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It’s not dementia

Some folk say I speak too much

I say that’s rich.


I’m not even 40 years old & my bones are crumbling

Hind sights a bitch

Hell – a sight so unappealing

it brings me out in an itch

A rash of nervous eczema.


Today is my first adventure

with my partial denture

Like life, it’s only temporary

at least I’m not doing time in a state penitentiary


I can’t speak

this foreign object prevents me from talking



The older I get I realise how naive I was to forget

that my mind is my greatest asset


Body, I love you

Looks? you’ll do

I’m yet to find perfection

I’ve almost given up on the pursuit of it



What is beauty?

Judge we do under a unique hue.


Age has its wicked way with us all eventually

I’ll never let go of my character to laugh, be stubborn

go against all adversity


No, I  still won’t conform

The shy girl will not come out to perform


Inside my pride has been wrenched out of me

And I laugh at the old me

I laugh cos we are so beautiful

We just can’t see what others never fail to see.

You starring yourself

titled  ‘back in reality ‘.



 I open my eyes and I am blitzed by an array of green, red, and yellow coloured fruit. I pose and I am poised, in front of that golden gilded hall mirror. The reflection is of me, in the original inpatient stay clinic, before this modern therapy treatment was possible. Before the pandemic rise of it. Like the eye of a hurricane, it mischievously lulled a large portion of members of our community into a state of security, then sucked us up with one sinister intake of breath.

 My reflection captures me in all my nakedness. My hair swathes over my scrawny shoulders and breasts. A pair of hands come up from behind me, pushes away my tresses and cups my breasts. A deep throb pulsates in-between my inner thighs. I cannot fight it. I submit.  My head tilts back; my mouth opens to reveal my tongue. It is like a red carpet, waiting for a celebrity to enter. It is him. His dreadlocks tinkle with multi coloured beads. His tongue commands to explore mine as if it is a well-versed master of sorcery. I tremble from the hot expulsion trickling down my inner thighs.M y eyes remould into wide crop circles.  I realise that it has tricked me again. I spit out the clustered black mob of grapes into the bowl of fruit. I only have a moist stain as a reminder of his existence.

‘The time is 06:35 a.m. The location: the bathroom. It feels more aggressive – not dormant as the manual states are what should be happening.’


‘Record and ready to engage. This is ED500, the time 6 a.m., the date is 12/04/2025, location: bathroom. Two feedamile tablets taken. Weight: stable. This is attempt 8.’

 I close my eyes and open them. I see an ashen me spiralling further and further away as the powder compact mirror is whacked out from my hands. I can’t see my reflection, so I start furiously tapping on my collarbone, urging it to jut out that bit more. Gristle grinds against gristle. My knees knock together repeatedly: agonisingly tender from the friction. It takes more pain to make me feel. I can hold my head up that little bit higher.

 A surge of power brushes a justified half -smile up my cheek, as they wheel me out of the ambulance and into ‘the starch whites’ base. I peer into my old inpatient room with its rosy shaded walls. The ‘starch whites’ are preparing for that time again. The battle with them every meal time.  Their lips are moving but I can’t hear them.

My eyes veer to the sight of my legs- splayed wide on the bed. In between my legs, reveals the man’s body, which seemingly hustles in time to some primal, instinctive beat. His tongue flicks in and out of my moist swelling vulva. My inner thighs quiver. Combined sweat drips collecting evidence of our lust. The flicking escalates in speed. My chest rises and falls in breathy rhythm.

I open my eyes and he is gone! Another trick!   On demand it projectile vomits grotesque abstractions out of drink supplements and gourmet food; flung and hung pretentiously along the walls of that room. Cups, plates, knives are thrown about. It takes three of them to get that tube down me. Three!


‘Record. This is ED500; it is 2 a.m., the 13/04/2025 Location: my bedroom. There is an almighty sound of bells clanking. I am trying to do the breathing exercises from the prescription manual app but my eyes won’t register the letters.’

 The contained puddle of letters on the screen splatter as my tablet falls to the floor. The memory is too potent. My back arched involuntarily, my eyes will not open fully. Seizing up, they flicker upwards into the half-moon gloom of my eyelids. DING- A LING! A bell rings. Saliva sloshes down the sides of my chin. My back is set against a cool wall; I look up and around and find myself in an unidentified location. The walls, the flooring- everything is a shade of white. ‘The starch whites’ hover around the location in an aura of purity. I fiddle with my zip jean and pull down my T-shirt as I try to cover a mound of excess flesh. I join the procession of the group gathered around the bell ringer.

The wait commences. A stomach grunts hoggishly. Mine. My eyes sweep across the group hoping no one has heard it. In total, there are fifty of my kind. We all have the same scraggy arms and legs and distended stomach. We do not queue politely, but circle around the bell ringer like a pack, collectively growling, from the pit of our stomach, slavering: ready to attack. It does not do political correctness. It does not like conformity. Nobody wants to look too eager. It is part of the game. Parlour Tricks.

One involuntary twitch in the ringer’s direction and the game is lost. The bell rings again. I look up, it is him. He winks at me. It rages from him seeing me ready to engage in combat in the ‘labyrinth of edibles’. It gains so much power in numbers.  Deafening whispers ripple around the group. Those that cover their mouths with their hands only heighten the grand faux pas of my behaviour. The smirking turns to vaporous laughter. I watch that retro version of myself, head bowed, arms folded, shoulders hunched, walk alone and into hostile territory- a vulnerable outsider for betraying it

‘The time is 3 am, location: my bedroom. Urgent memo! I should be having more control over my flashbacks not less. ED500 needs to make contact’


‘Record and ready to engage. This is ED500, the time 6 a.m., the date is 13/05/2025, location: bathroom. Two feedamile tablets consumed. Weight 0.2 grams more than 13/04/2025.’

 I close my eyes and when I open them, I am naked and in what appears to be a floor to ceiling mirrored dressing room. Reflecting back in every mirror is us! The man stands behind me- pulling me in every direction. Every angle stabs at my eyes, repeatedly. One stab- that’s me! Another stab –no, that’s me! What am I looking at? An arm. The shards of deceptive flesh wound my eyeballs. An almighty shriek surrenders from my lungs; I see a pair of hands reach up to cover my eyes. Is this real? I grab an arm and pinch it, hard. The skin feels dimpled, not in that artistic stippled kind of way but in that bumpier cellulite fashion.

‘The time is 06:15 am Location: bathroom. I feel out of control, I repeat I feel out of control. Urgent contact needs to be made.’


Dr Owle presses the pause button.

‘You have stuck rigorously to the manual?’ – I see that flashback projected onto a wall- paused and very much in control.

‘Well, of course.’ I blather, ‘That’s why I signed myself up for this whole spectacle. You told me that I would be able to control the memory and the sensory triggers. I can’t just flick the pause button on like you’ve just done’

‘The results when adhered to correctly have shown a 100 % success rate. Today is the final attempt. Are you still willing to engage voluntarily? ‘He looks in my direction. I nod sagely.

‘Record and ready to engage. This is ED500, the time is 09:00 a.m., the date is the 13/06/2025, location: Professor Owle’s office, two feedamile tablets consumed at 6:00 am this morning. My weight is 0.3 grams heavier than 13/05/2025.’

 Final attempt. I close my eyes and open them.  Astonished, I see a pair of muscular legs, a toned stomach adorned by a hint of hipbone. My wrists have a nodule of bone on each side, giving it a certain elegance. There is a fleeting recognition of this body. A fragmented puzzle of reflections pulls together as natural as gravity. The magnetic pull, reassures, in the way that waking up before landing in a fall-dream- reassures. In the mirror reflection, I see him. A bolt of nerves implode in my brain, splintered nerves carve furiously.

A voice.

‘What do you see?’ It’s the Owls-no, the professor’s voice: the professor is an owl?  My mind steeps in ambiguity.

Then an almighty pressure forces my head to drop back from the weight of it. My hands instinctively go to touch the intruding protrusion. I catch sight of my reflection in the orange oblong mirror. My head is malformed. I look like some freak, like some helpless victim with radiation side effects from some way out, an imaginary town in Chernobyl. Grievous puss amalgamated to create a massive abscess.

‘I’m disfigured’, I scream. I feel his presence in the room as he moves closer to my puss-filled growth. Stretched, overcooked, fibrous skin. Heated puss bubbles away inside. He holds my head up.

 ‘It’s the man. I don’t know what he is going to do. He has something in his hand.  He is going to kill me.’

Tortured screams echo around the space.  Another voice penetrates through the pain.  

‘Have you seen him before? Look properly. ’ it is Professor Owle.

‘No, I can’t bear to look . I’m repulsive!’

‘Don’t give up. Open your eyes and look in the mirror, tell me what you see.’

‘Something has gone wrong. I’ve consumed too much. The experiment has failed.’ I weep.

‘This is professor Owle. Tell me what you see!’ he orders.

‘Tell him my name’ the man urges, his dreadlocks shake off a familiar laugh.

He wants me to name him.’ I howl in pain, ‘He’s jabbed a needle into me!  He has jabbed a needle in my head. He is extracting the puss. It wants more power. I will not name it. Never!  The truth is what I‘ve believed from the start. You give it a name and it automatically assumes power’, I scream.

‘Look at me. Please!’ the dreadlocked man implores.

SLAM!  A car skids unlawfully across the black ice.

‘Who are you, what do you want?’ a tone of hysteria.

BANG! Car tyres leave vicious tracks marks on a deer.

‘Are there any letters forming in your mind? The professor inquires.

CRASH! A body smashes through the windscreen.

‘Yes, but I’m too afraid to let them form. Abort the experiment please, Professor.’

 The body lands with a nondescript THUMP. Blood marinades the icy snow.

‘You need to fight it.’, Professor Owle cajoles me.

My eyes burst open like a ruptured pea pod. I look into the mirror and this is what I see. It is me –a hysterical woman with savage hair, screaming in despair I take both my hands and scrape my fingernails down both sides of my face. My grey slate- coloured eyes, dilated, search with hope. The man’s hand goes to brush away the tears trickling done my face. My hand goes up frantically trying to scratch away at the face etched with wretched wrinkles.

‘It is an older me. The growth has gone.’ Fearfully I take in the rest of my body. Again, I see reflected the same pair of muscular legs, a toned stomach adorned by a hint of hipbone. My wrists have a nodule of bone on each side- Holy shit, how can this be? This reflection is the missing piece to a surprising feeling of unity. I look over to him– he smiles. I look into his eyes- all I can see is admiration. 

‘It’s me! Not perfect-far from it. But it is me!’ The man leans in to kiss my neck then his reflection turns around and leaves the room.

‘Very good, now carry on –what is the man saying? Interjects the Professor.

‘Professor, he has gone. ’, I turn away and around from the mirror to make sure that the mirror has not deceived me.


 Gone. It’s me. Professor Owle. It’s me! It is Vesna. My name is Vesna Numeral’ I babble out.

‘Vesna? If this is Vesna tell me who the man is? Professor Owle enquires dubiously.

A wave knocks my emotions. I buckle. The reeds of guilt tangle around my legs pulling me down to my knees

‘Oh my God! No, it’s Raymond.’ I cry.

‘Bravo Vesna. Well done. You did it- you engaged until the very end. We can finally start the de-briefing process.’ The professor hugs me.

‘I’m recovered? ’ my tone incredulous. ‘All he tried to do was help me recover from it.

Yes, Vesna. It was an accident…’

‘I couldn’t control.’ I conclude.

‘We now work together to start the process to rehabilitate you back into society.’

‘My family. My friends.’ A medley of images calibrate in my mind. ‘I will never go backwards, never! I have to keep ticking forwards’

‘Life will have a purpose again,’ the professor smiles

 One year later and numbers still hold this world together. I can never completely get away from numbers. It might not possess me but it still haunts me every so often by catching me off- guard. These days a brief encounter with my reflection consistently reveals my broken half capped teeth and withered bones. These are the scars of my struggle. I remember the lesson Raymond tried to teach me. These days I tend to look into people’s eyes when I speak and I tend to listen more. It is so easy to get caught up in that negative internal chatter everyone has in them. These days in spite of my scars, I smile and look for that small break in the sky. My name is Vesna; and like a cloud that merges and transforms all too rapidly, I too refuse to be defined by it.

I am the author of my life


Many of you may of heard of PROJECT SEMI COLON  for those who haven’t, there does not have to be a full stop;

The organization explained the significance of this particular punctuation, writing “[a] semicolon is used when an author could’ve chosen to end their sentence, but chose not to. The author is you and the sentence is your life.” Since its beginning in 2013, Project Semicolon has gained worldwide attention and support, with the semicolon tattoo spreading in solidarity.

Do you see what I see?


I realise I haven’t really written much on my mental health issues of late. I find it a bit un balanced that I only talk about the shit days and not the good days. Maybe some of you will go

“oh she isn’t struggling BORING! time to move on to the next post”. That is cool but I feel there is a  need for this post to explain how things are for me. 

My illnesses have not gone away. They haven’t been cremated and  gathered up. Taken up by the wind- dispersed  to all four corners of the globe.




and West. I would love that to happen. If I was an artist I think that image  could make an epic drawing or painting. My illnesses are still here.

  • I still have more thoughts about my weight than I do about my own wedding.

  • I still weigh myself a couple of times a day

  • I still deprive myself of certain foods.

  • I still exercise even when my body needs the rest.

  • I still think people are looking a my perceived flaws when they may just be listening to me speak.

I have found out a secret. My Grandad did this all his life and he was a mostly successful  business man.

SECRET: When talking with people the best way to connect in a conversation is with eye contact.  Seems  obvious,right.?

“WHAT DOES DAISY MEAN? ” a shrug of the shoulders both   palms open,  pushing upwards

I mean,

True eye contact that makes that spark. Similar to the one you use naturally when you meet someone new who you think,

Mmmmmmh yeah this person can put his/her shoes under my bed ANY DAY!

Don’t confine this look just to the people you want to screw or make love to or marry . Use it all the time.

Unless you  are having a shit day then, by all means opt out.

This effort to spark a connection makes the other person realise that you see them as a person not just some guy who is at the check out counter helping you with your groceries, or that person who serves you a coffee.

It is a powerful tool, Rasputin didn’t do to bad. I’m not saying I  can hypnotize people. Although that is pretty cool.

It is a look that urges people to engage and to reveal information about themselves.

A couple years back,I went to a live hypnotist show -another day -another blog. I can’t be hypnotised btw .

I digress,

Okay,so back to my mental health. So why no huge blips?

I haven’t drunk alcohol since New years eve. I think this helps keep  my moods in check and gives the meds I am on a better chance to do the job..

I’m still  saying my mantras- constantly.

Before each work out, I  go right up close to the mirror in my lounge  and I peer into my eyes and give myself THE GOOD TALK. I usually get a little thought that comes from almost out of my mind that says,

You don’t look like you have convinced yourself . Ah ,if only I could hypnotize myself.

The point is, I try to big myself up instead of bullying myself.

I give myself small goals to achieve  and  look forward to; next week I am having a tattoo done. I am beyond excited about. I’ve been saving up and waiting for the day to come for three months!

I’ve not been spending loads of  time dribbling over FB and hitting the scroll down arrow for hour after monotonous hour . Oh shit, maybe FB is the only thing that can hypnotise me? That  is fucking terrifying. One reason I don’t watch T.V. -I read, I do watch movies and series. I  don’t want to be a victim of Huxley’s  ‘Brave new world’ of what the perfect society looks like.

Communication. I communicate  my feelings. I don’t hide it all away from my family. If I have a panic attack I ask for a hug, I ask someone to help me in a way that I can help myself.

I don’t  over- commit myself to events that I may not be able or want to fulfil. I say NO -a lot. I am an extrovert when I go out into the world but when I am around too many people for too long I became drained. When I give myself to people. I give my full attention. So, I then become an introvert for a bit because I need a lot of alone time to build myself back up.

I blog. All this has helped me naturally want to write about other shit.  How lame and depressing  it be to read about all my troubles?

Day in and Day out. When you read that last sentence try and picture a buoy bobbing up an down in the ocean. That’s all it does. How many times are you going to want to look at that image when you are at the ocean?

 When there are ship wrecks to discover,  colourful fish to  photograph , clear white powdery beach sand grains gently ex foliating your feet, lots of tanned people smiling (because they are not in the U.K.)

I jest. I jest.  I don’t.  I would rather  hand your the shot gun myself and help you squeeze the trigger.

I also have a sense of humour. I give my time  to the people and causes I WANT  to.

If there is any statement that can sum up this post it is:

I am Daisy.A living breathing component in this world,


‘I am not my labels’.

I do not want to breathe life into them and inflate them. I don’t want a collection of  blow up dolls of my illnesses ,thanks. I’m trying to go for the minimalist look here.

That is it. No magic just appreciating the good times.

The ‘if you need a new perspective’ post

So, I ended 2015 in a state of stupefied drunk despair. Regretting every action I committed on New years eve. Just over one month has passed. I’ve kept far away from the alcohol. I had my dip with my Anorexia. February life has started to pick up where I left it in December. 

Waving my hands in the air like I just don’t care! 

I’m gaining my self-confidence back. My diary is filling up – idle hands all that jazz. The wedding is coming together. I’m am delighted and a tad ‘on edge’ at the same time. 

Positive people are gravitating toward me again. To say I have to peel myself from the roof is an understatement. Lionel Richie and me are busting out some moves on the ceiling. Oh yeah, baby. Has anyone ever seen him being interviewed? He is such a dick head! There is no way someone like him could write such beautiful songs. Who remembers ‘Ballerina girl’ ? Google him in an interview and then you will get it.


 I am doing my -co-production awareness training workshop on the 16/02. All of these workshops brings me closer to getting the Eating disorder recovery group up and running. As a person in active recovery from an Eating disorder, to be able to realise this and watch it germinate and blossom like a flower 😀 and be a huge part of the process off it-is like -not being God- no, I am not Kanye Wet ( Yes, I will keep that last spelling error) delusional.  It’s more self-validating. What I mean by that is, it shows I am on a good path. A well-lit path. Like this dude. There is light in my hands I am responsible for keeping that light going and I am in charge of where I end up. Does that make sense? 

 I’ve recently posted some seriously depressing posts and I will continue to share my past with you; but their needs to be some writing room to rollick in the present. I need to  feel the quiver of fluttering,

the beating of butterfly wings, reminding myself I am indeed alive and have purpose. I think my posts need a bit of balance. I don’t know if I am the only person -I suspect I  am not. I sometimes finish writing posts that send me lunging backwards to my past and I am reaching out for the Diazepam- I can have full-blown panic attack.

The cure?    ( Great band. wrong context- or is it?)

Stop writing Daisy. 

No! I won’t!

I have a purpose.

I am a human being.

 I have a story to tell.

A past, a me right now and a bright and vibrant future.

Without me trying to get all Disney ‘Lion King’ on you  (cue African music that makes the heart swell); I believe our lives and experiences are full circles. Sometimes you are at the top and then inevitably you need to go round that circle. Of course, there will be many times when you are at the bottom. I always say

‘Look for the silver lining’.


That is my way of saying: I and you will come full circle again (eventually) . We all will get to the top of that circle of life again. The only thing I can’t tell predict is how long it will take to come full circle.

I have this belief, that if I use my time at the bottom of the circle, productively and push ahead and not do too much damage interfering with the flow. Then, I won’t slow down the time scale it takes to get back to the top again. I need to learn the lesson, feel the pain or whatever happens but I must move on. Easy words to type. Harder to put in action. However, it is possible. 

Possible is all  I  need to hold onto and go and do great things.. 

To get off the whole philosophy bandwagon. My man and his rumbustious friends 😉 are coming round to ours for ‘SUPER BOWL 2016’ night. It is a tradition in our home. I don’t want to watch a bunch of dudes watching another bunch  of dudes ‘tackling’ and touching up one another. I DO want to know who is doing half time this year. 

I don’t know if anyone saw Katy Perry and her foam mascot sharks last year?  


So here is to a fresh new week. (Great shit is happening. Everything is coming together, not at the pace or even exactly how I plan it to go, but that’s cool with me. Stuff is getting done! 

My mantra, I have used for a few months now is working. Mantras work!  Mine is:

‘I am a success in everything I do’ –

I’m fulfilling my thoughts- the ‘mini-like prayers’ that I tell myself. Find one that resonates with you. It works! I am the most analytical person I know – I wouldn’t lie to you .


Time to buzz off and get reading some of your awesome blogs and thoughts. Word reader is a bit crap. I don’t ever get to see all the posts that I follow. I don’t know if anyone else has the same problem but I will read as many as I can. 


Namaste, Soca, peace, light and love until next time.

How many times can a heartbreak​?

I don’t know how this post is going to take form. Well, it will be in a  word press post form, I don’ know what the hell I’m going to put down or how it is going to end. All I know is that after having a conversation with a close friend of mine. I am left feeling crushed like  I’ve spiralled, fallen-  down a long dark hole of wretchedness. I should have been there for this person, so she  could  talk and unburden her darkest thoughts, instead of sitting in silence  for a long time. Someone so close to me has been living in anguished silence for so long. I’ve documented in previous posts of  my experiences with living  in a brutal and disturbing relationship.  I guess, it is easier for me to write  about what happened to me because I can detach myself from the experiences .



NO,this may not be a good way of dealing with abuse but at least I am still writing and talking about it.

This person is my most cherished friend .  I feel I have failed to be a good enough friend. I have know this person for over 20 years. She has the most tender-hearted nature, a charitable  heart. She is strikingly beautiful. Heads turn. Looking into her eyes is like looking into a Caribbean ocean. The colour is startlingly beautiful . It’s comfortingly hypnotizing . In many ways she has always reminded me of the late princes Diana, she has the same grace and class, and is not  even aware of how alluring  she is.

We went for a coffee today and when I walked out of that coffee shop and said good bye- it felt like I was stumbling about in some ghastly trance. It was like I had floated up into the air like a bubble; I  was looking down at myself -I could see myself walking -in a dwell. Each breathe I managed to gulp down was molested with the vision and words I had heard, come out of my friends mouth. I couldn’t hear the cars nor people’s  murmurs. I went shopping and bought things in an attempt to prick this possessive bubble that had  learned how to become impenetrable.   I dumped a bunch of items in my trolley. I needed to distract the haunting picture of pain  on my friends face. Frozen- a click , a flash. A picture captured for all eternity. I had to eradicate it- censor it form my mind. 



Abuse as you may or may not know is not going to just go away – I’m not going to stop writing about it and talking about it. When a friend you think you know inside out,  confides in you, then you suddenly realise what this person has felt like. Feeling isolated so much that  she felt had  no one else to talk  to  because she felt ashamed. Her mind has tormented her for years..

Here is a  part of her story:

She met a man over 12 years ago. In a night club. He was the type to wear a thick gold chain and a leather jacket. Not her type at all. He said he was Italian. He spoke the language of love – He zoned in on my  friend – he had my friend marked. I saw him approach her. He bought her  a drink. I immediately  loathed this pervert. I  pushed my self through the crowd of dancers went straight up to them and I knocked the glass from his hand. I tried to get my friend away from him. I can’t control everything can I ? they swapped numbers.




They started going out. For 10 years their relationship consisted of seeing one another  1 night a week. My friend was completely possessed by him . He showered her with affectionate words. She felt like a woman again. Maybe just maybe this man was going to turn out different than her previous  mis-creations. She would cook him meals and set the table – buy him slippers and a change of clothes and toiletries. She treat him like a king. A super star. No, a super hero. 


Yes he was a king, a fake king  hiding under the robes, would in time reveal  a savage.

Let me try and get on with this post….

Um….a few months into the ‘relationship’, she found out that he had lied about his name and nationality. He was from some Arab  country and was in fact a ‘faithful’ devout Muslim. That was cool. There is nothing wrong with two cultures mixing together. In fact there is  a feeling of peace in this synthesis of different cultures  coming together -bound by love .



Over a period of 10 years they kept on making up and breaking up. Every time my friend said she would not get back with him.

  •  One time she slept over at his house and his ex wife came was getting out the car  with balloons in her hand(it was valentines day or his birthday). She saw him with my friend and told the bastard they needed to talk. The taxi pulled up at that moment and he ushered my friend into the car as quickly as possible- turns out his ex- wife  was ‘crazy’ about him and wouldn’t leave him alone.  Come on, he reasoned with my friend,she was fat and ugly. Not refined like my friend. He only used his ex to gain access to work in the U.K.

My friend took him back.

  • A few years passed and my friend wanted to move things forwards in the relationship. She wanted him to move in with her or her to move in with him. He refused -time and time and time after time. She was enamoured  with him. She would do anything to keep him and if that meant only seeing him one night a week then she agreed to it. He never ever took her out. He never introduced her to his friends. Why? they were dodgy and he was jealous, they might try something on her.

She accepted this.


I’m going out to play, you must stay safe in your home . the world is full of monsters.

  • My friend has an eating disorder like me . The bastard suddenly told her her body was horrible and he hated touching her. He hated thin women she needed fattening up. All she wanted was to be loved and accepted and so she grew bigger and bigger. This messed with her mind so much.Her confidence was solely in custody of this man. He played her like a puppet.

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She accepted this

  • He would go off the radar frequently. He never text  or rang  my friend unless he wanted something sexual from her. Then it was  all words of armour and flattery. What woman doesn’t want to be complimented? He never helped her clean the dishes or bought her a meal. He would go back to his native home and bring back the odd false perfume. He never once offered to take my friend on holiday with him, to meet his family. Many of whom he has burnt his bridges with. She was not to know this until it was too late to save her heart and mind from a torturous misery.




She accepted this.

  • On one of their ‘bust ups’ he decided to try it on with my friends nemesis. He wanted to take her out. My friend found the news out from her Nemesis. The shame, the degradation. She fell further down that never ending abyss of wretchedness. Banished her to a never ending hell of lies and mind fucks. He wouldn’t answer her phone calls , texts, he punished her. He went off the radar for a few months. My friend became obsessed, she would ring him all the time. But all she got was silence. Until one day he got in contact with her and the relationship was back on.



One unfortunate  day , he rang her – She was over the moon to hear his voice. He had something to tell her.

What could this news be?  

He wanted too marry her?

Move in with her?

He had a surprise for her?

Oh hell yeah, he had a surprise for her:

He was  getting married to a young girl who was pregnant with his child,  he hoped that they can still maintain their one night a week ‘relationship! 

How many times can a heart be broken? how many times can it be mended? 

She accepted this betrayal  but she refused to see him. She would not. She was not some whore! An after thought. After the phone call ended  she sank to her knees heaving -sobbing. She was on the floor desperately trying to collect all the shattered fragments of her heart.  A few months later she saw him once again, in town, for a coffee. He wanted her to meet his baby. She bought the baby some outfits. This is the type of person she is, gracious and forgiving. 

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She accepted this.

To be perfectly honest, they must have broken up 100’s of times. My friend always promising  she wouldn’t take him back. We used to have vicious arguments .

She said she was in love.

I said she had bad taste in men and needed to get help.

She got pissed off with me. It wasn’t as bad as she had made out, she would reply.

She had over exaggerated things.

I retorted:  

You mean like the time he told her to lower her eyes to him when she was speaking to him and then laughed and said he was joking?

He knew she was vulnerable that is why this serpentine creature chose her. She  was easy to control. He knew a lot of things about their relationship that my friend didn’t know. He didn’t exactly share this insight of their relationship with her, but it went something like this:

  • He knew he could abandon her and she would always take him back

  • He would deprive her of contact and she would always take him back

  • He would humiliate her by trying to flirt with her friends and enemies- even me!

  • He controlled her by making her put on an extraordinary amount of weight, in full knowledge,  her confidence would be at base level. A woman with no confidence couldn’t possibly be  attractive a man  ( this was probably his  warped strategy )

  • He knew my friend was an introvert and it was so easy to isolate her. He didn’t have to do a thing -she already had done the hard work for him.

  • He always took from her. If he had asked her  for her the  shirt on her back, he knew she would give it to him. Every week, for one night, my friend made her home cosy, turned down the lights -low,to give off a soft romantic glow. She would cook for him , serve him, rub his feet and then make him a packed lunch to got to work. She spent a lot of money on him that I suspect  she didn’t have.

  • He never once asked my friend about any issues she had and how could support her. My friend took a massive overdose,one year,  I thought she had finally succeeded this time. Her Mother was still alive at the time. He came to the hospital with a kitten stuffed toy with blue eyes, just like the colour of my friend’s eyes. He acted so concerned. Since my friends mother passed away – the money well has dried up and he lost interest again.



I had to stop writing last night. I  couldn’t go any further with what I was putting down in this post. I don’t want to betray my friend, no body will know who this friend is. I’m speaking up for her because she is unable to speak for herself. To tell her story. She needs a lot of support and confidence building.  Care and possibly counselling.   

There is probably a bunch of stuff I don’t know. I do know that what came out of my friends mouth   yesterday- blanched me. I must of walked  out of that coffee shop, my hands immediately  felt icily cold, I had forgotten my gloves.. I was trying to fight my way through the fog in my mind . I had become numb.

This is what my quiet friend told me:

After two years of not seeing this ‘man’. She moved to a new home to start afresh, he got in contact with her a few months ago.. He said all the right things. 

  1. You are beautiful

  2. I will divorce my wife from you

  3. I should have never split up from you…

All that superficial crap.

I could go on and on. There are a lot of beautiful and courageous women in the world who feel so alone.  Women that put on there clothes and make-up everyday and smile and give as much of their time and heart to as many   people as they can. She was no fool for taking the bait. She is angry with her self – furious. She wishes she could stop loving him. WHERE IS A GENIE WHEN YOU NEED ONE?



I couldn’t be angry with her for going back to him.

I haven’t slept  – I have had awful nightmares of what has been going on  for years in their relationship. My friend is naive and shy and not some dominatrix or kinky in any way at all.. And that is fine. He bites her all over and takes her from behind.

 each thrust,

each bite,

bleeding out her soul like she is some kind of piece of  halal meat. My friend always says ‘NO, PLEASE DON’T BITE ME! DON’T DO THAT, YOUR ARE HURTING ME.’ 

I could see through her and saw a vivid image of her heart -patched up haphazardly like a child’s favourite toy. Sewn up, swung about, it loses an arm, then a leg , then a tail and still she finds a way to sew back the pieces. 

He has been RAPING  you. I told her. We looked into each others eyes. She knew it felt wrong but he told her that is what people in love do!



All this time and I didn’t know any of this.

She is left bruised and sore for weeks after being raped.

How can someone you love rape you?

It happens. More than you know. I came home and cried my heart out. I was shaking with anger and shock. 

I don’t want my friend to stop confiding in  me -no matter how much it kills me inside. Please people, don’t suffer and quietly die like a beautiful plant that someone forgot to tender to.



Use your mouth or if you can’t speak -write it down and show someone -anyone! 

I had to write this post. It is something that I do that brings me comfort. it helps me focus and cope with life’s madness and senselessness . 

I’ve written what I can. I’m going to be a better friend.

Last night I rang her and she thanked me for ringing. I mean she didn’t need to thank me! I should have been around more often. Her voice was distant, remote. I switched off my light and put the duvet over me and all I had in my dreams was  the image of him biting her all over and raping her.


 He is a dangerous and seriously afflicted man. 

How do I end a post like this? I don’t feel I have done justice in telling her story. I can only hope and encourage her to tell her story herself, one day. 

ED flares up

So, I have been pretty quiet on how I have been dealing with my Anorexia lately. It has been hell. I went on a detox in July 2015 and put on weight! Yes! I don’t know how I managed it. 

I have been struggling to get rid of the weight although it could have been a combo of muscle too. I am a bit of an exercise bunny.  Anyway At Christmas I  “forgot” how to eat again. I’ve dropped nearly 8 kilos in less than four weeks. 



I don’t need this shit. My mental health and weight have been stable for nearly 5 years. I’m getting married in 5 months, I’m planning on having a brother/sister for my precious child at the end of the year and I’m succeeding in the volunteering/working world. 


I tried loads of different non-medication alternatives and other medication tweaks over the last few months. My C.P.N.  and psychiatrist finally put me back on Diazepam again at my request. I’m on a whack of meds already ( for my Bipolar too) but the lorazepam wasn’t working any more. I  started getting panic attacks around eating again and have survived mainly on water and sweets for a month.

I’ve had hardly any energy to have a proper good work out. I have lost a lot of muscle tone and I don’t want to lose the body I have worked so hard to achieve in four years. I don’t want to be skinny. I want to stay lean. Keep my glossy hair and glowing skin. The remainder of my teeth…

Let’s hope this med change works. Tonight, I’m about to have my first proper sit-down meal with my family in a month. I am terrified. I don’t want to put on too much weight. I’ve chucked all the sweets out and got some good quality veg and seafood. Fruit.  Normal food! 

I am going to do this and move forward. It’s okay to stumble. I have caught it in time. I want my glow back and my energy. I’ve so much work to do this year.  The eating disorder recovery group is happening. I’m still here. I say a big fuck you to Anorexia and I’m fighting back. No more hospitals. I am not a victim. 

I am back!  Not perfect. Always flawed. I am a fighter. 




So Graduation dress hunting should be fun, right?




I thought I had found the perfect dress but three weeks later and I’m starting to think the outfit is not special enough and doesn’t suit my physique. Here is  the dilemma; I may be an Anorexic in recovery but I lived my life in wearing clothes that would become bigger and bigger for me and show off only parts like my collar bone or hip bone that I wanted to show. 

I now have a ‘normal BMI’ and my body shape has changed A LOT! 

I look in the mirror and I am unsure of the body I see. I don’t see a completed body but fragments of it. No matter how hard I focus my eyes, squint, do double takes, catch my reflection out. I don’t see a full body but parts of it. This is very frustrating when trying to buy a dress online. I don’t know what suits me.  I am of course going out to celebrate after the ceremony so my dress won’t be hidden by those drab cloaks they make us wear.And so the quest for a dress continues.