Tag Archive: Mental Pain


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I don’t really know who Lamott is, or where hope becomes important in her story, but once upon a time I copied this out and popped it in a back pocket where it remained until I fished it out some months ago.

I don’t have too much to say, except that to me, hope is one hell of a risk. It seems to require me to swim against the tide of mental reasoning and learning; perhaps in different seas altogether.

I admit, I find it exhausting. I think that I find it easier to throw my hands up in the air and quit, than to hang on to the cliff edge with torn up fingernails.  Funny that Hope is so often thought to be light, so feathery and fragile, so beautiful, so pure.  Stark contrast then, that the hope in me is a ripped, time worn, tear stained,  piece of paper pulled out of my old jeans’ pocket.

Hope is a risk. It might fail me. It might demand too much, grow too big, get too brave. It might start to grow secretly, against my own will…

… but if I don’t have any, my life will always look the same. The world will always look the same. My body will always feel the same.

Hope is a harbinger of change. Without it, we stop swimming altogether. The only alternative to swimming against the tide is to stand in stagnant pools, or to drown.

I don’t intend to do either.

Re the quotation that I carried round so long;  I’m still here in hospital (I showed up). I’m eating (trying to do the right thing).  I’m waiting and watching and working.

I’m just hoping to see the sun rise as I fight the tide.

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For whatever reason, I feel the need to preface this post with a declaration that I do not buy the Daily Mail. Finding it, all too often, a thinly veiled excuse to propound nationalistic views, I frequently have to remind readers that the world is not really that bad a place unless they believe all they read in this trussed up tabloid.

I was, however, drawn to the full page article about a long suffering mother, who, five years after her daughter’s tragic death, has made the decision to release the girl’s diaries. Diaries that record the tortured journey of Loredana Verta, a bright, talented sixteen year old, who was dead within three years. Heart attack.

Rightly or wrongly, some of  this young sufferer’s innermost thoughts and feelings are laid bare in newsprint for all to see.

The workiarticle-2713000-202CA0CA00000578-585_634x910ngs of this girl’s mind are utterly consumed by the illness. Her writing is littered with scribbled self loathing, capitalised screams of  “I HATE ME… I HATE MY BODY”.   Most teenagers feels like this at some point. Hormones, skin, peer pressure, perfection culture, fashion… It’s all there to taunt the aspiring, spot laden, hormone raging teen.

Except Loredana’s thoughts are all centred on weight loss and weight gain and wrongly perceived fat.

To my mind, what is more haunting than the poisonous self hatred, the desperation, the pleas to God and the cries for help, are the words of a grieving mother, who says,

“Lorry thought she could live with the condition – that as long as she was thin, she would be OK. She didn’t realise that anorexia is a deadly disease. It is a killer”.*

For long term sufferers, ‘old hands’, Anorexia can be so ingrained, so deeply habitual, that we forget that it is something UNnatural… an invasion. It becomes like Stockholm Syndrome… It’s is our natural fall back position.

It KILLS.

Let’s get real.

It is deadly.

We think it won’t ever happen to us, and yet, why wouldn’t it? It killed Loredana in just THREE years.

Of all psychiatric disorders, Anorexia is the biggest killer. TWENTY PERCENT of sufferers die prematurely.^

I hear my wake up call.

Can you hear yours?

 

* Emphasis is mine

^ Statistics according to B-EAT

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?