Category: Weight Restoration


… 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.

Tipped out and raked through, the innards of handbag look like an Emin – style installation.

I could write more about this, but this isn’t really the place for theorising about what does and doesn’t constitute a work of art.

I’m focused on one particular thing (though I may list or photograph the contents of my bag for those whose curiosity has been inexplicably peaked).

Amidst the clutter, the handbag holds the main thrust of my last weekly appointment at the Eating Disorders Unit. A folded piece of crumpled paper. A list, scrawled by my clinician in desperation: “Reasons to Increase Weight”.

Turns out that the essence of this list can’t permeate the tan leather of my bag. It isn’t going in.

Which brings me here. Perhaps the skin on my fingertips is more permeable? (I jest)2014-12-08 16.55.06

SO:

I want to increase my weight:

  • To prevent my organs from packing up
  • So I’m not hungry all the time
  • To have more energy
  • To be able to write
  • To be able to get a life?
  • To be able to eat out again.

They’re pretty broad… but it’s hard to think about the possibility of ever being well, especially when the illness has eaten so much of your brain; Worse, your hope.

I’m getting nearer that piece of land between two warring factions. The Anorexia versus Team ED. I should be in there somewhere… perhaps a third party divided between the camps. But I’m not.

Truth is, I’m lost at this point in time. The daylight is fast fading, the guiding lights are all extinguished and I’m stumbling through no man’s land clinging onto a crumpled list of reasons.

I can stand for ages in the ‘greeting cards’ section of supermarkets or gimmicky gift shops reading the captions under funny cartoon pictures of penguins, small pen sketched characters, or black and white photos of men and women from a bygone era. More often than not, there will be something that makes me laugh loudly enough that I have to throw a couple of sidelong glances to check that nobody within the immediate vicinity is looking at me as though I am obviously mad.

A lot of the cards will adapt a formulaic linguistic structure; “X knew that she / he was _________ when he / she ___________” .  For example, ” You know you’re getting older when…” followed by the punchline, …” ‘happy hour’ is a nap”.

Amused?

Have a few more…

You know you’re getting old when…

  •  the candles cost more than the cake

  • you and your teeth don’t sleep together

  • you have to scroll to your date of birth

  • your friends start having kids on purpose

  • an ‘all nighter’ means not having to get up to pee

You get the picture?

Right.

I was trying to tell a friend a little bit about the treatment I receive at the unit I attend daily in order to restore my weight and, hopefully, recover a little bit of my mind… (I hardly dare type those last seven words). My friend couldn’t really grasp the fact that I wasn’t feeling proud of myself for managing to stick it out for the last nine weeks. She felt that I should be happy to be gaining weight and ‘getting my life back’.

Careful not to sigh, I resigned myself to the fact that there are many people who will never comprehend the fact that recovery from an eating disorder is a long and rough-road-ahead-signtorturous process. It is one of the few illnesses where, the ‘better’ you are doing, the worse it feels. I can only liken the dichotomy between wanting to be well again and wanting to starve as having my left and right limbs tied to two opposing poles which are subsequently pulled in opposite directions. It is torture.

Just like the greetings cards, I had a flash of this image with the caption, ‘You know you are in recovery when…”

And there are so many ways I could finish this sentence that I could be here all night… But I guess the truth of it is, you know your’re in recovery when:

  • your actions are a direct contradiction to the voices in your head.
  • you want to use a wood plane to shave the flesh from your bones
  • the treasured silence of your starvation turns to desperate, strangled sobs
  • just being in your body feels so horrific, you writhe and twist and rail
  • you meet ‘weigh days’ with a dread that simply cannot be put into words, and then a weary resignation.

You’re gonna have to forgive the starkness of the description. I don’t think there’s a way I can ‘soften’ the truth about what recovery from an eating disorder must entail in order for it to be real. Recovery can be
half-hearted. You know you’re not doing it right when, for example,  you are compensating at home for the food you eat when you’re there. Or, you’re getting out and sticking your fingers down your throat. Or you’re going running or over exercising.

You know when you’re doing recovery right when you’re living in hell.

I have just completed my third week of refeeding at the day treatment unit and it has been nothing short of agony, which is a tough thing to be honest about because I want this site to be about positive encouragement and support. I want it to be inspiring for those who are thinking about going for treatment, motivational for those who are sitting on the fence, unsure which way to drop.

However, I also want it to be realistic and honest. Just as I’m not a great advocate of polite, ‘home counties, garden party speak’, I’m not great at literary niceties. It is possible (on reflection) that I value honesty above all other virtue. In the words of wannabe surfboard – wielding  teens the world over, I have to ‘keep it real’.

Back to the concept of agony then.

To any ‘normal’ person (for the purposes of this post, let’s just assume that such a thing exists) the idea that sitting around and eating all day should be anything other than a pleasure, sounds ludicrous! If I offered most of my friends the chance to take a few weeks away from work to join me in treatment,  they would literally jump at the chance! I almost wish that I could offer it as a free gift on one of those LoveFilm ‘friends and family’ type cards for Christmas.

For an anorexic however, the relentless pattern of snacking and sitting and eating and talking, resembles the slow medieval torture of The Rack; the steady tearing of bones from sockets, muscles from tissue and flesh resembles the inner sensations of being torn apart. Sounds dramatic? Perhaps, but I fail to find metaphors which can adequately illustrate the pain of beginning recovery.  Admittedly, being severely underweight heightens the trauma of refeeding, physically as well as mentally, but it’s a pretty horrendous process wherever you are on the BMI scale.

What I think is an important point to emphasise at this stage though, is that despite the immense increase in my calorific intake, in three weeks, I have only gained point 5 of a kilo overall. That’s a pound (in old currency).

We are weighed twice a week on a Monday and Thursday  (an event so anxiety provoking I am woken by palpitations in the early hours of a Thursday morning).  The pattern for me has been a predictable gain on the Thursday and loss after a weekend of Anorexia V Relief at ‘Respite’. The harder you work at the eating, the greater the agony as the Anorexia rears its demonic form, screaming and contorted, afraid of losing even an inch of its grip.

agony1

At this point, there is no comfort.

If Anorexia is being frozen to death, treatment is a hot water bottle that burns if you hold it close.

It flogs as it spares; it blinds as it darkens; it kills as it saves.

And just as the illness commands a dying body to keep dragging itself over upturned shards of glass, so recovery demands that the same body be dragged in the other direction.

Agony.

But

if you have to suffer it,

it may as well be suffering towards recovery.

Right?