Recovery and Rainbows

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EDAW ’22 – reflections

I’ve been debating adding my voice to the conversation around EDAW22, partially because I fear I have nothing to add, and partially because it is such a small part of my identity these days and I wish to keep it that way. However, after a rough few months I wish to reflect – albeit in a semi-pretentious, uncharacteristically sentimental way (isn’t it odd how it’s easier to be emotionally vulnerable when hiding behind a screen). So if you can’t stomach my slightly self-indulgent, semi-incomprehensible babble, now is your chance to opt out.

On EDAW there is always the temptation to post a picture of yourself at your lowest weight (bonus points if it’s a side by side comparison picture!) – jutting collarbones piercing through the skin, toothpick arms dangling like branches, the eyes glazed over and the face as neutral as a passport photo – in some warped attempt to prove to people that you “were once thin” or to validate the small remnants of your eating disorder. But in truth, these kind of images (alongside our overstretched NHS ED services) only perpetuate the idea that you must be visibly underweight in order to have an eating disorder.

I have never felt so lonely in my life as I did when I suffered from an eating disorder. I have never had such fragmented interpersonal relationships. I have never felt like a stranger in my own home.

I wish I could go back in time and tell myself how good it can be. You will travel. You will meet new people. You will be happy, and you will bask in it. You will find comfort in things other than your disorder: the golden embers of the sun appearing on a crisp, autumn afternoon, the endearing quirks of a stranger, the rain pirouetting playfully above you as you walk alone at night.

You will visit Italy and eat bread again, and no, I don’t mean a pre-weighed serving, meticulously cut into small bite size pieces as your hand shakily guides them to your tongue. I mean bread that is lathered with oil and washed down with red wine, lightly staining the sides of your mouth. Wine that is consumed for enjoyment, and not as yet another way to anaesthetize the chaos of every day life.

Your mind will no longer misconstrue others words to fit your disorders narrative. The words “well” and “healthy” no longer equate to “fat”, and you will learn that the word “fat” is a descriptive term, nothing more.

You will gain a new identity other than your illness- my hazy little brain is still not quite sure what that identity is yet to tell you the truth, but it will be a comfort when you realise that most people are in the same boat.

You will stay in contact with people you met in treatment – some sadly don’t make it, and you will feel immensely guilty for this. Others will get trapped in the revolving door system. Many will go on to live fulfilling lives without their disorder. One friend will have a beautiful baby, and despite being the least maternal person in the world, you will feel nothing but love and pride when you marvel at the beauty she has created. One friend will move into their own flat and spam you with photos. Another friend will qualify as a mental health nurse, and use her experience of her disorder to help others.

You will love people, and they will love you, even if you do not feel deserving of it. It might be painful – and you may discover that a hot water bottle and a good vibrator is an apt boyfriend/girlfriend substitute at times. You will muddle through.

And one day, not too far from now, you will undress in the mirror, as naked as you were when you came into this world, and you will not recoil in disgust, or find your half-bitten nails digging into your skin in anguish. You might caress those newly-found curves, you might flail your limbs around and dance to Muse, you might not feel anything at all. But you will know that this body is a vessel that will carry you through life.

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Is body positivity problematic?

As I spend another lockdown night mindlessly scrolling through the depths of instagram, I am once more bombarded with an influx of body positivity posts. Instagram influencers sharing before and after pictures, proudly exposing their stomach rolls and cellulite for the world to see.

As a loud-and-proud feminist and an eating disorder survivor, you would think these images would fill me with an abundance of joy- relishing the fact that bodies of all shapes and sizes are being celebrated? Wrong. I felt pangs of guilt lashing against me. How can all these women I see online simply “love themselves”, when it has taken me years to get to the point of ambivalence at best.

For years, we have passively ingested the toxic narrative of diet culture, believing that thinness is an ideal we should sacrifice everything for. Body positivity has been the catalyst to change the narrative, as we find society rejecting the message that thin=beautiful and visa versa.

We all witnessed the rise of the size 0 model: collarbones jutting through the skin and sunken cheekbones giving that “heroin-chic” look I once yearned for. Throughout the decade these stories were rebranded as “empowerment” and “health kicks”, with the likes of Joe Wicks encouraging you to guzzle down so much green juice that you begin to produce fecal matter not dissimilar to Shrek.

In present day, we are met by the ever-growing body positivity movement (which ironically seems to be sistered by the love-island-esque cosmetic surgery obsession). This movements devotion to the ubiquitous mantra “love your body” hurls us headfirst to the other end of the body-hatred spectrum.

Body positivity sounds like such a fantastic idea (and i believe it is, in many ways!) However, like many narratives on social media, we are led to believe that it is easily attainable- that posting a photo of your lumps and bumps on Instagram will magically empower you to love your body. Forget years of therapy and overcoming trauma… all you need are a few hashtags to become body positive, which works pretty well in our culture of instant gratification!

The message that we “should” love everything about our bodies is making me feel like a failure. If I hate my body and try to change it, I’m buying into diet culture and a hugely toxic industry that profits off our insecurities. However, if I buy into the body positivity movement and simply “start loving myself”, I am suppressing years and years of body-hate, and instead of dealing with it, I am sweeping it under the rug.

Alas, I am left in a strange limbo, whereby I feel body positivity leaves very little room for insecurities and perceived flaws, which I believe to be a natural part of the human psyche.

Furthermore, the body positivity movement philosophy of “every body is beautiful” begs the question “do I NEED to be beautiful?”. Must my aesthetic value be intrinsically linked to my worth?

I distinctly recall being a teenager, and covering my mirror with a sheet, to prevent myself from scrutinizing my appearance and becoming even more anal than I already was (imagine an autistic teenager desperately trying to fit in whilst navigating the joys of puberty).

Our cleaner (Yes, cleaner. Yes, I have checked my privilege!) removed this sheet from the mirror and left a post-it note on the mirror that read “you are beautiful”. My angsty teenage self scoffed, and whilst I appreciated the kind gesture, I couldn’t help but think “Why do I need to be beautiful? Why can’t I just be?”

Think about the last time you accepted something just as it was – you weren’t swayed by emotion or pressured to attach moral value to the object or situation in question. You just accepted it.

And so enters body-neutrality, a term I’ve come to quietly embrace… a modest endeavour to accept my body as it is, and recognize it’s non-physical attributes over my appearance. By practicing neutrality, I’m decentralizing the body as an object, and challenging the myth that the way I look determines my worth.

I will never profess to love my legs, nor do I hate them… but I am thankful for them…the adrenaline surging through my veins as I sprint through the park, the golden embers of the sun slowly meeting me, as the dewy air hits beads of sweat. The arms I once so despised now allow me to play in the fields, autumn leaves pirouetting above me. The hips I deemed “too wide” shake and shimmy through the dance floor of an 80s disco night, as the lethal combination of alcohol and dyspraxia causes me to spill drinks everywhere. Why should we value bodies based on what they look like, when they are capable of so much more?

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How can you miss something so detrimental?

I often find myself in disbelief- that I can miss something that caused me so much pain. It feels like yearning the loss of an abusive relationship, all the while looking back through rose-tinted glasses. Not dissimilar to an alcoholic, I find myself craving the very thing that almost killed me, not because I am so disillusioned to believe that it can render me happy in these strange times, but because, like alcohol- it numbs you to the chaos of the external world. A highly dysfunctional relationship, yet the dysfunction changes- from warped infatuation, to collusion in abuse, and eventually to escape from the slavery your existence has become.

By no means am I suggesting I intentionally ever used my poor mental health as a ‘get out of jail free card’ (for want of a better phrase), however in my experience of living with chronic mental health problems I have found that it often acts as a neat, little anaesthetic, providing me with a abrasive outer shell, protecting me from the turbulence of everyday life. If I am constantly devoting my time to thinking about my illnesses, my emotions are limited to that, and thus the rest of the world dwindles into insignificance. However, in my hazy little brain- I am beginning to realise that like the man cradling a bottle of whisky in order to self-medicate, the immediate feeling wears off post-ingestion. You pick yourself up again by anaesthetising the pain with yet more of the drug, and thus the vicious cycle continues. It may not be for months, years, decades, but eventually you come to realise you are temporarily replacing the pain you were trying to avoid, with long lasting pain you can’t.

Mental illness (and eating disorders in particular) are bizarre in that when you ask someone who is physically unwell if they wish to recover to good health, the answer is a resounding ‘yes’. However, if you were to ask someone with an eating disorder this question, you would likely be met with ambivalence at best. The same may apply for other mental health disorders- I am not insinuating that people choose to become ill, but I know first hand that after years of self-destruction, it can be tempting to fall back into those ways, for them to act as a safety blanket from this strange plane of existence, particularly in times of uncertainty.

…and times of uncertainty we most certainly are in. Times in which I have found myself waking up daily with very little motivation to get out of bed, hit by waves of anxiety, my thoughts spiralling,

What does the future hold for humanity? What can I do?- I am only one person… an ill equipped person at that! How can I keep my family and friends safe? How can I keep myself safe?

Alongside many others, I am usually directed to A&E when in a mental health crisis. However, I recently received a letter instructing me to avoid A&E like the plague (quite literally!) and instead to call the crisis line (which is a crisis in itself considering their eerily upbeat one note samba hold music). Phone appointments are a complicated debacle, as my mind fears I am wasting the time of highly sought after healthcare professionals. I desperately teeter precariously between a desire to be honest, yet simultaneously fearing he/she on the receiving end of the phone will deem me ‘overdramatic’ or ‘selfish’.

The smallest things have threatened to send me into tears, the irrepressible urges to run away, to escape, to feel pure adrenaline wash over me, cleansing me with a tornado force, as I once more reach for the flame that has burned me time over. It is bizarre, how changeable my mood is; one minute gleefully soaring, the next I stoop, like a plant that is wilting in the desert. It seems the longer one is trapped inside, the more they yearn for the world that lies beyond their front door.

I am desperately trying to look for the good in the world at the moment- the times when she offers us a glimpse of hope to dilute the ferocity of the storm we find ourselves in. The times the old lady opposite with the pink hair thumps against a cooking pan as she cheers for the NHS on a Thursday. The time I was walking late at night and feared I saw a drug deal, only to realize it was two boys sharing a bag of skittles. The time my Mother exclaimed ‘someone has stockpiled my favourite salmon pate from Waitrose!’, before concluding that all things considered, this is the least of our worries. These fragments of humanity serve me better than indulging in my disorder ever could.

I miss the small things; the bitter flavour of coffee penetrating my tastebuds as I sit outside with my friend, her lilting Irish accent adding a colourful inflection to even the dullest of phrases. My family, my Dad’s 60^th birthday this weekend, where zoom calls now take the place of embraces & clinking glasses. My weird and wonderful Grandma, who passed away last week, and the sadness at missing the cremation (or ‘box and burn’ as my Father so eloquently put it!). Characteristics, intimacy, little quirks that linger in my mind despite the physical distance between us. As the days and nights merge into one rolling continuum of seconds, minutes and hours, it dawns upon me- that as we pensively sit in our homes, awaiting a change in circumstance, people are all we have. People that break up the monotony of every day life, people that teach me how to grieve with empty arms, how to find comfort, even separated through screens. People give me hope; a hope that no self-destructive behaviour has ever satiated.

But oh, when the skeletal fragments of the world we once knew begin to emerge once more, how good it will feel. We will drink in the morning light, fire dancing inside- an insatiable hunger for the breeze to caress your porcelain skin. The untamed wildflowers bursting through the seams of cement; flourishing from the most damaged roots.

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Happy anniversary, therapy.

As a civilized, functioning (semi functioning?) member of society, one is expected to constantly adapt to ones surroundings; to become a reluctant chameleon, if you will. Perhaps I can pull the Autism card here, but seldom have I found myself able to efficiently navigate my way around a new set of people and circumstances without something going awry.

A classic example in my memory of debauched anecdotes, is the time I returned from hospital back to school. The piercing eyes of an angst riddled teen. An attitude that toyed between appearing not to care, whilst simultaneously yearning for others approval.

Mr Owen plods towards me, and I silently remark that his stubbly, bald head reminds me of sesame seeds on a burger bun. He courteously asks me how I’m settling back in with my peers. Without thinking, I say, in jest:

“Well the temptation to blow up the school is getting stronger by the day…” as a wry smile plasters onto my face.

The joke lingers in the abyss of silence I am greeted with. I bumble through corridors, unaware of the calamity I am yet to avert. A few hours later, I am sat in the deputy heads office- being lambasted for making a so-called “terrorist threat”, which is probably not helped by the fact that I’ve just been discharged from the “funny farm” (as my sister so lovingly referred to it as). 10 years on, I am thankfully slightly more mindful of which words carelessly roll off my tongue, but I frequently wonder why both as an adult and an adolescent, I find myself in situations such as these.

Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of blaming my various personality defects on parental shortcomings. As disappointing as it is to various psychiatrists who want to go “trauma fishing”, my upbringing was as “strong and stable” as the Tories would have you believe their government is. Its safe to say that there is little drama in your parents collecting Le Creuset pans and watching Grand Designs.

Unfortunately, some problems are still prevalent in my day to day life. This year marks my 10 year anniversary with mental health services. If this were a marriage, it would be the kind where the wife is a borderline alcoholic & the husband is not-so-secretly shagging his secretary, yet all the while putting up the perfect couple facade of “but we’ve been together for 10 years so something must be working!”

Although that little metaphor articulated itself far better in my head, you can see what I am implying. Although technically I have been in services for 10 years, under the surface, there has actually been very little therapeutic intervention. 10 years of being passed around from pillar to post. I am one of many individuals who have a chronic mental health issue that is swept aside by a severely underfunded NHS. 10 years on, I am merely told to call the crisis team, or go to A&E if I am at risk.

So 2020 is the year I vow to return to therapy in one last attempt to salvage some sanity – lest I end up like the weird and wonderful creation that is my mother; feeding our cats waitrose smoked salmon out of the palm of her hand.

Although I have the utmost respect for the NHS, to say they have failed me with regards to treatment would be an understatement. I wholeheartedly believe that adequate mental health support should be available to everyone, not just those privileged enough to have private health insurance etc. This being said, I am in the fortunate position that my family have health insurance that will cover a limited amount of sessions. I recognize that this is a privilege, however my hope is that if I utilize this now, I will no longer have to drain the NHS of its resources for another 10 years.

And so, on a rainy weekday night, I sit and trawl through a psychotherapist directory, each profile furnished with pictures and a bio- a therapist Tinder, if you will. Bland profiles merge into one, as I play everyone’s least favourite game of “mental health bingo” – 10 points for a bio with the term “safe space” or “mindfulness” frivolously thrown around. I encounter one that is comparatively cheap at £60 an hour. I begin to ponder the thought that that works out at £1 per minute. What if I sit, deflated in the crease of their leather sofa, chest heaving with sobs as a result of recalling visceral details of various traumas? What if that takes 15 minutes? That’s £15 – 5 takeaway coffees or a return journey to Brussels on the Megabus!

I had some private therapy 10 years ago that should’ve converted me into a walking picture of health- a therapist who was the epitome of white, male privilege. Our sessions began with him assuring me that my problems started as a result of my Mum having a full time job, and that in his patriarchal bullshit view, that was essentially neglect. I’ve also had the school counsellor who was not dissimilar to a Dalek; void of all human emotion and speaking in a dirge-like monotone. They may work for one, but not for another, and that’s ok. If I try someone out, and its not a good fit, I vow not to adopt the ludicrously British notion of sticking to a commitment because it would be too awkward to opt out.

The end of the decade, and the end of mindlessly hoping that my name will be pushed up an endless NHS waiting list. No new beginnings, or dressed up texts profoundly parading around, claiming 2020 as “the new me”. The same me; hazy, little brain, various foibles that threaten to come to the surface. Words haphazardly splattered in ink to paper, as you stare intently, the leathery skin of your face softening. You purse your lips, ready to speak. Come sweet pearls of wisdom- plaster up the cracks and heal me with your words? She speaks:

“So how do you feel on a scale of 1 to 10?”

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Awareness is not enough.

received_443098453135078 It is not acceptable to wear yellow for a day, or to post some non-sensical quote on Instagram, pasted into an ornate floral border, all the while shunning the mental illnesses societally deemed less palatable- the complex (and often lifelong) diagnosis that renders you unable to function on a day to day basis.

The illness that causes you to lock yourself in the bathroom, weeping uncontrollably as you frantically tear your hair out in a blur of dissociation- only to “wake up” later and have little recollection of what has happened. The illness that has you adopt multiple personalities and desperately try to navigate your way through them on a daily basis. The illness that has you switching from being a chirpy, ball of boundless energy, to a shell of your former self, nestled deep between the sheets in search of refuge.

There are a vast array of mental health issues out there – Pure O , Dissociative Identity Disorder, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, BPD, most of which are never brought to light, and are universally overshadowed by the more “run of the mill” mental health issues such as anxiety and depression.

Mental health awareness is not enough. Corporate, workplace campaigns that scream “look how inclusive and politically correct we are!” are not enough. Yoga, mindfulness and “self care” is not a substitute for intensive treatment for complex cases/those with co-morbidities. Face masks and bubble baths may alleviate milder symptoms temporarily, but to consider “self care” a valid form of psychological therapy is a dangerous notion indeed.
Being dumped at the bottom of a waiting list with the vague promise of some treatment & an unspecified time scale is not okay.

Driving people to become sicker and sicker before they can access help is a hugely dangerous predicament, and one the NHS finds itself in. I am currently on a waiting list for therapy with the Personality Disorder service- I half jokingly said to my psychiatrist “I’m sure if I hurt myself a bit they’d push me up the list”. I was met with a sympathetic smile, and a brow that furrowed to hide the look that registered the sad truth of my quasi-jovial remark.

I am angry. I am angry that there are people slipping through the net and we seem to be making very little headway in securing more adequate mental health services in the UK. In light of Tory austerity and budget cuts, the brutal reality is that a sufficient mental health provision requires a huge amount of financial investment.

I find myself in the privileged position of being white, middle class and from a family who can afford to pay for private treatment, should i need it. It goes without saying that this is not a viable option for many – and the accessibility of therapy and mental health treatment should not be dependent on your income/class.

Once again, this stream of consciousness that vainly presents itself upon this page, serves no purpose other than to provide me with some catharsis. Some respite from Autumns sun-flecked thoughts that penetrate my enduring exterior.

I’ve seen them in passing: passions I am yet to meet, my pain stained voice singing true to them. Wait for me, I ask. I still yearn for the time I was naked, no longer cloaked in the facade of a plastered smile. With a roaring heart ablaze and tenacious vines tumbling, offering a way out of this slump I have fallen into over the past weeks.

As clichéd as it sounds, I am trying to reassure myself that “recovery is not linear” as all the overpriced self help books and glossy quotes on social media will tell you. I will never fully comprehend why these emotions infiltrate my mind and wreak havoc within. But for now, the acidic, vinegar tears will dry and shrivel, your heart will bloom with the onrush of the red hue of light streaming through the window, as you slowly peel your spine away from the duck-white walls of solitude.

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memoirs of a psych ward

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I wake up, my hazy brain unable to comprehend how I have ended up here. The nurse doggedly insists that I get out of bed, as the sunlight searing through the barred windows taunts me. I ram my thumb in between my shoulder blades, in a futile attempt to iron out the creases my muscles cling on to. The mattress is cold and hard, the room uniformly clinical, as the “Get Well Soon” card perches patronizingly on the windowsill. I wander in a drunken daze of dissociation through the corridors, painted a stark white that hurts my eyes. The nurse escorts me, swooping around me, like a hawk stalking its prey.

Anti-psychotics, PRN, Anti-depressants, mood stabilizers, sleeping pills, pumping into me, all dispensed from a hatch, which I nicknamed “the bar”, whilst taking great pleasure in pretending my meds cup was a shot of tequila (much to the nurses annoyance). You would be made to stick your tongue out, to ensure you had actually ingested the medication they so desperately wanted to numb you with.

Sadly, medication is a cheap, handy solution to the staff shortages in inpatient wards. I would drag my semi-lifeless body around the ward, those devious little cylinders of chemicals morphing me into a pale-faced, compliant zombie. These handfuls of drugged-up patients gave the staff some respite. When someone is so sedated, they haven’t the energy, physical or mental to act out. It was far easier for the staff to manage the ward, chemically restraining patients, knowing that dispensing more meds equated to less incidents.

The country faces what amounts to an epidemic of behavioural mental health malpractice that has destroyed the lives of countless over drugged patients; children, seniors, veterans, yet no powerful advocacy body is seriously addressing it.

If I refused my medication, I would be reprimanded through having my visitation rights changed, my home leave taken away, and my section renewed. However, if I complied and took my medication, I would be met with a feeling of sheer emptiness, devoid of all human emotion- my vacant, ghostlike gaze signifying the oblivion I found myself in. As cliché as it sounds, I would rather feel something, than nothing.

This place was no healing sanctuary, no oasis of refuge for the soul. I recall noticing the bittersweet irony, that the environment created to help the most mentally vulnerable was one of terror, alienation and despair.

As this particular hospital admission was at a medium secure unit, the ward was locked. We were not allowed to go outside, except brief, supervised visits to the courtyard, barbed wire lazily hanging over the tops of the walls, singlehandedly crushing my plans of escape. No phones, no computers, one ward phone where you had to have phone numbers pre-approved by a social worker. I recall a situation where I couldn’t call my boyfriend as his number had not been approved, so I called my sister on her home phone, she called my boyfriend on her mobile, and sat for twenty minutes pressing her mobile to the home phone so I could talk to him.

At one point early on in my admission, my mental health deteriorated quite rapidly (which isn’t surprising considering the chaotic surroundings). Two staff picked me up and essentially dragged me to a seclusion room, equipped with only a thin, hard mattress on the floor, and a hatch to be passed food and water through. After what felt like the longest hour of my life, I was taken back to my room, and put on 1 to 1, constant supervision. A nurse watches you sleep, she watches you get dressed, she watches you shower, she watches you go to the toilet. A necessity to keep you safe? Perhaps. A degrading experience, stripping you of your last shreds of dignity? Absolutely.

Worryingly, after liaising with other patients later that month, I discovered that my brief time in seclusion was uneventful in comparison.

A girl with learning difficulties described to me how she was hauled through the corridors to the seclusion room, her arm tightly wrapped around her back, pinned to the ground and forcibly medicated via injection. She was stripped of all clothes (the reason being, apparently, she could form a ligature with her trousers) and left in a locked room for hours, as staff watched on through a small, wire-glass window.

Contact with the outside world was sparse, particularly in the first few weeks of this admission. Visits took place in a separate room off the ward, with supervision from at least one member of staff. I cannot begin to coherently articulate how awkward it is to express emotions at this time in public view. I felt like a caged animal in a zoo, merely a spectator attraction. Hugs felt manufactured and uncomfortable, and the compassion I so ravenously craved became twisted into a voyeuristic display, the staffs piercing eyes darting back and forth as they furiously scribbled notes on how I appeared to act with my family.

The difficulty in hospital was not only staff shortages & lack of resources, but a wide range of cases & complex needs. During my admission, 40% of the patients were on remand from prison, meaning they had committed a crime, but were mentally ill so would serve their sentence in hospital instead. In order to prevent the ward from crumbling into disarray, the staff relied highly on a military style regime, which although at the time I was thankful for, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see how it contributes to individuals becoming institutionalized.

Wake up, shower, get dressed, take meds, breakfast, wait (whilst the plastic cutlery is counted back in), education, lunch, group therapy, snack, keyworker meetings, room time (enforced time spent in your room), dinner, take meds, lights out, sleep. Repeat the next day.

In many ways, the regimented structure the hospital gave me was a silver lining, however, upon being discharged I found myself wandering this plane of existence with very little idea as to how to live. Although the hospital served its purpose in many ways, I could see how so many people end up in wards for years on end. You become institutionalized, strangely comfortable with the discomfort of being confined to one building. I tasted curiosity, yearning to reconnect with the world outside of hospital, but poorly equipped, with none of the tools to cope in a world full of uncertainty.

There is no dictionary definition of a locked rehabilitation/psychiatric ward, but it generally means a unit where patients are unable to leave, treating people who are considered high risk to others and themselves.

There are very few conversations I’ve had that I genuinely consider to be life changing, however, there is one that has prevailed. Around a month into this admission, I had a meeting with my primary nurse. She told me, that on average, patients stayed at this hospital for 2 years, and usually weren’t discharged straight back into the community. She (off the record) spoke to me about the way long term hospital treatment makes you, how it drains you of energy, and steals your zest for life. She urged me not to be another statistic, and that if I complied in being pumped full of alleviants and jumped through the psychiatrists impossibly high hoops, I could be out in 6 months. And sure enough, 5 months passed, and I boldly stood up in front of a tribunal to appeal my section and was deemed sane enough to return home (by a psychiatrist I still think is more nuts than most).

Hospital is not the only answer. Many return home after hospitalizations demoralized and despondent. Being in a secure unit, at times, I was made to feel like a criminal being punished, a danger to society, who should be locked up and shackled to the end of a bed. By no means am I implying this is the same with every hospital, or that this hospital did not help me at all, however, to anyone thinking inpatient treatment is the better option, it may well not be. As a society we need to focus on turning psychiatric hospitalization into a constructive experience towards recovery; and shaping hospitals into places that give you care and support, as opposed to seclusion and sedation. I am forever grateful to my primary nurse for planting the seed, that my fellow patients and I, struggling though we were, could get better, and go on to live a full and fruitful existence.

And so I fast forward to 2018, and I sense you, uninvited, slipping through the decrepit side door of my consciousness. I find myself once more sitting on a hospital bed, when in fact I should be sitting at my desk, writing essays and preparing for my end of year exams; feeling foolish for cradling the fickle belief that I wouldn’t end up here again. In these moments, it’s easy to feel like a failure due to the unrelenting nature of mental illness. I ask a nurse for a pen and begin to write- words spilling carelessly onto the page, the paper acting as a safe haven for the deepest, visceral feelings. Soul to pen to paper.

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Why aren’t you drinking?

1966845_10203904055815293_2549480497229794469_n — My first legal alcoholic drink 5 years ago- a windy day in Brighton lanes with a beautiful friend.

I find myself at a party, swimming in a sea of people humouring one another with small talk. I’ve successfully masked all my anxieties, furiously suppressing them, lest they threaten to disrupt the façade I have so carefully curated over the years.

“Why aren’t you drinking?”, as a unnervingly chirpy guy glances at the can of Diet Coke I’m nervously cradling.

“Oh well, I find that my consumption of alcohol often acts as a futile attempt to escape the monotony of my thus far somewhat mundane existence. I’ll have boundless amounts of confidence tonight, but tomorrow I’ll be busy crying like a baby, watching Jack Nicholson movies on repeat and eating granola from the packet with my bare hands (how very middle class!)”

From experience, I can confirm that the above response has an 100% success rate of drying people up like a slug bathing in crystals of salt. Nervous laughter penetrates the silence, as looks of judgement are thrown my way, their eyes perforating my bold exterior.

What evokes this feeling of fear in me? Fear of being deemed boring due to societal pressures? Fear I will be unable to tolerate the chaos of loud clubs and bars without the aid of alcohol?

Alcohol lulls me into a false sense of security- I am invincible, untouchable, I am free to act as I please, without reason or logic or my innate human desire for self-preservation interfering. A neat flow of liquor dances gracefully down my throat, and somehow alleviates the fog lurking amidst my brain. I’m confident, no longer held captive by anxieties neurotic rituals. The sweet euphoria that comes with it. I glide into social situations effortlessly, at home in large groups, jeering in accordance with the general amusement of a night out.

But what happens when the high wears off? When you find yourself flailing headlong into a dark void, unable to flee the aching voices of self-destruction?

Depression and alcohol go together like socks and sandals (despite my protests, I have been reliably informed that this is a fashion faux pas!). It’s as if all the problems one already experiences are magnified, as I’m once more hurled into the throes of depression- after all, alcohol is a depressant. But the immediate effects of a few cocktails (albeit overpriced cocktails) can be quite the opposite, as you find that alcohol holds the key to the cell that anxiety has encased you in for so long. The mood enhancing effects of alcohol lure people in, hence the prevalence of alcohol dependency in those with depression and anxiety.

The hedonist in me wants to say that in the past I’ve drunk solely to “have fun”, which is partially true. I recall several occasions as an angst-ridden 16 year old experimenting with alcohol whereby my wannabe “too cool for school” image was destroyed after my Father had to walk through a party and fireman’s lift me to the car, my underwear on show as I clutched desperately onto a bottle of blue WKD (you know the one!)

However, the unsettling thing is the number of times I have found myself getting drunk not to have a good time, but to forget the bad times. Worryingly, I know that this is hugely normalized in our culture. Bad day? Let’s get you to the pub! Lost your job? Lash! Bad break up? Alcohols a handy solution!

I have never considered myself to have a dependence on alcohol, and after working in a pub for a year, I have experienced peer pressure to drink regularly first-hand.

In fact, in the past two years I have only drunk on around 10 occasions (if that), and the sporadic nature of my relationship with alcohol appears sensible and balanced to the untrained eye. The issue for me, is it’s all or nothing. Seldom have I only indulged in one drink. In my hazy, little, black and white brain, one drink serves no purpose. I am not fully in control of my senses as I am when sober, but there is not enough alcohol deviously infiltrating my bloodstream to allow me to numb the voices of self-doubt and anxiety, as they chime in one by one, almost canonically.

Pump me full of stimulants, alleviate the symptoms, whilst never treating the root cause, hangover by hangover, morphing into a slave to lethargy, my room, once a safe haven, now a bleak morgue.

The fatigue that plagues you. You stagger to the mirror, swallowing the bile rising in your throat, as the pungent odour of stale cigarettes lingers on your fingertips. You inspect the saggy, dark circles that now have a temporary residence underneath your eyes, half-heartedly blotting concealer on your skin, attempting to erase the evidence of last night, all the while secretly wishing you could erase the things you did.

I am no expert. I have no pearls of wisdom to bestow, nor do I have a clear-cut vision as to what my future relationship with alcohol and social situations will be. But I do know that the temporary relief that various behaviours (drinking, self-harm, losing weight) may offer us are not genuine. A manufactured, temporary string of rhapsodies soaring you away from this plane of existence, only to drop you from a great height, as you nosedive, spiralling downwards yet again.

As I find myself slowly emerging from the bubble that I have confined myself to for the past couple of years, I find my life begins to diligently oscillate with the self-imposed rhythms of day to day activities.

I want to be able to go out for a drink with my friends now and again, but if I don’t, I have faith that I will be greeted with nothing but support and love (and a few sarcastic remarks thrown in for good measure!). There are things I yearn for more than a night out. Writing odes to my childhood literary heroes, swimming naked in the sea, the bray of my heart assuring me that all is okay, the uncontaminated joy of sounds. Music. Freedom. Life’s whimsical throbs of progression greeting me once again.

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“Careful or you’ll end up with a Borderline Personality Disorder diagnosis”

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“Be careful, because if you carry on acting like this, you’ll end up with a BPD diagnosis” my consultant at St Anns warned me after yet another “incident” caused me to wind up in A&E.

“You don’t want that, do you?” she asked patronizingly. I was somewhat unsure as to whether this was a rhetorical question or if she was genuinely expecting an answer.

Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) is the outcast…the black sheep of the mental health ‘family’ (albeit a very dysfunctional family!). Frequently passed from pillar to post, flailing headlong into the revolving door to mental health services, many with BPD resort to drastic, self annihilating measures with 80% of BPD sufferers attempting suicide at least once, and 10% of sufferers completing suicide (which is more than 50 times greater than the rate of suicide within the general population).

I had heard the term BPD thrown around in the various mental health assessments I had endured over the years, but it was always followed by an ominous question mark or a vague “to be discussed at a later date” footnote. It seemed that to receive this diagnosis would deem me “untreatable” and subject to a life full of diazepam, crisis teams and professionals who wouldn’t touch me with a barge pole.

Those three letters of the alphabet clumsily clustered together held so much weight, and seemed to have a huge bearing on my future employment prospects and my chances of encountering a mental health service that were equipped to treat Personality Disorders.

Of the myriad of symptoms present in those with BPD, I fit in perfectly (its pretty worrying that this is the only time I’ve “fit in”!). Unstable self image, fear of abandonment, impulsive episodes, chronic feelings of emptiness- all hallmarks of BPD.

I recall an online game I played as a child, where the sheep has to make an arduous journey to cross the road, frantically dodging cars in order to survive. Life with BPD is not all that dissimilar to this game, except that the hazards are not motorized vehicles, they are emotions- and I have to dodge them to get through my day. Some will hit me and surrender me into a state of sheer terror, others will bypass me, slyly biding their time until they have another opportunity to catch me off guard and disable me.

It often feels like an exam that I am destined to fail. I must encounter these hazards and try to cope with them. Be it a seemingly small problem (i.e. missing the bus) or severe problem (i.e. death of a family member) my brain fails to differentiate between the two, and treats them both equally. Things are either right or wrong, I either despise someone or am infatuated with someone. Those with BPD are predisposed to this “black or white” mindset.

As you can probably imagine, this all or nothing approach to various areas of life, does stunt emotional development, and severely affects ones ability to sustain stable relationships. Although being in a relationship with BPD is by no means off the cards, it can be a challenge. Like many individuals with BPD, when I love, I love fully, idealizing partners and friends and obsessing over the intensity of the relationship (imagine the generic anxieties you feel at the start of a relationship, and multiply it by 100, with a delicious side dish of paranoia and self loathing thrown in for good measure- and then you’re edging closer to BPD territory).

Somewhat ironically, BPD embodies a poignant paradox, in that we yearn for closeness, longing for affection, but our endeavours to fill the emptiness inside (e.g. self harm, impulsivity etc.) often drive away those most dear. The constant toying between “go away” and “ no please come back!” can be grating for the partner. We fear abandonment, so we cling on tight, but we fear this person may hurt us, so we spring back like an incredibly volatile elastic band, and often need to be coaxed to trust others.

When I was younger these feelings of anger manifested into actions at an alarmingly quick rate. In fits of rage I would hurl objects across my room (which for a dyspraxic with no spacial awareness probably looked quite ridiculous!), my mind angrily ablaze, as rationality tried its best to extinguish the flames. My younger self was on the rampage, and it was terrifying.

Intrusive thoughts and an inability to regulate my emotions means I was terrified of what I may do in the heat of the moment. There was an irrepressible war inside my mind: rationality vs impulsivity – myself a prisoner as this all transpired within me.

It is difficult to reason with me during any kind of dispute. Seldom have I been composed enough during an argument to discuss things calmly and rationally. Instead the nuance of reasons that lead to an argument are brashly overlooked and replaced with sweeping, reductionist statements, often (accidentally) placing blame.

I am aware that so far, these descriptions I have clumsily pieced together sound like some kind of nightmare tinder bio! However, I cannot reiterate enough that those with borderline personality disorder feel things incredibly deeply, and devote every fibre of their beings to causes and people they believe in. Yes, due to my volatile and often self indulgent nature, I expect that sometimes being in my company is a little like treading on eggshells. But what many people fail to acknowledge is that all these personality traits are universal- rage, paranoia, fear of rejection. Those with BPD are not unusual in experiencing these feelings, we just experience them in a hyper-sensitive way.

“Borderline between what and what?” as Winona Ryders character ponders in the film Girl, Interrupted.

Initially, the term borderline personality disorder was born out of a flawed categorization system. Mental illnesses were categorized as “psychoses” or “neuroses”. Simply put, when BPD was first written about, it failed to fit into either category, and instead teetered precariously on an imaginary tightrope between these two groups of illnesses.

As with most mental illnesses, attached is a varying degree of stigma. Unfortunately, BPD is not quite as publicized as say, anxiety. This is probably not helped by the fact that fictional characters such as Hannibal Lecter have personality disorders*.

*although I am somewhat tempted to scare my friends by wandering round eerily muttering “Clarice!”

I suppose I should be grateful that the title ‘BPD’ is somewhat vague- unlike ‘EUPD’, another term used for this personality disorder, standing for ‘Emotionally unstable personality disorder’. What an excellent way to further perpetuate stereotypes and create stigma! If you tell someone you have an “emotionally unstable personality” you may as well go the whole hog and don a straightjacket.

Although I have only recently been diagnosed with BPD, the disorder was first mentioned in passing at a CPA (care program approach- a meeting to discuss your treatment) when I was an inpatient on an adolescent ward. “Reckless behaviour, impulsive…” the words spun through my head, as I silently expressed my despondency that yet another de-humanizing label was being flung my way. And so a long, arduous journey to this diagnosis ensued. Psychiatrists will not diagnose a minor with BPD, as teenage years are often a period of change, turmoil and generic “you don’t understand me MUM!” angst, and therefore the diagnostic criteria for BPD is considered to be not as reliable or valid in adolescence.

But it is so much more than being a “difficult” teenager, or a brief period of “going off the rails” in your 20’s.

Those fleeting moments that most experience at times- when you say “fuck it”, throwing caution to the wind- be it frivolously spending all your money on something futile (that pair of rollerblades that sit in the garage collecting dust), booking a one way plane ticket, or telling your boss that you think they have no moral compass and embody everything that is wrong with our society (oops)– we all experience these rare moments of impulsivity.

The difference is that in BPD these moments are as regular as Big Ben chiming on the hour, every hour. Fancy getting a tattoo? Sure, lets do it NOW! Feeling low? Why not self medicate with a lethal concoction of anti-depressants and cheap booze?! An unquenchable thirst for adrenaline you say? How about a late night drive at 100mph, windows down and music blaring so loudly you probably deserve an ASBO? You didn’t intend to even leave the flat, but now you’re practically inhaling tequila slammers and flirting with some sleazy, misogynistic guy? Because objectification and attention is still a form of love… right?

Like many who have a map of the mental health system etched into my brain and have seen the inside of ambulances more times than I care to remember- fortunately, I find myself in a very different place today.

If you suffer from BPD you will have undoubtedly heard from those around you (professionals included) how dreadful the disorder is, and how damaging it is to interpersonal relationships. But what about what these people don’t tell you?

BPD is not a life sentence. You will not end up institutionalized and unable to function in the community. You can experience a life where you are pleased to wake every morning and face the challenges each day brings, instead of being hit with waves of dread the minute you open your eyes.

My passion for music, my education, my supportive family, my love for animals, my ability to run, dance (badly), jump, skip. My body that has arms to embrace and eyes to see all that this world has to offer us. I am more than my disorder, and so are you.

90% recovered…95% on a good day.

Someone asked me the other day if I was “recovered” from my eating disorder. I paused a minute, and then flippantly uttered “hmm probably like 90% I suppose…95% on a good day” before slurping on my overpriced latte.

Since that encounter, I’ve been thinking about their question a lot. What does being “recovered” mean? Am I? Will I ever be? Should I say that I’m fully recovered because I’m now a healthy weight? I eat what I like for the most part, I exercise regularly, and I probably experience a normal “British twenty-something millennial” amount of crippling body insecurity (let’s blame Kate Moss and the “heroin chic” era shall we?)

Perhaps it’s self indulgent to reflect this deeply on something that is so far removed from my identity today. But perhaps it’s okay, if the words haphazardly thrown on this page serve no other purpose other than to provide me with some mild catharsis.

I had a full circle moment recently. I was life modelling for an art class on the same road as the North London hospital I was discharged from 4 years ago. It was even on the same day, my “anniversary” if you will.

Whilst I felt an immense amount of joy to be doing something to celebrate my body on the very day I left an eating disorder ward, of course I was somehow hit with waves of nostalgia, hypothetical scenarios creeping in and in one short evening threatening to send me flailing headlong into the arms of a illness that promised to serve me, whilst only ever serving herself.

It’s difficult for me to comprehend why I always insisted on linking my weight with every single area of my life, irrespective of its relevance.

“If I’m thinner, I’ll be better liked by people/better looking/better at socialising/a better daughter/a better singer/a better human… just…better”.

Of course the difference between present day and a few years ago is that I am now able to rationalise these thoughts. I know that realistically, my ability to do my job well, or my capacity to love my family has no correlation to my clothes size. And if it does, it is surely only that if I am unhealthily thin, I have no mental energy to focus on anything other than a series of inconsequential numbers.

It’s still so alien to me. It’s still something I am not able to articulate other than in late night semi-incoherent babblings. How can I still find myself yearning for something so destructive? How are there still moments, all these years later, where I mourn the loss of such a poisonous part of my former-identity?

Although these moments of my mind romanticising this are rare, it still scares me. I gaze longingly at a disease that took so much, through an ill fitting pair of not-quite rose tinted glasses. The stomach that plummets and the mind that falters as it struggles to comprehend the need for this false sense of comfort something gave you.

I find myself in a somewhat strange predicament where it seems that at times I am only able to numb an emotion, or feel it fully, as it hurtles desperately towards me, lingering…outstaying it’s welcome. The days and nights merge into one rolling continuum of seconds, minutes and hours, and yet I still feel it.

For me, at least, the temptation to resort to my disorder always stemmed from it acting as a neat, little anaesthetic, providing me with an coarse outer shell, protecting me from the turbulence of day to day life. It somehow tricked me into believing it could quell these emotions. In the past few years, when various life events have caused things to feel indescribably painful, I am ashamed to say that I have come close to being lured back in by that promise of comfort.

However, to be quite pragmatic about it, I feel I have too much to lose at this point to ever regress. I am indescribably lucky to do a job I love, to have friends and family that I utterly adore and to have reached a point where I truly believe that those worth my time will love me irrespective of my weight and physical appearance.

I can pose naked in front of a room full of artists and feel nothing but freedom. I can donate blood (and not because my discharge terms demand it!). I can get silly tattoos on my body, and place bets with myself as to how many years I have left until they look a little bit tragic (my money is on 15+). I can throw myself into all the chaos of life, get cut up and spat out, and yet still continue to choose to throw myself back into it. I can face rejection, humiliation, pain, hurt.

Without wanting to sound like some pastel, floral bordered self-help post on some Instagram influencers page, I’m beginning to realise that it is better to feel it all: the good, the bad, the in between. Too many years have been wasted with futile attempts at self-medicating to numb the scarring, the starving and the self-loathing syllables splintering into me.

90% recovered… 95% on a good day.

Alone, but not lonely – autism in adolesence.

Alone is a word I often associate with my life.

Not alone in the sense of being isolated; I am in a long term relationship & have a handful of wonderfully strange friends. I’m referring to “alone” as a state of solitude, the teen drama movie cliché of feeling “alone in a room full of people”.

To some, reading the word “alone” might evoke feelings of pity or sympathy towards me. On the contrary, thanks to the time I spend alone, I’m on fairly intimate terms with myself. I walk around with a constant internal dialogue that informs my life. As a child, despite teachers protestations that I should “learn to socialize more” and build “lasting relationships”, some of my happiest memories are from being alone.

Running around the playground like a certified lunatic pretending to be a horse and jumping over things, foraging in the garden for ‘random crap’ (as I think my Dad put it) to collect, learning to play the piano and pretending I was performing on stage at Royal Albert Hall. Yes, physically I was alone, but in my mind I was surrounded by life. A word that for some was synonymous with “sad, lonely, deserted” for me equated to “free, content, self-sufficient”.

When it came to puberty, I ingested the information like many of my peers- through a book given by parents and teachers alike, usually named something ominous like “What’s happening to me?”. This was coupled with boys & girls being ushered into separate rooms to watch an equally comedic video, whereby stick figures suddenly started to grow body hair & the boys voice began to boom like a foghorn. However, the personal highlight was a poster with Velcro strips over the women’s armpits & genitals, to which we would attach a Velcro strip with the word “hair” written on it (it turned out someone had misplaced the pretend hair Velcro strips aka someone had likely stolen them for a laugh) to demonstrate the “changing body”.

For various arbitrary reasons, this information was deemed more crucial than the pearls of wisdom I so desperately yearned for – When is it ok to hug someone? How do you show someone that you like them?

I believe I experienced many of the same fears and anxieties around growing up that my female peers did, however, as I beared the weight of a recent ASD diagnosis, I fear there were worries of a different nature.

“What if the deodorant smells horrible and makes my armpits sticky? Will a bra itch my skin?” – my sensory issues rose to the forefront of my mind, as over the years my Mum was keen to remind me of the importance of good personal hygiene.

“I know that kissing is a romantic gesture… but my mum kisses me goodnight – do you kiss your friends?”

Like many children with ASD, I took things very literally and found reading body language an arduous task indeed. This was not helped by the useless aforementioned puberty book that misleadingly wrote “when a man and a woman get close a baby is made”. As an autistic pre-teen with complete tunnel vision, I’m fairly sure I spent the best part of a year avoiding boys, lest any contact cause me to bear a child! (I suppose the silver lining is that it was good practice for today’s social distancing)

Soon after came the challenge of navigating the dating world (if you can count going to the park with a boy after school with a slush puppie at the ripe old age of 12 a date). Whilst most females will understand the verbal and nonverbal language of flirting, it can be difficult if you struggle with reading others reactions. Despite being in my twenties, in a long term relationship and (relatively) intelligent, I still haven’t the faintest idea what flirting should consist of.

If I had it my way in my somewhat black and white brain, I’d sit down with a potential partner, ask them a series of questions assessing their suitability (this would range from “any previous criminal convictions” to “which side of the bed do you sleep on?”) and henceforth we would come to a mutual understanding that we were in a partnership.

Sadly, although efficient, this kind of logical approach to relationships isn’t considered particularly romantic.

Many studies show that girls with Autism slip through the cracks due to their ability to partake in social mimicry, commonly referred to as “masking”. An unconscious or conscious effort to learn socially acceptable behaviour. For me, this consisted of playing out conversations in my head before they had happened, and slipping in pre prepared phrases in conversation as a way to control the chaos of social interaction. I often had imaginary “flow diagrams” in my head (and written down for important conversations), which told me how to react/respond to someone in each possible circumstance.

Of course this kind of meticulous planning is neither time efficient nor cohesive with building meaningful relationships. I soon realised that you couldn’t script interactions when your response was largely dictated by what the other person in the conversation said. Furthermore, masking your true identity can lead those with ASD to feel even more isolated, often resulting in depression.

As I realize I have rambled for quite long enough I will close with this: Autism is not exclusive to boys. Do not let the image the media portrays of autism prevent you from seeking a diagnosis. You can display a whole myriad of behaviours and autistic traits as a pre teen, but there will always be a clinician who will argue “it’s just hormones”, “it’s hard fitting in at school for everyone”. So to every child, parent… any individual who has endured my ramblings yet again- if the only thing stopping you fulfilling the diagnostic criteria is the lack of a penis, please persevere.

A letter to my past self

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A year’s work, slowly undulating into place. My edges, once worn and haggard, clumsily framing my pallid complexion, now complete, yet beautifully threadbare.

This body. This chateau where my soul dwells is a comfort to me.

Fragments of liberty I have not yet experienced. Oppression is no more.

You. You have worked so tirelessly to keep me alive; to keep my blood pumping, my neurones pulsing and my synapses firing, despite my best efforts to interrupt these jobs. I have tested you- copious amounts of burning poison pirouetting down my throat- a futile attempt at self-medicating to numb the scarring, the starving and the self-loathing syllables splintering into me. The remnants of past years carved into my skin like the lover’s initials on the dewy oak tree, absorbed as a bittersweet memory for safe keeping.

It seeps in deviously from time to time: the occasional cry after some late night indulgence, the voice that may ambush my thoughts, convincing me I am somehow intrinsically evil and this would be rectified by some mad concoction of diet pills, slowly dwindling my body (and personality) to dust. The panic that manifests as bile rises in my throat when I miss a workout, one of the rituals I am yet to break. I breathe, I move on, leaving you sulking like a depraved beast, unable to touch me as the flames churn in my stomach, braying with laughter at your foolishness, nay, your eagerness to win me back.

Oh little one, there is so much I long to reveal to you.

Potatoes will soon become one of your favourite foods again, and I’m not talking about a pre-weighed portion, meticulously cut into rectangles as you precariously guide them to your tongue, but potatoes lathered in (vegan) butter, and seasoned with herbs you have grown yourself.

You will return to university, and people will utter the phrase “you’re looking well” an excruciating amount of times. Your mind will warp their words, piecing them together haphazardly to fit its disordered narrative. “Well” does not equate to “fat”, an equation you may not fully comprehend for a while.

You will fall in love all over again. Your friends and family will no longer be the enemy. And one day- you will step out of the shower, as naked as you were in your mothers womb, and you will not stare gormlessly in disgust at the mirror, recoiling at the sight of your newly-found love handles. One day you will touch them, you will caress them, you may wiggle your less-than-perky rear around and watch the fat wobble like jelly. And from there, a dazzling new day dances out of nights cloak.

Your mind will find a way of romanticizing it, gazing longingly at this disease through an ill-fitting pair of rose tinted glasses. The stomach that drops and the mind that falters as it struggles to understand the want for an illness, and how you could miss something that damaged you so much.

But then you will recall the primal screams that escaped your mouth as the numbers rapidly shot up, the red raw knuckles complimenting the pale, blue tint your skin holds. The dark, black circles that resided under your mothers eyes, telling the story of her constant fatigue from watching her daughter suffer. You will clasp your hands together in glee, you will not be lured in by promises as empty as your stomach. You will travel, you will eat freshly baked bread in Paris, soaking up the last of the summer rays and writing odes to childhood heroes. You will get a tattoo that signifies strength, despite your Father half-jokingly telling you at the age of 11: “If you get a tattoo, don’t bother coming home”. Your body will begin to repair itself. You will get your periods back, and as the agonizing stomach cramps kick in, for a fleeting moment you will curse your healthy body. You will re-live the novelty of growing boobs, as you are reminded of the time Mumma dragged you to be “felt up” by some silver haired woman in the M&S fitting rooms.

All this is yet to come, and all this too can be yours.
You are safe now my love.
I will let you be.

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