Tag Archive: Pain of Recovery


You know “the grass is always greener…”?  It’s a common enough expression.

But when you think about it, it doesn’t make sense.

WHY green when it’s actually red?

The grass outside my window is no more green than Bob’s my uncle.

I can hear your confusion and I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering where the hell this is going…  A puzzle. You’re frowning. Figuring out the point.

My point is this: that every time you look at that park, or that garden… you’re thinking that the grass is green. You’re SEEING it with your own eyes. ACTUALLY SEEING it.

So you believe it, right? You can see the grass is green so you believe it. Perhaps you’d even swear to it.

But you are, quite simply, wrong.

It’s not green.

You’re still frowning… or your lip has turned up slightly at the very edge…

What will it take to convince you that grass, as a natural product of this beautiful earth, is bright red ?

Stop and think. Just for a few seconds. What would it take?

Because that’s what everyone else sees.

Everyone else knows it’s red.

 

Have they just been agreeing with you?!

Going along with you… Not daring to challenge your view.

Nice one.

That’d be why you still believe it’s green.

 

I know and understand that you THINK this is madness. I know you SEE green… But it’s red.

FACT: Everyone else knows and sees red. You alone see it as that bright green colour.

red-grass-

Stay with me. I’m trying to make sense (despite all evidence to the contrary).

It can be argued that a certain degree of body dysmorphia is part of the human condition.

However, whilst for many of us the distortions in our perceptions are not significant enough to cause distress, it’s very difficult to gauge just how accurate our perceptions are, particularly when they involve our appearance. Hence, a person may grow up with a mole on their cheek and barely see it, whilst another with the same mark, may grow up feeling ACUTELY aware, paranoid even, that it’s all anybody notices. Certainly it may be all THEY themselves notice.

Although each case is different, Anorexia and Bulimia often incur constantly shifting distortions in the sufferers perceptions of their body. the extent of this may depend on the individual’s mood, the amount that they’ve had to drink, the whispering voice of their illness, or how full / empty they feel at any given moment. It doesn’t appear to matter whether the ill person is a  tortured artist or a brilliant scientist, the degree to which they are susceptible to absolutely absurd thoughts about food and the body’s relationship to it, remains the same.

For example, as a level headed and rational being, I know that I CAN’T be big in any way because the measurements, weights, body mass I am faced with are completely accurate. The ratio is too low for my body to be fat; too low for my body to be healthy.  The figures are scattered on the green grassy earth.

As a sufferer though, I look in the mirror and that grass is DEFINITELY RED. I can SEE it. DAMN IT! IT’S THERE IN FRONT OF MY EYES

AND YOU’RE STILLSTILL trying to tell me it’s green!

I’m fine! There’s nothing wrong with me! I look normal… healthy.

Some days, my arms look chubby… and my thighs often look massive towards the end of each day… but generally, I look perfectly normal.


Arguing with an Anorexic can be hugely upsetting, incredibly perplexing and downright frustrating. You see one thing, they see another.

Families in particular will suffer the agony of watching their loved one deny the truth; a blank refusal to hear the other side of the story. It’s painful to be stonewalled or to have your words hurled back at you. Few can identify with the desperation and helplessness experienced by screaming at a skeleton whose rock solid belief is that they are ‘fat’ or ‘fine’. Not everyone can trace the ridges of the bone along the clavicle of a loved one who refuses to eat because they think they’ve got plenty of fat still to lose.

My message is convoluted. It’s a poor attempt to somehow explain the complex illusion / delusion experienced by the victim of an Eating Disorder like Anorexia.

I know many, many women who dislike parts of their body, or at least, are dissatisfied with particular aspects of their appearance. When someone develops an ED, that dissatisfaction, becomes a rigidly held belief which apparently robs them of a realistic view of themselves. Much like joining an extremist party or cult, Anorexia transforms the mind in such a way that makes reasoning with them, impossible and unrealistic.

Hopeless as this sounds, my final message is to anyone who is having to watch a loved one starve .

Don’t give up.

It can be heartbreaking and it’s often a long, tiring path, but if there’s one thing that will help to save them, it’s a quiet, pervasive message that it’s the ILLNESS that’s lying to them and not the rest of you. If you’re met with a brick wall, don’t employ a bulldozer. You’ll flatten the person rather than the illness.

Remember the quiet echo of the drip that splashes against a stone surface. Gentle but unswerving,  the message will sink in, and though they may always see a tinge of red, at least they will accept that, mostly, grass is green

water on stone

Advertisements

It was clear from an early age that I wasn’t ever going to make a scientist. Certainly, the most memorable things from my physics lessons involved throwing wet paper towels at each other, and the time when I fell off my stool because Leon Kavanagh pushed me too hard.

It’s really Mr Thomas that I blame for my ignorance on the topic of magnetic force. He had bad breath and liked to lean over your shoulder to illustrate his point. Awful as it is to conform to the stereotype of the bored teenager, surely it’s even more awful to conform to that of the fairly greasy, and very definitely sleazy, Physics teacher!  All this to excuse myself for what follows; a very unscientific reference to a very scientific process.

It’s possible that if you belong to a certain generation, you’ll have had one of those arched magnets lying around the garage. You know the ones… a U – shaped piece of metal coated, in part, with bright red plastic.bare magnet

I loved ours. My dad’s. As a kid, I’d be content to mess about with it, trying to get to that point where I could move the screws / nails without the magnet actually picking them up. You know THAT point? What was it that was SO satisfying about THAT point?!

Anyway. The magnet is something I often refer to when I’m attempting to explain something about the nature of Anorexia and, moreover, the PURPOSE that it serves. Because it does HAVE a purpose. And just because there may be no apparent reason why a person is dogged with this illness, doesn’t mean that it’s a completely random occurrence.

Although I am writing mainly about Anorexia Nervosa, sufferers with other eating disorders will identify with the fact that before they even had a hint of their illness, they were chronically anxious. In my own experience, I had suffered with almost crippling anxiety and panic attacks for many years before Anorexia hijacked my brain. I have heard so many other patients refer to their inability to manage everyday anxieties, stories of phobias, extreme panic, fear.

Whether it was recognised in childhood or not, I would hazard a guess that it is actually an anxiety disorder, generalised or specific, that underpins Anorexia.

And so, a sort of Anorexic blueprint, is born.

The child who is very frightened about being left alone to survive in the playground; the one who studies to be the best and so is the best and then lives in fear of not being able to keep being the best; the person at work who is held up as being exemplary, and is terrified of being ‘found out’ because he or she has no self belief and feels like a fraud. Anxiety. Anxiety. Anxiety.

You may be reading this and identifying the fact that this is something we ALL experience. Perhaps it is… but everybody manages their fears in different ways, and Anorexia, whilst still being a severe and enduring illness, often begins as a means for managing fear.

Imagine a tabletop covered in iron filings. Horrible little bits of grey, scattered all over  Try to scoop them up and they go everywhere…

Now imagine that each of the filings is a different ‘free floating’ fear.iron_filings copy

So many different things to cope with, too many. It’s all very out of control and you can’t rest because you’re in a constant state of hyper alertness; a state where heightened anxiety is natural because everything, EVERYTHING feels like a bit like a threat… a challenge… The filings don’t shift, if anything, they seem to multiply.

Anorexia is a magnet.

And it’s bigger than anyfilings drawn to magnetthing else.

And it’s really powerful.

Due to a force that I should at least have some understanding of (but don’t because I didn’t bother in my Physics lessons) the filings are immediately drawn to it as it hovers over the tabletop, sucking up every little shred of metal.

It’s what Anorexia does. All the individual anxieties stick to it…. fuse with it… until, one day, they don’t really exist any more and all that’s left is the illness. One giant entity. One focus. One fear.

That of never being able to be thin enough.

Simple?

Yeah. About as simple as physics.

The hardest thing is the terrible realisation that you’re not holding the magnet any more and that it, in itself, is far, FAR stronger than you; As if somehow, cruelly, the incorporation of all those little grey shards, has strengthened the force that then turns on the sufferer him/herself and begins to diminish them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

spaghettiJust eat! It’s really that simple”

The well meaning eyes of family and friends cast along the frame of an ED sufferer; pupils travelling the ridges of the clavicle, the skeletal hands and down the birdlike legs.

Just say, I CAN do this

Just make up your mind that you’re GOING TO do it and then DO IT

Lots of ‘justs’. Lots of good suggestions. Lots of spilled frustrations.

So why isn’t it ‘that simple’?

Surely it’s not rocket science…

Well…. in actual fact, although it’s NOT about rockets, there is quite a lot of science involved; physiology to be precise.

When someone is well below a healthy weight, the list of psychological blocks to recovery may be a mile long. However, unbeknown to many, there are also many physiological reasons. Chemical and hormonal shifts in the brain that induce behaviours which can make it incredibly difficult to behave in a ‘normal’ way around food. Experts in the ED field will tell you that a full recovery isn’t possible until weight has been restored to the point where a patient’s BMI is between 20 and 25. In fact, many argue that it is ONLY when a patient reaches a safe, healthy weight (and so, BMI) that recovery can begin.

I agree.

One of the strongest pieces of supporting evidence we have for this idea comes from a ground breaking, wartime,  experiment into the effects of starvation, performed by Dr Ancel Keys.

In 1944, as war raged throughout the world, Keys recruited 36 young men (mostly conscientious objectors) all deemed to be at a peak of physical fitness and mentally / psychologically healthy.  Over a period of a year, he studied the behaviours and mind set of the men as he systematically cut their calorie intake and increased their levels of exercise . By the end of the ‘starvation phase’, the men had lost around a quarter of their body weight and their physical appearance was skeletal.

Photographs of the subjects reveal bodies not dissimilar to those who had suffered in concentration camps. Certainly, the men appeared to have been subject to a lifestyle which denied them of their most primal need; much like the self inflicted discipline exercised by those with Bulimia or Anorexia Nervosa.

For someone attempting to recover from an eating disorder, the most pertinent revelations of ‘The Minnesota Experiment’ lie in the fascinating changes in behaviour displayed by Keys’ subjects. Behaviours and attitudes practised in secret, cloaked in a horrible sense of shame, perhaps feared by the sufferer to be so ‘odd’, so far from ‘normal’ that nobody should ever find out… Behaviour that actually, The Minnesota Experiment, proved to be a direct result of the human body being starved and therefore, some way beyond the sufferer’s control.

Keys documents that the more the men starved, the more overwhelming was their obsession with food. Food became an absolute priority while the rest of the world, family, politics, opinions, religion etc, all faded into obscurity.  The men were restless, their minds unconsciously forcing their bodies to forage for food, allowing little sleep as the need for nutrition overrode all other basic needs.

Interestingly, all the men developed ‘abnormal’ eating patterns, becoming ritualistic, taking up to two hours to eat a meal, cutting food into tiny pieces,  mixing food with liquid to make more of it and hoarding food so they could take it back to their bunks and graze on it. Moreover, the thinner the men became, the less able they were to judge their size as being thin or underweight. A few of them even went so far as to express thoughts that others were too fat. Spot the quandary of an Anorexic.

There were many, many physical effects, most of which an Anorexic will experience as par for the course, but in order to explain why it’s so damn hard to ‘just eat’, I wanted to draw from the physiological findings of Keys’ experiment. The state of semi starvation, of extreme self denial, is in itself, a trap. Being below a healthy BMI produces its own set of barriers to eating, making the initial ‘pre recovery / weight restoration’ phase about as difficult as it could be.

It’s really not as simple as it might seem.

Certainly, during the period of re-feeding, the men ate happily (obviously not suffering from an ED) but my point is that whilst starving, the men underwent such changes to the chemical balances in the brain, that food became an absolute obsession and habits previously unheard of, became commonplace.

When an Anorexic tries to recover, they not only battle the mental blocks that the illness creates, they also have strange, unseen physiological blocks.

(Another terrible hidden suspicion of The Anorexic, that their appetites will become insatiable once they begin to refeed, is also borne out in Keys’ evidence, producing yet another barrier).

I could go on and on about this great study in starvation, but it’s all for another post. What I want to convey is that, despite all appearances, recovery is never as straightforward as ‘just eating’. Refeeding, within itself, is fraught with unconscious physiological blocks and hurdles.

For me, personally, despite this knowledge, and armed as I am, I still stand on the wire, looking at that vast expanse that is ‘no man’s land’, weighing up the risk, trying to see where the mines are set, where the searchlight falls.

It’s been ten years raging, this war.

gripping barbed wireI still want to fight…

…but the real enemy

lies in the woodland

on the horizon

I still need to make it to.

THAT’s the pathology of an eating disorder.

THAT’S the physiology of starvation.

… 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.

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’.

 

 

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?