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end of Nervosa beginning

She conceives words as they follow. Military soldiers conform to order.

Dissident few stutter in a withheld, race identity, chalk circle.

Her brain won’t allow her to move on.

Lamenting for  a trusted source.

until then,

Life halts.

Collapses onto hot tarmac.

 Too tired to alter.

Melt her heart.

Resuscitate the breathe that gives her corpse a reason to impart

A post

worthy

For a creative outlet,

Her own personal work of art.

Hands raking  through her hair. Grip  at the sides, pulls out a chunk,

Its cool,

She’s dating an alopecia hunk.

This funk makes junk.

Eyeball sockets sunk.

Maybe,

It would be better if she didn’t care if the words weren’t her own.

Maybe ,

It wouldn’t matter if the characters  didn’t continue to harass her.

Calling for their story to be heard.

Multiple attempts. She can’t cut out cardboard citizens.

Maybe in an empty space, yes.

Verbatim theatre could work.

She submits  to an elusive entity.

Virtual paper work-enough to bag a colostomy.

Not been on here much.

The guilt makes her turn her head away.

She gets it,

She needs to reciprocate.

Sincerest apologies for not being present.

She’s surfing the web.

Googling data  analysis and Lady bosses fine tuning their hold on her own grip.

She prefers to lie down  on green pastures than make love, on a bed of  green bills any day!

Unfortunately, life says she has to pay in paper too  to make some headway.

It’s all right. It will pass.

Shivering from the inside. Lack of carbon dioxide.

Waiting for the critic to report how much recovery time she needs before Muse Goddess ups and leaves.

It’s the look of a person. Shrivelled  into crass.

train

Thought-rhyming is a pain in her  ass.

She’s laying it down in quick dry cement.

She’s  empathetic,

she knows we all want to be that portrait

Well.. hung.

She’s a portrait too.

Has her needs

Open your eyes-reach out to touch her.

These layers of skin hide organs, bones ,

And a heart so tense-all it can do is wheeze.

“This is me. I can’t deny it.”

We all have a life.

Hers has become a familiar rendezvous with Alien Jackson sporting a mullet.

What does it matter if characters are Black, White or Hispanic?

Social realism settling on common ground upon its release.

Not for an escapist’s  palate.

What is the state of  theatrical politics, on the horizon, beyond that place we call-

a future?

Statement.

Not even two Bonds can be saved.

Edwardian era

high necklines

Pearl earrings engraved.

Cavities,

Her gums are in recession.

Blame the bank and the Tories.

Her feminist views will place blame on those next in succession.

Watermelon-shaped breasts

One larger – hangs limply from her chest.

Commit a mastectomy on  her femininity

Humans fight terminal illness, homelessness…

How dare she think her position is dire.

Utter profanity.

Disbelief that her renegade words  follow in a Capitalist order.

Letters appear

She falls onto her  knees,

Thanks Ashanti for her daughters.

Time to shove a half pill down some pussies throat.

Its nasty ,

Its dirty,

Doubts whether deep throat works

She’s trying to  stay afloat.

Her illness-the chronic versus the opposite divide

Stereotyped bullshit

It’s her personal narrative that finds her  margined between this blank space on each side.

Calm and serene.

A  mother is  reborn.

Lost for 3 days — late – couldn’t rise,

Her mind was indeed full of scorn.

Today, she waits,

Wrings out her anxieties.

Maybe new teeth will  win her  virtual friends.

Give her more appraising  likes

Maybe, they will finally see that she is real,

vulnerable ,

rearranging her mask-unsure of what reflects back at her multiple ‘Me’s’ 

Discombobulated

Her reflection is divided  into  pieces.

Can’t fathom out that there is a whole entire being  to examine

Jigsaw puzzle unresolved ,

yet again  crippled to her knees.

No prayer.

Fervent  sweeping up of  shattered glass.

For a figment of a second she saw an outline

Perfectly crystallised.

Stories march in protest – for plot out lines, dramatic structure, scenes, reveal characters in lace

Just enough exposure  to show.

Three more weeks, one year down-more time for unadulterated fun.

If you don’t hear from her,

Now she weeps every night  into  a whisky soaked bun.

It’s a metaphor.

Let go and melt the sun.

Cool down its temper.   Versailles gardens make her think of France cut into a jambon quarter.

Carry on till the end.

All the books say she ought to.

Humming a song

Doing her  thing.

A mere whiff of failure invokes convulsions from within.

Weary, purged…

‘Write for myself ‘

Truth , integrity and courage is the only way she will let herself be heard.

If you can’t accept her-carry on peeking over at her life, not mentioning if cuckoo finally flew.

One day, you won’t be able to tighten the Ids screw.

*Inspired by a kish kash,  Mish mash of nerve endings and beginnings 



Master of my fate?

What makes you anxious? – the cocoon asked .

Immediate response ?
I want to run away .

The cotton wool opportunity of turning into some thing I’ve never been fills me a desire to run.

I’ve always wanted to fly!
Darwinite if it means i can feel fire
In my belly
Leave behind the sycophants of past.

Presented with the discomfort before the freedom installs a stony face

A medusa

Unjustified punishment.

I finally replied: I want to run from your question because the master of my own fate made me question why I didn’t say I’m the master of my destiny

I sat on the toilet waiting for an answer

A tinkle

A brainwave to collide with my why.

Confessional poetry

Loss of control
Increased numerical equation
Detract from the value of self-worth.

Mind full
Mindful

bloated

Aspirations snipped loose by an unearthly, scale driven puppet master
Reduces an entire psyche to a chemical embarrassment.

Good mood desires nourishment
the live to eat philosophy
A heavy burden the beast bears herded in.

restricted to forage on cashing out a societal life policy.

A one manned island
ravaged
to its hunger

The one’s left behind

  • a unique take on world suicide prevention day *

Who is this lady? She is elderly, yes.

A grandma,a mother a sister, an aunt, a great grandmother.

I don’t know. I have forgotten. Hang on a minute…

Aaah yes there was this one time that I was sat in her house -plush, ‘propre’ , stylish and I couldn’t sleep.

I kept on getting up to go to the cupboard on the far right of la cuisine that housed all the gigantic Cadbury’s chocolate.

I ate and I ate and I ate some more. I always seemed to be able to eat more.

I didn’t it like it when she bought the dark kind. So bitter. So classy, so not me.

But back to la cuisine.

Footsteps pander lightly behind me. I turn and look around and I look into the eyes of a lady with pure class-sans maquillage. This seems to counter my non- class evolved youthfulness. The lady asks me a question ‘Ca Va?

I’m expected to answer with the same ‘ca va.’ but it is something like 3 am in the morning. Obviously ‘ca va’ is not appropriate for this setting.

I don’t know why I can’t sleep, I confess. I’ve shoved a load of pills down my throat in an effort to be like the one whom I shall refer to as the Manic depressive. The lady sits me down and makes me a Sleepytime tisane – . Good herbal shit. We sit at the kitchen table with our ‘Sleepytime’ tea, I can’t remember what we talked about.

I have a habit of forgetting things, you see. It is so frustrating. I go back to bed feeling cared about. Why didn’t I feel grateful then?

No regrets. Have no regrets. Okay. I try not too. I wish I had paid more attention, then maybe I wouldn’t forget so much.

I can hear her laughter in that loud roomy part of my brain, it’s threatened me it will become a real auditory sound that knocks me sideways with fright turning me into a paranoid wreck.

I have to remember that laugh. She used to laugh at my jokes. She loved me. She told me she loved me all the time.

She also loved another – another woman-my mom. Angelic looking, graceful, naive and I don’t know – wonderful?

This lady helped me out with the angelic-looking lady. Yes, I remember, one poignant night, the angelic-looking manic depressive and I had a vicious fight. I took a braai fork to her neck.

I was fucking going out to drink and get strung out on drugs and Miss Manic Depressive could mope in her stupid illness and fuck right off.

Well, she took that big FU literally. We had this stock of prescription pills that could take our local pharmacy out of business – bad joke- that’s why I rely on comedians for such amusements (Omid Djalili and Gabriel Iglesias being two of my favourites ). Nothing like a next-day hangover and a shrill ringing phone to make me grab a handful of downers.

I’m not ready for the sunshine just yet- maybe not ever. The lady on the other end of the phone wants to know if the manic depressive is okay. Of course, she is ok……

I turn over

…but she isn’t.

She is one tunnel turn away from death. I need some Rohypnol and valium and I need t

hat lady on the end of the phone.

She says she is going to get the next one hour flight from JHB airport to Durban and I need to get the manic depressive to a hospital. I don’t have health insurance. I’m 15 years old.

A cocky shit who obviously knows it all but nevertheless in my narked upstate I somehow manage to get the angelic Manic Depressive a space in a run-down public hospital in Africa – in a- I kid you not – broom closet. Sick people were lying on the floors, covered in congealed blood, in the corridors of this hospital. So I count my blessings that we had some type of room and a bed.

The lady meets me at the hospital. It’s touch and go. We are rooting for survival on this one. Black tar leaks down out through a tube from some part of the manic depressive’s body.

Hours pass.

She is okay- stable.

She is in a coma.

The Lady transfers her to a more upmarket private hospital. She has the master card. We spend the night next few days at the Oyster Box hotel – in a chalet. She takes on me and my two cats. Lilac and Mocha- and we all sleep in the same bed united by our love for the angelic manic depressive one.

We don’t know if she is ever going to walk again. I mean it was an overdose with powerful intent. No, pithy cry for help as some believes a suicide attempt is. The angelic manic depressive has a new name angelic, rapid cycler Bipolar.lady in The other lady is my grandma- as you probably have figured out. We go and see her every week. She broke her hip back in Feb 2015 and can’t walk anymore.

Okay… so that happens with a lot of old people. Yeah, but this lady, my grandma has been stripped of her dignity, identity, memories, and she can’t remember she can’t walk. She is stuck on a loop – every few moments she tries to get up and screams in frustration when she can’t. This lady sitting in the middle is my relationship with someone I love who has Dementia and Alzheimer’s.

I know I’m not writing something fucking profound but she means something to me and her family. She is living a world with no faces, no colour and the world speaks another language to her. How is she meant to interpret all this shit?! People talking.

Loudly?

Other elderly people not moving- crying, shouting, fondling themselves to remember that they too can feel.

My Chronic Anorexia 10 stone self could envy my grandma’s current weight. 5 stone if that. She forgets how to eat. Imagine that?

What type of existence is this?

This is where I get political. Let people die with dignity.

I signed up for the campaign years ago. Who is this lady? She is so much more than she looks. She has had a life people probably can’t even dream up and a life where people would also be horrified how she survived such heartache, ( love is the answer here, folks) but for today we can’t go back into the past too much without forgetting. I don’t want to forget, not today. Those two memories I can hang and frame in the gallery of my mind.

They are mine. No one can take them away from me but Alzheimer’s can. Dementia too.

You know what really makes me sick about all this? When a person with these illnesses die, Alzheimer’s and Dementia don’t take the credit. The diagnosis of death is usually a secondary symptom. How twisted and messed up is that?

Does she remember her husband? Where does she go?

I should have been a Neuroscientist or something. I want to know what is going on in her head and fix it. All clichés but they are my clichés for today. Can you believe people are being diagnosed with these maladies at as young as 25 years of age?

I would rather choose to die than have everything taken from me. Would my Grandma say the same? I wish I had asked her.

Me: ‘So Gran, let’s talk about something so morbid as to how you would like to die.. ‘

I’m putting it out there. Me? I don’t want to suffer and I don’t want to feel pain and I don’t want to not be understood. That is not living that is stuck between two perverse worlds. I want my family to pay the ferryman and for him to take the money and take me along the river Styx to E

lysium and let me die with dignity.

Information on the dying dignity campaign http://www.dignityindying.org.uk

Dear So called friend

Oxymoron of life

I got caught in the rain again.

I let it drizzle down on me.
Eventually it started to gently pelt my face.

I didn’t run for shelter this time.. I just stood there

next to that tree.

I gazed up to the sky and smiled up.
I’m the defiant one who knows my place in nature.

I knew I was still winning. ‘Fake it until I make it ‘

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.

These are slogans I told myself to believe I wasn’t drowning. Inebriated by the sobriety of our existence . Is that an oxymoron of life ?

Safe guarding warfare

How could you disguise  that face smothered in disgrace
By attempting to console me with that  condescending utterance: I could have held the EHA behind your back.

MY BACK!

The SS goose stepping all sloppy like they were in an Augustan rain parade.
The Gods mercifully laugh at the man below who believes he’s a Demi
Demon suckling off the maleficent mede milk of Zeus’s pseudo mother’s

udders.
Others like you Bongaard with your safe guarding a half littered candle of conscience.

Once philosophers sparked off concubines thesis in riddles.

Ticking off the boxes-she says, Flicking those remnant ticks off her manky teeth whilst she puffs and huffs out the front door.
Who do I talk to when I’m feeling mentally incapacitated ejaculating seems too complex to grasp?

  Bongaard can only gasp: Well, me of course, I’m your CPN.

She gestures to her limp, matted ginger vapid soul.
I’ll close the door behind you . Don’t bother I think, Insipid to the core if you can found them in that mass of fleshy ,ginger ,ruddy rotund-she’s invented a new geometric shape-I can’t help but watch her in unbelievable awe


Cos I know she daren’t turn back to gaze at a face that was and could still be hers if she didn’t have a profession to safe guard her. (roll of the eyes — only cos I need to lubricate my contact lenses) .

I’m not going to let her see me cry again.
Every session I hear her garbled muzzled diatribe  about her life,
her pain,
her suffering,
her gains,
her shames,
her pains;
her issues!
Bongaard, you are paid 24 K a year to do a job — shut your gob or do I have to show you where I hide the flipping cookie dough cream tub?

Find out how your’e gonna help me top help myself. I can’t do it alone I’m on both knees . How many suicide attempts do you have to sit through or read about or eat over with your unintelligible mind-space app and you archaic DBT clod splash therapy How many more gesticulations do I have to avert my perverted gaze because you blatantly cannot see.

The greatest heartache is the tears doubting this won’t be my last breathe my grande plan will find me in a goldie locks bed-wide awake , Paramedic-dejavu -ing that I gulet myself to A&E to get checked out.
Not in this state

of mind,

though

I still think  that ole Gemma is kind not like Rachel nor bongaard.
Gemma is divinity  at the cusp  of this dastardly  escapade-an epitome of life.

Flashback: Crisis team! trello that treble holler, I’m, feeling suicidal again 7 days coma near to death suicide

You’ll be fine, dearie, I’ll just put the receiver of these words out in the gutter with my ethics.

An outline silhouette frowns ready  to break his idle  bones
A lingering   chapati scent of a glazed woman longing to dance amounts the misfits in her town.

Welcome home-I love that sign — that font so silent so serene.
Solemn stare
You don’t care, my better half a Achilles heel screams spittle into the wounds I hold in infested band aids.

For another moment I feel ashamed-eyes don’t know wether to look at that piece of lint on the stairs or raise mine to give him a stand off that he would never attempt to stir the birth of all my misery that I can’t regulate my emotions even if it would stop my heart beat- finally

The fastitious musty gut butt dances in a disorder darned fashion Disintegrates the log piles.

The fire is gone . Yet, I cry for I felt it-a smudge on my morning complexion Yet, I cry for I am half doused by that arrow tic carved matchstick.

The archer

the poison

the apple

the madness

the fruit frilled guilt lasts as long as the hem of these petty coated words promoting the warfare of safe guarding our children in a bed ridden world based on a frame of text books.

The beast that is nature

It’s mental health awareness week in the U.K.

This time last year I  was in a coma after trying to take my life-again. I woke up 9 days later on my mom’s birthday. I don’t  think I  have come to terms with the fact that I am still alive. These past fews days  my mental health has been deteriorating and I’m  trying my hardest to fight these sodding demons in my head.
I’ve  been feeling suicidal again. I have everything to live for.
It doesn’t  mean the thoughts go away.
I fight my battles every single day and I  reach  out even if its to get away from my head  for a few minutes.
I can’t  have a head transplant or swap my head with some one else for an hour.
Self medicating rarely works or makes me feel good so I  push myself to reconnect with life in different ways again.

It’s  mental health awareness week and maybe by being in nature , trying to get out of my head may help.
Maybe by just going through the motions even though my thoughts carry on chattering  away it doesn’t matter. The act and the intention is what matters.
For a few moments I’m  distracted by some other nature that isn’t my own…
Suicide isn’t the answer. I will carry in telling myself this until I  believe it.

My story hasn’t ended.. life has a greater purpose, I
#mentalhealth  #mentalhealthmatters  #mentalhealthawarenessmonth

Entry 2

Today, I heard the postman push through my mail. I opened one letter and my heart nearly dropped to the floor quicker than the letter did. My hands were trembling like an addict going into withdrawals.

It was the referral letter from my G.P. and mental health nurse to be assessed by the Adult eating disorder services in Leeds. When I picked up the letter to go and read it , I felt like I was drunk – the words were spread out , doubling over the next word, hazy and unreadable , hazy and clouding my vision then my judgement as I felt the tears wet my cheeks and watched then drip into the paper.

I’m unsure why I started to cry. A combination of Fear and relief?

Fear that I might be rejected from getting psychotherapy because I’m not thin enough. Since I’ve moved house -3 months ago, I’ve put on 6 kilos( nearly 1 stone).

Fear that I will get the help I want and face my Eating disorder willingly. I know it’s a headspace controlled by my eating disordered part of me. The space of the unknown. That moment in between.

That train of thought –to be ill I need to look ill.

My rational mind totally ‘gets it’. My emotions and feelings about the impending assessment took my thoughts back to the years I spent in and out of hospitals, the loneliness ( I still feel many days)felt, my dream career that I had to stop due to my health deteriorating linked in with my eating disorder, the isolation..

I still tend to isolate myself. Most days ,I struggle with getting out and socialising. Most people think I’m over confident.

These days I’m less rigid in my thinking around my eating disorder. I know it’s there. Hell, it chatters to me 24 hours a day 😂😭. I also know the amount of energy it takes keeping my weight at this level.

The thought of all the dedication and commitment to go back and actively starve myself to below 50 kgs fills me with terror because the life I’ve managed to create will have no meaning or purpose, if I let it consume my entire world , it’s a bit like,how I feel about my suicidal thoughts since my last suicide attempt in , May 2020. I remember the pain and terror of when I thought I had been abducted by aliens -when the truth is :I was in a coma for nearly 10 days.

Truth is: I was beyond terrified however, the suicidal thoughts don’t disappear completely.

I’m actively trying to get my weight down to 53-54. A weight loss of 3 -4kgs. My safe weight. Will I want to stop when I get to that weight or carry on chasing a deficit in numbers and chipping away at my character, self esteem and my personality simultaneously?

Just like an addict- adding fire to aid the beast of addiction to lash out flames of fury at me.

Many years have passed since I was last sectioned for anorexia. My life has transformed -no, I have an actual life that my imagination never ever could conceive. I was drowning in ignorance because my mental illnesses had told me things that I believed.

I’ve made goals and achieved them. Some goals were not planned until circumstances pertaining around them turned them into goals to conquer or over come.

  1. A daughter
  2. A husband
  3. My degrees in higher education
  4. Volunteering with mental health charities
  5. Eating the way I do today
  6. Conquerimg other obsessions and addictions-actively working to stay away from that behaviour
  7. Looking at getting back in to full time employment

There is the desire to be free of my eating disorder.

So much has changed in my life and what role my Eating disorder and obssesions play in my life

Conversely, not much has changed either…….. ( dot dot dot dot).

I didn’t want to write today. Small words about a big force that hangs over me.

Spit out the PIP

My word but moving house is super stressful.
I’m happy because I’m moving to new pastures.

Life has been a mind haunting experience over the past 2months.
My anorexia nervosa reared its ugly head because I needed some form of self medicating after stopping toxic self medicating.
I lost over  2-3 stone!
I love food.. I have recently  been bingeing on food. My husband can’t stop me. After a binge,I’m verbally abusive to him, because I feel so ashamed and disgusted with myself.
I chew  the foos and spit it out.
  My weight has gone up to 8stone 10 from 8stone.

I’m  angry because I  rely on government money for my illnesses.
I’m trying to get better.
I have an assessment award review in 3weeks time and, well… I feel like I need to lose the wight I’ve gained to justify I’m  ill.

I attempted a serious suicide overdose in , May 2020.
I was in a coma for 5days on life support and a further 5 days in critical ICU care.

I’ve  done 4 serious suicide attempts   in 2 years and 2months.

I tried to jump off a well known bridge.

I had 5 people hold me down so I couldn’t  jump.

Now my gut instinct says try and kill myself.

I’m  tired of my illnesses.
I wish I could have a job that covers my bills.

My daughter who is 9 years old has never been on holiday-not even in the U.K. because I can’t afford it.

I’m bricking it. I have a lot of paperwork to prove I’m  ‘seriously* ill as my family and husband states.

I can’t move time ahead nor make the assessor re approve my  extra income.

Not having control over my world is debilitating  but i have to focus on my new life and have a plan B if I am not awarded PIP.