MAYBE TRIGGERING (EATING DISORDER AND SELF HARM)
I’m S. I’m 17, turning 18 in two months. I’m from Germany. I hope my english is not as bad.
When I was 15 I was first diagnosed with depression. I had stopped eating. My hair fell out. My nails were broken. I didn’t had my menstruation since months. I was always freezing. Sometimes I couldn’t go to school, feeling too weak. When noone watched I threw my lasagna in the bin. I started therapy, when my mum couldn’t handle my anorexia anymore.
She had weighed me once a week before, when she realized I didn’t eat and lost that much weight. I betrayed her and drank two liters of water every time before weighting, I also had stones in my pants every time. That made me two or three kilos heavier, than I actually was. My mother doesn’t know it until today. Sometimes she cried at the kitchen table, when I went away, without having eaten anything. I had never see her crying this much before and I couldn’t to anything to comfort her.
My therapist is still a nice, petite lady with short red hair, in the mid of her fifties, wearing some big glasses, that make her look like an owl. She is awesome. I guess I couldn’t find any better therapist. She is a real artist, makes paintings and sculptures and always wears really freaky and colourful stuff. I guess she became something like an idol for me. We smoked cigarettes together in the woods, when I needed to, she send me letters and gave me her email-address, when I went to Australia and she still writes back every time, when I write her something, even if it’s 1am. When I felt lost she gave me a little plastic fawn out of her glass case full of plastic animals. I took it home and remembered the words: Try to be gentle with your inner fawn. The next time I gave it back to her and said: My inner lion was gentle with my inner fawn the last days. She bitched with me about the doctor in the hospital, I visited one day, called Miss Frog and we laughed together about that crazy name. She send me a postcard when traveling through Cuba, we shared music, I made playlists for her and I still visit her and she’s such an awesome, artful lady, spreading love and creativity, I wish there’d be more on this planet.
A few weeks after starting therapy my doctor started to prescribe me antidepressants and after two years I still take them and it helped me a lot. I don’t know, it just helped me out of a very dark time full of crying and lying on the floor and I’m just thankful, even if it’s some psychotropic, people find crazy.
It was a few days before my birthday and two months before heading off to Australia. I wanted to stay there for three months, the trip was planned a long time before, but I wasn’t sure, if I could really do it, because I was too underweight. My therapist said: You can’t fly, if you don’t cange your eating habits. I’m sorry. A few days before my birthday I realized that anorexia was going to ruin my whole youth. And that it didn’t felt good anymore, it wasn’t something I wanted to live with anymore. I also didn’t want to get hospitalized. So I tried. I ate. I ate chocolate. I ate much chocolate. I felt so happy, that I couldn’t sleep the next two nights. My body was full with endorphins. It was crazy. Sometimes I felt very miserable and guilty, sure, I was still anorexic and you can’t change that fast. But I made it. I gained weight. My menstruation returned. I stopped weighting myself. I put the scale away (my eating disorder started, when my mum bought a scale for me, because I asked her. we never had a scale in our house before) and I tried. It was hard. All was different. I had to force myself to sit still. I still had to force myself to eat. I didn’t know what it meant, to eat normal. Or to had appetite. I always felt hungry or too full. I gained a lot of weight in the first weeks. I had a lot of attacks when I couldn’t stop eating. I always tried to say to myself, that my inner fawn is just hungry. And that one day it’s going to be better.
The doctors were proud. They asked me, how that was possible in such a short time, though it was nearly mind changing. I said: I want to go to Australia. In fact I just wanted to live a happy life.
I went to Australia, I saw the million stars over Ayers Rock, I camped in the wild, I fed kangaroos, I ate all chocolate bars I hadn’t taste before. I gained a lot of weight, but I was lucky, even if there were days, I felt wrong, than I looked in the mirror and thought of my little inner fawn, that would slowly become a strong and proud deer.
When I came home I was nearly overweight. I only wore skirts, no jeans anymore. I started to live my normal life again, went back to horse riding, rode to school with my bike, went for walks in the wood, tried to eat healthy. I lost weight. My hair stopped falling out. I could wear my old clothes again. But I never stopped wearing only skirts until today. I was proud.
One year later, in october last year I started cutting. I had done it before a few times, but not as deep and not as hard as then. I still went to therapy, my eating habits were still normal. But now I started cutting. I didn’t felt comfy, I was frightened of life and future, I wasn’t loved by the person I wanted to, I felt boring and strange. The cuts weren’t much, but deep. I draw pictures with my blood, pictures of fawns, lions and grizzlys. I felt disgusted. I stopped. There are scars left on my legs and they will never go away and sometimes I ask myself how can I go swimming this summer or will anyone ever love me, looking so destroyed? Today I know: Yes. I’m not destroyed. I’m not defined by my body. The scars tell their stories and they’ll play a huge part in my life and my mother still doesn’t know about them and it’s going to be heartbreaking. But I know: I’m not my scars. And not only my body. People love me for what I really am. I am not a problem that needs to be solved. I am beautiful, no matter how pathetic that sounds. Every day I’ve got the chance to do it better. I am stronger than before, because I know, that I can do it.
I am funny. I am proud. I write poetry and after finishing school in a few weeks, I’m going to study creative writing far away from home. I am creative. I love to do playlists for others or go for a walk and listening to music. I love making other people happy. I love reading. I love to record poems, even if I find my own voice strange. I’ve learned that Sylvia Plath was an awesome writer and an interesting lady, but not a hero. I like Klimt. And Frida Kahlo. My room is full of pictures by them. I write down my dreams, as I can still remember them in the morning. I write down every lucky moment that happens on a piece of paper and put it in a small jar, so I’ll never forget it. I’ve learned that there will always be someone who loves you deeply and really needs you. People love me. People need me. I have friends. I love C. You can’t force people to love yourself. That’s life. C loves me too. I still take antidepressants and it’s okay. I have scars and it’s okay. I am myself. And that’s okay. Even if it’s still a long way until this “OKAY” is tattooed into my brain. But it will. I’m sure. There’s a strong deer inside me now and it’s going to be stronger every day, every battle I fight.
picture taken by picrox
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