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*************************************************************************‘

In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in

the world she was to get out again.’

Lewis Carroll

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I lived in my head, in my own fantasy world where I would be safe and no-one would

be able to touch me. I would be protected from reality; I would be mysterious and aloof. And

so I gradually withdrew myself and lived in a daze, nothing was able to get through into my

private land. No-one could see what I was thinking as my mind would be shielded. But I was

not that safe in my head; at the same time as longing to be untouchable I desperately

wanted to be touched and loved. I drove myself mad living in the world that I had created

and gripped onto so tightly.

Sometimes the real world could get in, and more often my own tormenting mind could

reach me. While I would be thinking nice thoughts it would begin to taunt me until I had a

constant commentary on whatever it, I, thought on what I was doing or saying. It was then

that I wanted to escape the claustrophobic atmosphere inside my head. As Sylvia Plath put

it:

‘Is there no escape from the mind?’

While I was anorexic I thought that this world could be mine because I was pure and

special, I did not need the food that they ravaged on. But I was not on a higher level at all, I

was trapped; locked in a world of obsessions and figures that were never low enough.

Soon there seemed to be no way out, however loudly I begged for freedom. At times I

was incapable of doing anything more than staring into space. I had lost the presence of

mind that allowed me to do so many things. One English lesson we were given a test. I sat

next to the paper, willing my arm to pick up the pen. But it just sat there stubbornly. I know

this sounds silly, but I really felt as if I had no control, I truly was trapped inside my mind. By

the end of the hour my essay consisted of my name scrawled heavily into the page.

If I went out while I felt stuck inside of myself it was awful; I wanted to cry and reach

out to people but I couldn’t. I would feel unable to speak, my voice stifled by apathy. I felt

speechless, the result of a dull ache rather than shock or surprise. When people spoke to me

my heart would sink because of the response required. Inside I was longing to reply, to

interact with people and to have friends, but my own mind was always a barrier. I would

answer with a monotone murmur or ignore them, hating myself for being rude and antisocial.

The words were there, inside me, trying to force themselves out, but I would feel powerless

over my voicebox, my throat, all the parts involved in forming a sound. So instead I would sit

silently, my mind suppressing even my speech.

I was so angry with myself for being that way, I thought that I would have done almost

anything to have pulled myself out, so that I wouldn’t go on pushing people away. I tried as

hard as I could to tell myself that I did it on purpose and could therefore make it go away but

it never worked; it just made me feel worse. I would be able to act normally for hours, even

days, but sooner or later my air would once again become poisoned again and I’d be

silenced once more. I would be suppressed by something that was within myself but still felt

more powerful than myself. It would take all my effort just to ask for the orange juice.

Gradually I convinced myself that it was a good thing not to be able to talk to people. At least

then I would not get too close to them so that they would be able to hurt me. And I still had

the little voice in my head who told me that I didn’t deserve for people to be nice to me

because I was a horrible person. Besides, if I knew no-one then there would be no-one to

notice if I slipped out of the library towards the end of my free lesson or in the middle of

lunch so that I could cut myself before lessons. Similarly, there was no-one to ask why I

spent 10 minutes in the toilet during so many lessons, or why my hands were suddenly

blood-stained when I had been sat in a classroom all the time.

Deep down I was frightened of myself, I wanted to be rescued. I should have learnt

that no-one was going to come to rescue me, that was something I should have done myself.

I wanted to live a normal life, with its ups and downs, its happiness and its pain. But while my

friends got on with their lives, grew up and had fun, I was too busy cutting my arms up. Still, I

guess that I was normal, just different normal.

I wanted help, inside I was crying out for love and understanding. I just couldn’t

express this because of the overwhelming voice in my head that told me never to trust

anyone, that I was selfish and didn’t deserve any help. And it was seductive, I was convinced

by this niggling voice; my friend who protected me from people.

Unfortunately it would rarely be an imaginary friend, most of the time I would be alone

and scared. People would ask if I wanted to kill myself and I would say no because of the

voice using me as a puppet. Sometimes I could fight with it, inevitably leaving me as a

quivering wreck, screaming out loud for it to ‘SHUT UP, SHUT UP, LEAVE ME ALONE’ and

hitting my head with my hands, over and over, pulling my hair as hard as I could. Other

times I would just speak for it without thinking. ‘No’ I’d say coolly, hiding the scared and

crying child inside me, overpowered by the fear. I would try to show people subtly, as if my

own mind could be silently betrayed without noticing. But few ever saw the signs, not

surprisingly. I thought that cutting ‘DIE’ into my flesh would help, but no-one ever really

looked. Or I would ‘accidentally’ reveal my cuts, stretching an arm out in a silent plea. I did feel

safer around other people as they formed a barrier, sometimes able to protect me from my mind

which told me that I was worthless and should be dead. I liked to watch as the world carried on,

listening to people talking and laughing around them. If I concentrated on their voices then the

constant abuse inside my head would be blocked out. Unfortunately, being with people also had

its disadvantages because I found it threatening. I often found going out of the house to be a major

challenge, because I felt that by just walking past people they would stare at me and laugh at me,

thinking how fat and ugly I was. I hated the intense frenzy at night when I was no longer

surrounded by people. I would go to bed at night, exhausted but unable to sleep. My mind would

begin to taunt me, telling me that I was fat, useless, insignificant...It was like being encircled by

bullies telling me these things, shouting louder and louder over each other until I would snap. I

always put the radio or a CD on really loudly in the hope that I might be able to distract myself

from the insults inside my head. If it was a particularly bad night I’d leave the television on to avoid

this torture, and to stop my mind from thinking and confusing me with its ideas.

I began to hate myself so intensely and would cut words into my body, words like ‘FAT’, ‘I

HATE YOU’, ‘I WANT TO DIE’ or ‘DIE BITCH’. I thought it was funny, my version of

the writing therapy that had been advised to me. I did have quite a morbid sense of humour,

finding it hilarious to cut a happy face into my stomach so that when people told me to smile

I could, quite truthfully, tell them that I was, they weren’t looking in the right place. The bitter

irony never failed to make me laugh. They never saw the sinister connotations behind my

deeply philosophical statement.

 I remember once lying silently next to my boyfriend for hours one night. For some

reason he suddenly leaned over to me and told me how he wanted to hold me and protect

me forever. I told him how no-one could protect me from myself, from my mind- my biggest

enemy. He didn’t seem to believe me on this point, refused to accept my warning to him. I

think he sensed that night that I was particularly anxious and upset. Four days later I took a

massive overdose of paracetemol.