Food, exercise, weight and everything in between

Firstly, please don’t read any further if any of the topics in the title are likely to annoy you.  I’m not here to piss anyone off but just trying to make some sort of sense of things for where I am currently.  This isn’t about anyone else, for anyone else, just me.  
⬆⬆⬆ You self centred twat!

For those that know me, or have read here over the years, then you’ll know I’ve had massive issues with food etc etc and served my time as an inpatient for an ED.

I don’t know if my problems have got better, worse or are just different.  Previously, up until 5 ish weeks ago, I was actively vomiting and taking laxatives on a regular basis.  My weight practically stayed the same, the vomiting and stuff didn’t really make any difference (as we know it rarely does), having to function as a parent in this state, I’m guessing because I don’t really know/remember, is tough.

5 weeks ago things changed, I literally just stopped both behaviours, started eating differently, still plenty, and started flogging my arse in the gym.  I feel better I tell myself, I’m cured from these horrible eating related issues, I’m utilising better skills by working like a donkey in the gym everything’s great.  All things I tell myself.

The weights falling off.

But it’s not about the weight Charlotte, that’s not important, you’re doing it for other reasons, another thing I tell myself.

The number on the scales, they aren’t important.  It’s how you feel what’s important.

LIES.  Them last 2 sentences are a lie, my lie.  It’s a big fat lie.  

“The number on the scales they don’t define you”
“Oh, but they do, they really fucking do”

For me they do

For me they shouldn’t

In fact they shouldn’t for anybody.  NO ONE!

No one should rely on a stupid machine that tells you your weight too feel some sort of purpose, some sort of achievement, some sort of pleasure.

It’s so conflicting.  I enjoy to exercise, I think, but do I?  Is it just another form of punishment, if I enjoy it then why am I doing it…..we all know you should not do anything you enjoy, pleasure is not for you.

Trying to determine if something is actually really beneficial for all of “me” is as big a challenge as ever.  But then does it matter, if it’s beneficial for all of me, or just one/two parts of me?  There’s only one body, a body that will get fucked somewhere along the lines if we’re not careful.  

Is it about the need for control?  I can’t control my mind, the thoughts, the chaos, the unpredictability of who I am from one minute to the next, I can’t change who I am.

I can’t change who I am, or all the horrible things that happened to me.

Can you fuck Charlotte, can you fuck!

Is it just a distraction?  Something else to deflect from ourselves?

Obsessing about food and exercising, if I’m honest, leaves a lot less room for all the other stuff.  So if I stop, it’s all going to come back worse than ever isn’t it.

I’m full of contradictions.  Yes, I’m eating plenty, but I’m also having to burn it off, I’m also reliant on the numbers going down.  

Somewhere I acknowledge there is a problem when I’m taking a bite of my daughters pizza, chewing it but then I’m not allowed to swallow it, spitting it out because I don’t know any of the nutritional information for it.  ⬅ That’s not “normal” behaviour.

Maybe not, but it makes me feel powerful, strong, in control and better than the weaker me.

It’s been raised by others externally that I’m becoming manic.  I’m not, I know I’m not, yet I guess I can see why they may think that.  Because I’m full of energy, not sleeping, talking too fast, a bit obnoxious, flirting far more than I would normally do, being embarrassing, being louder, being different.

But that’s not “me”, it’s so difficult to explain.  Maybe it is me.  I just don’t know.

The only way I can best describe it, is that I’m just letting whoever wants to be, be!

That scares me.  Petrifies me.  But surely I owe it to all of “us” to allow all this stuff to be explored.


Me, us, ourselves, we.

Where do I begin and where do I end?

Who am I?

I just don’t know.

I’m done with writing now, I’m done with all the jumping around while trying to read it back, someone else stepping in here and there to add bits, someone else coming along and deleting bits.  I suppose this is why writing has become less frequent.  The constant having to write and delete, change things, argue about things, so many drafts, so few posts.

Over and out.

Love to all.




I was thinking of a name for him.

Bluey, I thought.


I remember

There was a budgie at home, it died, it’s in the car in a cage, covered with a chequered picnic blanket 

I think we went on picnics and I never was allowed the sausages on a stick, only sandwiches, dry and horrible, they got to sit on chairs, I had to sit behind the car.  And I had to eat the sandwiches otherwise I’d know about it

Bluey though.  She did something horrible to him, it was a secret, dad thinks he’s buried near the chimney pots but mum cut off his head and gave him to the cat next door. I had to put his head in the dirty dustbin, I’m sure his eyes were still open, all beady and black 😦  

I’m not naming my sad bear Bluey anymore.  Bluey is a horrible name.

I’m not going to give him a name.  

He can be mine.  Just mine.  And I promise I won’t cut his head off…..ever!

Pencils and pens*

*technically watercolours, charcoal and 1 pen

I was going to insert some sarcastic remark about the use of paper but I’m too tired to think of a decent punch line.

This has been done today, it’s not quite black enough, it doesn’t quite portray the extent of my *insert despair type words*, it doesn’t explain the images, the flashbacks, my self loathing, blah blah blah 

I’m in bed now the picture downstairs, I want to go down and rip it to shreds, burn it, stab it repeatedly over and over, damage it beyond repair, but I’ll still be here, the lid will lift briefly while I angrily demolish the picture, and bang the lid will close again, everything will still be the same. 

I want to say I’m sad, I think I’m sad, but I’m not quite sure, it hurts but I’m too busy trying not to feel it, too busy always trying to be in neutral.  She doesn’t allow emotions, it’s not practical and things won’t get done.  Which is ironic really because nothing is being done either way.

Without being overly dramatic, I really just want to be dead. 

There I said it.

 Small disclaimer:  No immediate plans

So, that’s that and on a lighter note……


Is this it?

Is this all there is?

Is this, for what the next however many years I’ve got left too live, how my life will be?

I can’t stand it.

Why should I have to stand it?

It’s unbearable, it’s hell, and it’s not a life.

Do you get better?  Do you learn to live with it?  How do you learn to live with it?  How do you stop learning something new, that hurts, that kills another bit of an already dead soul?

I don’t want to learn to live with it.  I don’t want to accept my past, why should I?  I want it never too have happened.  It’s too late for that though isn’t it.

You can’t change the fucking past, and you sure don’t want to live with it.  So what do you do?  Where do you go?  Denial got/gets you no where, some sort of partial acceptance gets you no where.  You’re fucking NO WHERE.

You just exist.  Painfully exist with reminders day in day out that you’re still alive.

Every thought, every action, every fucking thing, is analysed by some part of “me” over and over.  I can’t just be, I don’t exist.

To be a body but not a person, just a number, just a little spec on this earth, all of it seems so fucking futile.

Floating through life, nothing seems real, you’re just an observer, an observer for a body, a body you hate and despise for still living, a body that whatever you put it through has some sort of survival mode that just won’t die off, a mind that’s broken, so badly broken that it can’t be fixed.

I wish I had a firm belief of what’s on the other side of life, some sunny happy place where you’re whole miserable living life and memory is erased, that you’re reborn, that everything is perfect and happy.  Or that there’s nothing, just nothing and that once you’re dead that’s it, just NOTHING.  But the fear that it’s the same, or worse, or that you have too relive your whole life again, repeating the past, like a massive deja vu, it’s terrifying.

So, I’m stuck, stuck and angry at being stuck.  Angry at having to be alive, angry at having to breathe, so fucking angry.

And sad, so sad

And hurt, and scared, and miserable.

And this cycle of existence just repeats. 

And so in answer to her original question

Is this it?

It seems there is 2 options, yes this is it, or death.


Either way right now someone’s got to jolly the daughter out of bed, and pretend until 8:15 am that life is…….?!

Why did no one look after me?

I aM sad.

So very sad.

I should not have read the notebook with 2 weeks of scribbles / writing in.  I know what I know and I can never unknow it.  

It will never go away.  it only ever gets worse.

I can not stop thinking about why I was not loved.  what I did wrong. why me.

 maybe I was the only one that was loved.  maybe that is love, maybe I was the special one


I can’t bear it, it’s not love, that’s not love.  

but why?

Stupid fucking questions over and over, I accept it, I deny it, I ignore it, it doesn’t matter though does it.  what ever I do, what ever I see, feel, hear, think I do not change.  I’m still “this”

I could cry

I want to cry, and god I’d give anything for someone just to hold me and stroke me gently, tell me it’s OK, it’s not my fault, I’m not a bad person.

Then, just with a flick, of course no one can touch me, the thought of being held and comforted is so wrong, and I’m angry that someone wants comforting, and I’m sad that someone’s angry.

It’s exhausting.

*shrugs* Yet I’ll wipe that little trickle from my eye, grab a cigarette and paint my face on for therapy.

And there we have it…..the circle that never fucking breaks!