Category: Inpatient Treatment


20170619_150530If you think that being in hospital for five months would have afforded me ample time to write, you’d be right. Difficult then, to explain that although hours at my desk stretched like the Cornish coastline, my mind contracted and contorted like 17:30 on the M25.

Inpatient treatment for Anorexia generally leaves my insides steeped in a fluid sense of agony. Words curdle in my throat, congeal in my head. The process of weigh restoration at once answering the urgent cries of a desperately malnourished body, yet stealing every ounce of my self – styled safety. No half sane person can comprehend the half cocked comfort an Anorexic may take from being able to feel each rib; from seeing the deepened pit where the neck meets the sternum; feeling the valleys and protrusions of the clavicle and the hollow caves of the underarm.

It sounds like lust… Perhaps I am mourning the loss of my terrifyingly tiny body. Perhaps I am merely giving voice to the Anorexic fantasy, trying to confess the dark longings that lie like dogs with one eye open, just waiting for me to pass a full length mirror, or absently rub my recently re-fed arm.

In truth, I left the hospital against medical advice and nowhere near ‘healthy’. BUT, I have come a long way. I am not the death dodging spider that crawled up the hospital steps on March 15th. My heart beats without the frightening bradycardia… My white blood cells are better, I am no longer hypoglycemic (well… not AS much).

My insides are probably pinker…

I can string sentences together more easily. I can THINK enough to tackle some of the twists of a cryptic crossword (note: I say ‘some’!!)

I am grateful to The Priory hospital for their INCREDIBLE support. Their treatment was second to none, the best I’ve had by a long way. I was spoken to with such respect, kindness and, when I needed it most, logic. My views were listened to and the fact that the patient sometimes knows what’s best for them, was actually woven into my treatment plan.

I chose the groups I could manage and left the rest. I managed my own time.

I took comfort in creating.

I stuck it out until I reached the target I had set for myself, even went a little above. Three weeks later, I weigh exactly the same.

Sentimental bit…

My gratitude goes to all those who nursed me, and to Dr Iwona Kolsut, for her wisdom; Dr Lousie Bundock for her striking kindness and ‘normality’ ; Brian G for his immense compassion and the good guy Chris for his humour and humanity. They are all figures that my Anorexia resents but that I (the I that is ME) owe my life to.  Today I received my discharge notes. They make for positive reading. My hope is that I can sustain the light of hope that took such gentle hands and so many tender breaths to fan into a flame.

And as if that wasn’t enough… (More sentimentality…)

Huge thanks also go to those I know who prayed so much for me. My family (who won’t read this), my friends (some might), my beaut of a friend Chloe who so faithfully visited me every week to paint my torn up nails and encourage me with vision,  my incredible friend Valorie (who I’ve never met but who sent me an amazing box of gifts), my church friends, who never fail to love me as I am, those brave and suffering patients who I walked some of the way with, and all the people who I know hold me in thought and love.  I have everything to live for.

I just have to do it.

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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. 

At thirty, I would have things mostly sorted. I mean, I would probably be settled down somewhere, I’d have a good circle of friends and a supportive and engaging church community.  I’d meet the man who could be my best friend for life and therefore be in a stable relationship and I’d have a challenging but fulfilling career.

At forty, I would be a fully grown woman.Although being middle-aged was a very hazy notion, I suppose I had something of an idea that by this point, I’d definitely at peace with myself. I would be content with my lot, and wise in to the ways of the world. I’d have worked abroad with my other half…. perhaps doing some sort of mission work. I’d be established in a teaching career of some kind. I’d certainly have written a couple of books, and maybe have kids or fostered for a while.

I shudder now at the assured faith of my younger self; my blind faith in the power of adulthood.

I think I must have believed that at key points in my life, there would be some sort of ‘latest update’ that would magically download and install overnight. It’d equip me with new software to enhance my resilience, bug fixes, small but significant improvements to my system. Just like the skin care products which companies like L’Oreal and Garnier so thoughtfully tailor to suit the relevant decade of a woman’s life, I thought I’d somehow just be able to apply certain elements to my life. Elements which would be suited to my age and stage… and again, like the miracle face creams, le28099oreal-paris-anti-imperfections-plus-whitening-cream-for-20-review4these would hopefully just get a bit richer as I got older.

I guess I might have believed that I’d still battle depression, but in my naivety, by late thirties, I would have gained victory over it, managing the dark hours with a quiet stoicism, helping others learn to do the same. Anxiety would probably always be present, but by forty, it really wouldn’t have any significant impact on my life. I’d have learned to combat it using my faith, my wisdom, a range of relaxation techniques and possibly my ole’ friend Pregabalin.

Whatever I imagined, one thing I wouldn’t have believed, is that at the ripened age of forty, I would be sitting in a hospital bedroom, typing a blog about Anorexia.

Nor would I have believed that by the time I got to this grand old age, a whole decade of my life would have been hungrily devoured by the same illness that would starve me to the point of death and leave me with the body of a malnourished child.

I’ve been an inpatient for almost nine weeks now..

You’d think by the time I’d endured four different inpatient admissions and three rounds of day treatment, I’d have got used to the agonies of refeeding. Think again. If anything it’s tougher this time than ever. Not that I’m in a different hospital than ever before, and not that my fellow patients aren’t amazing people who I feel privileged to meet. No… more perhaps that each period of recovery seems to ask for more energy than the one previous to it. It seems to demand more bravery, more patience, a higher pain threshold, more nerve.

At risk of sounding discouraging, I think that the longer a person suffers with an eating disorder, the older they get, the more entrenched it becomes and thus the harder it is to recover from. If there is anyone reading here who is suffering with an ED and is considering getting help, I urge you, please, GET HELP.  Do it before it gets worse. Do it before next week, or next month or your next birthday… Do it now and buy back some time because honestly, it might seem unimaginable, but this illness will sink into you until you are saturated. It sinks in a little deeper with each passing minute and before you can wring yourself out, it’ll rinse you of your strength.

The less time you tolerate this illness, the less time it will need you to fight it and the more of your soul you can save.

Get help.

 

… I’ve given up blogging… Anyone stumbling upon this site could be forgiven for thinking that this is just yet another open ended account of a person whose fingers stopped typing, whose mind stopped composing.  I come across them so often. Those who suddenly stop. Dead? Fulfilled? Too busy?

Anyway, as I say, to all intents and purposes, it looks as though I too have joined the unblogged.  The reasons are many but, irritated at the fact I feel something akin to guilt, I am deliberately choosing to keep them to myself. (As though THAT’S going to make a difference).

For anyone interested, what follows is an update.

After thirteen long, gruelling (yes, that is a pun on hospital food) weeks, I finally left the unit where I was an inpatient. In truth, my reasons for choosing discharge over a longer stay were driven by the Anorexia. A fact which I was very open about but also very upset and frustrated at.

The expected rate of weight gain was a minimum of 1 kilogram  per week. If this wasn’t achieved, the weekly ward round discussion invariably resulted in an ‘increment’ being added. In the language of the real world, it means that another 300ish calories were popped into your meal plan, so in addition to your 70g serving of breakfast cereal, you’d have 2 pieces of buttered toast in the mornings, or a pudding after your lunch, then another at dinner… All these options discussed, argued, wept over, refused over a patient’s admission.

My second time in this unit, I got as far as a second ‘increment’ and was defeated by the addition of puddings.

Many readers will scoff and shrug at this point, unable to comprehend the absurdity of the Anorexic dilemma. I get that. I too find it ridiculous that, in an underweight, malnourished state, I refuse to eat a small bowl of apple sponge and custard (though honestly, you could fill walls with the stuff) because I am terrified of what it will ‘DO’ to my weight… I’m scared that that bowl will be the thing that layers itself onto my thighs, adding inches, smears itself around my insides, pushing me outwards, thickening my stomach, disguising my waist.

It’s craziness.

“Not very PC!” cries the world of mental health.

“Not very empathic!” cry the sufferers

But it is. I insist. It is crazy. Which is why, like it or hate it, Anorexia Nervosa is a mental illness, not just a fad or a phase, not an addiction, not a lifestyle choice, not a decision taken by the vain. It’s completely mental. It’s a trick played in the mind of an otherwise very rational being. It almost borders on psychosis; the infliction of unreality, the blindness, the invasive thoughts and sensations.

Recovery though, that IS a decision. It’s one I made when I chose to go into hospital, despite my knowledge that I would have to face my worst nightmares. Despite the fact I would end up crawling on my floor, doubled up in an unspeakable and inexplicable agony.

I’m not saying I want a medal. I’m not boasting. On the contrary, when the going got too tough, I ran. But I’m home in a better state than when I left. What I forget every time though, is that the freedom that looks so appetising (pun-tastic here) from the confines of a prison, isn’t freedom at all. I remember now that the prison isn’t a locked hospital ward. It’s not twelve bedrooms down a squeaky corridor, or a cramped obs room where you sit in stillness til your time of rest is over. The prison is inside. It’s there when you’re ‘out’ as much as when you’re in. The difference is that the freedom you smelled on the inside, comes from not pla
ying by the rules you have to abide by when you’re in.

Fprison-bars-handsreedom for me, right now, is what I get when I skip a snack or skimp on a meal. Freedom is exhilarating, dizzying, confusing. It’s less calories than I had in hospital, less carbohydrate, less fat. And I feel great… in the moment…

But in an cruel, ironic twist, I’m still a prisoner. And it’s at the times when I most celebrate my freedom, that the walls move closer and the chains get tighter.

In my last post I think I may have explained that I was accepting a third round of inpatient treatment, which I hope will go some way towards explaining my temporary absence from the blogsphere.

It’s been four weeks.

Four weeks of a graded increase in food.

Four weeks of setting up my small bedroom and equipping it with things that will make it look less like a hospital and more like student digs.

Four weeks of adjusting my routine; of getting used to eating six times a day,  of sitting still in a crowded communal lounge for a total of four and a half hours each day, often subjected to death by American ‘comedy’ interspersed by the even more torturous Jeremy Kyle show and Hollyoaks.

Four weeks of sussing out the eight other patients; logging their individual idiosyncrasies… getting to know who experiences distress at the mention of the weekly menus,who cant touch anything after eating for extreme fear that there exists a phenomenon whereby calories can be transferred onto any object she touches.

Four weeks learning to tread carefully around topics others find ‘triggering’, learning who responds to a hug and who shrinks from it, leaving and receiving little notes of encouragement and kindness.

Four weeks of interacting with different staff nurses and health care assistants.

Four weeks of twice weekly ‘weigh ins’; the unavoidable moment of fear, where figures flutter round, and then pierce, the early morning brain fog.

Four weeks and I feel hopeless and despairing because the pain of weight gain, albeit gradual, feels increasingly frightening and I just don’t know if my courage can hold out for the long haul.

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.

… 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.

… sometimes takes more courage than to continue a fight.

Image may be subject to copyright

Image may be subject to copyright

Sometimes it makes more sense to submit than to lose everything by fighting a battle you’re not equipped enough to survive.

That won’t please the shiny miracle brigade. Those who remarkably manage to cling to a hope that pays off once in a very blue moon. I’m not saying anything is impossible, just that suggesting that holding out hope can sometimes be a little like burying your head in the sand.

Believe me, this isn’t an easy thing to write on a blog referencing hope in the title; a blog whose very essence was supposed to be hope. A place which might offer encouragement to others, and help deepen understanding about the struggle of recovery, insight into the world of mental health and eating disorders.

However, it would be dishonest to spout rubbish about a recovery that I haven’t yet made. This is where I find myself; admitting defeat. I’ve had to have an honest look at No Man’s Land and an inventory of my fire power tells me that I need to regroup in order to stay alive.

I am being admitted to an ED inpatient unit on Monday. The admission is for a month, at least, so that they can prevent organ failure and minimise the risk of death that is posed by my current BMI. (Body Mass Index, for those who may not know, is a calculation of relative body mass and height, which gives an indication of where an individual is in terms of the healthy weight range of 20 – 25).

I’m lying in the trench, a little wounded and very weary. It has taken guts to submit. I’m losing the battle in the hope that I might still win the war. If I carry on fighting, there’s absolutely no chance.