The truth about laxative addiction

Most of my friends and family know now about my addiction to laxatives. It was a struggle that I kept secret for years but over time became something I couldn't hide anymore.
Recently someone joked that they'd be intrigued to see what laxatives were like, presuming I take them to lose weight. That's the danger, you initially think you might lose a couple of pounds and then that's that.
The truth with laxatives is you don't lose weight. Pounds may lower on the scales but that's water weight and it will never truly stay off.
My usage of laxatives has grown over the recent years, I don't think it's helpful or healthy to write down that number I take. The world of eating disorders can be even more lethal when numbers come into it.
But, nevertheless, it's grown to the point where it's classed as an addiction by doctors and dieticians, it's grown to the point it's cost me more money than I can even think about, but more importantly it costs me my health.
My health wasn't great before, have an eating disorder and all. But what nobody realises in the early days is that laxatives drain your electrolytes. They literally strip your stomach lining out of you. Your stomach lining that is full of good bacteria and electrolytes that you need to keep your heart steady and your liver healthy.
Electrolytes help with hydration. They rebuild broken parts of you, like cuts and grazes.
Electrolytes ranges from sodium to calcium to potassium.
And laxative abuse will drain them from your insides.
The effects of this then range from dehydration to dizziness to heart palpitafions, and so on.
The reality of a laxative addiction is horrendous. It means being able to physically feel the goodness of electrolytes leave your body and this leaves you dazed, slightly confused at times, your face turns whiter, you're cold but also sweating and then the heart palpitations and the nausea kick in.
People suffer heart palpitations for all sorts of reasons and I've had them before my eating disorder and many times since my laxative abuse, and in a nutshell,
they are horrible.
A tightness in your chest and the feeling that you cannot control your heart beats. Irregular and unnerving and sickly beats.
In the worst case scenarios, laxative abuse leads to sudden seizures or death, because your body can't regulate it's organs, most specifically your heart, liver and your kidneys. So in these worst cases scenarios, your heart just packs in.
I suppose it's the same last dying from a heroin overdose or ecstasy. The drug has made your insides irregular and your heart can't take it.
I've clearly not died due to laxative abuse, unless this is the afterlife? (Actually maybe I'm in hell and that's why I can't break my addiction.)
But back to me being alive, I've had some moments where I've said to myself this is going to kill me.
Many people think taking laxatives just means you shit yourself basically you get bad diahorrea and that's that. Maybe that's how it is if you take a prescribed amount once or twice.
But that is not what chronic laxative abuse is. Chronic laxative abuse is, like I said, all the goodness draining from you and being able to literally feel your heart strain to cope with what you are doing.
It's being tired all the time, feeling sick, not being able to keep any food inside you, dehydration, dizziness, it's being in a foul mood a lot of the time, it's sweating, fainting, horrendous pain, it's total and utter shame over what you've done to your life.
If writing this can steer even one person away from taking laxatives to cope with an eating disorder then I'm not ashamed of my issue and I won't be embarrassed to put these words out there for the world to see.
Starting taking laxatives was the worst decision of my life and you have to believe me when I say it will ruin your life.
It's hard to believe when a packet of laxatives is a couple of quid and so easily accessible, but heroin is easy accessible if you know the right people. 

How do you keep faith whilst fighting mental illness?

How do you keep faith during mental illness? Perhaps this is the million dollar question. From things I have read and things I have experienced, I can only imagine that people both find faith and lose faith when coping with mental illness.

I was brought up a Christian, went to Brownies and church on a Sunday. It was a nice upbringing, I enjoyed learning about Bible stories. I have believed in God for as long as I can remember, it was just part of my mind set I guess.

I’m sure people of all religions have times in their lives when they question their faith in one way or another. I have only had two times in my life where I have really questioned my faith. The first time was when I realised I had feelings towards a girl, but I decided quite quickly that the God I knew loves people for who they are.

The other time of questioning has been over the last two years, when my eating disorder climaxed and took over my everyday life. I believe strongly that there is always someone who is worse off than you, and it is right to be grateful for what we have. I have been lucky in life in many ways and I have always thanked God for that. But there are times when I have to ask why.

It’s 2.30am and I’m lying on the bathroom floor, near crippled from the pain of the tablets I’ve been addicted to for the last five or six years. The voice of my eating disorder is prominent, taunting me for the fact I used to be thinner, I used to weigh less, I’ve let myself put on weight again. The tablets leave me completely dehydrated, I feel the need to wee and the pain in my bladder but nothing happens for hours and hours. There’s something tomorrow I’m meant to do, go to work or go out somewhere – but I know I won’t feel well enough. This is a time when I ask God why, why has this happened to me?

I never ask “why me?” because I’d simply never wish this on someone else instead of me. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. The physical pain and the mental desperation and self-destruction.

There are times when I say how can God be real? If God exists why does He allow this to happen?

I imagine most people with mental illness and faith must question this at one time or another. When you feel the lowest you’ve ever felt, depression grips you, you’re anxious about everything and suicidal thoughts creep into your mind – how can God be there and let this happen?

Is it a test of our strength? This would be the cruellest test.

How do you keep your faith whilst fighting mental illness?

Can nature be a type of therapy?

One of the most infuriating things about mental illness is that there is no one cure. There's lots of things proven to make people feel better, therapy, medication, even time is sometimes a healer, but there is no one, universal cure.
I want to talk about the impact nature has had upon my mental health, and in specific, gardening. For people who don't know me, I started experiencing depression and struggling with self harm when I was 16. This snowballed somewhat for a few years and in my late teens I developed an eating disorder. Around April-May last year was when my mental health really took it's toll, I dropped out of university, was finally officially diagnosed as anorexic and my life came to a complete stop.
Through anti depressants I eventually found a little bit of solace and I started therapy.
However the thing that really made a difference to me was being outside, being around nature, and eventually when I had more strength I started gardening.
I'm not going to write about numbers or weight, because it isn't helpful to anyone, but at first I was so underweight that I didn't have the physical strength to try gardening, so I would just sit outside and look at the trees and plants.
I especially love sitting outside in the rain. There is something magical about nature because it is not man made. There is something amazing about looking at a tree and acknowledging that that tree was alive long before you were and likely will be long after you are gone. Many times when I was unwell, I would be so caught up in my own mind, my dark thoughts and my pain. I would sit outside and look after at the flowers and trees and I'd think about how these plants would be alive no matter if I wasn't.
Does that make any sense? I don't know but it makes sense in my head.
When you are mentally unwell, you lose your faith in everything.
You lose faith in yourself because your mind tells you you're worthless.
You often lose faith in services because more often than not treatment isn't available, takes so long to access or isn't what you need.
You lose faith in the world and the world becomes black.
Nature helped restore my faith in the world.
We see nature every day but do we really look at it?
When I started to look properly I saw colours I'd never seen before. I started to realise there was beauty in the world that mental illness could never destroy.
When I started gardening, I started to grow vegetables and I continued doing this through the ups and downs of recovery.
I'm no where near fully recovered now, but I'm a healthy weight and I'm able to work again, and nature played a big part in that.
On bad days I go to my allotment and look at the all the vegetables, all these vegetables that I'd grown and nurtured from tiny seeds.
It felt so good to care for something else living when caring for myself was often so difficult.
Being around nature and gardening is not a cure, but it's peaceful, it's grounding and it's reassuring that there are still pure, wholesome things in the world and you can create them.
You can plant flowers and care for them and see them bloom into beautiful things.
When your mind is screaming and racing at a thousand miles an hour, being outside surrounded by plants and trees can ground you. You finally feel able to breathe.
You see there is so much more to life than mental illness, there's so much more in this world than humans.
It's not a cure but it's a type of therapy. It's breathing space, somewhere safe. 

A letter

Dear ED,

You tore me to pieces.
Physically and mentally.
You reduced me to nothing more than a mess of anxiety, sickness and loathing.
I've come quite far in my recovery.
I have the strength to live again, I went back to work and started to rebuild my social life.
You're still here though.
You don't talk to me quite as much as you used to, or maybe you do but I can quieten you better now.
Still you don't let me sleep through the night.
Still nights spent on the bathroom floor.
ED why did you do this to me?
I was my own person and you killed that and made me yours.
I eat better now, three months ago my weight came back up inside the healthy range.
This is both good and bad for me.
My hair stopped falling out and my energy became more again.
I eat more so you laugh at me more.
I disgust you you say.
You used to control all of me, but therapy gave me the power to differentiate between us.
I can be someone without you, I just need to carry on and find my way.
You say you do all of this because it's what's best for me, because you love me you want me to be thin.
You say you know better than anyone.
If you love me then let me rest.
I miss sleeping at night, I want to sleep when the rest of the world sleeps, not half way through the day when I'm too exhausted to stay awake.
Let me rest.
Let me heal.
Let me go.

Yours,
C 

When is the right time to end therapy sessions?

When is the right time to end therapy sessions?
Through my teen years I watched Sex and The City and the girls talked about seeing therapists as if it was trendy, as if it was the thing to do.
I started seeing my therapist in October 2017, and seeing her has been beyond helpful in teaching me ways to break my obsessional traits and take back some control from my eating disorder.
When I went to her I was clinically classed as anorexic, lacking in mental stability. I had no concentration, I couldn't care about anything properly.
Since seeing her my weight has gone up to 8 stone. My BMI is now in the healthy range, at the low end but still in the healthy range.
I know she has helped me a lot but I do long to see if I can manage alone.
6-7 months isn't a long time in terms of having therapy, not at all, so I wonder am I ready to try alone?

The true miracle is not walking on water or walking in air, but simply walking on this earth. ― Thích Nhất Hạnh

I have a new respect for life that I didn't have when I was seriously unwell last year. I was ready to let go of life and waiting for my way out.
Now, for the first time in several years, I really want to be alive.
Therapy has given so much back to me.
I am not fully recovered, or even close, but I have gone from 20-25 laxatives daily to 12. And I now have to knowledge to lower that number further.
I have more control now than I've had before with this disorder.
As we strive to destigmatise mental health, I know the thought of having therapy becomes destigmatised too.
Far too many people are afraid to ask for help or ashamed, I was for many years, but therapy has given me a chance at life again.
Whether I do the rest of this journey alone is not important, whether I continue to see my therapist every week or only once a month doesn't matter. What matters is seeing a therapist in the first place probably saved my life.

A love letter to laxatives

I want to sleep.
I want to sleep through the night without being awoken by the pain of laxatives.
Most nights I'm awake five or six times, the pain so horrible that I end up curled up on the bathroom floor.
No position in bed is comfortable, no amount of hot water bottles help.
I want you to leave me alone now.

Blossoms

My whole life I have loved writing.
I started writing stories and poetry when I was in my early teens, by the time I was sixteen I wanted to be a play write.
Although this wasn't a career I pursued, I never stopped writing.
It always brought peace to my mind.
When I became ill everything changed.
The only thing I knew to write about was being ill. Was my disorder. Was depression.
For a while it helped me to write about it at the beginning of the darkness, it helped me to navigate through it.
From time to time now I still find it a needed release, but I don't want to simply write about being unwell anymore.
I am in recovery, recovery is slow and some days feels impossible.
I want to write about life again.
This time last year, the year before and the year before that, I was quite sure the illness would end my life at some point, so documenting how I felt seemed the right thing to do.
When you are mentally unwell, life loses its colour and the world seems dismal shades of grey and black.
Slowly, as recovery progresses, the colours come back.
I can see colour again, I can see the pink and white blossom on the trees.
I promise myself I will never let an illness take the colours of the earth away from my sight again.
What is life if everything is grey? 

What should you believe?

Something inside me can't heal.
I force myself to eat the most 'normal' meals I can and with every bite I disgust myself.
Eight years I have had this thing living inside me.
I asked my therapist how can I know whether what my voice tells me is real or not? I have put on a little bit of weight so Beelzebub tries to force me to lose it.
My therapist asked was I happier at 40kg with nothing much left in my life, when I lost friends and my career path.
Maybe I was?
Beelzebub tells me nothing mattered except being the lowest weight possible.
How do you ignore that?
How do you ignore something that lives inside your very soul? 

Remember

Slowly you learn to let yourself eat again,
Maybe you put on a couple of pounds,
Onto that body that was near skin and bones,
It feels like the heaviest weight in the world.
The voices fly round your head,
Fat, big, huge, ugly,
Obese, enormous, disgusting,
You fight, fight, fight again those words.
It is not fat, it is the start of becoming healthy again,
The start of becoming you again.
Remember when you weren't too weak to go to the gym,
Remember when you could enjoy a meal in a restaurant,
Remember when standing up didn't leave you light headed,
When daily life didn't exhaust you.
Remember who you were before this.

...

There are more feel good, body confident quotes around than you could count.
There are many amazing recovery stories to inspire you.
There are cold, hard facts about what eating disorders do to people.
There are also the cold, hard facts of what anorexia did to my life. Even referring to myself as anorexic feels like a sham now. I suppose I was, my weight was in the 'anorexic boundaries' and I would restrict and starve. But now it feels like a joke saying it, it feels embarrassing.
My weight now is only a couple of pounds under the recommended 'healthy' weight for someone my height. My bmi is just under the recommended.
But barely.
Barely.
Putting on weight in the last few months has increased my energy, made me overall 'healthier' but it hasn't helped my thoughts at all.
I'm ashamed of my weight now. Ashamed that I used to be thinner.
I look constantly for something to inspire all of the self hatred and loathing out of me but there's nothing. 

Getting nowhere?

The terrain of recovery changes daily, this is natural but this makes it very easy to want to give up.
I have days where I think I haven't gotten anywhere. Where I completely feel ruled by Beelzebub and I don't see that ever changing.
But I'm wrong and if you feel that same hopelessness then you may well be wrong too.
It is ED that makes us believe we are failing, getting nowhere, because ED wants us to give up.
Since I started seeing my therapist last year, I've gained 4 pounds - which is over 4 months may not seem a lot but anorexics struggle to put any significant weight on quickly.
When your body has become used to functioning at 41/42/43 kg, or whatever your weight was, or so long, it will take time for that to increase.
Since seeing my therapist I haven't self harmed.
Since seeing her I have trained myself to look at calories on food packets less and to try and stop calculating them constatnly in my head.
I have also got a job that I really enjoy and I have gone from weighing myself 7/8/9/10 times a day to weighing myself once or twice a week.
Now, my therapist is good but I'm not saying she has done all of this for me, she hasn't. What a truly great therapist does is give you the tools to make the changes.
With an eating disorder, only the one struggling can make the changes.
I have still have a long way to go, my eating habits are far from 'normal', my laxative abuse has not improved yet and my mind can still be a dark place.
But that doesn't matter right now, what matters is I have made progress.
If you are someone who struggles, and you feel you are getting nowhere, think harder because any improvement however small is a victory.
Recovery is not one big step forward, it is made up of lots of little victories.

My venomous thing

A venomous thing still lives inside my soul.
Acknowledging that was the first real step I took towards getting better.
I feel more positive now than I have for many months, if not years, but naturally the bad days, the bad thoughts still come.
As time goes on I know they'll become less frequent but when it's a bad day it's so difficult to divert your brain and remind yourself that these days will lessen as time goes on.
The one thing I do tell myself that does hit home is that if you have to restrict to be the weight you are, then you aren't meant to be that weight. If you have to purge or abuse laxatives or cause your body harm in any other way, then that isn't the weight your body is meant to be.
There is no 'perfect weight to aim for.
Your body knows what it wants and needs, let yourself live.
The voice of an eating disorder will tell you you are meant to be skin and bones, but actually your physical body knows what you need a lot more than the eating disorder that is clouding and controlling your brain.
Eating disorders are a fight to the death.
Either you fight until the eating disorder kills you, or you fight until your life ends due to a physical illness or whatever.
Whether you die at 19 or 90, an eating disorder is always a fight to the death.
I must fight to let myself live, fight against the disorder, against the venom.
Anyone out there struggling must fight to let yourself live too.

Life has to be the only option, then your eating disorder cannot win.

Old brain VS new brain

It's been two weeks now since I started to attempt to weigh myself less.
It's hard.
I never realised the unhealthy comfort that it gave me to weigh myself 8/9/10 times a day. I knew it made me feel better to do it but I didn't realise how much I was reassured and comforted by it.
My constant companion, my eating disorder, the thing that has given me life at the exact same time as it has destroyed my soul.

I try now to weigh myself once every 2/3 days. Sometimes I'm successful with this but often I'm not.
The temptation calls to me. Beelzebub reminding me that I can just quickly stand on those scales and then at least I will know exactly what I weigh.
Trying to change the way you have thought for years and years and years is hard.
It's almost as if my brain just doesn't know what to think anymore.
On one hand it tells me to weigh myself and then I can base what I eat or dlnt eat around that, I can use laxatives and be in control.
On the other hand it tells me if I weigh myself I'll start losing weight and I'm still classed as underweight so that would be bad.
My old, eating disorder brain VS my new non-eating disorder brain.
The problem is that my new non-eating disorder brain is so young and inexperienced, and my old, faithful ED brain feels more homely and much safer.

I cannot complain because in general I do feel better now than I did a few months ago, or than I did this time last year, but I'm still fighting and still struggling.
And I wonder if the struggle will ever end. 

Periods are never fun

I don't think I know of any person who enjoys getting their period, I have definitely always hated mine. Even before I was unwell, it was something I dreaded.
This post may be a bit 'gross' to some people, but I think that reinforces that eating disorders need to be more widely spoken about so that people accept and face up to the struggles that sufferers face.
I've always had very painful periods but the one that just recently started seems worse than ever.
It may be that I haven't had a proper one for so many months now that I forgot what it was like, it may be the utter shock to my bodily system that I weigh enough now to have them, I don't know. But it's horrendous.
I know my period returning is a big sign of being in recovery - I should be happy about this, because I do want to get better. But it also carries a feeling of impending doom.
I say so often to my therapist, I find the hardest part of my eating disorder to be battling against it with logical thoughts.
For example, when I eat something and my ED says 'you're disgusting you're fat look at the state of you'
I have to reply with logic; 'I know logically you are wrong because I know what I weigh and I know the guidelines of what a healthy weight is'.
It's like that with my period. As soon as it arrived Beelzebub is telling me I've failed, I weigh enough now for my period to come normally, that means I'm fat.
I know LOGICALLY this is wrong - I know my weight has gone up slightly but is still classed as underweight so how can I be overweight? I know billions of perfectly healthy, beautiful women have periods every day and they aren't disgusting or fat. I know my period is a good thing, a sign that I'm getting better.
But these logical thoughts vs my eating disorder are so hard to manage. Because Beelzebub is still strong, to the point my human non-ED brain sometimes even says but fuck logic.
It makes it so much worse than my period leaves me physically tired and emotionally drained so I have less energy to fight ED.
I think the worst part of my period is that alongside the period pains, I have pains from laxatives. Anyone who has been through this mixture - I salute you.
It is nothing short of horrific.
The pains are crippling.
You don't know what your body needs or wants, all you know is that it's screaming with pain.
God knows there is no over the counter painkiller in the world that can make a difference.
I slept last night for fourteen hours, clinging onto a hot water bottle teddy bear. Now don't get me wrong, I know there are far greater physical pains in the world, and if I think long enough then I know I've experienced worse.
Unfortunately periods have a clever way of manipulating your hormones and turning them from quite rational little beings into near psychotic, tearful little hurricanes. So it becomes hard to remember that the pain will pass and it could be a lot worse.
I know I am getting better, I just have to focus on that.

The bottom line is that your period may be one of the most difficult parts of recovery.
(This is not at all to say that boys and men don't have eating disorders, of course they do but without a willybob I don't know what equates to a period for you guys!)
All I can say, to both men and women, is do your best to persevere.
Girls, when your period comes and you feeling defeated, like a failure, please do not give up. Crawl into bed and curl up with a hot water bottle, watch a happy film or nap. Then when you wake up hopefully a little blue sky will come through the grey and you must tell yourself you are not a failure. A women's body was made to have periods, it's a gift really because it symbolises reproduction.
If you have your period then you are beating your eating disorder, even if it's only in a very small way, you should be proud of that.
To anyone lucky enough to be in a relationship or to be friends with someone who is suffering, remind them what a gift from God they are to the world.
Period or no period, an ED sufferer often feels like the worst thing alive, tell them whenever they need to hear it that they are far from this. Also, high five to those who love and support sufferers, it's not easy job I know. I also know that they appreciate you more than you'll ever know.

A little positivity

I am going to dare to say that for the first time in a very long time, I feel quite well.
Whatever 'well' means.
Well, I feel less 'unwell'.
I am making progress with therapy. I have reduced the number of times I weigh myself daily from eight or nine, to one.
It wasn't easy, it was very anxiety provoking, especially for the first two or three days, but after that the anxiety did not continue to build, instead it sort of slowed down. The anxiety remained in my mind but it was engulfing me the way I had feared it would. Then after two weeks of weighing myself once a day, the anxiety was almost gone.
My next challenge is to take that once a day weigh in, and turn into once every three days, and then into once a week.
That is a terrifying thought, but it's only terrifying for a minute. Because then I think, I have already reduced the amount of times by a lot, so I can do this.
As well as my weighing goal, I'm also aiming to reduce my laxative intake over the next two weeks.
This is a lot scarier than weighing myself only once a day.
I can't predict how it will go, taking laxatives has been part of my daily routine for three or four years now - I'm actually quite sure I pay for at least half of the workers wages at Sanofi.
But, like I said in my previous post, when things are difficult I have to think of what motivates me.

It quite simply comes down to this;

• I can be thin, restrict my diet until I'm only a handful of kilograms, I will satisfy Beelzebub and then either die, or live an empty life attacked to feeding tubes, but I will be thin.
• Or, I can eat a little more, exercise a little more, gain weight but also gain muscle, and have a happier and healthier life, doing the things I enjoy. Yes I will weigh more than I weigh now. No Beelzebub won't like it and he will criticise, but I'll be alive. 

A while ago, my mind was so controlled by my eating disorder than I would have chosen option one. I have made progress without even really realising, because I now choose option two. 

No matter how bad the day is, no matter if I can't make it out of bed, if I can't look at food, if I don't want to speak to anyone - still, option two. 

An experiment

The latest thing I am trying with my therapist is to not weigh myself as much as I usually do.

Averagely at the moment I weigh myself six or seven times throughout the day.

It’s really a habitual thing more than anything.

I believe it’s a common thing for us ED sufferers to do. More than anything it’s reassurance isn’t it? Reassurance that we haven’t slipped too far, put on too much.

I’m trying over the next fortnight to only weigh myself once in the morning and once before bed.

At first it was a scary thought, really scary, like I’m going to lose control.

But then I thought about it, and actually it doesn’t mean I’m going to lose any more control than I would have if I were weighing myself the usual amounts.

It’s a habit I’ve gotten into and come to rely on, but it’s unhealthy and I know that deep down.

I’m feeling quite confident that I can manage to resist the temptation of the scales.

I know I’ll be anxious about it, but I have to keep reminding myself that Beelzebub is wrong when he tells me I need to weigh myself. That won’t rid me of the anxiety. All weighing myself religiously will do is give me momentary peace and then more anxiety will build until the next weigh in.

I have to ride the wave of the anxiety, stay strong, stay away from the scales, stay distracted, until the anxiety passes. 

Letters to my eating disorder

My therapist asked me to write two letters to my eating disorder. One letter addressing the disorder as my friend, the other addressing it as my enemy.

I don’t really know what I expected myself to write, but reading them I was quite taken aback. I don’t think I realised what the ‘friend’ letter would be like, well really I had no idea what either letter would consist of. I tried to write them at times where I felt 'ok', so I wasn't biased towards the disorder being more of a friend, or more of an enemy. 

I think the comparison of these letters is probably one of the best ways to explain what having an eating disorder is like, to somebody who knows nothing about them. The two sides, contrasting feelings that tear the sufferer down the middle.

Dear ED, my friend,

I do not really remember my life before you. I do vaguely, but it doesn’t seem real to think that there was a time you were not a part of me. It would be a lie to say that everything you’ve done for me has been pleasant, but through the worst times you have been there to offer me control and to give words of encouragement. Through the hundreds of sleepless nights, the daily physical struggles of crippling stomach pains, the loss of energy and muscle mass, and through the worst times where my hair has fallen out and my bodily systems have been taken far out of my control, you have been there. You have encouraged me that these struggles are worth it. You have always been there to remind me that these struggles will lead to the ultimate goal: to be thin, as thin as possible.

I named you Beelzebub, after Binsfeld’s classification of demons, named the seven princes of Hell.  This name suits you because you are powerful and, like Beelzebub, you make mere mortals worship you. Beelzebub is also one of the seven deadly sins, it is gluttony; which felt very fitting.

You have made me feel powerful, so powerful; by showing me I am not weak. You taught me how to have the will power to starve myself for days on end if I want to, or how to live on a single piece of fruit a day. If I have that power, then nobody can call me weak. I am more powerful than other people, because you taught me I do not need to eat like they do. I have no need for three meals a day.

I was raised as a Christian and have always believed in God, so for me to insinuate that you are God-like would be wrong, but just as I know God cares for mankind, I know you care for me. It is hard to not liken you to a God. Your powerful is extraordinary. You can sustain me in a way that food cannot.

I have missed many social occasions because of you, but I know, although I miss my friends and family, you are showing me the way to my ultimate goal and sacrifices must be made. 

Through our relationship, I have become less emotional and I often feel numb or empty. But I am never empty because I have you. Some people may think the deadening of my emotions is a negative thing, but they’re wrong. Thanks to you I realise that most day to day things are meaningless. I know that achieving our goal will be a constant fight, so I do not need to waste my emotions on irrelevant issues.

It could be argued that you, Beelzebub, have taken my life away from me. I’m sure many people would view it that way. Actually, you have given me more control over my life than anything else ever has. You are my greatest and most faithful companion.

With love,

Your Catharine. X

Dear ED, my enemy,

It’s hard for me to remember what my life was like before you were here. It feels an extremely long time ago. I suppose that’s because it is a long time ago. It has been over seven years since I first met you, and being twenty five that is a considerable chunk of my life. I can vaguely remember what it was like to go out with friends or family, to go out for meals and not feel sheer panic, physical sickness, anxiety and absolute dread. All I have are distant memories of my life before I met you.

I wish I had never met you. Since you, my life has fallen apart bit by bit. I have lost friendships and a relationship because you turned me into a shell of who I was. You made me into an anxious, terrified, pathetic mess whose life revolves completely around you. You have rendered me incapable of socialising properly, made me believe I am unworthy of friends, unworthy of anything nice.

You have complete power and control over me; you have ensured that the only thing I truly long for is the ultimate goal of being as thin as possible. Sometimes I feel very small parts of who I used to be coming through, trying to fight their way in. In these moments I’m more likely to eat something, I’m more likely to have energy and motivation, but these moments last such a short time. You stamp the old parts of me down, until they shrink into nothingness again.

I can never escape from you, you’re there when I go to sleep and there when I wake up. You’re everywhere I go because you have made a home inside my soul.

But my soul was not yours to take.

I lied earlier, there is another thing I truly long for and that is to be rid of you.

Regretfully yours,

Catharine. 

This cannot be for ever

I want to feel alive without relying on venlafaxine. 

I want to be able to eat whatever I fancy. Today I had 7/8 celebrations chocolates at work, they obviously taste nice but is eating them worth it when I can’t let myself eat anything else for the rest of the day? 

I can’t live my whole life only being able to eat 300 calories a day. 

I want to be rid of the guilt, the disgust and the mental torture. 

I want to be able to put on a brave face for more than one day in a row.

I want my life to be real again. 

All consuming darkness

I haven’t been able to complete my food diary in the last few days. It’s just a blatant, enormous, undeniable reminder of what a failure I am. 

I know for many people 300/400 calories a day isn’t much but my demon tells me differently.

It’s way too much. 

I can’t even write the things inside my head. It’s too much for anyone to read really. 

I have sharpie marked on my thighs to indicate how far up my thigh I can put my fingers round to measure and my fingers will meet. 

I have such a long way to go and it’s dark. 

Precious venlafaxine

I’ve always read things and been told that missing doses of psychiatric medication can really mess you up. Thankfully I’ve been quite good at remembering to take my tablets, but yesterday evening I realised I had forgotten to take my morning venlafaxine. 

Quickly the reasons why yesterday was such a horrible day became clear. But even with the knowledge I hold about medication, I was surprised how awful I felt only missing one dose. 

The urge to self harm was incredibly strong throughout the day, I couldn’t concentrate even on the television without images of my thighs ripping open bursting into my mind. 

I ended up crawling into bed around 2pm because it felt simply like it was too painful, tiring and overwhelming to be awake. The longing to sleep forever more was even more overwhelming. 

By the evening I had a weird feeling of energy, I had a glass of wine and tried to watch television. My mind was racing and I wasn’t concentrating on anything. 

As the evening went on I wasn’t feeling the usual tiredness I should feel at that time, and after that it was as if I went into a slightly manic state. I felt absolutely ecstatic, I decided 11pm was the perfect time to play hide and seek. I was finding everything I was doing utterly hilarious. 

After a few hours I felt like I was on a comedown from speed. Eventually my body slept but I still don’t feel like my mind was resting. 

I woke up today feeling all over the place and tearful. As soon as I was awake this morning I took the venlafaxine and I’ve never felt so much relief taking tablets. 

I owe a lot to venlafaxine, I know it’s the reason my suicidal and self harm urges are more easily kept at bay. Again, even with the knowledge I have on medication, I never really ‘believed’ properly in anti depressants until I started venlafaxine. But, in reality it isn’t far off a life saver at the moment.