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 Relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Relationships. Show all posts
Friday, 18 November 2016
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'.
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?
Friday, 2 October 2015
Don't Leave Me
I attended the day hospital for six weeks in 2004, attending the same groups and covering the same topics as before. While the day hospital gave structure and routine, I came out feeling just as lost and directionless. I returned to work, took a room with a family my dad knew and attended saw my psychiatrist monthly. The appointments were just 15 minutes long and served only to review my medication, and check the box next to 'No suicidal intent'. Still, I took my pills and tried my best to get on with daily life, fake it 'till you make it. Over the years I have spent long periods pretended to be happy; smiled when I wanted to cry; laughed when I was picturing razors and rivers of blood; kissed when I felt dead inside. I worked so hard at faking it that sometimes I can't take the mask off, sliding it into place is as natural to me as breathing. Not once has faking it improved my mood(despite what countless therapists have said), but it makes other people feel better. If you know me, you've probably only seen my real expression because I've had way too much to drink, or you've had the joy of bringing me to or from A&E. Other than that, what you're seeing is probably an act.
Between 2004 and 2014 I continued to battle depression and self harm. I have no idea how many times I had to go to hospital for stitches over the course of those ten years; how many psychiatrists I saw; how many therapists I spoke to; how many suicide attempts I made. If someone else told me that they couldn't count all the times they tried to end their life, my heart would break for them. But the rules are different for me. On my good days, if I think about it, I chastise myself for being such a nuisance. On my bad days, I berate myself for being so utterly useless, for failing so many times.
I had periods of being 'well', months where I was not self harming or in need of medication. But self harm wasn't the only aspect of my personality that was problematic. I frequently drank until I passed out; I racked up mountains of debt through impulse spending; I hurt people I loved and I allowed others to hurt me. I had no control over my emotions, I could go from one extreme to the other in minutes. Nothing was ever bad, it was terrible; I wasn't just happy, I was delirious. Everything I felt, I felt it with an intensity that never matched the situation. I didn't just love you, I loved you and would die if you left me. And I mean that literally. I don't remember ever saying 'If you go I will kill myself', although it's possible I did, but I know that it was definitely implied on multiple occasions. I know how awful that sounds, and there is no justification for such blatant emotional blackmail. My fear of losing the one person who I couldn't live without far outweighed my morals. That would be yet another characteristic of BPD - tendency to form intense and unstable interpersonal relationships.
If you grow up in an environment where love is not always given, or is expressed in negative ways, the one thing you want most in the world is to be loved unconditionally. All you want is for someone to choose to love you, to fill that need inside to be accepted and wanted. As a child I often felt there was something wrong with me, that when bad things happened it was my fault, always. I remember being 7 or 8, sitting at the top of the stairs one night listening to the noise below, and feeling so very cold and unwanted. Once that feeling takes hold, that shard of icy doubt in your heart, it won't let go. We learn to love by being loved, and if your own parents don't love you, there is no way you can love yourself. To this day, age 30, I still can't name one thing I like about myself, let alone love.
So when someone comes along and loves you, not because they have to, but because they want to, it's terrifying. Yes, terrifying. Imagine yourself balanced on a tight rope, arms outstretched, high above the ground. You're halfway across and the air is still, the only sound is your own heartbeat. You're smiling, you know this is your moment to dazzle the world below. You slowly lift your right leg up and forward, and as you lower it back down there is a sudden gust of wind. You wobble, desperately trying to right yourself. Your arms are stiff, moving up and down to counter the motion of the rope. The rope stills, your arms once again stretched out straight on either side, the terror subsides. You mentally shake it off, maybe laugh at yourself to dispel any lingering fear. You refocus on the rope, on that right leg still poised in the air. Then you notice it. Somehow, during the commotion, you arched your left foot upwards. You are now balancing solely on your toes, your right foot is in the air. If you put the right foot down first you risk pitching forward. Equally, if you put down your left heel first you could fall back. You look down at the ground, down, down, down. The fall will most likely kill you, and if not the pain will make you wish you were dead. You freeze right there in the middle, one false move and it's all over.
Being loved when you don't think you deserve it is like being on that wire. One false move and it will be taken away, the one thing you want more than anything else is the one thing that can destroy you. Everyday you are afraid, of loosing your balance, of loosing love. You let the fear have control, you torment your partner with your insecurities. With baseless accusations. With your insatiable need for reassurance. The more they try to reason with you, to affirm their feelings, the worse it gets. You get smaller and smaller, as the relationship consumes you. You can no longer see yourself outside of the pair; you just want to make them love you every second of the day, even if you drive them crazy in the process.
It took me a long time to figure out who I was on my own, including a small relapse into the land of promiscuity. I still don't like who I am, but I know that I'll still be the same person alone. I know I can be alone, I don't need someone else to survive. Depression does not care what your relationship status is on Facebook, but neither does happiness.
Between 2004 and 2014 I continued to battle depression and self harm. I have no idea how many times I had to go to hospital for stitches over the course of those ten years; how many psychiatrists I saw; how many therapists I spoke to; how many suicide attempts I made. If someone else told me that they couldn't count all the times they tried to end their life, my heart would break for them. But the rules are different for me. On my good days, if I think about it, I chastise myself for being such a nuisance. On my bad days, I berate myself for being so utterly useless, for failing so many times.
I had periods of being 'well', months where I was not self harming or in need of medication. But self harm wasn't the only aspect of my personality that was problematic. I frequently drank until I passed out; I racked up mountains of debt through impulse spending; I hurt people I loved and I allowed others to hurt me. I had no control over my emotions, I could go from one extreme to the other in minutes. Nothing was ever bad, it was terrible; I wasn't just happy, I was delirious. Everything I felt, I felt it with an intensity that never matched the situation. I didn't just love you, I loved you and would die if you left me. And I mean that literally. I don't remember ever saying 'If you go I will kill myself', although it's possible I did, but I know that it was definitely implied on multiple occasions. I know how awful that sounds, and there is no justification for such blatant emotional blackmail. My fear of losing the one person who I couldn't live without far outweighed my morals. That would be yet another characteristic of BPD - tendency to form intense and unstable interpersonal relationships.
If you grow up in an environment where love is not always given, or is expressed in negative ways, the one thing you want most in the world is to be loved unconditionally. All you want is for someone to choose to love you, to fill that need inside to be accepted and wanted. As a child I often felt there was something wrong with me, that when bad things happened it was my fault, always. I remember being 7 or 8, sitting at the top of the stairs one night listening to the noise below, and feeling so very cold and unwanted. Once that feeling takes hold, that shard of icy doubt in your heart, it won't let go. We learn to love by being loved, and if your own parents don't love you, there is no way you can love yourself. To this day, age 30, I still can't name one thing I like about myself, let alone love.
So when someone comes along and loves you, not because they have to, but because they want to, it's terrifying. Yes, terrifying. Imagine yourself balanced on a tight rope, arms outstretched, high above the ground. You're halfway across and the air is still, the only sound is your own heartbeat. You're smiling, you know this is your moment to dazzle the world below. You slowly lift your right leg up and forward, and as you lower it back down there is a sudden gust of wind. You wobble, desperately trying to right yourself. Your arms are stiff, moving up and down to counter the motion of the rope. The rope stills, your arms once again stretched out straight on either side, the terror subsides. You mentally shake it off, maybe laugh at yourself to dispel any lingering fear. You refocus on the rope, on that right leg still poised in the air. Then you notice it. Somehow, during the commotion, you arched your left foot upwards. You are now balancing solely on your toes, your right foot is in the air. If you put the right foot down first you risk pitching forward. Equally, if you put down your left heel first you could fall back. You look down at the ground, down, down, down. The fall will most likely kill you, and if not the pain will make you wish you were dead. You freeze right there in the middle, one false move and it's all over.
Being loved when you don't think you deserve it is like being on that wire. One false move and it will be taken away, the one thing you want more than anything else is the one thing that can destroy you. Everyday you are afraid, of loosing your balance, of loosing love. You let the fear have control, you torment your partner with your insecurities. With baseless accusations. With your insatiable need for reassurance. The more they try to reason with you, to affirm their feelings, the worse it gets. You get smaller and smaller, as the relationship consumes you. You can no longer see yourself outside of the pair; you just want to make them love you every second of the day, even if you drive them crazy in the process.
It took me a long time to figure out who I was on my own, including a small relapse into the land of promiscuity. I still don't like who I am, but I know that I'll still be the same person alone. I know I can be alone, I don't need someone else to survive. Depression does not care what your relationship status is on Facebook, but neither does happiness.
Tuesday, 1 September 2015
Love
As I mentioned in my previous post, what happened in the wooded area changed something in me. For years my mind, my identity, had been a source of contempt and loathing. I had taken my frustration and anger out on my body by punishing it, etching my pain across my flesh with vehemence. After that night however, I knew that I was not the only one who saw me for what I truly was; my flaws were clearly visible to others. I was defective, and my feelings of worthlessness pushed me ever closer to that black hole. I was desperate to find something I could be good at, something I could offer so that people would like me. To put it simply, all I wanted was to be wanted by someone. Anyone. To be needed for just a moment, one moment to kill the growing emptiness inside me.
So I sought comfort in the one place I knew I would find it - the arms of men. I wish I could express to you how I felt during that time, but I can't. In order to move on from that time in my life I have had to leave it where it belongs, firmly in the past, and to do that I have to emotionally disconnect from it. When I look back at my actions, at how I treated myself, it is as a dispassionate observer. I can tell you that I became trapped in a vicious cycle - if a random guy in a bar 'chose' me, it meant they liked or wanted something I had. I had a purpose. Then in the cold light of day, usually nursing a hangover, I would feel nothing but disgust at myself. Disgust and rejection, because they had, to put it crudely, sampled my goods and not wanted seconds. So I would go back out again, looking for that validation I had been missing all of my life. I don't blame these men for how I felt, the terms of our encounters were perfectly clear to them. They had no way of knowing the anguish I felt each morning, the shame. And yet again and again I would go home with them, the master of my own destruction. Dying inside, one night at a time.
Then I met a boy, a boy who wanted to hold my hand and get to know me. This was new and uncharted territory. I was amazed by this new land, a place where you could return to one person over and over again for acceptance. Instantly I was hooked; how stupid I had been all this time, looking for approval in dark corners and seedy bars. There was someone in the world who couldn't see the corruption inside me, who thought I was interesting. Funny. Maybe even acceptable to look at.
When you spend so long feeling unwanted and undeserving, you are powerless to resist any signs of affection. I grabbed onto it like a life raft, clutching it tightly to my chest to keep me afloat. I felt everything so intensely, and I shared these feelings with the world. I was in love after 3 weeks, I picked up new hobbies and interests to match theirs with gusto. I did everything I could to mold myself into what they wanted, to become what I thought was the perfect girlfriend. The relief and happiness I felt was empowering, but with it came fear like nothing I had felt before. Here was this marvelous thing called a relationship, with these wonderful feelings of acceptance, that had been gifted to me by the universe. I should have been content, enjoying my first true foray into romance and love. But my relief was short lived, because I knew the truth about life. I knew that as quickly as things come to you, they can be taken away. I was consumed with the need to keep hold of this new world. The higher you climb, the further the fall.
Now that I knew what it was to be deemed worthy by another, I couldn't loose it. Most people will experience a level of insecurity in a relationship at one time or another. Maybe a stab of jealousy when he smiled at a pretty barmaid, leading to an overt display of affection and ownership. Wondering for a moment how she could really find you attractive when you see a picture of her ex, sometimes even demanding an explanation from her. Felt suspicious when they liked someone's status and engaged in a bit of Facebook stalking. Or maybe you've let your self-doubt get the better of you and checked his phone or Facebook messages. It happens to the best of us, there are very few people who believe in themselves 100% of the time, and I have yet to meet any of them. But there is a very fine line between 'normal' or acceptable insecurity and the insecurity someone with borderline personality disorder (and indeed most personality disorders) can experience. It's like living in a constant state of threat; the fear that the love and acceptance you have craved all your life can be snatched away; the constant anxiety that your girlfriend/boyfriend will realise what a terrible mistake they have made; knowing that this person could do so much better than you, and the world is full of people lining up to take your spot. You are completely addicted to being loved, and you will do anything to keep it. Which usually means you become the most neurotic and needy partner in the world. If you haven't dated someone with BPD, please trust me when I say it is a whole other level of crazy ass bitch.
The irony is, we spend so much of our time trying to hold onto this thing called love, and yet we don't trust it at all. Who could love me? They can see me, they know how stupid and useless I am, they can do better; and yet they say they love us? Utter nonsense, this must be a trick of some kind. Under no circumstances can we allow this proffered love to become part of us. Better to keep it on the surface, so that when they take it away, we will be protected from the worst of it. Even better, if we do these things we can push them away. And when they leave, like we always knew the would, they'll have proved what we knew all along: we are unlovable.
It is a horrible place to be, needing and fearing something at the same time. You want to be loved so badly it aches, but you do not trust anyone who says they love you. How can you? In my life to that point, love meant shouting and anger and departures. Love meant you could be hurt.
From the ages of 19 to 27 I had three serious relationships. I am not going to share with you any tales of woe or joy from them for the following reasons:
1) It is not necessary to reveal the minute details of my past relationships in order to explain who I was or who I am now.
2) They aren't just my stories to tell. Only half of each memory belongs to me, and it is not up to me to share another persons history.
3) While many things happened over the course of our relationships, I am not some blameless victim. I made plenty of mistakes, as humans do, and I have neither the desire nor higher ground to lay blame.
4) Most importantly, at some point I loved them and I have no regrets for having known them; and while I'm sure they (justifiably) feel the opposite, I have no animosity towards them. Plus, as I may have mentioned, I was bat shit crazy a lot of the time, I'd probably come off on the losing side :)
What is important for me to share with you is that for a period of eight years, I became completely and utterly consumed by the need to love and be loved. In my mind I had found a new, and brilliant, way to get validation. But in reality, I just gave myself even more opportunities to fail. In all that time I never once felt I deserved to be cared for, I never believed I was good enough, I never trusted that anyone could love me. I became more and more emotionally unstable, increasingly impulsive and destructive and would journey down the rabbit hole, into the world of mental health services.
So I sought comfort in the one place I knew I would find it - the arms of men. I wish I could express to you how I felt during that time, but I can't. In order to move on from that time in my life I have had to leave it where it belongs, firmly in the past, and to do that I have to emotionally disconnect from it. When I look back at my actions, at how I treated myself, it is as a dispassionate observer. I can tell you that I became trapped in a vicious cycle - if a random guy in a bar 'chose' me, it meant they liked or wanted something I had. I had a purpose. Then in the cold light of day, usually nursing a hangover, I would feel nothing but disgust at myself. Disgust and rejection, because they had, to put it crudely, sampled my goods and not wanted seconds. So I would go back out again, looking for that validation I had been missing all of my life. I don't blame these men for how I felt, the terms of our encounters were perfectly clear to them. They had no way of knowing the anguish I felt each morning, the shame. And yet again and again I would go home with them, the master of my own destruction. Dying inside, one night at a time.
Then I met a boy, a boy who wanted to hold my hand and get to know me. This was new and uncharted territory. I was amazed by this new land, a place where you could return to one person over and over again for acceptance. Instantly I was hooked; how stupid I had been all this time, looking for approval in dark corners and seedy bars. There was someone in the world who couldn't see the corruption inside me, who thought I was interesting. Funny. Maybe even acceptable to look at.
When you spend so long feeling unwanted and undeserving, you are powerless to resist any signs of affection. I grabbed onto it like a life raft, clutching it tightly to my chest to keep me afloat. I felt everything so intensely, and I shared these feelings with the world. I was in love after 3 weeks, I picked up new hobbies and interests to match theirs with gusto. I did everything I could to mold myself into what they wanted, to become what I thought was the perfect girlfriend. The relief and happiness I felt was empowering, but with it came fear like nothing I had felt before. Here was this marvelous thing called a relationship, with these wonderful feelings of acceptance, that had been gifted to me by the universe. I should have been content, enjoying my first true foray into romance and love. But my relief was short lived, because I knew the truth about life. I knew that as quickly as things come to you, they can be taken away. I was consumed with the need to keep hold of this new world. The higher you climb, the further the fall.
Now that I knew what it was to be deemed worthy by another, I couldn't loose it. Most people will experience a level of insecurity in a relationship at one time or another. Maybe a stab of jealousy when he smiled at a pretty barmaid, leading to an overt display of affection and ownership. Wondering for a moment how she could really find you attractive when you see a picture of her ex, sometimes even demanding an explanation from her. Felt suspicious when they liked someone's status and engaged in a bit of Facebook stalking. Or maybe you've let your self-doubt get the better of you and checked his phone or Facebook messages. It happens to the best of us, there are very few people who believe in themselves 100% of the time, and I have yet to meet any of them. But there is a very fine line between 'normal' or acceptable insecurity and the insecurity someone with borderline personality disorder (and indeed most personality disorders) can experience. It's like living in a constant state of threat; the fear that the love and acceptance you have craved all your life can be snatched away; the constant anxiety that your girlfriend/boyfriend will realise what a terrible mistake they have made; knowing that this person could do so much better than you, and the world is full of people lining up to take your spot. You are completely addicted to being loved, and you will do anything to keep it. Which usually means you become the most neurotic and needy partner in the world. If you haven't dated someone with BPD, please trust me when I say it is a whole other level of crazy ass bitch.
The irony is, we spend so much of our time trying to hold onto this thing called love, and yet we don't trust it at all. Who could love me? They can see me, they know how stupid and useless I am, they can do better; and yet they say they love us? Utter nonsense, this must be a trick of some kind. Under no circumstances can we allow this proffered love to become part of us. Better to keep it on the surface, so that when they take it away, we will be protected from the worst of it. Even better, if we do these things we can push them away. And when they leave, like we always knew the would, they'll have proved what we knew all along: we are unlovable.
It is a horrible place to be, needing and fearing something at the same time. You want to be loved so badly it aches, but you do not trust anyone who says they love you. How can you? In my life to that point, love meant shouting and anger and departures. Love meant you could be hurt.
From the ages of 19 to 27 I had three serious relationships. I am not going to share with you any tales of woe or joy from them for the following reasons:
1) It is not necessary to reveal the minute details of my past relationships in order to explain who I was or who I am now.
2) They aren't just my stories to tell. Only half of each memory belongs to me, and it is not up to me to share another persons history.
3) While many things happened over the course of our relationships, I am not some blameless victim. I made plenty of mistakes, as humans do, and I have neither the desire nor higher ground to lay blame.
4) Most importantly, at some point I loved them and I have no regrets for having known them; and while I'm sure they (justifiably) feel the opposite, I have no animosity towards them. Plus, as I may have mentioned, I was bat shit crazy a lot of the time, I'd probably come off on the losing side :)
What is important for me to share with you is that for a period of eight years, I became completely and utterly consumed by the need to love and be loved. In my mind I had found a new, and brilliant, way to get validation. But in reality, I just gave myself even more opportunities to fail. In all that time I never once felt I deserved to be cared for, I never believed I was good enough, I never trusted that anyone could love me. I became more and more emotionally unstable, increasingly impulsive and destructive and would journey down the rabbit hole, into the world of mental health services.
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