My grandmother was an alcoholic.
That sentence might elicit images of tears, tantrums and chaos, but that wasn't the case.
My grandmother was the most important adult in my early childhood. My mother struggled after I was born, and was then in hospital for most of her pregnancy with my sister. My father worked; from what I understand he worked all the hours he could to support his new family. This meant that I spent a lot of my formative years with my grandmother.
Both of my parents will surely have issue with the above, but the fact is that without my maternal grandmother they would have been lost. By lost I mean completely fucked.
I have so many memories with my grandmother that it would take hours to describe them. She was a wonderful human being, who loved my sister and I unconditionally. She had a beautiful garden, full of rose bushes, apple trees and a multitude of berries. I can still picture her stirring a giant pot of fresh raspberries and sugar before transferring it into jam jars. I remember her scolding me for eating all of the ripe gooseberries from the bush, and her threats of stomach ache when I stole fruit from the cooking apple trees.
She collected me from playschool and gave me a 10p bag as I watched Bosco and Mr. Ben, and if I was quiet all the way until tea, there was a glass of cream soda or red lemonade. She waited for us with the lollipop lady and asked about our day; she made me dinner with the butter in a dish straight out of the 20's and tucked me in with an electric blanket. When I was sick, she brought dry toast and 7up and dragged the smaller TV to the bedroom so I could watch cartoons. She let me stay up a little bit later than my sister to watch Prisoner Cell Block H, and then shooed me to bed the second it was over.
My sister likely has a head full of her own happy memories.
But even doting grandmothers have their flaws, although as children they aren't apparent. I don't think children see flaws in those around them, they simply adjust their expectations to match their reality.
My grandmother started to leave the house a lot more in the evenings. My sister probably didn't notice, but our mother worked nights a lot so I was already anxious about being home alone. I felt the need to stay up until I heard the squeak of the gate the signaled her return, until I didn't have to be responsible anymore. I didn't think of it as a problem, minding my sister was my job and I got to watch Unsolved Murders.
She slept in a lot later; there was rarely cereal and milk but we managed; there was more than one near miss with the grill while making toast. After a while there were no Rice Krispies, but we would wake to discover bowls of marshmallows and penney sweets for our breakfast. She tolerated me riffling through the sheds full of old junk, and building forts in the garden. she sent me on pilgrimages to the newsagents to get more cigars, and more importunately, let me spend the change on sweets. She forgot to buy food, but she always brought home a bag of funsize bars. I think we lived on miniature Mars bars and sugar for a large part of our childhood. When one of us caught nits in school, it was my job to administer the treatment and clean the sheets. To this day I have a crippling fear of head lice. When I wasn't tormenting my little sister(sorry Emz), it was my job to make sure she washed, had a clean uniform and that we got to school on time. I had not problem with any of this; it wasn't all of the time and I would have done anything to help my grandmother. She loved me, and I loved her and that feeling of unconditional love was worth a million nights waiting up and doing laundry.
Until the day she used me to try and hide her alcoholism. I have always been a socially awkward person, and the only other 'kids' nearby were two years older, which is significant when you are ten. One summers day I was called into my grandmothers house by my mother. It was in the front room; my grandmother was there, in her chair beside the fire, and she remained silent as my mother demanded to know what I had done with the money. I had no idea what she was talking about so I professed my innocence. I was dismissed, in disgust.
I went outside to the back-garden, where my aunt and uncle were. They ignored me. Then my father arrived; at this point my parents were separated so the fact that my mother called him was significant. He took me to Killiney Hill, a regular walking spot on our weekends together. He sat me down and asked me about the missing money. I had no idea what he was talking about so I professed my innocence. I cried, I begged him to believe me. He told me how disappointed he was, and silently drove me back to my grandmothers. I was branded a thief, looked upon with disgust by the adults in my life and punished.
A few years weeks later(possibly months, childhood timelines are murky), my grandmother was caught trying to double cash a cheque and the extent of her illness was revealed.It turned out the missing cash (approximately €200) had been spent on alcohol, and having no money for her bills she had asked her children for money. When they asked where her alimony had gone she told them that she had cashed the cheque and the money went missing. Then she told them that she had noticed that the kids on the road were being nicer to me, so she suspected I was using the missing money to buy them sweets so they would play with me.
On paper, it's such a little thing. A moment in time that was fleeting and insignificant. But imagine being 10 years old, and finding out that not only did your family believe that you needed to buy friends, but that you were also capable of stealing from your grandmother to fund said transaction. 20 years later and i can still feel the pain in my chest when my dad told me how disappointed he was in me for lying.
The purpose of this post is not to illicit sympathy; but to highlight how impressionable children are. I'm sure my parents and aunt don't even remember that day, but it has haunted me for most of my life. The things you do, and the way you relate to children can have meaningful and long-lasting effects. Be kind to your kids, even when they make mistakes, because there are no do-overs.
I love my grandmother. She was an amazing woman, who loved me and brought light into my life. But her alcoholism has had a huge effect on me; so choose your children over a drink, choose your grandchildren or even better, choose yourself.
Showing posts with label Introduction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Introduction. Show all posts
Friday, 18 November 2016
Tuesday, 19 January 2016
You're Too Pretty
A combination of sleep deprivation, anxiety and a sudden drop in my already low mood are impairing my cognitive functions, and one unfortunate consequence is that I have been finding it impossible to write. I can barely remember what I did 3 hours ago, so describing the next phase of my treatment is unfeasible. The irony is, writing is one of the positive coping strategies I use when in distress. I would sincerely like to not be defeated by my own mind, again, so I am going to deviate from my biographical timeline and write about something a bit easier. I apologise in advance for all grammatical errors, I've been up since 2am.
As I said before, I started self-harming at the age of 12. I don't know what made me try it for the first time, but over the last 19 years I have become something of an expert on the subject. To be clear, I am an expert about why I self-harm; you can't be an expert on another person's pain. We are the product of our genetics, our environment and most importantly, our life experiences; and as we are all individuals, everything we see, hear or experience is specific to us. Our perception shapes our reality, so in a sense, we are each living in our own separate universes. For example, have you ever received a text from someone and come to the conclusion they are being rude, that you must have done something to annoy or upset them. Maybe they only used one exclamation mark, or their usual winking face was missing. But if you ask them about it, they have no idea what you are talking about. Of course they aren't angry with you, it was a perfectly pleasant and friendly text. Then you feel like a bit of a jackass, because unless someone actually says something direct, it is almost impossible to determine the tone of a text. One text, two completely different experiences of it.
I realise I went slightly off point, but what I am trying to convey is that while I can (hopefully) provide you with some insight on self-harm, I can only truly understand how it affects me. There will be some overlap, but there is no 'one size fits all' answer. I have yet to find a situation where one size actually fits all, I'm currently wearing a pair of socks that claim to fit all feet, and yet my ankles are completely exposed to the cold air. I have once again digressed from the matter at hand, Lisa's guide to self-harm.
1. What exactly is self-harm?
Self-harm is when you deliberately inflict physical harm on yourself. There are a long list of behaviours that are used to self-harm such as cutting or scratching your skin; burning yourself; hitting yourself or banging your head; swallowing poisonous substances; purging or restricting(yes these are eating disorder behaviours, but are also used as a way of hurting oneself); driving recklessly etc. Someone might only engage in one of these destructive behaviours, or several. My weapons of choice are cutting, scratching, burning, purging and occasionally throwing my fist or whole body into a wall.
2. Why the hell would you do it?
Excellent question, sadly the answer is not so black and white. Self-harming is a coping mechanism, a negative one, but in the short term it is very effective. People self-harm for many reasons, and often in an individual it will serve more than one purpose. However over the years I have noticed that for most people it will serve at least one of the following functions:
- To punish yourself. When I feel worthless or stupid, or when I hate myself for being such a terrible daughter/friend/sibling, I feel like I deserve to be punished. I am such a terrible human being that I should suffer, I should be in pain, pain is all I deserve. I am so ugly inside that I have to make my outside ugly to. I have on one occasion been filled with such self-loathing that I stabbed myself in the stomach.
- Control. When you feel like completely powerless in life - your emotions, your past, your present are all spinning wildly into oblivion and you can't get a hold of them - your body is the one thing you hold dominion over. You choose to pick up that razor, or take those laxatives. In that moment, you are in control of at least one thing in your life. It's like a life raft you desperately cling onto to ride out the storm.
- Release. All that pain, sadness, anger or despair is trapped inside you causing you to be in such emotional pain that you would do anything to let some of it out. But either you don't know how or you're afraid that they are too big for you, they will swallow you whole if they burst through. Like a pot of boiling water that is just about to spill over, and at the last second you lift it up and lower the heat until it reduces to a simmer. Hurting yourself is the emotional equivalent, it brings the intensity down just enough so you can survive. The problem is, it is only a temporary reprieve. So you have to do it again, and again, to stop yourself from erupting. For me, when I feel like I'm being suffocated by my emotions, cutting is like taking a big, deep breath and allows me to breathe normally for a little while. I don't self-harm because I want to die, I am doing it to stay alive.
3. People who self-harm are attention seekers
*Deep breath* This statement usually touches a nerve with people who self-harm. A very raw nerve, but please read the entire paragraph before coming at me with verbal pitchforks. The truth is, sometimes people self-harm for attention. The problem is with the definition of 'attention'. When most people refer to someone as an attention seeker it is used in a pejorative way, like a bold child running around a restaurant screaming and embarrassing you in front of your friends. To seek attention however, is trying to get someone to notice you or take care of you i.e. you fall and injure yourself and you seek medical attention. So when I say that some people self harm to get attention, they are doing it because they are crying out for help and they are unable to or don't know how to verbalise it. If someone self-harms and tells you about it, or has to go to A&E, or tells you they are going to self-harm, it is not to manipulate you, they are simply asking you to see their pain and tell them how to stop it. They do it because they are terrified of their own thoughts and emotions and they are desperately trying to communicate with you, with anyone. It is a cry for help, not some childish attempt to become the center of attention. The rest of the time, we aren't going to tell you anything. Self-harm is our secret. Firstly, we may have problems but we aren't idiots. We are fully aware that what we do is not 'normal', and many of us are ashamed of it. We know what people think about us, about the signs in A&E that say anyone who presents with self-injuries is to be sent away, the stereotype of the angst ridden teenager brooding over bad poetry. Why on earth would we let ourselves be pigeonholed unless it was inescapable? Second, self-harming is our main coping strategy. When thing's get really bad, or if something happens that leaves us vulnerable or sends our emotions into a tailspin, one quick jab of a cigarette will calm us down. Yes, it's not an ideal situation, but we know it will always work, even if it's just for a few minutes. If we tell you, you will probably try and stop us, take away our safety net. So yes, sometimes a person will self-harm to try and get your attention, but it will usually be because their situation is critical.
4. You're too pretty to do that to yourself
The first time I tried to kill myself I had to go to A&E to get my wrists stitched. I was very distressed as the nurse was bandaging me up, and she decided to offer me the following advice: "You're far too pretty to be doing this to yourself, so you just stop that now, okay?". I was so stunned I immediately stopped sobbing. I know she was trying to be kind, but what my face had to do with my mental state is beyond me. Over the years I have heard similar statements, 'You're too smart', 'You're too old', or my personal favourite, 'You should know better'. However well meaning, these are all ridiculous and unhelpful things to say to someone who uses knives to get through the day. I am neither an imbecile or a petulant child to be chastised or coddled. Mental illness does not know my age, race, sex or how wonderful I am at baking. My depression doesn't give a shit if I work hard, or spend my holiday's volunteering as an aid worker in a war torn country(I don't but you get the point). Try and imagine what it would take for you to pick up a piece of glass and tear at your own skin. And then imagine being told to 'snap out of it' or 'cop on'. It would probably make you feel like shit, and when you're down that low, you're an expert at making yourself feel like shit.
5. Don't stare
This is nothing more than good manners, it's rude to stare. Just because it looks like I went a few rounds with Edward Scissorhands, doesn't give you the right to look at me like I'm a sideshow freak. When your scars are visible it is incredibly difficult to not feel embarrassed all the time. When I started self harming, and even in my twenties when I did most of the damage to my arms, I didn't think of scars. You can't think of something so practical when your mind is imploding. I didn't know I would spend the rest of my life literally wearing my depression on my sleeve, because most of the time I didn't believe I had a future. I spent so much time hiding them, so much time being ashamed of my body and what I had done to it. I still cry sometimes when I look at what I have done to myself. But I am trying really hard to not feel so uncomfortable in my own skin, to not hide my battle scars from the world, so please don't make it harder. I can't speak for anyone else, but I would rather you asked me what happened than pointed me out to your friend on the Luas and eyeball me with horrified expressions. My scars might be ugly, but they are part of who I am. I wish I had never self-harmed, but I did, and without it I wouldn't be here right now.
I can't tell you I go out into the world every day, proud to be me, scars and all. I can't even say I do it once a week. But I am trying to see them for what they really are, proof that I went through hell and I am still here. That's what they are for all of us, because if you're reading this, you're still here and that's pretty damn impressive.
As I said before, I started self-harming at the age of 12. I don't know what made me try it for the first time, but over the last 19 years I have become something of an expert on the subject. To be clear, I am an expert about why I self-harm; you can't be an expert on another person's pain. We are the product of our genetics, our environment and most importantly, our life experiences; and as we are all individuals, everything we see, hear or experience is specific to us. Our perception shapes our reality, so in a sense, we are each living in our own separate universes. For example, have you ever received a text from someone and come to the conclusion they are being rude, that you must have done something to annoy or upset them. Maybe they only used one exclamation mark, or their usual winking face was missing. But if you ask them about it, they have no idea what you are talking about. Of course they aren't angry with you, it was a perfectly pleasant and friendly text. Then you feel like a bit of a jackass, because unless someone actually says something direct, it is almost impossible to determine the tone of a text. One text, two completely different experiences of it.
I realise I went slightly off point, but what I am trying to convey is that while I can (hopefully) provide you with some insight on self-harm, I can only truly understand how it affects me. There will be some overlap, but there is no 'one size fits all' answer. I have yet to find a situation where one size actually fits all, I'm currently wearing a pair of socks that claim to fit all feet, and yet my ankles are completely exposed to the cold air. I have once again digressed from the matter at hand, Lisa's guide to self-harm.
1. What exactly is self-harm?
Self-harm is when you deliberately inflict physical harm on yourself. There are a long list of behaviours that are used to self-harm such as cutting or scratching your skin; burning yourself; hitting yourself or banging your head; swallowing poisonous substances; purging or restricting(yes these are eating disorder behaviours, but are also used as a way of hurting oneself); driving recklessly etc. Someone might only engage in one of these destructive behaviours, or several. My weapons of choice are cutting, scratching, burning, purging and occasionally throwing my fist or whole body into a wall.
2. Why the hell would you do it?
Excellent question, sadly the answer is not so black and white. Self-harming is a coping mechanism, a negative one, but in the short term it is very effective. People self-harm for many reasons, and often in an individual it will serve more than one purpose. However over the years I have noticed that for most people it will serve at least one of the following functions:
- To punish yourself. When I feel worthless or stupid, or when I hate myself for being such a terrible daughter/friend/sibling, I feel like I deserve to be punished. I am such a terrible human being that I should suffer, I should be in pain, pain is all I deserve. I am so ugly inside that I have to make my outside ugly to. I have on one occasion been filled with such self-loathing that I stabbed myself in the stomach.
- Control. When you feel like completely powerless in life - your emotions, your past, your present are all spinning wildly into oblivion and you can't get a hold of them - your body is the one thing you hold dominion over. You choose to pick up that razor, or take those laxatives. In that moment, you are in control of at least one thing in your life. It's like a life raft you desperately cling onto to ride out the storm.
- Release. All that pain, sadness, anger or despair is trapped inside you causing you to be in such emotional pain that you would do anything to let some of it out. But either you don't know how or you're afraid that they are too big for you, they will swallow you whole if they burst through. Like a pot of boiling water that is just about to spill over, and at the last second you lift it up and lower the heat until it reduces to a simmer. Hurting yourself is the emotional equivalent, it brings the intensity down just enough so you can survive. The problem is, it is only a temporary reprieve. So you have to do it again, and again, to stop yourself from erupting. For me, when I feel like I'm being suffocated by my emotions, cutting is like taking a big, deep breath and allows me to breathe normally for a little while. I don't self-harm because I want to die, I am doing it to stay alive.
3. People who self-harm are attention seekers
*Deep breath* This statement usually touches a nerve with people who self-harm. A very raw nerve, but please read the entire paragraph before coming at me with verbal pitchforks. The truth is, sometimes people self-harm for attention. The problem is with the definition of 'attention'. When most people refer to someone as an attention seeker it is used in a pejorative way, like a bold child running around a restaurant screaming and embarrassing you in front of your friends. To seek attention however, is trying to get someone to notice you or take care of you i.e. you fall and injure yourself and you seek medical attention. So when I say that some people self harm to get attention, they are doing it because they are crying out for help and they are unable to or don't know how to verbalise it. If someone self-harms and tells you about it, or has to go to A&E, or tells you they are going to self-harm, it is not to manipulate you, they are simply asking you to see their pain and tell them how to stop it. They do it because they are terrified of their own thoughts and emotions and they are desperately trying to communicate with you, with anyone. It is a cry for help, not some childish attempt to become the center of attention. The rest of the time, we aren't going to tell you anything. Self-harm is our secret. Firstly, we may have problems but we aren't idiots. We are fully aware that what we do is not 'normal', and many of us are ashamed of it. We know what people think about us, about the signs in A&E that say anyone who presents with self-injuries is to be sent away, the stereotype of the angst ridden teenager brooding over bad poetry. Why on earth would we let ourselves be pigeonholed unless it was inescapable? Second, self-harming is our main coping strategy. When thing's get really bad, or if something happens that leaves us vulnerable or sends our emotions into a tailspin, one quick jab of a cigarette will calm us down. Yes, it's not an ideal situation, but we know it will always work, even if it's just for a few minutes. If we tell you, you will probably try and stop us, take away our safety net. So yes, sometimes a person will self-harm to try and get your attention, but it will usually be because their situation is critical.
4. You're too pretty to do that to yourself
The first time I tried to kill myself I had to go to A&E to get my wrists stitched. I was very distressed as the nurse was bandaging me up, and she decided to offer me the following advice: "You're far too pretty to be doing this to yourself, so you just stop that now, okay?". I was so stunned I immediately stopped sobbing. I know she was trying to be kind, but what my face had to do with my mental state is beyond me. Over the years I have heard similar statements, 'You're too smart', 'You're too old', or my personal favourite, 'You should know better'. However well meaning, these are all ridiculous and unhelpful things to say to someone who uses knives to get through the day. I am neither an imbecile or a petulant child to be chastised or coddled. Mental illness does not know my age, race, sex or how wonderful I am at baking. My depression doesn't give a shit if I work hard, or spend my holiday's volunteering as an aid worker in a war torn country(I don't but you get the point). Try and imagine what it would take for you to pick up a piece of glass and tear at your own skin. And then imagine being told to 'snap out of it' or 'cop on'. It would probably make you feel like shit, and when you're down that low, you're an expert at making yourself feel like shit.
5. Don't stare
This is nothing more than good manners, it's rude to stare. Just because it looks like I went a few rounds with Edward Scissorhands, doesn't give you the right to look at me like I'm a sideshow freak. When your scars are visible it is incredibly difficult to not feel embarrassed all the time. When I started self harming, and even in my twenties when I did most of the damage to my arms, I didn't think of scars. You can't think of something so practical when your mind is imploding. I didn't know I would spend the rest of my life literally wearing my depression on my sleeve, because most of the time I didn't believe I had a future. I spent so much time hiding them, so much time being ashamed of my body and what I had done to it. I still cry sometimes when I look at what I have done to myself. But I am trying really hard to not feel so uncomfortable in my own skin, to not hide my battle scars from the world, so please don't make it harder. I can't speak for anyone else, but I would rather you asked me what happened than pointed me out to your friend on the Luas and eyeball me with horrified expressions. My scars might be ugly, but they are part of who I am. I wish I had never self-harmed, but I did, and without it I wouldn't be here right now.
I can't tell you I go out into the world every day, proud to be me, scars and all. I can't even say I do it once a week. But I am trying to see them for what they really are, proof that I went through hell and I am still here. That's what they are for all of us, because if you're reading this, you're still here and that's pretty damn impressive.
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.
Friday, 4 December 2015
Christmas
When I saw my psychiatrist earlier this week for my last appointment of the year, he asked me if I had an worries about coping during Christmas. I had never been asked it before, or thought about it, so I automatically dismissed his concerns and went on my way. Later that day, while wrapping a pile of gifts, the question popped back into my mind and I realised he might have had good reason for asking.
Christmas has always been my favourite time of the year; I love the decorations, buying presents and then getting buried under mounds of wrapping paper and ribbon. I spend hours baking festive treats, cutting out paper snowflakes and have an advent calendar of Christmas films to ensure everyday is festive. Even my dogs get advent calendars...and stockings...and wrapped gifts. Don't judge me, they are my surrogate children and I shall treat them as such. I left home when I was 18 so I have been free to decorate to my hearts content for the last twelve years, and I have done so with gusto. In summary, Christmas is the best thing ever.
But over the last few years, I have struggled more and more to get into the spirit of the holiday season. I started putting off pulling out the trees, and if I'm honest, mu rapping skills just haven't been up to scratch. This year, I feel about as jolly as a the Grinch before his heart grew three sizes. Sitting on the floor, measuring out paper and sellotape, I wasn't lost in the thrill of neatly folded corners and perfectly curled ribbons - I was irritated. There had been a definite drop in my mood leading up to December, which I was putting down to difficult therapy sessions. But maybe it was more than that; Could Christmas be contributing to my increasingly dark thoughts? Within seconds I was in floods of tears; those awful, ugly sobs that come from some raw place deep inside. Usually bringing a lot of snot up with it. Afterwards, I decided it was possible that this year I was not the happy/irritatingly cheerful Elf in training I usually am. Something about Christmas has changed for me, so in an effort to try and revert to form, I'm going to try and find the reason for my change of heart.
My earliest Christmas memory is a special one, because it is the only one I have before the age of five. I'm not sure exactly what age I was, but it was before my sister was born so between 2 and 4. I was in a car with my parents, still married at that point, and we were driving back home to Greystones(lovely little seaside town in Wicklow). It was dark outside, and the only real light was from the moon and the car's headlights. I was sitting in the middle of the backseat, leaning forward to stick my face into the front, and I was singing along to the radio. It was Driving Home for Christmas, and I remember laughing because we were driving home for Christmas(child's sense of humour remember?). Whenever I hear that song it brings me back to that car, and to the overwhelming feeling of happiness and love I felt at that moment. It's also the only memory I have of being with both of my parents and feeling utterly at peace.
When my parents separated, Christmas was divided in two. We would spend Christmas with my mother and then go to my Dad's until after New Years Eve. My parents had a horrendous separation and eventual divorce, but at Christmas they always called a cease fire - at least as far as we knew. I'm not ashamed to admit that as a kid I could see some benefits to the arrangements; we essentially had two Christmas days, one with each parent, and got twice as many presents. My parents always did everything they could(separately of course) to make sure we had the best Christmas, but for me there was always an undercurrent of sadness. I worried that my dad would be lonely on Christmas day, and then that my mum would be lonely when we left. I worried a lot when I was younger, perhaps as a result of being caught in the crossfire so much, or simply because I was a bit of a sensitive child. And of course, being a child, I had the childish desire to have a real family Christmas, like everyone else.
As I got older, that desire turned into relief that I didn't have to be in a room at the same time as both of my parents. I found my own ways to enjoy Christmas, and embraced it in all its gingerbread infused glory. Besides, I had my annoying but adored younger sister to wake up with on Christmas day. We would sneak into each others rooms and open our stockings together, waiting impatiently for our mum to wake up and take us to the presents. Then we would go to our Dad's house for more presents - we were the one constant in each others lives really. Until my mum and husband number two decided to move to South Africa and took her with them. I went over for the first Christmas, but it wasn't the same. I didn't know it at the time but marriage two was breaking down, creating a less than jovial atmosphere.
So after that I started spending Christmas Day with my boyfriends' families, mostly because their very kind parents didn't want me to spend Christmas Day alone. That only happened once, and if I'm honest, it wasn't that bad. You might be wondering why I didn't spend the day with my Dad; he offered, but my Dad's house has never been my home. I go to visit him, his wife and my brothers; and I have never been able to face the pain of being a visitor in my Dad's house on Christmas Day. Even though I haven't spent Christmas Day with my Dad in about 23 years, the thought of being a 'guest' is too much for me to risk. That's not a judgement of my Dad, it's just how things turned out. My sister eventually came back from South Africa, and like me started spending Christmas with friends and their families, until she moved to Australia. I don't remember the last time I saw her on Christmas Day. Again, not a judgement, it's just the way it is.
My mum moved from South Africa to Spain, and had come home to Ireland over the Christmas period a few times in the last 8 years. But I haven't spent Christmas Day with her since she left when I was 18...just the way it is.
Now I spend Christmas day with Alan and his family. They invited me over when we had only been going out for a few months, because they wouldn't hear of me being on my own. That's just the kind of people they are, kind and loving. Every year we have a great meal, a rousing game of Monopoly and I'm not a guest, I'm part of the family. But with each year I've spent with them, and with all of the lovely families who have had me over over the years, I get a little bit sadder that my family are so far apart that spending Christmas Day together doesn't even come into the equation. I think I miss that feeling I had, driving home all those years ago. Strange how you can miss something that was so fleeting.
Even in a room full of laughter and brussels sprouts, you can feel really lonely at Christmas. But perhaps it is time to let go of the ghost of Christmas past, and focus on the present, as its 'life upon this globe is very brief'.
Christmas has always been my favourite time of the year; I love the decorations, buying presents and then getting buried under mounds of wrapping paper and ribbon. I spend hours baking festive treats, cutting out paper snowflakes and have an advent calendar of Christmas films to ensure everyday is festive. Even my dogs get advent calendars...and stockings...and wrapped gifts. Don't judge me, they are my surrogate children and I shall treat them as such. I left home when I was 18 so I have been free to decorate to my hearts content for the last twelve years, and I have done so with gusto. In summary, Christmas is the best thing ever.
But over the last few years, I have struggled more and more to get into the spirit of the holiday season. I started putting off pulling out the trees, and if I'm honest, mu rapping skills just haven't been up to scratch. This year, I feel about as jolly as a the Grinch before his heart grew three sizes. Sitting on the floor, measuring out paper and sellotape, I wasn't lost in the thrill of neatly folded corners and perfectly curled ribbons - I was irritated. There had been a definite drop in my mood leading up to December, which I was putting down to difficult therapy sessions. But maybe it was more than that; Could Christmas be contributing to my increasingly dark thoughts? Within seconds I was in floods of tears; those awful, ugly sobs that come from some raw place deep inside. Usually bringing a lot of snot up with it. Afterwards, I decided it was possible that this year I was not the happy/irritatingly cheerful Elf in training I usually am. Something about Christmas has changed for me, so in an effort to try and revert to form, I'm going to try and find the reason for my change of heart.
My earliest Christmas memory is a special one, because it is the only one I have before the age of five. I'm not sure exactly what age I was, but it was before my sister was born so between 2 and 4. I was in a car with my parents, still married at that point, and we were driving back home to Greystones(lovely little seaside town in Wicklow). It was dark outside, and the only real light was from the moon and the car's headlights. I was sitting in the middle of the backseat, leaning forward to stick my face into the front, and I was singing along to the radio. It was Driving Home for Christmas, and I remember laughing because we were driving home for Christmas(child's sense of humour remember?). Whenever I hear that song it brings me back to that car, and to the overwhelming feeling of happiness and love I felt at that moment. It's also the only memory I have of being with both of my parents and feeling utterly at peace.
When my parents separated, Christmas was divided in two. We would spend Christmas with my mother and then go to my Dad's until after New Years Eve. My parents had a horrendous separation and eventual divorce, but at Christmas they always called a cease fire - at least as far as we knew. I'm not ashamed to admit that as a kid I could see some benefits to the arrangements; we essentially had two Christmas days, one with each parent, and got twice as many presents. My parents always did everything they could(separately of course) to make sure we had the best Christmas, but for me there was always an undercurrent of sadness. I worried that my dad would be lonely on Christmas day, and then that my mum would be lonely when we left. I worried a lot when I was younger, perhaps as a result of being caught in the crossfire so much, or simply because I was a bit of a sensitive child. And of course, being a child, I had the childish desire to have a real family Christmas, like everyone else.
As I got older, that desire turned into relief that I didn't have to be in a room at the same time as both of my parents. I found my own ways to enjoy Christmas, and embraced it in all its gingerbread infused glory. Besides, I had my annoying but adored younger sister to wake up with on Christmas day. We would sneak into each others rooms and open our stockings together, waiting impatiently for our mum to wake up and take us to the presents. Then we would go to our Dad's house for more presents - we were the one constant in each others lives really. Until my mum and husband number two decided to move to South Africa and took her with them. I went over for the first Christmas, but it wasn't the same. I didn't know it at the time but marriage two was breaking down, creating a less than jovial atmosphere.
So after that I started spending Christmas Day with my boyfriends' families, mostly because their very kind parents didn't want me to spend Christmas Day alone. That only happened once, and if I'm honest, it wasn't that bad. You might be wondering why I didn't spend the day with my Dad; he offered, but my Dad's house has never been my home. I go to visit him, his wife and my brothers; and I have never been able to face the pain of being a visitor in my Dad's house on Christmas Day. Even though I haven't spent Christmas Day with my Dad in about 23 years, the thought of being a 'guest' is too much for me to risk. That's not a judgement of my Dad, it's just how things turned out. My sister eventually came back from South Africa, and like me started spending Christmas with friends and their families, until she moved to Australia. I don't remember the last time I saw her on Christmas Day. Again, not a judgement, it's just the way it is.
My mum moved from South Africa to Spain, and had come home to Ireland over the Christmas period a few times in the last 8 years. But I haven't spent Christmas Day with her since she left when I was 18...just the way it is.
Now I spend Christmas day with Alan and his family. They invited me over when we had only been going out for a few months, because they wouldn't hear of me being on my own. That's just the kind of people they are, kind and loving. Every year we have a great meal, a rousing game of Monopoly and I'm not a guest, I'm part of the family. But with each year I've spent with them, and with all of the lovely families who have had me over over the years, I get a little bit sadder that my family are so far apart that spending Christmas Day together doesn't even come into the equation. I think I miss that feeling I had, driving home all those years ago. Strange how you can miss something that was so fleeting.
Even in a room full of laughter and brussels sprouts, you can feel really lonely at Christmas. But perhaps it is time to let go of the ghost of Christmas past, and focus on the present, as its 'life upon this globe is very brief'.
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.
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
Tuesday, 6 October 2015
Bulimia
You might be wondering why, after writing so many posts about my mental health between the ages of 12 and 19, I gave brushed over the next 10 years of my life. From 2004 to 2014 I lived the same life over and over again. I would have a period of being well, then the depression and mood swings would return. I would self harm until eventually I ended up in A&E; be referred back to a psychiatrist; take more medication...round and round and round. Some of the characteristics attributed to my personality disorder were always, and will always be, active. There were however, three significant events during that time that I want to talk about. The next few posts will focus on one of them - the beginning of my eating disorder.
Whenever I have been asked when I started engaging in eating disorder behaviours, my answer is always: when I was 22. At the time I was in a stable relationship, working full time and through a combination of therapy and new medication I had been stable for a few months. I was also very overweight, and that is not an exaggeration or my eating disorder talking. The medication I was taking increased my appetite, and I doubled my portion sizes for every meal. Then my moods started fluctuating again, and instead of facing it I tried to pretend it wasn't happening. Then I started eating whenever my mood would dip to cheer myself up. I have always loved food, so in the short term this strategy was effective. I was filling that hole inside my heart with cake...and chocolate, and sausage rolls and...well you get the picture. As a result, I started gaining weight. But again, instead of facing it, I ignored it, and my weight skyrocketed.
I only have one picture of myself at my heaviest; in it I am wearing an outfit I'd had for a number of years but, as I had almost doubled in size, the flowing baby-doll top was now skintight and bursting at the seams. I don't know how I managed to ignore what was quite literally right in front of my face, but until the day I saw that picture, that's what I did. When I saw that photo, I was horrified and repulsed. My mood plummeted. I became depressed, my mood swings worsened and my fingers were itching to pick up something cold and sharp. I made half-hearted attempts to exercise, but after a few days I would always give up. I just didn't see the point in trying.
I was in the toiler in work one day, hiding in a stall trying to get control over a sudden onset of tears. I had just finished lunch, all I could think about was cutting, and out of nowhere I decided to stick my fingers down my throat. After several minutes my throat was burning, my knuckles raw from my front teeth and my stomach ached from the violent retching. It felt wonderful, that addictive combination of a silent mind and pain. So I started throwing up every lunchtime to help me get through the afternoon. All too quickly, once a day wasn't enough to quiet the tirade of abuse I lashed myself with every waking moment. As I ate breakfast at work it was easy to add it to the purge schedule. I quickly learned the tricks of the trade - ways to ensure I emptied more of my stomach. I didn't see the harm in what I was doing; I had plenty of extra fat to keep me going and really, it was just like taking a Xanax. More importantly, I wasn't self harming right?
I couldn't, or wouldn't, see any connection between making myself sick and self harming. They were completely different, the vomiting wasn't doing any harm. In fact, the vomiting was helping me. My clothes slowly started to become looser, I was actually loosing weight. It was just a diet, and like any diet you had to stick with it. So I started throwing up dinner, as much as I could without alerting my boyfriend. I never questioned why my 'diet' had to be so secretive, but it did. I knew I had to keep it to myself, or it might be taken away. By this point I couldn't go one day without throwing up, I was completely addicted to it. Even when my boyfriend discovered what I was doing, I wouldn't stop. I finally had a way to manage my emotions, to block out my thoughts, and nobody was taking it away from me.
Over the next few years, until about 2012, I would go a week or two without throwing up, but I always went back to it. I had lost a lot of the weight I had gained, and as often happens with bulimia, I hit a certain number on the scales and stayed there. It didn't matter though, the weight loss had always been a bonus. The purging gave me control; it was the only thing in my life I felt like I had any control over. But more on control later.
So that's how it started. Or at least that's what I thought. The thing about eating disorders is, they don't normally spring up out of nowhere in your twenties. The behaviour, the purging, started in my twenties. But I have come to realise that my relationship with food had been distorted long before that.
Whenever I have been asked when I started engaging in eating disorder behaviours, my answer is always: when I was 22. At the time I was in a stable relationship, working full time and through a combination of therapy and new medication I had been stable for a few months. I was also very overweight, and that is not an exaggeration or my eating disorder talking. The medication I was taking increased my appetite, and I doubled my portion sizes for every meal. Then my moods started fluctuating again, and instead of facing it I tried to pretend it wasn't happening. Then I started eating whenever my mood would dip to cheer myself up. I have always loved food, so in the short term this strategy was effective. I was filling that hole inside my heart with cake...and chocolate, and sausage rolls and...well you get the picture. As a result, I started gaining weight. But again, instead of facing it, I ignored it, and my weight skyrocketed.
I only have one picture of myself at my heaviest; in it I am wearing an outfit I'd had for a number of years but, as I had almost doubled in size, the flowing baby-doll top was now skintight and bursting at the seams. I don't know how I managed to ignore what was quite literally right in front of my face, but until the day I saw that picture, that's what I did. When I saw that photo, I was horrified and repulsed. My mood plummeted. I became depressed, my mood swings worsened and my fingers were itching to pick up something cold and sharp. I made half-hearted attempts to exercise, but after a few days I would always give up. I just didn't see the point in trying.
I was in the toiler in work one day, hiding in a stall trying to get control over a sudden onset of tears. I had just finished lunch, all I could think about was cutting, and out of nowhere I decided to stick my fingers down my throat. After several minutes my throat was burning, my knuckles raw from my front teeth and my stomach ached from the violent retching. It felt wonderful, that addictive combination of a silent mind and pain. So I started throwing up every lunchtime to help me get through the afternoon. All too quickly, once a day wasn't enough to quiet the tirade of abuse I lashed myself with every waking moment. As I ate breakfast at work it was easy to add it to the purge schedule. I quickly learned the tricks of the trade - ways to ensure I emptied more of my stomach. I didn't see the harm in what I was doing; I had plenty of extra fat to keep me going and really, it was just like taking a Xanax. More importantly, I wasn't self harming right?
I couldn't, or wouldn't, see any connection between making myself sick and self harming. They were completely different, the vomiting wasn't doing any harm. In fact, the vomiting was helping me. My clothes slowly started to become looser, I was actually loosing weight. It was just a diet, and like any diet you had to stick with it. So I started throwing up dinner, as much as I could without alerting my boyfriend. I never questioned why my 'diet' had to be so secretive, but it did. I knew I had to keep it to myself, or it might be taken away. By this point I couldn't go one day without throwing up, I was completely addicted to it. Even when my boyfriend discovered what I was doing, I wouldn't stop. I finally had a way to manage my emotions, to block out my thoughts, and nobody was taking it away from me.
Over the next few years, until about 2012, I would go a week or two without throwing up, but I always went back to it. I had lost a lot of the weight I had gained, and as often happens with bulimia, I hit a certain number on the scales and stayed there. It didn't matter though, the weight loss had always been a bonus. The purging gave me control; it was the only thing in my life I felt like I had any control over. But more on control later.
So that's how it started. Or at least that's what I thought. The thing about eating disorders is, they don't normally spring up out of nowhere in your twenties. The behaviour, the purging, started in my twenties. But I have come to realise that my relationship with food had been distorted long before that.
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.
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