Haiku plus 4

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Copyright, 2017, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

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Moral Mondays -The Itch

She clawed her skin; ragged fingernails drew blood from the open scabs on her face.

Nothing stopped the itching; nothing.

Eyes, rabid and vacant, scanned the room for something to use. She needed to let the bugs out before they drove her crazy.

Her mouth dry, jaw clenched impossibly tight, she sprinted barefoot across the sticky floor towards the sink, her hands jerking as she tossed aside dirty dishes.

Smashing the wine glass, she lifted the shard to her face and carved an arc across her cheek, feeling her hot blood flow down her throat.

The itching; it never stops.

💋

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This week’s Moral Monday is ‘say no to drugs’. The aim is to write a story of 100 words or fewer on the theme.

See here for full Ts and Cs.

Copyright, 2016, illicitthoughts.wordpress.com

All rights reserved.

A Sincere Thank You

This day last week I wrote a very difficult and painfully honest post about my battle with body image and self acceptance.

I feared at the time that I would receive a backlash and that people would read it and think I was self absorbed, shallow and vain.

Nevertheless, I posted it because it felt important on a personal level to expose my demons. I am still not sure why it felt important, but it did.

I wanted today to post a quick but very sincere thank you to all the people who read it and wrote such kind and supportive comments. I was blown away by the compassion and empathy I was shown.

In addition, I was somehow comforted, (whilst also very much saddened), to discover so many of my readers had similar issues to mine. If nothing else, I hope my sharing my story helped some other people feel less isolated and less ‘freakish’ about the demons they carry and battle with.

Thank you all for being the wonderful, kind and generous people you are!

IMG_9358Hugs all round!

💋

Copyright, 2015, k1kat.com

All rights reserved.

Where I Am Now…

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Trigger warning: This post is about self/body image, eating disorders and depression. Please chose carefully whether to read or not.

Please know this writing reflects MY perceptions about ME and not my views on weight/appearance in general.

I have no intention of hurting or upsetting anyone. This post is about me, for me. 


I can’t do the “self love” thing.

I see positive quotes and affirmations everyday on Pinterest, Facebook and Twitter and, although I think they are lovely sentiments, I simply cannot relate to them.

I do quite like myself… insofar as I think I’m a basically good person and I can be funny and smart and creative.

But love myself? No. That’s not a thing I can do.

I have an unhealthy relationship with my body.

I am not sure I was ever happy with it. No wait, that’s not true. As a young teen I was blissfully free of body issues. If anything, I was precociously aware of my sexuality and its power and I enjoyed dressing in a way that raised eyebrows or had some shock value. I could probably have been described as jailbait!

At 19 I settled into what has turned out to be my lifelong relationship. I was a normal, healthy weight for my height of 5′. I had curves in all the right places and was relaxed about diet and exercise. It simply wasn’t an issue.

Somewhere along the way, after getting married at 26, I gained a lot of weight. It happened to both of us, slowly but steadily until, one day, it hit me that I had reached the weight of 144lbs, which was, (for me), too heavy for my short height. I was physically tired from carrying the extra weight and felt bad in and about myself.

It was around this time that I also realised our relationship had been coasting along. We had grown into an “old married couple” that took each other for granted and lived a very ‘unconscious’ shared life.

This was when I entered what I called my “rage years”.

This is when everything changed.

I began to exercise with a furious energy and started to very carefully watch what I ate and drank. Food became a necessary evil… it was fuel I needed in order to function and nothing else. Food became the enemy. It had to be consumed in order to live so I consumed the bare minimum that I needed to exist.

Food was no longer about pleasure or comfort or enjoyment.

I hated, with a burning, raging passion what I had become. It symbolised to me how out of control I had ‘allowed’ my life to become. (In retrospect, it’s clear that, amongst other things, being diagnosed with a life changing and incurable illness must have played a massive part in my sudden need to rest establish control over something.)

I kept a strict daily journal of every single thing that I ate, complete with its calorific content, (which I still have to this day, as a reminder to myself of where I was at that time).

I woke early to exercise before breakfast, then I would walk for miles, return home and exercise again. I pushed myself to the extreme and beyond.

People asked me if I was anorexic and I scoffed at them. Me???? No! I was just being healthy!

I said this whereas, in reality, most days I didn’t reach anywhere near 1000 calories by bedtime, usually taking in between 600-800. Coupled with the intense activity I was doing I can’t imagine what my actual calorie intake was.

My periods stopped for three years.

I had to have bone density scans.

I was constantly cold. I wore jeans and a fleece whilst on holidays in The Canaries for three years in a row.

I had panic attacks at the thoughts of having to eat any food I did not have 100% control over, to the extent that it impacted on family gatherings and events. I recall clearly one day, feeling so incredibly hungry and craving something substantial so badly that I agreed to go for lunch with the OH. I ordered a burrito and, as it arrived, I began to hyperventilate and cry because I wanted it so badly but simultaneously felt completely disgusted at myself for wanting it. He was at a loss for what to do with me.

I reached my lowest weight of 88lbs.

I was always sporting bruises because my hipbones protruded to the extent that they constantly knocked off things. My stomach was concave. The bones of my spine, with no body fat to protect them, made sleeping on my back uncomfortable. Sleeping on my side required a pillow between my legs to prevent my knee bones grinding off each other.

Was I happy?

I never believed I was ‘slim’ enough! I looked at my profile in the mirror and saw my ribs and hipbones standing out but my eyes would wander to the area under my navel. I now know there was NOTHING there but I remember somehow seeing what I called a belly… I had no belly… I had internal organs, a digestive system and a uterus that had to go somewhere and my frame was so tiny I mistook them for a ‘belly’.

It is clear to me now that, although I thought I was exercising some form of self-love by ‘being healthy’, I had in fact simply found a new way to hate myself. I was punishing my body by denying it nourishment, pleasure and rest. Even as I achieved every weight loss goal I aimed for, I was never at peace. I saw an ugly, disgusting person in the mirror. One who would never be good enough.

I was referred to an endocrinologist to investigate my amenorrhea. My GP did her best to convince me I was underweight and in need of more food, “Ease up on yourself Kat, have a snack in the afternoon.”

I am not sure at what point I began to try to stop my rigorous regime. I can honestly say that period of my life is blurry at best. But, scared at the loss of my periods and the prospect of osteoporosis, I did relax my exercising and extreme calorie counting.

Last year I reached a happy weight of 98lbs.

Well, I say happy…

I understood, logically, that for my body to function I needed the extra pounds, but I still struggled with the idea of gaining weight and watched my intake very carefully and still worked out. I was still wearing clothes from H&M kids section. I could still wrap my fingers around my thigh with room to spare as it measured 12″ circumference in my age 11 jeans.

But…

Somewhere along the course of the past year I have… You guessed it…

I have found a NEW way to hate myself, yay!

I have been comfort eating and drinking more wine than I should. I eased up on myself gradually; allowing that extra glass of wine, that lunch out, that afternoon snack.

I noticed some weight creeping on…

My age 11 jeans were no longer comfortable. I, for the first time in years, had to shop in the adult sections and moved up to size 6.  (I can hear the pissed off groans now as people voice their scorn… Yes of course a size 6 is still small… but from my warped perspective I had failed.)

I am currently, in my opinion, carrying too much weight at 128lbs. I feel uncomfortable, unattractive and very unfit. I am breathless and overheated almost all the time.

Most of all I feel that I have let myself down. I feel disgust and shame about it.

I have been torturing myself by looking back at photos of when I was thinner… it is making me feel worse, like even more of a failure.

So… I need to finally address this.

Why do I hate myself?

Why do I find the concept of self-love so alien?

Why do I think I do not deserve inner peace, acceptance and happiness?

My self-hatred is deeply ingrained in me from an early age.

I can trace some of my unhappiness back to my childhood. Hang on, I can trace it all back there…  I never felt comfortable or relaxed as a kid. I toyed with some self-harm as a teen and made an unsuccessful suicide attempt at 17. I just didn’t want to be here.

I had what most people would consider a ‘good’ upbringing. I was never hungry, there was always food on the table, I was sent to very good schools. But there are other things a child needs beyond those.

I suspect I know where this self-hatred originates but to face that feels just too overwhelming.

What am I to do?

Will it ever change?

Do you hate me for writing this?

💋

Copyright, k1kat.com

All rights reserved.

The Cut…

Trigger warning: this story contains sensitive material pertaining to self harm


The sweet sting of the blade against her pale skin.

A tiny rivulet of red trickled down her thigh. She tossed her head back, relief coursing through her body. The pain and hatred flowing out of her into the warm bath water.

She watched the cloud of red spread through the water, feeling detached and slightly outside of herself.

Calm.

For now, for this moment, the vile venom of her mind was quiet as her eyes soaked in the sight of her blood seeping out of the cut.

The razor once more against her skin, pressing down… slice, a longer stripe this time, deeper.

Her alabaster thighs scattered with silver white scars, now turning pink under the bloody water.

She considered them, her scars, like old friends.

Or old enemies.

Each one a reminder of a previous pain, of her self-hatred, of a longing to simply not be anymore.

She struggled every time to stop the razor blade, before she gave in to the need to cut deeper, harder, to allow herself to bleed out into her bathtub.

She resisted the desire to set herself free from the constant torment of her mind.

She settled for the release that came with the slash and slice of her skin, the sweet respite the physical pain brought with it.

Standing and draining the tub of the cherry-blush water, she dried off and taped up her fresh wounds, relishing the throbbing from her punctures.

Facing herself in the mirror, she saw only a worthless piece of meat, a sad, sorry excuse for a human being and she knew that one day, soon, she would not refuse herself her deepest desire for peace.

Copyright, 2015, illicit thoughts.wordpress.com

All rights reserved.