Category: Addiction


animals-st-francis-2As a young girl, my conviction that I was able to communicate with animals, coupled with my parents’ point blank refusal to have anything other than a goldfish in the house, gave rise to my fantastical delusion that I was the living embodiment of a cross between Dr Doolittle and St Francis of Assisi.

Nowadays, despite still loving the idea of pets, the practicalities and the expense prevent it from becoming a reality.

So, I preface this post explaining that I’m not a real ‘animal person’. Not to be confused with someone who doesn’t care about animal cruelty. I do. Controversially though, I believe that human beings are of greater worth than animals (and find it endlessly sad that the NSPCC receives less donation money per year than the RSPCA) .

(I know. I know. There will be somebody somewhere wanting to spray paint the word ‘bullshit’ across my blog as I type this).

The reason I’m explaining my general attitude regarding animals is to provide some semblance of a context for what follows.

Yesterday  I was sitting on the sofa vaguely watching the early evening news while I threaded two tiny beads on a pair of metal findings. I rarely devote my complete concentration to the TV, and use that kind of ‘down time’  to make stuff; be it crochet, origami, knitting hats, scarves earrings, bracelets… whatever the current creative obsession affords.

Suddenly, a horrible bone splitting crash.

It had come from the large patio window at the end of the room.

Dusk falls darkly now that the October sun drops faster, and from a well lit room the opaque midnight blue outside seems blacker than it really is.  I went to the window, cupping my hands against it to erase reflection.

On her back, a female blackbird lay flapping, speckled breast skywards,  trying to right herself.  It was a heartbreaking sight, such a beautiful bird, so helpless and so shocked. It had happened so fast.

Instinctively, I scooped the bird into my hands and held her for a moment, felt her rapid heart, her tiny trembling. “Best left alone,” advised my companion. “They’ll very often pick themselves up and fly away when they’ve got past the shock”.

I set her down, right side up; draw away, the tip of my heels rolling forward to my toes.

female-red-winged-blackbirdThis evening, I am struck by my shocked response to her plight. My sudden immense pity for this little bird who, even if she could find flight, will never eat again. Her beak had clearly taken the impact of the smash, the glass sheet cruelly driving the top and bottom to twist in opposite directions. Never again will her meal be plucked from the ground with pincer precision. Never will the sharp beak meet to hold food for her young.

These twinges of sadness for my broken bird are suddenly shot through with irony. I realise that, for a decade, I have systematically denied my body the nourishment it requires in order to function in the way it is meant to.

Do I  pity for it?

Do I lament the months of deprivation? The semi starved state that results in hypoglycemia? amenorrhea? the inability to stay warm? a lower immunity? osteoporosis? reduced life expectancy? liver damage?  potential organ failure?

Why is it, that I am more upset about the broken bird than I am my breaking body?

I sound like my mother when she crosses into panic mode. And there aren’t any easy answers.

What I would say, is this.

An eating disorder pushes the sufferer to extremes that no sane minded person can conceive. It seems to contradict that which is instinctual: the drive to survive that ensures the continuation of the human species. Of course, the width of the gap between the urge to survive and the urge to starve depends on how deeply entrenched the eating disorder has become. I’d like to believe, that in its infancy, the illness may have been tempered, dare I say, hampered and arrested, by a glimpse into the future damage I would sustain. I’d like to believe that, because if that IS the case, then perhaps early warnings would make a difference to someone.

What I know is that part of the pathology of Eating Disorders, is that they can  somehow usurp the sufferer’s natural born instinct for self preservation. Anorexia hijacked mine to the point where my natural response to the idea of my body being ‘well’ is, at best, indifference and at worst, revulsion. In the topsy turvey world of Eating Disorders, many sufferers equate starvation with success.

Back in the natural world, nobody wants to fail. Failure is B A D.

This idea carries over into the world of ED. What doesn’t follow, is the notion that somehow failure is death. Anorexia screams that ‘wellness’ is weakness, health is self indulgent. Being healthy means being a ‘failed Anorexic’.

I know it sounds crazy, and it doesn’t apply to every person who has an Eating Disorder. If you have a loved one suffering, it’s worth a try to gently ask them about the contradictions between the ‘well’ part of them and the ‘ill’ part. Go easy though. They may not be aware of it or they may not experience it this way.

Personally, I’m trying hard to re-program my mashed up mind, so that I can go back to thinking about health and wellness in natural world terms, rather than the conditions set by Anorexia.

The little bird wasn’t there when I checked again. She has somehow flown away. I hope she will not starve.

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The following post is something I already published on a different blog. Call me lazy, but sometimes I’ve simply explained something as well as I can. No point reinventing the wheel, right?

Anorexia is a shapeshifter of an illness, deceptive in more ways than amyone could imagine. Don’t be fooled by the media perspective. Although anorexia makes its victims LOOK the same, the ways in which it infects each person, the periods of infliction and the ways it gets into someone are never the same. 

As some readers may know, I’m in a ten bed specialist unit and each person here carries their very own strain of Anorexia. 

Ive always been a fan of analogy. What follows is the story of how the illness got to me…

A small, blue clad 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 stifled 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 figure, 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. What I do know is that the illness wears many masks and easily poses as the smallest giggling schoolgirl until you turn away, reassured that it isn’t getting any closer.

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 no longeer 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 moment 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.  Treatment is more effective the earlier the illness is caught but getting GPs to to take it seriously can be a problem (though why this is still the case, I don’t know).  You would think that in today’s social climate, any hint of onset of Anorexia, Bulimia or any other ED would be treated as serious enough to warrant immediate intervention. 

 

Dear ___________,
agony1

It’s hard to  know where to be
gin because I cant remember where or when the beginning was.  What I DO know is that you’ve no idea how hard I’ve had to work just to keep things balanced.

I want you to stop and shut up and LISTEN.  I’m going to try to tell you about what you’ve done and what you’re STILL doing. It’s a hard thing. Bear with me.

Despite your attempts to poison me and to harm me, I fought to stay healthy. I cleaned your blood, carried it round, battled illnesses, healed up your wounds.

You crossed what had become a very blurry line around ten years ago.  Then the real brutality began. You fought me with systematic, dogged determination; tried to change me, control me, reshape me with the tools of death you fast learned to use.

The irony of the fact it began with a health kick hasn’t escaped me. When you cut out the cigarettes, I was overjoyed! Clean breathing at long last. I’d been clogging up with thick tar, and in some ways, I think I’d resigned myself to the blackness, and to the knowledge that it would continue to seep and creep, until it covered all my tender healthiness.

But you cracked it! And I began to work at cleaning it up, helped greatly by your exercise and your healthier lifestyle. It was so good for a while.

Up until you stopped feeding me.

At first I wasn’t worried. I don’t even know when I first noticed. Those workouts of yours grew progressively harder to sustain. When I began to flag, instead of the little rest I was used to, you pushed me all the harder. After sprinting half a mile, you’d ramp up the speed. For a while, I thought it was normal; y’know, a good technique for burning my fat and making muscle. I trusted that you knew your stuff. I figured you’d stop when I reached my optimum, and I worked so hard for you, did what YOU wanted. Stretched to the limit, I kept going, convinced you’d be satisfied with my performance.  It’s hard to acknowledge just how far you fell from my expectations and it’s quite impossible for me to understand.

Over time, you and I underwent a transformation that nobody, NOBODY could believe. I think it’s fair to say that it simply wasn’t a you that I recognised.

You were brutal.

Whispers of encouragement became barked orders as coach turned to tyrant. I began to dread you.

Your lack of mercy started to take its toll as I struggled to balance your system.

I tried to tell you. I couldn’t help but let you feel the impact of your cruelty. You can’t flog someone half to death and expect the scars not to show. I stopped biting my lip and started to shout, but you lashed me harder, your determination a steel whip, your mission a desperate urge to keep control.

And all this talk of exercise is perhaps an avoidance of the most painful point: that of starvation.

I struggle here.

The louder I cry, the harder you starve. The more I plead, the more you withhold. If I let myself think of food, you give me less, and yet, I’m so hungry, I can’t think of anything BUT.

You’re killing me.

It’s not rocket science. If you don’t take care of something, it’s going to fall apart.  I’m SO tired of having to hold you up. You demand so much of me but give so little; a cruel rider lashing at his horse, numb to the pain of its seared flank; numb to the deep ache streaming down it’s legs, for all that matters is the win and the blinkers of victory blot out the damage.

If I was a separate being, you’d be done for abuse. The cruelty is almost intolerable. You tease me with the broken edges of foods that I crave. You tell me I can have it, then, just as fast, tell me I can’t. I’m starving and you lead me to the fridge fskeleton appleull of food that I’m not allowed to eat. Like an object of worship, you kneel in front of the full shelves, and as I cry that it’s nourishment you only see numbers.  For food has become a mass of calculations that stream through this brain, tangled wit
h the inevitable bargaining script of ifs and buts and onlys… And all the while, my mouth drools.

You’re breaking me. My bones are dry and brittle. Osteoporosis casts shadows on my hips and my spine is wearing thin. I can’t remember how many years since I bore the ache of fertility. This womb dry and cold, no longer fit to feel the moisture of tiny breath.

Every step is painful as bone grinds on stone. Every step is my protest. And yet, you carry on, rising above the screaming soles, too frightened to stop. You run away from me, barely look at me, only glancing to check that your clothes cover your skin.

I am weary, made tired by your disdain. I am weary of being underfed, ignored, tempted, denied.

I am weary of being brought to the brink of health, and then being starved to the brink of death.

I am weary of daring to trust that I no longer have to hunt to survive, then being shot at when I rest.

I am weary of empty promises, of bearing the weight of your illness.

If you continue, we will both die in this civil war and nobody will ever know who won or who lost.

All of me will rot; but, you if you remain, will rise above the webs of half rotted reasons, above the dry dust of me

And it will all

seem

so

completely

senseless.

******************

I didn’t want to seem rude when my very lovely clinician suggested writing a letter to myself. I almost squinted with the effort of holding back on the eye roll, resisted the sideways pull of my lips.

Been there. Done that. Got T-shirts to clothe an army.

But. This was a bit different. Not a ‘ years from now thing. Not a letter to myself, but a letter FROM myself. More specifically, from my body.

I put it here to remind myself why I need to keep eating. I also put it here hoping that it might be helpful in some way, to someone else.

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

record-player2

… And we’ll all sing along like before…

Goes the song.

Irritating when your internal MP3 is stuck on the same track and no matter how hard you shake it, it won’t stop. Trying to get away from it is just about as effective as trying to go on holiday without your head. And don’t we all wish we could do that at certain times in our life. Take enough hallucinogens and maybe it’s possible, but they’re not exactly cost effective and the insurance you’d need to take out is ridiculous.

No.
No way around it but to play enough music to flush this one out of the system.
This particular musical ghosting is a song by Del Amitri (who for some unknown reason, I always confuse with Dire Straits). An especially depressing number, aptly named, ‘Nothing Ever Happens’.

I guess it’s the theme of repetition that lends the song to my worn out inner ears; and for good reason.
On Wednesday, I retrace my tracks to the very same unit I was in over Christmas.

Yep.
That’s right.
Wednesday will see me standing outside what is going to feel like Hell’s doors.
And to be clear, it’s not that nothing will have changed, because I have. My illness has. My thinking has. I’m not on exactly the same rung of the ladder as I was in December.
What is hard, is that it’s the same old hole. The same darkness. And, pretty much the same distance to the light. (So maybe I AM on the same rung…)

Hence, ‘we all sing along like before’.

Last time I came out  ran away because I couldn’t stand the increases in my diet. I left with a BMI of 15. Clearly not recovered in any sense really… Although it felt like it.

I want this to work… which means that I will have to work. Very hard.

It will be bearable, though it won’t feel it.
It won’t kill me, Ironically, it could save my life. But it won’t feel that way because the process of weight restoration will involve the slow death of a part of this illness, so it will feel like it.
In all the darkness, I must somehow manage to fix my eyes on a light I will not always see.

In order for recovery to take place, you have to believe that, just as there is always a sun and a moon, there is a new life beyond, and there is a different person behind, the illness / addiction.
The courage it takes to make this leap of faith is immense and for me personally, I don’t know if I can sustain it.

I’m not going to write about all the reasons why I was the least likely host site for Anorexia to burrow into. You’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that nobody could believe it, me included.

However, just ONE of the reasons why I am an unlikely candidate, is the fact that I have always been regarded as being “a block of sense”.

It’s true, I have suffered with lifelong anxiety, something which has only really been acknowledged in more recent years, but as a general rule, certain phobias aside, I really am an incredibly pragmatic, diplomatic, rational thinker.

I don’t mean that I can do all the lateral thinking puzzles that MENSA books torment people with. I don’t have an endless chain of resolved Rubik’s Cubes.  And I don’t sit down everyday to complete the Times Cryptic Crossword, just for kicks.2000px-Rubik's_cube.svg

No.

However, I DO have a high proportion of common sense and very level head.

I don’t mean to blow my own trumpet, and again, you’ll have to trust me when I say that arrogance isn’t something that has been a strong feature of mine, but at the end of a long chat last week, a struggling friend looked at me quizzically and asked, “how did you get to be so wise?”.

At the time I shrugged it off, but later I heard it echo and I wondered… How come I have all this wisdom, and yet, can’t apply it to myself. How is it that I can see lights in other people’s tunnels, yet my own is the darkest shade of black? How can I have such insight into the pain carried by others, while I stumble in blind circles? Why can I feel what they feel, but not what I feel? How is it that people are consistently impressed with my intellect, my ‘wisdom’, when all the while,  my Anorexia is behind the scenes calling the shots.

It was my friend’s question that spurred me to write this post, because I want to illustrate something of the devious nature of an Eating Disorder. I’ve heard it suggested that sufferers of this illness choose to be thin in a ‘supermodel wannabe’ sense; that it’s vanity. I’m here to set the record straight. On the contrary, my illness makes me uglier, far less attractive.

I’m writing to explain that I CAN’T EXPLAIN how it is that my rational mind understands that I can’t be fat. It sees the figures on the scales at weekly weigh-ins at the unit. It hears the calculation of my (stupidly low) Body Mass Index, and yet, the Anorexia wraps itself round it all, and perverts it, twists it and denies it.

Lots of people ask the question, ‘do Anorexic’s see themselves as ‘fat’? It’s a massive (no pun intended) concern for those seeking understanding.

I know I’m not fat. Many seasoned Anorexics KNOW this on some level. I do however, feel that I look ‘normal’. I don’t see ‘underweight’. I don’t EXPERIENCE ‘thinness’.

So, I’m shocked beyond belief at a picture my dad takes of me.Picture altered to make background less recognisable.

I can’t recognise the scrawny person in it. She can’t be me. surely?

This is what I want to purvey. This is what I want to educate people about, because I think it’s the hardest aspect for those who watch, to understand. A person may have an IQ higher than the year they were born, but their perception of themselves can be as skewed as the government data on employment. Even with this photo, and the fact that I’ve lost weight since. I still cannot compute that I really look like that.

Such is the complete distortion of an otherwise rational mind. It’s one thing to know something in your rational mind, it’s another to experience it as ‘being real’. In this sense, I make the (somewhat controversial) assertion that Anorexia has an element which is akin to psychosis. This is where the illness becomes a mental health problem, rather than a ‘state of mind’.

 

 

I know I’ve been quiet. A post is long over due…

It’s been so hard to discipline myself to write. My mind is like the end of a badly but piece of rope… I can’t seem to get all the fibres to line up enough to thread them through the nerves that make my fingers form the letters.

In recent weeks, I’ve talked to a number of people who have had little or no understanding of Anorexia. After each, I’ve sworn to write with the intention of educating people who are interested and want to gain an insight into what it might be like to live with the illness, and also to live next to it.

I am going to try to put a post together over the next few days so watch this space!

frayed-rope-1960x900_34210

It’s very, very difficult to describe the mental torment that can suddenly twist itself in and around the brain of someone suffering with an eating disorder. I’ve struggled to find the words.

You can perhaps imagine the immensity of my relief when I stumbled across a talk given by an American doctor called Laura Hill. I was searching through TED, looking for interesting talks. when I first heard her. I was amazed when she began to describe ‘the noise’ in MY head, when I am faced with choices about food. I had that overwhelming sense of awe and relief and terror that you get when somebody describes your innermost, thus far unarticulated, maybe even unformed, thought traces… You know the one, right? That whole ‘strumming my pain with his fingers, singing my life with his words’ thing?

What she proceeded to do blew a hole right through me.

She had a tape recording of what she called ‘the noise’. The noise experienced / heard by an Anorexic whenever they have to think about selecting food from a menu, a supermarket shelf, a fridge, freezer, list or lunch bar. She played this raw cacophony of voices, a medley of ordinary conversation, accusatory interjections and deeper inner ‘voices’ commanding, bargaining, questioning.  Listening to it, I feel as though she has somehow wired up my brain and translated every thought, every voice, every snippet of inaudible agony, into words and sentences. It’s the chaos of the calories, the constant mathematical equations, ratios, percentages that need to be calculated in order to work out how much energy is allowed, or NOT allowed. The numbers that fly in and out, unable to find a carpet of reason on which to rest, the foods that fall into the red, the orange and the green zones of safe and unsafe foods; the protein, the fat, the carbs, the fruits; whether I’ve been more active or more sedentary; the form the food takes…. All these factors dart like pinballs across the Anorexic’s mind, making a noise that you could drown in.

It’s noise of the kind that you might expect in the psychotic mind. Noise that, for me,  doesn’t stop unless I make the decision to abstain.

And then

silence

complete peace.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m0M-lbItSqk

I tried to put together a video using Dr Hill’s sound clip. It’s not brilliant. I’ve never done it before… But it might make someone else feel understood… or give a little insight into what is happening in the mind of a loved one as they try to pick a snack, or a meal.

It might help somebody understand why it is so very difficult to recover. It’s not just as simple as ‘eat’, because just thinking about eating invokes the noise.

What I have tried to do is to argue with this noise, shout back at it, reason with it… But this is rarely helpful and I have often resolved to skip the food in the desperate rush to close down the clamour.

What I am now trying to do, is to allow the noise to exist without giving in to it. Allowing it to happen but still allowing nourishment of some kind. I hope that the practise of this will eventually afford me a ‘quieter noise’, a lower volume if not complete peace. One day, perhaps they’ll research this illness more and find a drug which will block out the noise and the panic, but for now, I will continue to work towards recovery despite the noise.

Does anybody else identify with this? If so, what helps you and how do you deal with it?

If your default state of mind involves a relentless drive towards perfection.Rebel

If the eye flinching, wincing, mincing voice of piercing criticism carries through veins and synapses

If your head is bent and darkened by the brightness of those around you

If you cannot bear the bird that longs to nestle in your palm, for fear that it will turn and peck your sockets hollow

If your thoughts are spurs and feelings, whips that lash your saddened soul

and your mind set is a thirst that’s only quenched by a glass half full

then hear the call and heed it

Rebel against your own state of mind.

“Rebel against your own state of mind…”

The background noise penetrates my concentrated, musical rhythm of ‘knit one, knit one below, knit one, knit one below’…

A glance at the TV brings an advert into sharp focus; a sleek grey car wheeling across a dramatic rural landscape. It seems obvious that it was a car ad but really, it might just asRebel well be the Scottish tourist board (or another bloody Party Political broadcast – Please no more!)

It’s not important. What matters is the fact that I’m having to count my stitches again because one sentence has lodged itself in my mind. It’s vying for my attention, playing on a continuous loop which forces me to stop counting and think properly about how this one sentence resonates deep within me, and how relevant it is in the context of my recovery and, perhaps, recovery in general.

My state of mind is founded on a determination to recover.

But it’s complicated.

‘Complicated’ because I swing between an absolute conviction that I WILL beat Anorexia and that I CAN and AM; and the absolute desperation that highlights the impossibility of it all, the futility of trying and the agony of succeeding at weight gain. (Yes, the presence of absolutes is noted).

The twisted paradoxes that lie like fatal, open jaws, are manifold and make the journey towards recovery all the more perilous for those who crawl along the path.

I want to eat, but I don’t want to gain weight.

I want to gain weight, but I can’t let myself eat.

I pick up my food, but I can’t put it in my mouth.

I drool over supper that I scrape off my plate

I eat all my meals, but I can’t keep them in

I cut off my nose…

Irony after irony. Stacked up, an impossible pylon to climb up or climb down.

I’m losing my thread (which won’t come as as surprise). The point is, in order to recover, I have to rebel against my state of mind.

Anorexia has become a default setting, a default state of mind. It is no longer possible for me to remember when I didn’t much care what I ate, when life wasn’t just about food, or no food. Even when I am absolutely convinced that I am going to crack it, determined that I can do it, the resolve can evaporate before I can pull the top off the yoghurt.

Rebel against your state of mind.

This six word commands a practise that might help in the battle towards restoring some of the balance that the eating disorder has stolen. Rebelling against your state of mind means a battle, a defiance, a disobedience.

Making peace with my state of mind will be about as successful as Chamberlain’s approach to Hitler. Appeasement is not an option.

I realise this post is a slightly bizarre conglomerate of thoughts and metaphor. Out of the habit of writing, I am at once struck by how much Iies unexpressed, and how tangled and tangential, my thoughts.

A peacemaker would beg forgiveness but in a spirit of rebellion, I post this anyway and pretend I don’t care.

… As Miranda’s mother says. (For those who don’t know, this refers to an uncomfortably comedic British comedienne’s show, ‘Miranda’)

I’ve taken a bit of time away from the blogsphere. Mainly because being an inpatient isn’t particularly conducive to writing. Then again, having an illness like Anorexia seems to make it nigh on impossible so, either way, I hope it explains the rather large gap between posts.

I’m out of hospital now. Not “better” in the stand-alone sense…. but “better than”…2013-08-12 08.34.49

Recovery is hard work. When I was in hospital, I longed for freedom.

Now I’m out, I realise that I’m still imprisoned.

BUT

I still have hope perched in my soul.

I can take up arms again now my arms are strong enough to carry them.

I want to thank readers who have been kind enough to message me and mail me. I have been so touched by your concern. Many thanks for all your thoughts and prayers. They have helped me stand when I have been all but bent double.