I have had the most incredible two days, doing a course in Sheffield learning about music in healthcare settings (ie hospitals). This is something I have wanted to do since I discovered that teaching was not my vocation when I went to university.
I sort of left my instincts about this on the back-burner for the last six years, as I just didn't know where to start - other than music therapy, which I didn't believe I was good enough to do. So when I spotted this course on a list of professional development opportunities for community musicians, I had filled in and sent off the form within about half an hour (I do not ever do this, I procrastinate for 3 days and convince myself I won't be able to do whatever it is!). But I knew this was going to be something important, and crucially, I knew before I got there that this was something I was going to be GOOD at.
Put simply, I was right. There is a place for modesty, and there are occasionally things that you are so secure about that you can say yes, I can do that. Professionally, this is the first time I have been able to do this. I have never been in a situation where I have responded so naturally as a musician and as a person, felt so completely right in the work I am doing. I knew this somewhere, in the back of my mind, but let lack of obvious opportunity stop me from pursuing it - possibly a mistake, or possibly just waiting for the time when I really am ready to engage in the work. It's given me such a wonderful perspective again - I've rediscovered myself as a musician, I've rediscovered my love and talent for meeting people where they are, I've rediscovered my reasons for choosing to live and I've rediscovered how much more easily you can read situations with a little more emotional presence.
I don't know what the next stage is for doing this work, but I do know I'm going find out and try. I am clear about the direction of my work life, for the first time since I was about ten! It is exciting.
Thursday, 10 March 2011
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
One more step...
I went to the ED support group last night which I used to go to regularly. I sort of cut the ties a little bit as I started to get better, but it felt like the right time to go and say hello. The facilitators are some of the most dedicated and caring people I have ever met - they supported their daughter through years of a very severe eating disorder, and are now choosing to support people in my area through self-help, sufferers' and carers' support groups, workshops, info leaflets, social events, and perhaps most importantly, helping in a very practical way with getting treatment. M, the secretary, gave me lists of questions to ask, advice on who to speak to, and even offered to come to assessments with me when I was looking for treatment - it's an amazing support network and they have helped so many people. As it happens, NHS treatment never materialised for me, but to know I had support in getting through the convoluted and often dead-ended process got me a lot further than I would have been prepared to go alone, and in fact the NHS inability to help me and provide me with treatment was one of the factors that led me to realise that only I was going to change my life and get better. The group, SEED, continue to support that change.
Anyway, to the point! It struck me, when D (facilitator) asked me to talk to the group about how I'm doing, how very far I have come. I spent months answering vaguely that I was struggling, not moving forward, not going anywhere, not getting any help... etc etc etc, and last night I was finally able to articulate where I am: behaviourally much better, still struggling with thoughts around food, in need of some extra support around me in my immediate life, working through issues in therapy, and learning that I need to let go of some past experiences. OK, this sounds a bit mixed to me, because as much as people say that Beating the Eating (disorder) is about managing how I behave and not listening to the very difficult thoughts, I actually want more than that, and want not to have to worry about food/weight/control at all a good proportion of the time, but it is very different to where I was this time last year. I recognise a greater need for support, I recognise and acknowledge doing better with(out) disordered behaviour, I recognise that I have not fully let go of things that are in the past, but that I would like to.
It struck me that I am now freer to think and speak, not because the thoughts about food and self esteem have got quieter - they have got louder if anything (M pointed out to me last night that this is normal as when you start ignoring someone they start shouting more emphatically for a while!), but because I have chosen to tune into different parts of my voice too, the voice that is realistic and the one that wants to nurture, not destroy me. Actions help this along - by feeding my body, by looking after myself, it encourages that positive cycle of caring for self ------------------------> desire to care for self. It's just little steps. Every time I make a decision for my own benefit, it feeds the positivity - I take time to write about how I feel, I feel freer, less burdened by it. I go to my husband and ask him to give me a hug, I feel safe, loved. I finish something off at work, I feel successful, accomplished.
It's not about going from sick to recovered - the future of recovery is determined in the process. I have sight of the end goal all the time and, crucially, I want to get there, so I am not going to go backwards. Every day is part of the journey to the goal, even if I happen to make just one positive decision that day. One more little step.
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
But for the Grace of God... (and some good decisions)
My parents came to stay last weekend. My mother in particular I find very hard to get on with, the main reason for this being her own mental health issues.
I desperately want to forgive my mother for being so absorbed in her anorexia throughout my childhood that she forgot to nurture me emotionally. I want to be able to talk to her about my own day-to-day struggles, I want to regard her as a caring, loving parent. Unfortunately this is never going to happen, a fact I often think I have accepted. She is still so deeply involved with her illness that there is no room for the rest of her life, for people that care about her, for the things that bring light and colour and life. I often think I have accepted this fact, and I suppose, on a superficial level I have - I no longer expect her to change anything, I feel sorry for her much of the time. And yet I can still be so angry with her, for not making the decision to break free.
I know how hard that decision is. I have made it.
Amongst the anger is a sense of the most enormous relief, that however hard I find the recovery path, I will not have to go back into the hell that is being consumed by an eating disorder, because I do not want it. Because I hate it with every fibre of my being. Seeing her wallow in it over the weekend, instead of triggering me as it once would have done, reminded me so strongly why I am never going back.
I hate eating disorders with a depth of feeling I was incapable of a couple of years ago. They even damp down negative emotion. There was a time when I couldn't even properly feel the hatred I had for myself, though I knew very well it was there. Anorexia has turned my intelligent, witty, generous, caring mother into the most selfish person I have ever met. It has taken the place of parent, husband, child for her. It is the most important thing in her life - she must please her illness, not the people around her, not even herself.
I am shaking with anger as I write this, for all it has taken from her, but also for all it took from me, because it is not just her that suffers from it, the whole family battles anorexia. Mealtimes as a child were a vicious fight between us (my father and me) begging and pleading with her to eat, and her choosing to listen to the voice of illness and not do so, slowly killing herself. Day to day I would come home not knowing if she would have space for me, or if she would only have ears for the devil disorder on her shoulder.
I am not a fan of separating oneself from ones illness - it is possible to choose not to hear the disorder's naggings, whisperings, at times howls of derision - I do it every day. And yet I long to believe that the illness is not my mother, that it is a separate being with a life of its own. In a way, I know this to be true, but I also know that she has lived with it so long, chosen not to fight it so many times, that it has merged with herself and become a part of her, and I am so grateful that I have been given the strength to say no, not me. I will not choose that path.
It hurts like hell for the child who was rejected by her mother - rejected for an illness of destruction, of dangerous seduction, of enormous power - but to the woman who is breaking free, living independently, not allowing herself to be consumed by illness, it is a reinforcement of the choice I have made. I do not ever, ever, want to let my life be fucked up the way she has.
I desperately want to forgive my mother for being so absorbed in her anorexia throughout my childhood that she forgot to nurture me emotionally. I want to be able to talk to her about my own day-to-day struggles, I want to regard her as a caring, loving parent. Unfortunately this is never going to happen, a fact I often think I have accepted. She is still so deeply involved with her illness that there is no room for the rest of her life, for people that care about her, for the things that bring light and colour and life. I often think I have accepted this fact, and I suppose, on a superficial level I have - I no longer expect her to change anything, I feel sorry for her much of the time. And yet I can still be so angry with her, for not making the decision to break free.
I know how hard that decision is. I have made it.
Amongst the anger is a sense of the most enormous relief, that however hard I find the recovery path, I will not have to go back into the hell that is being consumed by an eating disorder, because I do not want it. Because I hate it with every fibre of my being. Seeing her wallow in it over the weekend, instead of triggering me as it once would have done, reminded me so strongly why I am never going back.
I hate eating disorders with a depth of feeling I was incapable of a couple of years ago. They even damp down negative emotion. There was a time when I couldn't even properly feel the hatred I had for myself, though I knew very well it was there. Anorexia has turned my intelligent, witty, generous, caring mother into the most selfish person I have ever met. It has taken the place of parent, husband, child for her. It is the most important thing in her life - she must please her illness, not the people around her, not even herself.
I am shaking with anger as I write this, for all it has taken from her, but also for all it took from me, because it is not just her that suffers from it, the whole family battles anorexia. Mealtimes as a child were a vicious fight between us (my father and me) begging and pleading with her to eat, and her choosing to listen to the voice of illness and not do so, slowly killing herself. Day to day I would come home not knowing if she would have space for me, or if she would only have ears for the devil disorder on her shoulder.
I am not a fan of separating oneself from ones illness - it is possible to choose not to hear the disorder's naggings, whisperings, at times howls of derision - I do it every day. And yet I long to believe that the illness is not my mother, that it is a separate being with a life of its own. In a way, I know this to be true, but I also know that she has lived with it so long, chosen not to fight it so many times, that it has merged with herself and become a part of her, and I am so grateful that I have been given the strength to say no, not me. I will not choose that path.
It hurts like hell for the child who was rejected by her mother - rejected for an illness of destruction, of dangerous seduction, of enormous power - but to the woman who is breaking free, living independently, not allowing herself to be consumed by illness, it is a reinforcement of the choice I have made. I do not ever, ever, want to let my life be fucked up the way she has.
Friday, 18 February 2011
Don't Give Me Hope
It came to me yesterday that there's a reason why people talk about being 'filled' with hope. It's because when hopes aren't fulfilled it's as if someone's reached in and scooped out a massive hole inside you. I can feel it, physically, an enormous, yawning chasm.
My husband works away from home, and I hate it beyond description. To be joined and connected emotionally to someone, and yet to have to say goodbye every single fucking Monday overwhelms me with something I can't really define.
Two weeks ago he told me he had an interview with a company based about 5 miles from our home - I dismissed it, jobs have come up locally before that just haven't been right for him, and I assumed this would be another one. Then he told me a bit more, and we let ourselves hope, just a little, that we might be able to finally start living our married life the way most couples do - ie together! - 18 months after we got married.
Suffice to say it hasn't worked out that way. Another hope chucked down the drain, yet again.
Now I have always firmly believed that everything happens for a reason, still do. There will of course be a reason for him not getting this job, I just have a horrible feeling the reason might be me. That I still have to learn to be ok with being on my own, being without him, and when it hasn't got any easier after several years, it makes the future look rather daunting, because I just cannot imagine ever getting used to it. I think I'm coping, then I stop to think a little, and there it is again, that overwhelming...something.
Something that I suspect could be labelled hopelessness, which was the overriding feeling that took over this time last year, when I hit the lowest point I have ever reached. That terrifies me, that a small event can trigger such a deep hole.
This time I've spotted it. This time I am not planning to use any of the destructive coping mechanisms I used before, but God, I'm so afraid of feeling like that again. I am so tired of going round in circles and spirals.
It would be so much easier not to have had any hope in the first place.
My husband works away from home, and I hate it beyond description. To be joined and connected emotionally to someone, and yet to have to say goodbye every single fucking Monday overwhelms me with something I can't really define.
Two weeks ago he told me he had an interview with a company based about 5 miles from our home - I dismissed it, jobs have come up locally before that just haven't been right for him, and I assumed this would be another one. Then he told me a bit more, and we let ourselves hope, just a little, that we might be able to finally start living our married life the way most couples do - ie together! - 18 months after we got married.
Suffice to say it hasn't worked out that way. Another hope chucked down the drain, yet again.
Now I have always firmly believed that everything happens for a reason, still do. There will of course be a reason for him not getting this job, I just have a horrible feeling the reason might be me. That I still have to learn to be ok with being on my own, being without him, and when it hasn't got any easier after several years, it makes the future look rather daunting, because I just cannot imagine ever getting used to it. I think I'm coping, then I stop to think a little, and there it is again, that overwhelming...something.
Something that I suspect could be labelled hopelessness, which was the overriding feeling that took over this time last year, when I hit the lowest point I have ever reached. That terrifies me, that a small event can trigger such a deep hole.
This time I've spotted it. This time I am not planning to use any of the destructive coping mechanisms I used before, but God, I'm so afraid of feeling like that again. I am so tired of going round in circles and spirals.
It would be so much easier not to have had any hope in the first place.
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
Monday, 14 February 2011
Finding the words
Maybe this blog should have been called I Speak Because I Have To.
I know that talking is an essential part of healing, it's just that sometimes it's so very hard to find the words.
It is much easier to just get on with living.
This sounds great, in theory, it's just that I know there's still so much unsaid, so much I find on the tip of my tongue every day. I've tried getting on with it, deciding there is no more to say, and living life as I find it, but sadly that seems to just end in turning the past back on myself, revisiting the old friends of self-hate and self-harm. When I stop talking everything starts twisting and magnifying.
It doesn't matter that I am pretty well recovered when it comes to behaviours, my head is still a long way behind, and it frustrates me that I can do so much only to be caught round the neck by emotional baggage and negative thoughts. I am reaching the point of fury over how much time and opportunity I have thrown away to this crap, I'm bloody twenty-five, and still feel like an eight year old most of the time.
And it's so hard to find words when most of the ones you'd like to use are connected with hurt and anger and passivity and lack of worth. I am learning to be me, to be ok with me, and I'm learning the language of empowerment, but in order to heal I have to revisit old feelings that still hang on to me in my current really rather charmed life. It's maddening, because I have come so far, I cannot change the past, and yet I still haven't grieved for the now-dead man to whom I first gave my heart, I still haven't voiced the deep and bitter anger that I have towards my mother and her illness. If I can't speak these things, I can't let go, and yet I need to look forward, speak as the woman I want to be.
It's hard. But if I keep talking, I can keep learning to live properly, as a whole person, as someone whose experiences shape not damage. I hope I can do this.
Tuesday, 8 February 2011
Temporary Freedom
This is Betty.
She is a horse, obviously.
She is also many other things. For a start, she is MY horse. I never dreamed, even a year ago, that I would have one, despite wanting to since the age of about five.
We have a complicated relationship, as you would expect from any strong and important partnership. I am a lot of the time a little in awe of her - she is strong, often wild, often affectionate, sometimes compliant, frequently afraid. And yet... she does what I, a small and insignificant person, ask of her a good percentage of the time. In return I feed and look after her, but how on earth can that lead to the level of trust that allows a frightened half-ton of animal to continue to walk towards something that she thinks might hurt her? By no means do we have the strength of partnership that many horse owners have with theirs, though I hope that will come in time, since we have as yet only been together for six months, but the acceptance she has for me already is astonishing.
In some respects it seems wrong to try to tame such an incredible flight animal, and yet, she totally accepts me and seems happy to follow. We understand each other in this way. I too am often afraid, want to be led, and often have a strong urge to run away from anything I perceive as threatening. Betty puts me in the other role, of leader, confident and prepared to face danger, and she accepts and trusts that I will keep us safe.
On a specific level, she is also a big part of my recovery. Going back to riding lessons nearly three years ago, after a long gap, gave me an hour of freedom from illness every week, mostly because I was concentrating so damn hard all the time that I forgot to inhabit my emotional brain! I feel totally free when I'm riding - galloping across a field does incredible things for the soul, and getting a precise exercise right in the school is a satisfaction I can't begin to describe for me.
She also blocks my exit route from recovery. I got her last year, after I had promised and proved to myself that I would cut down and eventually stop b/ping. Simple fact: I cannot afford a horse AND bulimia, and that fact alone is often enough to snap me out of the trance in which I used to wander round the supermarket. On another practical note, I cannot just disappear when she is in my life - I know this is crazy-sounding, when, for example, my husband should be enough reason to stay alive, and she is only an animal, but my husband, friends, family, are all capable of looking after themselves - on really dark days I honestly think they'd be better off without me. Betty is not, however, capable of looking after herself, and I know I must get up every day to look after her.
Basically, she keeps me relatively sane, which is everything I could ask for at the moment.
Monday, 7 February 2011
Lesson in Living
I had some sad news yesterday. A dear lady from church had died last week.
She was elderly, and we hadn't seen her for a long time since she moved to live nearer her family, but she made such a deep impact on me. She had the kind of reverent gratitude for life, and total encompassing kindness that made her very special to be with.
I will never forget sitting next to her in church one morning, a morning when I was really struggling, and prayed that God would help me somehow. He chose Dee to do this. She started to talk to me, I hadn't said anything really, but for some reason she started to talk about how she had lost her husband many years ago, and how there had, ever since then, been people around her to keep her safe, and keep her in the knowledge that she was loved. We talked for a long time, and I forget the detail of the conversation, but I will never forget the wonder in her voice when she talked about how amazing it was to trust that God would arrange the circumstances to help her to cope with whatever happened to her. And I will never forget her gratitude either, when she talked about the people in her life who helped her.
She talked about how she woke up every morning and thanked God that she was alive, knowing that He would see her through the day.
So often I wake up and wish I wasn't alive, knowing that every minute might be a struggle. How foolish this is. I have the most wonderful people in my life, I have physical health, I have faith, I have a job with a supportive team of people. I have SO MANY BLESSINGS.
I am gradually learning to accept and appreciate them, and people like this wonderful, patient lady make the journey so much clearer.
Rest in Peace, Dee. I pray that I may one day grow to have a little of your gratitude, acceptance, and faith.
She was elderly, and we hadn't seen her for a long time since she moved to live nearer her family, but she made such a deep impact on me. She had the kind of reverent gratitude for life, and total encompassing kindness that made her very special to be with.
I will never forget sitting next to her in church one morning, a morning when I was really struggling, and prayed that God would help me somehow. He chose Dee to do this. She started to talk to me, I hadn't said anything really, but for some reason she started to talk about how she had lost her husband many years ago, and how there had, ever since then, been people around her to keep her safe, and keep her in the knowledge that she was loved. We talked for a long time, and I forget the detail of the conversation, but I will never forget the wonder in her voice when she talked about how amazing it was to trust that God would arrange the circumstances to help her to cope with whatever happened to her. And I will never forget her gratitude either, when she talked about the people in her life who helped her.
She talked about how she woke up every morning and thanked God that she was alive, knowing that He would see her through the day.
So often I wake up and wish I wasn't alive, knowing that every minute might be a struggle. How foolish this is. I have the most wonderful people in my life, I have physical health, I have faith, I have a job with a supportive team of people. I have SO MANY BLESSINGS.
I am gradually learning to accept and appreciate them, and people like this wonderful, patient lady make the journey so much clearer.
Rest in Peace, Dee. I pray that I may one day grow to have a little of your gratitude, acceptance, and faith.
Thursday, 3 February 2011
What do you want?
Do it. Work out what you actually want. Regarding anything at all.
Did you wake up this morning, thinking 'today I want to do x in order that in seven years time I can have y sort of life?' I have to do this a million times a day at the moment.
'What do you need?' is one of my therapist's favourite questions. I have slowly, haltingly learned to answer in vague terms 'I need to talk about ...' or very occasionally 'I need some human contact' (a ridiculous phrase that I have just about managed to blurt out from time to time, meaning please put your hand on my shoulder or take my hand or something so that I feel connected to a person, and thereby the world). Never, ever, have I been able to make a direct request, but I've heard the question enough times to know that if I sit and think about it, I might in an indirect manner be able to respond semi-truthfully.
This is a different question though. 'What do you want?' means work out where you want to be next year, in five years, in ten years' time.
I am currently pondering this with regards to food - it always seems a good starting point, the obvious, diagnosable problem which I can take practical steps to change. Working out what I want when it comes to the jumbled chaos of how I think is far too complicated currently.
I've been in proper, active recovery from EDNOS this time for nearly 8 months (after years of 'trying' and relapsing), and I still do not know what I want. I know that in May last year I decided I was done messing with messing around and wanted to be healthy, but the challenge is remembering what truly is healthy. Half the time my definition is, frankly, wrong. I can't really pussy-foot around with the ambiguity of 'healthy' because what I think is healthy changes from day to day - it either means stuffing myself with as much food as I can fit in and announcing gleefully that I Couldn't Care Less what I weigh, or it means eating nothing but salad. Or on saner days it means being able to eat the requisite number of calories for my body to do what I ask of it and not wanting to die because I happened to include a sausage roll in this, or dared not to actually count.
So what do I want? And how does that impact on what I do today?
Maybe in the subconscious interests of research, eating has been terrible the last two days. I am now more than ever convinced that bingeing and purging is NOT what I want (this actually did not ever feature in any definition of healthy, so I guess that's useful, knowing that at least one of the definitions I have IS what I want!).
I also do not want to be so emotionally 'healthy' that I no longer care what my body does and looks like, so stuffing as much down as possible is out too.
The problem, really, is that I want to eat, exercise, enjoy food, feel comfortable about eating in a way that most people would define as healthy, and yet, there is still this insistent voice that says that I want not to care about food at all to the point where I can completely take it or leave it. There is the rub.
I still want to be thin.
But is that me?? I am almost certain the answer is no. I am almost certain that it is in fact my illness, so magnificently under control most of the time, that speaks with a very loud voice, and convinces me that it is myself speaking.
This I know: I want to want health, in every respect, and according to every 'normal' person's definition. The next step is to know that I just want it, and to continue to live in a way that leads me in that direction.
Did you wake up this morning, thinking 'today I want to do x in order that in seven years time I can have y sort of life?' I have to do this a million times a day at the moment.
'What do you need?' is one of my therapist's favourite questions. I have slowly, haltingly learned to answer in vague terms 'I need to talk about ...' or very occasionally 'I need some human contact' (a ridiculous phrase that I have just about managed to blurt out from time to time, meaning please put your hand on my shoulder or take my hand or something so that I feel connected to a person, and thereby the world). Never, ever, have I been able to make a direct request, but I've heard the question enough times to know that if I sit and think about it, I might in an indirect manner be able to respond semi-truthfully.
This is a different question though. 'What do you want?' means work out where you want to be next year, in five years, in ten years' time.
I am currently pondering this with regards to food - it always seems a good starting point, the obvious, diagnosable problem which I can take practical steps to change. Working out what I want when it comes to the jumbled chaos of how I think is far too complicated currently.
I've been in proper, active recovery from EDNOS this time for nearly 8 months (after years of 'trying' and relapsing), and I still do not know what I want. I know that in May last year I decided I was done messing with messing around and wanted to be healthy, but the challenge is remembering what truly is healthy. Half the time my definition is, frankly, wrong. I can't really pussy-foot around with the ambiguity of 'healthy' because what I think is healthy changes from day to day - it either means stuffing myself with as much food as I can fit in and announcing gleefully that I Couldn't Care Less what I weigh, or it means eating nothing but salad. Or on saner days it means being able to eat the requisite number of calories for my body to do what I ask of it and not wanting to die because I happened to include a sausage roll in this, or dared not to actually count.
So what do I want? And how does that impact on what I do today?
Maybe in the subconscious interests of research, eating has been terrible the last two days. I am now more than ever convinced that bingeing and purging is NOT what I want (this actually did not ever feature in any definition of healthy, so I guess that's useful, knowing that at least one of the definitions I have IS what I want!).
I also do not want to be so emotionally 'healthy' that I no longer care what my body does and looks like, so stuffing as much down as possible is out too.
The problem, really, is that I want to eat, exercise, enjoy food, feel comfortable about eating in a way that most people would define as healthy, and yet, there is still this insistent voice that says that I want not to care about food at all to the point where I can completely take it or leave it. There is the rub.
I still want to be thin.
But is that me?? I am almost certain the answer is no. I am almost certain that it is in fact my illness, so magnificently under control most of the time, that speaks with a very loud voice, and convinces me that it is myself speaking.
This I know: I want to want health, in every respect, and according to every 'normal' person's definition. The next step is to know that I just want it, and to continue to live in a way that leads me in that direction.
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
It's the little things
I love the coincidences. This morning, having decided to look after myself last night by going to stay with friends while hubby is away instead of spending the night being miserable by myself, I popped home to feed the cat, and decided to flick the radio on for some company. I tuned in just in time for Thought For The Day (yes, I am a radio 4 geek.), and heard someone elderly and kindly-sounding talking about the new Anthony Gormley sculpture in Canterbury Cathedral. It is a sculpture of a body, made from old nails, and the artist says of it:
"We are all the temporary inhabitants of a body. It is our house, instrument and medium. Through it all impressions of the world come and from it all our acts, thoughts and feelings are communicated."
The speaker went on to talk about how we are so often dissatisfied with our body, yet it is in fact this wonderful, God-given thing through which we live our lives, and that we must learn to love and look after our selves and bodies in order to live a full life. It takes very little for me to forget this, and this simple message was a timely reminder for me this morning.
The speaker went on to talk about how we are so often dissatisfied with our body, yet it is in fact this wonderful, God-given thing through which we live our lives, and that we must learn to love and look after our selves and bodies in order to live a full life. It takes very little for me to forget this, and this simple message was a timely reminder for me this morning.
Next I hop in my car (after breakfast!), hit 'play' on my iPod, and this song plays:
Hypnotised by mirrors,
You should look out your window,
Beneath cracked panes of ice,
The sky's on fire.
Drowned by the screams of decadence,
A call to arms
Too busy working out to,
Work it out.
It's not gonna matter what you chose,
It's too late when everything goes Dark
One of my favourite songs, nothing unusual about hearing it, but it is one that made me have a think about what the heck I was doing to myself when I made a decision to do the recovery thing 'proper'.
You should look out your window,
Beneath cracked panes of ice,
The sky's on fire.
Drowned by the screams of decadence,
A call to arms
Too busy working out to,
Work it out.
It's not gonna matter what you chose,
It's too late when everything goes Dark
One of my favourite songs, nothing unusual about hearing it, but it is one that made me have a think about what the heck I was doing to myself when I made a decision to do the recovery thing 'proper'.
Stop looking in the mirror, slow down and make the decision to live, before you can't. The Hoosiers have notoriously ambiguous lyrics, but this one spoke to me with startling clarity. I am almost certain that the writer of the song was not considering eating disorders when he wrote this, but it translated perfectly to me in that context.
Lastly the simple fact that IT IS NO LONGER JANUARY!!! I hate January, as I'm sure many others do. It is long, dark, anniversary-filled and miserable. But today is February, and this simple fact makes me think of lighter nights and just generally looking forward again, instead of being stuck in a dark hole.
Just little things, but they were enough to convince me that I can do this today.
Monday, 31 January 2011
Honesty
Part of learning to speak is learning to speak the truth.
No embellishments, no omissions, no out and out lies.
I don't know that I've ever been a particularly honest person, really. I learned pretty early on that telling the truth often gets you into trouble of some variety. I was a pretty compulsive liar as a child - mostly out of fear. My mother was unpredictable in her reactions, and it was generally preferable to lie my way out of a situation than to hope for any understanding. Of course, I was usually found out and the consequences were a lot worse, but that didn't make much sense to me for some reason.
As I got older I got sneakier. I learned to tell enough of the truth to appear honest, yet kept the darkest things back. Even those I trust didn't get to hear the whole truth. My eating disorder was all about lies, a notable example being when I sat in the pub with my best friend, explaining earnestly that I'd had a rough patch but was working hard to get back on track, halfway through which discussion I disappeared to purge. Oddly, I felt no shame or guilt whatsoever at the time, but looking back now, I am disgusted at the blatent lie, the horrendous abuse of trust. People have been trying for ages to HELP me, and there I was, lying through my teeth.
Some people, of course, don't want to know the whole truth. My husband, loving, supportive, kind and patient with me, freely admits that he does not want to know the ins and outs of what I can do to myself - it is too painful for him. Which is fine by me. When he asks questions I will answer, when he doesn't, there is no need, and I can be myself, free of the need to confess, because sometimes there are things that are just plain more important than illness.
Some people do want to know. My therapist, for example, asks a straight question, sets out in straightforward terms that I am to tell him at the beginning of a session if I have hurt myself in any way. This is fine by me too - I know where I stand, I trust him to use the information to help me.
Some people do not want or need to know anything - there is no reason why I would tell my work colleagues, they only require me to do my job.
The difficulty is the people in the middle - those who are friends, who care about me, who wouldn't be so deeply involved as to be really hurt by what I have to say, but who I have kept for years at arms length for fear of... what? Judgement? Ridicule? Actually having to face the fact that the way I was living wasn't right? I am trying, now, to learn not to just skip over their questions, to really be honest about how I am. I struggle with it so much, this feeling of being self-centred, complaining constantly, being dramatic... But I'm not, I'm actually just being honest. In some ways it's freeing, in others a painful, laborious process.
No embellishments, no omissions, no out and out lies.
I don't know that I've ever been a particularly honest person, really. I learned pretty early on that telling the truth often gets you into trouble of some variety. I was a pretty compulsive liar as a child - mostly out of fear. My mother was unpredictable in her reactions, and it was generally preferable to lie my way out of a situation than to hope for any understanding. Of course, I was usually found out and the consequences were a lot worse, but that didn't make much sense to me for some reason.
As I got older I got sneakier. I learned to tell enough of the truth to appear honest, yet kept the darkest things back. Even those I trust didn't get to hear the whole truth. My eating disorder was all about lies, a notable example being when I sat in the pub with my best friend, explaining earnestly that I'd had a rough patch but was working hard to get back on track, halfway through which discussion I disappeared to purge. Oddly, I felt no shame or guilt whatsoever at the time, but looking back now, I am disgusted at the blatent lie, the horrendous abuse of trust. People have been trying for ages to HELP me, and there I was, lying through my teeth.
Some people, of course, don't want to know the whole truth. My husband, loving, supportive, kind and patient with me, freely admits that he does not want to know the ins and outs of what I can do to myself - it is too painful for him. Which is fine by me. When he asks questions I will answer, when he doesn't, there is no need, and I can be myself, free of the need to confess, because sometimes there are things that are just plain more important than illness.
Some people do want to know. My therapist, for example, asks a straight question, sets out in straightforward terms that I am to tell him at the beginning of a session if I have hurt myself in any way. This is fine by me too - I know where I stand, I trust him to use the information to help me.
Some people do not want or need to know anything - there is no reason why I would tell my work colleagues, they only require me to do my job.
The difficulty is the people in the middle - those who are friends, who care about me, who wouldn't be so deeply involved as to be really hurt by what I have to say, but who I have kept for years at arms length for fear of... what? Judgement? Ridicule? Actually having to face the fact that the way I was living wasn't right? I am trying, now, to learn not to just skip over their questions, to really be honest about how I am. I struggle with it so much, this feeling of being self-centred, complaining constantly, being dramatic... But I'm not, I'm actually just being honest. In some ways it's freeing, in others a painful, laborious process.
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Yes but...
I go back and forth on whether or not I want (need? deserve?) therapy. Often I come away feeling terrible. Often I come away feeling bold and strong. Occasionally I come away feeling I have learned something about myself, and ready to watch out for an opportunity to change the progression of events.
I have a brilliant therapist, by a real stroke of luck. The NHS didn't really want to know about me - I'd had their provision of counselling and therapy and was, surprisingly enough, not magically 'fixed' after the requisite twenty sessions. I was, however, not 'ill enough' for any more treatment, so slip through the gaps I conveniently did, despite all who saw me being in agreement that I needed help! I could get wound up about it if I tried, but in reality, it just sent me in the direction of a counselling charity to whom I will be forever grateful.
Anyway, enter therapist who successfully convinced me he was worth trusting, offered me the unaccustomed idea that I might be ok, and ever since has assisted or at least listened to my rather laboured thought-processes around whether or not life is worth living! The thing is, therapy is hard work... and I am intrinsically lazy. I am definitely the sort of person who leaves things well alone, until they absolutely have to be dealt with - whether this be the clutter on my dining table or the clutter in my head. So I frequently come to the conclusion that it is much too hard and I shouldn't bother, because a) I am not worth that level of effort, and b) I am too tired to sift through everything while also working on being better on a behavioural level.
Sometimes, however, on those occasions where something clicks, I know that I am better off for the work that goes on, however reluctant I might have been to do it. This week is a good example.
My therapist (who shall be hereafter known as P) pointed out to me that my response to any offer of unconditional worth, is 'yes but...'
Now I know that I struggle to accept a compliment with any form of grace. I know I don't believe anyone that says I am ok, even loved, as I am. But I hadn't realised that I apply it to situations, turn it into behaviour as well as thought.
Example. I need to eat lunch (yes, but if I do I will get fat, I will end up bingeing, I can't eat any of the things in the shop opposite...etc) So I do not eat lunch. I have only been a little aware of the dialogue, but my avoidance of lunch is a huge 'yes but' to the totally scientific and objective need to fuel my body. Yes, but I am different. And as a result I feel useless in that I'm not doing the right thing for my recovery.
A more subtle example. I love to take myself out for coffee and read a book when I have a free couple of hours. I started doing it when I was really ill, and needed to escape myself for a while. I rarely do it now - I often think of doing it. 'Yes, but I should be working, I shouldn't spend money, I might end up eating a biscuit with it, I should do some exercise instead'. I don't discuss it with myself that way, but I do decide to spend those hours at home instead, usually wasting time or doing a minimal amount of work very slowly and getting cross with myself for doing it in an inadequate manner. And there we go - I feel useless again, where if I'd actually done something nice for myself by going out, I could have come home feeling relaxed and probably achieved a lot more later on.
Objectively, I can see a pattern whereby I put myself in situations that leave me feeling useless every time. Challenge for the coming days: Spot the 'Yes but...' and evade it.
I am going out for coffee.
I have a brilliant therapist, by a real stroke of luck. The NHS didn't really want to know about me - I'd had their provision of counselling and therapy and was, surprisingly enough, not magically 'fixed' after the requisite twenty sessions. I was, however, not 'ill enough' for any more treatment, so slip through the gaps I conveniently did, despite all who saw me being in agreement that I needed help! I could get wound up about it if I tried, but in reality, it just sent me in the direction of a counselling charity to whom I will be forever grateful.
Anyway, enter therapist who successfully convinced me he was worth trusting, offered me the unaccustomed idea that I might be ok, and ever since has assisted or at least listened to my rather laboured thought-processes around whether or not life is worth living! The thing is, therapy is hard work... and I am intrinsically lazy. I am definitely the sort of person who leaves things well alone, until they absolutely have to be dealt with - whether this be the clutter on my dining table or the clutter in my head. So I frequently come to the conclusion that it is much too hard and I shouldn't bother, because a) I am not worth that level of effort, and b) I am too tired to sift through everything while also working on being better on a behavioural level.
Sometimes, however, on those occasions where something clicks, I know that I am better off for the work that goes on, however reluctant I might have been to do it. This week is a good example.
My therapist (who shall be hereafter known as P) pointed out to me that my response to any offer of unconditional worth, is 'yes but...'
Now I know that I struggle to accept a compliment with any form of grace. I know I don't believe anyone that says I am ok, even loved, as I am. But I hadn't realised that I apply it to situations, turn it into behaviour as well as thought.
Example. I need to eat lunch (yes, but if I do I will get fat, I will end up bingeing, I can't eat any of the things in the shop opposite...etc) So I do not eat lunch. I have only been a little aware of the dialogue, but my avoidance of lunch is a huge 'yes but' to the totally scientific and objective need to fuel my body. Yes, but I am different. And as a result I feel useless in that I'm not doing the right thing for my recovery.
A more subtle example. I love to take myself out for coffee and read a book when I have a free couple of hours. I started doing it when I was really ill, and needed to escape myself for a while. I rarely do it now - I often think of doing it. 'Yes, but I should be working, I shouldn't spend money, I might end up eating a biscuit with it, I should do some exercise instead'. I don't discuss it with myself that way, but I do decide to spend those hours at home instead, usually wasting time or doing a minimal amount of work very slowly and getting cross with myself for doing it in an inadequate manner. And there we go - I feel useless again, where if I'd actually done something nice for myself by going out, I could have come home feeling relaxed and probably achieved a lot more later on.
Objectively, I can see a pattern whereby I put myself in situations that leave me feeling useless every time. Challenge for the coming days: Spot the 'Yes but...' and evade it.
I am going out for coffee.
Monday, 24 January 2011
Swings, Mirrors and Perspective
Moods are a strange thing, and the weekend brought a lot of things to consider about how I react to situations. Husband arrived home on Friday, and as always it was a rush of joy to be back together - it doesn't matter whether it's one day, five days or three weeks, I always feel like there's a hole in my very being when he's away. I've tried to get used to it, but it never gets any easier. I'll be rocketed from the depth of despair that is the state of most evenings I spend alone, to absolute happiness when he's home. While I've never got used to the situation, I am at least prepared for these moods - however real they are at the time, I can rationalise them to a point.
Not so with the mirror effect. I wonder if this a feature of mental illness, of uncertainty about ones own judgement or perception - when people close to me feel something deeply, I tend to reflect this mood without any real reason for it in my own life. I've always been described as 'sensitive', even empathetic as I got older, and without doubt I consider this generally one of my better features, however there are times when I find that it's detrimental to my own health. Certainly, picking up on how someone feels helps me to understand them, but when being with someone affects my own mood so deeply, it can lead me to consider staying away... Where does one draw the line? How much can I help someone unwittingly pulls me down with them? The answer, sadly, is not an awful lot.
Such was the case on Sunday. There is a tremendous amount of guilt for removing myself from situations where someone might need some support, but at the moment it has to be me first. Selfish as it may be.
I found perspective in running, as I often do.
I consider myself extremely lucky, that despite it being a feature of my Eating Disorder, I have been able to reclaim exercise as something that really does give me perspective. When I run, I know exactly where my body goes to, I feel it as a real, powerful acceptable being, and I am ok with how it behaves for me and how it looks. I am not and never have been tiny - I have, as they say of a good cart-horse, 'nine-inches of bone', and as such I start to look pretty rubbish around a BMI of 20. Even at my worst point of being ill I was a 'normal' weight, I never managed to gain the coveted underweight label. The point being that this doesn't matter to me when I run - I am content with being my physical self, appreciating its strength, and enjoying the speed I can achieve solely with my own power - I feel free.
Not only does it give me physical perspective, but it distances me from the unhappy child/teenager I was. As a child, I was overweight, unfit and very unhappy, and now I am healthy, capable and have ways to bring myself back to my adult self. I ran a half marathon a couple of months into my recovery, and never believed I'd be able to do it. Crossing the finishing line was possibly the greatest achievement of my life - not my degree, not any of my academic or professional successes compare - this was something I did for me, by myself, and is so far from anything I thought I'd be able to do. This doesn't sound like perspective I'm sure, but it is. I recognised for probably the first time that I could do something that wasn't expected of me... and that makes me free to be me, not just the person that does what is helpful to others.
Perspective comes of putting myself first for a change, learning to recognise the outside influences that hurt me, and take myself away from them somehow.
Not so with the mirror effect. I wonder if this a feature of mental illness, of uncertainty about ones own judgement or perception - when people close to me feel something deeply, I tend to reflect this mood without any real reason for it in my own life. I've always been described as 'sensitive', even empathetic as I got older, and without doubt I consider this generally one of my better features, however there are times when I find that it's detrimental to my own health. Certainly, picking up on how someone feels helps me to understand them, but when being with someone affects my own mood so deeply, it can lead me to consider staying away... Where does one draw the line? How much can I help someone unwittingly pulls me down with them? The answer, sadly, is not an awful lot.
Such was the case on Sunday. There is a tremendous amount of guilt for removing myself from situations where someone might need some support, but at the moment it has to be me first. Selfish as it may be.
I found perspective in running, as I often do.
I consider myself extremely lucky, that despite it being a feature of my Eating Disorder, I have been able to reclaim exercise as something that really does give me perspective. When I run, I know exactly where my body goes to, I feel it as a real, powerful acceptable being, and I am ok with how it behaves for me and how it looks. I am not and never have been tiny - I have, as they say of a good cart-horse, 'nine-inches of bone', and as such I start to look pretty rubbish around a BMI of 20. Even at my worst point of being ill I was a 'normal' weight, I never managed to gain the coveted underweight label. The point being that this doesn't matter to me when I run - I am content with being my physical self, appreciating its strength, and enjoying the speed I can achieve solely with my own power - I feel free.
Not only does it give me physical perspective, but it distances me from the unhappy child/teenager I was. As a child, I was overweight, unfit and very unhappy, and now I am healthy, capable and have ways to bring myself back to my adult self. I ran a half marathon a couple of months into my recovery, and never believed I'd be able to do it. Crossing the finishing line was possibly the greatest achievement of my life - not my degree, not any of my academic or professional successes compare - this was something I did for me, by myself, and is so far from anything I thought I'd be able to do. This doesn't sound like perspective I'm sure, but it is. I recognised for probably the first time that I could do something that wasn't expected of me... and that makes me free to be me, not just the person that does what is helpful to others.
Perspective comes of putting myself first for a change, learning to recognise the outside influences that hurt me, and take myself away from them somehow.
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
The art of being capable
Capable. It's a word I've used a lot, through both illness and recovery. It changes its meaning according to where my head is. It's been both destructive and constructive.
When I first became ill, I was 'capable'. Successful, even. Success was a useful mask for a mess of emotion - like everything else I was doing at the time, I grieved successfully. I lost the most important person in my life, and knew the route I was meant to go down - Shock, Pain, Guilt, Anger, Depression, Acceptance. I did them all successfully, within the space of about a month. I was even capable of doing emotions right. Keep them quiet if any step out of the prescribed order, carry on being successful at Doing Things. Be capable.
Only trouble is that capable actually meant squashing every unrequired emotion and indeed most needs. Including the need to digest food, acknowledge my continued feelings of grief and admit that actually, I wasn't ready to be independent. Capable was a hiding place, a protective device and a means of self-sabotage.
After a year of therapy, I learned that my definition of Capable was preventing me from asking for the help I desperately needed, and stopping me from getting the support I longed for, and I more-or-less abandoned it overnight. There comes a point, when you begin to consider allowing the mask to slip, and suddenly the energy required to continue being 'capable' is too much, and in my case it fell apart completely.
The trouble is that I felt entirely helpless at this point - the trick is balance. I don't have a lot of this. Life is black, or it is white. It is night, or it is day. It is collapse, or entirely come together. I like to think that recovery is showing me a bit of the fascinating in-between - the greys and mists of dawn that are neither night nor day.
It is choosing the parts of Capable that suit me. It is amazing how the little things change an entire experience. I hate being alone at home overnight, but if I can engage adult thinking a little, it becomes bearable, and I cope, rather than becoming a sobbing, terrified mess. I do this by being capable. I light a fire, to keep warm. I cook a meal (this is hugely significant to me - I was never allowed to be involved with cooking as a child), and I remember to put the bin out. Tiny, insignificant things, that almost every 25 year old thinks nothing of, but to me are the difference between being the inarticulate, desperate, lonely child who cannot manage alone, and being myself, the woman, adult, wife - Capable human being.
Such a significant word. Such a difference in the way I use it now to a year ago. There isn't any need to be successful or perfect - capable simply means making the best of what I have and can do, and consequently managing to move forward, even in situations where I am very afraid.
I will continue to embrace Capable, as long as it helps me to discover my adult self.
When I first became ill, I was 'capable'. Successful, even. Success was a useful mask for a mess of emotion - like everything else I was doing at the time, I grieved successfully. I lost the most important person in my life, and knew the route I was meant to go down - Shock, Pain, Guilt, Anger, Depression, Acceptance. I did them all successfully, within the space of about a month. I was even capable of doing emotions right. Keep them quiet if any step out of the prescribed order, carry on being successful at Doing Things. Be capable.
Only trouble is that capable actually meant squashing every unrequired emotion and indeed most needs. Including the need to digest food, acknowledge my continued feelings of grief and admit that actually, I wasn't ready to be independent. Capable was a hiding place, a protective device and a means of self-sabotage.
After a year of therapy, I learned that my definition of Capable was preventing me from asking for the help I desperately needed, and stopping me from getting the support I longed for, and I more-or-less abandoned it overnight. There comes a point, when you begin to consider allowing the mask to slip, and suddenly the energy required to continue being 'capable' is too much, and in my case it fell apart completely.
The trouble is that I felt entirely helpless at this point - the trick is balance. I don't have a lot of this. Life is black, or it is white. It is night, or it is day. It is collapse, or entirely come together. I like to think that recovery is showing me a bit of the fascinating in-between - the greys and mists of dawn that are neither night nor day.
It is choosing the parts of Capable that suit me. It is amazing how the little things change an entire experience. I hate being alone at home overnight, but if I can engage adult thinking a little, it becomes bearable, and I cope, rather than becoming a sobbing, terrified mess. I do this by being capable. I light a fire, to keep warm. I cook a meal (this is hugely significant to me - I was never allowed to be involved with cooking as a child), and I remember to put the bin out. Tiny, insignificant things, that almost every 25 year old thinks nothing of, but to me are the difference between being the inarticulate, desperate, lonely child who cannot manage alone, and being myself, the woman, adult, wife - Capable human being.
Such a significant word. Such a difference in the way I use it now to a year ago. There isn't any need to be successful or perfect - capable simply means making the best of what I have and can do, and consequently managing to move forward, even in situations where I am very afraid.
I will continue to embrace Capable, as long as it helps me to discover my adult self.
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
I speak because I can
It's taken a number of years to find a voice. A number of years, a number of false starts, and incessant missions to hide behind any masks I could possibly find or create.
There are hundreds of blogs on mental health issues, eating disorders, recovery and so on - I often feel my story is not worth telling, it becomes trivial in the face of what some people go through... but this is the mindset that allowed me to slip behind the mask and discount my voice in the first place, and kept me hiding as I slipped ever further. The critical voice of my internal parent, keeping me quiet and driving me to self-destructive means to keep the outer intact.
I am learning to speak. An odd thing to say, perhaps, for someone labelled as articulate. I have borrowed a number of words and lines from other people - songs, poetry, writing, but it is time to find my own to add to them, time to say the things that have been kept locked away.
This sounds like a cliche to my critical ear. I hate writing in cliches, I hate drama and excessive display of emotion, but the truth is that cliches become so because people recognise themselves in what they hear - they are a method of giving voice to something very personal in a way that leaves everyone understanding what is going on - surely this is the point of speaking? To be heard and understood.
'Drama' and excessive emotion are a huge part of who I am right now. To pretend otherwise and go back to being flippant or minimising is continuing a pattern that has never helped.
I speak because I can, and in a way that suits and expresses where I am. I will learn not to make apologies for this.
There are hundreds of blogs on mental health issues, eating disorders, recovery and so on - I often feel my story is not worth telling, it becomes trivial in the face of what some people go through... but this is the mindset that allowed me to slip behind the mask and discount my voice in the first place, and kept me hiding as I slipped ever further. The critical voice of my internal parent, keeping me quiet and driving me to self-destructive means to keep the outer intact.
I am learning to speak. An odd thing to say, perhaps, for someone labelled as articulate. I have borrowed a number of words and lines from other people - songs, poetry, writing, but it is time to find my own to add to them, time to say the things that have been kept locked away.
This sounds like a cliche to my critical ear. I hate writing in cliches, I hate drama and excessive display of emotion, but the truth is that cliches become so because people recognise themselves in what they hear - they are a method of giving voice to something very personal in a way that leaves everyone understanding what is going on - surely this is the point of speaking? To be heard and understood.
'Drama' and excessive emotion are a huge part of who I am right now. To pretend otherwise and go back to being flippant or minimising is continuing a pattern that has never helped.
I speak because I can, and in a way that suits and expresses where I am. I will learn not to make apologies for this.
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