Honesty Amidst Setbacks

I find it incredibly difficult to be completely honest about how I’m really going. Especially on such a public forum as this blog.

There are perhaps a couple of people I’m always totally honest with – and that is because they are part of my treatment team. Being honest with them is obvious to me. They can’t help  me unless they know what’s happening! Scarily enough there are many people with eating disorders who cannot be honest with their treatment team – in fact, it seems to be very common in the earlier stages of being so unwell, or when the person is lacking in insight. Insight makes a huge difference in this fight – being able to understand that you are unwell, and why, and that the people around you are trying to help you, not persecute you.

It’s quite obvious in the blog world, actually, to come across people who blog about their supposedly ‘healthy lives’, but don’t have the insight to acknowledge the elephant in the room, their eating disorder – and the fact that they are becoming more and more unwell and more people every day are speaking out in concern for them. I can never understand some of these people when they so blatantly ignore the concern and pretend they are fine, or worse, they are well - and it’s often hard to find respect for them. There are so many people, especially younger and more vulnerable people – who read these sites and take on board the messages these sick bloggers are putting out there. If there is one thing I would absolutely loathe myself for, it would be inadvertently causing or triggering someone else’s eating disorder.

But despite it being so easy for me to stand in judgement – we often forget that eating disorders are by nature, an illness in where the person suffering from it often lacks that insight or is in heavy denial. That they often act in ways that infuriate, irritate, frustrate, people around them. That deceit is a classic behavior  born of shame and fear and the need to hang on to their disorder. Being sick doesn’t make someone bad. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been thought of and told that I was a bad person, because I was too unwell to just eat and keep it down and behave. And I would have done anything at those times to ‘behave’ so that I could stop hurting, worrying or frustrating people – I tried with all my heart to do that. It wasn’t something I was capable of doing at that stage.

One of the main reasons I find it so difficult to be honest with people about how I’m really going, is deep shame. Long before I had the foggiest notion that I actually had an eating disorder, I saw people with anorexia on current affairs shows on TV and just was heartbroken for them, and frightened for them that they were so fragile and that they would die – and I couldn’t understand at all why they were doing that to themselves. It shocked me to think they had actually chosen to do that to themselves and then to continue to do so in the face of imminent death and the pleas of their loved ones. I just could not get my head around it.  I thought they were also incredibly vain, to be killing themselves to just be skinny – I didn’t even see the appeal of being skinny. All my life, I had found skinny quite ugly. Instead, I strived to be strong, and to be able to dance. I was extremely proud of being able to dance at the level that I had gotten to, and at what my body could do. Even as a young child, It had been obvious to me that the worst dancers in my class were the skinny girls, who just couldn’t get anything right and always looked gangly and out of place. Conversely, the biggest girl was also the best dancer and always front and centre. She was bouncy and full of energy and personality.

And I have to admit – I thought they were brats. Sick, scared, lost, hurting brats, but brats nonetheless. I thought they were selfish. I thought they were manipulating everyone who cared for them in order to get attention and mollycoddling. I truly did.

So when I finally had to admit just after my first hospital admission for anorexia (spent protesting that I had needed to lose the weight and that I wasn’t at all like the ‘real anorexics’) that I had anorexia too, it brought incredible shame and disbelief down on me. I couldn’t believe I had an eating disorder. I who had been overcome with fury when other class mates had whispered “That’s what Fiona has” during a biology class discussion about anorexia, who had disgustedly retorted “that’s what spoilt vain brats do, and I would never do something that stupid” had indeed, done exactly that. Talk about irony!

Now I know better. I know that’s not true at all. I’ve never wanted the attention having an eating disorder has brought me. And I didn’t have anyone to mollycoddle me – my family has never cared. My dad, when he tracked me down a few years into my hospital admissions, tried his best, even offered initially for me to move in with them in the Far North – but I was too scared to, at that stage he was a complete stranger to me. And I didn’t want to impose on him and his family. I didn’t want to bring my problems into their world, they didn’t deserve that. He persevered with me – and I stayed with him a week or two here and there over the eight years I knew him – it was such a blessing and a privilege to be given a second chance at having a real family. I loved my stays with them – I was made welcome, treated with kindness and respect, and my little sister was always all over me which warmed my heart – I loved her dearly. (Still do.)

Unfortunately, despite wanting more than anything else to be able to just ‘stop’ being unwell when I was with them, I couldn’t. I tried so hard! I usually lasted at best a few days. In those years, I wasn’t even really able to eat ‘normal’ food, so great was my fear, so I usually had my own food and created meals to eat with them, mostly dinner meals. I tried to make these meals look large and as close to ‘normal’ as I could – hoping that my family would just think I had other preferences and was feeding myself satisfactorily and not worry or be sad that I couldn’t enjoy some of their delicious meals. I wanted them to believe I was happy. I didn’t want them to worry at all. I failed.

A huge pile of lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber, and a million carrots (nibbled mostly during the evenings when I just badly wanted to EAT everything in sight) does not look like a good nutritious meal to anyone. Neither does a pile of brown, terribly overcooked cabbage. I only fooled myself. It was plainly apparent to anyone that I was sick, and even when I wasn’t staying with them, my dad worried. He would phone me (in the days I was still trying to communicate via phone) and ask me how I was doing, and I’d tell him I was going okay, hanging in there. Unfortunately he could tell just by my voice that I wasn’t well at all, he later told me, and instead reached out to someone he thought was a friend of mine – who had given him her details at a time he’d visited me in hospital and she had been there. She wasn’t a friend – I thought she was too for a while, she turned out to be an enemy – she fed my dad the nastiest of lies – told him my eating disorder was to hurt him, to ‘get back at him’ for not being around when I was younger. That it was for attention. That I was dying, when I was very sick but definitely not on my death bed (she also tried to force me to make a will once visiting me – and got promptly kicked out, who does that?!) She also contacted my sister, who was in her very early teens at the time, perhaps even a tween still at that stage – this forty-something year old (really)parent’s basement-dwelling woman, friended a kid. And fed her lies about me too. Told her that if I loved her, really loved her, I wouldn’t be doing this to myself, and that my dad died of cancer – melanoma – because of the stress I had caused him.

I have deeply regretted that I wasn’t honest with my dad about how I was really going, no matter how unwell I was. If I was honest, he wouldn’t have felt the need to ask someone else how I really was, and he might never have been fed such a pack of lies that probably coloured his views of his own daughter, nor would my little sister have been fed the lies that led to her gradually hating me more and more until the last straw was me actually doing something deplorable – shoplifting binge food and getting caught on the morning of dad’s funeral – for which she cannot forgive me. She hates my guts now. What’s more, I just reinforced the lies by what I did. Shoplifting is the thing I hate perhaps most about me. I haven’t done it for a while now – but I haven’t let my guard down and I never will. There have been so many times in my life that I have stopped, for years sometimes – and then fallen down that hole again. The urge to grab food is always, always so strong, even more so when I’m upset, stressed, unwell and definitely, hungry. And the bingeing and purging is the most horrible thing ever, I wish with all my heart I’d never started down that road, a road I feel unable to break free from now. I would never have struggled as much as I have, and I would never have shoplifted food – something so, so wrong to me.

I fear judgement so much. All my life, I have been harshly judged, by my own family, and by society. My own family (apart from dad) never made any attempts to understand me. When I got out of there  they didn’t know me. They had had nearly 17 years living with me from my birth to get to know me – and they didn’t have a clue. This was because they simply did not care.

Everything in my life was something I was judged for. My mother spent my life berating me for all the good things she did do for me – telling me endlessly that if only she didn’t ‘have’ to take me to ballet, the car wouldn’t be wearing out, she’d have more money for other things, she would have more time to spend with my brother and sister. She would have been able to finish her studies and be working now. She would have been a successful artist. She would have fixed our filthy, unfinished house up.  It didn’t matter that she took me to ballet perhaps 3 times a week, which took about 2 – 3 hours at a time tops. That is not the lions’ share of the week. She had all day that we were at school to be an artist, to do her schoolwork, to clean up or fix things and so on – and she instead would sit around watching soapies on TV or working on the growing pile of receipts she kept to create another bill to send our dad of money she wanted to demand from him. She spent all day with my older sister who was home all day too, they were like best girlfriends rather than  mother and daughter. She had time to take my brother to soccer and martial arts and basketball. They weren’t starving for attention or time with her.

The last couple of years I lived there she didn’t even have to take me to ballet or pay a cent for me aside from absolute basics – food and clothing. My ballet was paid for by scholarships and sponsorships I’d won, and I got myself there using public transport. My days were long – a school day for me was up at 5am, chores, breakfast, cold bath, try to iron dry damp clothes I had to wear. Catch bus at 5.55am. Transfer to train, for nearly an hour. Transfer to another bus to school. We started dancing at 8am with Limber, followed by usually ballet class, then jazz or tap or repertoire or pointe or contemporary or something else afterwards. I danced during the class breaks, and danced afterwards til everyone had showered so that I was in there mostly alone to avoid the bullying that was happening all those years. Showered and caught our bus to school to begin academic work at about 2pm, going through til 4.30pm. Then reversing the transport home, at 6.30pm where there were more chores, homework, and endless family battles to navigate. I would practice most nights and end up either lying in bed all night exercising or falling asleep at about 3am at my desk, to repeat the next day. This was six days a week, there was no time for me to get a job and between the ages of 14 to 16, I was still extremely immature and probably wouldn’t have been able to find anyone to employ me anyway. (I did try – volunteering during my holidays and canvassing local businesses for work with my resume.) My mother, who was paid a single parent pension, an allowance for me for my disabilities, and maintenance from dad – refused to supply most basics for me aside from food – and very cheap food at that, usually buying food for the family and cheaper food just for me. She even refused to buy me a school uniform, and the school supplied me with one out of their spares cupboard, kept for accidents, four sizes too big and stained. One of my school teachers helped me tape the fronts of my shoes together and paint over the tape so they stayed on my feet. I also tried to keep my shoes together by nailing nails into the sole from the inside – and ended up walking painfully on them all day as they worked themselves upwards. (And I was grateful – it was a uniform, just like everyone else had.)

My point is, my mother was not only needlessly cruel, she seemed to blame everything on me. I was just a kid, and one who had been tightly controlled too, so that I was very emotionally immature, and she was my mother. My PARENT, who was meant to feed me, clothe me, look after me. Instead, she taught me that I was some horrible, unworthy and inherently wrong creature not worthy of what other people took for granted, and the bullying I suffered due partly to  my constant scruffiness (especially during ballet school where most of the others were from affluent backgrounds) and partly due to my ineptness socially, just reinforced this. I grew up deeply ashamed of myself as a person in every way.

My own family never cared enough to really find out who Fiona was, and they made it clear I wasn’t even worthy of being understood or accepted,  and so they certainly didn’t even try to learn about or understand eating disorders. They believed every stereotype there was – to them, my eating disorder was a sign of me being the spoilt naughty selfish girl they’d always told me I was. In later years they accused me of using a ‘made up illness’ to basically be a lazy bludger, never working, never achieving anything but sponging off the taxpayer, and this stung deeply. They of all people, knew how hard a worker I was, and how I surpassed all expectations, winning a local Australia day award among other acknowledgements for my striving and perseverance. They used their words and their cruelty to basically ally themselves with the eating disorder and strip me of the last vestiges of self – invalidating my past, and stripping me of even being able to hang on to knowing I was a hard worker and an achieve who was capable of better things than this, or that it wasn’t laziness that had stopped me in my tracks. That my whole life hadn’t all been a complete failure.

It makes sense to me that if your own family judges you so harshly, what can you expect from people who don’t know you? I went straight from leaving home into the arms of the man who raped and stalked me for years. It was a very familiar situation for me – and it felt like all I deserved. I’ve met quite a number of people who were more than happy to feed my insecurities like the so-called ‘friend’ who lied to my dad and little sister, and a certain number of ignorant people who don’t seem to realize that not everyone is born with the privileges they take for granted, that some of us have to really fight to even survive let alone enjoy the milestones that they are assured of achieving. In my own heart, I feel like the biggest failure ever, I reflect on my life and see missed opportunities, on so much hard work thrown away, and so much support and belief from people I failed in some way – let down, failed to meet their expectations, or cut off. I feel as though at 35, I haven’t even achieved as much as most teenagers have, and that there is no way I will ever be able to catch up to them, let alone those of my own age group.

I’m just so deeply ashamed.

I’m reminded constantly by those who have taken the time to get to know me, and who genuinely care, that I have come a long way, that I can’t afford to compare myself with anyone else, because nobody else has had to fight the same things I have in my life – same as there are so many people out there who have faced circumstances I have no idea of and for me to judge them on their face value at any point of time that I come in contact with them would be so wrong, and totally belittling how much they HAVE achieved – just in a life completely different and therefore with different milestones and measures of progress to mine. And yet, I am so scared of others judging me harshly and finding me a failure, a loser, that I judge myself the most harshly of all.

And here is where honesty comes into the equation – I’m already ashamed of the fact that I have an eating disorder. My shame when I am struggling more than usual or I relapse is many times greater than that. Throw in the harsh judgement towards people with eating disorders that I often come across online, particularly if they blog about it, and the shame of having fallen from my position of being able to say “Here I am, I am proof that a chronic severe eating disorder doesn’t have to kill you or mean you can’t turn things around.” and most importantly of all – “There is hope” – and it’s extremely hard to face up to people and be honest with you all about the fact that I’m not doing all that well any more.

I don’t consider myself to be fully in relapse – but I’m borderline. I’ve slowed down, perhaps stopped the weight loss, but I can’t seem to get it to go back up again – and what’s more, am sitting just above what used to be my discharge weight from hospital back when times were bad. And as always, ED brain has taken over – I struggle to keep hydrated, struggle to eat, struggle with bingeing and purging. Physically I have lost a lot of strength and the chronic pain I worked so hard to rid myself of is plaguing me again. And I’m so angry at myself – I know how hard I worked to get where I was – and now, I’m no better than I was on leaving hospital during those bad  years again. I am so disappointed in myself, and so scared not only for myself, but more so, for Shalimar. What if I get so sick again, what will become of her? I don’t want to send her back to the pet motel all the time – she’s getting old now. She deserves so much better than this. And I don’t want to miss out on sharing a single moment of her life with her. I missed too much of her life when I was in hospital. I’ve let her down, most of all. She depended on me and I am not living up to those responsibilities.

And I’ve let you down, the people who read my blog. It was supposed to be a journey of hope, reclaiming a LIFE, of proving that just because everyone has expected you to die, doesn’t mean you have to.

Here is where I am going to take on board my own message. I am going to believe in hope, and I am going to remind myself that it is always within our power to change our behaviors and our thoughts, if we desire to enough. The more I walk on my chosen trail in a forest, the more worn and visible that trail becomes, and the less visible the trail I’m no longer walking on becomes as nature reclaims it and grows over where it used to be. Same with my mind – the more I practice new ways to think and new behaviors, the more natural they become to me, and the less natural the old ones will be, too. It’s called creating new neural pathways. It’s also called not giving up, being stubborn, and fighting to live – all things true of me.

I have so much to live for – even more now. I have less than two months to go until I am officially a uni student again. And I’m finally realizing that my hopes and dreams and goals these days  might be vastly different, but they are still things I’m able to be passionate about, and my life still can be for good, rather than have been pointless.

I’m not going to live up to the expectations of the people who taught me I would never be anything more than a loser.

I’m going to fulfil my own expectations – and those of the people who truly care and want the best for me. I’m going to fight and make this life truly count.

Thank you for reading, I hope to be able to bring a more positive post next time.

 

(Image sources: 1, 2)

Deep In A Hole

I’ve fallen into a hole since I got home from my holiday. A hole I can’t seem to climb out of – although I’ve never stopped fighting to escape it.

I suppose that what goes up, must come down. The holiday was such a high for me. I didn’t want to come back to my life. I couldn’t keep the eating disorder out of the holiday completely, but it was still a break, such a refreshing break. A glimpse of what could be a much better life to live.

I have come to believe that even though I still am adamanant that people do and can recover from eating disorders, depression, and other mental illnesses, I am not one of them. Depression is something I have fought in all my living memories – and was first diagnosed with at age 9, after I supposedly wrote a suicide note. It’s as much an organic part of me as my brown hair and my hazel/green eyes are. And like my eyes used to be blue, and my hair used to be white-blonde – I have hoped that as I grew older and wiser, the nature of the depression would change.

In many ways, it has. Twenty years ago, every emotion I felt threatened to burst me, inside out like a sausage splitting on the barbecue. I could not contain that pain, or that ecstacy when things were going right for me. Betrayal felt like literally being speared through the gut with a knife. These days, that has mellowed to some extent. The highs and lows are still excruciating – but they usually do not feel like they are physically killing me. Usually.

Because there are still times I could claw my own skin to shreds with the agony of it – and lately it’s been a lot like that. I’ve resisted, lying still under the heavy covers on my bed, pretending I’m buried under cool dark earth, contained, unable to hurt myself. Unable to be found or hurt by others either. But shards of anxiety and piercing distress still worm their way through the earth to nibble at me, relentlessly. I open my mouth to scream and eat dirt.

It hurts. Depression hurts. It feels like more than a human being can bear.

My eating disorder is intricately linked to the depression – it does make it harder to fight, when you cannot even bear to be. It’s easy to stop caring whether you live or not, or wish you would just die now and get it over with. It’s easy to forget there are so many reasons to live, so many people who are everything to you, that you have a beautiful cat who adores you nearly as much as you adore her, that your life is much better now, so much better than it was twenty years ago, and it’s getting a little bit better all the time, slowly but surely. It’s easy to forget that depression always ends. It will always get better. I know that, because I have been through it so many times before – and it always did get better. My question is – how do I make it stay better?

There is no easy way out for me. I’ve lost friends to suicide in the past, and it hurt so much to lose them – still hurts so much, more than it hurt to lose people through other means in many cases. I swore I would never put anyone through that myself – and never again attempted to kill myself. In the past couple of weeks, two people who were dear friends of dear friends of mine – have killed themselves. And witnessing the grief my dear friends are experiencing – is a reminder of my vow. I cannot cause this pain to another person. No matter how much pain I am in, myself.

Life has been all about pain for me. In many ways, I’ve courted it. As a dancer, more pain meant I was working harder and therefore becoming a better dancer. As a daughter and sister living through domestic abuse, as a student being bullied, and as the victim of the man who raped me, I bore it expressionlessly because I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing they had hurt me. And it reminded me that I was still alive, despite them. As someone with an eating disorder, I cannot remember a time without pain, physical or emotional – it is my every moment’s reality. I think I would not know what to do with myself were I not in pain of some kind.

But no matter how great my tolerance is to it, that does not mean it is not eating me away inside and damaging my ability to live.

These days, much of the pain I feel is from the past abuses. I wish it would go away, shut up already. Get out of my life! I’m free now. I’ve been free of them for ages. My life is my own to live now. To live as I believe, without hiding or changing myself so as not to draw more violence. To discover who I am, and be true to that person for once. I have rejected the past and the people who were part of it, and moved on. Except the pain didn’t cooperate and my days are haunted, I relive the violence and the taunting constantly. And I fall into holes of despair.

I’m working with the best therapist I’ve ever met. I have hope we are going to get through this. I just don’t know if I can hang on until we get through this. And I don’t know if it’s possible to ‘get through this’ and have it go away for good.

Do you believe that the pain from the past, can be over and left behind permanently? How did you manage to do this, if  you have?

If you or someone you know is suicidal, please get help now. 

Lifeline Australia

Suicide Help UK

Suicide and Crisis Hotlines USA

(image source)

Ugly Beauty Whinge

My eating disorder is an ugly beast of an illness. It’s made me old, dried out my skin and hair, ruined my teeth. Sucked my bones of nutrients, damaged my organs, and stolen the light from my eyes, the smile from my lips.

When I’m acutely ill, there is absolutely no point in painting my face, or dressing with style. Instead I dress to camoflague a body that shocks and disgusts and incites passerby to stare and spit. I don’t believe that clothes  ’look better on the hanger’ than on a fleshed body – as many claim they do – but the hanger sure beats my body. My body makes clothing ugly.

I don’t want to stand out in any way. I seek to hide. To slip by unnoticed. The hell I live is beyond the imagination of most who haven’t been there, and I don’t want them to glimpse my shame and despair, lest I infect them in some way – pull them in and drown them with me.

It is not a glamourous life.

I have quite a number of friends with eating disorders, severe eating disorders, just like mine, who have modelled, or do still model. Or aspire to model. I see their facebook pages every day – I see the continuous stream of photographs. Smiling, laughing, posed to perfection.

Here the wind whips my hair. Here I shake my hair as I laugh joyously. There I sink my teeth into a huge dribbling wedge of melon. I sip delicately from a glass of wine, or twirl on pointe shoes. I am glamourous in evening gown, or I’m an adorable pixie in a summery dress that shows off every single rib. Even in the dark emo shots, I am a glorious ethereal creature. Everyone wants to be me. 

Yes, even me. I have lived with my eating disorder for most of my life.  I know first hand the utter hell they live, even without having read their cries of utter distress on a daily basis – and yet, I want their lives so badly. I want to look like that. To be so beautiful. So glamourous, so perfect. To have people want to photograph me, to make inspirational posters from my own likeness. I want to look amazing in every single thing I wear no matter whether it is a hessian sack or there not be much more than bones to hang it on. I want to go to parties.. and I hate parties, I freaking hate them.

We are fighting the same illness – and yet we are so completely different. I know the majority of this I see is a sham – it’s a mask. A carefully maintained and perfected facade that hides the fact that these girls have shattered bodies, shattered dreams, shattered lives and shattered psyches. There are many ways of hiding – hiding in full view can be as successful as being completely out of sight.

I don’t understand these girls. And I doubt they understand me. But they make this monster look desireable. They make me want it – someone who has been there. What must those who have not yet experienced the reality of this think? I’m not talking about taking care of one’s appearance. I’m talking about flaunting something deadly, fully in the knowledge of what message is sent to others.

It is sweet deadly poison.

 

Eating Disorders Make You Broke And Lonely

Hi! Oh boy have I missed the internet! I was forced offline for about a week, and it was hard – pulling your own teeth out hard! A mix of things being financially tight and even more than that, the fact that I’m still under the guardianship of a public trustee, meant that it’s been a long 6 month process (more like all out war) in order to be able to finally purchase decent plans to use both internet and mobile phone.

One of the long term side effects of living with an eating disorder is very often financial problems. For me, it’s meant I’ve been unable to have a paid job (so far) and living on a disability pension. I’m very thankful for that – but as most people will say, it’s already quite a pinch.

Add in an eating disorder and things can be disastrous.

Thankfully, as far as I can remember, I never defaulted on rent or bills, or paid them late. But things got more and more difficult as I was hospitalised so much. Back in ‘those days’ – the pre-millenium years – we didn’t have automated bill paying or money transferring services like BPay, Centrelink etc. Every week or fortnight, I made a trip to my bank to take money from my account, then a trip to the bank of my landlord, or the post office, or the real estate agent or leasing office to pay my rent in person. I paid my electricity bills and phone bills over the counter at the post office. Same for other bills and expenses that popped up here and there – you couldn’t jump online and electronically transfer the funds without leaving your home. You had to go out and do it in person.

You can’t do that when you are always in hospital! So it did get quite tricky, and  I was worried. My accomodation was boarding houses and hostels mostly at that stage – and it doesn’t take much to lose a room. I was frightened of what might happen if I got so sick I was unable to let anyone know where I was or pay my bills – I might get out of hospital to find I had nowhere to live at all any more.

More seriously, bingeing happened. Specifically, bingeing and purging. I had emotionally eaten before my most serious descent into anorexia to the degree that I was borderline overweight for a very short time. And I remember being so out of control with the stuffing and the musteat-can’tnoteat-can’tbearnottoeat feelings that I would be in physical agony and crying, and just lie down long enough for it to settle a bit and be needing to eat again. But I didn’t have the money worries that bulimia brings. I was able to go without the excess food if I didn’t have money for it.

Bulimia meant I was taking away just as much as I was putting in – still in starvtion, in fact probably making it worse because I was losing stomach fluids, nutrition already in my system etc every time I purged, and creating a chemical chaos for my bloodstream. Being physically uncomfortably full didn’t happen, or at least if it did, I ‘undid’ it. I could eat a truckload of food and still be starving ravenously hungry.

Purging is, in hindsight, the thing I’d most like to go back in time and ‘unlearn’. The rest of the eating disorder was hell enough – purging was like opening the very gates to hell and being unable to ever shut them again against the hordes pouring out. Even in my fight against dying from starvation from the anorexia – it’s more complicated for me because of the purging. Before purging, it used to be a battle to follow the meal plans and put on the weight, especially when not in hospital and on my own – but at least once I got the food in, the physical part of the fight was over. Ed thrashed me in my mind, but it couldn’t do anything about it, and that was the end of that.  But with purging, it wasn’t the end. Because hours after I’d won that battle to eat, I was still able to undo all my hard work in one moment. It was absolutely gutting to have fought so hard and to undo it all just like that, be back where I started or in even more a precarious position.

I had some savings, but it wasn’t long for bulimia to have totally eroded them and I was taking the last bit of cash to my name out of the ATM machine. That was a shock for me, as I had been in denial and not keeping note of how much money I was spending any more. Suddenly it was gone and I knew I had no choice but to stop this, now. I couldn’t say to myself any more that I could just do this for a while, eat everything I craved for once, and then stop it next week or next month and get back to normal. I had to stop it NOW or I was in trouble.

Except I couldn’t. I found myself frantic, unable to cope at all without the bingeing – which in the short time I’d been doing it had become my major coping mechanism after starvation – and yet unable to cope in other ways if I continued.  I could no longer pretend it was just about me ‘making up’ for all the missing out and starving, no longer pretend I was just ‘tasting all the foods I had never gotten to try’. The foods became the cheapest, blandest stuff on offer. Old, discarded, stale, it didn’t matter, if it was edible, it served a purpose.

I wonder if people who become addicted to drugs start off that way too, they care about the quality of the drugs they are taking, and then when they are desperately addicted and the funds run dry, they’ll take anything they can get. Same with drinking, where the person might start out with cocktails or beers and end up slugging down methylated spirits?

Long story short, if things were financially tight before, they were precarious now. As I said before, I didn’t actually default on my responsibilities – but I was terrified that it was only a matter of time. My pattern became that I’d get my pension, immediately pay everything that was due, then the rest of it – usually about $150 or so – would be binged away within about two days. The rest of the fortnight I walked everywhere and went without food whatsoever. I do have to admit, part of me purposely wanted to get rid of the money as soon as possible – because when it was gone, the bingeing was over. And sure, it was hell not being able to binge, but I preferred the numbed control of the starvation.

It was not sustainable, and I knew it. I started scrambling for help. And somehow I stumbled on the public trustee of my state. I’m fuzzy about the details, but I asked them for help, with the support of my case manager, and they took over.

Took over, completely. All my pension goes to them. They control every cent I own. They pay the bills – rent, utilities, pharmacy account, nutritional account, cat boarding account, etc – and give me a small allowance weekly for my food, toiletries, transport, household items, and most importantly, Shalimar. They have a strict budget to allow me to purchase items or pay accounts that come up during the year. By ‘strict’, I mean, blood flows more easily from a stone. The trustees are notoriously strict and out of touch with their clients – I’m not the only one who has complained – and I think they forget that they have a lot of power over our entire lives.

Asking them for a more affordable internet and phone option should have been straightforward – after all, we are in the business of saving money, right? But no. They wanted me to continue with a heinously expensive and unaffordable pre-paid option that I simply could not afford. I’d go through the tiny amount very quickly and then be fighting with them again for more. I gave them quote after quote for plans that were more affordable and better suited to my needs, each being rejected – “No plans over six months in length” or “You must have unlimited data allowance if you are on a plan” (which would be great, but I couldn’t afford that sort of plan. I am not even a heavy user, I probably use 4 GB a month) Finally they were saying, “You can’t have the internet.”

Most people will probably think, so what? What’s the big deal? Internet is a luxury. I fully agree, it’s a luxury. I could go to my local library and use it there, for example. But – I’m deaf, remember. Profoundly deaf. I struggle to pick up a lot of what’s said to me in person. When it comes to communicating over the phone – there isn’t a hope. I’m also extremely isolated. I live alone, and despite being so much better, I’m still physically pretty unwell. (Shalimar is great company, and I do not know how I managed to cope without her, I really don’t – but let’s just say she’s not the best conversationalist )

For me, the internet is a lifeline. I make phone calls online, using a relay service. During the day time, I communicate regularly with my case managers and support workers and even my therapists with SMS and email. And at night time especially, I use it to distract myself and to recieve and give support. I talk to my friends, both those I know in person, and those I have only (yet) met online. I use it for meal support in that it takes my mind off the meal to some degree, and then it occupies me and keeps me communicating rather than sticking my head down the toilet afterwards, and it keeps me out of the fridge and pantry at my most vulnerable times – or at least delays all these things, which is a good start.

Also, unlikely but extremely important – if I don’t have the internet, I cannot call for help if I need it. I cannot call our emergency services – because I cannot hear on my phone. We don’t as yet have text support to contact emergency services (although I hear it’s been on the agenda for a while). Unless I’m able to SMS a friend and ask them to call emergency services for me – and that’s time consuming and often not really something I want to do. I don’t want to worry them, for example. And they might not have their phone turned on or read the text for a while, and then I’m stuffed!

I used to be such a loner. So withdrawn and shy. I lived in my own world – I didn’t want a bar of this world. Much of the time I was actually dissociated – and I preferred it that way. My little inner world was safer than the real world. But these days, I’ve come to crave social interaction. It’s the people I’ve met, the friends I’ve made and come to adore who make my world go round, my life worth living. Even when I’m not up to talking, just sitting here and seeing people talking on facebook or somewhere else helps me feel not so alone in this world. It literally opened a huge window to the world where before, there was only the blank stone walls of my self-imposed exile.

So the internet, far from a luxury for me, is essential. But I had to fight hard to get it. It took more than six months, and the last week or so, things were dire to the point that I had no internet, no data left on my mobile phone as I used it to tether to my computer for internet, and was running short on texts. The walls were closing in, and I realised again just how isolated and alone I am, how quiet things get, without it. I am SO relieved to be back on air.

If it wasn’t for my eating disorder I wouldn’t have the financial constraints on  my life that I do. I would be working and earning a decent amount, or at least more than the pension. I wouldn’t have the costs occured during binges or needing so many meds – the bill at times can be around $75 a week. I wouldn’t be needing to pay thousands in cat boarding fees every time I went into hospital. I wouldn’t have wasted thousands on taxis over the years when I was unable to physically get home due to weakness or imminent collapse. And so much more. Most of all, I wouldn’t be with the public trustee and having to fight to get things that I consider neccessities.

So I’ve been thinking a lot more about this whole situation lately – and with the support of some very close and wonderful friends – I am applying to come off the public trustee. This is a terrifying thought – much as I hate them, after all these years I don’t trust myself to manage my money. I feel like I have totally forgotten how. I’m scared that I’ll binge it all away immediately. But I have support I never had in the past. I have options I didn’t have like direct debit for bills. And I have come a long way in many ways including, I’m a heck of a lot more mature than back then. So I’m finally taking the leap. First step is applying for a tribunal hearing, collecting the paperwork necessary, and showing them that I can make decisions myself now. Then… I don’t really know. But hey, I know now that I can deal with it.

So, this blog entry began as a way to explain why I haven’t been online as much in past weeks and not at all the previous week – I certainly do ‘tangents’ well hey?

In other news – therapy is going well. And I’m just plodding along, at times just hanging on tight -because that’s sometimes all we can do.

Next week – in eight days actually – I’m going to Melbourne!  A long anticipated visit to a very dear friend – she’s going to show me her beautiful Victoria, and then we are driving up to New South Wales to attend a camping festival..  I’m so excited. And so terrified! I haven’t been camping since I was in school – I loved camping, but have no idea any more how it’s done… okay that sounds strange. When I was a schoolkid, life came a lot more naturally to me. And I didn’t have an eating disorder to deal with. Any trip away from home is extremely difficult for me because of the eating disorder. I have no idea how I’m going to go when camping – but it’s going to be a great opportunity to find out. I hope so much that I’m able to fully participate – and I’m going to try my best. I intend to enjoy campfire meals, toasted marshmallows, exploring the surrounds. I’m taking my art stuff and going to be doing a lot of just drawing what’s around me. A lot of reflecting and journalling. Chilling out. Reconnecting with nature. And at night – after all these years of city living, I’m going to be able to stargaze again without city lights for miles and miles. I’ve been told it’s amazing. I can’t wait.

Bring it on

Ironically it’s going to mean another week or more away from technology – there is not even phone service where we are going – but this is going to be a good sort of tecnology-free period!

Thank you so much to everyone who has commented and been reading – I have a heap of your comments that I’m dying to answer and just haven’t gotten the chance to yet. I have been reading them  - and I’m always extremely grateful, touched by your support, and intrigued by your views. Thank you for being patient with me while I’m so scarce lately! I also look forward to slowly catching up with your blogs – I’ve missed so much of what you are all up to and what you are writing about – and I’m deeply sorry for that.

Hoping you are all well! Thank you for reading

(Image Sources: 1, 2, 3, 4)

We’ll Be Okay

A very dear friend of mine has a saying:

Sometimes when trudging through the mud, we just gotta sit down, have a rest and take a mud bath!

And sometimes when that happens, you just have to try and make the most of it.

Life has been a mud bath for me lately. Not physically – although it came close to being. We were extremely lucky in the floods – Brisbane was not hit as hard as expected. Up north in Bundaberg, people lost everything. Just a few streets away from me, the flooding came over my shoulders in depth. So I realise just how lucky I am and am so thankful.

The muddiness of my life is actually an inner thing. I feel like such a mess inside.   I’ve been struggling a lot more lately with severe depression, anxiety, fatigue, and with the ED.

I have wanted to give up pretty much every moment of every day for a long time now.

But for some reason, I never do. Maybe I have more hope than I realise. Maybe I’m just stubborn. Maybe I’m crazy! But it ain’t over, til it’s over.

I’m alive. I have the most essential needs to survive – many people don’t even have that.

Roof over my head.

One of the harder paintings to part with when I sold it at exhibition!

Food to eat, clean water to drink.

The first proper restaurant meal (or meal at all) in years, after getting out of hospital. It was MASSIVE.

Sanitation

Education

Health care

Freedom

We do a lot of hiding from the world – but we do it together, Shalimar and I. When you are loved, you can face just about anything.

I love and am loved. I have close friends with whom I can talk about anything, and who I know are always there for me. I might keep them at arm’s length a lot of the time, but I just need to say the word and they are there for me.  I will always be so grateful to have met these amazing people, you know who you are.

I used to be a lone ranger – me against the world, or rather, me and my cat. I never would let people in again. I’d been hurt badly, and trust was something foreign to me. I hated the word ‘hope’ because I believed that in order to be able to hope, you needed to believe that what you hoped for was a possibility – I had no possibilities, no belief, nothing but emptiness and regret. I had no hope.

A lot has changed since then. Mostly it had to do with meeting amazing people and becoming close to them. They loved and accepted me, no matter what. No conditions. As I was – and now, as I am. Their friendship was not “when you are better”, it was “Right now – and every step of the way wherever your journey takes you – I am with you.”

They helped me realise that maybe there was someone in me worth loving. Maybe I could just give myself a chance. And I did.

So here I am now. Alive. And despite it all, I don’t regret that.

So things might be really hard right now, but I know I’m going to be okay.

If you are going through hell, keep on going (Winston Churchill)

I’m sorry I’ve been scarce – and I have a lot of catching up to do with blogs and with comments – but I’m okay, hanging in there. Thank you to those who messaged or emailed me.

I’ll be back 

Lost? Time To Find New Pathways!

First of all I want to thank everyone for your support and compassion when it comes to my last post. I was, as the title suggests, extremely discouraged and depressed. I still am battling depression hugely, but there have been little glimmers of hope for me since I wrote that.

That post, as some wise owls also remarked in the comments section, was an example of pretty screwed up, negative, unhelpful thinking.

By saying things like “I will NEVER…” I totally deny myself any chances of that thing happening, before I’ve even really tried. I close the door just like that. And I do deny faith, deny God. (I’m sorry if you don’t believe in God – each to their own. I do) Deny any plans that He has for my life, or any faith in Him that with Him I can get through anything.

Diane mentioned that to come back and use my newly minted CBT skills on those statements I made would be very helpful and I agree. Those are thoughts that have been going round and round in my mind, upsetting me, causing me anxiety and making me feel hopeless. If I am not challenging them, they will never change. Challenging them is the first step.

I may no longer have the dreams I had when I was younger – but who of us ever knows what is round the corner? Even the best laid plans fall, and often. If only we had a crystal ball, we could plan our way to success and happiness step by step, including navigation around every hurdle we would face on the way! But life is not like that.

Life doesn’t only give us hurdles. It opens doors. All the time, in unexpected places. Opportunities don’t always announce themselves. We have to keep a look out for them. And we have to believe in them. If we don’t, we won’t look, and we will sail right past them.

There is no factual evidence at all that I will never amount to anything in my life. NONE. I am ONLY 35 years old. That is not even half of a person’s life expectancy. And I might not have things like certificates or diplomas or degrees, I might not have a job or career or a family or house or car, but I have lived experience – and that is something you just cannot buy or learn.

I don’t have a crystal ball or ESP. I have no idea what the future holds for me. I don’t even know what tomorrow really holds for me as opposed to what I’ve planned. 35 is not too old to begin anything. I might struggle to have kids, and who knows, maybe I never will meet a partner, but I have wonderful friends who love me in the ways I need to be loved, and there are many kids out there who some day I might be able to adopt or foster. They won’t be ‘my’ kids, but I would hope that I could be part of thier lives even if briefly.

There are definitely things I can do – I’ve been researching with the help of a close friend, Tertiary Preparation Programs, which are short uni courses that help you get back into being a student. I might soon be doing one of these, online and part time. It would be awesome to call myself a student again after so long – and this might be a pathway into something like a psychology degree or case management or social work, which might be another 8 years if I did it part time (and then still not be actually qualified) but I’ve just thrown more than 15 years of my actual life away to the ED, more than that, so what’s another 8 years when it’s going to be positive stuff? And this is very sudden – yesterday my therapist just suggested it as I was bemoaning exactly what I wrote here in my last post. I do need to feel like I’m actually working towards something again. The cognitive difficulties? I’ll tackle that as it comes. Even if I have to do only one unit at a time, I’ll do this. I’m still not actually finishing most books I borrow from the library, in fact I don’t start most of them – but I’m getting through more of the book before I give up. That’s progress I guess.

I’ve been told of a program that is run by survivors of child abuse, for survivors, that’s situated out in a remote area, a series of 5 day retreats. It sounds really great, and what’s more, they do not turn anyone down based on financial difficulty – they help you come up with a way to do it. Feedback sounds really good – some people say the 5 days was worth more to them than a 6 month hospital stay. What’s more, since the volunteers who run the course are all past program participants who have come through their own troubles and trained to then come back and help, that again is another pathway to my future that I might choose. I’d be really happy with something like that. To help other people like me as a volunteer at a place like that.

Basically what’s most important to me is that my life is meaningful, in that I left something behind that was better for my having been here (as opposed to leaving a deficit because I took much and contributed nothing or very little.) For me, meaningful means helping others, however I achieve that (whether directly or indirectly.)

I’ve looked into some other options for therapy (8 sessions left for the rest of 2013) including funding that’s set aside for people with Eating Disorders to attend therapy (not very likely but worth a shot) and a community counselling organisation which would provide free or sliding scale sessions. They do seem to specialise in ED,  I do worry that they sound very ‘feminist’ based which isn’t my thing at all, but again, I have nothing to lose by checking them out and I have an intake appointment next Tuesday to meet them and see what they are like. (And I am, as usual for me, petrified!)

A close friend has recommended a psychiatrist who specialises in Trauma and will bulk bill (sadly bulk billing is getting scarce these days), and psychiatrists are able to bulk bill I think 50 sessions a year as opposed to the 10 that psychologists can. I had given up on psychiatrists – my experiences being that they throw medication and labels at you but don’t do anything to actually HELP you, whereas psychologists are all about changing your thinking and behaviours and working with your emotions. They give you real tools to take away and use for the rest of your life. But I will give this fellow a chance if he will give me one. I googled him and he has a huge reputation in this country so I just hope he’s not too busy for someone like me.

To help me face up to the anxiety that is ruining ballet and volunteer work with, I’ve been working with my care team to come up with ways they can support me to get there – after which once I get stuck into it I’m fine. it’s getting there in the first place where I fall down most, and it’s spending 2 or 3 days before hand constantly in panic attacks about it that exhausts me. I panic over the simplest things like “will I get up on time” and “I need to leave by x o’clock, remember that” and to have someone support me in the getting ready and getting there will help a lot of that anxiety calm down. I’m also changing my volunteering day, because Mondays is perhaps the worst day of the week for me. My weekends tend to be my busiest days of all and by Monday I am physically and emotionally a wreck, which doesn’t help in getting myself there in one piece or feeling very productive and helpful once there. And to help with the anxiety about what people will think of my appearance at Ballet, I’ve visited Bloch and come away with some really nice dance clothes that cover my scars, are loose but not baggy, and breathable. (I hate that I fret over this, but to me, the people at Ballet represent a group of people that once judged me very harshly, and to go back to them covered in self harm scars and underweight is something I feel very ashamed and self conscious about.)

I bought dancewear very like these!!

This leotard in Rouge

A similar wrap top, but very light and floaty material (for our hot summer) in baby pink

Black skirted jazz pants very similar to these, with a tie front, but no pattern.

And one for the wish list:

Another reason I NEED to have children some day. So i can dress them up in adorable clothes and shoes.

I don’t help myself when I catastrophise about possible disastrous outcomes (that 99.999% of the time never happen) or engage in all-or-nothing thinking (“I’m not a success, so I’m a failure.”) I don’t help myself when I let what I feel override what I know to be true (for example, feeling fat overriding knowing I’m actually underweight, or feeling that people will judge me and find me to be a loser over actually knowing that those particular people like me, are nice to me, and accept me.)

I don’t help myself when I close myself off to any possibilities not just right now, but in the future, by declaring my life ‘over’.

I don’t help myself by forgetting that I don’t have to fight my problems by myself, or even face them alone. By forgetting that God has a plan for every single one of us, and that He has a plan for MY life too – even if I don’t know what it is yet. He is fighting for me every step of the way, and everything that I go through is part of His plan for my life. I don’t help myself by losing faith not just in God, but in my own self. (Thank you, Missy, for the reminder.)

Giving up on myself is the same as declaring myself worthless. And if God finds me worth fighting for, and even worth creating in the first place, who am I to have the arrogance to say “God, you are wrong, I’m awful!”

I’ve been enlightened in SO many ways since I wrote my previous post that I DO have more options than I can even know of right at this moment, that more options will be coming along in the future. That it’s never too late to change or to start afresh, to begin with something new. And that the fastest way to really fail, is to declare yourself a failure before you have even tried. It’s not failure when you give something your best shot. It’s only failure when you never even try at all.

I could go on, but this is already a heck of a long post. I am also needing to work on my screwed up sleeping patterns and have taken proactive steps to try and get more and better quality sleep –  but I didn’t mean to include boring other people to sleep as well!

Thank you to everyone for your support and your belief in me – and for reminding myself to believe in myself.

(Image sources – 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6)

Discouraged

The post-festive period is often a time of steep come-down for many people.

For me, lately, it’s been peaks and valleys.

If my life has been a journey, it’s been a rough one.

But that’s made me all the more determined to continue on, to make it through to the end – wherever the end may be.

For all the times I’ve struggled to climb a steep, rocky slope, I’ve slipped down an equally treacherous abyss.

For all the times I’ve realised just how worth living life is, how wonderful and amazing this world is and how much I love those people I am blessed to know, I have been equally as hopelessly lost in a black well of depression. Unable to see but a star in the sky – but I hang on to that star, because it reminds me that there is a way out. And it reminds me to dream. Because dream I do, and dreaming is how I convinced myself I had a reason to live when I was in my rock bottom places.

 

My dreams used to be high as the sky – there were no limits. I was going to be a dancer, a writer, a veterinarian, a biochemist, an artist.. there truly were no barriers. If I wished to achieve something deeply enough, I worked my guts out at it and I got there. My childhood and adolescent years were heady with the heights of my own successes. I rarely knew failure. I was labelled ‘gifted and talented’.

The hell of home paled when I threw myself into that world.

But there comes a time when the good can no longer block out the effects of the bad, and the nightmare overcame the pleasantness. I no longer was able to become lost in the dreams I worked towards, no longer was able to concentrate, I was only partly there any more. I was dissociated.

Part of me ran away. Flew away. (Still wants to, all the time, today.)

Here I am now. I have incredible difficulty living in the present.

It’s scary to be me. I’m 35. I have nothing to show for it. No hopes. No dreams. They all were lost. Ravaged by what happened. By illness and trauma.

I have never had a job. Never will have a career. My brain is incapable of study. Cannot remember even the basics of stuff I need to know when I need it. Cannot read and enjoy books. Cannot concentrate to paint. Cannot hold a conversaton sometimes.

I will never have a partner or husband, never have children of my own. Never have grandchildren or nephews or nieces. Never play Santa or the Easter Bunny, bake birthday cakes, pick out pretty dresses or play in the garden with my kids. Never take them to school and coach them through their homework. Never be frazzled by tantrums and tears.

I cannot enjoy ballet, cannot enjoy volunteer work, because I spend days flooded with anxiety about just leaving home, getting there, being there, and coming home again. I’m wracked with fear about just doing every day things. I still do them. But enjoy them?

My brain is mush, my heart shattered, my self broken, my body wracked with pain. What is there to live for?

I have no future.

The best I can hope for is to survive. I will never heal completely from the traumas, because there are no options to help me with it here in Australia beyond what I’ve accessed already, and try as I have to help myself, I’ve gotten nowhere.

As a child, I was prisoner of my family.

As an adult, I’m prisoner of my mind. Of my past.

Is it any wonder that all I want is to fly far, far away?

(But I won’t give up. I never have. I never will.)

Image sources 1, 2, 3, 4

Community Safety Announcement – ED Watchdogs.

This post comes with a MASSIVE trigger warning. 

In the last few years, I’ve seen so much that’s truly shocked me. And I’ve become aware that the eating disorders community attracts predators of it’s own.

There are some utter scumbags on the internet. And, being the internet, it can be hard, sometimes impossible, to police them.

Ideally, the internet never should be policed. But there are lines that should never be crossed – some of which in this case are paedophilia, rape,  preying on those who are vulnerable.

ED Watchdogs is a recently set up facebook community that is hoping to spread the message of keeping ourselves safe, and of keeping an eye out for each other. The facilitators have spent several years working silently behind the scenes compiling thousands of screenshots, messages and emails, endeavoring to try and remove the worst of these predators one at a time. Reporting them to facebook has been only a temporary measure – they always return. Reporting them to authorities usually results in nothing – not enough evidence. With very real abuse and assault going on – these facebook meetings do cross into real life in many instances – they put in hundreds of hours of work in order to get the evidence to present to police and have them actually investigate.

However this is just too much for a couple of people, themselves members of this community, to undertake alone – and they hope for the community to become their eyes and ears.

ED Watchdogs has an Ask.fm page for anonymous tip offs.

Screenshots and other files can be emailed to ed.watchdogs@gmail.com and if you prefer to stay anonymous, you can use a service like Anonymouse to do so.

I’ll leave you with an example of just what sort of person is among us. (Trigger warning.) 

I would like to take this opportunity to warn you all about the user ‘Myke Nihilist Davidian’.My alarm bells went off about this man a few months ago when I saw hints in his profile information that he may be the type of character to prey on young girls with eating disorders.

~WARNING: The following information may be triggering to those with abuse or rape in their past.~

I confronted Myke about his page and flat out requested to know what his intentions were. This image was the last reply I got.

This is an example of the kind of character we, the ED Watchdogs want to warn people to be wary about.
Please take care.

 

Images courtesy ED Watchdogs.

Compulsive Self Deprivation

As I’ve written previously, I struggle a lot with body image. But much of the time these days I still manage to accept myself enough to not want to stomp all over myself until I’m a pulp, preferably invisible pulp.

I try and remember that I’m doing the best that I can do, with what I have. That’s all any of us can do, really. I’m not superhuman, nobody is. And I can’t force things to get better NOW because I’m so over the way things are. (If I could force things better, I would have been better a loooong time ago!)

The most important thing to me is to try and be a good person. To not hurt anyone – that comes first. One day I hope I can help people, but I know that at the moment I have very little to give. I try – because no matter how little we have, we can always listen, always care, always have a hug to give, a shoulder to lend someone. I can do those things. And they might not be changing the world, but they are something.

I try and be a kind person, too. I’m not always kind – I’m human there, too. I have thoughts that are angry, or mean, about others. But mostly I try and treat people and think about people with compassion – the same way I would hope people would treat me or think about me. I know that many people do not – but that doesn’t mean that I can’t either.

And yet, I hate myself. I always have. I know I’m not alone. I’ve met so many others who struggle with intense self-hatred. I’ve never found anything about them that’s hateful, either. Never.

It’s really hard to look after yourself when you hate yourself. Nothing you do is ever ‘good enough’. Everything is always ‘your fault’. Other people must secretly find you disgusting. They must be crazy for wanting to have anything to do with you, let alone LIKING you. You feel so guilty if you do anything nice or caring for yourself – including basic self-care.

My mother never really taught me basics of self care like looking after my finger and toe nails, how to properly care for my skin, etc – but even as an adult, having access to the information on the internet and in books and magazines, I struggle to allow myself these things. For years I didn’t bother moisturising my face, because moisturiser is an ‘indulgence’ to me. I don’t wear makeup unless it’s a special occasion and even that is once in a blue moon, maybe once every few years.  I’ve had my hair cut by a hair dresser a few times in my life time – preferring to just let it be in a pony tail or have a friend/some unlucky person trim it (Many of my adult haircuts have been while in hospital – a good excuse to not have to consider going to a salon.) And I don’t bother with my fingernails or toenails. I keep them short, and neat as possible, and clean, but that’s it.

When it comes to clothes, I LOVE clothes. Love looking at them in fashion spreads. But they are, to me, something that other people can wear. I just am on the outside looking in, liking them, but clothing myself in op shop finds and plain shirts and jeans. As a child, I never had nice clothes like the other girls, but it was to the point that all I wanted really was a clean, unstained or torn t shirt and a clean, unstained or torn pair of shorts. And a pair of shoes that fit and weren’t breaking apart. Basic things. As an adult, I have far more than that – and I’m thankful. So although I love fashion, I don’t crave it. I also feel guilty and like mutton dressed as lamb if I try and wear it – I still feel like it’s not for ‘me’ because I’m so ‘different’ to others.

Other people are worthy. I’m not. That is how I have felt for my entire life. And that is what was instilled in me personally by my family as I grew up.

Where I’m going with this is, that as an adult, I still struggle with these messages of having no worth, despite the fact that I rationally know they are not true, and that I am as worthy as any other person on this planet. Old habits of thinking die hard.

CBT helps a little. My therapist gave me a list of questions to ask myself whenever I have thoughts like this. I write down the thought, so for example, I will write “I’m not worthy of having nice clothes, everyone will think I look silly in them and fake.” And I feel shameful, disgusted with myself – that’s the emotion that’s come up with this thought.

Then, I question my thoughts. What factual evidence to I have to back up this thought? Is there an alternative way to look at it? What might a friend of mine think in the same situation? And so on. I know that I have no evidence to back up not being worthy of nice clothes – and nobody is going to look at me any more than anyone else wearing the same clothing. An alternative way of seeing it might be to ask myself, would you prefer to assault the eyes of the public by wearing indecent clothing? Because they would most likely prefer you had nice clothes too. And I know that my friends, in this position, would probably not even think twice before buying the clothes for themselves – because that’s what people DO.

CBT is starting to help  me with a lot of things – not just whether I’m worthy of nice clothes or not. But it’s something that requires me to do it every single day, like homework. Seriously. And it’s worth it.

However – even though I have noticed an improvement in my thinking in that I am automatically asking myself the questions, automatically starting to correct my thoughts that way and tell myself “That isn’t true, that’s something you feel, but it’s not based on fact, the reality is..” I still find myself believing the old messages. I know I am worthy of nice things. I know I am worthy of self care. I know I am just as worthy as any other person.

But I don’t believe it.

It’s the same as when I’m telling myself  that I look fine, I’m not fat at all, that’s the eating disorder lying to me, my eyes and perception lying to me – I’m not believing it, because my reality is the opposite.

Also, the way I’ve thought for so many years is my NORMAL. When I’m feeling sick, hungry, in pain, fatigued – that is not pleasant, but it is normal for me. And so things feel ‘secure’ in my world, in some tiny way (because they aren’t really secure.) When I’m feeling satiated, strong, healthy, awake – that is such a scary feeling. It feels alien and wrong to me. And I know this sounds so screwed up. It’s like I am wired backwards.

It’s like I am wired for self-deprivation.

Recently I was reading an email newsletter from Psychcentral.com, when I stumbled on a blog entry about compulsive self-deprivation. The author wrote about it in the context of being the silent partner to addiction. (This blog is about sex addiction – ignore that, unless you actually do have a sex addiction!)

These paragraphs grabbed me:

“Where does compulsive self-deprivation come from?

Self deprivation has to do with how you care for yourself.  Most often .. addicts come from families in which they experienced a lack of appropriate nurturing.  In adulthood, people tend to care for themselves the way their parents cared for them, or failed to care for them.

In other words you treat yourself the way your parents treated you.  Growing up with less than adequate nurturance, you may have no idea of what good self care should look like.  If your parents were rigid, distant or withholding caregivers you will learn that you are expected to “disappear,” and to disregard your own feelings and needs.  By being compliant in this way you as a child hoped to please your caregivers and gain their love or approval.” (Source)

This is me. This is so true for me, for my history, for the people who brought me up. Another piece of the puzzle as to why I am the way I am – and understanding is a first step to being able to change that.

I related so much to the common features of compulsive self deprivation: (source)

Compulsive self-denial or self-deprivation can take many different forms. The behaviors can be superficially acceptable behaviors like religious asceticism and fasting or they can be extreme behaviors that qualify as mental disorders in their own right, like anorexia, workaholism and self-harm.

YES this is true for me

Not taking care of your basic needs

This includes neglecting all kinds of basic self care such as attending to medical needs and dental needs, neglecting hygiene, allowing garbage to pile up, not repairing things that break down, not paying bills or taxes and not reaching out to significant people in your life.

YES. I used to be so careful to take care of myself and do all the things I was meant to do – but for years now I have found it really hard to do these things, sort of like I am trying to let myself fall in as big and deep a hole as possible.

Denying yourself pleasure and tolerating pain:

This includes restricting food, going on unusual regimens and cleansing routines, compulsive exercise, excessive body piercing or tattooing, and cutting yourself. It also includes avoiding sex and other pleasurable activities, hoarding money instead of spending it on legitimate needs and becoming over-involved in religious or spiritual practices that demand excessive self-denial and withdrawal.

YES to the point that it’s terrifying to me to not feel really bad, painful hunger, it feels wrong to NOT feel that. It feels scary being ‘well’ again rather than feeling awful and sick, despite it being so awful. I do NOT ‘like’ the pain/unpleasantness/being sick – I just find it really alien to not feel it, it just feels too wrong. I only feel okay when I’m suffering.. if that makes any sense?

Avoiding success and abundance and living in fear

This includes avoiding opportunities for success, working for free or for too little, overwork, going into debt, living in minimal surroundings and with a lack of fulfilling relationships or activities, and letting go of previous recreational pursuits.

I want SO BADLY to have success, to achieve as I used to – and yet it does seem like I’ve gone out of my way to stop myself doing so. Right down to refusing to let them pay me when I used to volunteer because it just freaked me out and I felt too guilty.

Do any of you relate to this at all? 

Compulsive self-deprivation is very much a strong part of my whole eating disorder – and I need to work at permitting myself to meet my basic needs, believing in my own worth as a person, believing that I deserve to feel okay physically and mentally – and to practice staying with feeling ‘okay’ until that becomes my normal instead.

Of course, it’s not all that simple, life never is – but it’s helpful to have an idea of why we feel the way we do.

(Featured Image credit, Image 2 credit, Image 3 credit.)

Happy New Year! High Tea, Friends, Happiness, And More To Come.

Hello! I just wanted to quickly pop in and share with you my special, challenging day – and most of all to wish you all a wonderful, happy New Year.

I can’t believe that 2012 is coming to a close already. It goes so fast!

Today, I did something that a few years ago I never would have dreamed of doing. Another something – after Christmas and my Sleepover parties!

I met up with two special friends for a Fashionista High Tea at a pretty amazing place, the Palazzo Versace hotel on the Gold Coast. We had high tea in this amazing room – the Le Jardin restaurant -

High tea was sublime -

Eyeing off the goodies…

Of course, I take terrible photos. Focus on the FOOD, and the surroundings! The pool was amazing. We are all going to have to come back at some stage and get ourselves a pagoda!

That can totally be a New Year resolution.

I’m not really big on actual formal resolutions any more. I used to aim for the sky, far higher than I could possibly hope to achieve. It meant for me, that I fought harder and usually achieved more than had I aimed for what was ‘reasonable’. That was one of the secrets behind my high achievements of my younger years.

The biggest secret was that I was obsessive and relentless and pushed myself, body and mind, beyond the limit – and this contributed to my eventual break down. I guess there are ‘reasonable’ limits on most things for a good reason.

I often think just how much more I could have achieved in my life, had I stuck to limits that were reasonable for me. I might be in a career now, I might be married, or at least have a partner and kids, I might be a totally different person in a totally different position to now.

But we can’t waste more time with regrets. We only have right now – our future is made up of a series of ‘right nows’ – and it’s by making right now the best we can make it that we ensure our future will also be the best it can be.

And that’s what I’m going to focus on in 2013. Trying to make every moment count. Trying to continue the good things I’ve managed to achieve this year, and add more, but not overwhelm myself to the point of relapse.

In 2012, I achieved 2.5 years hospital free, and with a fairly stable weight at around 15 kilos heavier than what I used to fall to, and 5 kilos heavier than what my discharge weight used to be. I started volunteer work, graduated from physiotherapy after 18 months, started ballet classes, moved suburbs, completely cut off my biological family, and grown in many other small ways. I’ve taken up some more hobbies like gardening and sudoku, been painting and in an art show,  and I’ve been stretching myself so much more socially – getting out there meeting friends and DOING things with them instead of letting the social anxiety part of things cut me off.

I’ve eaten out so much, eaten so many new things. Like Christmas dinner, birthday meals, just meals at restaurants and picnics, high tea today. A couple of years ago, there was no way I would even put a speck of that stuff in my mouth, or keep it in my body,  and that’s before we even get into the ‘in public’ stuff.

I’ve  even gone swimming in a public pool and at the beach, and I’ve slept over with friends twice.

And I’ve started proper therapy and am working hard, making good  progress.

It’s been a great year. And there is so much more to come.

In 2013, I just want to keep expanding on these things. I want to increase my work hours so I can get a real job, and keep on volunteering because it’s good for my spirit. I want to do more ballet, and tackle the crippling anxiety that I have to fight to get to do it every single time. I want to do more things with more friends more often. I want to enjoy my own time more, doing more things I like or find meaningful or constructive rather than sleeping my life away or being sucked up by all ED thoughts and activities. And I want to progress even more with the therapy, and hopefully be able to achieve some peace – to that end, I already have an intake appointment lined up with an independent ED-based counselling/therapy service provider early in January and hope that when my 10 psychologist appointments are up, this fills the gap. (I also found the courage to ‘fire’ my private psychiatrist.)

I’m not making any ‘absolutes’ though – because we never know what is going to happen, and I think that as long as I’m going in the right direction, that is what matters.

I hope all of you have a wonderful, safe, happy new year, and that it brings better times – better health, peace, stability, healing. I hope that the good things are only a sign of things yet to come. And despite wishing you all so much more, in the same breath, I wish you all enough.

Okay, enough of my long winded ‘quick’ post! Go celebrate, go sleep, go see out 2013 in a way that makes YOU happy, and start the new year in a way you mean to continue.

And thank you all for being so supportive and lovely to me throughout this year of blogging.

(Image Sources: 1, 2 , 4, 5, 6)

(Ps, Shalimar has informed me of her desire to spend the new year eating, sleeping, catching lizards, and repeating it all over again )