No more anorexia

 Why do I feel guilty

For wanting to take my life back

You’ve once cred every inch of my body

Like an addict in crack. 

Every vein and every tissue

Screams that I need you 

My mind goes into panic, overdrive

At the thiugh of not having. You. 

It’s somewhat ironic?

Seeejng as you have almost killed me

Taken away every thing I care about

Replaced it with your empty lies and broken promises 

And I just went along with it

Desperate for the pain to ease, thinking you’d have the answers. 

You don’t. You’re a liar and a cheat

And the only thing I feel guilty for is

Not seeing your deceit. 

F uk you anorexia

And all the damage you’ve caused 

I’m getting my life back

Fionas life, of which you’re invited for no more. 

 My world is tinted with rituals and rules

Arbitrary numbers and constraints that confuse

Other may look at me with bewilderment wnd worry

I wish I could explain what it’s like to live in this flurry

Of things that rationally I know do not matter

How many times I touch the light switch or 

Or what times I can drink water. 

I wish there was a way of explaining the torment when

I even consider opposing the voices

The panic, distress and anxiety that swirls around inside

Simply at the idea of making different choices. 

Because that’s what it is to others - a choice

It is just an arbitrary number

Just a four or a five

It’s just a light switch

Or an apple

Or a walk or a drive. 

I can’t explain, so I shan’t

But hear me when I say

I’d do anything to be free from the rules

To live a different pathway. 

Why?

 Why do I feel guilty

for simply sitting down 

Why am I overwhelmed with panic

For letting the nurses help?

Why does this illness make me despise myself

for simply being alive.

Why does it want to reduce me to less than a skeleton

barely even alive. 

Why does the voice in my head

Scream and shout and cry

simply because I am trying to 

keep myself alive. 

Why is this illness in my life?

Why won't the voice get out of my head?

Why can't it leave me for just a minute?

Why does it want me dead? 

Comfort

The truth is,

there is comfort in being unwell. 

That I think it is what I deserve 

to toil in this hell. 

Anorexia conspires and makes you believe 

that when your body holds up,

everyone will think you are healed.

How can I admit that I am scared

Of the voice in my head being louder

but my body looking better

That the body malfunctioning is easier to understand 

it takes less explanantion 

and people hold your hand. 

My mind scares me

a deep vortex of things I do not know

I am afraid to be me wholefully

So instead, I simply plateau. 

I'm going to get better

 Anorexia

I’m tired of your lies

I’m tired of your life

I’m tired of obeying you and conforming to your ties. 

I’m tired of your false promises, 

They take more from me each day. 

I’m tired of your threats and anger 

And tired of your constant dismay. 

I want to turn to you and say shut up

But I am still scared

Why though? What can you do?

The damage you have already reaped I fear cannot be repaired. 

I want to be free, I want to be Fiona

I want to find a way of living in this world 

I want to be at liberty to discover 

Who Fiona is and what she likes

What she wants and her forsights. 

I want to experience the world without anxiety and fear

Perpetuated by your insatiable requests and demands

Without wanting to disappear. 

I know this won’t be easy and

You’ll try to make me feel bad

But I’ll hold the people who love me close and remind myself

It’s a good thing when you’re mad. 

It means I’m moving away from you

It means I’m winning. 

And that is the ultimate goal now,

It’s time for us to reach out ending.

A puppet on strings

 I feel so powerless against your demands

Like a puppet on strings

You pull and I raise both hands

Your voice holds such power

Installing so much fear and force 

Your screams only get louder and louder

And my lonely voice runs coarse. 

You both terrify me and appeal

How can I explain?

I hate you but I can’t live without you

I attempt to refrain 

From being your puppet, your willing servant

Because it makes others sad when you take over the real Fiona, make her redundant

And because deep down I know that

You only cause me pain

That you have stolen my life and caused such disdain. 

And yet here you still are pulling the strings

And here I still am, obeying like a dog on a leash

And I’m exhausted of this and I’m exhausted of fighting you

I’m exhausted of the illness and 

I want out of the battle now. 

I'm not doing so good

 Everyone tells me how well I am doing 

Bravo, well done, you're one of our best patients.

Taking her feed

sitting in bed

clearly she's fine

level in the head. 

I wish I could communicate 

the storm deep inside

that is raging and warring and causing so much riptide.

That is tearing me apart

and shouting me down

the guilt erupting from every inch of my body and brain

and you look at me and

say well done

and I attempt to refrain

from shouting, screaming at the top of my lungs

this is painful and it hurts. 

And I want it to stop. 

I am not okay, 

I'm not going well,

I am trapped in a hell, condemned. 

 What if

the sickness isn't the scary part

the healing is. 

Facing all the things that blurred into the background

whilst I ran myself into the ground and 

starved my mind to the point of dumb found.

What if people look at me differently 

what if they expect more and 

ask for more and 

what if I am not enough

What if they call my bluff?

Because I don't feel strong enough

I don't feel worthy

I don't feel important

or able

or competent.

I feel like an imposter

like I walk around this world in shoes that do not fit

I don't feel worthy

of taking up space

of having a voice

I don't feel I should have a place. 

There is a safty in sickness

because nothing really matters

It is easier to worry about your blood sugars

and declining weight

and clothes hanging looser and

foods becoming scarier

than to admit you don't feel enough.

Admit you are scared 

of falling

and failing

and people seeing through the mask. 

Perfectionsim

 A smudge on the paper means starting again

The smallest of errors meas a failure to my name

A minor lapse in judgment means overthinking for days

A waver in the image I strive to show means others will see me in dismay.

Perfectionism is so much more than A*'s in tests

It is a cruel, constant voice of criticism 

And fear of discontent.

It is panic and control and trying to hold up the image of coping 

When underneath I am exhausted, lacking, I am falling. 

My body isn't doing so good

 Crash calls and 

Panicked nurses

Doctors rushing in and 

worried words are corresponded.

Blood sugars crashing

blood pressure in my boots

heart rate slowing too fast

and pain from my head to my foot. 

They say this isn't about weight gain

just about keeping me alive 

I wish anorexia's voice would ease

I wish I could make it through the night. 

Two sides of my brain

 I go from

Hating my body and the feeling of food

Wanting to be empty and clean and cleansed 

To feeling so I’ll and tired and cold

And craving recovery and all that it holds. 

In a war where two sides of my brain

Want the complete opposite and I try to contain

The shouting and whispering of each strong side

In hope that one day they will calm and subside. 

It’s exhausting being caught in the to and the fro

I want more than anything to be free to let go. 

I know it’s not simple, living with this illness 

Beyond that thiugh, it’s confusing for me, let alone onlookers. 

Sat here in hospital, ng up my nose

Desperately lonely, sad and confined 

I want nothing more than my life back and fun

I’m tired of injections and feeds and blood tests

I’m so tired of anorexia

So why can’t it rest?