I’m currently without a laptop so having to resort to video… here is a very quick update video for you lovely people. I’ll be back to posting soon xxx
I’m currently without a laptop so having to resort to video… here is a very quick update video for you lovely people. I’ll be back to posting soon xxx
In January I turned 30 years old. And one day later my sub-conscious decided that was old enough.
The day the world stood still.
On January 15th I tried to end my life.
Well, I didn’t.
Well it’s confusing… so get this…I did try to kill myself…but I have no recollection of it…I don’t remember doing it…I don’t remember being sad or depressed or unhappy …so technically I didn’t do it.
So I know, the doctors and the nurses and the psychiatrists and everyone says that I tried to kill myself. But get this…I didn’t. I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.
Well…my subconscious that slutty little shit bag did it to me! That’s right.
No! Well, yes…but no…yes….It was an act of accidental randomness. I accidentally did it on purpose. There is no denying that. The truth is I don’t know why. And I cannot recall much of the prep work. I don’t remember taking the pills, or choosing which ones to take. I don’t remember popping each tablet. I don’t remember what they felt like dragging down my throat. I don’t know if they felt chalky or smooth. I only remember, saying I am going to bed. I remember it being a normal bedtime. So maybe 11 o’clock? I took all the medication and then must have drifted off to sleep. I took approximately 65 pills. I don’t know if I used water to wash them down or cold tea. I don’t remember. I recall googling Bon Iver For Emma Forever on my phone. The first time I heard Bon Iver I said as a joke that I wanted to die to this music (but I meant more like in an old peoples home surrounded by my children and grandchildren)
I was found the next morning, perhaps at 8 o’clock. I remember hearing someone say “an ambulance will take too long”
The next thing I remember is laying on a gurney and announcing to the nurse that I could definitely walk to the toilet. And the nurse being very firm in her opinion that I couldn’t. But this also didn’t happen because I didn’t speak until two days later. I remember seeing a piss bag on the floor (that did in fact happen. Those sneaky bastards stuck a catheter up my vajaja) Didn’t even ask my permission those motherfuckers. For the next five days it felt like I was pissing glass.
The scary part is that I really don’t know why I did that. I made a mistake. I don’t know why. I can only say quite truthfully that I did not plan it. That it was out of character. I’m a perfectionist. And a writer. There is no way I would have departed this dear planet without a beautifully scripted goodbye letter. I would have made sure I was wearing matching pyjamas at least. I would have meticulously researched each tablet and worked out the side effects and optimal over dosage. So yeah, this was very out of character.
I want to throw up…its all acidic in my stomach. What on earth has happened? What? What? Did I fall down a rabbit hole? Is this the ministry of magic? What the hell happened??
What the fuck does that even mean. Help from who? I’m old enough to know that I’m in this alone and only I can fix my shit. So it was not a cry for help. I absolutely despise attention and sympathy so I can’t say I did it for those reasons either.
All I know is that the last few months were very hard. And I was very tired. I didn’t know what the future held. I didn’t know the road anymore. I didn’t know which way to go. I was lost. I just felt so lost. So scared. So scared of everything. I wasn’t even depressed. I was totally normal. I had a completely wonderful 30th birthday party the day before. I was happy. Surrounded by friends, drinking champagne and jumping in the pool for a midnight skinny dip.
I have no idea. I don’t know why. And I don’t know why I made it. Well I know why, because they pumped me full of IV drips and flushed everything out of my body. By the way, interesting little fact for you, they don’t pump stomachs anymore. Only time you would get remotely close to a pumping scenario is if you had literally taken the overdose like 20 mins previously. In which case they would force-feed you black, chalky charcoal water until you gagged and threw up your lungs. Ah the joys of near death!
No! So, what happened is that…life happens, things happen and sometimes they are so awful and painful and tragic that my brain thinks…hey I know how best to deal with this…let’s just pretend this isn’t happening and just keep saying over and over and over that we’re fine, we’re fine. That’s what I did.
Things happened. Engagements were broken off. Hearts were broken (mine). Weddings were cancelled. Guests were informed. Families were upset. Wedding dresses were cancelled. Deposits were partially refunded. In short, lives were ruined.
I guess the weeks leading up to it I wasn’t entirely normal. I don’t know what I was. I guess maybe I was in shock. I have no idea. Normally I’m quite in tune with my emotions but I couldn’t access any at that point. I just stood. I stood there and didn’t move. The smallest of breeze could have knocked me off my feet. I felt nothing.
Now? Now I don’t know what to do. I quite frankly don’t know how to adjust to life. Everything seems trivial and pointless. It feels like I’ve met everyone there is to meet in the world. I’ve eaten every food ever made, heard every song, seen every movie…It feels like life is now finished. I know how that sounds. I know how it looks. I look spoilt. Ungrateful and selfish. Trust me, I feel it. I feel the shame. But it’s the truth…and that’s all I have to offer.
I don’t know how to sugar coat this stuff. I didn’t want to die then…but I’ve played with the thought and acclimatized to it…and I’m in treatment and I’m on medication and I’m aware and alert of being in this state of mind. I am aware. It doesn’t make it any less of a struggle. I think about it all the time. And I fight against it. I say, not today…maybe tomorrow and I keep doing that…just get to Sunday…just get to Sunday…and on Sunday I say…just get to Monday…baby steps, you know?
I look at people out in the world…they’re doing jobs and living and buying food in the supermarket and I’m like how the fuck are they doing that! I’m in awe! I’m like you jammy motherfuckers! How’d you learn how to do that!
Fuck me…I’m scared of EVERYTHING. Of everything and nothing. I’m scared of the world. I’m scared of disappointing everyone. I’m scared of the shame. I’m scared of being broke. Of having no identity. I’m scared of wasting my life. I’m scared I’ll never have children. I’m scared I will blink and my youth will be over…I’m scared I will never make it. I’m scared of the shame. Of disappointing everyone. I’m scared of being told off. I’m scared of being a disappointment. I’m scared I will never make it. I’m scared I will never be free. I’m afraid of being afraid. I’m small. I’m so small and the world is so big and I don’t know how to live. That’s it really. I don’t know how to live. How are you people doing this? Why can I not just deal with it? Why does this stuff affect me more than other people? I don’t know how to be. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
It’s like I’m a toddler and they’ve just given me the keys to this massive tank and they’re like Ok drive this…I wanna be like erm excuse me but I’m only 9 months old and… like…I have no motor skills.
And the world is just like: “DRIVE!!”
And I’m like: “I’m a BABY!!! I don’t know how to drive! I don’t even know where we’re going!! Where am I going? Where is my mum?”
“No time for mummy now! Get hustling!”
And all around me I’m surrounded by fucking tank-driving babies and they’re all really good at it. They’re all like: “Wooohooo another promotion…wooohooo we bought a house!”
I’m like…”How are you doing this? How did you learn how to do that?”
Where are all the other struggling babies? I can’t be the only one…why is it that when life gets hard I crumble like this. I literally deflate…I turn into mush…I can’t open my eyes…I physically can’t move…I sleep for days…I don’t eat…I barely exist. My body takes on the consistency of bird shit. It’s all watery and slimy and acidic…and I have to scrape myself off the floor. My whole being rejects being alive. My arms look weird…they’re attached to me but they’re not a part of me. I pick and cut them to see if they’re definitely mine…and they bleed so I guess they are. I become another being. My voice isn’t my own. I look down at my arms and think “I never wanted you!” I never wanted any of this!
I wanted to be a squirrel. I wanted to live in the woods. And the real trauma…the real misery of life is that I’m not. I’m me. I’m me. I’m human and I didn’t choose any of this. And I’m ungrateful and people have real hard lives and I’m so fucking lucky to be alive. So there. That’s it. Onwards and upwards from here.
We all believed some pretty silly things when we were younger. Here are some of mine:
2. Tampons are an internal sort of nappy alternative. You stick them in your bum to plug up the poo. When you pull it out, all the poo comes rushing out. Perfect.
I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who thought this! Probably because they never actually showed what a tampon is for on any of the Tampax commercials. It’s always just this lady being draped in turquoise sheets holding a tampon in her hand. It’s very confusing.
3. If you smoke you’re going to die.
I remember very clearly seeing my friends mother smoking and being completely convinced that she was now going to die a horrible stinking death and her child would grow up an orphan.
4. Watching too much TV makes your eyes go square.
I LOVED watching TV as a kid. I watched everything. I used to get up at the crack of dawn every Sunday to watch cartoons. I now hate TV but that’s probably because it’s a load of shite now.
5. The mother chicken lays an egg and the rooster then sits on the egg and has sex with it. His rooster willy shags the egg and fertilizes it. That’s how chicks are made.
**I couldn’t be bothered to illustrate this one but that’s ok because I’m my own boss and my boss said it was ok**
6. White cows make milk. Brown cows make chocolate milk.
7. To make babies the man has to pee in the woman.
8. When my older sister dies I get to have her room. She’s 18 months older than me. Therefore she will die 18 months before me. So for 18 glorious months I could live in her room, sleep in her bunk bed, play with her doll house, wear her clothes etc. Awesome.
**Oh wait I didn’t illustrate this one either**
9. If you lick your elbow you turn into a boy and vice versa.
10. If you need a poo and you don’t go right away, the poo crawls back into your body and mummifies into a hard petrified rock and doctors have to chisel it loose to get it out.
Well that was last week motherfuckers! Yep, last week I was cruising and free-wheeling my way through life and today I crashed right into that motherfucker.
I think in the Jewish faith it’s called a Bat Mitzvah…when a girl become a woman. Well motherfuckers today I became a woman. That’s right bitches. Today I received an official blessing from the Gods of Adulthood. I received a BONERFIED certificate to prove to all the other adults that I am now one of them.
I got my first parking ticket.
It gets fucking better.
I’m also getting audited!!!! By the Inland Revenue or SARS as they’re called here in South Africa.
I quite frankly cannot contain my excitement about these two events and I’m telling everyone! I’m so honored and proud. I had no idea the tax people even knew who I was. Apparently, not only do they know who I am, they also think I’m smart enough to cheat on my taxes 😀 😀 😀
I have been validated. Approved. Blessed by the Gods of Adulthood. The Gods cry from the heavens “she is one of us now”
With tears of ecstatic joy seeping from my eyes I jubilantly wave the ticket in excitement.
I feel like I just received my PhD in grown up shit.
Finally! Finally I can be one of those people who complain about parking tickets. Finally I can complain about taxes.
I feel like a whole world of adult grievances has been kept from me until this very moment. At last! At last I am an adult. Now I can finally complain to the neighbors that their ficus is blocking my afternoon sun and demand that they trim it. Hooray! From this day forward I am an adult!
To prove my age I will no longer need to provide my ID. I will simply whip out my parking ticket (which is currently getting laminated).
The doorman and I will solemnly nod. He will rest an understanding arm on my shoulder and we will look at each other in the knowledge that we are one.
Woven from the same cloth, we are one flesh, united in the struggle for survival in the jungle of life.
We are brothers. We are adults. We are one.
He will then invite me into the club.
I am in the throes of adulthood. In a few months I’ll be 30 years old. I’m teetering on the brink of infanthood gazing down at the valley of grown ups below and standing right on the edge.
My little mushroom toes are craning their tiny necks to get a peak of the adult world below…but my inner toddler is terrified and about to piss her pants. Don’t make me go down there! Let’s stay up here where it’s safe and warm!
You know that Britney Spears song? I’m Not a Girl? Not Yet a Grown-up. Or something like. I’m Not a Girl, Not Even a Woman…I think that’s how it went. She’s standing on the cliff…yeah you know the song. Anyway that’s me. I am not a girl..not yet a grown up either. I am pivoting on the edge of that cliff. Please no one push me.
A lot has happened since I last spoke about adulthood. From the outside it appears that I have become an adult. I have ticked off the long list of things expected of a human my age.
My boyfriend, has very graciously offered me a ring in exchange for my life-long servitude and I have of course accepted. And all I have to do in return is lose my name, identity, sense of self and a couple of years off my life expectancy. But what a small price to pay for eternal happiness, ey?
I’m only joking of course (about the servitude thing). He’s my best friend and I just see this as a friendship upgrade. We’re going from friends to family 🙂
Also his surname is Ellis and I want to pretend I am the daughter of the guy who wrote American Psycho (which I happen to be reading at the moment).
So I am engaged to a man. Did I mention that I’m just 9 years old? That’s right..I am still only 9 years old and fuck me I am getting married. Holy shit how did this happen.
I am going to be a motherfucking WIFE! I must be honest the term wife doesn’t really throw up the sexiest of images. Wives make me think of old women in those wash dresses who wash linen down by the river and make sausages and candles out of bees-wax.
If you’re a wife are you still allowed to use the C word? And climb trees? And collect cool pebbles and twigs in the forest?
Do I have to start dressing more conservatively? Should I start wearing beige? Or sage? SAGE! I didn’t even know I knew that word! HELP ME!
Planning our wedding has been the single most awful experience of my life. I’ll write a separate piece on weddings another time but…fuck me that whole stuff is the most boring, sexist, conformist crap I’ve ever come across.
So yeah..I have the getting engaged stuff ticked off..what else is there? Oh right..I now have a dog and she lives in my house. I have a house. A plot of land with some bricks and a roof and it belongs to me. Well us. It belongs to us.
I have mixed feelings about the house. On the one hand, I feel extremely jovial that I have a thing that is mine. I can hang up pictures and paint walls and put down roots and just be.
On the other hand, I feel incredibly guilty because I know most people my age don’t have this. I kind of think I don’t deserve it because there are people out there who face real hardships. But then again, no one deserves anything. It’s just not how the universe works.
The house was a big adjustment. It was a real turning point. Because you can’t be an adult and have an adult house and not behave like an adult. Suddenly I had to learn about taxes, rates, solicitor fees, exchange rates, transfer duties, stamp duties…all that stuff. I’m only 9…how am I supposed to know all that?
Also, and this is the real bummer…this shit is expensive. Unaffordable really. I mean I legitimately didn’t know that you had to pay for water. I thought it was free.
The older you get, the more entwined you become in the adult world. It’s like a forest. Each branch, each sneaky twig represents an entrapment. A house, a better job, a new car, marriage, debt, kids…responsibilities. They’re reaching out to you and they look enticing. But really they’re trying to trap you.
The further you wander, the more lost you become. Until you realise you don’t like it here at all. And you want to go back. You want to go home. Back to safety; to your childhood. Where life was small and manageable. And where you weren’t afraid all the time.
I’m so far into this forest. And I’m so scared. When I was still driving a shit car and living in a 40 sq studio I could quit my job any day and become a waitress or go traveling or whatever.
Now I have a MORTGAGE!
From the bank! And you can’t pay those people in pictures. Well you can but not the kind I draw…they’re more after pictures with presidents on them.
Adulthood is just a facade. No one really knows what they’re doing. You think that just because people carry a briefcase and know about taxes and politics that they’re adults. But really, everyone is just pretending. We’re all just pretending. I have no idea what I’m doing. From the outside I look like a real adult. Like I have my shit together but actually, I don’t. I’m almost 30 but I still have to ask my parents for money when something happens to my car, or I gotta go to the dentist or worse the gynecologist. I said earlier that I’m only a 9-year-old child. Well that’s wrong. I’m actually a 29-year-old child.
As a kid I couldn’t wait to grow up. I really wanted to be an adult and finally be able to make all my own decisions. Now I’m like:
Sure, there are things now that I couldn’t do as a kid but they’re not as cool as I initially perceived.
*Actually, most nights that’s 9:30. I gotta be up early ’cause I have work in the morning 😦
2. Not Brush my Teeth!!
3. Buy as many sweets as I want
And they be like:
*Except as an adult I don’t really like sweets that much and also there is all this pressure to stay thin and be healthy and look good. I didn’t have any of that when I was a kid.
*Yes, I can drive now but I’m mainly driving to work which sucks. I saw myself driving to the beach with the top down, listening to O-town while smoking a pipe.
In conclusion, don’t grow up. Do what you want. Worry about it later.
To me antidepressants are like a thick block of ice covering a dark, frozen lake.
The freezing cold water represents my depression. The ice symbolizes the antidepressants.
Generally, the ice is strong and resilient and I can skate on it without falling into the cold darkness below.
The ice is keeping me safe. Without it I would drown. Yet the ice is unpredictable too because it can crack and in some places its thin and unstable.
But it’s better than nothing.
Without the ice I would fall into the darkness and be swallowed by the freezing cold waters and I would die.
There was a time a few months ago where I thought, I don’t need to be on antidepressants anymore. I don’t need the ice.
So, I reduced my dosage and felt fine for a few days. Fine – even cocky. I was like “Hey depression, you’re not the boss of me”
But BOOM! after a few weeks, my depression was like “ehhh yeah I AM actually the boss of you and now you’re gonna pay for your disobedience”
So I paid. I felt heavy, empty and crap. And vowed never to stop taking my meds again.
It was a very valuable lesson. Because it reminded me that I need this medication. Without antidepressants I just don’t trust myself. I’m scared of the void. Of the dark, frozen lake. I fear that my only way out will be to self-medicate.
I don’t trust myself to look after myself properly when I’m not on medication. I don’t trust myself to eat, to exercise and to do all the normal things people do. I’m just healthier on antidepressants and I don’t understand why so many people have a problem with me being on medication for a legitimate illness.
This illness that I have. That WE have is dangerous. I have seen people go off their meds and kill themselves. Depression isn’t a disease that fucks about. It’s serious.
And it’s not something that can be cured with a brisk walk or a stiff hand shake.
The decision to go on antidepressants was a very personal one. And it’s not one I took lightly.
Almost everyone I know has resisted taking medication for their depression at first. The shame is just too strong.
So, when people tell me that all I need to do to feel better, is chew on a piece of Chinese bark at sunrise and meditate to Cat Stevens, it takes all the strength in the world for me not to go Samuel L Jackson on their ass.
Your judgement is dangerous. Your advice is dangerous. Unless you’ve been on antidepressants yourself or you’re a qualified doctor you need to shut the fuck up.
You’re belittling my illness. You’re patronising me. Do not tell me I shouldn’t be on medication. Do not tell me that your uncle/baby/milkman cured himself with transcendental meditation.
Do not SHAME me simply because I am a person who has sought medical help for a serious illness and is taking the necessary medication to stay alive.
I’m sorry my taking a tiny pill once a day is having such a massive impact on your life. I’m sorry you don’t agree with it. I’m sorry you think I don’t need it. I’m sorry you think you can come up here in my grill and speak shit you got no idea about.
Actually you know what fam…my friend Ollie Williams is gonna take care of this from now on.
Hey Ollie what should I do?
On that note, I’ve reviewed some of the medication I’ve been on. And written you a very nice beginners guide to antidepressants. I’m interested to see what your thoughts are on these so leave me some juicy comments below. Also, I just want to say up front that these meds affect everyone differently. Just because something didn’t work for me, doesn’t necessarily mean it won’t help you.
Do you like to eat? Do you like to sleep? Well too fucking bad because you won’t be doing any of that stuff on fluoxetine. Fluoxetine, also called Prozac, is the mother of all antidepressants. It was the first antidepressant ever invented and is arguably the most famous SSRI (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor) in the world.
I managed to be on fluoxetine for a record-breaking eight days before I was like actually can you just kill me now. It made me incredibly nauseous and affected my sleep big time. When you’re depressed, bed time is one of the highlights of your day.
Sleep was a blissful break from the mundane darkness that was my life…it was my nirvana. My happy place. To rob a depressed person of sleep is just like…like…like there are no words…no jokes to describe how awful it is.
Ok, it’s like french-kissing a badger…it’s like getting fingered by a shark. It’s just so awful.
The insomnia meant I didn’t sleep for a solid two days. And the nausea meant I couldn’t eat. It was shit! Sleeping and eating are two of my favourite things to do. And I couldn’t do either of them.
I missed food…I would look at photos of food like:
2. Citalopram (Celexa)
Citalopram was the second SSRI I was prescribed after fluoxetine. I liked it because it made me feel NOTHING. It made me feel totally invincible. Like nothing was going to bring me down. I had no emotions. I literally couldn’t cry. I would strain and strain trying to push out a tiny tear but my constipated tear ducts were super glued shut. I could not cry. I could not be sad. And because I couldn’t be sad, I couldn’t be happy either. I was just nothing. I was emotionless.
I was meeting people like:
It was definitely a step up from feeling suicidal but feeling dead inside is not a long-term solution. So, my quest to find the perfect antidepressant continued…
I really liked Zoloft and it worked really well for me. Unfortunately it didn’t work so well for my legs, who thought they were at an 80’s rave. All they wanted to do was party.
It’s like the rest of my body was the grown up adult all like ‘time to go to sleep’ and my legs were the naughty teenagers sneaking out at night, getting drunk and smashing up cars.
I tried to reason with my restless legs: guys, we need to stick together here, we’re a family. I’m not feeling well…you guys up all night partying…is seriously affecting my ability to get better. Can you guys just calm down? Just like try and be cool. Just be cool.
But my legs were like:
Escitalopram is my homeboy. It’s my favourite antidepressant and the one I felt most comfortable on. It’s my comfort blanket. My safe place. My port in the storm. My haven. It’s like coming home after a long day to your mums cooking. It’s familiar and safe. But much like your mums cooking…it makes you fat.
Well it made me fat. Now, people who know me in three dimension will be all like WHAT!!! you’re not fat. This is true. I am still thin. But escitalopram caused me to gain 9 kg in less than 7 months. Which is bizarre because I run three times a week, I hardly drink and I eat healthily. It wasn’t the weight gain that I had a problem with. It was the loss of control I felt over my body. Its pretty shit when you’re running so much, and eating healthily and you gain so much weight that you can’t fit into your jean pants anymore. So as content as I felt on escitalopram, my psychiatrist and I agreed that we could do better. So I took a risk and changed meds.
5. Urbanol (clobazam)
Urbanol is an anti-anxiety drug. This is the drug I was on for the first week in the psychiatric clinic. It did not please me. It made me really spacey and out of it. I remember being in group therapy and we had to end the session by saying what emotion we felt and I said I felt spacey…the counsellor was like ok but that’s not an emotion. I was like give me a break lady! the best I could come up with was I feel ‘not normal’
Everything felt dreamy and sort of glassy. I was like ‘is this a dream? is this real?’ I remember thinking that all the buildings, all the streets and shops all used to be a dream in someone’s head. It was totally trippy.
I specifically remember watching movies in the common room and not understanding them.
Oh Xanax, you little devil you. I had heard a lot about this drug, due to it’s popularity in the States and how often it is referenced in mainstream culture. I was quite happy to try these bad boys. I imagined my anxiety would just disappear and I would be normal again. My doc prescribed two 0.5 mg whilst I weaned myself off escitalopram and onto lorien. So the first day, I took two xanax and half a lorien and marched myself to work in the blissful knowledge that today was going to be the most relaxing day in the world.
Unfortunately I didn’t realise feeling relaxed is just psychiatry code for feeling dog tired. Within thirty mins of sitting at my desk I was falling asleep. I had a coffee to liven up and boom boom boom, now I was half anxious, half tired, very confused, very scattered and drooly…
People were speaking to me and I could only understand every second word…words did not make sense. Nothing made sense.
My brain was the opposite of sharp. It was mushy. Like when you microwave a pizza for too long and it’s all soft…that’s what my brain was like. Someone put it in the microwave for way too long and on way too hot.
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Brintellix! For when you’re just TOO happy.
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Brintellix is the worst drug I’ve ever been on. The worst. I had zero patience. Everything annoyed me. I didn’t shower for five days. I slept a lot. I did nothing but listen to Ricky Gervais podcasts. Everything became unbearable. The light annoyed me. Birds annoyed me. The sun annoyed me. I really almost lost it on this drug.
I remember being really pissed off with everyone like:
Fuck man maybe I didn’t make myself clear. I am depressed. I am beyond done with life. I would like a little glimpse back into my normal life and you’re shoving me even lower down this stinking black armpit hole. I know what’s happened here…when I said please can I be happy again you must have heard please make me lose the will to live…
Lorien belongs to the prozac family. If Prozac is the mother of all antidepressants then lorien is the rut of the litter. The black sheep. He has a bad case off ADHD. Lorien doesn’t understand the words ‘calm down’ He never sleeps and he runs everywhere.
He sticks spoons in his ears, jumps on cars and he absolutely cannot sit still for even a second.
Lorien made me very anxious and gave me a shit load of unnecessary energy. I was basically like a labrador puppy on crack.
I cleaned A LOT and slept very little.
*best friend who I’ve never met 😉
Lorien and I decided to part ways a couple of days ago. He’s just way too wild for me. All I want to do now is go home. Where I’m safe. Where I don’t have to be afraid. Where I can be myself again. I’ve been so homesick. I just hope I’ll be allowed back in….
I’m a recovering perfectionist and the sad truth is that my body is not perfect. I’m finding it really hard to accept myself. When I look in the mirror I just see problems. I don’t see beauty or biology. I just look at myself and think I don’t look the way I want to look.
My body has changed since I’ve been diagnosed with Depression. My weight has fluctuated. I have gained approximately 9kg since I came out of the psychiatric clinic. Before I was admitted, I hardly ate. I was too nauseous and too unhappy with myself. I felt like I didn’t deserve nice things. I didn’t deserve to eat.
At my lowest point, I weighed a rather flimsy 48 kg. At 1.70 metres, this gave me a BMI of 16.6 which is rather pathetic. I was so skinny I had the body of an eleven year old asian boy.
I now weigh a much healthier 57 kg. The increase in weight signifies a huge improvement in my overall health and I should be really happy. But I’m not. Because now when I look in the mirror I see Sloth from the movie ‘The Goonies’
It’s been so ingrained in my mind that weight gain is something terribly undesirable. More undesirable than haemorrhoids. And they’re fucking undesirable…and itchy….apparantley.
Now, I know people will look at these photos and won’t understand what I’m talking about. You won’t see what I see. You won’t see all the soft, flabby, fat bits that I see. You won’t see the terrible cellulite, the tiny boobs, the ugly feet, the crooked teeth, the fat arms, the thin hair and the fat cheeks. I just see the bad.
I feel unattractive and thus, worthless. Because my worth as a woman is determined by my looks. By my body. I’m forever chained to the proverbial tread mill trying so damn hard to finally reach the promised land and become….
There are parts of my body that are so crap and flawed that they genuinely give me anxiety. I want my body to be visually appealing to the world. I want it to be aesthetically pleasing. I want to be perfect. I just want to be perfect.
But in wanting all that, I have totally forgotten about the biological purpose of my body. I’ve disregarded billions of years of evolution, of perfecting, crafting, improving and developing my body to make it work as well as it does. All because I WANT IT TO LOOK BETTER!!
My body is incredible. I mean the shit it can do. I could never do that. I don’t even know what it does half the time. I’m so glad I am not in charge of my organs because I have no idea what they do…If I was the general manager of my body parts I’d probably be dead within a day.
And I never stop to say thank you. All I do is criticize my body, hate it, slabber it in make-up and anti-cellulite cream. I don’t want that anymore. I want to accept my flawed body just the way it is.
So here is an open letter of gratitude and love for my under-appreciated body parts. All the parts that have given me pain, anxiety and deep disappointment over the years; that I wanted to slice open, cut away and fill with silicone; that I tried through vigorous exercise to change. To all the body parts that I’m so ashamed of and that make me feel insecure, inadequate and depressed… THANK YOU 🙂
My dear boobs,
Out of all my body parts you, have probably had the toughest ride. When you first started developing I was so happy and excited. Finally my life as a woman would begin.
But you didn’t blossom and flourish into what I had pictured. You decided you had grown enough. Meanwhile I used up all my prayers to ask for round, warm, soft, womanly mama balloons.
But my prayers went unanswered.
I hated you. I hated you so much. I was so ashamed of you. So embarrassed.
At eighteen I saw a plastic surgeon. He felt you up and avidly agreed with your inadequacy. But I couldn’t go ahead with the operation. I was too vain to leave you in the hands of a flawed human being. So life went on. I covered you in chicken fillets and strapped you in wonder bras and continued to despise you.
And then something happened. Out of nowhere I began to tolerate you. Out of tolerance grew acceptance. Now I have nothing but love for you. I’m so much more confident now. I’m much more like:
You see, I thought I needed you to make me feel like a woman. But I am a woman. I am a woman with breasts. They’re not perfect. They’re small and uneven. And covered in moles. But they are mine and I love them. I love them because they are healthy. I love them because they are little and because I don’t have to wear a bra. I love them because after all these years I have completely forgotten that their purpose is not to make me feel attractive and desirable or to make me fuckable.
Their only purpose in life, why they are attached to my chest, is to one day feed my babies. I am so sorry dear breasts that I forgot about that. I’m sorry that I got sidetracked and wanted to look like Kelly Brook. I’m sorry that I considered cutting you open and filling you with foreign objects all in the name of vanity.
So dear boobs, this is an open letter of appreciation for you. I love guys you so much and I just wanted to say thanks for putting up with me for so long.
All my love,
Dearest, most hard-working, most unloved, feet
My feet. My beautiful, strong and resilient feet. I have treated you so badly. Squeezed and squashed you into heels that didn’t fit. Forced you into shoes you didn’t like and coerced you to run when you were clearly aching.
And all this time, all these years, I have had nothing but shame for you. I didn’t want you the way you were. I wanted you to be small, and delicate and soft. I wanted you to be so soft.
All my life you’ve faithfully carried me. The most humble servant. Destined to be on the lowest end of the scale…You tried so hard to protect yourself from my evil ways. I violently forced you into shoes you didn’t like. Shoes that made you cry. You adapted by getting harder, by building bunions as your stronghold. But I didn’t like that because hard feet are not lady-like and I wanted to be a lady. So I kept you hidden. Found shoes that hid certain parts of you that I despised.
I just wanted you to be softer. I so badly wanted you to be softer and thank God you didn’t listen. I prayed for softer skin and you rebelled by getting harder and harder. Thank you for not listening to me. Thank you for carrying me all these years. For being being such wonderfully loyal body carriers.
I’m going to be honest with you now. I have found it really hard to learn to accept you. I don’t want to accept you. I don’t even know why you’re here. I want you to fuck off. I really, really don’t want you. I really don’t know what you do in the world accept make me feel like shit. I want to accept you. But I don’t know what you do. What do you actually do?! You’re like an appendix. You’re just in the way. You’re in my way. I could be perfect if it wasn’t for you.
I could be so perfect. You make me feel so fat. Fat and ugly and lazy. You make me want to hide.
I’m so scared of summer. Because in the summer my secret will be out. My dirty secret that I’m not who I say I am. I say I’m a runner. And from the front I am one. But from the back, I’m a middle aged, deep-fried-mars-bar-eating foster care mum. I live in a trailer. I eat ice cream straight out the tub and there is an ass shaped imprint on my couch. I haven’t seen my feet since I was born.
I feel like my cellulite just doesn’t fit with my image. My image is that of a young, athletic woman. And my cellulite somehow contradicts all that.
When I go to the beach I want to run up to people and explain the cellulite situation to them.
You see, I’m so afraid of not being liked. Of not being found attractive. I’m scared the whole world is constantly judging me.
I want to accept you cellulite. I really do. But it’s hard. Because I try so hard to be perfect. And it’s killing me. For now, perhaps I will start by tolerating you. Baby steps, you know? Maybe we can try again next year.
Lots of love and one or two farts,