Wrong End Of The Stick Thin

Wasn't sure whether or not to write this blog or not, but I've had reason to muse upon the subject lately and I thought it would be better written down just in case it could maybe help someone, especially if that someone was me.

Everything I write about this is from my own perspective. I don't claim to speak for anyone else.

This blog is dedicated to anyone who ever felt out of control.

My name is Goddessdeeva and I am an anorexic.

I get that I don't look like one, I get that I am not what you would call stick thin. But I was. By the Seven I was. I look back at the photos of that time and I don't recognise the skeleton with the sunken eyes that looks back at me. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Anorexia, in my experience is rarely about the weight. I say rarely because though I can't speak for everyone who has suffered, from everyone who I have spoken to, it was never about the weight. It was about the control.

For an anorexic, when you can control nothing else in your life, you can always control what goes into your mouth. Every pain, every cramp, every headache just reaffirms how in control you now are. And that is the destructive bit. So what did I learn from my illness?

I learned that I will always be an anorexic, just one that eats. Much like an alcoholic will always have the potential to drink again and an ex smoker will always have the potential to go back to the ciggys, I know that  one episode of feeling out of control to have me reaching for vast quantities of pineapple juice and nothing else.

I learned that being 5'11'' and eight stone eleven is not a good look. Not unless you like to see bones sticking out. Or complete muscle wastage is your thing. I suppose if you like greasy, spotty skin to go with greasy lank hair, I looked like a fucking supermodel.

If you also liked a woman to have bad breath where her body was eating itself, constantly had the shits because of excessive pineapple juice intake or had a kink for women with dark sunken eyes, no boobs and no bum then I was your dream girl.

I would put a picture on here but for two reasons. One, it would identify me and this blog is anonymous for a reason and two, it would probably make you sick. I could store things in the gap between my neck and my collar bones.

Yeah, I was hot.

Well I thought I was as that was what everyone was telling me. 'Oh, you're so thin, you look great! I'd love to be as thin as you, look as good as you!' Yeah, right. I looked like shit.

I learned that it is not possible to live on a mars bar, (I knew I needed sugar) a glass of water (I knew my body needed water) and half a pack of crisps (I needed some fats right) daily and not end up in hospital.

I learned how to lie. To my friends, to my family, to myself. Of course I had already eaten earlier. I just wasn't  hungry, really you should have SEEN the amount I got through earlier! Nobody cared anyway. I was alone and nobody would ever understand what I was going through. Nobody would miss me if I died anyway. I was in control. I knew what I was doing.

All of it bullshit. All of it slowly killing me.

I learned that I could never get warm.

I learned that everything always hurt.

I learned to put towels in the bottom of the bath so I wouldn't bruise.

And I got off on all of it.

I was devious, power hungry. Every morsel of food I didn't eat was a victory. I thought I was clever, wearing my baggy clothes. Concealer was my friend. I was living the high life!

Until McDonalds. I wasn't eating, obviously, but I was hanging round with my friends treating myself to a second glass of water. I vaguely remember lying down. I have a somewhat fuzzy memory of being in an ambulance and waking up with a drip in my arm. Apparently I had no reflexes, they stuck pins in me and I didn't react. From what they told me, I was pretty close to organ failure.

All because I felt I had no control.

What brought me back? A very straight talking doctor. He asked me how old my baby was and if I was happy for him to grow up without a mother. Being as it was being beaten, raped and mentally abused by his father that had led to me feeling out of control, there was no way I was going to let that happen. The straight talking doctor told me that at that point it was eat a sandwich or die.

So I ate. Small portions at first as my stomach was so shrunken, but I ate. And I took my life back. I finally found the courage to leave the abusive partner. (Though he did stalk me for 2 years after that.) I got a job, I grew my hair and my nails and I took the power back.

And I got counselling. Long term extensive counselling. Regardless of taking more control in my life, without the counselling I would be dead. Because without dealing with the root causes, without actually working to heal myself at some point I would have reached for the pineapple juice again.

I would have died.

I get that now. I already looked dead, I already felt dead, but I would have given death the commitment I knew it was looking for.

Things are different these days. I have far more control of my life. I am a curvy goddess now, with great boobs and a ghetto booty. I have hair I love, great skin and I am happy within my skin. How I look doesn't define me, and I know I am more admired for my brain than my body.

And this is good. But I know myself and I know I have to always watch myself to make sure I'm not missing meals or feeling cast adrift. I will never be cured of anorexia. I will always have to guard against its creeping back.

I am strong. You can be too. Your life depends on it.

Reasons To Be Cheerful #thegoodmoodcontinues

Two days I've been in a good mood now. Two whole days. For anyone who knows me, this is unprecedented unless I am on leave or in a state of advanced inebriation. Even then it is touch and go!

My good mood has been infectious. And it has scared the shit out of my colleagues. Which is always good.

As I blogged my Very Bad Mood recently, I thought it only fair that I blogged the good one too. I hope you get some sense of joy from it.

So why am I in such a good mood? I got some perspective and made some decisions. A very dear friend was quite alarmed at that ('never a good sign, that!' she said) but I think she understands now.

So, my reasons to be cheerful.

1. I am loved.
Yeah I know this should have been obvious but it wasn't, ok? Even a Goddess has her insecure moments where she doesn't feel worthy. I mean, why else have worshippers? However, I realised that the support and love I have had over the past few months has sustained me. Better still, I have realised that I am deserving of it. And you know what? I like that. In fact I love it!

2. I love.
Oh yes I do buddy! It feels liberating to admit to it, but yes, I do! When I love, I love HARD. It can be intimidating, it can be intense, but you know what, if you can get past that, you might find that it is warm, secure, rewarding and maybe, just maybe, a little bit exciting.

3. NO MORE PINING!
I decided that I was no longer going to pine for what could be or should be in my life and start living it properly again. There is a certain thing that I am without. A thing that I value and love. I know I may be without it for a very long time and am prepared to wait for it, but while I do, I'm going to live my life. And enjoy it.

4. I'm in love with Holland's Pies.
I love them, am in love with them and will not be ever eating another pie. I belong to that pie exclusively and I could not be happier about that. It is a great pie. I am very happy with it. Pasties are very nice, but it is pie all the way for me. *does an I LOVE PIE wiggly dance*

5. I remembered how to smile.
(see item 4 about how great the pie is)

6. I found hope.
Not pie related this time but, social media related! I read through my Twitter and my FB  timelines and I realised something. This government may be the biggest bucket of cunts we have ever had the misfortune to encounter, Nick Clegg may be the most pointless thing since, well you can insert your own analogy here, they may be evil, pernicious and downright evil, but you know what? There are millions of us who will not go down without a fight. We are saying 'no' and we are teaching our families, our children, our communities to say 'no' too. And this makes me smile. And gives me hope that whatever happens, it will not happen quietly.

7. @calmconfusion
Love, love, love. #twolivesonebreath Oh My Goddess the woman is amazing and I am lucky to have her in my life. That level of understanding is so rare. If you find it, never let it go.

8. My wife Kaleigh. (and her boyfriend Monica)
These people have been so amazing I cannot even begin to tell you. They are always there to wiggly dance and feed me biscuits. I love them both like you cannot imagine.

9. A Game Of Thrones is coming back.
See my first ever blogpost on why I am #teamlannister. And me Mam and Dad bought me a Lannister tshirt to wear!!!!

10. I finally own sexy yet comfortable underwear.
If you are a woman, you know what I mean. If you are a straight man, no you cannot have pics.

There are loads of other reasons, but I fear that this will become far too gushy. So I will leave you with this. Where there is love, hope and THIS to dance to at a ridiculously loud volume there will be a good mood.

Enjoy it while it lasts. Question Time is on tonight.

Fuel For A Rage Machine

Let me just get this out there. I am in a BAD FUCKING MOOD today.

It has been coming a while I think, and now it has arrived in such epic proportions that even Plan B and cake has failed to soothe the savage beast.

So what has caused it. I can tell you, but it is likely to offend someone somewhere so don't say I didn't warn you. There is going to be a LOT of bad language.

I have discovered that while I was freezing my fucking tits off on a picket line last monday that a rep, one who has been a rep for a very long fucking time, represents Black members and has aspirations to national union positions refused to take part in the Industrial Action because he didn't see what the dispute had to do with him. (name removed to protect me, not him) you are a fucking disgrace. Stand down now.

My union magazine has arrived on my doorstep this morning. The President's column is that derogatory towards reps and members that I nearly physically threw my fucking bag through a window. If you want to see blatant electioneering and a study in missing the point, click here.

Those of you who have been aware of me for more than five minutes will be aware that I have a mild Twitter addiction. This has been compulsive due to the trolling behaviour I have witnessed from a trade union rep who  believes that some cuts are necessary and that the third sector can deliver public services better than the public sector. Seriously, this attention seeking fuckwitted cunt is getting on my last nerve and the only reason I haven't blocked her is because she reminds me of how far we still have to go and why we still have to fight.

I have members who are under threat of privatisation who are asking me why they should take industrial action.

I have a government who is looking to shaft me in every way they possibly can. If I lose my job I will become one of the undeserving poor, you know, those scroungers who are spending YOUR MONEY! I work full fucking time and I am already one of the undeserving poor.

I have a Labour Leadership who just don't fucking get it that while they are cosying up to the cunts in Parliament that they are disenfranchising the very people they rely on for money and votes.

Something I was really looking forward to now isn't going to happen for the best possible reason which doesn't make it any fucking easier.

And I haven't been laid in a very, VERY long time.

So, if you don't get why collective action is important, if you even want to try to justify a single cut to me, if you want to fuck me over or denigrate what I do, my advice to you is stay the fuck out of my way. I am not in the fucking mood for you and will not be held responsible for my actions.

Fuck it. I'm gonna go get drunk in the bath.

The Good, The Bad and the Milliband

Well it's the new year with all the joy that finally being out of fucking December brings. I didn't want to do a retrospective because, well, those of you who know me personally already know what my year has been like and those of you who only know me through my blog know as much as I want you to.

So, I thought I would do my own New Year's Honours type thing. Some you will agree with, some you won't. I'm gonna be honest as ever and if you recognise yourself, good.

Person of the Year
Everybody who took strike action. Everybody who voted with their pens or their feet and showed the government that we will not stand for pension theft. I salute you.

Women of the Year
This one is split between the women known as Dawn, Tizz,  Emz Wife, Kay Wife, Mrs G and Me Mam. They have been a constant source of support, love and fun for me. They have put up with a great deal from me this year. Tears, tempers, screaming and have done so with great aplomb.

Men of the Year
This one goes to... well, you know who you are. You have taught me acceptance, true love and that I don't need to live my entire life on Facebook and Twitter. Hope things work out for us both, I really do.
Also this goes to @Yokelbear for being an educational and personal inspiration, Me Dad for always being bloody right and @kitleary for never failing to make me laugh when I am in a truly shitty mood. And for the cuddles.

Inspiration of the Year
This one goes to Branch Organiser at Euston Dave Plummer. Seriously, check out his website! It is stunning and is a testament to his dedication. This also goes to every single PCS member and rep. You are why I do what I do. It's ok... I can sleep when I'm dead.

Cunt of the Year
Soooo many candidates here! Do I go for Shiny Faced Cunt Cameron? No... I expect him to be a cunt. Do I go for Cunt Buffalo Womb Botherer Nadine Dorries? No... I know where I am with her. Disgusted most of the time, but it is at least a consistent disgust. EDL? (Too easy.) BNP? (Even easier.) Katie Melua? (Killed my favourite Cure song.) Tim Westwood? (My car is NOT 'pork chopping'. Twat.) CJ from Eggheads? (If this needs any explanation at all please feel free to piss off.)

I had to make a choice! So hard! So many cunts to choose from! In the end, I had a shortlist of scabs and Ed Milliband. Then I realised that they weren't mutually exclusive, so...

CONGRATULATIONS ED MILLIBAND AND PICKET LINE CROSSERS!

Your lack of support, your blind, slavish devotion to the bollocks the Daily Mail spouts is not only disgusting, it undermines those of us who are actually trying to make a difference here. Please fuck off and have a long hard word with yourselves. You can come back when you understand what unity means. Until then you have my deep and undying revulsion.

Happy New Year everyone. Keep fighting xxx

Happy Fucking Xmas

I fucking hate December. I always have and always will. All that forced joviality, all that near panicked fun. Gotta have fun, it's CHRISTMAS!!! Season of peace and goodwill to all apparently. Time for family.

Give me a fucking break.

Seriously, if you can't have fun without it being an arbitrary date in a calendar I feel sorry for your friendships. It blatantly isn't peaceful and there is no goodwill. As for family, if you can't make each other feel special and loved all year then there is no hope for humanity.

All my worst things have happened in December. I met my first husband. The one who turned out to be gay and took my kids from me. Which was also in December as it happens.

I met my second husband in December. Not that this was a bad thing. I don't regret being married to him for nearly 10 years, but we met on xmas eve. Which will sully it forever now.

When I was 15 I had a nervous breakdown. I spent 3 weeks in the corner of my bedroom rocking while my mum refused to get medical help and my sister spat at me and kicked me for my 'weakness'.

Guess which month it was?

And today, I have given up something totally precious to me. Something beautiful and pure that made me happier than I have ever been. I gave it up for the right reasons and I really hope that it comes back to me. I'll be waiting and hoping.

At some point today I might even stop crying.

So excuse me if I don't want to take part in your fucking festivities.

I don't want to wear a party hat and fucking tinsel. I don't want to pull a fucking cracker and fake laugh at the stupid crappy joke.

Excuse me if I just lock myself away for xmas and new year and talk to nobody. Excuse me if I emerge slightly more jaded than last year.

I got a broken heart again this year. Fuck xmas.

Scabs Make Me Fucking Itch!

Well, we're coming up to another strike. Bigger than June 30th, the Public Sector strike due on 30th November will be bigger and better, leaner and meaner, stronger and... well you get the point.

With just over a week to go the predictable onslaught from the media has started. I didn't quite win the sweepstake as to when the 'Look! Yeah, you! See, union bosses get paid properly for what they do!' stories would hit the tabloids, but I was only out by a day.

And the infighting has started too. Like Harry Enfield's builders only in Che Guevara t shirts, we witness the 'I am considerably more socialist than you.' arguments. We define terms and divide ourselves. Seriously, it bores and angers me in equal measure. We don't win anything by fighting amongst ourselves, we win by organising. (With apologies to anarchists. See, can't bloody win.)

Then the excuses as to why some won't stand up in solidarity with those of us actually prepared to fight for our pensions start pouring forth. Like a fetid stream full of the rotting corpses of unity we hear them all.

Then we have the fight about terminology (Scab is my preferred word for those who cross a picket line, though cunt will suffice) and the bullying of the poor loves. We should just let them get on with it apparently. They have their 'reasons' by all accounts. And to pull them up on them is wrong. And it makes us bullies.

Let me make it very clear, I do not in any way condone actual physical violence towards scabs though I totally understand the compulsion.

(See previous blog 'A Scab By Any Other Name Still Stinks)

But for fuck's sake, give me a fucking break! These are not poor little delicate flowers. These are scabs who undermine everything we are fighting for and yet will reap rewards when we win victories.

They seem to have no problem with violence towards us on picket lines as they drive at us, squeeze their water bottles at us and spit at us. So excuse me if I don't want to afford them any niceties.

Fuck them. If they are going to cross picket lines they should have the balls to stand on their blacklegs, admit they're scabs and take the fucking derision due them from proper trade unionists who understand the word solidarity.

And The Laughter Returns

Went out for a meal and a chat with estranged hubby tonight. For him this meant getting dressed and turning up, for me it threw up all sorts of questions.

Do I wear make up? Do I get dressed up? Do my hair? What do I want my outfit to say? Do I want it to say 'look at what you're missing' or more 'we can do this, we can be civil with each other again'?

In the end I went for smart top, skinny black jeans, pirate boots, make up and hair looking gooood. I had decided I wanted my outfit to say 'fuck it, it has been an age since I went out anywhere really nice, I want to feel lovely for a change.'

So, met up with estranged hubby and things were a little strained to say the least. Those of you who know me personally know that things have been horrendous and that I have been quite ill with the stress of it all. Those of you who don't know me personally still know that it hasn't been easy lately with me and him.

So, his plan was to take me to a nice Indian restaurant and we could just spend some time together on neutral ground. So far so good. The one flaw in this plan is that he let me choose the restaurant.

I should never be allowed to choose the restaurant.

He was going to take me to a really nice one called 'Chillicha'. I thought it looked a 'bit poncey' so plumped for 'Curryland'. I should have known really.

First thing I had to do was take my glasses off as the place was so badly ventilated that they steamed up. Then we sat down. Waitress comes over and her first question wasn't 'can I get you any drinks?' but 'How was your day?' I have to say I was somewhat thrown by this and felt under pressure to say it was great. I felt I would have let her down if I had said I had spent most of it in bed with a hangover. She seemed really nice so I didn't want to disappoint her.

I went for the buffet and a large coke. Waitress said she would tell me when the buffet was ready. She went over and stirred stuff. Then came over and said it was ready. I started to giggle.

My meal then consisted of:

The stalest poppadum I have ever had. They are not supposed to be bendy! This was served with the smallest onion salad ever made and the most watered down mango chutney I have ever seen. You are not supposed to be able to drink mango chutney Curryland. You're just not!

The reddest curry ever. Not sure what it was. It tasted of nothing. Not even of red.

Korma that seemed to not have any almond in.

Madras that wasn't too bad actually if you ignored the fact that I crunched down on something that I refused to investigate for the fear it would be something dreadful. I just swallowed. This has always stood me in good stead before and it worked this time.

All this time me and estranged hubby were smiling and laughing. Giggling like idiots at the sheer ridiculousness of the whole thing. We then noticed the 'decor'. It looked as if a disinterested child had done it.

So now I really started to lose it laughing. And watching the rough and ready of Worthing stagger in clutching their own booze and saying things like 'I might go for something different tonight' before going for the buffet just made me laugh even more.

And then hubby went to the toilet. This was his face when he came back.

He doesn't always look that red by the way. It was just that hot and humid in there. Anyhoo, apparently if he had been to the loo first he wouldn't have let us eat there. When even the handwash is grubby, there is a problem.

But none of that was the point. We had a laugh. Something we hadn't done together for a good couple of years. Doubled over laughing. It felt good. You never know, there might be light at the end of the tunnel after all.