A-Z Of Reasons To Recover: D Is For Dancing The Night (And Your Troubles) Away

Today’s blog post comes to you in the form of good ol’ procrastination for the author is most certainly avoiding her impending doom and would prefer to ignore the fact that she has an English Language exam tomorrow instead of facing the facts head on. I will protest that the anxiety was too much for me to bear and I simply had to step away from the study in order to cleanse my mind of any negativity and just chill for a bit. Of course, it is the truth.

Apt…but learn how to spell “pronounced”…

I can honestly say that I have never dreaded an exam quite so much as I am dreading this one tomorrow. But that’s no matter because do you know what? I have something to look forward to. I, granny-ish as I am, have made plans to celebrate the completion of said atrocity. I, Niamh Lundy, am going out. THE HERMIT IS LEAVING THE HOUSE.

Apologies for the meme invasion.

Granted, no alcohol will be consumed. Granted, I’ll probably get muscular pain and cramps 30 minutes into the evening. Granted, chances are I will be tucked up in bed before midnight, completely exhausted. But no feat is ever too small. The very fact that I am excited about heading out partying in celebration or commiseration of my exam only makes me more grateful that I have chosen this path to recovery, this path leading me in the right direction to achieving one of my goals of just having a normal student life and acting like your average young person. I received a taster of this lifestyle before (in a time and place which involved masking my age to sneak into nightclubs somewhat illegally…but we shall say no more about it) and I have missed it so. I finally feel that the wheels are in motion for its return. You know what they say: slow and steady always wins the race.

It is also only right that I take this moment to acknowledge my gratitude for best friends, whose patience is bewildering and humbling. I don’t know if I could be bothered with being as welcoming to someone who has spent the past six months or so locked in her own shell, refusing to even grace society with the simplest of outings. I merely had to mention a desire to get out and they were immediately supportive. I’m not entirely sure if they really do care about me or if they just love the drink (I jest). Either way, I am so unbelievably thankful for their constant encouragement and I am forever indebted to them.

I suppose one’s head better return to the books but it would be criminal of me to publish a post on this sad day without taking a moment to issue my condolences to the family and friends of one of the greatest icons of androgyny, eccentricity and fearlessness. King Bowie, despite all of my efforts, I have yet to fully emulate the gusto with which you lived your life and embraced your originality. I can only hope that one day I achieve your bravery. RIP angel.

I leave my parting words up to our dearly departed prince. I will not go in for deep, raw emotion…instead, I allow Bowie to lead himself and my blog post out in a manner which I think he would have approved of:

 

How appropriate.

-Niamhy xx

A-Z Of Reasons To Recover: C Is For Christmas

I would like to take this brief moment to wish you all a glorious Christmas and to thank you for your support over the last few months. It has been more difficult than I can say but I know for a fact that it would have been downright impossible without your help and constant encouragement. So eat, drink and be merry because, in the immortal words of the great philosopher L’Oréal, you are all more than worth it.

So all that is left for me to say is a merry Christmas to all and to all a goodnight! À bientôt and go raibh míle maith agat!

Lots of love,

Niamhy xx

A-Z Of Reasons To Recover: B Is For Babies

No beating about the bush here, it’s time for a biology lesson (and for me to insult your intelligence…but it is really rather appalling how little some people know about this very vital aspect of everyone’s existence)! This is the female reproductive system:

In order for procreation to take place, a fertilised egg (ovum) must implant itself in the wall or lining of the uterus. For fertilisation to take place, an egg is released from the ovary once a month in the hope that some little enthusiastic chappy known as a spermy-wermy makes his way down the fallopian tube and decides he wants to fuse with said eggy-weggy. If fertilisation does not take place within a biologically determined window of opportunity, the lining of the womb collapses, positively distraught that it has to face yet another month of unemployment. This collapsing of the wall of the womb is known (amongst other aliases) as the menstruation cycle.

Well, that’s enough science-y spake for one day (I am an English student after all; I am essentially allergic to science). This is yet another blog post I deliberated about composing, fearing that it may be a socially unacceptable subject matter to discuss so openly. But then I had an epiphany: what does the fact that I feel that I cannot write about possibly the single most natural event in the world for fear of causing offence to some readers say about the society in which we live? Therefore, I have decided to put on my “Lady Bravery” cap, loosen my tongue and verbalise my thoughts in an act of disregard for this male-dominated world. And I’m going to do it in capital letters.

I, NIAMH LUNDY, HAVE NOT EXPERIENCED A PERIOD IN ONE WHOLE YEAR. I AM OFFICIALLY 322 DAYS LATE.

And who is the guilty culprit? Who is to blame for such an atrocity? Yep, you guessed it: the old villain Anorexia Nervosa. This absence of menstruation in women is known as amenorrhoea and the longer it persists, the greater the chance of difficulty in conceiving later in life. And I kinda want to leave my options open, believe it or not.

I hear ya, ladies. I know that monthly visit can be an absolute pain (both literally and metaphorically). But take it from someone who knows: YOU WOULD MISS IT IF IT WAS GONE. The most horrendous aspect of this consequence of AN in my opinion? My body is constantly in a state of flux, teetering on the brink of prepubescence and pre-menopausal. Yes, you read that correctly. PRE-MENOPAUSAL. At 18 years of age, I experience nightly hot flushes which often force me to awaken at 3am in a more-than-slightly disorientated state. It is no fun.

I shall stop myself here before I go into the really gory details (I’ll save those for the autobiography…you ain’t getting those gems for free) but I simply could not justify withholding the secret of this rather taboo but extremely serious consequence of subjecting your body to such savage mistreatment. When I decided to reincarnate my original blog, I vowed to approach it with complete brutal honesty. And I will not turn my back on this vow.

Over and out.

-Niamhy xx

A-Z Of Reasons To Recover: A Is For Academic Study

First things first: we must wish my bloggy wog a belated happy birthday, WordPress having just notified me yesterday that I officially registered with them exactly one year ago. So happy first anniversary to the blog formerly known as “High Priestess Fashion”, now more appropriately called “High Priestess Resurrected” following its root-and-branch overhaul! Here’s to many more! Anyone for a slice of celebratory cake…?

Next thing on the agenda: the real business! Another thing which came to my attention yesterday was that I have now completed six full weeks of recovery meal plans (snaps for me). This realisation in conjunction with the fact that I recently began my CBT-E treatment encouraged me to finally pursue a blog post series which I have been mulling over for a long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long time. The name of this series?

A-Z OF REASONS TO RECOVERRRRRRRRRRR! *to be said in the style of that movie trailer voiceover guy*

So basically this series will do exactly what it says on the tin; I will explore all my own personal reasons to recover, following the order of (yep, you guessed it) the alphabet. Pretty self-explanatory. Now, without further ado, in the immortal words of Fraulein Maria, let’s start from the very beginning because it’s a very good place to start…

A is for ACADEMIC STUDY!

Confession: I am a massive nerd. A geek. A dweeb. A bookworm. All of the above. It simply cannot be denied, and I will scream the fact loud and proud from every rooftop, every tree, every mountain; ladies and gentlemen, I LOVE LEARNING!

Unfortunately, extreme perfectionism and obsessive compulsive disorder are co-morbid with anorexia nervosa. And what does this mean, you may ask? Why is this statement relevant? Well, you know when your average teenager complains that “studying kills them”? Yeah…well…studying for A-Levels almost did kill me.

There was no way I could fail. I simply could not live with myself if I did not achieve absolute perfection. So I made sure I did. Every waking second for me was spent in intense study, not one moment could be wasted. Thus, for me, eating became a waste of time, a form of procrastination. And we couldn’t possibly have that, could we, Niamh? Certainly not. It actually got to the stage where I was going into exams having consumed a “lunch” of eight green grapes because the thought of not working up until the very minute I entered that exam hall filled me with fear. I don’t think I can adequately put into words what a dreadful existence this was.

Now, here’s the plot twist.

I wouldn’t change my behaviour in those final months of grammar school for the world.

Gasp.

Shock.

Horror.

There are two main reasons for this revelation:

NUMBER ONE!

No other person on this earth will ever be able to experience what I felt the moment I opened my results to discover that I had achieved 3A*s and 1 A in my four A-Levels. I don’t think any other emotion could contend with that great wave of satisfaction; that adrenaline burst of sheer accomplishment followed by the sudden realization that all the hard work had paid off and you were now going to be studying your passion in the university of your dreams. See that previously-posted photo of the Hogwarts-esque building? Yeah, that’s Queen’s University Belfast and I study English there. Add to that the fact that my grades were enough to garner me one of the five Queen’s Scholars of 2015, meaning that I am now an ambassador for the university and I have my fees paid for by way of a full scholarship. Therefore, it would be impossible for me to regret my extreme behaviour during exam season; had I not been the me I was then, I may not have achieved this great feat.

On the other hand…

NUMBER 2!

A-Level exam season 2015 gave me the kick in the ass I needed to realise that I had a serious problem and that if I didn’t seek help ASAP…well, the consequences simply do not bear thinking about. I was a mess. I still am a mess. But at least now I’m the pilot revving up the engine of my aeroplane, beginning to edge towards the runway. Back in June, I was still a passenger, sitting on my hand luggage in the departures lounge, passively waiting on a delayed flight. I didn’t even know where my desired destination was. The world was passing me by. Well, not any more. And I have the terrible, terrible A-Level exam season 2015 to thank for this epiphany. Furthermore, six weeks under a recovery meal plan may not lead to any sort of weight gain (if I’m being honest, my weight has actually decreased, but we shall dwell no more on that this evening) but it does allow for greater coherency of thought. Therefore, I now realise it would be next to impossible for me to even continue any sort of academic study at the severely low weight I am currently at. Calories are not monsters. Calories are merely units of energy. And energy is what I need if I ever want my devotion to literature to flourish and grow. Recovery is my only option.

I shall leave you with a piece of literature which has recently given me much consolation. I don’t want to be one of T.S. Eliot’s Hollow Men, shape without form, shade without colour, paralysed force, gesture without motion. I must choose to instead embrace my status as a Velveteen Rabbit…

-Niamhy xx

Happy Vegetarianniversary To Me!

As I embark upon The Seven Days of Samhain this Sunday afternoon by feasting upon Interview With The Vampire: The Vampire Chronicles (“feasting” being the emphatic word in this statement, as a feast for the eyes it certainly is), I would like to take a brief moment of your time to celebrate the fact that this is my vegetarianniversary. Yes, today marks a whole SEVEN MONTHS meat-free for Niamhy! CAN I GET A FANFARE PLEASE?!

(What are you saying? Of course the obligatory image of Brad Pitt and Kirsten Dunst being absolute undead babes was necessary!)

Okay, I’ll admit, the whole “seven months” thing may be a bit of an anti-climax; I am well aware that there are die-hard vegans of 100 years out there snorting and sighing and shunning me for not being a “true” animal rights activist. But I feel that this is an accomplishment that I deserve to celebrate. Despite all the disapproving glares of the endless reams of doctors and dietitians I have seen over the past few months, I have stood my ground and fought for my right to be a vegetarian and this anniversary stands testament to the fact that I have proved myself and this is not simply the eating disorder talking: this is a passion.

So I would like to seize this opportunity to give a massive shout-out to all the calves, piglets, ducklings, lambs, chicks and fishies who have been been given the chance to exist through my simply having chosen to enjoy a herbivorous lifestyle. I hope your lives have been beautiful. You deserve it.

I would also like to thank:

1. My parents, for funding a completely organic lifestyle and having to reorganise the kitchen cabinets to accommodate a coeliac vegetarian;
2. My brother, for embarking upon this journey of meat-free living with me, “simply for the craic”;
3. This glorious man, for being the final nail in the coffin. Morrissey, you were the one who convinced my mother on March 24th 2015 that all my pleas over the years to pursue a vegetarian lifestyle were not unfounded. Your shocking video in Belfast’s Odyssey Arena (or should I say “fancy shmancy SSE Arena” now?) that night did its job. For this and so much more, I am eternally grateful (you have been warned, there is some quite explicit content to follow)…

I promised short and sweet, so short and sweet it will be. I leave you with one last image. Enjoy!

-Niamhy xx

Note The Fab, Not The Flab: Niamh’s Aesthetic Recovery Inspo, Both Fact And Fiction

People keep telling me to “take each day as it comes”. This is slowly but surely becoming my mantra. Thus, allow me to begin by informing you all that today, October 21st, is the official three-week anniversary of my pursuit of real recovery (talk about taking each day as it comes to the extremes, eh?). In other words, as of today, I have completed three full weeks of a weight-gain recovery plan. And I have followed it accurately, giving 100% every single day (well…apart from that one day I feel asleep before my bedtime toast…we can’t be perfect all the time). I have two very proud parents and a very proud brother right now, I will tell you that for free.

Introductory fact number 2: my first weigh-in on said meal plan saw my weight increase from 35kg to 36kg, which equated to me reaching a BMI of 15. Allow me to translate that into a language which those whose lives have not been consumed by this terrible disorder can understand; two weeks ago, I was “critical”. Last week, I was categorised as only “extremely severe”. Let me reiterate: I have two very proud parents and a very proud brother.

Introductory fact number 3: despite my best efforts, yesterday’s weigh-in saw my weight plummet once again to 35.6kg. Eating Disorder Niamhy=happy happy. Recovery Niamhy=angry angry.

Unlike my parents and my brother, what we don’t have right now is a very proud or very positive Niamhy. I have been told this constant fluctuation between gaining and losing is only natural; after all, I am now consuming more food in one day than I would have done in one week (this is no exaggeration), hence the initial increase…but my body is so terribly damaged that it is going to take time to adjust. Furthermore, my emotional response is definitely bipolar in nature at the moment; one second I will be absolutely ecstatic to be making progress and gaining, and the next I will delighted that I seem to be going nowhere with my weight gain despite all the food consumption. In short, I am having a pretty tough time of it. However, one thing which I will gladly hold to my merit is the fact that my motivation surpasses my fear and anxiety, as stated to me plainly by my psychiatrist last Tuesday (a moment which left me beaming with satisfaction despite the sting of tears in my eyes as a result of the nigglingly cruel voice in my head telling me that I was letting myself go, something which I did not deserve to do and would undoubtedly regret in the very near future).

So I thought what better way of motivating myself to keep going (especially on days such as this one, decidedly categorised by a desperately negative body image and low self esteem) than by having a nosy at my favourite body positive inspirational ladies? C’mon, allow me these few brief moments of shallowness and give me permission to commend these gorgeous girlies who I think would be the first to agree with me that they are most certainly NOT size zero! Let us begin with…

1) Betty Boop

Who said inspo couldn’t be conceived from a good ol’ combo of pencil and paper? C’mon: the boobs? The bum? I think we can all agree that Betty Boop is the ultimate babe.

2) Zooey Deschanel 

When people think of Zooey, they immediately conjure up an image in their mind’s eye of those mesmerising Bambi eyes of her’s. I don’t think anyone gives a second thought as to whether or not her thighs touch.

3) Agyness Deyn

I think I can honestly say that there was no-one in the world more excited about Agy’s news that she was returning to modelling than yours truly. Her exceptional natural beauty encourages me to champion “strong” over “skinny”, and her boyish physique and androgynous style is one I personally identify with.

4) Audrey Horne

Her name is Audrey Horne and she always gets what she wants…need I say more? The woman who made Dale Cooper weak at the knees certainly has a place in my inspo list.

5) Juno (Ellen Page, Juno)

Fertile Myrtle herself is, like, the coolest film character I know and she doesn’t even have to try (if you understand the reference, we’re best friends already). Interesting point of note: Juno is also evidently capable of doing something that I, in my current state, am most definitely IN-capable of, ie-procreating. If the pitter-patter of little toe DNA made of 50% of my toe DNA isn’t motivation, I don’t know what is.

6) Enid (Thora Birch, Ghost World)

Enid is simply the personification of “rad”. I don’t think her position on my list needs any further justification.

7) Dita Von Teese

How could I have lived with myself had I not included a woman who has made her millions out of having the most delectable curves known to humanity? I couldn’t have. Moreover, endless perusal of Dita’s fitness and healthy living regime in the early stages of my disorder informed me that she is an advocate of the power of avocado. And boy do I love me some avocado (as of three weeks ago).

8) Tinkerbell 

Anyone who knows me well enough will vouch for the fact that my dream career would unashamedly be dressing up as Tinkerbell and prancing around Disneyland 24/7 for the rest of my natural life. So yeah, she’s pretty much my idol. And how could I deny her a spot on my list when we remember the role she played in the greatest moment in Disney cinematic history? I couldn’t. I simply could not. Let us relive the aforementioned moment…

So, lovely readers, these gorgeous girlies will be my poster girls for the days, weeks, months and years to come. May they serve me well and not let me down. Let’s hope I do their hourglasses proud.

Allow me to close with some comedic relief. As I stated earlier, my ideal job would be playing Tinkerbell in Disneyland forever and ever and ever…but have you ever wondered what an amalgamation of Niamh and Tinkerbell would look like? Well, ladies and gentlemen, today is your lucky day because here lies your answer:

And with that, it’s an over and out from me!

-Niamhy xx

What Five Days In Rome Taught Me About Food

Monday September 14th 2015 saw The Fantastic Four (my fantastic father, fantastic mother, fantastic brother and not-so-fantastic self) jet off to the sacred land of pasta, pizza and paninis. That’s right-the Griswolds conquered Rome like a gladiator slaughtering a lion…or (more likely) vice versa.

Obviously, neither my family nor I departed the comfort of our homeland with any misconceptions that I would experience some sort of miraculous recovery on the Ryanair flight to our desired destination and would touchdown ready to indulge myself on the inexhaustible variety (or not so much “variety”, as we were soon to discover) of the Italian cuisine. However, I never prepared myself for the value of the eye-opening lessons which I did learn during my short time in The Eternal City. So I figured I would share just a few of the nuggets of wisdom which have taken up a place of residence in my adjusting mind, hopefully to be used to great advantage as I embark upon my recovery.

1) Food does not (necessarily) make you fat.

Within hours of landing in Italy, something had struck me about the daily routines of the Italians, an aspect of their lives which differed significantly from my own back home: these people really loved eating and they did a lot of what they loved! Everywhere I went, no matter what the hour, I found myself gazing enviously upon people enjoying the produce which was on offer to them from their surroundings without a care in the world. And know what else? Generally speaking, these people were off perfectly healthy BMIs and had what I would assume to be desirable body shapes! This, in turn, instilled a confidence in me that food is not the enemy but the ultimate ally; it is the fuel upon which we fluorish and thrive. This acknowledgement is the first step towards me rebuilding a positive and loving relationship with food.

2) Pizza is not all it is cracked up to be. 

Yes. You did read that caption correctly. Please refrain from calling the police. I’m sure you all can only imagine my family’s disbelief when, on only our second day in the pizza capital of the world, I voiced my desire to “allow” myself the privilege of enjoying what the other two bazillion tourists around us seemed to be salivating over. Cue me being whisked off to the nearest extortionately-priced pizza parlour directly facing the gates to Vatican City to indulge in a gluten-free funghi pizza (I love me my mushrooms). What ensued can only be described as the greatest disappointment in my life to date. What an anti-climax. However, I can now safely say that my pizza cravings (having been daily endorsed by constant exposure to filled doughy bases topped with 27 different cheeses, the ripest of tomatoes and the most luxurious of toppings on Instagram) are firmly out the window, never to return.

3) Consuming produce from a cow will not turn me into a cow. 

Gelato. Cheese. Milk. All of these products of the dairy persuasion tend to send alarm bells ringing in this disordered little mind of mine. However, over the past number of weeks, a dairy craving has taken me by storm. And when I say “craving”, I mean that each morning for Niamh is now incomplete without an anxiety-fuelled second serving of milk in my otherwise “safe” cereal bowl. As I begin to come to terms with this slight change in diet in accordance with my body’s needs, I also am able to recognise and appreciate the fact that I had the strength and courage to try one serving of melon-flavoured gelato and (believe it or not) some cheese whilst on holiday…and did it turn me black and white and moo all over? No. It did not. Case closed.

4) There is a reason why us Irish swear by potatoes. 

I do not wish to lead my beloved readers up the garden path. Be under no illusion as a result of the food experiences outlined that my trip to Rome was anorexia-free. It was very much so on the contrary. Every afternoon was a trial of me trying to find a street kiosk which would sell me an apple whilst my family enjoyed a hearty lunch, whilst every night saw me enter a silent depressive state as I began to regret all of the things I had allowed my “weak” self to “greedily enjoy” throughout the day. This is where Rome’s Scholars Lounge Irish Pub comes in. This lovely little home-away-from-home became our regular hideout for five days…and you can imagine my delight when I discovered that the chef was willing to make me a plain baked potato! Never again will I underestimate the power of the spud, perfect for filling a void, silencing the rumbles and fuelling a lengthy day of hiking around innumerable cobbled streets. Ladies and gentlemen, the sweet potato is a fad…the good ol’ Irish spud is here to stay!

5) MY FAMILY ARE FAB. 

We may be the most un-photogenic pack of mugs that ever graced the planet and we may drive each other insane…but my family are well and truly the stars of the show. It takes a very special bunch of people to fully commit to whipping someone as sick as myself out of their comfort zone and being encouraging throughout. I would also like to take this opportunity to acknowledge my gratitude and offer my sincerest of apologies to them, as I am not exactly the most pleasant person to spend quality time with at the moment…but these guys never ever ever complain. Well. Never seriously. They’re an alright bunch.

And that’s pretty much all I wanted to say on this subject, you’ll be glad to hear. Speak to y’all soon, when I will undoubtedly have some opinions to share regarding my first ever official meal plan which I am following as of TOMORROW. Tough times lie ahead but you know what they say: when the going gets tough, the tough get going.

-Niamhy xx

Candyflosslocks And Her Bowl Of Porridge (Which Was Just Right)

Friday September 4th 2015 was a pivotal day in the annals of my life.

To say I have had a ‘busy’ weekend would be an understatement. As of 8pm on this, Monday September 7th, I have:

1. Watched one of my favourite films for perhaps the millionth time. 
2. Enjoyed a good few lengthy walks.
3. Completed two (rather gruelling shifts) in the wonderful (pfft) world of weekend retail.
4. Had lots of fun with some Crayola and a tattoo colouring book. 
5. Fallen in love with this gorgeous man and his fabulous mind:
6. Been absolutely mortified by an interview and photoshoot (more to follow in a later post in the not-too-distant future)
7. Almost finished a book that I have been reading for nearly a month which I am forcing myself to finish or else I shall be filled with a sense of self-disappointment which will take up a permanent place of residency in my ego for the rest of eternity (a series of essays on Psychoanalysis and Women…interesting for the first 300 pages, but there is only so much one can read about penis envy and the Oedipus complex)
8. Made myself look like a candyfloss pixie princess with the help of my cousin’s hairdressing expertise and one bottle of lavender Renbow Crazy Colour…

My Little Pony called, he wants his mane back…

This hyperactivity is not something which is unusual for me, the sad truth being that days off from having to run around Belfast like a headless chicken being a rarity for my weary little self. However, something was different for me this weekend. A certain significant difference. It was the presence of a little energy boost. A little energy boost in the form of this:

Yes, ladies and gentlemen. That is what you think it is. M&S gluten-free rice porridge. My star player of the weekend. Or MVP (Most Valued Porridge), if you will. Or perhaps VIP (Very Important Porridge)? Okay, okay, I’ll stop now.

Naturally, being Niamh, I couldn’t just have NORMAL porridge, oh no. I had MAGICAL HALLOWEEN THEMED WITCHY PURPLE PORRIDGE, made all the more extra-special by adding…drum roll please…BLUEBERRIES! So it actually looked more like this:

Yum.

I know what everyone is thinking. Yes, it may literally be just your average bowl of porridge. But for me, this symbolises much, much more than that. This simple bowl of indigo sludge holds in it an immense power, a power which gave me the strength and desire to break an eating routine which has taken control of seven years of my life. By increasing my daily calorie intake by consuming this one extra food substance this weekend, not only did I have a little extra energy to perform tasks which would have otherwise been completely painstaking for me, I also shattered the mocking illusion which lived in my mind that somehow my entire life would come down around me if I did not stick rigidly to the eating regime which has ruled my every waking moment for so long.

Needless to say,  I am not cured. Porridge is not some elixir of life, my energy levels still being sub-zero, and my aches and pains still being constant reminders of what I have put my body through. I am also not a convert. In four days, the star of this post has only filled a hole in my belly on two occasions. But it’s a start, right? As they say, two steps forward and one step back…

But a victory is still a victory.

Over and out.

-Niamhy xx

High Priestess Resurrected

I have spent a great deal of time over the past few months beating myself up over the fact that I had abandoned my blog. No matter how hard I tried, I simply could not find the motivation or inspiration to sit down and actually compose a blog post that I wanted people to read. And I couldn’t understand why. That is, until a few days ago. When the truth hit me like a ton of bricks.

The brutal honesty is that the theme and subject matter of my previous blog, High Priestess Fashion, has of late become meaningless to me. Fashion, media and all of the various facets that fit hand in glove with them…all of these are ephemeral. Fleeting. Pointless. These past few months have allowed me to realise that there are greater things to life than what I was writing about and I no longer felt that I could continue managing a blog that was dedicated to things that were so unworthy of the precious moments of my existence which I had wasted on them.

Change is inevitable. Change is necessary. And change is a decision that you have to accept and challenge face on as an individual. Alone. It is a choice you have to make by yourself and for yourself.

Thus, I bid a fond farewell to “High Priestess Fashion” and introduce you to the much more serious, genuine, hard-hitting and personal “High Priestess Resurrected”.

It is time to embrace the fear. And I ask all of you to bear witness to my first tentative step toward this terrifying embrace. Here it is:

I am Niamh. I am 18 years old. And I am a victim of restrictive anorexia nervosa. But that is going to change. It is time to become a survivor.

-Niamhy xx

Why My Tattoos Are The Most Beautiful Aspect Of My Body…

It is no secret that I am an admirer of anyone who is brave enough to use their body as the foundations for a beautiful piece of artwork to be embedded on their skin, telling a tale of one aspect of a person’s life for the remainder of that body’s existence on this planet. However, there are some people who disagree with these beliefs of mine.

No more have these beliefs become apparent to me than over the past fortnight, this past fortnight having been the first one I have spent with my new baby…ladies and gentlemen, I give you the latest addition to my collection, making my tattoo total equal the mighty number 2 (okay, I know, bit of an anti-climax…give me a break, I’ve only been legal for five months or so).

Needless to say, my initial reaction (an emotion which remains even two weeks after completion) was one of sheer admiration, love and amazement at the fact that someone (Mr. Martin McKeown of The Human Canvas Tattoo & Art Studio) should have such a talent for creating this amount of detailed artistry on the human body after a few hours spent with some ink and a needle. Tattooing is an art form which will never cease to fascinate my quizzical mind, which is jealously lacking in such creativity.

That being said, whilst 99.999% of outsiders’ reactions to my tattoos have been complimentary and positive on the whole, they have always tended to be clouded with a mask of doubt and an undertone of disapproval. Look, I know you’re trying to be complimentary with the ol’, “Oh, like, I wouldn’t get it done, like, I don’t like tattoos but, I mean, you really suit it, like, you’re very brave”…but you must try harder.

Nevertheless, I shan’t be deterred. And do you know why? No? Well, allow me to tell you why I am insanely proud of my tattoos.

On my back, not my navel, in case you were concerned…

I find it extremely difficult to deny the overwhelming beauty of my tattoos when I consider the symbolic significance of what they both mean to me. I also find it extremely difficult to verbalise this significance, an emotional barrier forbidding me from ever truly revealing this sacred secret to many people beyond the realms of my closest circles. But I’m going to try my best.

I have never treated my body with the respect it truly deserves. I have subjected it to the most extreme punishments, ranging from starvation and malnutrition to excessive exercise, in order to achieve a level of inner peace through the medium of the “ideal” body image. At this precise moment in time, I continue to pursue this enigmatic end goal, invisible as a result of having no decided concept of what this “ideal” really is. What is the “ideal” body image? If you hold this holy grail of answers in your grasp, please feel free to forward me your knowledge on a picture postcard.

The “ugly” aspects of my body are a result of my own actions. The downy hair. The dry, dull skin. The goosebumpy flesh. The brittle nails. My less-than-feminine figure. The really yucky protruding coccyx which is prone to getting bashed against things, resulting in lengthy periods of being unable to find a comfortable sitting position (I type this whilst drowning in a sea of cushions and balancing awkwardly on my Dennis The Menace knees). All of these things I have done to myself.

So, if I accept the “ugly” things I have done to my body…why shouldn’t I take unquenchable pride in the artwork with which I have adorned the vessel that I have admittedly mistreated for such a long time? My tattoos are a gift to my skin, an attempt at apologising for all of the wrongdoings. THIS is why my tattoos are the most beautiful aspect of my body.

At 18 years of age, about to embark on student life and begin a brand new chapter of my life (…hopefully, results permitting), some wise old people may accuse me of being naive, of being too young and brash to make decisions with such permanency which I may regret in the future. I disagree. As I take these first baby steps into adult life, I vow to do my utmost to establish a truce between my mind and my body. My tattoos are the white flag.

-Niamhy xx