(Eating disorder discussion – you know the score, etc. etc.)

I got a spam comment offering me free HD sex. I have to admit, if I’m going to have sex, I would like it in high definition. Why bother, otherwise? Anyway.

I was watching My Child Isn’t Perfect last night, which is a series about children and young people with mental, emotional and behavioural disorders and their families. One of the girls featured suffered with bulimia nervosa and was recieving treatment at the Maudsley CAMHS. Not a great deal was discussed about the treatment, although the extent of her disorder was detailed so in a way it was rather triggering. The programme made me sad primarily for selfish reasons – were I a few years younger, my eating disorder would be being addressed and “taken seriously”. As it happens, now I’m an adult, I shall have to have DO YOU BELIEVE I HAD A PROBLEM, NOW? engraved onto my headstone in my typical dramatic, histrionic, narcisstic fashion.

I’m really struggling with my eating at the moment. Physically, I feel quite unwell but nowhere near as bad as the anxiety levels I experience when it comes to mealtimes. I’m propping myself up with pillows in bed because of the aching muscles in my chest and stomach from purging. My family have managed to convince me to start taking some of my nutritional supplements again, but they taste absolutely horrible. Why not make them a nice flavour like…. like key lime or strawberry or hot chocolate? I feel a bit like I’m being fobbed off – bump up the supplements when my blood tests come back all over the shop and that’s that. I want to stop thinking this way. I want to stop doing this to myself.

I understand the limitations on funding for eating disorder treatment in the NHS, I do. There is very little money to be shared among very many people struggling with eating distress. But I am still frustrated. It’s not their lives that are being ran according to what the scales say that day, or how many calories they’ve eaten, or how little sleep they had from the constant cramping in their legs and feet.

Oh my life. The cramps.

I do want to get better. At the moment. I’m scared that by the time help comes, I’m not going to want to get better. If I were really ill, would I want to get better? Is there anything really wrong with me? I could do with losing just a bit more weight, after all. I probably shouldn’t've eaten that sandwich, to be honest. I just need to eat healthier, eat less fat. Less dairy, especially. I’d feel healthier, I’m sure I would.

And so it goes on, round and round and round. And round and round and round. And I want to get off now. I think.