Home, and the biscuit saga. (From theoverthinkingblog)

Bonjour :)
This is the second time I've had to write this post, because my sister came in and I panicked/jumped like such an idiot trying to hide the screen from her that I managed to lose the entire blog post. *sobs* Lets try that again shall we?

I've been at 'home' home for a week or so now and it's, well. It's difficult. I've never been someone who copes especially well with change, no matter how little, because disruption in my routine makes me really upset and anxious. But mainly I guess, this is about food.
I have managed to regain a little bit of the weight I dropped during my lapse in January/February time, but if I said that that was I was completely okay with/totally intentional that would be a colossal LIE. More like, I've had to try and make myself a little better because i've got such a busy summer that I literally don't have time to be sick anymore. (?) That sounds so odd it's almost laughable… but either way, the point is if I'm going to go on an adventure holiday to explore cuba with my family without being irritable and risking passing out all the time, I'm going to need to be stronger. And if I'm going to survive a week of intensive rehearsals and a two week performance run at the Edinburgh Fringe, i'm going to have to come at it with everything i've got.
YEAH. That's right Edinburgh Fringe. I see you, and I raise you A NON-STUNTED METABOLISM AND VAGUELY STABILISED ENERGY LEVELS. They should be scared, right?

The other thing is, my parents.
One of the very first things I learned when I was first in hospital allll the way back when I was 11, is how to sugar-coat things for my parents and for my family. Not because I don't want to explain to them how much I'm hurting or struggling, but because it genuinely tears me apart seeing what it does to them, and I can't put them through that. I cannot be the reason my family hurt that much. I refuse to be. This means when I'm at home, I have to eat what I'm given. And if I'm struggling, my family will literally sit there until I finish it. There is no option. As I was allowed to start eating again I learned very quickly how to eat at weekends in front of my family, but then restrict and be a mess all week when I was back in inpatient. Essentially, I guess I haven't really grown out of this farce. When i'm at home, I try my best to seat what I'm given. Which is all sort-of okay (ha) until I come 'home' home for the holidays, and then I have to keep up the farce ALL THE FREAKING TIME.

My parents, I think, either don't know or don't want to believe the extent to which I struggle and restrict when left to my own devices at Uni. Back home, I can't choose what I eat as much, and of course I can't restrict or allow behaviors to surface at all. Additionally, they have this weird obsession with taking 'getting me back to health' into their own hands, hence the 'ensure' incident a month or so ago where my mum admitted that she'd been spiking my coffee with it. (Ensure, in case you don't know, is UGH. It tastes of being 11 and being tube fed on a general hospital ward. And vaguely like vanilla apparently. Its this sort of meal-in-a-drink milkshake type thing that is given to people who need to regain weight but aren't able to do so through solid food, or need a bit of a helping hand). Similarly, she keeps giving me 3 biscuits where my diet plan says 2, and then almost crying if I challenge it.

The thing to understand is that my physical state of recovery does not in any way reflect my mental state. I know that my parents very much subscribe to what they've always been told by doctors about how with a healthier weight my mood should lift and I should find it easier to rationalize, and I'm sure that there is some scientific backing to that, but a lot of the time it just isn't true.
Regaining weight, especially over such a little period of time, has been nothing short of traumatic really. It causes body disassociation, a kind of desperately heavy and unbelievable depression, and on the worst days sometimes nothing at all, just this blank numbness of frustration and sickening self hate at what you've let yourself become. And you it will feel entirely your own fault, your disorder will make very careful considerate to make sure it always always feels like your fault. Sweet that, isn't it?

I'd be lying too if I said that coming home hasn't been a bit of a relief in some ways. I think whether I like it or not, I'm sure I do somewhat benefit from having people around instead of being so isolated all the time, and I know I definitely benefit from the hugs and the distraction of copious episodes of F.R.I.E.N.D.S even if they feel a bit unreal or invasive at the time. Last night I almost cried laughing playing mariokart with my little sisters, and god knows the last time that happened. But it needs to be understood that coming home is never a 'get out' card in the way that my parents seem to think it might be. It doesn't solve everything, and it brings it's own problems. And inevitably my efforts to hide everything do sometimes come crashing down, even if its in the form of a small piece of cheese. Let's just hope that doesn't happen too catastrophically.