Lucie ‘Blue’ Owen wrote this exactly 1 week before her passing, July 22nd, 2011 due to complications to her anorexia. 77lbs.
"I lay in bed last night, for a good three hours while insomnia, and a good number of other things plagued my mind. At first I lay there, just still, and after a while of counting my heart beat (that seemed to be coming intermittently every three seconds, with the occasional absence), I let the tears burn, as itch and they rolled down each side of my face. Warm, and fast.
I was asked last week, a number of things. One of which was, “Do you want this to take your life?”. I thought about that question for a minute before answering. I replied with, “Not right now”. You see, I go through shifts of wanting to survive, or being okay with floating, and laying in bed and thinking about it all and just wanting my heart to stop altogether because its all just too overwhelming. Too much.
Funding for Inpatient at The Priory, it seems, may be an option. But when I stop and think about it, would I actually go if I got a place? I mean, I’d probably go to the initial assessment and see what the place is like, because I’m curious to how sick others are, or how much food they’re made to consume, or what processes others are made to go through (and the environments in which this is made possible) in order to ‘recover’ in hospital, but I don’t think I’d actually go home, pack my suitcase, and voluntarily have my mother drop me off there.
It goes so much deeper than any professional, friend, relative, or human being could ever begin to consider or understand. No institution is going to be able to take this away. But I’m not at that point, just yet (not quite), of acceptance. Where I’m stood right over the cliff edge and I’m saying “I’m ready to jump”. Right now I just want you to fucking push me. I don’t have it in me to jump myself (I’m just like my father).
Since dropping into the ‘12’ BMI today, its brought about a number of emotions. I consider myself invincible, since I was told around christmas time that a lot of people don’t survive to ever see that number. Along with that, I’m frustrated and defeated and hopeless because I can’t do anything to get myself out of a situation in that is evidently robbing me of so many opportunities and experiences I’m never again going to be able to have refunded. I’m also powerful. At times, I could lift up the entire planet earth with just one hand. I’m also terrified. Terror that goes so deep, and has manifested itself tight into every cell wall (membrane) of my being. That no drug on the market could possibly extinguish. That no professional could possibly begin to fix.
Since I’ve sunk to the bottom of the ocean (and since looking up, now, and only being able to see black, which I assume is the top) I have become more fearful than ever before. It haunts me when I sleep, not the usual once, but usually twice or three times, and thats every single night.
You can’t hold me while I put food into my mouth, because I’ll close my eyes and see it entering my mouth and making me gag. I’ll choke. I can’t eat anything, period. At home. In hospital. In therapy. It can’t enter my mouth. I can’t have it in my stomach. I’ll shower for hours. I’m dirty. I’ll sit by the fridge and rock and cry and eventually scream because I just don’t know what to do anymore. I’ll look in the mirror and sit on my bed and get up and collapse next to the mirror on my floor. I’ll sit in public toilets for hours (Rocking and crying) because I thought I saw his face in the que in the restaurant downstairs. I’ll drive home from the supermarket with my throat closed up, with no idea of who I am or where I’m going or whats happening to me because there was somebody familiar stood behind me (or following me) and its been 8 years. I’ll spend six out of the eight hours I sleep each night trying to (get) myself to sleep while I feel his body against mine, his breath on my chest (his stubble on my face). And I’ll sit stark upright at 2, 3, 4, 5am in the morning because his face hit the back of my eyelids knocking me bolt upright, and I have to gather the pieces of myself together (like I do every fucking night) and drag myself to the window and stare at the houses of the people in my neighbourhood, who have their curtains closed (who are asleep), and wonder how the fuck I’m supposed to lead a normal life. I’ll paint my nails as quickly as I can because I can’t stand to look at my hands (or my thighs which I tend to get glimpses of every now and again). I’ll spend some of my time on the stone cold bathroom floor, shaking (oh, crying, surprised?) getting rid of the food I just ate, I’ve realised, in attempt to purge myself of the things I’m supposed to try and ‘get over’ and ‘move on’ from, but which I can’t, which therefore makes me an inadequate and weak human being. I feel empty and lifeless and a lot of the time, emotionless after those acts, and usually retreat to my bedroom where I sit on the floor and reel over the words of Dianne (“Think about where you’d be in 10 years if you didn’t recover now”, etc), or log onto Facebook and want to die as I witness everybody else living their lives through pictures as I continue to destroy my own. Or lie in bed with folders and folders of photographs and touch the face of the little girl I (used) to be, hoping (hoping) she’ll come back - but no longer wondering ‘what happened’….
Because we all know what happened."
she ran a vegan blog, click here to read it. if you go to her earliest posts and then look at her newer ones where she has pictures of herself, you can see she lost a TON of weight, i feel so bad right now, it makes me so sad to read this and see her struggle like that, and know that deep inside i want it to, but i also don't want it. i'm so conflicted :'( i wish someone could have saved her <3 r.i.p. <3