The Attempt

3am. From a hospital bed after waking up from an induced coma.

Not that I know, maybe because I don't know, but more likely because the answer freaks me out, so I don't know. But honestly, by this stage, I've actually forgotten the question. So that's that. 

How many of you out there can honestly say that you've run a bath, strategically placed  not one, but two razor blades on the edge of the bath, run the bath, had a cigarette, taken over a hundred and fifty tablets used for psychiatric care, and washed them down with a bottle of vodka. How many of you out there can honestly say that you've then got in to the bath and, while the tablets begin to take effect, taken the blades, one in each hand, and slashed at your arms til the bath water is pink because of all the blood?

I can say it. 

I did it two nights ago. While I was doing it, I was thinking, shouldn't I be crying, be in some sort of pain, anguish, desperation? I didn't at all. It made me feel better. The option of the physical pain of repeatedly slashing my arms with razors was preferable to the pain I was feeling inside. But you know what the really fucked up part of it is? (And this really highlights how much of a problem my eating disorder really just) Most of the time, I was just counting the calories in all the vodka I was downing. 

I systematically took every single tablet in that pack, my weekly supply. Even the fucking Pill, even the calcium. But I guess I must have known I wasn't going to die, because I saved the tablets that help my tummy, I knew I'd need them. But sleeping tablets, prozac, anti depressants, mood stabilizers... all of it. What I can't figure out is why I was so calm about it. Probably because I knew that it would stop the pain. I've come to the conclusion that I didn't - DON'T - want to die. At all. I don't. Sure, I say my life is worthless and I believe that down to the core, I genuinely feel worth nothing and that my life isn't worth living, but you know what? I still want to. If that's okay. 

You know. Only if it's okay. And sorry, just....sorry. I'm sorry for more and more things these days, I even apologised for going to the shop and buying a bottle of water today, like I needed to justify why I was spending money on myself, because I honestly don't feel like I deserve to. Especially now, because of what I've done. Everything is usually my fault. I am learning though, and my way of learning is to catch myself apologising and then laugh about it. 

It's not something I've ever done before, is laugh about it. It actually feels like a massive break - through. Yeah, yeah, I know it's not a laughing matter but when I think about some of the things I used to do, and still do. It's ludicrous. I'm laughing as I write this and it feels good to laugh. I'm thinking of making a comic book: Pippa's Eating Antics. 

OMG. Even that, those letters, it spells a food. PEA. That's funny. Maybe not to you, but it is to me, I've lived without laughing properly  for fifteen years so if anyone has the right to laugh at herself it's me. 27 tubs of butter every week for about four years, I mean come on. What must people have thought? I think it's safe to say that although it's desperately sad, at the same time it's pretty fucking funny, especially if the person who bought the butter is laughing now. But sure, at the time, it was not funny. My mum cried every time I bought butter, and that's on me. And for the pain I caused her, I will never forgive myself. Ever. 

 Anyway, whatever. My point was that if you can laugh about your mistakes, even just something or even just something you think about, you can begin to own them as your mistakes, and when you own something, you have power over it. Does that make any sense? 

Laughter, they say, is the best medicine anyway. As far as I know it releases certain endorphins which in turn make you feel good, but I will have to look it up, don't quote me on that. In the meantime, as yourself, when was the last time you truly laughed, I mean laughed so hard you couldn't even stand up. If you can't remember, it probably means you need to do it. Go for it. I dare you. 

Anyway, on a more serious note, I am currently in the Regional Hospital after taking a drug overdose. Tomorrow, men in white coats will come to decide my fate. Am I worried? No, not really. Because I don't really care enough about myself to worry about what happens to me. If I worried, it would be like giving myself a present or a reward, and bad girls don't get presents, do they Daddy? 

I've called this post "The Attempt" for a reason. Before I started writing this, I wrote a letter to a close friend of mine, in which I said that if you try to do something, the chances are you've probably already failed. I should point out, that this is not actually my sentiment so I don't want to take credit for it - but I understand it so I can explain it. The reason I'm passing it on, "spreading the word" for want of a better term, is because the person who told me is right. Think about it, a simple statement "I tried to open the door", translates, basically, as "The door is still shut, because I only tried". Get it?

You can apply this to your life choices and actions as well as your thoughts. I'm going to try it. Ah! Ha! I'll rephrase that shall I? I am attempting to make changes in my thoughts, behaviours and actions. Consciously. I'm already doing it sub-consciously, and so are you. One thing I've learned over the past four weeks, your sub-conscious always always has your back. Think I'll make up a new song. If at first you don't succeed, attempt, attempt again. 

There's actually a lot of tricks like these in the English language if you take a closer look. And if you're aware of them you can really use them to your advantage, and it can make conversation pretty... illuminating. For example, someone I know texted me to ask if I was okay and I said no, and she said what's wrong, tell me I WON'T TELL NO-ONE, she said. Translation, I'll tell fucking everybody because she loves gossip and she loves a scandal. She said it herself - the words, I'll tell no-one. Completely true. But at the moment I'm only really becoming aware of this language thing, only know a handful. Practice needed, and experience. Will report back. 



So... this... this... situation? Mess? that I'm in. It's now 4 am, and I'm hooked up to a bunch of machines, can even have my phone cos every time I pick it up my heart rate jumps and the nurses freak out. It's dark, and they're wondering why I won't go to sleep, I''m writing this with pen and paper. Now, I could go off on a tangent here about how nice it is to put pen to paper for once, instead of all these electronics, blah blah, but I know full well that it's just a delay tactic, because I don't really want to have to explain my latest fuck up. 

Yes. Latest. I fuck up on a regular basis. I keep saying "I'm sick of it" but if you think back to what I just said about language, cover up the words "of it" (just with your finger). See what you're left with? I'm sick. Yeah, well I already fucking know that, so why drop it in to everything I say? (Probably cos it's always on my mind). 

Went to see Orla Foley last week, for energy healing, chakra alignment, sports physio (By the way, highly recommend that everybody go to see her she's magic). On the way out, a little plaque on the wall caught my eye. I couldn't see all of it, but I got the gist: it said Impossible.... something something... means I'M POSSIBLE. I thought it was just brilliant. It's just another way of looking at words and use of language and it's the complete truth. 

Okay seriously, I said I was going to talk about the attempt about three pages ago, and I still haven't. I've got delay tactics down to a fine art. Especially at mealtimes, I'd say it's really fucking annoying. So, it's (almost) Monday morning. On Friday, I had a good morning and a lovely afternoon with my friends doing crafty stuff, and then I went for a walk, just because I felt like it, not because I felt like I had to, and I felt good. My phone died so I had no music, so I just sang the entire way down the mountain. We ate some cake, and had a laugh, and... i dunno. My chest felt light. I remember saying, I feel like there's a balloon in my chest. I felt free. For someone, really, who doesn't know what happiness feels like, to me, it was happiness. It felt good. 

Now, it's like the balloon has been replaced with a concrete block. Well, actually, I'm not going to say that. It's really more like the block has squashed the balloon down, because that feeling is in me somewhere, I know it is, because I felt it. I have that much to hold on to, at least. So what the FUCK happened? I felt so good on friday. Something shifted and there wasn't much warning. Friday night, I went so dizzy I couldn't get out of the bath, had to eat a banana just to get the energy to get dressed and have dinner. Even then I still felt awful and during the night... oh my god the dreams... I don't have the words. The cramps were unbelievable... no, I'm not even going to think about them because they'll come back, and I've had a whole hour without any pain. 

So, waking up Saturday morning, didn't feel any better. I barely slept and I was physically fucked, dizzy and weak and awful cramps and getting sick. (I'm going off on another tangent here cos this is a good point, back to what happened later). Interesting, that in the past, I have gone 8 or more days without ingesting a single calorie, and not a single wobble. Nothing. Done shit loads of exercise and not a bother on me. Now that I'm coming to these realisations about what I've put my body through, not to mind my soul, it seems that when I mistreat my body or use my disorder against me, my body talks back. I know you're probably thinking, Jesus wept, this girl is off her tits on morphine or something (I'm actually not). Truth is, I know my body very well. It is very sensitive to change. Plus, it's had a lot of abuse and basically what it's saying now is "Enough!"

Anyway, point is, whether it talks or not, my body really ain't happy. Not for long though, I seriously have treats in store for you like. I won't say that this thing has given me a wake up call or a scare as such, cos it's a bit of a cliche, it's more like a realisation. A revelation. T

Thus: I am done. 

I am done, counting calories, exercising, bingeing, purging, all of it. I'm done. 
Oh but... she says. Oh But nothing. Fuck off. Pippa says no. Not this time. 

That was actually really hard to write it took me about an hour. Just that, I'm done. But it's written now, nothing can change that, there it is in this random notebook the nurse gave me. In black and white. I can't scribble it out, or tear up the page, or burn it... It's there, because I, Pippa, created it. 

Ha! Cool! I've created a lot of stuff. More than most, cos of my profession, and everything I make, I pour love in to. I try (TRY, see?) to live my life like this, and to live up to the true meaning of my name. 

Oh yeh what was I saying? Creating words. Right. Not a particularly good sentence, it's short, it's not good English, ya da ya da ya da (Shut the fuck up). But it's there. Just that. I'm done. 

D'you what else is there? Shock. I literally owe my life to another human being. Not to mind the emotional damage I've caused. Oh my God, what the fuck was I thinking.... I really don't know. All I know is that I just wanted to escape the pain. But anyway, here's what happened. 

We got as far as Friday night, saturday morning. So, ate the dinner cos I knew I had to and I knew I wouldn't get away with not eating it, got fuck all sleep basically screamed all night. Tensed up to fuck with pain. Same in the morning. Spent most of the day on the couch, actually, all of it, being looked after by the two boys. If you're reading this, I've learned enough from ye to know that you won't accept my apology, so what I will just say: thank you.

Nothing can change what I have done, I can't take it back. But what I can do is choose what to do next. Something, somewhere, has given me another chance at this life thing. D'you know what, it sounds kinda cool, I think I'll give it a go. Anyone coming? Or are you already there? Can I join you?

I mean basically, the way I see it, I've got three options here. 
1. Do it again, and succeed.
2. Leave hospital and carry on as if nothing happened.
3. Start over. 

A good friend of mine recently said to me, in response to something I said about the break-up with Kegan. I think it might just be the best piece of advice anyone ever gave me. She said, Pippa, start again. Start again, not by picking up the pieces, (I assume she meant 'of my shattered life'), just literally, START OVER. 

Very cool. It's been about ten minutes since I wrote a single word, I've been completely lost in thought for ages now, to the point that I had to lift my legs to wake myself up. The TV is on now, just on a music channel, so there's lots of perfect bodies. I was pretty much in a trance just now, looking at everything, but not really seeing anything. Next second, a bikini clad girl comes on screen and I'm like, bitch! Cos I'm jealous cos my body isn't as perfect as hers. But you know what I did? I closed my eyes, and whispered shhh, not today, not now. I've told you, I've written it down. I'm done. 

And I really fucking mean it. 

Another ten mins went by there, just thinking, planning, not really planning as such though, plans tend not to work out when I make them. It's a learned behaviour, this thing of always needing to know what my next move is going to be. I'm much happier when the only plan I have is to follow the wind and follow my heart. SORRY, what a cliche. It's true though. It's like the word "try", I think, "plan" usually means "fuck up". So now, new plan is no plan. 

So that's that cleared up. Now what? Oh yeah... happier going with the flow. That's probably why I like writing so much, it just kinda flows out of me, I don't plan what I'm going to write. It just comes out. And I let it. I don't mean "going with the flow" as in, be like everyone else, be normal, think, feel and act like every other fucking pleb on this planet kind of way. I just meant... ok I don't really know what I meant, but I know what I didn't mean!

Where was I, like aaaages ago? Oh yeah I got up to about Saturday lunch time. Managed a few spoons of soup. Dizzy, hard to focus, cramps. Massive amounts of anxiety. Like nothing I've ever felt. The only thing that got me through it was planning (ironic, that it was a plan, which I've already said is usually a fuck up) my overdose. Waiting. Waiting for my opportunity. 

What kind of fucked up bitch am I? Oh my God I can't believe I just wrote that. On the other hand though, it came from a desperate place, and a desperate human being will literally do anything to get his needs met. That's the human condition. Look at it from the point of view of an addict. Which I am. Anything to stop the pain. My need? Just... escape. Forget. I wanted to stop the pain, not my life. I am not suicidal, I am desperate. And I am desperate because I am in pain. 

Right, so by this stage I've covered actually taking the tablets, having the bath, the razors, two of them, could do more damage faster with one in each hand. I got dressed, and wandered around for a few minutes, I think I even had a cigarette. Hung up the towels, put my clothes away. Etc. I remember Ian coming back, I think I was in the bedroom, and I heard some screaming about "oh my god you fucking cunt what have you done" kinda think, and he told me to throw up, you have to bring them up. But by then I think I was gone, I must have done because I only know the rest from what he told me. I have absolutely no memory of it. Whatsoever. 

I thought it was maybe an hour later, but when I woke up my mum was looking me straight in the eye, she was right beside me. Roger was there. And I am so glad that they were there, cos I was having some serious hallucinations and I couldn't get the words out to explain what I was seeing because I'd been on a ventilator, I couldn't breathe on my own, so my throat was fucked. Anyway, then Ian arrived, and he's like, it's Sunday evening... what the FUCK. He'd taken me to Nenagh hospital where they'd transferred me to the regional by ambulance. In the meantime, 3am in Killaloe, and the guards are knocking on Kegan's door looking for my mum. And so it goes. So here I am, it's now 5am and I'm in intensive care, but I'm off life support and breathing unaided. It's over. 




Or is it just beginning? My life I mean. I'll let you know.