Self-Esteem

I haven't blogged in months. I would love to tell you that I was too busy living life to talk to a computer screen but the reality is much more mundane and predictable; my depression and mood instability had improved, and I was too afraid to write as a (mostly) mentally competent person. Poor writing and bad grammar can be excused when you are cognitively impaired, but I discovered I lack the mental fortitude/balls to be judged as a functioning human being.

Luckily, for nobody, I am once again cocooned in the familiar blanket of depression; albeit a milder manifestation than its predecessor. So to the keyboard I return, for better or worse.

Over the last year I have done a lot of work with my therapists to address and, in most cases, move past events in my life that have contributed to my being an emotional equivalent of a broken condom. Yet my core belief system remained unchanged. No matter how many 'Mother hates me' sessions I had, I still couldn't look myself in the eye. And then I realised that I was missing something - self-esteem.

Let me be clear, I absolutely do not think that everyone else is walking around full of pride; dignity oozing from their pores like cheese from a perfectly stuffed pizza crust. I believe most of us have some level of insecurity, and if you don't, you're probably the next Ted Bundy. Or Tom Hardy. But I've come to realise that my self-deprecation is yet another maladaptive coping mechanism I lean on. And I have no idea how to overcome it. I looked through every page of my stupid (and useful, whatever) DBT folder and there is nothing on self-esteem.

So I googled self-esteem, and there was one exercise that appeared on nearly every page - List things you like about yourself. Reader, I laughed. I was first asked to list what I like about myself in 2004, during group therapy. I had nothing, I handed up a blank page. During my last admission, in August/September 2015, I was asked the same question; after 9 weeks I had nothing. Yesterday I tried to think of three things I like about myself, I have nothing.

If I tried to think of three things I don't like about myself? No problem. Although I think that's the case for many of us. Not that we can't think of our positive attributes, but that it is much easier to highlight our flaws. Personally, would much rather you ask me for a list of flaws, I'm comfortable and well-acquainted with those. But listing all of my disparaging beliefs would be rather long and boring, so instead I will consider my thoughts over a one hour period.

The purpose of this isn't to elicit sympathy,but rather to acknowledge the impact of low self-esteem and hopefully garner some much needed advice.

I have picked this hour for several reasons; first, it's the present, so my memory isn't required; second, I'm alone, thus removing the possibility of outside interference. Finally, nothing massively life altering or heart breaking has happened today. Yet. There's always time for life to be a dick.

I am constantly amazed and disgusted by how naturally pessimistic my outlook is.

You're an attention seeking whore for posting this.

Your hands are dry. and masculine.

Stop wondering what will happen next, you stupid whore.

Everyone already hates you, this is just adding fuel to the fire.

your thighs are touching, you fat cow.

You're fat now and you still don't have boobs. lol.

Waste of space.

Useless.

Your dogs hate you.

You're fucking ugly.

They literally hate you, they want Alan.

that sigh means Loki hates you.

You type too slow.

seriously stop rubbing your dry claws together.

Your hair is greasy.

You are the ugly friend.

You are a waste of space and money.

Remember money? It's that thing you don't have. Because you're useless.

Genuinely, everyone hates you.

Yes, even them. Remember they didn't reply to you tagging them on a comment on FB? It's because they hate you.

Ooo you're the pity friend! Familiar role for you, loser.

Seriously, your dogs hate you. They won't even cuddle you.

ooo remember how you got fat? That was hilarious right? No? Because you're disgusting now?

They all laugh at you. You know that, right? You don't really fit it, pity invite for one!

Fuck you are pathetic. Can't even afford a cup of coffee.

Also, fat now. FYI.

how's the new career going? Not great? Figures, right?

And nobody wants you there? Because you're fat and ugly maybe?

Remember when you could skip food all day? Willpower eh? None left no?

Oh hey, and you're fucking boring. Go on, discuss the presidential debate, with specifics... No? Global Warming? Property? EINSTEIN?

Literately nothing.

Just visualise your thighs touching off of each other. And your hips getting padded. And your face being plumper.

Good times right? No? Oh fuck... it happens every time. I remember the truth - I'm stuck with this face and brain.


Okay, I gave up after 24 minutes. Mostly because my mind was racing and I couldn't type fast enough.

So that's 24 minutes of me sitting in a chair in my living room, incident free. Just me being me. Fuck I hate me.

ED Recovery

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?

A Life Lost

I have written the below with consent from Stephens' mother:

This isn't my first time discussing the mental health services in our country, but sadly today I am not writing on my own behalf.

On Friday the 15th of January Stephen Byrne attended Beaumont A&E to seek medical assistance. He was 20, a devoted father and suicidal. A few days prior, he had attempted to hang himself multiple times while in police custody; at that time he was brought to the Mater but was released. Despite informing staff at Beaumont of his intent to commit suicide, he was discharged. The only help he was offered was that his file would be sent to his clinic in Ballymun.

On Tuesday the 19th of January Stephen went missing; his body was discovered two days later, on his daughter's second birthday. To date, nobody from the Ballymun clinic has made contact with Stephen's family.

As anyone with mental health difficulties knows, asking for help when you are at your lowest is incredibly difficult. It takes unbelievable strength to fight your own mind and reach out. This is especially true for young men, as historically our country has stigmatised those with mental illnesses as weak or failing in some way. Men are statistically less likely to seek treatment for mental health issues, but they are four times more likely to die by suicide then women. Yet, when a young man found the courage to walk into an A&E department he was turned away, with devastating consequences.

I know all too well the pain and desolation of reaching out when all you want to do is die, only to be dismissed and invalidated by the very people who are supposed to offer aid. It might sound histrionic to some, but they might as well help you to step onto the ledge.

After my last suicide attempt, as soon as I regained consciousness I was discharged from Beaumont A&E without ever speaking to a doctor, let alone a member of the psychiatric team. I know a young woman who just last week attempted suicide inside the hospital grounds, and was simply patched up and sent on her way. I know that there are many people with similar accounts, especially those with a history of self-harm or suicide attempts. This is because certain hospitals, as a result of overcrowding and staff shortages, have a policy whereby patients who present more than a handful of times with self-inflicted injuries, including suicide attempts, are no longer referred to the psychiatric team for assessment. We are seen as a waste of resources.

This is not just a local issue, across the nation there are thousands of people waiting for referrals, many of whom will have to travel for hours for an appointment as a result of hospital closures. In some areas the wait for a psychology referral is two years. In 2014 nearly 3000 children and adolescents were on waiting lists for psychiatric referrals and children are routinely admitted to adult psychiatric units.

As a country we are finally starting to break the draconian cycle of shame and secrecy that surrounds mental illness, but our mental health service remains inadequate, underdeveloped and underfunded. The government and politicians are quick to promise change and reforms, but while we wait for them to turn words into actions more and more lives will be lost. Sadly any improvements will be too late for Stephen, his family and his little girl Ava.

Stephen Byrne asked for help and he was rejected; someone decided he was not important enough for their time, their care or their compassion. At what point does someones life become dispensable? Who are we supposed to turn to if our own healthcare system deems us unworthy? They tell people suffering from mental health difficulties to ‘speak up’; to talk to a professional; to not suffer in silence. They ask for our trust, and then break it. Ask yourself, if you were living in hell; if you were in so much pain that you would take your own life to escape it, would you put your survival in the hands of an institution that will likely make your life even more unbearable?