Does my anxiety look big in this?

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Anxiety is a pretty complex issue to talk about because it effects people in different ways, for different reasons or because of different events. But when did that ever stop me?

The anxiety I'm talking about right now is the one that makes me obsessive about the way I look, and by 'I' I mean 'every part of my body'. It is probably at the root of many of my ishoos it carves that deep. Now I know there might be a few eyes going glazed and a few fingers clicking off my page thinking "not some miserable cow moaning on about the way she looks". Well if you really want to go, then go. But this shit is real, and I don't have to apologise for it.

My whole life, my weight has yo-yoed. Things went and got serious when I was in my late teens, and I started starving myself both as a way to manage the pain I felt at being persecuted at school, and as way to prove to them and me that I wasn't a 'fatty'. I might add at this point that I've never been fat, at my worst I've been approaching the top part of normal weight parameters for my (very tall) height. But I developed a devastating hate-hate relationship with my body that is still with me, all those years later. 

So first came the starving, the eating tiny meals at best, taking naps after school instead of having to fulfil the call of my desperate stomach pangs. Still I was bullied. I guess they thought I was now a freak for being such a rake? Starvation is a commitment though, trust. I couldn't stick to it, it was too painful both physically and mentally. I moved on to throwing up for a living. The Big B was great for a while as it meant I could still enjoy all the things I loved, food, loads of booze, but I could just chuck up all the crap and get it out after I'd enjoyed it. It felt like the perfect solution and I was proud of myself for managing my 'diet' so well. In reality, I was a delusional mess, and only halted when one night out with the girls, a friend cornered me after my fifth visit to the loo. Sure, I had been drinking a bit, but not enough to make me that sick, "what's going on" she demanded. And suddenly the thrill was gone, my secret had been found out. I felt vile, dirty, that's it, it had been my dirty little secret all along. It was shattered, I was shattered.

Beating being both A & B left me with very little, except to crash diet and feel distraught. I exercised like a beast for periods of time, and couch potatoed the rest. There was no equilibrium, no consistency. There is also a definite correlation between my weight and my bipolar disorder: when I'm high I'm 'skinny' and when I'm low, I'm 'fat'. I'm having a fat moment right now. Fuck.

I write this to you after having been in town with my Mum. For 'a laugh' (those things always turn out bad), we decided to pop to a bridal shop to try on a couple of gowns. I either couldn't get them over my hips, or they were three sizes too big for my boobs, or they were just plain foul. I got to thinking, "oh I definitely need to drop a few pounds before I do this again!". And then I came home, with a full-fat coke and some fizzy, jelly, snake things that I've polished off whilst I been typing. Turns out that right now, I'm in the over eaters club. Can someone please stop this fucking merry-go-round?

For me, the anxiety about how I look governs a massive part of my time, and life in general. It stops me from doing things, wearing half my wardrobe is out as half of it doesn't fit me. The kindly bridal shop woman told me not to loose much weight because the dresses I like need that "bit of curve" I've got going on now. I threw up in my mouth a little at that one...

The truth of this outwardly indulgent post is this: it doesn't matter how much weight I lose or gain, until I face up to my anxiety demons, none of it will ever be good enough, I'll never, ever be happy, or believe the good press about me.

Food for thought?