Happy Ending

I am a christian and sometimes I like to call myself a princess because my dad (God) is the King. But contrary to popular belief life isn't a fairy tale.

Somebody said to me how they don't get how people can be dumb enough to believe in God and the bible, it's just another fairy tale storybook. So, here I am thinking of ways anybody could compare the two... Jesus had 12 disciples, 3 of which are named John, Andrew and James. They weren't quite the same as the 7 dwarfs, 3 of which are names Happy, Grumpy and Sleepy. Jesus washed the Disciples feet, Cinderella washed the floor. The beast in beauty and the beast was cursed for selfishness, Jesus was on the other-hand selfless, a sinless man who died to save others.

The Bible isn't an airy-fairy happy-clappy book about princesses and castles and happy endings. It involves Jesus being tortured and nailed to a cross. A flood that covered the earth. A Man who's brothers sold him into slavery because they were jealous of his coat. First born son's being killed. And I can't think of anything worse than travelling on a donkey. Jesus was born in a stable and not bought up in a castle. The bible isn't full of glittery pictures and fairy-god mothers.

It's hard to explain to someone exactly why I don't just believe in God as if I'm six and believing in the tooth-fairy. I believe he exists, I know he exists. No, I don't have proof and maybe things that happen are coincidence but without him I am nothing. God has done amazing things in the lives of my loved ones and there's no other explanation.  Knowing God is what keeps me sane, knowing God is knowing that I am loves and that my life has a purpose.  A belief in God isn't like a childs belief in the easter bunny, the bible isn't simply a storybook like Cinderella.

The only way you can compare the two are the happy endings.
For God so loved the world that  he gave his one and only son that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. John 3:16

Take me back to Africa

I spend a good 99% of my timing wanting to be back in South Africa. It's all I talk about and the only place I want to be. Things were better there, it's hard to explain why but i'm going to give it ago anyway.

I was me, Nobody who met me knew anything about me, my past or my mental health. The one's who did find out how weird I am weren't scared by it, they accepted me. I walked around in short sleeves nobody commented on my scars there was no 'Whatthefuckdidyoudo? Thatsdisgusting' They were just part of me. Nobody drew attention to them, nobody questioned, nobody stared. It was nice to be me.

The sun was shining pretty much all the time, it was beautiful. Not like England where it's dark and miserable and raining all the time, the sun makes everything better.

People are kinder. Nobody ever pointed out somebody elses oddly-shaped nose or the fact someone was bigger than a size 6. People walked around with bin-bags on their head and clothes that clashed but that's okay. People actually talk to one another, not like here where even if you see someone you know you put your head down, walk faster and pretend you didn't see them and pray that they didn't see you!

Everyone I met had a story and they weren't ashamed to share it. Everyone who I met had such an obvious faith in and love for God. If I was having a bad day people weren't like 'Lets go for a fag and drink some vodka' (typical English solution to everything) instead they prayed. (The best solution to everything).

Then don't even get me started on the little things like Vogue fags, Dis-chem, Mr Price, and Topdeck! Or the fact that their woolworths (good ol' woolies) is the equivalent to our Marks and Spencers. Romans Pizza, Pap and vetkoek.

I didn't have scales to stand on and being skinny wasn't a priority. If I was having a bad day I was never left to just struggle, nearly every day was a good day and thats never happened before.

I miss South Africa, the amazing people and the sunshine. I miss the church and the chocolate. I miss being myself. Oh take me back...

Too fat

This week I received a letter from my Doctor. This Doctor told me my referral to the aspen center was rejected because I need to lose a significant amount of weight. This letter told me the aspen center suggested my help should continue to come from the psychiatrists that work for the adult mental health services. This letter then went on to tell me that I no longer ill be having appointments with the psychiatrists.

This letter made my heart sink and tears dribble down my face. I don't know what to do, where do I even go from here?

My life and thoughts are constantly consumed by the thought of what I have or what I'm going to consume. I don't eat food, I eat numbers. The 89kcal banana for breakfast was okay. The 98Kcal crumpet I had wasn't. I felt guilty for eating it, I still do now. I'm not skinny, no where near. But I'm sick. And shouldn't that be enough for me to get help. My weight fluctuates on a daily basis and if it goes above a certain number I have a complete meltdown.

It fluctuates to the point of my jeans being too big to suddenly being too small. Some days I don't eat. Some days I eat everything I can. Everyday is a battle one that I can not win on my own. One that I need help to win but nobody is on my team.

I'm not as skinny as I was a few years ago when they told me I'd end up in hospital or worse - dead. But mentally I am worse a lot worse, so why won't they help me when I need it most? Why should I have to make my physical health as damaged as my mental health?

I'm so upset and confused and I don't even know anymore.

Learn how to swim

Looking through old Camhs letters is both the funniest and the saddest thing I have done. I was first seen by Camhs in september 2010. I was 14. I don't remember the initial assessment, I remember not wanting to be there and being adamant that I wasn't going to let them in.
 On this date I weighed 49.7kilos and had been suffering with disordered eating for 2-3 years already. I showed no signs of an eating disorder and convinced them all I did not have one. I did however have low self-esteem and they knew I had been self-harming. I was offered another appointment.

 I remember this appointment well, I sat in the room with the woman and did not make eye contact. I looked down, I looked at the clock and for the most part I was silent. I was told "Even if you don't talk I still get paid for the hour." (Unhelpful. Everything inside me screamed she doesn't even care as long as she still gets the money, don't bother talking).

We saw a family therapist after this woman. I never called her by name, if I was talking about her to someone she was 'The fat greasy lesbian woman'. I hated her and her crowd of followers that hid behind the one-way mirror. If I wasn't going to talk to one person I certainly wasn't going to talk to her and the 2 others hiding behind the screen. I remember screaming and shouting and being flat out rude to this woman. I didn't want her to help me. I didn't need it.

I was passed onto the Doctor there. Put on anti-depressants, taken off them and discharged. My discharged letter mentioned her seeing some 'old scars'. Which made me chuckle because I was wearing my pink jumper, sleeves pulled down. I convinced them I was fine and didn't need their help. When I did talk to them, I lied.

Here I am now, 4 years on having spent almost a year trying to get help just to be told time and time again they can't help me or that I don't meet certain criteria. I've been referred from place to place and been rejected. My anti-depressants aren't being changed, stopped or upped despite them not working.

4 years ago I didn't want help, I was in a river and convinced I was a strong swimmer screaming at them that I didn't need them yet they jumped into the river and invaded my space. Now I'm in the river drowning, they are stood on the bank with life buoy in hand and instead of throwing it screaming 'learn how to swim'.

I wish I had accepted the help all those years ago. I wish I could swim.