Marine Snow

Friday night was a few drinks too far, and I ended up sitting in Jane’s lounge trying not to cry mascara tinted tears over her (spotless) oyster coloured carpet. Me, extremely inebriated on cheap white wine, with one foot in her lap, one in a foot spa, and a couple of half hearted tears trickling onto a body shop towel. I was trying to string a sentence together which had become more and more complicated, the more I had tried to express it. I think I was trying to explain why date night had been so disturbing, but half way through forming the words, I realised that she actually knows Dave, and his family, which made it far too dangerous to try and explain. Instead I aimed for cryptic ramblings about men and life and probably made no sense whatsoever. Fortunately I seldom make much sense after a few glasses of wine, and I think she got the general gist. Oh, and she did a fantastic job of painting my toenails red. Far better than any attempt I could make myself, where I usually end up looking like an unsupervised five year old with Mummy’s make up bag, or the victim of some terrible toe disease midway through surgery.

It was lovely to spend some time with Jane. She got married a couple of weeks ago, and I think the aftershock of returning home and getting on with a normal life has been a tricky transition to make. It must be a real anti-climax, and it was nice to feel needed rather than like I was intruding on a newly wed love nest. I could have done without the body image talk. It’s par for the course with most females though, especially those who live in the grey area of the Eating disorder scale. The ones who throw up every so often, or are constantly dieting, or spend way too long at the gym. You can’t quite slot them into an ED category, but they’d probably be happier and healthier if they could calm down a bit. I can’t think of a single one of my friends which doesn’t find the urge to talk weight and food with me. I swear, I don’t instigate this behaviour, but I’ll admit to being unable to extract myself from any unhealthy chit chat when it does arise. It’s pretty bad for me, I’m not quite at the point in recovery where I can listen to negative body talk, without spending the next few days feeling the backlash. Fortunately these days I have enough insight to realise when I catch a glance of myself in a reflective surface, that it is more likely I’m being attacked by the ED mindset, than gained 4 stone of body weight in 24 hours.

Jane dropped me off at my Grandmothers house, to spend the week. Anyone who knows me on Facebook in real life, will know how much I hate where I am currently living, and how much stress I have been under trying to cope with house mate’s and landlord issues recently. Things have calmed down a great deal in the past week, but without going into lengthy back story, things at home have been stressing me out. However, that said, getting away for a week is something really hard for me. Back to this town, where I grew up, away from my routine but carrying on with my life and work, should be an interesting challenge. And last night it all hit me like a ton of bricks in the face. Strange surroundings, uncertainty, a metric shit load of memories in my Grans house, being overtired, hungover, with a dash of PMS (which is something I won’t complain about, because quite frankly am still very proud about getting periods again!), and the fallout from the body chit chat with Jane, I found myself Binging and Purging for the first time in months.

It totally was not worth it! Aside from the whole throwing up blood and pain viewpoint, it’s been a really good reminder of how horrible that feeling is, how much it lowers my mood, and how bad it makes me feel about my body afterwards. Any struggle I might have been having with my thigh circumference or wobbly bits is magnified after a binge. It’s like opening the door up to that mindset, and letting it have a corner of yourself. Like the mousetraps that my Grandmother has scattered around her home, those ED thoughts are so prevalent today. Silently chuntering on in the background, making me feel inferior and lost and sad, but it’s taken me all day to realise that is what is making me feel so miserable. “Blah Fatty Blah Ugly Blah Useless” *SNAP* (ouch) It’s an amazing skill when you learn to listen to those thoughts, rather than act on the bad feelings they bring. For so long I couldn’t actually hear how negative that inner voice was, recently I’ve learnt to tap into it, rather than block it out.

I refuse to let this feel like the end of the world. After all, it’s only an action, isn’t it? Like any other action in it’s simplest sense, throwing up isn’t murdering a kitten, or robbing a bank. If I’d thrown up without premeditation then I doubt I would be giving myself grief for it, beating myself up for getting food poisoning, or being sea sick. So I’m choosing to see it as a great little reminder, that I won’t be going back to Bulimia anytime soon. Life without it is so much better. I’d rather cope with the uncomfortable feelings to start with, than the miserable feelings afterwards. Not to mention the exhaustion and pain physically. I’d been foolish to say “Never again” because you can’t predict what set of circumstances might next lead you to the kitchen cupboard, or to the toilet bowl, but I can hold the memory of this occasion up as a shield, next time the world feels overwhelming.

I’m still feeling very displaced, but that makes sense as I have geographically displaced myself. I’ve spent the day wandering around my old haunts. Hopefully not looking too much like a paedophile whilst hanging about in the park I used to play in, swinging on a familiar swing, walking my old route to school. Noticing the little changes and the big developments. I’ve not seen anyone I know yet, but I’ve a week here maybe more if my Grandmother agrees. As low as my mood is today, I can’t help but feel like I’ve come home.

Lola x