...calorie free?
Tuesday, 31 August 2010
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
All Time Low
Sometimes song lyrics filter into our awareness and hook into something that we feel or think.
I guess I'm not alone in this experience as I know it's something that has, in itself, been sung about in the "strumming my pain with his fingers" song... Y'know the one... (Frustratingly, I can only think of The Fugees - with their irritating 'one time' spin on it- though I first knew the original version by __________fill in the blank_____).
THAT song tells of someone's shock and disbelief at hearing a young boy singing their "whole life with his words". The narrator (do songs HAVE narrators?) feels that his or her secret pain has been exposed, as though the boy has opened up her letters and "read each one aloud".
Interesting that the song expresses a sense of the agony that can come from being 'known' in an intimate way, of being revealed. The narrator prays that the boy will finish, suggesting that it is absolutely unbearable.
I wonder if the agony was in being known or in being faced with his/her own pain.
Perhaps a mixture.
I digress. I actually wanted to write about the very opposite reaction to the one I've just discussed.
I wasn't listening to the radio I had on as I was driving today but somehow the words of a song I've never heard, pushed their way into my head.
As lyrics sometimes do (and despite the fact I'm not completely sold on the song as a whole) they made something in me feel a little bit heard and understood and realised.
It's odd how a part of you can suddenly and unexpectedly be given a voice through a medium which has no knowledge of your existence, let alone experience.
I guess it's a testimony to the human condition and to the fact that in ways we don't necessarily ever get to experience wholly, we are never quite alone.
Not really a song of hope or anything, but there may be something ever so slightly comforting in hearing another pose the questions that you have so often asked in the dead of night.
I guess I'm not alone in this experience as I know it's something that has, in itself, been sung about in the "strumming my pain with his fingers" song... Y'know the one... (Frustratingly, I can only think of The Fugees - with their irritating 'one time' spin on it- though I first knew the original version by __________fill in the blank_____).
THAT song tells of someone's shock and disbelief at hearing a young boy singing their "whole life with his words". The narrator (do songs HAVE narrators?) feels that his or her secret pain has been exposed, as though the boy has opened up her letters and "read each one aloud".
Interesting that the song expresses a sense of the agony that can come from being 'known' in an intimate way, of being revealed. The narrator prays that the boy will finish, suggesting that it is absolutely unbearable.
I wonder if the agony was in being known or in being faced with his/her own pain.
Perhaps a mixture.
I digress. I actually wanted to write about the very opposite reaction to the one I've just discussed.
I wasn't listening to the radio I had on as I was driving today but somehow the words of a song I've never heard, pushed their way into my head.
As lyrics sometimes do (and despite the fact I'm not completely sold on the song as a whole) they made something in me feel a little bit heard and understood and realised.
It's odd how a part of you can suddenly and unexpectedly be given a voice through a medium which has no knowledge of your existence, let alone experience.
I guess it's a testimony to the human condition and to the fact that in ways we don't necessarily ever get to experience wholly, we are never quite alone.
Praying won't do it
Hating won't do it
Drinking won't do it
Fighting won't knock you out
Of my head
Hiding won't hide it
Smiling won't hide it
Like I ain't tried it
Everyone's tried it now
And failed somehow
So when you gonna let me
When you gonna let me out - Out
And if you know
How do you get up from an all time low
I'm in pieces
Seems like peace is
The only thing I'll never know
How do you get up
Get up
‘Cos driving won't do it
Flying won't do it
Denying won't do it
Crying won't drown it out
Not really a song of hope or anything, but there may be something ever so slightly comforting in hearing another pose the questions that you have so often asked in the dead of night.
Friday, 20 August 2010
Disappearing Acts
Sharp, scagged fingernails of feeling trace swirling spirals through the inner fog. I feel the nails drag and pierce as they move across old, unseen wounds and I stare, in search of clarity, or discovery. But even as I look, the lines begin to blur and bulge, just like the clean cut of an aeroplane's path across the blue.
And it blurs and spreads into unfeeling mist.
I so often have the sensation of not being able to see something as soon as I look at it directly.
I remember in the early 1990s when 3 dimensional optical illusion posters were all the rage. Teenagers' bedroom walls would be covered with large bits of glossy paper covered in very repetitive, computer generated, patterns made up of tiny strokes of colour.
The pattern (called a Stereogram) was cleverly designed so that it contained an image which could only be seen when focused on in a particular way. Sort of modern man's answer to impressionism. Van Gogh meets Mac.
I used to find that in order to see the hidden images, I had to train my eyes to be looking beyond the poster; I almost had to DEfocus on the image.
The minute I mastered the 'defocusing' technique (actually known as 'parallel viewing'), the hidden delights of the poster were revealed. However, the minute I tried to sustain the image and look at it more clearly, it would disintegrate into a million, seemingly random, coloured particles again.
That's me in therapy.
I so often have the sense that, in order to glimpse something through the fog of dissociation and disintegration, I have to be glancing at it from an unusual angle. A sidelong look from the very outer edge of a very defocused eye.
The minute I try to keep what I've glimpsed, it slides into the mist of unfeeling and 'unremembering'.
That happened a few times in therapy today.
What also happened is very hard to write about.
I suppose because it requires a greater degree of honesty, explanation (and therefore energy) and recall than I feel able to muster.
Even as I type, it's somehow on the very tip of my memory but I can't quite catch it.
Whatever. As I left the little house in the woods, I hit my steering wheel enough to bruise the heel of my palm.
I wanted to shout.
In the room I had wanted to put my fingers in my ears. I spent the entire session with my hands on front of my face.
I didn't want to be seen.
We now have a two week therapy break.
That too has slipped into the unfeeling fog.
What hasn't is the fact that I have put on weight and I have eaten bits of chocolate almost all day long.
It would be nigh on impossible for me to explain the horror I feel at submitting to the cravings when I haven't done my exercise and I weigh more than I have for quite a while.
The levels of desperation and despair are way beyond anything words could contain.
I have replied to comments on my last post if you feel like having a look.
And it blurs and spreads into unfeeling mist.
I so often have the sensation of not being able to see something as soon as I look at it directly.
I remember in the early 1990s when 3 dimensional optical illusion posters were all the rage. Teenagers' bedroom walls would be covered with large bits of glossy paper covered in very repetitive, computer generated, patterns made up of tiny strokes of colour.
The pattern (called a Stereogram) was cleverly designed so that it contained an image which could only be seen when focused on in a particular way. Sort of modern man's answer to impressionism. Van Gogh meets Mac.
I used to find that in order to see the hidden images, I had to train my eyes to be looking beyond the poster; I almost had to DEfocus on the image.
The minute I mastered the 'defocusing' technique (actually known as 'parallel viewing'), the hidden delights of the poster were revealed. However, the minute I tried to sustain the image and look at it more clearly, it would disintegrate into a million, seemingly random, coloured particles again.
That's me in therapy.
I so often have the sense that, in order to glimpse something through the fog of dissociation and disintegration, I have to be glancing at it from an unusual angle. A sidelong look from the very outer edge of a very defocused eye.
The minute I try to keep what I've glimpsed, it slides into the mist of unfeeling and 'unremembering'.
That happened a few times in therapy today.
What also happened is very hard to write about.
I suppose because it requires a greater degree of honesty, explanation (and therefore energy) and recall than I feel able to muster.
Even as I type, it's somehow on the very tip of my memory but I can't quite catch it.
Whatever. As I left the little house in the woods, I hit my steering wheel enough to bruise the heel of my palm.
I wanted to shout.
In the room I had wanted to put my fingers in my ears. I spent the entire session with my hands on front of my face.
I didn't want to be seen.
We now have a two week therapy break.
That too has slipped into the unfeeling fog.
What hasn't is the fact that I have put on weight and I have eaten bits of chocolate almost all day long.
It would be nigh on impossible for me to explain the horror I feel at submitting to the cravings when I haven't done my exercise and I weigh more than I have for quite a while.
The levels of desperation and despair are way beyond anything words could contain.
I have replied to comments on my last post if you feel like having a look.
Sunday, 15 August 2010
Anorexia's Footsteps
A small, blue child stands in the grey playground; back turned from her playmates; tiny hands pressed tight against her eyes as she chants numbers in a voice higher than it is loud.
Behind her, a group of dishevelled children move with silent, exaggerated care; the thrill of tension bursting from concentrated rosebud lips and then, delicious screams as the blue child swings round, sudden and bellowing and the clenched stealth and stillness break, pouring a cool white rush of pure delight over each small face, even as they fight to keep the tension in their form.
Grandmother's Footsteps.
The aim of the game was for the players to manage to creep up behind the person who is 'it' without being seen to be moving. 'It' could turn around at any point and the other players would have to instantly freeze. Those who were still moving when 'it' turned around were immediately sent back to the starting line.
Why am I writing about an old playground favourite?
You may well ask.
And quite simply, it is what came to mind when a despairing loved one asked me how on earth it got to this point.
Perhaps Anorexia's approach is different for an adolescent or college student, perhaps it walks with a different gait, I can't really speak for others. I can barely even trace its steps towards me, but I know that it approached from behind and I know that each time I turn to look at it, it freezes, closes its eyes and holds its breath. I have somehow become aware that by staring at it, it can disappear. It's an ugly, shapeshifting beast that easily poses as the smallest giggling schoolgirl until you turn away, reassured.
For a 31 year old woman, Anorexia began as a wonderfully refreshing experience of exercising after giving up smoking. It's steps were light, triumphant and exciting. Continuing to feel healthy, my body began to tone up and I lost a few pounds.
It doesn't hurt to cut out a few foods in the name of being healthy, right?
Less bread, less cheese, less meat, less pasta.
Next time I checked behind me, Anorexia was a few steps closer and although a part of me knew it, another part didn't really believe it would be interested in me. I was too old for that sort of thing. I was too 'sensible', too grounded, too self aware.
I turned my back.
No red meat. Only a few mouthfuls of pasta or rice. No bread. No cheese.
I swung round. Anorexia froze. I couldn't tell if it had moved or not.
No meat. No carbs. No dairy.
Low calorie fish, salad leaves, fruit and water.
And where once I thought 6 stone would never be possible, now I dream of 5 and a half.
And Anorexia is playing. Oh definitely. It's creeping now and it's not bothering to freeze and I'm not bothering to turn my back.
Its steps, so quiet and so disguised at the start, are heavy and quite careless.
I can't stop them in their tracks by turning around. I can't make the fearless freeze.
Now my mind is full of the footprints and although I know tracks can be covered over, I'm not sure how and so the game has become a dance. My shapeshifting partner, both a close friend and a worst enemy, simultaneously giving and stealing life. One day its steps bring elation, the next, bottomless despair. One day I dance with fluid grace, the next with lead-soled boots.
One thing I do know is that in reality, Anorexia Nervosa is about as much of a game as Russian Roulette.It has a higher incidence of death than any other mental illness and has clamied countless lives over the years.
Its power is frightening and once it's in the game, many end up playing for their lives.
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
It's About Time...
... that I quit being a chicken and actually wrote something that someone might read (as opposed to small, scrawled phrases in old notebooks; and tense, over-inked lines etching some sort of representation of the way a part of me might be feeling).
So. An update, then.
The holiday.
I won't say too much. Best not to.
I flew back 5 days early.
Panic I guess.
I've had to sit very tight.
I'm desperate at having put on 5 pounds.
It feels as though I am have gone into an extreme place of desperation.
The cave within which I dwell is a dark and lonely place to be.
Unless you have had an eating disorder, I don't think you could ever understand the waves of complete hysteria lapping at my hunched body.
I am terrified.
I realise this post is profoundly lacking in anything positive but in all honesty, right now, I am desperate enough to take drastic measures.
You can't hear me but if you could, you'd hear my insides gasping and retching and groaning with the horror of having to eat and not exercise.
My stomach is swollen, bloated, distended.
I haven't had my period, AGAIN.
I am in constant pain on my right hand side (my liver I suspect) - so much so that it gets hard to stand up straight.
Despite the fact that it's not particularly warm, I wake up every night absolutely drenched in sweat. Night sweats? I'm thinking this MUST be to do with my oestrogen levels? My hormones? Does my body think that amenorrhea means the menopause?
Nobody knows.
So. An update, then.
The holiday.
I won't say too much. Best not to.
I flew back 5 days early.
Panic I guess.
I've had to sit very tight.
I'm desperate at having put on 5 pounds.
It feels as though I am have gone into an extreme place of desperation.
The cave within which I dwell is a dark and lonely place to be.
Unless you have had an eating disorder, I don't think you could ever understand the waves of complete hysteria lapping at my hunched body.
I am terrified.
I realise this post is profoundly lacking in anything positive but in all honesty, right now, I am desperate enough to take drastic measures.
You can't hear me but if you could, you'd hear my insides gasping and retching and groaning with the horror of having to eat and not exercise.
My stomach is swollen, bloated, distended.
I haven't had my period, AGAIN.
I am in constant pain on my right hand side (my liver I suspect) - so much so that it gets hard to stand up straight.
Despite the fact that it's not particularly warm, I wake up every night absolutely drenched in sweat. Night sweats? I'm thinking this MUST be to do with my oestrogen levels? My hormones? Does my body think that amenorrhea means the menopause?
Nobody knows.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Anyone for Valium..?
Tomorrow I fly.
Sounds good huh?
Hmm.
It would be if I wasn't a)severely emetophobic,
b)prone to bad panic attacks
and
c) flying alone.
A negative way of viewing it all, I agree...
Positive things are that a) I go armed with a month's worth of Diazepam
b) I haven't dared to book a flight to go abroad for over 2 years
and
c) ... er.... I'm scraping the barrel here... c is........... Ok. There is no C. I'm scared. No two ways about it.
The other thing that I haven't mentioned is that a little bit of this holiday is about trying to get a little bit better and put on a bit of weight.
That's the promise I've made to my family and to myself.
Problem is, only a PART of me wants that.
What I would really like, is for a ceasefire. Just for a couple of weeks.
And yet... without all the frenetic exercise and the discipline and the anxiety and the scales... How can there be peace?
I'll attempt to write more.
Sounds good huh?
Hmm.
It would be if I wasn't a)severely emetophobic,
b)prone to bad panic attacks
and
c) flying alone.
A negative way of viewing it all, I agree...
Positive things are that a) I go armed with a month's worth of Diazepam
b) I haven't dared to book a flight to go abroad for over 2 years
and
c) ... er.... I'm scraping the barrel here... c is........... Ok. There is no C. I'm scared. No two ways about it.
The other thing that I haven't mentioned is that a little bit of this holiday is about trying to get a little bit better and put on a bit of weight.
That's the promise I've made to my family and to myself.
Problem is, only a PART of me wants that.
What I would really like, is for a ceasefire. Just for a couple of weeks.
And yet... without all the frenetic exercise and the discipline and the anxiety and the scales... How can there be peace?
I'll attempt to write more.
Monday, 19 July 2010
Today in Therapy...
... there was the woman and about four different me's...
Most prominent was the side that wants me to get smaller and smaller until I am nothing but a canvas of skin stretched tight over a bone frame. In direct oppostion was another part which, feeling the weary ache of that frame, just can't face the intense ferocity of the strict regime the other demands.
I am going on holiday in ten days. In that time, I will miss over 16 hours of intense cardio exercise. Weight gain is inevitable.
I'm split into different parts and although I could say more, right now I feel too sad and confused.
Most prominent was the side that wants me to get smaller and smaller until I am nothing but a canvas of skin stretched tight over a bone frame. In direct oppostion was another part which, feeling the weary ache of that frame, just can't face the intense ferocity of the strict regime the other demands.
I am going on holiday in ten days. In that time, I will miss over 16 hours of intense cardio exercise. Weight gain is inevitable.
I'm split into different parts and although I could say more, right now I feel too sad and confused.
Monday, 12 July 2010
Dear Everyone...
... Although I'm not really up for saying too much, I do want to say that I've been quite... touched (*wince*) by the fact that you guys seem to be here regardless of the crap that I come out with.
I don't expect you to be and I don't mind if you're not, but it has hit me a bit and I want to say thank you, even while extending my arms to keep a distance.
It is difficult to put my thoughts out; partly because I risk being met with revulsion and scorn and partly because my mind is so full at the moment that any thoughts I have are packed too tight to breathe. It feels as though my thoughts are crammed into too small a space. Some are hunched over, defeated by silence and age whilst others feel cocooned in fragile threads, unrealised, stunted by the lack of space or daring.
Therapy has been different over the last two weeks or so. The woman sounded very pleased when she pointed out that I have been more 'well' when we have talked.
She noted the correlation between my sitting in the chair (I said I didn't want to lie down anymore) and my well part being more prominent.
My reaction is split.
I prefer to sit. I feel much more in control. The 'work' part of me comes more naturally and I am able to think more logically.
However, I don't think that she realises that the reason I have been 'well' is actually because another part of me has become increasingly UNwell.
I'm well in one part because in another, I'm abiding by stringent rules in order to have almost complete control over my body.
I'm at my lowest weight and at one point this week, I actually thought that I had cracked it.
"Well blow me down! I've finally taught myself not to need anything".
That's what I thought.
It's not true of course.
Tonight I have eaten a lot of chocolate but it feels manageable because I know I will starve and then work out for hours tomorrow and I'll lose it.
Pathetic?
Go ahead.
Pour out the scorn.
But it's working for me, for now.
My biggest problem is the parts thing... If this was a different part writing, it'd be telling you about the dread and fear. It'd be telling you about how it is to live like a hamster in a cage, running frantically on a wheel that it's forgotten how to get off.
I'm split y'see.
Split right down the middle.
Anyone got a zip?
I don't expect you to be and I don't mind if you're not, but it has hit me a bit and I want to say thank you, even while extending my arms to keep a distance.
It is difficult to put my thoughts out; partly because I risk being met with revulsion and scorn and partly because my mind is so full at the moment that any thoughts I have are packed too tight to breathe. It feels as though my thoughts are crammed into too small a space. Some are hunched over, defeated by silence and age whilst others feel cocooned in fragile threads, unrealised, stunted by the lack of space or daring.
Therapy has been different over the last two weeks or so. The woman sounded very pleased when she pointed out that I have been more 'well' when we have talked.
She noted the correlation between my sitting in the chair (I said I didn't want to lie down anymore) and my well part being more prominent.
My reaction is split.
I prefer to sit. I feel much more in control. The 'work' part of me comes more naturally and I am able to think more logically.
However, I don't think that she realises that the reason I have been 'well' is actually because another part of me has become increasingly UNwell.
I'm well in one part because in another, I'm abiding by stringent rules in order to have almost complete control over my body.
I'm at my lowest weight and at one point this week, I actually thought that I had cracked it.
"Well blow me down! I've finally taught myself not to need anything".
That's what I thought.
It's not true of course.
Tonight I have eaten a lot of chocolate but it feels manageable because I know I will starve and then work out for hours tomorrow and I'll lose it.
Pathetic?
Go ahead.
Pour out the scorn.
But it's working for me, for now.
My biggest problem is the parts thing... If this was a different part writing, it'd be telling you about the dread and fear. It'd be telling you about how it is to live like a hamster in a cage, running frantically on a wheel that it's forgotten how to get off.
I'm split y'see.
Split right down the middle.
Anyone got a zip?
Sunday, 11 July 2010
Friday, 2 July 2010
In My Defence
I'm not going to even begin to try to analyse the 'whys' in terms of why I feel the urge to somehow protect and defend myself; mainly because I want to continue dwelling safely within the confines of the (disturbingly teenage) brick walls across which, the slogan, "you will never hurt me as much as I can hurt me" is emblazoned in dripping, white spray paint. Did I mention how safe it is here? No? Well then... allow me to explain that when I am here, nothing and no one can touch me. Even if they could cut my skin I wouldn't feel it.
In therapy today I discovered that the reason I binge (an, oh God, I'm still in the midst of a two day, non stop binge) may be similar to one of the reasons I cut. (And yes, I know you feel disgust).
It is just another attempt to do something physical in order to somehow correct / comfort / smother what is at heart, emotional
When it feels like the emotional pain is unbearable, I attempt to put it on my skin... to literally, put it on the outside of me.
When it feels as though the inner emptiness will make me implode, I attempt to physically fill the abyss.
I might be talking crap (yeah... I know. what's new?) but it's something that was discussed this evening.
Another thing was the theme of 'explosion' being the main feature of my recurrent dreams right now.
"Except," she said, "you don't EXplode, you IMplode"
"Yeah" I agree. "Yeah. Nobody would see anything had happened"
"No. All the debris is on your inside"
I thought about the blackened landscape and almost mentioned (and then thought better of it) the countless little deaths I have died and the piles of little corpses that I contain.
What am I saying? How is this a defence?
Well... you might well ask.
As per usual, I seem to have strayed from the path...
It is important to me that you guys (those reading) know that, although you may think me the number one favourite for winning the "Little Miss Can't Appreciate The Blessings She Has Cos She Is So Busy Being A Pitiful Misery Award 2010", in real life (and by that I mean, anywhere except the world of cyber - and the woman's room , which is almost as unreal) I am fully functioning, well respected young lady who you would have to be exceptionally sneaky to catch without a smile or a quip.
Part of the reason I made this space is because there is little or no space for this level of honesty in my real life. The position I hold at work, the responsibility I have for others, the fear of disgust... all contribute towards making it near impossible to show any of the stuff I write about here.
As I explained in a response to ABM, I have two very separate parts with this stuff. The first is covered in long spikes and says, 'if you don't like it, get lost'. It's an angry part that wants to lash out at you, but will instead, tear deeply into flesh that cannot be seen.
The other part of me recoils, disgusted at myself, horrified that I am daring to write, revolted by the fact that anyone would read here and say ANYTHING other than, 'WS you are a vile, Godless, self obsessed, self centred, selfish, miserable, ingrate worthy only of disgust'.
I am frightened of this response and yet, I think I deserve it. I'm angry before you say it, and yet I know it is true. In short, nobody who reads here will EVER feel the same degree of disgust towards me as I do.
I HATE the person I am on the inside.
This person you hear here.
It's a big part of the problem because, whilst nobody knows I'm like this, I am, and whilst I am, I can never be known.
I realise that people can see an issue with my weight, but I can fool them as soon as I open my mouth. Nobody who hears me sounding SO sound minded and wise would ever believe I have a disorder.
Trust me, if you KNEW me, I'd have you fooled too.
So, don't go thinking that I am some pathetic, hapless, little creature who you could slap some sense into.
You wouldn't ever see the need for that if you didn't read here.
Wednesday, 30 June 2010
A response too long to post
Hmmm
I'm not entirely sure what to say... or whether to say how I feel or not...
Firstly,
Wanda - Thank you. I have been thinking about you and wondering how you are. xxx
abroadermark - The first thing that struck me was how down you sounded in your initial response. I did wonder whether you were being a bit sarcastic too... but perhaps not.
If you really are feeling that low then I'm so sorry. Why are you an 'idiot?' You certainly sound a LONG way from being an idiot to me...
In terms of what you say about looking for 'whys' being the stupidest thing you can do... Well, in all honesty, I completely understand how you reach that conclusion... I swing from holding that opinion and then holding the opinion that jss writes about.
I guess that ultimately, I want answers. Some people do and some don't. Some people aren't bothered by the fact they don't have an understanding of the reasons why, others are plagued by the need to know... the need to make peace with something through reaching an understanding,even if on a purely academic level.
For some it's one more struggle they could do without, for others it's the only way they can put something to rest.
Again, I would add that I swing between these two poles. I think many of us do at various points in our journey.
I don't know whether it's a stupid thing to do. Often it seems to intensify the pain and I'm caught in a web of 'do I, don't I?' and then the feeling of guilt descends... the awful 'what about all the orphans?' scenario.
I don't know.
It all makes me despise myself but no more than I would anyway so... Nothing to lose perhaps.
Anyhow abroadermark, I digress.
I'm sorry to hear you sounding so low and upset and wonder what inspired such despair. I get the impression that you might find it hard to write about it on your blog (hence your coming here...) I'm not sure about the misery thing though... That made me feel a bit... unsure... It makes me want to defend myself and then it makes me a bit... Well... Why should I need to defend myself? It's MY blog and I can be miserable if I like... But I can't y'see. Not without struggling with horrible guilt.
Do you know that I found it so so painful to be so honest about how bad I was feeling that I set up ANOTHER blog for the 'really bad' posts? Even after writing so much here I still wince at comments that I suspect come from people who are actually thinking, 'oh just shut UP you whinging, whining b*tch'.
So.
That is a very long reply. Sorry! Summarising never was a gift of mine...
Andrea - Thank you. Perhaps that is the best any of us can do really.
jss - It's so nice to hear you. Really.
Something you said is actually quite important to me.... and the more I read it, the more I'm struck by it.
You said that eating disorders must have whys and unless we find them we will
" spend our lives trying to overcome by sheer force of will, which leaves us utterly depleted, or worse we sink further into the addiction."
Partly because of the hurt I'm causing and partly because I hate living in this cage, I have made a decision to 'get better' over my summer holiday.
It is only just starting to occur to me that it may not actually be a very realistic thing to say. I'm not sure that I can just do it by 'force of will'. And yet, there is a part of me that insists on not accepting that this is something 'real'.
You comment about the ed having something to do with my sister almost stung. Not in a bad way jss, just in the way that you get when someone has thought about something for you... Care can hurt sometimes can't it.
I guess it might be something to do with her. I just don't know what.
I do wonder about certain things but I don't dare to put them into words yet. I'm not sure how much I understand and how much is just rubbish.
I know that you understand the agony of watching someone you love destroy themselves.
I'm so sorry that you have such an acute understanding but, thank you for sharing it with me. x
abroadermark - I AM listening to you and thinking that you sound like you are hurting..?
Please feel free to express what you think. Each of us has that right and the right to disagree.
x
I'm not entirely sure what to say... or whether to say how I feel or not...
Firstly,
Wanda - Thank you. I have been thinking about you and wondering how you are. xxx
abroadermark - The first thing that struck me was how down you sounded in your initial response. I did wonder whether you were being a bit sarcastic too... but perhaps not.
If you really are feeling that low then I'm so sorry. Why are you an 'idiot?' You certainly sound a LONG way from being an idiot to me...
In terms of what you say about looking for 'whys' being the stupidest thing you can do... Well, in all honesty, I completely understand how you reach that conclusion... I swing from holding that opinion and then holding the opinion that jss writes about.
I guess that ultimately, I want answers. Some people do and some don't. Some people aren't bothered by the fact they don't have an understanding of the reasons why, others are plagued by the need to know... the need to make peace with something through reaching an understanding,even if on a purely academic level.
For some it's one more struggle they could do without, for others it's the only way they can put something to rest.
Again, I would add that I swing between these two poles. I think many of us do at various points in our journey.
I don't know whether it's a stupid thing to do. Often it seems to intensify the pain and I'm caught in a web of 'do I, don't I?' and then the feeling of guilt descends... the awful 'what about all the orphans?' scenario.
I don't know.
It all makes me despise myself but no more than I would anyway so... Nothing to lose perhaps.
Anyhow abroadermark, I digress.
I'm sorry to hear you sounding so low and upset and wonder what inspired such despair. I get the impression that you might find it hard to write about it on your blog (hence your coming here...) I'm not sure about the misery thing though... That made me feel a bit... unsure... It makes me want to defend myself and then it makes me a bit... Well... Why should I need to defend myself? It's MY blog and I can be miserable if I like... But I can't y'see. Not without struggling with horrible guilt.
Do you know that I found it so so painful to be so honest about how bad I was feeling that I set up ANOTHER blog for the 'really bad' posts? Even after writing so much here I still wince at comments that I suspect come from people who are actually thinking, 'oh just shut UP you whinging, whining b*tch'.
So.
That is a very long reply. Sorry! Summarising never was a gift of mine...
Andrea - Thank you. Perhaps that is the best any of us can do really.
jss - It's so nice to hear you. Really.
Something you said is actually quite important to me.... and the more I read it, the more I'm struck by it.
You said that eating disorders must have whys and unless we find them we will
" spend our lives trying to overcome by sheer force of will, which leaves us utterly depleted, or worse we sink further into the addiction."
Partly because of the hurt I'm causing and partly because I hate living in this cage, I have made a decision to 'get better' over my summer holiday.
It is only just starting to occur to me that it may not actually be a very realistic thing to say. I'm not sure that I can just do it by 'force of will'. And yet, there is a part of me that insists on not accepting that this is something 'real'.
You comment about the ed having something to do with my sister almost stung. Not in a bad way jss, just in the way that you get when someone has thought about something for you... Care can hurt sometimes can't it.
I guess it might be something to do with her. I just don't know what.
I do wonder about certain things but I don't dare to put them into words yet. I'm not sure how much I understand and how much is just rubbish.
I know that you understand the agony of watching someone you love destroy themselves.
I'm so sorry that you have such an acute understanding but, thank you for sharing it with me. x
abroadermark - I AM listening to you and thinking that you sound like you are hurting..?
Please feel free to express what you think. Each of us has that right and the right to disagree.
x
Monday, 28 June 2010
EDs in adulthood
It's a strange thing to develop an eating disorder in your thirties without having had too much of an issue in the years prior to this.
I've waded through thousands of Google pages in an attempt to find articles about late onset anorexia and bulimia. I suppose because I was hoping that someone far more knowledgeable than me could offer me a piece of jigsaw that I don't have. I was hoping to find a few sentences that would make sense of the jumbled, misshapen blobs of bewildered guesses that occasionally float between my cornea and the mirror of anorexic truth.
Most of the articles documenting episodes of anorexia in later life are actually about the recurrence of an eating disorder which the patient has suffered from as a young person. Easier to understand a relapse than an illness that comes from out of the blue.
So, what then, is going on if there is no SERIOUS tendency towards this illness until a person is in their early thirties?
What is going on there?
I'm possibly as lost as anyone else when it comes to understanding this.
I have sketchy ideas (at best) that when pursued, completely fragment and disintegrate and at once become impossible and absurd.
I haven't been here too much of late. Not for lack of wanting to write; more for not being able to find the energy.
I have a lot to say but very few words to speak with.
Please forgive me if I am not responding as much as I should be.
I've waded through thousands of Google pages in an attempt to find articles about late onset anorexia and bulimia. I suppose because I was hoping that someone far more knowledgeable than me could offer me a piece of jigsaw that I don't have. I was hoping to find a few sentences that would make sense of the jumbled, misshapen blobs of bewildered guesses that occasionally float between my cornea and the mirror of anorexic truth.
Most of the articles documenting episodes of anorexia in later life are actually about the recurrence of an eating disorder which the patient has suffered from as a young person. Easier to understand a relapse than an illness that comes from out of the blue.
So, what then, is going on if there is no SERIOUS tendency towards this illness until a person is in their early thirties?
What is going on there?
I'm possibly as lost as anyone else when it comes to understanding this.
I have sketchy ideas (at best) that when pursued, completely fragment and disintegrate and at once become impossible and absurd.
I haven't been here too much of late. Not for lack of wanting to write; more for not being able to find the energy.
I have a lot to say but very few words to speak with.
Please forgive me if I am not responding as much as I should be.
Monday, 21 June 2010
Wednesday, 16 June 2010
On The Other Side.
"...But there's another kind of hole, and that is the wound that divides family.
Sometimes the wound occurs at the moment of birth, sometimes it happens
later. We are all fixing what is broken. It is the task of a lifetime. We'll leave much unfinished for the next generation...
...I have infinite faith in the craft of surgery, but no surgeon can heal the kind of wound that divides two brothers (siblings)"
Abraham Verghese
Cutting For Stone
As I am having huge problems finding words at the moment I have resorted to using those of others.
This resonated as I read it the other day.
There's not a lot out there which acknowledges the impact of damage between siblings.
I remember in the early days of my sister's anorexia, when the wound of her violent and total rejection was still so, so raw and my flesh unaccustomed to the pain, searching high and low for books about anorexic siblings.
All I found was a reasonable amount of literature on 'Helping Your Child Eat' or 'Coping With An Anorexic Child'. That kind of thing.
A good few years ago, I figured that one day I might have found the healing and the balance I needed to help me write a book about anorexia with siblings in mind. I thought that somehow, I would be able to look on the years of loss with the glow of gentle understanding borne of the twisting grief of watching the slow suicide of a sister I loved with everything I had.
It would be called, "On the Other Side" in reference to a range of recurring nightmares I had for the first ten of the seventeen years of her illness. The dreams were all variations on the same theme... I was always stuck on the other side of the shatterproof, soundproofed window as she was mugged, the other side of the pond as she was buried in the mudslide, the other side of the turquoise lagoon as she drowned.
And the feelings are indescribable and yet, so many of us are familiar with the extraordinary pain of watching those who we love the most, kill themselves slowly and painfully, whether that be through eating disorders, drug addiction, alcohol dependency or just very, very poor life choices.
Not to minimise the angst of those who are compelled towards death by the strength of their addictions, but I honestly believe, and I'll speak only for myself in an attempt to avoid sweeping generalisations... I honestly believe that it is more painful to watch someone you love in agony than it is to be in agony yourself.
The Other Side exists for all of us at some point in our lives, but rarely to the degree that it does when it is the absurd chaos and torment of severe mental health problems and addiction that tear a family apart.
No surgeon can heal the wound that divides two sisters. If I could find one who did, I'd sell everything I ever had.
Sunday, 13 June 2010
Welcome To Hell...
...It's where I have been since Friday's therapy session.
I've scoured Google Images. Searched all the most horrible words I can think of in, a vain attempt to find a picture that captures even a tendril of the mass of ... mass of what? I don't even have the vocab for it... the mass of whatever it is that lies throbbing and bleeding inside.
It's a mass of hot, white unknowns which twist in me; sometimes surging in violent, murderous ire, sometimes burning slow and orange. Other times the mass is suddenly pain in a cold, black ache.
It's all to do with the hell that is an eating disorder.
The aftermath of a purgeless binge.
The clawing desperation to tear huge chunks of flesh from my body just to weigh less.
It's the pathetic despair of facing a future with nothing better than this.
It's the dull agony of depression.
I'm screaming but the screaming isn't a sound. It's the absence of sound. It's the silence that becomes an unbearable pressure on ears that ring, desperate for noise, desperate to be freed from oppressive quiet.
Therapy must have really been huge in Friday, right?
You'd think.
You'd think there would be some profound reason for the fact that I've spent the weekend under duvet, trying to stem the bleeding from my finger which ended up getting the raw deal from the double edged blade.
All it was, so far as I can work out, was that the woman didn't really seem to understand.
I'm stuck for words to explain and my head is screaming at me to stop typing this. Such resistance.
The woman suggested that when I have my own place (I'm trying to buy a house) it will be easier for me and my eating disorder (my need for control) will die down.
She said that many people just found a weight they could live with and then got on with living.
She mentioned the gym and said maybe I'd just enjoy the healthy exercise. She talked about food and suggested that I would find a balance.
(My face is threatening to collapse as I type)
Okay so I have typed and deleted in circles for five minutes so I'll just be done with it now.
I heard her say that
your life will be a struggle forever
your ED will never really go away.
and it all basically amounts to
this is the best that you can hope for
...and the words of an old favourite ring in my ears, as they so often do when death feels the best chocolate in the box...
"and the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep"
(K. Rogers. The Gambler)
I predict a heart attack.
Or diabetes.
And
I found this which, I suppose, isn't too bad a representation when it's all said and done.
I've scoured Google Images. Searched all the most horrible words I can think of in, a vain attempt to find a picture that captures even a tendril of the mass of ... mass of what? I don't even have the vocab for it... the mass of whatever it is that lies throbbing and bleeding inside.
It's a mass of hot, white unknowns which twist in me; sometimes surging in violent, murderous ire, sometimes burning slow and orange. Other times the mass is suddenly pain in a cold, black ache.
It's all to do with the hell that is an eating disorder.
The aftermath of a purgeless binge.
The clawing desperation to tear huge chunks of flesh from my body just to weigh less.
It's the pathetic despair of facing a future with nothing better than this.
It's the dull agony of depression.
I'm screaming but the screaming isn't a sound. It's the absence of sound. It's the silence that becomes an unbearable pressure on ears that ring, desperate for noise, desperate to be freed from oppressive quiet.
Therapy must have really been huge in Friday, right?
You'd think.
You'd think there would be some profound reason for the fact that I've spent the weekend under duvet, trying to stem the bleeding from my finger which ended up getting the raw deal from the double edged blade.
All it was, so far as I can work out, was that the woman didn't really seem to understand.
I'm stuck for words to explain and my head is screaming at me to stop typing this. Such resistance.
The woman suggested that when I have my own place (I'm trying to buy a house) it will be easier for me and my eating disorder (my need for control) will die down.
She said that many people just found a weight they could live with and then got on with living.
She mentioned the gym and said maybe I'd just enjoy the healthy exercise. She talked about food and suggested that I would find a balance.
(My face is threatening to collapse as I type)
Okay so I have typed and deleted in circles for five minutes so I'll just be done with it now.
I heard her say that
your life will be a struggle forever
your ED will never really go away.
and it all basically amounts to
this is the best that you can hope for
...and the words of an old favourite ring in my ears, as they so often do when death feels the best chocolate in the box...
"and the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep"
(K. Rogers. The Gambler)
I predict a heart attack.
Or diabetes.
And
I found this which, I suppose, isn't too bad a representation when it's all said and done.
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