Wow. It is every part of every day. It floats up behind every meal and every snack and every drink and every spot of exercise. It floats up behind every spare moment of the day. Imagine all the other things I could be thinking of I weren't preoccupied with my ED all the time. 

I might have a boyfriend, I might even be married. I might want children. I might not be so scared of sex. I might not self harm. I would be a different person.

10. How many people know about your ED?

One. The professor. A few others have been concerned about my weight loss at various points of my life, but he is the only one who knows for sure.

11. Given the choice, would you choose recovery or your goal weight?

I choose goal weight. Although there have been moments in my past where I would have chosen recovery, but I haven't had one of those for a while. I want my goal weight now. And I want nothing else more. I just want to be thin.