I've typed this sentence countless times over the last two months, and then deleted it. I want to tell you that it's because everything has been going so well that I have nothing say. But that's not the case. The truth is that I have been struggling for the last few months, and I haven't wanted to admit it to anyone. More and more I have been hiding behind that familiar mask, the forced smile and throwaway words when someone asks how I am. That voice in my head, that darkness, convinced me that if I opened up to people they would turn away. That my friends and family are sick of my problems, sick of the burden of having me in their lives. Maybe that's true, I'd understand, but not talking about it isn't getting me anywhere.
I was discharged from an eating disorder unit last August, after 9 weeks of weight gain and various therapy groups aimed at breaking the hold my ED had on me. I gained 11kgs during my stay as a result of a high calorie diet and a largely sedentary lifestyle. The first few weeks at home were difficult and I lost a few kilos, but for the last four months I've maintained the same weight. Which is good for my body - I am healthier than I have been in years. Outwardly, I am doing great, at least that's what people keep telling me. Inside is a different story.
Recovery from an eating disorder is not just about gaining or loosing weight, in fact I would say the numbers on the scale are the easy part. Here I am, a healthy weight with everyone around me commenting on how great I look, and I feel like someone has taken my brain and shoved it inside the Stay Puft marshmallow man(Ghostbusters). In the eight months since my discharge I haven't been able to look at myself in the mirror. The most I can manage is focusing on one body part so I can check how fat it looks in whatever I'm wearing. Then more often than not I will go and change. I live in pajamas or tracksuit bottoms for most of the week - today for example, I walked my dogs in my pajama top and a pair of ugly grey tracksuit bottoms, that were inside out. And then I went to the shop, in the same outfit. This isn't a rare occurrence either, some days I just stay in my pajamas; I'll do the shopping, walk the dogs and even go to therapy in my pajamas. It's not that I'm lazy, or haven't done the laundry. It's because I am so deeply ashamed of my body that I can't stand to wear anything that might draw attention to just how fat and revolting I am. I would rather be seen in a pair of Harry Potter pajamas, than a pair of leggings. At least when it was colder I could hide myself under big jumpers and frumpy coats. What am I going to do when the summer arrives?
I wish I could like my body, or just accept it. I wish I didn't want to cry every time I shower or have panic attacks in changing rooms. I wish I could look at a magazine or watch TV without comparing myself to every female on it, berating myself for being lazy and weak. I wish I wasn't compulsively rubbing my collarbones as I type this and telling myself how much better it was when they were sharper and more defined.
When I was in hospital they told me recovery would take a long time, but I didn't really comprehend what that meant. I thought eating would be the hard part, that once I stopped crying over mashed potatoes I would be at the end of the process. In reality, that was just the beginning. This is the hard part, this is when you really have to work. It would be so much easier to fall back into the same pattern of restricting and purging than to try and accept myself the way I am now; to separate my self worth from the numbers. It seems like an insurmountable task to me, and I have no idea how to accomplish it. Perhaps wearing actual clothes to walk the dogs is a good place to start?
Showing posts with label Anorexia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anorexia. Show all posts
Thursday, 14 April 2016
Wednesday, 6 January 2016
Treatment Part Two
In January 2015 I entered a private residential facility for treatment of my eating disorder. After a lengthy assessment with the consultant, I was diagnosed with EDNOS - eating disorder not otherwise specified. Another ridiculous sounding disorder, bloody psychiatrists. Basically, I engaged in behaviours attributed to bulimia and anorexia nervosa, but didn't tick enough boxes on either side to fit neatly into one box. Boxes are very important to most mental health professionals; once they can give someone a definitive diagnosis they can use the 'one size fits all' treatment plan that has been recommended for that disorder. I have found this to be particularly true of private psychiatrists; you stop being an individual and are completely defined by your diagnosis. You are no longer Lisa, a 30 year old woman with unique life experiences, beliefs or feelings; you are Borderline Personality Disorder and everything you say or do is because of it. You don't hate the taste of mushrooms, you are anorexic(I'm not exaggerating, I had to have 3 meetings in hospital in order to have 'no mushrooms' written on my chart).
When I entered the facility in January I was terrified, but I also knew that I needed help. For me, there is always a conflict between what I want and what the eating disorder wants. It is not as simple as asking for help and embracing it; my eating disorder had become the one thing I could depend on in my life. When everything around me, and inside me, was spiraling out of control, I would use food and weight to anchor myself to the world. So while I voluntarily agreed to treatment, a part of me wanted to cling to my ED, because I was afraid of what would happen if I gave it up. Better the devil you know...
The first priority in any ED programme is to feed the patient, a starved body and mind is not able to engage in the therapies used to treat the psychological side of the disorder. That first day, it took me an hour and a half to eat my half portion of dinner. With every morsel that passed my lips the ED voice grew louder and louder. The rage, disgust and shame were all consuming; I remember nothing else of my first week there. During the day we would have group sessions - Art therapy, craft groups, CBT based groups, nutritional therapy, interpersonal therapy etc; and in the evenings we had weekly individual therapy sessions. Any free time between groups and meals was spent in a communal living room, hiding away in your room was not permitted. Bathrooms were locked for an hour after meals, condiments and spices were restricted, as was liquid intake. We were weighed twice a week, had our bloods checked daily at first and then twice weekly, and we were not allowed to leave unsupervised until the consultant was satisfied that we were committed to the programme.
My referral to the programme had included a detailed history and description of my diagnoses, and I had discussed my BPD during my initial consultation. However after about two weeks the consultant began to question, and eventually dismiss, the BPD diagnosis. The characteristics and behaviours I exhibit that are attributed to my BPD did not fit into the ED mold. So it was simply ignored, and I was now EDNOS. Unsurprisingly, I repeatedly stepped over this new line; and while my actions and thoughts were ignored in terms of my treatment, they had to be dealt with on a practical level. So for the 40 days I was in the facility, I never left the house unaccompanied or ate so much as a biscuit without a nurse present.
Some of the therapies proved quite beneficial to me and none more so than my individual sessions with a CAT therapist, whom I still work with. I met wonderful people, staff and patients alike. I gained some weight and my health improved. I self-harmed and attempted suicide, and on one occasion absconded. I learned about portion sizes, healthy diet and how to make banana bread. But when I was discharged, I returned home and immediately began to restrict again. Suddenly alone for most of the day, I found I didn't have the willpower, and if I'm honest, the desire, to eat without supervision. We had been taught to weigh everything we ate; on my first day home I dutifully weighed out 40g of porridge and cooked it with water. On my second day, I weighed out 35g. My third, I decided the bowl looked too full and threw several spoonfulls into the bin. And so on and so forth until there was no porridge.
My relapse occurred so quickly, and totally, that my depression worsened. I had let my family and friends down, I was a failure and I was weak. Worse, now I was a fat failure. There was nothing I could do, or was willing to do, to make amends with my family but I could do something about my weight.
Just like that, I was back at the beginning. Within a few weeks my weight was back to where it was before treatment, food and numbers were the sole focus of my life, and my depression pulled me lower and lower. I had been discharged at the end of February, and on the 31st of March I turned 30 and tried(poorly) to cut my wrists in a pub toilet. I had given up on myself and given in to the hunger and darkness.
When I entered the facility in January I was terrified, but I also knew that I needed help. For me, there is always a conflict between what I want and what the eating disorder wants. It is not as simple as asking for help and embracing it; my eating disorder had become the one thing I could depend on in my life. When everything around me, and inside me, was spiraling out of control, I would use food and weight to anchor myself to the world. So while I voluntarily agreed to treatment, a part of me wanted to cling to my ED, because I was afraid of what would happen if I gave it up. Better the devil you know...
The first priority in any ED programme is to feed the patient, a starved body and mind is not able to engage in the therapies used to treat the psychological side of the disorder. That first day, it took me an hour and a half to eat my half portion of dinner. With every morsel that passed my lips the ED voice grew louder and louder. The rage, disgust and shame were all consuming; I remember nothing else of my first week there. During the day we would have group sessions - Art therapy, craft groups, CBT based groups, nutritional therapy, interpersonal therapy etc; and in the evenings we had weekly individual therapy sessions. Any free time between groups and meals was spent in a communal living room, hiding away in your room was not permitted. Bathrooms were locked for an hour after meals, condiments and spices were restricted, as was liquid intake. We were weighed twice a week, had our bloods checked daily at first and then twice weekly, and we were not allowed to leave unsupervised until the consultant was satisfied that we were committed to the programme.
My referral to the programme had included a detailed history and description of my diagnoses, and I had discussed my BPD during my initial consultation. However after about two weeks the consultant began to question, and eventually dismiss, the BPD diagnosis. The characteristics and behaviours I exhibit that are attributed to my BPD did not fit into the ED mold. So it was simply ignored, and I was now EDNOS. Unsurprisingly, I repeatedly stepped over this new line; and while my actions and thoughts were ignored in terms of my treatment, they had to be dealt with on a practical level. So for the 40 days I was in the facility, I never left the house unaccompanied or ate so much as a biscuit without a nurse present.
Some of the therapies proved quite beneficial to me and none more so than my individual sessions with a CAT therapist, whom I still work with. I met wonderful people, staff and patients alike. I gained some weight and my health improved. I self-harmed and attempted suicide, and on one occasion absconded. I learned about portion sizes, healthy diet and how to make banana bread. But when I was discharged, I returned home and immediately began to restrict again. Suddenly alone for most of the day, I found I didn't have the willpower, and if I'm honest, the desire, to eat without supervision. We had been taught to weigh everything we ate; on my first day home I dutifully weighed out 40g of porridge and cooked it with water. On my second day, I weighed out 35g. My third, I decided the bowl looked too full and threw several spoonfulls into the bin. And so on and so forth until there was no porridge.
My relapse occurred so quickly, and totally, that my depression worsened. I had let my family and friends down, I was a failure and I was weak. Worse, now I was a fat failure. There was nothing I could do, or was willing to do, to make amends with my family but I could do something about my weight.
Just like that, I was back at the beginning. Within a few weeks my weight was back to where it was before treatment, food and numbers were the sole focus of my life, and my depression pulled me lower and lower. I had been discharged at the end of February, and on the 31st of March I turned 30 and tried(poorly) to cut my wrists in a pub toilet. I had given up on myself and given in to the hunger and darkness.
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.
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?
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?
Tuesday, 24 November 2015
Insight
Over the last year I've spent a lot of time trying to explain my eating disorder to family and friends. To most people, risking permanent medical problems, and even death, in order to loose weight is incomprehensible. They don't understand when I tell them that I am fat. They assume I am fishing for a compliment, or reassurance. The reality is, you could tell me a million ways that I look fine, and I will never believe you. I can't believe you, because people lie. I know this because I lie, all the time. I lie to therapists, doctors, my family, my friends and to myself. It's much easier to keep quiet, wear a mask, than show people the ugly truth. But I want to help people to understand eating disorders, that's one of the reasons I write this blog. Understanding the problem is the only way to find a solution, or at least do damage control. Today I found myself in a difficult situation, but I am hoping I can use it to bring you inside my head a little bit.
I was discharged from my last hospital admission in July. On my last day I had a final weigh in and this, along with other information, was sent to my GP. I was to attend my GP monthly for physical monitoring, and my GP would then share the results with my psychiatric team. Two weeks after discharge I had my first visit, and in the space of two weeks I had lost 2kgs. As soon as my eyes took in the number on the scales, I felt dizzy with relief. That abusive, hateful voice in my head was blissfully silent for the first time in months. My doctor was less than pleased; a gentle but stern lecture followed and I promised to try harder. The following month, my weight stayed the same. As my GP explained the importance of reaching and maintaining a healthy weight, I was being torn apart on the inside. I was a failure, I was weak, I was fat and ugly. As soon as I left I started sobbing. The noise in my head got louder and louder, until all I wanted to do was rip myself apart, tear flesh from bone and let all the pain bleed away.
So I stopped going to my GP. My psychiatrist warned me that if I didn't go and see her, he would have me weighed in the clinic. I assured him I would go, but every time I picked up the phone I was overcome with fear. I am 30 years old and I am completely and utterly terrified of the scales. I won't even keep them in my house, which is unusual for someone with an eating disorder. Today I had to attend the clinic for a weigh in, after ignoring repeated requests to see my GP.
I woke up at 4 this morning, my appointment was at 9.30. For five and a half hours I sat in my kitchen, staring longingly at a glass of water and the coffee machine. I was thirsty and my mouth felt like it was full of cotton(a side-effect of my medication), but not a drop of liquid passed my lips. I was hungry, and I am supposed to eat within half an hour of waking. I threw my bowl of porridge in the bin. At 5 I took my dogs for an hour long walk, after which my head was throbbing. But I still couldn't drink anything. At seven I had a shower, after debating for an hour how much moisture my skin would absorb and if it would have a significant effect on my weight. I dried my hair until it felt like straw, because wet hair weighs more than dry. Clothes were next. Despite the cold, a string top was a definite and a bra was out of the question - I couldn't risk the 0.05kg. I always wear leggings for weigh ins, no excess fabric to tip the scales. But just in case I pulled out every pair I owned to find the lightest pair. This took about twenty minutes because plain leggings tend to weigh the same amount. But I found an old, worn out pair that are almost see through at this point. Ankle socks, obviously. I ran the hair drier over my hair again, just to be sure.
I was freezing in my worn out leggings and string top, but shivering burns calories so I threw on a jacket and headed for the clinic. I don't remember the 5 minute drive, all I was thinking of was numbers. I'm pretty sure I didn't check my mirrors once and my legs were shaking so badly I couldn't change gears properly. Thankfully, or regretfully, I arrived safely. In the waiting room I ran through every 'bad' thing I had eaten in the last 3 months. I ran my hands over my hips, feeling the flesh where there used to be bone. I moved in my chair, noticing how it was no longer painful to sit on a hard surface. I flexed my arms, stretching the muscles that were growing back where they used to be so beautifully wasted away. I pulled at my face, my neck, pinched my thighs. All the while feeling more and more disgusted and ashamed of myself. I had thrown away all that hard work, for nothing. I had given up when I was so close to being the perfect weight. People were laughing at me, the fat girl who says she has an eating disorder.
As much as I pleaded with the universe for the number not to have changed, I knew it had. Logically, I had been eating relatively healthy, high protein diet and combined with long, vigorous walks with my dogs meant I was slowly rebuilding muscle tissue. I knew my weight would be up, that was after all the goal right? But when I stepped on those scales, and saw where the pointer stopped, all reason went out the window. For a split second, everything inside me froze, and then my brain exploded into action. If I just cut myself a little bit, it would help. No, maybe we need to binge and purge? Definitely not fatty. Back to self-harming...no I'll get caught. I couldn't think through all of the screaming in my head. I hung my head as I left the clinic, certain the nurses were thinking I was a time waster. I didn't need weigh ins, I was a heifer. I had to roll down the windows to make it home safely, the rain pelting down was the only thing keeping my mind present enough to steer.
I wanted to crawl into bed when I reached home, curl into a ball and cry. But the eating disorder had other plans. I didn't deserve to lie down, we needed to plan. Check my new BMI...19.3? Ten minutes of staring in horror at the big, green HEALTHY WEIGHT on the screen. Another ten minutes of using online calculators to figure out how I could lose 2kgs in the next two weeks...twenty minutes checking how many calories are in apples, bananas, oatcakes. Then a walk in the rain with the dogs while looking at apps that calculate how many calories you have burned. Off come the leggings and on with my standard uniform of baggy jumper and tracksuit bottoms.
Finally, three hours after my weigh in I stopped. I had hidden my lumpy, hideous body under shapeless clothing, I knew what I needed to do to get back in control of my weight. Now I could sit and replay the moment I looked at the scales over and over in my head. That's about as good as I am going to get today, but the majority of my day will be spent obsessing about food. Ruminating over every morsel I ate recently, or that night I had wine, or how twice last week I only walked for 7 kilometers.
Maybe none of what I just described will make any sense to you, or maybe some of it will. I don't know anyone who enjoys being weighed and I know plenty of people who avoid the scales as much as I do. But I think the main difference lies in the intensity of our reactions to the situation - you might decide to eat less carbohydrates or work out more, I'll figure out how I can starve myself without anyone noticing.
I was discharged from my last hospital admission in July. On my last day I had a final weigh in and this, along with other information, was sent to my GP. I was to attend my GP monthly for physical monitoring, and my GP would then share the results with my psychiatric team. Two weeks after discharge I had my first visit, and in the space of two weeks I had lost 2kgs. As soon as my eyes took in the number on the scales, I felt dizzy with relief. That abusive, hateful voice in my head was blissfully silent for the first time in months. My doctor was less than pleased; a gentle but stern lecture followed and I promised to try harder. The following month, my weight stayed the same. As my GP explained the importance of reaching and maintaining a healthy weight, I was being torn apart on the inside. I was a failure, I was weak, I was fat and ugly. As soon as I left I started sobbing. The noise in my head got louder and louder, until all I wanted to do was rip myself apart, tear flesh from bone and let all the pain bleed away.
So I stopped going to my GP. My psychiatrist warned me that if I didn't go and see her, he would have me weighed in the clinic. I assured him I would go, but every time I picked up the phone I was overcome with fear. I am 30 years old and I am completely and utterly terrified of the scales. I won't even keep them in my house, which is unusual for someone with an eating disorder. Today I had to attend the clinic for a weigh in, after ignoring repeated requests to see my GP.
I woke up at 4 this morning, my appointment was at 9.30. For five and a half hours I sat in my kitchen, staring longingly at a glass of water and the coffee machine. I was thirsty and my mouth felt like it was full of cotton(a side-effect of my medication), but not a drop of liquid passed my lips. I was hungry, and I am supposed to eat within half an hour of waking. I threw my bowl of porridge in the bin. At 5 I took my dogs for an hour long walk, after which my head was throbbing. But I still couldn't drink anything. At seven I had a shower, after debating for an hour how much moisture my skin would absorb and if it would have a significant effect on my weight. I dried my hair until it felt like straw, because wet hair weighs more than dry. Clothes were next. Despite the cold, a string top was a definite and a bra was out of the question - I couldn't risk the 0.05kg. I always wear leggings for weigh ins, no excess fabric to tip the scales. But just in case I pulled out every pair I owned to find the lightest pair. This took about twenty minutes because plain leggings tend to weigh the same amount. But I found an old, worn out pair that are almost see through at this point. Ankle socks, obviously. I ran the hair drier over my hair again, just to be sure.
I was freezing in my worn out leggings and string top, but shivering burns calories so I threw on a jacket and headed for the clinic. I don't remember the 5 minute drive, all I was thinking of was numbers. I'm pretty sure I didn't check my mirrors once and my legs were shaking so badly I couldn't change gears properly. Thankfully, or regretfully, I arrived safely. In the waiting room I ran through every 'bad' thing I had eaten in the last 3 months. I ran my hands over my hips, feeling the flesh where there used to be bone. I moved in my chair, noticing how it was no longer painful to sit on a hard surface. I flexed my arms, stretching the muscles that were growing back where they used to be so beautifully wasted away. I pulled at my face, my neck, pinched my thighs. All the while feeling more and more disgusted and ashamed of myself. I had thrown away all that hard work, for nothing. I had given up when I was so close to being the perfect weight. People were laughing at me, the fat girl who says she has an eating disorder.
As much as I pleaded with the universe for the number not to have changed, I knew it had. Logically, I had been eating relatively healthy, high protein diet and combined with long, vigorous walks with my dogs meant I was slowly rebuilding muscle tissue. I knew my weight would be up, that was after all the goal right? But when I stepped on those scales, and saw where the pointer stopped, all reason went out the window. For a split second, everything inside me froze, and then my brain exploded into action. If I just cut myself a little bit, it would help. No, maybe we need to binge and purge? Definitely not fatty. Back to self-harming...no I'll get caught. I couldn't think through all of the screaming in my head. I hung my head as I left the clinic, certain the nurses were thinking I was a time waster. I didn't need weigh ins, I was a heifer. I had to roll down the windows to make it home safely, the rain pelting down was the only thing keeping my mind present enough to steer.
I wanted to crawl into bed when I reached home, curl into a ball and cry. But the eating disorder had other plans. I didn't deserve to lie down, we needed to plan. Check my new BMI...19.3? Ten minutes of staring in horror at the big, green HEALTHY WEIGHT on the screen. Another ten minutes of using online calculators to figure out how I could lose 2kgs in the next two weeks...twenty minutes checking how many calories are in apples, bananas, oatcakes. Then a walk in the rain with the dogs while looking at apps that calculate how many calories you have burned. Off come the leggings and on with my standard uniform of baggy jumper and tracksuit bottoms.
Finally, three hours after my weigh in I stopped. I had hidden my lumpy, hideous body under shapeless clothing, I knew what I needed to do to get back in control of my weight. Now I could sit and replay the moment I looked at the scales over and over in my head. That's about as good as I am going to get today, but the majority of my day will be spent obsessing about food. Ruminating over every morsel I ate recently, or that night I had wine, or how twice last week I only walked for 7 kilometers.
Maybe none of what I just described will make any sense to you, or maybe some of it will. I don't know anyone who enjoys being weighed and I know plenty of people who avoid the scales as much as I do. But I think the main difference lies in the intensity of our reactions to the situation - you might decide to eat less carbohydrates or work out more, I'll figure out how I can starve myself without anyone noticing.
Friday, 20 November 2015
Treatment
I was discharged from hospital at the end of September 2014, after 8 weeks. During my stay, I had discovered the addictive high of starvation, self harmed repeatedly, and attempted suicide. At times my despair reached such devastating levels that I took to hiding in the tiny wardrobe in my room; this happened so often the consultant had to issue a note to the ward staff that I was allowed to use the wardrobe to manage my distress. At one point he suggested I purchase a cape, to offer comfort when I was out of my room; thankfully I had just enough sanity left to decline the recommendation. Sobbing in wardrobes was one thing, creeping around a psychiatric wars in a hooded cape was a bit to Phantom of the Opera for me.
When I was discharged, I was not 'cured'. My depression hadn't lifted and my eating disorder was stronger than ever; but as is often the case with BPD patients, they simply ran out of patience and solutions to my problems. In my experience there are two reasons why this happens. One is that the doctors and nurses begin to suspect you are lying about, or exaggerating your symptoms. The idea that lying is a characteristic of BPD is not universally accepted by professionals, and it is my biggest problem with my diagnosis. I have never exaggerated about my emotional state, thoughts or destructive urges. In fact the only time I have lied about my depression, is when I want to leave A&E and avoid a psychiatry referral. I have lied because I know the nurse sitting opposite me thinks I am a nuisance; or to stay out of hospital. Certainly not to seek attention or acquire a ticket to a mental hospital. Disclaimer: when it comes to my ED, I lie more than a banker at a tribunal. More on that later.
I returned home, back to the very kind and tolerant embrace of my local mental health team. Over the next few months I attended a day hospital as an outpatient, ended up in A&E six times for serious self harm injuries and more suicide attempts. I barely slept, barely ate...time kept moving but I remained rooted in the same painful spot. Large portions of my life during that time are lost to me, perhaps because I didn't have a life to remember, I just existed. Moving reluctantly from one day to the next with no destination. The only thing I had in my life that I could cling to was my new friend, restriction. That's what I remember most from that time, restricting all day until my boyfriend came home, and then throwing up after dinner. I structured my days around what I could eat, what I would purge and perfecting the art of lying so that nobody knew the full extent of the problem. Because it wasn't a problem, it was the only thing that got me through the day. If it wasn't for my eating disorder I would have been dead already. It was the only thing I had that brought me any peace, and I felt fiercely resentful of all attempts to take it from me. As I've said before, it became my best friend.
Sure my new BFF came with some downsides; I was cold all day, everyday. My joints ached, my skin and hair was dry and my gums throbbed from all of the acid. Then my white blood cells started dropping, and dropping and dropping...when it was decided that my immune system was compromised, my doctor took charge. I was once again referred for treatment of my eating disorder, but this time it was to a private residential facility.
When I was discharged, I was not 'cured'. My depression hadn't lifted and my eating disorder was stronger than ever; but as is often the case with BPD patients, they simply ran out of patience and solutions to my problems. In my experience there are two reasons why this happens. One is that the doctors and nurses begin to suspect you are lying about, or exaggerating your symptoms. The idea that lying is a characteristic of BPD is not universally accepted by professionals, and it is my biggest problem with my diagnosis. I have never exaggerated about my emotional state, thoughts or destructive urges. In fact the only time I have lied about my depression, is when I want to leave A&E and avoid a psychiatry referral. I have lied because I know the nurse sitting opposite me thinks I am a nuisance; or to stay out of hospital. Certainly not to seek attention or acquire a ticket to a mental hospital. Disclaimer: when it comes to my ED, I lie more than a banker at a tribunal. More on that later.
I returned home, back to the very kind and tolerant embrace of my local mental health team. Over the next few months I attended a day hospital as an outpatient, ended up in A&E six times for serious self harm injuries and more suicide attempts. I barely slept, barely ate...time kept moving but I remained rooted in the same painful spot. Large portions of my life during that time are lost to me, perhaps because I didn't have a life to remember, I just existed. Moving reluctantly from one day to the next with no destination. The only thing I had in my life that I could cling to was my new friend, restriction. That's what I remember most from that time, restricting all day until my boyfriend came home, and then throwing up after dinner. I structured my days around what I could eat, what I would purge and perfecting the art of lying so that nobody knew the full extent of the problem. Because it wasn't a problem, it was the only thing that got me through the day. If it wasn't for my eating disorder I would have been dead already. It was the only thing I had that brought me any peace, and I felt fiercely resentful of all attempts to take it from me. As I've said before, it became my best friend.
Sure my new BFF came with some downsides; I was cold all day, everyday. My joints ached, my skin and hair was dry and my gums throbbed from all of the acid. Then my white blood cells started dropping, and dropping and dropping...when it was decided that my immune system was compromised, my doctor took charge. I was once again referred for treatment of my eating disorder, but this time it was to a private residential facility.
Wednesday, 11 November 2015
I was, I am.
Before I delve into the next part of my story, I wanted to give you more of an insight into the ball of neuroses that is my mind. But I wanted to do so with as much honesty as possible; no re-written sentences and deleted words. During one of my sojourns in a psychiatric facility, I did a stream of consciousness writing exercise. We were asked to write two pieces; the first as the person we were before our current mental health difficulties took hold, and the second as the person we were in that moment. I pulled the two pages out recently for the first time since I wrote them, and my beliefs about who I am have changed very little since that day. So I am going to share them with you, in the hope that you might better understand how I ended up where I did; or that you might see something of yourself in it and know you aren't alone in your thoughts. Bear in mind that I wrote this without thinking, so forgive me for the poor quality.
Then and Gone
I am a quiet, introverted girl who enjoys the simple things in life. I love curling up with a book. I like clean bed sheets and hot showers. I like holding my boyfriends warm hand and his lips on mine. I like talking to my sister and my dad, even though they are far away sometimes. I love crisp Autumn evenings and pumpkin carving. I love cold Winter days and bright Christmas lights. I love deeply and openly and I am not afraid to trust my heart. I educate myself in my spare time to exercise my brain. I like to cook and delight in food; a cold glass of rosé wine with a friend over a trivial joke or a deep conversation. I care about others and can put their needs ahead of my own. I laugh often. I want to see my friends. I listen to music. I love to watch movies for hours and discuss them at length. I make jokes, I work hard and am happy making my house a home. I like walking in the evening and then cosying up on the couch. I am friendly and can talk to others, and even though I'm weird, people like me. I have had some bad times in life but I have fought back and I am winning.
Now
I was born to parents who hated each other for most of my life. My mother tried to leave me when I was one. My father left when I was seven and then I became the hated one; the symbol of all that was wrong in my mothers life. She remarried when I was e;even and he didn't want me either because I wasn't perfect. At school I was the freak, at home I was the unwanted and in my head I became the ugly one. At eighteen my mother and sister left me and I was alone. At eighteen I tried to kill myself for the first time and I was sad when I failed. I have never been enough for my parents, I needed to be replaced with others. I have hated myself for as long as I can remember. I am lost, broken, disgusting. I am damaged goods. I have been beaten by woman and man for my crimes. I hurt people. My life is a series of failures with no end. I cannot remember what love is. I find no pleasure in life. I remain only to not hurt the few who still love me, but I am unworthy of their love. I am a waste of space, I am destined to die and I despise myself. It is all my fault.
When I had to read them out, I cried for the person I had lost. Grieved for her. I no longer mourn who I used to be, I have long since accepted that the old me is gone. Which is probably sadder than anything else I have written.
Then and Gone
I am a quiet, introverted girl who enjoys the simple things in life. I love curling up with a book. I like clean bed sheets and hot showers. I like holding my boyfriends warm hand and his lips on mine. I like talking to my sister and my dad, even though they are far away sometimes. I love crisp Autumn evenings and pumpkin carving. I love cold Winter days and bright Christmas lights. I love deeply and openly and I am not afraid to trust my heart. I educate myself in my spare time to exercise my brain. I like to cook and delight in food; a cold glass of rosé wine with a friend over a trivial joke or a deep conversation. I care about others and can put their needs ahead of my own. I laugh often. I want to see my friends. I listen to music. I love to watch movies for hours and discuss them at length. I make jokes, I work hard and am happy making my house a home. I like walking in the evening and then cosying up on the couch. I am friendly and can talk to others, and even though I'm weird, people like me. I have had some bad times in life but I have fought back and I am winning.
Now
I was born to parents who hated each other for most of my life. My mother tried to leave me when I was one. My father left when I was seven and then I became the hated one; the symbol of all that was wrong in my mothers life. She remarried when I was e;even and he didn't want me either because I wasn't perfect. At school I was the freak, at home I was the unwanted and in my head I became the ugly one. At eighteen my mother and sister left me and I was alone. At eighteen I tried to kill myself for the first time and I was sad when I failed. I have never been enough for my parents, I needed to be replaced with others. I have hated myself for as long as I can remember. I am lost, broken, disgusting. I am damaged goods. I have been beaten by woman and man for my crimes. I hurt people. My life is a series of failures with no end. I cannot remember what love is. I find no pleasure in life. I remain only to not hurt the few who still love me, but I am unworthy of their love. I am a waste of space, I am destined to die and I despise myself. It is all my fault.
When I had to read them out, I cried for the person I had lost. Grieved for her. I no longer mourn who I used to be, I have long since accepted that the old me is gone. Which is probably sadder than anything else I have written.
Tuesday, 3 November 2015
Anorexia
In June 2014 I tried to hang myself; the depression, self harm and constant purging had become too much for me to bear. I have written about that attempt before, so I won't go into it again. Eight weeks later I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital, for treatment of depression and an eating disorder. However as I was a danger to myself and at risk of self harm I could not be placed on the ED ward. Instead I was on a general ward, and other than a handful of meetings with the incompetent nurse who rang the ED programme, left to my own devices with regards to what I ate.
Restricted to the ward, with all sharp objects out of reach, I threw myself at the mercy of my eating disorder. The despair had eaten away at me, I was a shell of a person. I felt like I was walking around with a black hole in my chest, that devoured all the light from the world. MY mind was always racing, from one self-abasing thought to the next, faster than I could blink. I would have done anything to stop the pain, even if it was just for a minute. The part of me that belonged to the ED offered up a solution. If you loose weight, you won't be so worthless. Worthless, and fat and repugnant. If you skip that meal, it will be quiet in your head for five minutes. The hunger pains took the edge off my self harm cravings. Skipping meals and secretly vomiting made me feel like I was taking some control nack from the doctors and nurses.
I started to loose weight, but it wasn't enough for that voice. Every time they weighed me it would whisper, 'So close, just a few more and it will stop'. The truth is, that goal weight will always be just out of reach. Because you can always try harder; because you ate that piece of toast on Tuesday; because you just have to look in the mirror to see that you're still fat.
The more weight you loose, the more behaviours you engage in, the stronger the eating disorder gets. It's like a leech, draining your body to feed itself. While you waste away inside, it thrives. I could no longer look directly at myself in the mirror, or look down in the shower. The sight of my stomach or thighs made me want to tear into my flesh, to punish my weakness. I stopped eating altogether for a few days, because I knew that I could. The less I ate and weighed, the more I hated myself. I think most people have been self-critical, more than once, and for some people it could be a regular occurrence. I don't think I've met anyone who thinks they look perfect all the time; I mean rarely anyone looks good swimming underwater, except that Nirvana baby. But for me, I don't even have to be looking at myself to be critical. I just need to be awake, and even then, I regularly dream about how grotesque I am. Right now, as I'm typing, that little voice is whispering to me about how doughy my thighs feel when my legs are crossed. And how rounded my wrists look, and my pudgy fingers. I'll stop there, but you get the point. It never stops, not even when I get so hungry I can barely stand. But it gets quieter, when I do what it says.
I said before that one of the reasons I started restricting was because it gave me a sense of control when I felt so powerless. In reality, the eating disorder had all of the power. It was stronger than me, that little part of me buried under all that shit and hurt, and if I'm honest, I didn't but up much of a fight. Because there was one other reason to give in, the distant hope that if you push it enough, your body will perish.
Restricted to the ward, with all sharp objects out of reach, I threw myself at the mercy of my eating disorder. The despair had eaten away at me, I was a shell of a person. I felt like I was walking around with a black hole in my chest, that devoured all the light from the world. MY mind was always racing, from one self-abasing thought to the next, faster than I could blink. I would have done anything to stop the pain, even if it was just for a minute. The part of me that belonged to the ED offered up a solution. If you loose weight, you won't be so worthless. Worthless, and fat and repugnant. If you skip that meal, it will be quiet in your head for five minutes. The hunger pains took the edge off my self harm cravings. Skipping meals and secretly vomiting made me feel like I was taking some control nack from the doctors and nurses.
I started to loose weight, but it wasn't enough for that voice. Every time they weighed me it would whisper, 'So close, just a few more and it will stop'. The truth is, that goal weight will always be just out of reach. Because you can always try harder; because you ate that piece of toast on Tuesday; because you just have to look in the mirror to see that you're still fat.
The more weight you loose, the more behaviours you engage in, the stronger the eating disorder gets. It's like a leech, draining your body to feed itself. While you waste away inside, it thrives. I could no longer look directly at myself in the mirror, or look down in the shower. The sight of my stomach or thighs made me want to tear into my flesh, to punish my weakness. I stopped eating altogether for a few days, because I knew that I could. The less I ate and weighed, the more I hated myself. I think most people have been self-critical, more than once, and for some people it could be a regular occurrence. I don't think I've met anyone who thinks they look perfect all the time; I mean rarely anyone looks good swimming underwater, except that Nirvana baby. But for me, I don't even have to be looking at myself to be critical. I just need to be awake, and even then, I regularly dream about how grotesque I am. Right now, as I'm typing, that little voice is whispering to me about how doughy my thighs feel when my legs are crossed. And how rounded my wrists look, and my pudgy fingers. I'll stop there, but you get the point. It never stops, not even when I get so hungry I can barely stand. But it gets quieter, when I do what it says.
I said before that one of the reasons I started restricting was because it gave me a sense of control when I felt so powerless. In reality, the eating disorder had all of the power. It was stronger than me, that little part of me buried under all that shit and hurt, and if I'm honest, I didn't but up much of a fight. Because there was one other reason to give in, the distant hope that if you push it enough, your body will perish.
Wednesday, 21 October 2015
Lies
When I moved in with my boyfriend and his family I knew I would have to stop throwing up, the privacy I needed to purge was gone so I had no choice. For a few weeks I managed to resist the urges, but as often happens when you're in the honeymoon period of a relationship, I put on some weight. Not much, I know that now, but at the time I felt like Violet Beauregarde after she eats the gum in the Wonka Factory. My self loathing was at an all time high; I alternated between mournful resignation and complete denial of my size. In the end, the ceaseless self degradation became too much to bear, and I gave in.
Knowing I couldn't escape dinner, I focused my attention on my daytime eating habits. Not eating at all wasn't an option for me, I lacked the willpower to restrict and I couldn't do my job properly if I was tired and dizzy all day. So I began to 'diet' during the day, eating foods that were low in calories and fat. After a week, I started running for the bathroom once I had finished my lunch. After a month I was throwing up lunch and the apple I ate in the afternoon. This still wasn't enough, I wasn't trying hard enough. I was pathetic; I was weak; If I really wanted to loose weight I should work harder. One day, I stood in front of the mirror and surveyed the disgusting blob I called home. Lumps and bumps in all the wrong places, flesh soft and doughy from my chin to my ankles. I was neither waif-like or curvaceous. I wasn't lean and athletic, or carrying the right amount of 'junk in my trunk'.
Unless you have experienced it, I don't think there is anyway for me to convey exactly what it's like to look at yourself and be truly horrified and repulsed by what you see. To constantly criticise and despise every inch of your body. That's not to say that being insecure about one's appearance only happens to people with eating disorders. I think most people have or have had some part(s)of their body they don't like, or wished they could change. I doubt you could walk more than 2 feet down a busy street without passing someone who is insecure about how they look. People of all shapes and sizes disike their bodies, it's not just those of us who have eating disorders; in fact we are probably the minority group in the body hating category. But in my experience, if you have an eating disorder, you fucking hate your body. You hate it to such a degree that you would rather destroy it than live in it anymore. Whether you are bulimic, anorexic, a binge eater, orthorexic or EDNOS(Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified *eyeroll*), your behaviours can and will kill you. But death is not as terrifying as letting go of your ED.
A couple of months after I moved in with my boyfriend I cracked, and two or three times a week I would make a beeline for the toilet after dinner. I didn't even notice when it became an everyday ritual. I did everything I could to hide what I was doing, which is to say, I lied my ass off. For me that's the worst part of the ED, the lying. But as much as the guilt tore at me, I couldn't tell the truth. If I did, people might try and take it away from me, they wanted to steal my best friend. That's what my ED was then, it was the one thing I knew wouldn't let me down. Purging for me was just like self harming; it dulled whatever overwhelming emotions I felt, it gave me control when I felt powerless; and if I did it right, it would help me loose some weight. It was, and still is, my safety blanket. People will come and go(there's that abandonment issue again), but the ED will never leave you.
Not every moment of my life at that time was marred with sadness, I have plenty of good memories, more good than bad. I considered myself to be 'well'; I refused to see the ED as anything other than a diet, and a companion. When things became difficult in work I just upped my game, soon I was throwing up anywhere from 3-15 times a day. Not even rice-cakes escaped, everything was on the clearance aisle in my stomach.
Other than suffering with IBS, at this point my overall health was unaffected. This was proof that I was fine, and if that changed I would immediately stop. Then my right back molar had to be extracted - the stomach acid had started to erode my teeth. The dentist assumed I drank a lot of fizzy drinks and suitably chastised me. I knew better, and as I walked out of the dentist office, crying, I told myself I was done. I had gone too far, and I believed that for about an hour. It was only a back molar, and it had probably been eroding for some time. Just like that, my promises to quit were gone. The crumbled in the face of the ED
Knowing I couldn't escape dinner, I focused my attention on my daytime eating habits. Not eating at all wasn't an option for me, I lacked the willpower to restrict and I couldn't do my job properly if I was tired and dizzy all day. So I began to 'diet' during the day, eating foods that were low in calories and fat. After a week, I started running for the bathroom once I had finished my lunch. After a month I was throwing up lunch and the apple I ate in the afternoon. This still wasn't enough, I wasn't trying hard enough. I was pathetic; I was weak; If I really wanted to loose weight I should work harder. One day, I stood in front of the mirror and surveyed the disgusting blob I called home. Lumps and bumps in all the wrong places, flesh soft and doughy from my chin to my ankles. I was neither waif-like or curvaceous. I wasn't lean and athletic, or carrying the right amount of 'junk in my trunk'.
Unless you have experienced it, I don't think there is anyway for me to convey exactly what it's like to look at yourself and be truly horrified and repulsed by what you see. To constantly criticise and despise every inch of your body. That's not to say that being insecure about one's appearance only happens to people with eating disorders. I think most people have or have had some part(s)of their body they don't like, or wished they could change. I doubt you could walk more than 2 feet down a busy street without passing someone who is insecure about how they look. People of all shapes and sizes disike their bodies, it's not just those of us who have eating disorders; in fact we are probably the minority group in the body hating category. But in my experience, if you have an eating disorder, you fucking hate your body. You hate it to such a degree that you would rather destroy it than live in it anymore. Whether you are bulimic, anorexic, a binge eater, orthorexic or EDNOS(Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified *eyeroll*), your behaviours can and will kill you. But death is not as terrifying as letting go of your ED.
A couple of months after I moved in with my boyfriend I cracked, and two or three times a week I would make a beeline for the toilet after dinner. I didn't even notice when it became an everyday ritual. I did everything I could to hide what I was doing, which is to say, I lied my ass off. For me that's the worst part of the ED, the lying. But as much as the guilt tore at me, I couldn't tell the truth. If I did, people might try and take it away from me, they wanted to steal my best friend. That's what my ED was then, it was the one thing I knew wouldn't let me down. Purging for me was just like self harming; it dulled whatever overwhelming emotions I felt, it gave me control when I felt powerless; and if I did it right, it would help me loose some weight. It was, and still is, my safety blanket. People will come and go(there's that abandonment issue again), but the ED will never leave you.
Not every moment of my life at that time was marred with sadness, I have plenty of good memories, more good than bad. I considered myself to be 'well'; I refused to see the ED as anything other than a diet, and a companion. When things became difficult in work I just upped my game, soon I was throwing up anywhere from 3-15 times a day. Not even rice-cakes escaped, everything was on the clearance aisle in my stomach.
Other than suffering with IBS, at this point my overall health was unaffected. This was proof that I was fine, and if that changed I would immediately stop. Then my right back molar had to be extracted - the stomach acid had started to erode my teeth. The dentist assumed I drank a lot of fizzy drinks and suitably chastised me. I knew better, and as I walked out of the dentist office, crying, I told myself I was done. I had gone too far, and I believed that for about an hour. It was only a back molar, and it had probably been eroding for some time. Just like that, my promises to quit were gone. The crumbled in the face of the ED
Monday, 12 October 2015
Food Equals Soothe
As I said previously, I had always believed my problems with food began when I self-induced vomiting for the first time. IT was only during my last hospital stay that I realised my distorted relationship with food started when I was a child.
According to compassion focused therapy (yes that's a real thing, and harder than it sounds), we have three main regulation systems for our emotions and thoughts: Threat, Drive and Soothe. Threat(Anxiety/Anger/Fear) is basically your fight/flight system, when we feel a threatened in some way this system kicks in for protection. Drive(Excitement/Motivation/Achieving) is when you are trying to obtain a resource or incentive, and Soothe(Happy/Safe/Kindness) is when you feel content, protected and cared for. We move between the different systems as we go about our lives, and we can quickly jump from one to the other.
For example, imagine you have to prepare a group presentation in work, and whichever team has the best presentation wins €100 each. You will most likely be fully in drive, focusing on the task at hand and the end goal - the €100 prize money. But what if Larry, who you've never really liked, starts to take over the project, refusing to listen to any ideas but his own. And Larry's ideas are terrible, really terrible. So not only will you not win the cash, your boss will probably think you had something to do with that sorry excise for a presentation. So your brain goes into threat mode, your self-preservation kicks in and you snap at Larry to let other people talk. Assuming Larry concedes, you will flip back into drive and start firing off counter ideas. Although you may keep one toe dipped in threat, just in case that damn Larry doesn't tow the line. So, Drive->Threat->Drive.
There are plenty of online resources about CMA, which explain it a lot better and more accurately than I just did. But hopefully you get the basic concept. How is this relevant to my ED? Excellent question Cyberspace, so I'll get back to the matter at hand.
My earliest memory took place when I was three. I was running down my grandmother's garden, being chased by her dog Daisy. I don't remember running headfirst into an apple tree during said chase, and splitting my forehead open. I definitely don't remember being brought to hospital and getting 8 catgut sutures, while bawling my eyes out(understandably). However I do remember being handed a Cadbury Flake bar. So I have fear of the dog(threat) followed by yummy chocolate(soothe). You're probably rolling your eyes at me, its just a dog and a Flake, although Freud could probably have a field day with it. As far reaching as it may seem, that moment was pivotal in my life.
When I was a child my house was a very scary place to be, my parents nasty separation being just one example. At all times I had a certain level of anxiety and fear, just waiting for the next attack, constantly in threat mode. Luckily, I spent a lot of time with my maternal grandmother, Joan. From the moment I was born she looked after me when my parents couldn't, and even as a teenager I stayed in her house regularly. My grandmother was the one person in my life who made me feel safe, her house was my safe haven, it was the one place my soothe system was activated. And like most grandmothers back then, she spoiled me rotten, in the form of sugar. My grandmothers house meant red lemonade and 10p bags of jellies, it meant 20p coins to spend in the newsagents. It was sitting up late with her watching Coronation Street, eating pink wafers. Tiny Mars bars or ice cream between wafers if I was good. Homemade jams, stewed apple and rhubarb with custard...Food meant I was wanted and that I was being rewarded. When she got older, and couldn't get up to make breakfast, she would leave out cereal bowls filled with pink and white marshmallows for me and my sister. Nothing could make a seven year old and ten year old happier than watching cartoons while eating a bowl of marshmallows.
When my dad left home my mother would sometimes bring us with her to the pub at the weekend. In exchange for our good behaviour my sister and I would be gifted with a £5 note to spend in the shop next door. We would sit quietly in the corner, surrounded by inebriated strangers, safe in our little sugar bubble. When I was eight or nine I started stealing money from my house. It started out with 5p from my mum's purse, or if the man she was seeing was over, I would rob every coin from his coat pockets. I also got pocket money from my dad, £1 every second week I think. If something particularly bad happened at home, I would take my money to the sweet shop near my school and buy flying saucers and red licorice whips to cheer myself up. I'd buy 100 cola bottles and eat them until I felt sick, because with every jelly I thought less and less about whatever had happened. Because in my little mind, I subconsciously associated sweets with the one person who made me feel unconditionally loved - my grandmother. So if I couldn't be with her, I would try and replicate that feeling of safety and contentment with food.
When I moved to a new house and school at eleven things got even worse. My shy, bookish and slightly weird personality did not fit in with my new classmates, or my family. Now I was miserable in school and at home, so almost everyday I would spend my bus fare in the nearest shop and walk home. The combination of a long walk and the limited amount of food I could buy with my bus fare meant my weight stayed the same. At home, it was toast. I would sit in the kitchen alone every evening, watching TV and secretly munching away. Food was not just something I needed to live, it was a way to push down any thoughts or feelings that were too intense, or a way to try and fill up the growing emptiness inside of me. At the time I didn't think that there was anything wrong with my relationship with food, but I deliberately used it to comfort myself.
By my mid-teens I had, for the most part replaced food with self harm. A slice of cake had nothing on the sting from a fresh cut, in terms of dealing with distress that is. The cake obviously wins the taste test. Using food as a coping mechanism is not specific to people with eating disorders, or personality disorders. I would go so far as to say that most people have turned to food for comfort at some point in their lives. Whenever there is a break-up scene in a chick flick, ice cream and/or chocolate will inevitably appear. It's perfectly normal to eat Nutella off of a spoon after a really shitty day at work. The problem occurs when you think the only way to feel better after that shitty day is a spoonful of Nutella. It's when you realise you're standing in your kitchen holding an empty jar and panicking, because now you have to feel emotions. It's when you never think of food in terms of nourishment, or family, or celebration, that's when it's a problem.
So while my eating disorder first manifested when I was twenty two, my maladaptive relationship with food started about 19 years earlier. Which makes changing my beliefs around food and eating even more fun. Rather predictably, I now have an overwhelming urge to go and buy cake, in order to block out the memories I recalled for this post. But I'd probably just throw it up, so why waste good cake?
According to compassion focused therapy (yes that's a real thing, and harder than it sounds), we have three main regulation systems for our emotions and thoughts: Threat, Drive and Soothe. Threat(Anxiety/Anger/Fear) is basically your fight/flight system, when we feel a threatened in some way this system kicks in for protection. Drive(Excitement/Motivation/Achieving) is when you are trying to obtain a resource or incentive, and Soothe(Happy/Safe/Kindness) is when you feel content, protected and cared for. We move between the different systems as we go about our lives, and we can quickly jump from one to the other.
For example, imagine you have to prepare a group presentation in work, and whichever team has the best presentation wins €100 each. You will most likely be fully in drive, focusing on the task at hand and the end goal - the €100 prize money. But what if Larry, who you've never really liked, starts to take over the project, refusing to listen to any ideas but his own. And Larry's ideas are terrible, really terrible. So not only will you not win the cash, your boss will probably think you had something to do with that sorry excise for a presentation. So your brain goes into threat mode, your self-preservation kicks in and you snap at Larry to let other people talk. Assuming Larry concedes, you will flip back into drive and start firing off counter ideas. Although you may keep one toe dipped in threat, just in case that damn Larry doesn't tow the line. So, Drive->Threat->Drive.
There are plenty of online resources about CMA, which explain it a lot better and more accurately than I just did. But hopefully you get the basic concept. How is this relevant to my ED? Excellent question Cyberspace, so I'll get back to the matter at hand.
My earliest memory took place when I was three. I was running down my grandmother's garden, being chased by her dog Daisy. I don't remember running headfirst into an apple tree during said chase, and splitting my forehead open. I definitely don't remember being brought to hospital and getting 8 catgut sutures, while bawling my eyes out(understandably). However I do remember being handed a Cadbury Flake bar. So I have fear of the dog(threat) followed by yummy chocolate(soothe). You're probably rolling your eyes at me, its just a dog and a Flake, although Freud could probably have a field day with it. As far reaching as it may seem, that moment was pivotal in my life.
When I was a child my house was a very scary place to be, my parents nasty separation being just one example. At all times I had a certain level of anxiety and fear, just waiting for the next attack, constantly in threat mode. Luckily, I spent a lot of time with my maternal grandmother, Joan. From the moment I was born she looked after me when my parents couldn't, and even as a teenager I stayed in her house regularly. My grandmother was the one person in my life who made me feel safe, her house was my safe haven, it was the one place my soothe system was activated. And like most grandmothers back then, she spoiled me rotten, in the form of sugar. My grandmothers house meant red lemonade and 10p bags of jellies, it meant 20p coins to spend in the newsagents. It was sitting up late with her watching Coronation Street, eating pink wafers. Tiny Mars bars or ice cream between wafers if I was good. Homemade jams, stewed apple and rhubarb with custard...Food meant I was wanted and that I was being rewarded. When she got older, and couldn't get up to make breakfast, she would leave out cereal bowls filled with pink and white marshmallows for me and my sister. Nothing could make a seven year old and ten year old happier than watching cartoons while eating a bowl of marshmallows.
When my dad left home my mother would sometimes bring us with her to the pub at the weekend. In exchange for our good behaviour my sister and I would be gifted with a £5 note to spend in the shop next door. We would sit quietly in the corner, surrounded by inebriated strangers, safe in our little sugar bubble. When I was eight or nine I started stealing money from my house. It started out with 5p from my mum's purse, or if the man she was seeing was over, I would rob every coin from his coat pockets. I also got pocket money from my dad, £1 every second week I think. If something particularly bad happened at home, I would take my money to the sweet shop near my school and buy flying saucers and red licorice whips to cheer myself up. I'd buy 100 cola bottles and eat them until I felt sick, because with every jelly I thought less and less about whatever had happened. Because in my little mind, I subconsciously associated sweets with the one person who made me feel unconditionally loved - my grandmother. So if I couldn't be with her, I would try and replicate that feeling of safety and contentment with food.
When I moved to a new house and school at eleven things got even worse. My shy, bookish and slightly weird personality did not fit in with my new classmates, or my family. Now I was miserable in school and at home, so almost everyday I would spend my bus fare in the nearest shop and walk home. The combination of a long walk and the limited amount of food I could buy with my bus fare meant my weight stayed the same. At home, it was toast. I would sit in the kitchen alone every evening, watching TV and secretly munching away. Food was not just something I needed to live, it was a way to push down any thoughts or feelings that were too intense, or a way to try and fill up the growing emptiness inside of me. At the time I didn't think that there was anything wrong with my relationship with food, but I deliberately used it to comfort myself.
By my mid-teens I had, for the most part replaced food with self harm. A slice of cake had nothing on the sting from a fresh cut, in terms of dealing with distress that is. The cake obviously wins the taste test. Using food as a coping mechanism is not specific to people with eating disorders, or personality disorders. I would go so far as to say that most people have turned to food for comfort at some point in their lives. Whenever there is a break-up scene in a chick flick, ice cream and/or chocolate will inevitably appear. It's perfectly normal to eat Nutella off of a spoon after a really shitty day at work. The problem occurs when you think the only way to feel better after that shitty day is a spoonful of Nutella. It's when you realise you're standing in your kitchen holding an empty jar and panicking, because now you have to feel emotions. It's when you never think of food in terms of nourishment, or family, or celebration, that's when it's a problem.
So while my eating disorder first manifested when I was twenty two, my maladaptive relationship with food started about 19 years earlier. Which makes changing my beliefs around food and eating even more fun. Rather predictably, I now have an overwhelming urge to go and buy cake, in order to block out the memories I recalled for this post. But I'd probably just throw it up, so why waste good cake?
Wednesday, 16 September 2015
Mirror, Mirror
I'm stepping out of the past for this post and bringing you into the present, something I had never intended to do when I began this blog. It has always been my intention to share my story chronologically, in the hopes it might help others who have had similar experiences. I will return to that, but today I need to help myself with my blog, so forgive me for the inconsistency. I need to release some of the words buzzing incessantly inside my head, before they drive me down paths I don't want to travel.
I have been out of hospital for six weeks now, following nine weeks as an inpatient on an eating disorder unit. This was my second time in an ED programme, having spent six weeks in a private residential facility in January of this year. The first one didn't work out, obviously. When I entered the hospital in May I was just 1kg above my lowest weight, and had attempted suicide two days before. I was a voluntary patient; the combination of my ED and year long depressive episode had physically and mentally exhausted me to the point that I knew I had to get help, or die.
The programme on the ED unit had two objectives: weight gain(or loss if needed) and to help you take back control from the ED, on a psychological level. The later was done through group work on self esteem, nutrition, cognitive behavioural therapy etc. The weight gain was achieved through that revolutionary concept called eating. Each individual was given a meal plan, depending on their admitting weight and physical health, and if necessary this meal plan would be changed. Anyone who was underweight would, when physically safe to do so, be put on a plan that had an expected weight gain of 0.8-1kg a week. We were weighed twice a week, and if the average had not increased week to week, you would be moved up a meal plan. The higher the meal plan, the higher the calorie intake. We had three main meals, and three snacks a day - the size of your meal or snack depended on your meal plan, but all meals and snacks were eaten under nurse supervision and they were not optional. I remember the first desert I had to eat, a chocolate muffin covered in chocolate sauce. You think you can't get any lower, and then you find yourself sobbing over a cake. If you don't have an eating disorder I imagine that sounds completely ridiculous, but if have or had one, you understand how much I hated that brown blob.
So you had to eat what they gave you. Even if you really hated eggs, unless you had an egg allergy approved by the dietitian, you were eating those eggs. Bathrooms were locked after meals and snacks; fluid intake was monitored; all condiments were rationed; fruit intake was restricted; high calorie milkshakes were used if needed. In short, they had the weight gain process down.
So I gained weight, about eight kilos. I was still slightly underweight, but no longer in danger of my body eating my organs. Objective one completed. Objective two was a whole different story.
I have always hated my appearance. I honestly don't remember ever liking what I saw in the mirror, even as a child. They used to say in the hospital that if you stared at your finger for long enough you would find something wrong with it. I didn't need to stare at it, I could list three things wrong with it without even thinking. The part I hate the most is my face, I've spent countless hours daydreaming about plastic surgery. I used to cry at those television shows were they gave people who felt ugly new faces. I would have done anything for a new face. But, until I win the lottery, there isn't much I can do about my face. Other than use layers of make up to try and detract from the worst of its flaws.
Coming in a close second for most hated part of me, is my body. The entire thing, from my chin to the top of my toes. I could fill the screen up listing all of its flaws, but that's not going to be fun for anyone. But trust me, there is not one part of it that I like. Or tolerate. But unlike my face, I can change my body. Or at least the size of it. So that's what I did. If I had to be ugly, I could at least be thin and ugly. That way I could blend into the background, the smaller I was the less people would notice me. And if they didn't notice me, they wouldn't see all of my defects. So I became bulimic (there's more to it than that, but that's for another post), and then anorexic. Then eventually it was 'eating disorder not otherwise specified'. Which basically means I was a bit anorexic and a bit bulimic. Or, in my head, I wasn't disciplined enough to even have a real eating disorder.
So my weight dropped, stabilised, dropped, stabilised...and then went all the way down. Other people would tell me I was too thin, or that I was underweight, or my BMI was too low. I knew they were all lying, all I had to do was look in the mirror and I could see how fat I still was. Most people don't believe me when I say that, they don't understand it when I tell them I am still overweight. I don't understand how they can look at me and not see that I still need to loose weight. At my lowest weight, I knew I still had so much weight to loose. When I admitted myself to hospital, I did so knowing I would come out grossly overweight. But I had to make a choice between gaining weight and dying, and in that moment I picked gaining weight.
Since I have left hospital I spend 90% of my time in jeans, tracksuit bottoms and baggy tops. Everything must be loose to hide my chubby thighs, thick waist and protruding stomach. I have worn make up and put on dresses on three occasions, and each time I wanted to claw my skin off because I felt so self conscious. I have not looked at myself fully in a mirror in months. I can't look down at myself in the shower, I can only focus on one body part at a time or the pain inside threatens to swallow me whole. I have to accompany my boyfriend to a work event this weekend and I have already started to panic about what to wear - tracksuit bottoms are not an option. I didn't even own tracksuit bottoms until I was in hospital, now they are my favourite thing in the world other than pajamas. I am embarrassed when I see people I know, because somehow I know all of these gorgeous women, who always manage to look amazing on nights out. That's how I see them anyway, I'm not one to assume to know how they view themselves.
So here I am, I can eat food now. But getting dressed makes me cry. If someone else told me they couldn't think of one thing they liked about their body, I would want to hug them and I would hurt for them. But it doesn't work on myself. I'm not sure I will ever complete objective two, but maybe someday soon I can think of one thing I like about that finger.
I have been out of hospital for six weeks now, following nine weeks as an inpatient on an eating disorder unit. This was my second time in an ED programme, having spent six weeks in a private residential facility in January of this year. The first one didn't work out, obviously. When I entered the hospital in May I was just 1kg above my lowest weight, and had attempted suicide two days before. I was a voluntary patient; the combination of my ED and year long depressive episode had physically and mentally exhausted me to the point that I knew I had to get help, or die.
The programme on the ED unit had two objectives: weight gain(or loss if needed) and to help you take back control from the ED, on a psychological level. The later was done through group work on self esteem, nutrition, cognitive behavioural therapy etc. The weight gain was achieved through that revolutionary concept called eating. Each individual was given a meal plan, depending on their admitting weight and physical health, and if necessary this meal plan would be changed. Anyone who was underweight would, when physically safe to do so, be put on a plan that had an expected weight gain of 0.8-1kg a week. We were weighed twice a week, and if the average had not increased week to week, you would be moved up a meal plan. The higher the meal plan, the higher the calorie intake. We had three main meals, and three snacks a day - the size of your meal or snack depended on your meal plan, but all meals and snacks were eaten under nurse supervision and they were not optional. I remember the first desert I had to eat, a chocolate muffin covered in chocolate sauce. You think you can't get any lower, and then you find yourself sobbing over a cake. If you don't have an eating disorder I imagine that sounds completely ridiculous, but if have or had one, you understand how much I hated that brown blob.
So you had to eat what they gave you. Even if you really hated eggs, unless you had an egg allergy approved by the dietitian, you were eating those eggs. Bathrooms were locked after meals and snacks; fluid intake was monitored; all condiments were rationed; fruit intake was restricted; high calorie milkshakes were used if needed. In short, they had the weight gain process down.
So I gained weight, about eight kilos. I was still slightly underweight, but no longer in danger of my body eating my organs. Objective one completed. Objective two was a whole different story.
I have always hated my appearance. I honestly don't remember ever liking what I saw in the mirror, even as a child. They used to say in the hospital that if you stared at your finger for long enough you would find something wrong with it. I didn't need to stare at it, I could list three things wrong with it without even thinking. The part I hate the most is my face, I've spent countless hours daydreaming about plastic surgery. I used to cry at those television shows were they gave people who felt ugly new faces. I would have done anything for a new face. But, until I win the lottery, there isn't much I can do about my face. Other than use layers of make up to try and detract from the worst of its flaws.
Coming in a close second for most hated part of me, is my body. The entire thing, from my chin to the top of my toes. I could fill the screen up listing all of its flaws, but that's not going to be fun for anyone. But trust me, there is not one part of it that I like. Or tolerate. But unlike my face, I can change my body. Or at least the size of it. So that's what I did. If I had to be ugly, I could at least be thin and ugly. That way I could blend into the background, the smaller I was the less people would notice me. And if they didn't notice me, they wouldn't see all of my defects. So I became bulimic (there's more to it than that, but that's for another post), and then anorexic. Then eventually it was 'eating disorder not otherwise specified'. Which basically means I was a bit anorexic and a bit bulimic. Or, in my head, I wasn't disciplined enough to even have a real eating disorder.
So my weight dropped, stabilised, dropped, stabilised...and then went all the way down. Other people would tell me I was too thin, or that I was underweight, or my BMI was too low. I knew they were all lying, all I had to do was look in the mirror and I could see how fat I still was. Most people don't believe me when I say that, they don't understand it when I tell them I am still overweight. I don't understand how they can look at me and not see that I still need to loose weight. At my lowest weight, I knew I still had so much weight to loose. When I admitted myself to hospital, I did so knowing I would come out grossly overweight. But I had to make a choice between gaining weight and dying, and in that moment I picked gaining weight.
Since I have left hospital I spend 90% of my time in jeans, tracksuit bottoms and baggy tops. Everything must be loose to hide my chubby thighs, thick waist and protruding stomach. I have worn make up and put on dresses on three occasions, and each time I wanted to claw my skin off because I felt so self conscious. I have not looked at myself fully in a mirror in months. I can't look down at myself in the shower, I can only focus on one body part at a time or the pain inside threatens to swallow me whole. I have to accompany my boyfriend to a work event this weekend and I have already started to panic about what to wear - tracksuit bottoms are not an option. I didn't even own tracksuit bottoms until I was in hospital, now they are my favourite thing in the world other than pajamas. I am embarrassed when I see people I know, because somehow I know all of these gorgeous women, who always manage to look amazing on nights out. That's how I see them anyway, I'm not one to assume to know how they view themselves.
So here I am, I can eat food now. But getting dressed makes me cry. If someone else told me they couldn't think of one thing they liked about their body, I would want to hug them and I would hurt for them. But it doesn't work on myself. I'm not sure I will ever complete objective two, but maybe someday soon I can think of one thing I like about that finger.
Monday, 10 August 2015
Recovery
Good Morning cyberspace,
Apologies for the lack of posting, I have been back home for just over a week, after spending 60 days as an inpatient on an eating disorder program. Luckily, they managed to correct all of my negative coping strategies, change my outlook on life and make me an all round happier person.
I know, sarcasm is the lowest for of wit. Shame on me.
If I am honest with you, the main thing they did while I was in hospital was to feed me. Three meals, three snack and two deserts a day. Plus glasses of juice and milk. The aim was for me to gain 0.8-1kgs a week, and they accomplished that. My blood work is all back to normal and my BMI is just at the healthy limit. All good things, but how do you keep up with such a regime when you are back home? Back home, and in my case, alone for the majority of the day. It might seem to you to be simply a question of wanting to get better; I sought out treatment for my eating disorder so I should want to keep going forward, keep eating.
The reality is, my eating disorder is a powerful thing. It has overpowered me regularly over the last 8 years, and for the last year it has been in complete control. And totalitarian dictators do not relinquish their thrones gracefully, or without one hell of a fight. So unfortunately, after completing my second ED program, I am not suddenly 'cured', and for the present time I have been left on my own by my psychiatric services.
But the way I look at it, I have two choices: I can give up entirely right now, let the ED and BPD go back to running the show and watch my body and mind crumble away again. Or I take a breath, do what I can to push back the ED, and try and figure out where this all came from. Because maybe, just maybe, if I know why I ended up this way, I can change the outcome.
There is no guarantee this will work, but life itself isn't a guarantee. The only thing we can be sure of in our lives is that at some point, it will come to a stop. So I have nothing to lose by trying.
I am going to try and post every second day, to begin with these posts will be about how I got here, followed by some pseudo psychological introspection, and all going well, we will come to the present. To my recovery, in the hopes that someone will see this, see how many wrong turns I took and make a different choice.
Apologies for the lack of posting, I have been back home for just over a week, after spending 60 days as an inpatient on an eating disorder program. Luckily, they managed to correct all of my negative coping strategies, change my outlook on life and make me an all round happier person.
I know, sarcasm is the lowest for of wit. Shame on me.
If I am honest with you, the main thing they did while I was in hospital was to feed me. Three meals, three snack and two deserts a day. Plus glasses of juice and milk. The aim was for me to gain 0.8-1kgs a week, and they accomplished that. My blood work is all back to normal and my BMI is just at the healthy limit. All good things, but how do you keep up with such a regime when you are back home? Back home, and in my case, alone for the majority of the day. It might seem to you to be simply a question of wanting to get better; I sought out treatment for my eating disorder so I should want to keep going forward, keep eating.
The reality is, my eating disorder is a powerful thing. It has overpowered me regularly over the last 8 years, and for the last year it has been in complete control. And totalitarian dictators do not relinquish their thrones gracefully, or without one hell of a fight. So unfortunately, after completing my second ED program, I am not suddenly 'cured', and for the present time I have been left on my own by my psychiatric services.
But the way I look at it, I have two choices: I can give up entirely right now, let the ED and BPD go back to running the show and watch my body and mind crumble away again. Or I take a breath, do what I can to push back the ED, and try and figure out where this all came from. Because maybe, just maybe, if I know why I ended up this way, I can change the outcome.
There is no guarantee this will work, but life itself isn't a guarantee. The only thing we can be sure of in our lives is that at some point, it will come to a stop. So I have nothing to lose by trying.
I am going to try and post every second day, to begin with these posts will be about how I got here, followed by some pseudo psychological introspection, and all going well, we will come to the present. To my recovery, in the hopes that someone will see this, see how many wrong turns I took and make a different choice.
Monday, 18 May 2015
New blog
Due to constant technical issues with my previous blog site I have moved to a new, and hopefully more available, site. I have copied over some of my previous posts to the new page, but I will not be moving all of them. Mostly because I am too lazy to copy and paste, but also because it is my intention, should I not succumb to my demons, to blog regularly; something I did not do in the past. When I can write, the noise in my head reduces, more so than with any other activity. So the plan would be to write, whenever I need to, to form sentences from the static in my mind and send them out into the world. Hopefully freeing me from some of their weight in the process.
Today, the noise is too much. The above paragraph has my heart pounding and my ears buzzing with the strain of it. But tomorrow I have my long awaited assessment with an Eating Disorder clinic and my fate will be decided. In or out, live or die. Either way, I will likely have some endless diatribe for you then.
All old, and quite frankly, morose blogs can be found here. Well that or a big white screen with ERROR on it.
Today, the noise is too much. The above paragraph has my heart pounding and my ears buzzing with the strain of it. But tomorrow I have my long awaited assessment with an Eating Disorder clinic and my fate will be decided. In or out, live or die. Either way, I will likely have some endless diatribe for you then.
All old, and quite frankly, morose blogs can be found here. Well that or a big white screen with ERROR on it.
The numbers game
I’m not sure if this post is a good idea, while I am not and will not be ashamed of my mental health struggles, I am wary of upsetting my family. That said, I have always found writing to be cathartic, and I often find strength from vocalising my thoughts. So I will forge on, and hope that anyone who is offended or upset by my words can understand that no harm is intended.
Today is the final day of my twenties, I will enter the next decade of my life in a few hours and I wish I could say that I am facing the future with hope and a renewed vigour for life. The reality is, I am starting my thirties in the the midst of a long and difficult bought of depression, struggling with self harm, suicidal thoughts and an eating disorder. I have been out of work for nearly 10 months and some days I struggle just to keep breathing, never mind attempting to function at some ‘normal’ level. Starting out a new decade of my life in the space I find myself is terrifying. So terrifying, that at times over the last week, I didn’t think I would be able to reach tomorrow. But I have, or I will, so now I must decided how to begin this new chapter of my life.
Last Friday I went for a meal with my boyfriends parents, and for an hour I struggled to find something to wear. Everything was too big, even items I had purchased a month before hung awkwardly from my body. I eventually settled on a shapeless jumper and dress, but I was stuck in a land of confusion. Why did nothing fit me? I was certain I had gained weight in recent days, and despite being told the week before that I had lost 3 kilos in 2 weeks, I felt bigger than ever. My confusion was genuine, and the thoughts swirled round and round in my head for hours until finally, I looked in the mirror in the restroom and thought, maybe I have lost weight. Maybe the constant feelings of being grotesque and overweight were coming from the eating disorder, and were not facts, but beliefs being fed to me by that insidious voice. So I took a picture, to capture the moment, what I thought was the beginning of finally understanding my illness and seeing it for what it really was. A lie, a trap that I was stuck in and I just needed to find my way free. I would use this picture to fight back the voice that makes me weigh fat free yoghurt into 57 calorie portions, the voice that causes me to panic when I forget to watch the barista making my coffee to ensure they really used skimmed milk and weren’t tricking me into consuming extra calories and fat. This picture was also the first time I had looked at my whole self in the mirror in two months, as me own reflection had become so unbearable I could only look at certain body parts at at a time. There was too much to hate in one glance otherwise.
I wish I could tell you that my plan worked. But the next day I looked at the picture and felt only disgust. My eyes were drawn to the fat on my thighs, the roundness of my calves, the excess flesh on my cheekbones. What was I thinking? Of course I wasn’t too thin, here I had proof of that. I was a failure, a mockery, a whale. At the doctors this morning they told me I had lost another kilo and that voice filled my head. What a disappointment you are, only one kilo this time, you can’t even diet properly. So I set a target in my head, a nice round number, and that voice promised that once we reached it I would be rewarded. I would have achieved something, I would be a winner for once. I readily agreed with this plan, of course, 2 more kilos and I will be just right. It will be finished, and I will be happy with what I see.
This is a lie. With an eating disorder, you can never reach the finish line because the goal posts will always move. If you had told me last year I would weigh what I do today, I would have scoffed. I know it is a lie but I can do nothing but work towards the current target because there is no other option. In the words of The Borg, resistance is futile. Resistance is failure, and failing at this will just make the pain worse, the loathing stronger, the abusive voices louder.
I looked back today on a photo of myself from my birthday last year, and I see no difference in the two images. I see mistakes to be fixed, bulges and flesh in abundance, I see that I have achieved nothing in the last year. And deep down inside, buried beneath the depression and the eating disorder and the hatred, I feel a profound sadness. Because more than numbers on a scale, the most important thing I have failed at in the last year, the last ten years, is finding my way out of the trap.
Today is the final day of my twenties, I will enter the next decade of my life in a few hours and I wish I could say that I am facing the future with hope and a renewed vigour for life. The reality is, I am starting my thirties in the the midst of a long and difficult bought of depression, struggling with self harm, suicidal thoughts and an eating disorder. I have been out of work for nearly 10 months and some days I struggle just to keep breathing, never mind attempting to function at some ‘normal’ level. Starting out a new decade of my life in the space I find myself is terrifying. So terrifying, that at times over the last week, I didn’t think I would be able to reach tomorrow. But I have, or I will, so now I must decided how to begin this new chapter of my life.
Last Friday I went for a meal with my boyfriends parents, and for an hour I struggled to find something to wear. Everything was too big, even items I had purchased a month before hung awkwardly from my body. I eventually settled on a shapeless jumper and dress, but I was stuck in a land of confusion. Why did nothing fit me? I was certain I had gained weight in recent days, and despite being told the week before that I had lost 3 kilos in 2 weeks, I felt bigger than ever. My confusion was genuine, and the thoughts swirled round and round in my head for hours until finally, I looked in the mirror in the restroom and thought, maybe I have lost weight. Maybe the constant feelings of being grotesque and overweight were coming from the eating disorder, and were not facts, but beliefs being fed to me by that insidious voice. So I took a picture, to capture the moment, what I thought was the beginning of finally understanding my illness and seeing it for what it really was. A lie, a trap that I was stuck in and I just needed to find my way free. I would use this picture to fight back the voice that makes me weigh fat free yoghurt into 57 calorie portions, the voice that causes me to panic when I forget to watch the barista making my coffee to ensure they really used skimmed milk and weren’t tricking me into consuming extra calories and fat. This picture was also the first time I had looked at my whole self in the mirror in two months, as me own reflection had become so unbearable I could only look at certain body parts at at a time. There was too much to hate in one glance otherwise.
I wish I could tell you that my plan worked. But the next day I looked at the picture and felt only disgust. My eyes were drawn to the fat on my thighs, the roundness of my calves, the excess flesh on my cheekbones. What was I thinking? Of course I wasn’t too thin, here I had proof of that. I was a failure, a mockery, a whale. At the doctors this morning they told me I had lost another kilo and that voice filled my head. What a disappointment you are, only one kilo this time, you can’t even diet properly. So I set a target in my head, a nice round number, and that voice promised that once we reached it I would be rewarded. I would have achieved something, I would be a winner for once. I readily agreed with this plan, of course, 2 more kilos and I will be just right. It will be finished, and I will be happy with what I see.
This is a lie. With an eating disorder, you can never reach the finish line because the goal posts will always move. If you had told me last year I would weigh what I do today, I would have scoffed. I know it is a lie but I can do nothing but work towards the current target because there is no other option. In the words of The Borg, resistance is futile. Resistance is failure, and failing at this will just make the pain worse, the loathing stronger, the abusive voices louder.
I looked back today on a photo of myself from my birthday last year, and I see no difference in the two images. I see mistakes to be fixed, bulges and flesh in abundance, I see that I have achieved nothing in the last year. And deep down inside, buried beneath the depression and the eating disorder and the hatred, I feel a profound sadness. Because more than numbers on a scale, the most important thing I have failed at in the last year, the last ten years, is finding my way out of the trap.
Sunday, 10 May 2015
Following weeks of frustration and an increasing hopelessness I sent this email to the powers that be. My experience with our mental health system has been incredibly difficult and has certainly worsened my feelings of worthlessness. And if it’s happening to me, it’s certainly happening to others in need.
Hi,
My name is Lisa Naylor, I am 30 years old and I suffer from depression and an eating disorder. I have been struggling with this current period of illness for over a year and have attempted suicide multiple times and been hospitalised twice; once in John of Gods and once in Lois Bridges. I am currently under the care of Coolock Mental Health Clinic, and have been put under home care as I was seen as too unwell to attend my local day hospital. Four weeks ago I advised my registrar, Dr Niyi, that I could no longer see a way out of my depression and could not guarantee my safety. After extensive interviews with my doctor, nurses and a local consultant it was decided I needed a short stay in hospital in order to ensure my safety and give my mind a rest from the constant struggle with my self harm and suicidal impulses.
Luckily, I have health insurance, and referrals were immediately sent to St John of Gods and St Patrick’s Hospitals asking for admission for a major depressive episode. In the last four weeks I have spent my days fighting against every fibre of my being to give in to the never ending voices in my head, urging me to end my pain. I have been self harming almost daily and spend hours face down in a toilet, forcing myself to throw up whatever I have eaten. I feel no joy, I feel no contentment, I feel nothing but self loathing and pain. All day, everyday.
I have been told that as a result of my eating disorder I must wait until the end of May for an assessment in St Pat’s, that I cannot be given a bed to keep me safe until after this date. St John of God’s refuses to answer multiple phone calls and voice mails about an admission. I have been advised that the public ward in Beaumont is not an option as they are at crisis point. My very dedicated HSE team have literally run out of options and can give me no answers or reassurances. I am 30, I am suffering, and I have nothing left to give. It took everything I had to tell my doctor how I felt and it was all for nothing. I am going to die because I asked for help and nobody answered.
I am not sending you this email for pity, or dramatic effect,but to highlight the fact that something is very wrong with our mental health system. I am going to die because of paperwork. Please, do not let this happen to someone else.
“All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing” – Edmund Burke
Sincerely,
Lisa Naylor
Friday, 16 January 2015
Milestones
When I was in hospital several months ago I made my first long term goal. The future does not exist for me on a daily basis, I am permanently stuck in the difficulties of the moment. Long term goals are overwhelming but also incredibly important as they can provide an anchor to keep me steady when my strength waivers, but if I reach these goals they then become milestones. Days that I didn’t think I would reach when I planned them.
I achieved this first victory against my depression on the 19th of December, when I went to see my favourite band live, with tickets I had purchased 4 months previously. In that moment, listening to a sea of voices sing lyrics that have seen me through some of my darkest days, I felt something. For the briefest of moments, I felt the win. But then it was done, and I was left back in the same bleakness as before. So a new goal was needed. I had known this would happen, the crash, so my next date with life was already planned.
That day is now upon us, a day I had planned to reach with my dearest friend, who has her own battle with mental illness. It was a simple plan when it was conceived, to go and see the film Wild. Wild was one of the last books I was able to read, before depression robbed me of my ability to digest words. It was a book I loved, a story I found inspiring, and seemed very fitting given the present I was in.
As time moved closer to the 16th of January the plan evolved, to include a meal and shopping and a luxury hotel stay. At the time, I genuinely made these alterations with good intentions, wanting to celebrate us both achieving a joint milestone. But looking back, I wonder if there was a hint of desperation to my planning. Over the last month, my battle with my depression and my eating disorder has become more one sided, and I am loosing ground by the hour. Seeing Wild was no longer about achievement and hope, but something I was crawling toward with broken, bloody nails and sorrow perched heavily on my back.
I am now going back into residential treatment on Monday. Six weeks to go into recovery from my eating disorder, to return to a healthy weight(ED monkey: You are a healthy weight already, they just want to make you fat again), so that my body can absorb my anti-depressants (BPD monkey: LIES! they are just trying to trick you, you’ll never win) and I can battle my depression with renewed strength. Which is all well and good, despite my fear and despondency toward treatment.
But for now, today, Wild day, I feel like I have failed.I guess that is the problem with goals, once accomplished they are wonderful, when unsuccessful they are crushing. Johnny Cash once said “You build on failure, you use it as a stepping stone.” It remains to be seen whether I can be step past today and build a different future, but for now my only goal will be to some day have the fortitude and mettle to make another goal.
I achieved this first victory against my depression on the 19th of December, when I went to see my favourite band live, with tickets I had purchased 4 months previously. In that moment, listening to a sea of voices sing lyrics that have seen me through some of my darkest days, I felt something. For the briefest of moments, I felt the win. But then it was done, and I was left back in the same bleakness as before. So a new goal was needed. I had known this would happen, the crash, so my next date with life was already planned.
That day is now upon us, a day I had planned to reach with my dearest friend, who has her own battle with mental illness. It was a simple plan when it was conceived, to go and see the film Wild. Wild was one of the last books I was able to read, before depression robbed me of my ability to digest words. It was a book I loved, a story I found inspiring, and seemed very fitting given the present I was in.
As time moved closer to the 16th of January the plan evolved, to include a meal and shopping and a luxury hotel stay. At the time, I genuinely made these alterations with good intentions, wanting to celebrate us both achieving a joint milestone. But looking back, I wonder if there was a hint of desperation to my planning. Over the last month, my battle with my depression and my eating disorder has become more one sided, and I am loosing ground by the hour. Seeing Wild was no longer about achievement and hope, but something I was crawling toward with broken, bloody nails and sorrow perched heavily on my back.
I am now going back into residential treatment on Monday. Six weeks to go into recovery from my eating disorder, to return to a healthy weight(ED monkey: You are a healthy weight already, they just want to make you fat again), so that my body can absorb my anti-depressants (BPD monkey: LIES! they are just trying to trick you, you’ll never win) and I can battle my depression with renewed strength. Which is all well and good, despite my fear and despondency toward treatment.
But for now, today, Wild day, I feel like I have failed.I guess that is the problem with goals, once accomplished they are wonderful, when unsuccessful they are crushing. Johnny Cash once said “You build on failure, you use it as a stepping stone.” It remains to be seen whether I can be step past today and build a different future, but for now my only goal will be to some day have the fortitude and mettle to make another goal.
Sunday, 11 January 2015
Chapter 1129
And so it begins, yet another chapter in my battle with mental illness. Another battle in a war that seems without end, with no white flag in sight. Next Monday I will finally face my eating disorder, while being admitted to a specialist facility. My family and friends have expressed great relief at my impending incarceration, for them this is the light they were waiting for, having stared down the tunnel of my illness for so long without respite. Help is at hand, the end is nigh, hope flickers on the horizon. And I can see why they feel that way, the basic fact is that my problems with food and body image now consume my world and they feed into my other mental health problems. They fertilise the darkness inside me, help the inky tendrils grow further and faster, sharp thorns sprouting and piercing my thoughts with greater frequency.
Most people can’t possibly understand the uncertainty I feel; the anxiety; the overwhelming, crushing fear. They can’t understand how I became so overwrought in the week leading up to my assessment that I made suicide attempt number 74 (came so close this time, I could taste the success!). Surely I should be jumping at the chance to rid myself of this monkey on my shoulder? But after 7 years, my eating disorder is so much a part of my life that it feels like a friend. It is always there for me, offers words of encouragement when I do well, sticks by me through difficulties and after a life of mediocrity I have finally found something I’m good at. And now I have to let it go, fear number one, who am I without it and how will I get through the hard times without it?
Fear two, what if I give recovery my all, kick ED ass, and then my depression doesn’t magically lift like the doctors say it will? What if I give up the one thing I have that’s mine and I’m left with the rest of my broken brain, the part that I have no control over?
Fear three is an obvious one – gaining weight. ED therapists talk a lot about the bodies comfortable ‘resting weight’. That is, the weight/size you would be if you ate normal healthy meals and exercised regularly. I know that the weight I am now is nowhere near my resting weight, I am built to be curvy, with wide shoulders, hips and some junk in my trunk. But that’s not what I want, I want to defy biology and fix my shape from the bones out. But recovery means gaining weight, numbers creeping up, the most terrifying thought there is for me. More terrifying than dying. Which is ridiculous, completely and utterly ridiculous. But knowing it is ridiculous makes no difference. I can see the rational thoughts, I can say them aloud, I can acknowledge the facts: my body and brain are exhausted and my immune system is shattered, I have no hope of fighting my depression if I stay as I am.
But knowing what is right and believing it are two different things, so for the next 7 days I will fight to remember the facts, to focus on the logical, to not let my fear overwhelm me. To not think about the fourth fear, failure.
Most people can’t possibly understand the uncertainty I feel; the anxiety; the overwhelming, crushing fear. They can’t understand how I became so overwrought in the week leading up to my assessment that I made suicide attempt number 74 (came so close this time, I could taste the success!). Surely I should be jumping at the chance to rid myself of this monkey on my shoulder? But after 7 years, my eating disorder is so much a part of my life that it feels like a friend. It is always there for me, offers words of encouragement when I do well, sticks by me through difficulties and after a life of mediocrity I have finally found something I’m good at. And now I have to let it go, fear number one, who am I without it and how will I get through the hard times without it?
Fear two, what if I give recovery my all, kick ED ass, and then my depression doesn’t magically lift like the doctors say it will? What if I give up the one thing I have that’s mine and I’m left with the rest of my broken brain, the part that I have no control over?
Fear three is an obvious one – gaining weight. ED therapists talk a lot about the bodies comfortable ‘resting weight’. That is, the weight/size you would be if you ate normal healthy meals and exercised regularly. I know that the weight I am now is nowhere near my resting weight, I am built to be curvy, with wide shoulders, hips and some junk in my trunk. But that’s not what I want, I want to defy biology and fix my shape from the bones out. But recovery means gaining weight, numbers creeping up, the most terrifying thought there is for me. More terrifying than dying. Which is ridiculous, completely and utterly ridiculous. But knowing it is ridiculous makes no difference. I can see the rational thoughts, I can say them aloud, I can acknowledge the facts: my body and brain are exhausted and my immune system is shattered, I have no hope of fighting my depression if I stay as I am.
But knowing what is right and believing it are two different things, so for the next 7 days I will fight to remember the facts, to focus on the logical, to not let my fear overwhelm me. To not think about the fourth fear, failure.
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