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Self Sabotage

What is my definition of crazy ? self sabotage.


I am finally in the loop- getting ready to put all my experience into helping others and guess what? My brain decides it is a good time to cut back on food, obsess over 0.53 grams and some. My brain gets a buzz from seeing the numbers fall. My partner thinks I look sexy as hell. Doesn’t he see I have lost nearly 7 kilos in three weeks? How is that possible?

I know it is no real weight loss, I am well versed in this Nervosa.

I just don’t get it. 8 years since my last hospital admission. I have a child. I am getting married. I have a BA with honours in the Arts and the humanities. I like myself. I like my personality. I think I’m a good looking girl because of my flaws – the gap in my teeth makes me attractive.

My passion in the volunteer sector has raised my profile 100 % fold. I thought getting a first in ‘creative writing’ couldn’t top any other success. It topped the epic success with my Anorexic history.

Everything that I have done in the past four years has been a success. I’ve made it. I’m in the inner circle. I have been ordained and been given permission and guidance to help others wanting support in their recovery in their own Eating disorders. I have four months, if that, to get my shit together. Anorexia has decided to toy with me.

Here is my theory on what  I think: for most of my life I felt I was only really successful with Anorexia.  Now I finally have the key to freedom and success in ways I never dreamed possible and the bones of Anorexia’s success have resurrected from the grave and have started to rattle my skeleton to the core. I have stopped eating. Well, I’m severely restricted my eating. The misery of hunger is what drives me to type. When I am not hungry and not eating I am winning! What?

 Why am I self sabotaging myself? 

Someone told me once that some people are so afraid of success they run away from it.

No. I am not going to be the one that runs away any more. This weed- me – Daisy needs to get away from the pansies and to turn my face to the sun and bloom again. 

I just have to figure out how…


My thoughts about the true cost of Anorexia

” No I am not leaving until you give me what I came here for”

There are a variety of different contexts this statement can be used in. In this context, I was a 15 year old girl just under 9 stone if that; sitting in a doctors office surrounded by all his framed merits and accolades. Perfect family pictures

” I can’t give you what you ask for.Sorry but that is it”

I screamed abuse at the doctor. Tell him I am fat. Is he blind? put on your glasses old man. He has to help me. I need strong diet pills and diuretics.

“I’m not leaving until I get what I came here for. “

This went on for a good hour. I put up a good dramatic performance, tears, savage cries, pleas,  threats to take my life.

Until he finally gave in. My Mum paid for him. We left -me with a sense of achievement and happy. I was finally going to be thin.

I would sit in my grandma’s room and look in her massive mirror, with my crappy eyesight and look at my body, pinch the fat I was convinced was on me.

Can’t a doctor get down for bad ethical practice?  Come on I was born in Africa. The right leverage and price buy you a lot.

My Mum was into her reiki and doing a bit of weed and finding herself. She got pissed off and gave in. Just like she always did.  I wore her down.

I’ve never been able to fully shake off my eating disorder. I’ve stopped the laxatives. The heating up 2 mushrooms and drinking loads of Pepsi max and other tricks I learnt to stave off in my anorexic journey. I don’t want to give any vulnerable people all the tricks. I don’t want anyone to copy these behaviours..

All the hospitals I have been in. Sectioned against my will.  The rage. The anger. The weight may come back on me, but this beast: it lives inside me. It is like a tumour or a cyst that won’t go away. to cut it out would cause it to spread and I would die.

Oh, I have wanted to die many times.


I made a pact with life.

I was going to try it out properly.

Like an average person.

Whatever or whoever is average.

I love my daughter and partner and Mum and I have so many opportunities coming up and January is not even over yet. Yet, I confess I have to weigh myself every day. I can’t help but get giddy when the scales show me at a lower figure. In fact it is one of the biggest triggers in my illness. 

Lose a couple of kilos and then the chase is on. It’s time to beat these numbers and watch them disappear until I’m feeling bone everywhere. Jutted out hip bones, a hanger like a collar bone with my big head attached. Knee knocking until I am bruised. Loose clothes…

I hate it when I have gone too far….. I live every day with this illness- this maladie. This puss filled abysses.

I wish I didn’t care about my weight. I wish I could allow myself to eat pasta and chips and pizza and pie and cake and all the yummy foods there are to eat. Maybe when I hit 50 and realise I’ve  wasted so many years in my quest to look like a hung scrawny wire coat hanger.

I know sexiness and true beauty comes from within. The emaciated look is not attractive to me.

Addictive , yes.

Here’s a snapshot of how me- a recovering chronic anorexic mind works… I put on weight in June 2015 , whilst on detox I may add. I hated the fact the scales went up to 10 stone -65 kilos. I somehow managed to live with it. The exercise was my saving grace and being told I am beautiful and sexy by my partner many times a day. Plenty ‘Ilove yous’

After Christmas, I suddenly lost weight. I stood on my scales this morning and I am 59.

That is meant to be my goal weight. I need to fit into my wedding dress after all. Alas, that is not enough for my dismay. That snide critter plugs me in and sends dopamine chemicals of euphoria around my brain. Fires me up. If I can lose x amount of weight. I can push it down even lower…

This is the torment. Then the iron will and battle again hunger starts. The reduction on food starts.

This is a deadly game.

I don’t want to be a part of it. I scream. Eating disorders run in families -well at least they do in mine. I have a 4-year-old perfectly proportioned child, I don’t want to pass on this to her.

I have to keep on fighting and fight I shall. I wanted anorexia so much when I was younger. I’m 35 now. I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want to go to the hospital again. I want to be happy with what I have.

The hardest bit is I have a couple of close friends who are seriously overweight but I love them so much. I see past their weight

Why can’t I do the same with me?




my thoughts about “that item of clothing’

I’ve been thinking about this subject for two days. I t won’t shake off so I am going to have to do a post. Right, how do I give my feelings and thoughts on this topic any  justice? Well, since I can remember I have always had that one piece of clothing to measure myself against to see if I am still thin or need to lose more weight. It started as young as the age of 5 years old. I have always been conscious of my body and my inability to live happily inside it. The time that it tipped into the ‘warning! warning! flashing, red- lights danger zone, started with a ridiculous size of denim shorts that had the size 1 on the label.



I don’t know if this size was a U.K. / USA/ Mexican size or even a made up size. I had to fit into these shorts or else I thought my life would cease to mean anything. My life was only worthy of challenging myself and pushing myself to  weigh less and less than I did at whatever moment. Over the years I’ve kept those jeans. Over 15 years. The travelled with me from South Africa to France to the US.A and then the U.K. As time went by and  I became more accepting at living at a higher body weight; I found another item of clothing to size up my idea of  what I deemed an-acceptable body. It is a play suit. If I try it on and it feels  tight in the middle it freaks me out. How crazy is it when you consider that most women’s stomachs bloat throughout out the day and from week to week.

It doesn’t even matter what the scales say in these moments of despair and failure. The play suit has to be loose. I’ve been able to get rid of my teeny tiny shorts recently as this year ( A round of applause for me). However, I am not willing to give up the play suit. What I loathe most about this ridiculous and self esteem crunching obsession of mine, is I have a whole closet full  of clothes that I could wear but if I’m having a ‘tight around the middle play suit’ day,I refuse to wear anything else but the play suit! Yes, it is true that these outfits can be used as  a metaphor as to  how I measure my self  worth. I’m am working on being less obsessional, if only so I can I can wear different outfits and make more use out of the clothes I already have. It’s a good job fashion’ a la mode- does the full different era circuit, frequently. The moth balls get more of a show case than other people.



These words don’t do justice.

It is 4 a.m. and I want to write something so profound and worthy of the POST BUTTON. Of course, on some level  I know that I am worth more than an item of clothing. These days I do think more of myself in other contexts. I wish (oh here goes the whole regret bit) that it didn’t matter so much.  This obsession has at times stopped me moving on with my life and going out and has made me cry and made me want to harm myself.  It’s been the worst, poisonous partner I’ve had. It won’t stop haunting me.  It has stopped me from trying to date guys. Isn’t it so bizarre how I can hand over  so much power over an item of clothing?

My existence does mean more. I am a mother, a wife to be, a granddaughter, a daughter, a niece, a cousin, a friend, a cat owner, a  woman, a human being. The mind is a cunning bastard at times. It taps into to those feelings of fat and thin. Lingering doubt and insecurity. It’s skeletal frame dance chillingly around me – around and around. Dizzy thoughts of you are not good enough’ ‘you can’t go out in that’ ‘you have failed to be a human’ ‘people will think you are fat’ ‘how dare you think of wearing anything else but the freaking play suit’.

It toys with me. Plays with me. At least I have made the piece of clothing relevant to what it does to me.  It makes me introverted and unable to speak to others. I have that cartoon like storm cloud thundering over my head. Ruminating.  All the time. The silver lining in all this is that these days I challenge my belief system and I make riskier choices with my clothes, I get out the house even though I want to hide away. I will continue to wear my lustrous battle of armour. What I won’t  be doing is weighing  myself when I have it on.. 🙂