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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)