Sunday 20 December 2015

Oh Christmas Tree...

I love Christmas dinner. Turkey, ham, stuffing, potatoes and especially Brussels sprouts(they are little balls of vegetable joy, you're weird if you don't like them). For the last three years I have been in charge of making dessert, and I love pouring over recipes looking for something new and challenging to make. I see the meal as a marathon, not a sprint, and happily languish at the table for two hours, eating more meat as soon as there is room in my stomach. I look forward to Christmas dinner for 364 days; typing this I have visions of roast potatoes dancing in my head.

In four days my favourite meal will be in front of me, in all its festive glory. But this year instead of excitement, I have a growing sense of fear. I'm afraid because I have not kept a Christmas dinner down for nine years. Every December 25th I eat whatever I want, and then immediately excuse myself so I can go to the bathroom. If I eat a second plate, I'll return to the bathroom, dessert too. I think I spend more time throwing up food over Christmas than I do eating it. When I should have been enjoying time with family, laughing at terrible jokes from crackers and savouring the moment, I was instead focused on drinking enough water while I ate. Or worrying about how long food had been in my stomach, because I couldn't leave the table without interrupting a conversation. While everyone relaxed in the living room post meal, I worried that I hadn't fully emptied my stomach. Christmas Day was another thing I gave up in my pursuit of the perfect body and sense of control.

My recovery is still in it's infancy; I throw more toast in the bin than I eat, and that's with a Valium to keep my decrease my anxiety at meals. Food is still the moat important thing in my life, although now the focus is on eating it, not running from it. I'm too ashamed to tell you how often I think of giving up, it would be so much easier. So I take it one day at a time, one meal at a time. But I want Christmas Day to be different; I don't want to think about food at all on the 25th. I want to think about fairy lights, paper hats and Monopoly. I want to eat my Christmas dinner, and then a mince pie and feel no guilt. I am determined to have one day off from being a neurotic mess, and what better day than one I used to adore.

Saturday 12 December 2015

Going out

I don't expect anyone to understand what I'm about to say, although I think a few of you will identify with some of it.

Yesterday I almost self-harmed, which would have been the first time since I was in hospital in July. The urge was so strong I had to walk out of my house, because only a small part of me wanted to resist. The thing is, if I had given in I would have felt better instantly. Cutting myself is the quickest way to regulate my emotions, and it is guaranteed to work every time. It only takes a few seconds, and in a house you are surrounded with suitable tools. Not self-harming was obviously the 'right' choice, but my sadness and pain remained, until I eventually gave up trying and curled into a ball on the couch.

Your probably thinking something awful must have happened to cause such distress, but that wasn't the case.

A friend of mine is having birthday drinks this evening, and kindly invited me. I was excited to go, because she is a wonderful friend and I haven't seen her in a while. My usual anxiety around social occasions and leaving the house aside, I foresaw no difficulties with going. Until yesterday, when I started to think about what I would wear. Before going further I should point out that one of the 'coping strategies' my therapist has put in place is that I have to choose outfits for social occasions in advance. This is in order to avoid an hour spent changing clothes with increasing frustration, until I eventually end up in tears or refusing to leave the house. This strategy has worked in the past, so I went ahead and started looking through my clothes.

Since leaving St.Pats, my weight restored to a healthier number, I have struggled with my body image. Anything that draws my attention to it sets of a tirade of judgmental thoughts and feelings of intense shame and disgust. So things like walking, sitting, bending over...breathing...I essentially feel ashamed of and repulsed by my body from the time I wake up, until I go to sleep. Even then I sometimes dream about muumuus and heavy duty mobility scooters. Things got even worse after my last weigh in. Showering usually ends in tears, I've thrown out piles of pajamas because they had elasticated waists and I can't bear to be touched by anyone, lest I see the revulsion flicker in their eyes. That being the case, I wisely decided, or rather that masochistic ED voice decided, that I should start out by trying on a tiny pair of shorts. I know that these shorts are a size 6/8, I also know that they are high waisted, which I hate. But when I was at my lightest, they were gloriously baggy on my things and the material at the back sagged divinely where an ass should be. But that was 11kgs ago, I KNEW they would not fit the same. So of course I put them on. And that was that, my ED exploded back to full force.

Since short-gate I have been a ball of misery; I am still wearing, and slept in, the clothes I put on yesterday morning. I have seriously considered taking everything that isn't loose or over-sized out of my closest and burning it(then the rain started, stupid rain). The thought of going out, facing people, showing them how enormous I have become is terrifying. I want so much to see my friends, but I can already feel the mocking glances as I stand next to these beautiful women like some sort of before and after advert. That voice keeps telling me over and over that nothing I do will make me look any better, so what's the point in trying?

When I sat down to write this, my hope was that I would be able to look at the situation more rationally, once all the emotion was laid out in front of me. No amount of words can change how I feel about myself right now, my own and yours will fall on deaf ears. But there is a whisper, very faint, that if I let the shame and fear control me today, it will only strengthen their control. I'm still not sure what I am going to do, although fashioning a dress out of an industrial bin bag is currently the number one outfit choice. Maybe with a belt to jazz it up?

Friday 4 December 2015

Christmas

When I saw my psychiatrist earlier this week for my last appointment of the year, he asked me if I had an worries about coping during Christmas. I had never been asked it before, or thought about it, so I automatically dismissed his concerns and went on my way. Later that day, while wrapping a pile of gifts, the question popped back into my mind and I realised he might have had good reason for asking.

Christmas has always been my favourite time of the year; I love the decorations, buying presents and then getting buried under mounds of wrapping paper and ribbon. I spend hours baking festive treats, cutting out paper snowflakes and have an advent calendar of Christmas films to ensure everyday is festive. Even my dogs get advent calendars...and stockings...and wrapped gifts. Don't judge me, they are my surrogate children and I shall treat them as such. I left home when I was 18 so I have been free to decorate to my hearts content for the last twelve years, and I have done so with gusto. In summary, Christmas is the best thing ever.

But over the last few years, I have struggled more and more to get into the spirit of the holiday season. I started putting off pulling out the trees, and if I'm honest, mu rapping skills just haven't been up to scratch. This year, I feel about as jolly as a the Grinch before his heart grew three sizes. Sitting on the floor, measuring out paper and sellotape, I wasn't lost in the thrill of neatly folded corners and perfectly curled ribbons - I was irritated. There had been a definite drop in my mood leading up to December, which I was putting down to difficult therapy sessions. But maybe it was more than that; Could Christmas be contributing to my increasingly dark thoughts? Within seconds I was in floods of tears; those awful, ugly sobs that come from some raw place deep inside. Usually bringing a lot of snot up with it. Afterwards, I decided it was possible that this year I was not the happy/irritatingly cheerful Elf in training I usually am. Something about Christmas has changed for me, so in an effort to try and revert to form, I'm going to try and find the reason for my change of heart.

My earliest Christmas memory is a special one, because it is the only one I have before the age of five. I'm not sure exactly what age I was, but it was before my sister was born so between 2 and 4. I was in a car with my parents, still married at that point, and we were driving back home to Greystones(lovely little seaside town in Wicklow). It was dark outside, and the only real light was from the moon and the car's headlights. I was sitting in the middle of the backseat, leaning forward to stick my face into the front, and I was singing along to the radio. It was Driving Home for Christmas, and I remember laughing because we were driving home for Christmas(child's sense of humour remember?). Whenever I hear that song it brings me back to that car, and to the overwhelming feeling of happiness and love I felt at that moment. It's also the only memory I have of being with both of my parents and feeling utterly at peace.

When my parents separated, Christmas was divided in two. We would spend Christmas with my mother and then go to my Dad's until after New Years Eve. My parents had a horrendous separation and eventual divorce, but at Christmas they always called a cease fire - at least as far as we knew. I'm not ashamed to admit that as a kid I could see some benefits to the arrangements; we essentially had two Christmas days, one with each parent, and got twice as many presents. My parents always did everything they could(separately of course) to make sure we had the best Christmas, but for me there was always an undercurrent of sadness. I worried that my dad would be lonely on Christmas day, and then that my mum would be lonely when we left. I worried a lot when I was younger, perhaps as a result of being caught in the crossfire so much, or simply because I was a bit of a sensitive child. And of course, being a child, I had the childish desire to have a real family Christmas, like everyone else.

As I got older, that desire turned into relief that I didn't have to be in a room at the same time as both of my parents. I found my own ways to enjoy Christmas, and embraced it in all its gingerbread infused glory. Besides, I had my annoying but adored younger sister to wake up with on Christmas day. We would sneak into each others rooms and open our stockings together, waiting impatiently for our mum to wake up and take us to the presents. Then we would go to our Dad's house for more presents - we were the one constant in each others lives really. Until my mum and husband number two decided to move to South Africa and took her with them. I went over for the first Christmas, but it wasn't the same. I didn't know it at the time but marriage two was breaking down, creating a less than jovial atmosphere.

So after that I started spending Christmas Day with my boyfriends' families, mostly because their very kind parents didn't want me to spend Christmas Day alone. That only happened once, and if I'm honest, it wasn't that bad. You might be wondering why I didn't spend the day with my Dad; he offered, but my Dad's house has never been my home. I go to visit him, his wife and my brothers; and I have never been able to face the pain of being a visitor in my Dad's house on Christmas Day. Even though I haven't spent Christmas Day with my Dad in about 23 years, the thought of being a 'guest' is too much for me to risk. That's not a judgement of my Dad, it's just how things turned out. My sister eventually came back from South Africa, and like me started spending Christmas with friends and their families, until she moved to Australia. I don't remember the last time I saw her on Christmas Day. Again, not a judgement, it's just the way it is.

My mum moved from South Africa to Spain, and had come home to Ireland over the Christmas period a few times in the last 8 years. But I haven't spent Christmas Day with her since she left when I was 18...just the way it is.

Now I spend Christmas day with Alan and his family. They invited me over when we had only been going out for a few months, because they wouldn't hear of me being on my own. That's just the kind of people they are, kind and loving. Every year we have a great meal, a rousing game of Monopoly and I'm not a guest, I'm part of the family. But with each year I've spent with them, and with all of the lovely families who have had me over over the years, I get a little bit sadder that my family are so far apart that spending Christmas Day together doesn't even come into the equation. I think I miss that feeling I had, driving home all those years ago. Strange how you can miss something that was so fleeting.

Even in a room full of laughter and brussels sprouts, you can feel really lonely at Christmas. But perhaps it is time to let go of the ghost of Christmas past, and focus on the present, as its 'life upon this globe is very brief'.