oh my motherfucking god I'm going to die.

"A little time with you is all that I get. That's all we need because it's all we can take."

So today I met up with my hot as fuck copper. I caved and decided to Facebook stalk him a wee bit, but, as expected, as a copper, the only thing his fb shows are a few pictures. But they were enough. There is this one picture of him in a black muscle tank and when I saw it all I wanted to do was vomit. 

And the vomity feeling has been with me the whole time. Oh my goodness. I mean, I knew he was rather well built, being a policeman and all and having seen him in uniform. But holy fucking shit he has muscles on his muscles and muscles where I didn't know they even existed, and I'm a DOCTOR. All the photos are of him climbing fucking mountains or whatever and fuck I'm going to die. 

I don't know what I was thinking before, actually I'm pretty sure I wasn't thinking at all. I can't go out with someone like that!!!! 

I have never felt so fucking fat in my whole entire life. And so I went running for the first time in like a year yesterday. Turns out I can run pretty fast when I'm feeling inferior. But now I'm pretty damn sore. 

I don't know why I feel so bad about all this. Probably because I've never ever thought I would be in the situation where I would feel so inferior to a guy. I've always thought I'd go out with another doctor, and well, there are some good looking ones, and they can be quite well built, but "traditionally" I'm the one that is intimidating. The word "ophthalmologist" tends to scare them a lot. 

For some reason I find my intellect meaning fuck all here. And if that is taken out of the equation then I really, really, don't have anything left. 

UGH! Why the fuck did he ask me out? Like, why? Do you guys know what he offered up as first date options? Rock climbing (which is actually okay, apart from my paralyzing fear of heights, but he doesn't know that so okay), or...and I quote " a circuit training boot camp session, just you and me." I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Those are four perfectly okay words that when strung together like that, mean hell. 

Well, I might lose some weight, but with this guy, I might actually die first. 

Needless to say I didn't exactly jump for either of those options *thanking all the gods that I am going onto night shifts tonight...there has never been a more perfect excuse* and so we just took it easy and went to a cafe. 

Then we went for a nice long walk along the beach. Then we went back to his place, where we sat on his bed and listened to music and chatted about things. 

Ladies, he is PERFECT. He's got so much ambition, he's got everything planned out and he's got his goals set and he's working hard for them. He's so damn good looking that it almost hurts my eyes. He's really easy to get along with, and all in all, a genuinely nice guy. As long as he doesn't ask me to go do circuit training boot camp again because I will still die if that happens.  

I think he likes me, because we hadn't planned to go back to his place, but after we had coffee, he asked if I wanted to go. So I said yes. No, there was no crazy monkey sex (although I do hope that will come later down the track) but he did kiss me. MY FIRST KISS LADIES!!!!!  *sigh* I will write about this in more detail later. When I'm a bit more calm. 

I am still plagued by insecurities, but, at this stage I'm not fucking telling him about anything. And I'm not sure if I ever will. I am sooo not good enough for this guy. 

I mean, if I looked like any of the above pictures, I wouldn't feel so bad. 

naso-gastric consequences

My smile was taken long ago, if I can change I hope I never know. 

There's a hand on the back of my head, making sure I can't move away and a hand on my chin to stop me wriggling out. All down my nose and throat there is a trail of fire and pain and I clutch my vomit bucket with all my might. My stomach is heaving and my eyes are squeezing out tears at an alarming rate. 

"Swallow, swallow, swallow, swallow, swallow..." and I obey because the cold water is at least attempting to quell the flames. Then I vomit up all the water I have just swallowed but the voice keeps going, "swallow, swallow, swallow..." and I can feel the naso-gastric tube advancing further down my oesophagus. 

All that comes up in the aspirate is a tiny amount of coffee, enough to confirm the tube is in my stomach. People seem surprised that there wasn't more, but I didn't have any breakfast or lunch and the coffee was my only intake. The pain of NG tube insertion subsides, but the burning irritation remains. 

I gag some more as I pull it out and sip on cold water to calm myself. The things I do for my love of the art. Try a NG tube, they said, know what your patients go through, they said. 

His face flashes through my head the entire time. I wipe away at my watering eyes, disguising the fact that I'm crying a bit, almost glad that NG insertion makes everyone's eyes water. Somehow, sitting in the procedural skills room in the hospital, I'm transported to somewhere completely different. 

I can almost feel the fabric restraints on my wrists and ankles, the hand on my chin and the back of my head and that same awful tube advancing down my nose and into my stomach. I can feel the tears, the retching, the burning pain. I can see him standing at the door, afraid to enter the room but unable to look away. I can't turn away from him when everything is done because the restraints have been left in place so I close my eyes. 

I'm ashamed of myself, I don't know how things got this bad, how did I get this sick. But at the same time I feel a pulsating resistance within me. With every beat of my heart, for so many years, all I've craved is to be thin and I would do anything to stop people taking that away from me. Eyes still closed, I start to wonder if he's left but then I feel him wiping the cold sweat from my face. I ignore him. 

I don't ever want a NG tube again. And I'm scared of it now. But it brings another issue to light. Somehow I've come to rely on the professor. I'm projecting like mad. Just because he's nice to me, that doesn't mean he will transform into the father that I crave. It doesn't mean that he will be there for me on all the occasions that I imagine him to be. It doesn't mean anything except that he is a nice person. I think I need to work on extracting myself from anything to do with him. 

And see how all that goes. Lose weight. Lose weight. No food. Work out. No professor. Just study. And be thin, finally thin. 

breaking my resolve

There is an uncontrollable bitterness rising in my chest, an unbelievable pettiness laced with sour shots of jealousy and revulsion and hate. I want to vomit it out but I've only had a mini strawberry tart today and that was many hours ago. It took me an hour to eat and everyone was staring at me. Thank God the professor wasn't there. 

If find myself leaving the room when Alex and YW walk in. I can't look at them anymore. I can't deal with that right now. I've got a much more bitter pill to swallow. 

Her name is Izzy. Izzy, baby girl, why did it have to be you? She's older than me, BMI of 17 something. Thin, beautiful, witty, cynical, intelligent, ambitious. She's one of my best friends at work. Together with Steph, we are the dream team. We are sitting at her desk, chatting, laughing, being stupid. 

I wonder what the professor and his wife got me? I don't even understand the question. Not until I see her gesture to a Christmas present. She opens it and peers inside. The rest of that conversation is not something that I recall. 

How can I have been so stupid? How did I not see what I was really doing? How did I get so desperate? How did I break my own resolve?

I presented myself to a doctor. To my boss. To the head of department. To the one person in this whole world who has any power over my future. I said, look at me, poor little me, look at how sick I am, look at how I'm hurting. I asked him to fix me. And now he is going to try. 

How did I not put myself in his shoes? If I was looking at a patient who was exactly like me, I'd do everything I possibly could to try and heal her. To help her. I would work all the extra hours, I would bully all the other departments, I'd do what I could to get her what she needed. It doesn't mean I feel anything for her. She is my patient, I'm doing my job. 

Now I realise I was being stupid. I was ignorant, running away with my daydreams, floating around on clouds of hope and love and all those things that don't really exist. How did I not see that I am a patient? I am a patient and nothing more. I am a patient and I've stupidly checked myself into the hospital that is the mind of the professor and I don't know how to discharge myself. 

I know why I've done it. For a brief moment I felt special. I felt like I mattered to someone. I felt like I made an impact on someone's life. What folly. I'm not usually this dumb. People see what they want to see. And I saw what I have so badly yearned for for so long. 

Izzy loves her Christmas present. It's such a good present, I almost wish I'd thought of it and bought it for her. Am I just jealous that I didn't get one too? Maybe. But the truth hits me like a wrecking ball. I smile weakly at her but I'm not really seeing her. I see reality. 

I see myself standing before my own eyes in a hospital gown, hair disheveled, skin broken and bruised, walking around with a drip in my arm down the hospital corridor. There stands the professor, with my chart in his hand, checking my vitals and my weight. Another patient on a very long list of patients. That's all I am, another person on a long list of people who need help. How could any doctor refuse me? 

I go to say goodbye to the professor. And I say goodbye. It's a word I never use because it sounds so final. But I mean it. He tells me to be good and to contact him when I'm back from my holiday. I nod, but I'm not going to do it. I don't want to see him unless I must for work. I refuse to be another name on a patient list. I don't want help. I know what I want to do, I don't need someone to hold my hand. 

I see 2012 stretch before me. Long work hours, no food and a gym membership. I can see the perfect me. Ribs and spine and hips. Doctor. 

I step on my scale. 119.2lbs. The lowest I've been this year. I leap off, jumping in happiness. A lot has happened but little has changed. Still, nothing compares to the feeling of losing weight. My abdomen hurts from the hunger but I have no appetite. Maybe I will see 118lbs soon. 

On Christmas day I fly to Singapore. To binge on food and clothing. Then I'm back for work, gym, fasting. I will lose the weight. I will lose the weight. I will lose the weight. How could I be so stupid. Nothing can break my resolve. 90lbs. What wouldn't I give to see you now? Still, one step at a time. As long as the scale goes down, that's all that matters. 

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. 

8 is a lucky number

Today I took one of those online depression tests. At the end, instead of giving me a score or something that said mild or moderate or severe depression, it just gave me the number of the crisis helpline and said that if I should call it immediately if I was having thoughts about hurting or killing myself. 

After a horrendous day at work, I went on the most amazing binge fest ever. I don't think I've ever eaten this much in my life. Then, on my way back to my room, I found myself automatically going to purge. Which is odd before I've never vomited before and yet here I was going to purge as if it was the normal routine. I didn't do it. I'm not going to purge, I'm going to fight the urge as long as I can. It's getting harder. But I have to try. 

Still, even though I'm not vomiting and I've taken 8 laxies in the past 24 hours. So much for not taking more than the recommended dose. 

I find myself avoiding the professor. I know all you girls tell me not to, and I agree with you, but I'm doing it subconsciously. It's only later that I realise I slipped away so quickly to avoid talking to him. I don't want to see him, but I so do. I want to march up to his door and give him all my laxies and ask him to take them all away. And give him all my scalpel blades. And ask him to fix me. But that's not how it works. He can't fix me. Only I can. But I don't want to. 

Alex still haunts me. But now there is a new girl in town. YW. Just as beautiful. Just as wonderful. And I get along terribly well with her. She's great. We could be great friends. But like Alex, YW reminds me of everything that I am not. She's so clever, so good at writing papers, never delays projects. Everything that I'm not. 

I can't even be eating disordered properly. I wish I'd just be full out mia and vomit my heart out. But I can't. I can't do anything. 

As usual, thank you to Fat Piggy, Christina and xXzapxfireXx for your lovely comments on my last entry. I'm sorry that I've been down so much lately. Things must pick up from here though. 

spiral out, unprofessional conduct, gratitude

Things are getting worse now. The suicidal ideation is daily, hourly. I can’t stop thinking about how I want to kill myself. I have so much to finish, but even that is no longer enough. I know I will upset some people but I am sure that they will get over it with time. 

I can also see that I will soon develop a full blown eating disorder. If it’s not next year, it will definitely be the year after. And it will be anorexia with a binge/purge subtype. I know that already. I hate the feeling of having food in my stomach. It makes me feel like such a failure. I only feel accomplished when I’m hungry. My desktop background says it all: I only feel beautiful when I’m hungry. 

The laxatives aren’t enough. I don’t want to put food in my mouth and recently I’ve started losing control resulting in some epic binges. I will walk down the road and buy food from every food place and eat as much as I can. Then I will wander around work aimlessly, restlessly. A part of me is thrashing around, wanting to vomit, another part of me is desperately holding onto common sense. So I settle for laxatives. I know it doesn’t do anything about the calories but the misery of the pain and the running to the bathroom makes me feel like I’m repenting. 

But none of it is enough. When I have food in my stomach all I can think about is purging. I feel like I’m lucky. The doctor in me says that I have caught an eating disorder in the early stages. There is so much hope. Now is the time to turn back. Now is the time to catch it. Now is the time to do something about it. It would be so easy. I have people who would help me in a heartbeat and not bat an eye. I have people who would make sure that I succeed and probably not think any less of me despite all my failures. I have everything a person could need to recover. Almost. 

If I were one of my patients I know I would try to get some sort of referral, something to prevent this getting worse. I'm teetering at the edge of a cliff and I want to step out into free fall. I have all the tools for recovery, except the will. I don't want to recover. I want to spiral into my ED. I want to get smaller and smaller, I want to feel pretty for once in my life. 

Yes there are side effects. Yes I've spent many ungodly hours clinging to my toilet. Yes I've spent many sleepless nights crying and willing away the pain in my stomach. Yes I've worried people I care about. But it's just not fair. Every little girl deserves to feel pretty. Every little girl deserves to feel like a princess at some point in her life. If life won't give that to me then I will work hard to get it for myself. I will starve and purge and binge my way to what is rightfully mine, a moment when I can look at myself and think that I am pretty. 

The email was only a line long but it almost brought tears to my eyes. I love it when this happens, when a perfectly professional exchange deteriorates into something completely different. In a strange way it makes me feel so cared about. And although there are times when I can see it in his eyes, I have trouble believing what my see. For all I know my eyes could be deceiving me.  

He calls me F******. The first real nickname I've ever had. He calls me F****** so often that there are people who think my real name is F******. Some people take this as a sign that the notoriously tough professor is fond of me. I wish I could think that way. I remember that once we were in theatre and he was transplanting the inside layer of the front of the eye. To make sure that he had it the right way up, he wrote an F on it. That way, if it is the wrong way up, the F will look back to front. Why do I use the letter F? he asks and the other students in the room look around. Everyone looks at me. Finally he looks at me. It stands for F******. He smiles sweetly and the other students stare at me. I know it doesn't stand for my nickname. He's used that letter for years, long before he met me. It's still a sweet thing to say. 

I call him BB. He always jokes to other people that it means Big Bastard. It's his way of saying, hey, I've got a cute nickname. It does make other people stare at me a bit though. 

F******, I'm sure I can find time for you, BB. 

It's only a sentence long, but it still almost brought tears to my eyes. It's unprofessional conduct and it makes me feel cared for. 

Thank you to Fat Piggy for your lovely comment on my last blog post. It's absolutely wonderful to have you back with us!!!! Thank you also to Anafly, my Aussie neighbour. I'm sure we will become great friends on here! And thank you to wonderful Jackie. You keep me strong! I shall keep on resisting the temptation to purge, although it's getting harder and harder. 

Darling Mia

As usual, thank you to Jackie, Christina, Anafly and Fiandshalimer for your lovely comments on my blog! I love you girls!

In my darkest hours when my phone is silent because all my friends are too busy with their own lives to answer my texts, when I can't sleep because of the tears, when my abdomen is aching for my binging or my fasting, Mia comes to me like an avenging angel. She holds and rocks me and smiles at me with love. Everything will be okay. She hands me the laxies. As soon as you take these. 

Sometimes Ana goes on holiday. But I'm never alone, when Ana is off keeping someone else company, Mia comes and takes my hand. Darling Mia, she whispers to me, she holds me when no one else will, she gives me hope when there is none. I swore I'd be off the laxies. Judith Marie doesn't like them. 

Judith Marie remember being at work, sitting in her room with her eyes shut, riding out the waves of pain coursing through her body, waiting for silence in the corridor so that she can run to the bathroom. The paranoia, hoping that nobody realises she is going to the bathroom every few minutes. Then she sits in the bathroom, in yet more pain, waiting for the person in the next stall to leave so that nobody sees her in there. 

But those moments are Mia's little triumphs. During my pain she points out to me that my abdomen is flatter now, and isn't that empty feeling just second to none? 

Recently I've been binging like mad. LIKE MAD. And Mia is with me during each binge, silent but watching. Immediately afterwards she tries to drag me to the bathroom. Vomit it up again. But Judith Marie refuses. She knows that it's bad. She knows it's really bad. She knows that if she does, she'll be letting a lot of people down. She knows that if anyone finds out it will be a one way ticket to the mental health ward. 

If you are wondering why everything seems to be so much in third person, it's because right now, I don't really understand my identity. I thought I was very Ana, now I seem to be much more Mia, and somewhere in there is Judith, desperate for an Ed free life. 

Never before now have I ever lost control while eating. I will eat and eat and there is an unbelievably strong urge to continue. There are no thoughts in my head. In a strange way it's really peaceful. No stress, no depression, just nothing. It's like a compulsion, I just do it. But immediately afterwards, I want to vomit. So far I haven't yet. And I really don't want to. But I will one day. 

Recently I've gone from one tiredness to another. I used to be fully exhausted and breathless from the restricting, now I'm exhausted by the binging. I hate this. Sometimes I want nothing more than to walk into the professor's office and tell him everything and ask for help. That's probably why I've been avoiding him lately. I'm scared somehow that bit of me that wants recovery will break through and blurt it out. 

The professor. I don't want to see him again. I'm scared. I'm scared of being found out and of giving myself away. I'm scared that he'll call me out for being so late with my work. I'm just scared. I don't want to see him. I care about him so much. I don't think I can face being rejected by him. I'll finish the work, I'll hand it in. Then I'll think about if I want to see him again. Seems stupid doesn't it, me burning the bridge between myself and the one person in my life who is even vaguely supportive. 

I counted my blades. I have nearly 100. I keep getting more of them. I am feeling that it's probably nearly time to cut something else into myself. 

the weigh in

It's quiet. Everyone is busy with their own little parts in this scripted world. I feel a little bit safer, a little bit less paranoid about them hearing the voices in my head that are constantly screaming at me. In a movement that is by far the most agile of the day, I whip into my bathroom and close the door behind me in one motion. There I stay for a few seconds, with my back to the door, barricading myself in, I cherish the wild beating of my heart and the adrenalin that is already seeping into my veins.

Not daring to look at the door again, I reach behind myself and click the lock, twisting it all the way, to be sure, to be sure, to be sure again. A few more seconds pass. Now I can hear my heart in my ears and the screaming in my head is beginning to throb. Before I can lose courage I strip off. I rip of my clothes as if they somehow burn my skin. Standing naked before my scale, I can feel myself trembling inside. Very quickly I step on and the digital face begins to toy with my resolve.

The first number is always small, 80lbs or something near that but sadly it does not stop there and as certain as the sun will rise, it begins to spiral upwards. 90lbs, 112lbs, 118lbs, 122lbs. And that is where it stops. It flashes at me, taunting me. 122lbs. I step off and on again. 122lbs. And off and on again. 122lbs. I must do this three times, to make sure that the number I'm seeing is correct. And when I'm sure, that's when the sickness sets in.

My legs feel like jelly. The running that I've started is hammering home how unfit I am. They ache and I can't bend them without pain, but I don't deserve a life without pain so this is fine. The room sways as if somebody has picked it up and is carrying it around. I hold onto my bathroom sink. I'd vomit into it if I had anything to vomit up. I've been fasting since 9am and now it is 9pm. I think I'll skip dinner.

There is so much disgust in my body that I'm sure it is radiating from me in the form of heat. I dare not look my parents in the eye as I mumble that I've already eaten and I'm not hungry. I can't face food right now. Not after gaining 1lb. Maybe it's because I've weighed myself at night instead of in the morning. But that is no excuse.

I think I'll fast tomorrow as well. I'll fast and come home late and face my scale again. Yes, that's what I'll do, I decide as I stare at the 122lbs again. That will teach me for being such a fat pig. And now I look in the mirror to see what 122lbs looks like. I can cradle my tummy, there is so much fat there that I look like I'm pregnant, yup, side on, I look like I'm an expectant mother. My thighs are touching, disgusting, I feel like vomiting on them. When I run I can feel them slide past each other with each step. Though I'm so tired and sore I feel like falling over, that squish and slide of my thighs forces me onwards. My arms, the wings that hand from my arms are putrid. Absolutely putrid. There is nothing I like.

And I try to superimpose the image of a thin person over my gruesome body. I know it is hiding under the fat. I know I can get it out. I know I must. It is the real me. I am hiding under the fat. And now is the time to sit quietly in my room and reprimand myself for letting myself become such a repulsive blob. As I do each night, I sit here and force myself to feel all the fat on my body. I think of all the people who I want to impress. The fat isn't impressing anyone. Fat is keeping me back from my real potential. Fat needs to go away so that Bones can show her beauty.