Thinking aloud.

So I know I have put a halt on police proceedings until after I qualify in Jan; until I feel strong enough. But I’ve still been gathering up evidence by myself. Yes, the police have most of it, his long confession where he admits he raped me (doesn’t apologise though), various emails where it’s mentioned and not denied by him etc.

Its still very weird because, I still hold all the cards and all the power against him. I have the power to destroy him just like his actions completely destroyed me. Its just, I don’t know, most of the time I’m not so sure I can be bothered anymore. I’m exhausted, I really am. Even now I’d still accept an apology most likely.. just some justification and understanding of what he’s caused me through what he did to me.  He called my home number back in June, I’ve no idea if it was to apologise, to cry down the phone, whatever.  I just so wish I would get a fucking sorry. His family and friends most likely tell him he’s done nothing wrong, I could not even imagine protecting a rapist, being friends with a rapist, being a sibling, parent or cousin of a rapist either. I couldn’t imagine visiting one in prison, either. Amazing how being so cowardly over an apology can lead to such destruction. I write this while sitting on a pub in Kings Cross. Lots of memories in this pub, most of which are bad, I have been back with other people since him, but it certainly leaves a sour taste in ones mouth. Not really sure why I’ve ended up here, I had plans in Acton, but truthfully I guess it’s almost nice to feel something, yep even sadness after being so medically numb to everything. God. Why the fuck was a simple sorry just too much to ask for? The police, a looming court case, none of which he is even fully aware of.. I just want my fucking life back. He stole my entire being in that fifteen seconds, hard to believe but he did. Staying with him after and all those love yous and still feeling so lucky at being in love with this guy.. It makes me feel sick to my stomach now. I feel nauseous every time I think of his hands on me, his lips, shared I love yous or handholding; I just want to be sick and scrub and erase all those memories out.

I just wish I’d been free to hate him from the off.

I want my mind back.



Hardly surprising considering I was under 700kcal yesterday. Pretty happy with myself, I’ll do the same today as well. I’m on a 13 hour shift again, but should be fine. I’ve had 100g of zero fat yoghurt this morning, half a banana and a cup of black tea. I’ve made myself a litre bottle of lemon infused water for my shift today, as long as I drink enough that should stop the headache from building too much.

I’m refusing to weigh myself until Sunday at least, I’m hoping to have lost min 3lbs by then, I’m in a huge deficit after all, and doing min of around 17,000 steps a day (ward life).

Hmm, a better take another banana with me, just in case!

Then perhaps half a salmon salad for lunch.



People don’t talk to me about what happened anymore because they think I am doing much better.

I’ve just got better at hiding it, I think.

I’ll be honest with you guys, though. I cried my eyes out this morning in private because I ate sugar tablets (to stabilise my blood sugar) and a cereal bar (63kcals). 

I can’t avert my eyes from the rolls of fat from under my top, even if I don’t look at it, I feel it. I’m fighting back tears even now, and panic is settling in my stomach, that familiar feeling of hatred and nausea. 

I’m too scared to weigh myself. So far today I have had 200kcal and a handful of cherry tomatoes. I feel like a pig. 

I finally got around to making an account on a proana site that I have been lurking on for months. I hope to find some like minded people, they all seem pretty supportive and maybe that’s what I need.

But I have got better at hiding it, hatred and overwhelming depression. I have a referral to a suicide crisis house; because I’m not exaggerating when I talk of how difficult it is for me to stay in the same environment, as to where he did what he did.

I’m scared I will hit 800kcals today, would hardly be a surprise for a fat pig like myself. I’m researching how to go about a two day per week water fast as well, anything to get back to that empty feeling, wasting away is what I’m good at.

Still not in control. 

I have stated it before; that the thing I really struggle/d with is the feeling of not being in control. It fills me with crippling anxiety, depression, self hatred, disgust and dread, quite frankly. 

I suppose openness and honesty goes some way to regaining a degree of control; but it is still not good enough, not really.

My eating has improved but I’m not happy. Every mouthful I chomp on makes me hate myself slightly more, every time without fail. It reminds me that I am still not in control, just like when he forced himself into me while I was struggling, I wasn’t in control then either.

It’s amazing how the mind works isn’t it, how that feeling has now attached itself to everything that goes into my body, every morsel of food screams out to me that I am not in control. I feel constantly sick and disgusted with myself ever since he did what he did, consumed by self hatred and it is just magnified daily now. 

I feel huge and disgusting. I’m too scared to even weigh myself and haven’t for a couple of weeks now, the thought actually does scare me. Stupid really.  The contradicting factor though, is that my depression numbs me to having any degree of pride in myself, so for example, I won’t want to eat because it makes me feel all of the aforementioned feelings, however depression makes me apathetic to feeling more shit, I guess. I don’t know, makes sense to me, however mad that sounds.

I did not go through with it, but I found myself holding my insulin pen again last night, tempted to dial up a huge dose, act on it and not think twice. Yes, as a Mother that thought disgusts me, but please realise how much it takes to even admit that. I self referred myself to a crisis house this morning. A four day retreat in central london for people that need to get away. I do need to get away, living in the environment where the rape took place is killing me, no doubt about it. The retreat promotes sleep, healthy eating, gorgeous walks and environments, counselling and befriending. It’s free of charge. 

Sounds like a dream, doesn’t it?

So I have made a collage of two pictures of me, the one on the left was my weight loss about two months ago, my ribs stick out and I love that look and feeling. However, the one on the right is today. Fat, disgusting, pig like. Yes, I’m too scared to step foot on those bathroom scales, but that picture will shame me back into a huge calorie deficit, because it’s absolutely vile and triggering as fuck.


My disordered eating time line.

I remember the first time I purged. It was due to the anxiety, my stomach had been in knots. It was eurphoric, a release, soon afterwards just like a drug I wanted to experience that release again. It provided me with an outlet I guess, sounds really odd, I know.

That developed into counting my intake. It was the element of control that I had been missing, my intake went from 1000 to 800kcals, then to around 600kcals per day, some days even lower, some days I would lie about eating anything. I would document everything, nothing went in my mouth without recording it, even a tablespoon of milk would be jotted down.

Soon after I started to find food intimidating, I guess I got used to the bare minimum, my stomach just did not want to know. 

It gives me something else besides the rape to focus on, I like the sharp hunger pangs and the headaches. It means I don’t have to suffer through flashbacks and the like. Weird isn’t it, that self destructing in my mind is helping me get through the day. 

I blame him wholly for what I have become. Eating disorders and other mental health issues are so common after assaults such as this. I wish I had been stronger. I wish I had been braver. I wish I never got this destructive.

These are all of me, from the past month:

The truth.

I wanted to write this down, no not wanted, I need to write this down so I can look back on it and hopefully see a change in me. Hopefully. I wanted to write it for the numerous people in my life that I know also suffer with mental health issues, too.

You know, in my career looking after physically ill people, it is almost expected that a nurse should be in impeccable health, not a external, or indeed internal blemish, but I don’t think that is quite realistic. 

I attended clinical training today. I enjoyed it, it was interesting. I socialised, sat and ate lunch with peers and shared jokes and laughed at how little we all appeared to know. I probably appeared happy and carefree.

Fast forward a few hours.

My brother has just called the house phone fifteen times to try and reach my grandmother because he was worried that I had tried to hurt myself, again. This situation, the rape, what happened, has turned me into someone that I don’t recognise. I don’t like myself one little bit, in fact I detest myself in all honesty. Traumatic events, or fuck, no pissing reason even can instigate depression and its fucking torture. It is torturous. There is no other way to describe it, bleak. To be caught up in cycles of good days and then a big fucker of a bad one that undoes weeks of work is draining, its mentally exhausting. To be functioning on numb is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone, but when it is your only option, you try and justify it and pretend you are ok with it. It’s all bullshit. Who wants to be numb? I don’t. I want to enjoy life. I want to walk in the park with my daughter and not feel fucking vulnerable all of the time. I want to believe in good people again, not just waiting for them to reveal their bad traits just like he did.  I want to experience a bloody day where I am not completely exhausted by 10am. I just want to be happy again, properly happy not this fake happy that I have adopted to shut everyone up.

My brother who is not an emotional person by any means has spent this evening shaking and terrified about the state I have been in this evening. He said he is heartbroken. I needed to write this down because why should I hide it? Mental health affects most of us at some point and I for one don’t think I need to hide that fact away. Admitting struggles openly shows that I am human, vulnerable to whatever unfair shit life throws in my direction, and boy oh boy has it thrown some major shit my way.

People don’t need to be ashamed or indeed made to feel ashamed of any mental health issues that they are battling with, god only knows I have collected quite a bundle over the past year: PTSD, Depression, OCD, Anxiety, Eating disorder… lest we forget the constant feelings of self hated and guilt left over from the rape.

 Aren’t I a barrel of laughs.

My head is banging and I’m all cried out this evening. I write my blog posts because it is cathartic and it helps me. But tonight I have written this during a huge panic attack and contemplating some destructive behaviours. I don’t like feeling weak all the time, but to turn it on it’s head, am I weak or am I actually being really fucking strong, because I’m still here, and lord only knows that I have tried my upmost not to be. 

Mental health affects anyone, with or without cause. Be compassionate, be listening always, be ready to offer help, you don’t know how might actually be in need of it. 

Today marks eleven.

Eleven months now spent marking the day, raising a glass, looking out for the brightest star, fumbling with the angel wing I have to remind myself of you, or just taking a few minutes to allow myself to feel sad and not feel ashamed of it.

I’m in real disbelief still, in regards to how quick the time passes. I still don’t feel good or at ease about it. It is not something that gets any easier, not for me anyway, perhaps so for him, I imagine so. But me? Having had you with me for nearly two months, yes timing and circumstances were not on our side, but Christ above did I feel maternal, even without having met you. 

I will be so honest here, it still breaks my heart into absolute pieces. It destroys me that I was not strong enough, not strong enough to do right by you, by me. Yes, I hate that your anniversary makes me think about him, baby, but then I remember, he never felt you. At the time, having two months of awful morning sickness made me angry, but now I think back and smile. I don’t feel bad about him playing a part, because you, baby, were part of me. Me and Issy, and that is something that I cherish and hold dear.

So, I won’t raise a glass to you tonight as I’m up ridiculously early for work, but I will look at your scan photo, like I do each night, and be happy that at least I got to feel you for seven weeks and three days. 

Timings and circumstances doesn’t stop maternal instincts, and it doesn’t stop the pain, either. 

Comparing and contrasting, daily.

So here you go folks. 

On the left I was 139lbs. The date was 10th August 2017. I had been trying so hard not to purge and had been forcing myself to try and eat. I was bloated and sore, I guess down to the purging and weird intermittent eating. Friends had been moaning at me to try to eat, but my body and mind just wasn’t interested. On the right is this morning (21st August 2017), weighing in at 128lbs.

Self destructing with a fake smile attached.

  • Breakfast was 90kcal
  • Lunch will be non existent because I’ll be with the police and my stomach is already in knots
  • Dinner I’ve premise some cabbage soup, that’ll be around 100kcal due to some other ingredients.
  • Day time snacks I’ll allow for another 100kcal.

Coming in under 300kcal for the day.

I should find that upsetting or wrong even, but I just don’t. I like knowing that my focus will be on crippling stomach/hunger pains and not playing the rape over and over. Th antidepressants don’t stop that, I wish they did. I don’t know how to get it to stop. It’s on repeat in my mind, nothing makes it go away, even concentrating on something else it is still there, perhaps not at the forefront but fuck me, it is still as damaging being in the background even. 

Anyway this picture I have attached is me this morning. I’ve lost more weight but the real big change is the trousers. They are a size 12 and used to be so tight on me, not now. When I lay down earlier there was so much room in them that I could have wriggled out even!

Break time thoughts.

I was looking forward to escaping to work, being able to concentrate and think of other things. Unfortunately for me, it hasn’t really worked out that way.

I had to inform a senior nurse and my matron of the situation, when I had to leave work last week, it just all got too much. I could not deal with the intrusive thoughts swirling around in my head while trying to work for 13 hours, especially with three missed calls from the police happening in my scrub pocket as well. I’m not the sort of person who enjoys telling people about this situation, yes writing about it is cathartic to an extent, but, talking about it? Hearing the words come out of my mouth detailing it all, no, no I hate it. 

I don’t want to appear negatively and when I told them I did it with a smile. A sort of manner that said ‘yeah, this happened to me but I’ve handed it over to the police now, I’m fine’. I’m not quite sure it came across like that though. In fact my voice shook, that tell tale wobble when the lump in your throat forms and the tears collect in the corner of your eyes. 

Office doors were immediately closed and hugs were given. People I have worked with for two weeks, who barely even know me were showering me with support and my god was that what I needed in that moment.

I am full of nerves regarding this video statement. God, was I ever expecting this to happen? All I ever wanted was a sorry, but he couldn’t even give me a simple apology so now look where we are.

  Ill. Damaged. Fucked up.

Actually, not just nervous of it, I’m terrified of it. Sitting and talking about it, but being recorded, knowing that officers are going to pick apart what I say and question him about it. Literally going and getting him from home or work. That thought fills me with two feelings in all honesty.

  1. Happy because it is what he god damn deserves. To be scared, like I was. To be made to confront what he is guilty of, no longer being able to run from it like the coward he truly is.
  2. Upset. I absolutely loved this guy. First love never fully, fully goes away I guess, even considering what he did to me, hardly seems fair. I mean, I hate him, a lot, but there is always that lingering caring, admittedly it is decreasing very fast, but still, I do wish it was fully, fully gone. He was my world, my daughters world and now I have enlisted the police to get him. What he deserves, yes. But I spent so long protecting him, always putting him first and now, the complete opposite. It’s just, different. It’s horrible in all honesty.

Stronger than before, most definitely. Whether that’s actually due to being stronger or heavy duty antidepressants numbing me to everything, I’m not so sure really.