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)

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)

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 )

A Little, Empty Life.

One of the hardest things about my life as the eating disorder has shaped it, is that it really is a very small, self-centred, empty life. It’s hard to admit that, and hurtful when others say it, but that’s the reality. You can’t have an eating disorder AND a life. You just can’t.

I’m sure most people with an eating disorder have tried to at some stage. Many probably  still have a ‘life’ of sorts, for now. When you are in the earlier stages, and are yet to experience the full devastation it can wreak on every part of your existence, it can be difficult to imagine that it could bring you to such a grinding halt. Also, some people who have had their eating disorders for a long time have a ‘semblance’ of a life – they have had to learn to live around it or with it – work to support themselves, for example – but it’s just a resemblance from the outside that shatters pretty quickly under gentle poking around. It’s not really life when you barely scrape through each day going through the motions and pretty much become a robot. Wake up, eating disorder stuff and work, go to sleep (or toss and turn if you are one of the many with insomnia). Same the next day. And the next. And pretending on a daily basis to be ‘fine’ in order to be professional at work is exhausting and isolating.

My career was going to be a professional dancer. I’d already come a long way in just a few years, and it was looking like it could be a reality. I had the talent, I had the perseverance and the drive to push myself beyond the pain and constantly keep working beyond ‘normal’ limits to keep achieving in order to use that talent. I’d also had a lot of really good luck that enabled me to have opportunities that most people never get.

Having an eating disorder meant I threw all that away. Years of hard work, of actual blood, sweat and tears – just thrown away. All for nothing. My physical health declined so quickly after I fell over the edge from sub-clinical disordered eating into a full blown disorder that I didn’t even know what was happening until after the fact – in hindsight it’s obvious. At the time, I didn’t even realise that I was sick, and I genuinely thought I had a huge weight problem. I was also in denial, in pain, traumatised and suffering from PTSD, dissociated all the time, and irrational. I genuinely believed that if I lost weight, my problems would be fixed. Even when the majority of those problems had nothing to do with my weight or my body.

Today that doesn’t make sense at all. I can see it’s irrational.  But back then, I couldn’t. Even when I’d lost too much weight, been kicked out of the performance strand in my dancing course at university, and was constantly passing out, and people were remarking on not only my weight loss but now that I’d gone too far and was looking sick,  I still firmly believed that all that would be solved when I ‘got my dancer’s body back again’ which to me at the time, meant losing weight.

Totally ZERO insight. Not a clue.

It all went downhill very fast after that point. A valuable lesson that I have learnt from this  is that it’s so important to have activities and goals that are meaningful and purposeful in your life – to have a reason for getting up in the morning, a reason for being alive at all. A reason to not give in completely and let the eating disorder suck the last bit of life out of you.  The more that was taken from me – not just ballet, but ability to think in order to do the academic classes at university, to have a conversation with people, the stamina and thinking in order to keep doing the volunteer work I’d always done, the steady hand and imagination to keep doing my drawings and paintings, the imagination to write my poetry, and the energy and self-esteem to keep up with friends – the more of it I lost, the more of myself I lost, too.

After leaving home as a teen, I’d become fiercely independent. I’d lived to that point with every aspect of my life completely controlled – right down to what I could think,  what I wore, read, and did with my spare time. My determination to survive in the ‘big bad world’ was such that I strived to budget and manage money, pay bills and look after my commitments without failing. To get myself around the city despite it being unfamiliar, to find my own housing and fend for myself. I did fail to keep myself safe – since I fell out of the family frying pan into the fire of Wanker the rapist and stalker – but for the first few years I did quite well in everything else, especially considering that I had to learn a lot of basic life skills from scratch. In a home where you are brainwashed and tightly controlled, you don’t learn these skills, even when you are actually performing them – because you aren’t ‘practising’ them so much as you are ‘obeying’, like a robot, every command. Thus I had been preparing and cooking family meals, cleaning, washing up, laundering, working in the yard etc for much of my childhood, but found I didn’t even know where to begin on any of these tasks when I’d needed to do them on the outside.

So to lose my independence to the eating disorder was a huge blow for me. And I lost it ALL. I had no say about my life. My finances were taken over by a state trustee and a state-appointed guardian made decisions about my body. As I grew physically less able, Home and Community Care moved in to help me to get out of bed, shower and dress, go to appointments, look after the housework, encourage me to come on a drive to the park or just get out, and most importantly, help me look after my cat, Shalimar. By this point, I’d had her a few years, and I still can’t imagine living without her, now. We have been almost inseperable since the first hour we spent together. Almost, because with me constantly in and out of hospital, Shalimar was in and out of the pet motel. Thankfully a really lovely man who ran the facility I finally settled on for her, cared for her personally and sensitively – giving her cuddles and walkies and treats. But it wasn’t a life for her, and it was the thing I most regretted about being sick.

At my sickest, I even had to be bathed, toileted, and fed. The indignity of it, especially when some of the nurses or aides who are doing it are much younger than you, really stings. I felt so helpless.

At that point, to look back at the strong, determined, courageous, talented and highly achieving young woman I had once been – was heartbreaking and very bizarre. No way in the world had I ever imagined such a future for myself. I’d aimed for the sky, and beyond, back then! I had believed that if I truly hoped and dreamed for something, I would achieve it – no doubts – because hoping and dreaming to me was synonymous with going out of my way, pulling out all the stops, not stopping at all until I’d gotten there. In fact, I’d made a point of always setting goals that were higher than I (and most other people who knew me, too) imagined I could ever achieve, because my will and my drive was such that I usually ended up surpassing the more ‘realistic’ goals I’d had that way, achieving more than had I just aimed for the them in the first place.

And here I was now – helpless. Pathetic, weak, miserable and helpless.

Eating disorders will strip even the brightest people of their every hope and dream. It will leave no aspect of your life untouched. You will constantly drop to a new low, feel like nothing could possibly get worse than ‘this’ – and then fall again even further. Nobody escapes this. Even for those who somehow hang on to some semblance of sanity and function for a longer time than usual – it will crumble around you in the end. Because it’s impossible to maintain something that is the very antithesis of LIFE and LIVE.

Many people with eating disorders have to start from scratch when they start to turn things around. The little basics of life have to be learnt all over again, but it goes far deeper. Many of us find ourselves in the body of a complete stranger. If we ever knew ‘who’ we were in the first place, we don’t even begin to know that now. We have lost being a person to become basically a host body to a parasite. Interests, hopes, dreams – they all have to be found all over again. And in the jaded, weary aftermath, it’s difficult to find the cares for that stuff, it seems so trivial compared to the battle we have been wading through.

But it’s important. Essential. You can’t just rip the eating disorder from the person and expect them to be okay. They have nothing. You have ripped away their ‘suit of armour’ and their skin, too, leaving them a quivering helpless mess of jelly and innards that will collapse uselessly in a pile. The way you need to do  this is to replace each old supporting and protecting structure for a new one, before taking the old one away. A new activity here, a new interest there, gradually ease the person from leaning totally on the old to shifting more and more weight onto the new – and hopefully when you can finally take eating disorder from that part of their life completely they will stay standing and keep going.

It’s a long slow process. It can’t be rushed.

In many ways, I’m the same person as I once was. Yet, in many ways, I’m completely different, and I do feel like I’m living with a stranger in the same body every single day – not to forget that my body feels like someone else’s too.  My rebuilding process has involved me being broken down to the very most basic, shattered slivers of myself as I once was. Hopefully this time around, the foundation built will be sturdy and I will be stronger for it. Ballet, volunteer work, reading, gardening, interacting with friends much more, art, and spending precious time with my beloved Shalimar all make up parts of the scaffolding of my new person. And with the therapist in trauma therapy, we are chipping away at the frozen, tormented bits to hopefully reveal and set free the little abused kid so that she can finally grow up and leave the past behind her.

You are not the exception to the rule.

Even if you still have a life, if you have an eating disorder, you will not escape this loss of life. I promise you – you simply will not, can not. And that is why I tell this story. My message to you is, get out now. I read of people asking if they are ready to attempt to get better, are they ‘sick enough’? Do they want to let go of losing weight, or the illusion of control, or of whatever pretty carrot the eating disorder has promised? Maybe there is a special occasion they want to be thin for first, or studies to be finished, or someone to meet. Some goal to have achieved, or some point to have reached where they will ‘know’ they now are ready to change.

My question is – what makes you think you will even have those choices? Or that when you get to whatever the goalpost is, you will be able to change, then?

I listen to someone telling me that they want to time their recovery for after a vacation period, when the harsh reality is that if they don’t start fighting now, they won’t even have that vacation period, and they certainly won’t have a choice about when to be plunged into treatment or hospital. I listen to someone telling me that they have to finish the year’s studies first, and wonder if they realise that if they don’t start fighting NOW, not only will they not finish the year’s studies, they may lose the chance to complete the entire course. I hear someone saying they can’t take time from their job to fight for their lives, and wonder if they realise that it’s take the time, or become so unwell they have no choice about losing it, and maybe not even be ever able to work again. And I listen to  someone wanting to be thinner for some occasion and wish she realised that it’s too high a price to pay for that – this disease leaves you crippled and weak, even bedridden, and in the end, DEAD, and believe me that’s not a good look for anyone.

We don’t have tomorrow. None of us has tomorrow. Or next week. Definitely not next year. We only have today. We can only do what we can do right now. And every moment that we don’t fight for our lives against ED, is potentially a moment in the future where we no longer have a life at all.

Even if you take just one small step today – challenge yourself in just one little way, change just one little thing – to fight your eating disorder – it’s a chance you now have. It’s a little bit of yourself and your life and your future that you are claiming, now when you are still able to claim it.

Keep fighting. 

(Image source)

Deja Vu… (Wake Up, Fiona.)

Have you ever had that strong feeling that you have been here, done this, before? Lived this exact moment of time before?

Last night I had a moment of deja vu. I don’t know where I saw myself sitting here before, reading web pages on my computer, half an eye on the news on TV, one hand idly scratching Shalimar’s neck as she purred on my lap. I was looking at the TV guide open on my screen, and the shows were exactly the same as when I ‘lived this moment’ the first time’. Gosh it was eerie. I often sit at my computer while watching TV, Shalimar often sits on my lap, the TV shows are endless repeats – but it wasn’t just ‘doing the same thing’. It felt as though I’d previously viewed that exact moment of time before it happened – and it was happening right now.

I often have experienced moments of deja vu throughout my life. But along with the events of the last few days, last night took on greater meaning for me.

On Thursday morning, I woke up and tried to get ready to go to ballet classes, despite the usual amounts of fear. But I couldn’t do it, and I didn’t end up going. Instead, I sat down and wrote an email to the lady who runs the ballet school. I explained to her that I haven’t lost the plot yet, but I know I’m walking a very fine line and that I need to take a break from the ballet classes until I’ve gotten myself well again. I know I’ve lost weight – in my opinion only a little bit, but enough to matter when someone has a history of ED. Not only have I had to admit that two hours of dancing when I’m not maintaining my weight is not good, but I have become even more self conscious, and I don’t want people looking at me in skimpy clothing and freaking out! It’s been hot, and it’s only getting hotter as we roll into summer so there is no way I can hide under lots of layers during ballet classes any more.

I also don’t want to have ballet become linked with the eating disorder, since up until now it’s been a little slice of heaven – an oasis where the eating disorder has not had a chance to intrude. I want to keep it that way.

I hugely fear having made this decision though – because the way my eating disorder works is that it does strip me of things that are meaningful to me. Instead of being able to use the motivation of going back to classes to help me fight to get back to where I was (at the very least), if things were to go true to my history with ED, instead it would be a case of “You aren’t worthy of going to ballet anyway, and you aren’t going to ever dance again so just give up” and that would be the end of it – forever. ED has convinced me that my life was over and I had to die so strongly, so many times. I don’t want this to happen again.

So I compromised – the reply from the lady who runs the ballet school was “Why don’t you concentrate just on pilates class until you feel better?” and I thought this was a better plan. Pilates is very easy going, and it would mean I would at least maintain some of my rediscovered flexibility and strength until I could do ballet again too.

I sent a copy of my email to my case managers, because they are hugely supportive and I wanted them to know why I chose to do this. I didn’t want them to think that I was copping out, that I didn’t want to keep moving forward. I just didn’t think they would take it so seriously.

Yesterday morning, my Home And Community Care case manager came over for a catch up – asking how she can help me. She’s lovely and I felt a lot better after a chat with her. I’m truly lucky to have the level of support that I do, and that the people who support me as professionals do genuinely care.

At the same time, I had a text from my Mental Health case worker – wanting to see me ahead of our appointment next wednesday, to talk about things. I just assumed that she felt I might be upset and need support,  since she knows how much ballet means to me.

What happened was that I found myself being given an ultimatum – “Turn it around.” I have never seen my case manager SO intensely serious. She’s known me for ten years now, and been my case manager on and off for much of that time. She’s always been a really laid-back and good-humoured – even though she’s been with me through the best of times and the worst of times – far, far worse times. And yet, I’ve never seen her as concerned as yesterday afternoon, when she repeated those three words to me.

Bottom line is, not only do I need to take a break from ballet, but I can’t do pilates either. I’ve been advised to take a few weeks break from all of the classes (well I guess it means my decision was the right one.) I also have been advised to not see the psychologist any more – the one that I’ve only just met!

I meant to write a blog post about finally getting to see a psychologist, but I haven’t had a chance! I’ve long been needing more help with the traumas of my past – and I wasn’t getting it from Dr Headshrinker. It took a long time and much pleading, but finally I was referred to a psychologist who came recommended for doing trauma work, we did up the necessary paperwork to access her* and I made the appointment. And she is just who I need to see – I have a very good feeling about her. She ‘gets’ me. She says she can help me help myself – help me process the traumas and be able to move forward from it. So I came away from my first appointment with her feeling relieved and confident.

(*in my state of Australia, in order to access 5 sessions with a psychologist bulk billed under Medicare per year, you must have a mental health care plan drawn up with your GP. Psychologist sessions are not otherwise covered by Medicare.)

My case manager’s opinion is that it’s a pattern with me – as my anxiety and my inability to cope with the past traumas increase,  I relapse. I can’t not listen to her – she’s known me for so long and she has never been wrong so far, she’s also deeply insightful. I truly respect every single thing she says.

But I personally think that it was just rotten timing! This situation has been a long time developing, and my first psych session just happened to coincide with me no longer being able to appear ‘okay’ to others.  But my case manager has a point. Also, she added, I’m cognitively impaired, and to continue seeing the psychologist in this state would be a waste of the few sessions I can access.

It’s a stalemate on whether I’m not seeing the psychologist again for now, and this is where the ultimatum comes in. I see my case manager again on Wednesday next week, and she wants me to have ‘turned it around’ by then. I guess if I have ‘turned things around’ sufficiently, then I can go on with seeing the psychologist.

If I haven’t?

I don’t know. There are no ‘or elses‘ here, because this isn’t serious yet, this is the heads-up that if I don’t do something NOW, it WILL become serious, fast.

But I guess the ‘or else’ is the fact that I will lose EVERYTHING if I relapse fully. Everything. Including my life. And I cannot do that.

I will not do that. 

I’m fighting. 

I feel awful for letting down people who were so supportive of my progress, who have been cheering me on through all of this.  I’ve let myself down. And I’m scared. Scared, because my ED does have so much power, and it gains that power over my mind so fast. Scared, because I know how deadly this is. Scared because I know my body can’t take another relapse. Scared because I can’t take another hospital experience!

So what does the deja vu have to do with all this?

Last night, turning all these events over in my head, I realised that without a doubt, I’m in a serious position. And that it could go either way. This is a truly life-changing decision – to fight or not. And then I felt that deja vu – such a spooky moment. I can’t remember the rest of what actually happened in that slice of time that I was ‘shown’ ahead of time – but I do know that whatever I decided to do last night affected my ENTIRE LIFE.

So I know what I have to do. And this weekend I’ve been fighting hard to do it. I reached out to some of my close friends, and with their support I’ve had a good day so far with my eating and drinking.

Never let your guard down, when you are fighting an eating disorder. Never give up, either.

Sending courage and strength and hugs to all of you out there – those of you who fight this, or your own personal battles, and those of you who care for someone who does.

While there is life, there is always hope!. 

Image Sources 1, 2, 3, 4, 5,

Escaping Prisons Both Real And Imagined (trigger – abuse, rape)

I think a lot of my eating disorder has involved me trying to hold on to what is familiar to me, trying to feel ‘safe’.

Despite all that it’s put me through – utter hell in which I lost everything, including nearly my LIFE – I daily find myself daydreaming about losing weight. More than daily – all through the day. And I dream of it at night.

It feels a bit like an old friend and lover. Familiar, and seductive. You know them so well. There aren’t any unknowns (although there are – you can never know anyone’s deepest secrets as you can never know anything’s deepest most hidden facets in this life).

Sometimes, despite this ‘friend and lover’ having being an abusive one, it feels safer than what I face now. It’s a prison that I actually daydream about returning to, of creeping back into the cage and shutting the scary world out.

Every step forward into LIFE is a step I have not travelled before, and a step that I travel without my peers, for they have all gone on ahead of me when I should have come this way. The fear of each step is so great, I have to fight to not just turn around and run away again. 

I fear so many things. I fear failure most of all. That, and ‘not coping’. I’m not good at new things now, and find myself overwhelmed by the colourful, exciting, ever-happening quality of real life. The eating disorder kept me very closeted. It was a dark, isolated life, then. And despite it being my cage, I came to find it familiar and comforting.

There have been studies done showing that when you keep a creature in captivity for long enough, you can open the doors and let it free – and it likely will not flee. I feel that way, myself.

As a child in my abusive and neglectful home, I accepted that this was what was. I did not like it  or agree with it, in fact, it was extremely traumatic, especially as I grew older and my brother’s violence and my sister’s twisted cruelty grew worse. And my mother’s ability (or desire) to either protect me, or to supply me with the basics of life at all – seemed to dwindle ever more.

I couldn’t change it. I hurt terribly from it. But I accepted it.

Accepting it, actually caused me less pain than not accepting it. I am sure that had I not been able to accept what was, I would not have survived – it would have utterly broken me. More than I was broken, anyway. I mean, fatally broken.

Picture a wild bird in a cage, just caught, terrified at their predicament and thrashing to free themselves. In the majority of cases, that bird simply will not be able to get free from the cage. If she doesn’t accept her fate, she will batter herself to death, or at least be weak, bruised and battered – and still trapped.

You need to conserve your energy and strength in order to fight what you can fight when you are that trapped (in any way). You need to realise which battles are worth going all out for, and which, even if won, would only be empty victories.

But looking back, I see just how trapped I had become by my own mind – and it wasn’t just because I’d accepted I was trapped for now.

It took me so long to run away from there, not because anyone was stopping me, but because I believed I could not run away. 

Our home had so many LAWS. These laws were punishable if broken, and the punishment felt like it would be as bad as death (or as I felt, worse, because of the emotional and physical distress punishments could involve).  One of these many laws was ‘thou shalt not step outside this house and yard’s perimeters without due cause and permission.’

Our yard was fenced by a brown, wooden farmstyle fence – planks of wood placed horizontally between each fencepost, with two gates that were always heavily chained and padlocked. Intimidating, especially with loud barking dogs and ‘dangerous dog’ signs, but very easy to climb over. It wasn’t even that high – higher than me growing up, perhaps shoulder height when I left. I climbed over it every morning on the way to school, and every evening on the way back home. But had I wanted to climb over it when I didn’t have permission? I couldn’t have. 

That easily-climbed fence was as effective as an electrified, barbed-wire-topped prison fence for me.

And it took being pushed for me to grasp the courage to break the ‘law’ and leave – realising that I couldn’t stay here and stay alive any longer.

And so, I fled for the ‘greener grass’ out yonder.

This is where I look back and say “I fled the frying pan and jumped into the fire”. Because I did exactly that. I met Wanker.

I wonder, had I come from a family that wasn’t abusive, would I have fought Wanker harder? Would I have refused to accept things as they came to be? Talking to my headshrinking doctor about it, his theory is that Wanker was familiar to me. He treated me the only way I’d ever known – cruelly, and without any respect at all. And, right after my flight from my home, that was familiar to me and therefore in some way, a comfort.

That makes me recoil in disgust, to read that – that I found comfort in that rapist bastard’s treatment of me. I was hurting, I fought him tooth and nail at first, and the  first day he raped me (in a rape that just went on, and on, and on for an entire afternoon, at least 4 hours) I kept saying “NO!” loudly the entire time as well as fighting – and I may as well have been battering a tree trunk for all that moved him.

I never, ever wanted anything to do with Wanker. Never. Not even before he hurt me. I simply didn’t believe I had any chance of avoiding his abuse of me. 

So I’d taken my prison from home with me – wherever I went from there, I still wasn’t free. I still was trapped by abuse and resigned to being abused because that was all I had known and all I felt worthy of.

Later on again, in hospital, the treatment of me there just confirmed to me that this was all I deserved. I was nothing better than a wild beast – and that’s how they treated me. And I stopped hoping for better, because I didn’t feel I deserved better.

So the big question for me here is – how do I take freedom with both hands? Not only sum up the courage to step out of my prison, but to stay out of it?

I think the answer is, one step at a time. And with courage – despite the fear of it all. By reminding myself that there isn’t such thing as failure unless you are talking about the failure to even try. And that I have nothing to lose by pressing ahead – and everything to lose by taking the easy way out.

Because that’s what it is, really. It takes great strength and courage for a child to stay alive in the face of such trauma – but it takes none to stay in your cage after the doors are thrown wide and the monsters are gone – monsters in your reality that is.

The monsters in your mind, they are a different matter entirely. And for many of us, they haunt us for life. 

This is not from weakness – child abuse actually impacts on our brain.

Healing will be different for everyone. For me, it’s a very slow process, perhaps it will be a ‘forever’ process. I might never be healed, but always healing – if that makes sense.

For me, little things are more important at the moment. Like being accepted by my peers. Adding activities that to most are small and of no consequence into my life. And repeating, and repeating.

Every time I leave my home to go to art, to go to ballet, to do volunteer work, to have coffee with a friend, go to the supermarket, or even to put the rubbish in the bins – I face my fears. And every single time I face my fears this way, I’m making myself stronger and another step closer to some day being able to embrace this big scary world as simply ‘the world I live in’ – because I’ll be able to live in it, enjoy it, and feel safe.

I think this is part of why when it comes to fighting an eating disorder or an addiction or a mental illness that keeps you isolated and trapped – such ‘little’ milestones are just as important to work on achieving as are the more obvious ones, such as weight gain, abstinence, or managing your anxiety.  They are all the stepping stones, and you can’t just hope to yank out what you are trying to overcome and not freak out when there is nothing there to replace what it’s been in your life. We also have to practice at life, just like we need to practice our ballet or our piano playing or other skills daily to improve them. It comes by doing. This is a huge challenge to me, I who tend to keep retreating into avoidance!

One last important thing?

Forgiving yourself. You did the best with the situation, knowledge and resources you had at the time – you did your best. It’s not your fault.

Thank you to Motifake for the demotivational poster images.

Featured image source. 

I Challenged My Fears – And Had Fun!

Some people have been asking – how is the ballet going lately? I’m aware I haven’t updated about that in a while. I’ve also not taken up where I left off with the job searching! So sorry!

I’ve always saved the best til last – even as a child, I ritualistically ate my green vegies first, then the coloureds, then the starches, then the meats. My rationale was “Save the best til last!”. Even today, I still have to do that!

Ballet is by far the best thing in my entire life (after people and Shalimar) so I will start with the Job search.

I’ve been working with a disability employment service for about 8 months now as a voluntary client – which means I’ve asked to work with them because I want to find a job. (Involuntary client means you are mandated to work with them or you will be cut off from benefits, you have to find a job so you can move off benefits in the end.) The service I’m with works with people who have mental illness, helps them to re-enter the workforce, challenge the obstacles that face them and to keep that employment.

My biggest challenges were:

1. I’ve never had a paid job! I’ve done TONNES of volunteer work, up until probably more than 5 years ago – but that doesn’t really count in my mind as being a taxpayer and contributing to my country. It also doesn’t support you or pay the bills!
2. Cognitive difficulties – they suck. I miss being able to read my beloved books, being able to concentrate for more than a few minutes, and so on.
3. Weakness physically and poor attention span – I can’t go for very long – even doing a part time job at the moment would be more than I could actually do.
4. Self confidence/self esteem/self belief = zero!
5. Skills – I have none. It’s been years since my volunteer positions and work experience, so I’m very rusty. I have never learnt any of the computer programs I might face in a workplace, and my computer knowledge is vastly outdated now. I also don’t have a clue of how to do any basic workplace task – I am good at taking direction, but I’ve never learnt the ins and outs of the workplace beyond a voluntary one, and that’s vastly different.

All of those are quite easily to deal with if I leave my emotions behind. The agency are there to help me – they will help me reskill, get an up to date resume, refer me to a service that will help me with the interview. They find employers in your chosen field and market you to them – reverse marketing, so you aren’t competing with other potential candidates. When you get the job, they will modify the workplace to suit your disability. They also subsidise your wages for a set period of time so that your employer is more likely to take the risk of employing you in the first place.

The thing that they can’t help me with? FEAR. And boy am I a tangled ball of fear!

Unfortunately, the least amount of work hours clients must take on is 8 hours a week. I know, minimal. But I wasn’t sure that I could do 8 hours a week straight out. Remember, I have been sick, bedridden continuously, for a decade, and seriously sick for much longer than that. So 8 hours a week might be a drop in the bucket for most people, but for me it is seriously a big deal.

One hour a day in appointments, plus getting there and back, leaves me exhausted.

I’m pretty sure that I could do 8 hours a week, but I didn’t know for sure. So the agency said – “you are not well enough to work, so we will have to exit you.”

I was CRUSHED!

But I did ask if they could help me get volunteer work – and a few phone calls were made…. I was suddenly asked “Can you work tomorrow?” Every bit of me screamed “NO!! TOO SOON!” but I said “YES”… and that’s what I did today.

Today I did my first 2.5 hours of voluntary work in years and years – at the very service I would have been referred to had I been deemed employable. [A worldwide mentorship service/boutique organisation] works with women who have been out of employment for a while. They outfit their clients in appropriate corporate wear for the interview, give them a makeover with cosmetics, accessories, shoes. They help them prepare their resume and conduct mock interviews too! If the client gets the job, they come back and are outfitted in a week’s worth of pieces. (I’m aware this isn’t the actual Dress For Success in my area – it’s a very widespread organisation. I didn’t link to my local one for privacy reasons!)

How awesome are these people!?

Today went pretty well. I was terrified of going. Last night I spent the entire night just freaking out! One of the things that I’m most scared of is that nobody will ever want to employ ME, because I’m inferior. I’m an inferior human being. (Please don’t’ feel the need to tell me I’m not, I know, rationally, that I’m not. Emotionally, this is the thought that torments me most.)

I’m terrified because I do struggle to hear, that I won’t understand what I’m meant to do and do it wrong.  I’m scared that I’m so ‘weird’ that any customers will be turned off, or that everyone in the workplace will be repulsed at me.

Then add the fears of finding the right place, of the unknown in general, of will I wake up in time in the morning? Will I look okay in whatever I wear, what if I’m dressed wrong? etc, and it gets pretty overwhelming.

Today I proved those fears mostly unfounded. I wasn’t trusted with very much – mostly to just straighten the racks of some very nice clothing. It was only 2.5 hours, but I was exhausted – I was on my feet the whole time, and I wasn’t used to concentrating for so long either, even on something mundane and simple. But I did it, and they seemed happy. They did appear to expect me to be simple, as they knew I was deaf before I turned up, so I hope I’ve proved those expectations wrong. I was a bit overdressed, but at least that’s better than being under-dressed. I felt awkward the entire time, and wanted badly to leave – but they were lovely kind women and I do not think they would be the type to have unkind thoughts at all. So all in all, it was a good experience.

I now believe I CAN do 8 hours a week from the start – and feel that whatever is asked of me, I still give it my everything just I used to give everything and be such a valuable volunteer worker. This was a bit like a ‘working interview’ so I hope that in a month’s time when the next sale is on, they want me back. I guess they do, they all said see you next month when I left! I also put my name down to volunteer if any weekday hours come up. We will see what happens next!

Now to the ballet!!!!

I had so many mixed up feelings about going back to ballet! It was the love of my life, apart from the people I cherish and of course, my cat Shalimar. As a teenager, it was the only reason I kept going. I lived, breathed, ballet. And then, it was taken from me.  I did not dance for nearly 15 years, and for much of that time I was if not bedridden, at the least, very weak and debilitated. At several points, I couldn’t even sit up alone let alone stand or walk, or even hold my own head up.

So it terrified me to go back to ballet again. I knew without a doubt that I would not be able to do anything near what I used to. That I’d have to pretty much start from scratch. Just the fact that it took a year’s physio to be strong enough to ‘maybe’ start pilates – and that was rushing it, because I admit I really pushed hard at my physio! – I knew that for sure. And I feared it, because it did used to be such an important thing to me, what I could do, and the standard of dance that I’d reached before the eating disorder turned disastrous. I will admit, I was a snob when it came to ballet. The kind of ballet snob who cannot even go to a children’s ballet concert without picking out the faults in technique, the changes in any choreography that is a traditional repertoire, etc.

Other fears were that it was very likely I would run into people from the dance school I’d been at who had bullied me. I still am deeply affected by their torment of me for those years, and I didn’t think I could cope with actually seeing them. All these years later, I still find that a lot of my shameful feelings come from thoughts of ‘how would those girls see this?’ Because I know they would look down their noses at me, and everything about me, even now. I’ve often found myself a failure, simply because I couldn’t imagine any of them understanding me now or feeling any compassion towards me now, given that they are adults now too. Or even feeling any shame for what they did.

The school I go to now is actually run by quite a number of members from the company that my school was attached to, who have retired and are now teachers in their retirement (we retire young! 30 is considered ‘old’ in ballet!) I’ve been so very lucky, that the company member who started the school, and  another who was so kind to me back at the school in my teens, have been the ones I’ve had contact with, the first, coming in to welcome me, gifting me with a school tshirt, bag, and some extra free classes, and the second being my teacher! It’s been just the most kind and welcoming reception, which has been extremely healing for me. It’s also really humbling for me, as they were principals back then, and both were extremely inspiring to me. (Still are!)

(I’m having a giggle at myself – I was the sort of teen who would shrug at rock stars, but get all starry eyed for ballerinas!)

I struggle still with actually going – often it will take several attempts to just get out of my home and to the classes. I will go out, double back, go back out again – such is my anxiety, that it’s almost crippling. But I’ve made it most times, and it’s getting a bit easier to go now that so many of my fears have proved unfounded.

PAIN has been a HUGE issue. On top of the normal Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness the  majority of us deal with when we start doing physical activity we are not used to or after a break, the pain I’ve dealt with has been excruciating and just beyond that. I was in so much pain after the first few classes that I could barely walk or get out of bed the next day, and it would also last pretty much the entire week. My doctor has said that it’s most likely because my muscles wasted so severely. At one stage I was convinced that I must have gotten stress fractures again (During the time I was bedridden, due to my severe osteoporosis, both of my femurs thinned to the point of cracking.) because it felt like my feet had shattered underfoot and I was walking on the shards of bone, and I had the same kind of pain in my femurs as I’d been getting back then. Thankfully as it’s now gone, it wasn’t my bones.

Over time, the pain has lessened. This last week was the first time I actually woke up the next day with very little pain. It was also the first time I was able to dance for the full length of time, and the first time I felt that I was able to ‘dance’ a little bit more than fall over, just a little bit more coordinated.  I started with the pilates/ballet barre class – and it’s a gentle class. The exercises are the kind of things I used to do to warm up before a day of dancing – and I found them very hard, I still do.  A few weeks ago, they added a new class after my pilates class, another introductory ballet class. So now, I do both classes! The ballet class is very easy – simply barre and centre, and the exercises are probably pre-elementary level. But now it’s the hardest class I’ve ever done!

I still have the basic ability – thankfully, that never has been lost. I’m fairly flexible – I was very tight at first, and I cannot do the splits any more. But I’m getting there again, faster than I believed I would. My turn out is actually better than it used to be. But I don’t have the strength or power to do what I used to do. So that’s what I need to work on! My legs are like jelly, and my balance very precarious. This last class was awesome because my balance had improved enough that I could really almost dance the adagio – it was a really lovely one, too. I was able to dance it more lyrically rather than be  trying to grab hold of the air in order not to topple over!

I do find it frustrating that what my mind remembers and what my body remembers are very different things. I will try to do something, remember all the muscles to use, remember the technique, and my actual muscles will not obey. I might try to do some quick little steps and fall over because my mind is far ahead of my legs, they just will not move. Or do some petit allegro and although I do everything to jump, I won’t even get off the floor! It feels like one of those dreams where you are desperately running from something, but the faster you try to run, the slower you get!

I’ve still been struggling with eating – and the most surprising thing for me is that I’ve been able to increase my breakfast and keep it down, soley to be able to dance. Breakfast is THE hardest meal of the day for me. I find it hardest to start eating, to put anything in my mouth, food or drink. Even water makes me queasy in the morning. But I didn’t have the energy to do what I wanted to do badly, and that meant I needed to fuel my body more. And I did. I noticed the improvement directly from eating more – I’m hoping so much I can keep improving on this. Ballet might actually be what saves me from the ED – nothing else has been more powerful than it to this degree. If I can get back to how I was pre-ED – when what my body could DO was far more important than weight, appearance, size, or food – then I really could see myself as finally being able to eat and keep that food down and not do battle with the ED for the rest of a shortened life until it killed me.

I also feared what I would look like. I can’t really tell if the other people have found me too skinny (I do feel and see myself as fat, but I know I am not, and I know that others will see it. I remember the horror and disgust many of us used to have towards other dancers who we thought had ED’s, back when I was at the school in my teens. ) I can actually see in the mirror that I’m too thin, but thankfully I don’t see it as gross, disgusting too thin. It shocks me to see myself looking like that – and to think, this is me a few years ago plus 15+ more KILOS! What must I have been like? It’s a hugely sobering realisation of how sick I actually was.

I also was okay with them seeing my arms – I have now bared my arms two weeks running with no problems – nobody even seems to see them. They are covered in self harm scars – pretty bad and noticeable ones – so it’s a relief that it’s okay. It’s not even quite Spring yet but it’s already very hot, and to be the object of disgust would have ruined everything for me. If anyone has noticed, they have been very tactful and I’m so grateful for that.

I can feel that I’m making good progress, and that’s the main thing. This isn’t my career now, this is for enjoyment, and it’s been utterly wonderful. For two hours a week, I can escape to a little world that none of ‘this’ (being the ED and the PTSD) has been able to touch. I hope it stays that way – it’s been a welcome refuge.

So, I guess I should be giving myself a pat on the back for these triumphs. I’m still nowhere near what many people take for granted as everyday activities, but I’ve come such a long way and it’s wonderful to finally be seeing the real, tangible rewards rather than having to remind myself that although things might not be visible, it doesn’t make them any less important.

Thank you for reading this hugely long post! I hope you are not now snoring. Snoring is where I need to be – past my bed time! I have a lot of comments to answer – I’ll get to them tomorrow if possible. Hope everyone is well!

(Featured image found on Facebook!)

Random Happy Dancing Reblogged – Depression.

Emma from Is My Bum Big In This posted a really good blog post about depression and exercise yesterday – well worth seeing, it’s rare that reading an article on depression can be so uplifting!

Random Happy Dancing Is Good For Depression

Depression is something that Emma and I both battle with – and believe me, it can be a BATTLE.  It is all the harder when you are surrounded by people who are ignorant, just don’t get it and worse, think you are wallowing or weak or self indulgent. Stigma makes living with a mental illness all the more a challenge, and also contributes to people feeling unable to ask for help.

She’s written a really good overview about what it’s like living with depression, how exercise can help, and about how it can be hard to help ourselves when we feel so awful – but it’s worth it!

Lately depression has really given me a good kicking, it’s made me just too fatigued, miserable, and in pain to live (and yet, like millions of people around the world, I still do it anyway.) The one thing that’s really shone through this for me has been going back to ballet recently. It’s even been difficult to get out and to ballet – so fearful am I, and so unable to cope with life – and yet, for that hour a week that I’m there and dancing – I’m on cloud nine. The contrast is incredible – shining hope and blissfulness surrounded by a pea soup of misery. Wow.

It’s very true that exercise is a great way to help yourself – it’s a natural mood enhancer, and part of why ballet helps me would be this. The other part is that it’s been my lifelong passion and something that has always been as crucial to me as the oxygen I breathe – to have been robbed of it for all those years was like being suffocated. I know that never again shall I bear to live without ballet in my life.

Whatever YOU like to do to get moving – is sure to be a great boost to your mood. Walking, running, dancing, kicking a footy in the yard – something that gets you MOVING. And even better? Something that gets you laughing!

Last night, Emma’s post inspired me to remember something I stumbled across in a random park years ago. A circle of people sat, clutching shaking bellies, roaring with laughter. I thought they must be bonkers!! And yet, I too started to laugh – I just couldn’t help it. I’d stumbled across a Laughter Yoga Club. Last night I googled Laughter Yoga, and trying to find a funny video of it being done (or happening, sounds better!) I ended up on a tangent that led to tears of mirth and random public dancing.

Would you break into dance in your grocery store?

And a call out to Missy – we need to see that video of you and your mates jamming in the grocery store!

Enjoy – hope it gets you dancing, too.

Fear

Last Thursday, I didn’t make it to what would have been my third ballet class. I had legitimate reason – I was feeling crappy with a bad head cold, and on top of that, the chronic pain levels really kicked up in this past two weeks. I am also very scared about my legs. The worst thing to happen to my legs, apart from the  peripheral neuropathy –  which was the most painful thing I’ve experienced EVER (imagine even the AIR touching your skin being excruciating!) – was when both of my femurs – the longest strongest bones in our bodies – thinned to the point of cracking. Stress fractures.

I’ve been working on getting my nutrition better, doing physio, doing gentle weight bearing exercise like walking daily, hydrotherapy. I’ve been under the care of an endocrinologist and I took hormones until the side effects made me too unwell.  My weight being a bit better helps – I’m not quite as starved as I was, although I worry because I know that until my body is a healthy weight it IS still in a state of starvation and therefore it is unable to do things like rebuild my bones – it has to direct everything towards keeping me alive. Also, I still don’t get periods – and that’s so important. I have learnt that our hormonal status is just as important as our nutritional status in preventing osteoporosis. I worry about that, too.

This last week, my legs have been having the same pains as they did when I first got the stress fractures in my femurs (I actually had them for 3 years before they found them – it took them that long to take me seriously and take MRIs). I’ve been free or with very little pain there for months now, so I’m quite scared.

I know what I have to do. It’s up to me to do it. Only I can do it.

But this isn’t what this post is about. It’s about FEAR.

(Image Source)

Fear is something I feel all the time. Sometimes I don’t think I need a reason to be scared – it’s there. Or perhaps, it’s a combination of feelings that don’t feel good like anxiety and sadness. I identify it as fear.

Lately I’ve been terrified again because so much has been going better for me. Sound crazy? I’m sure it must. But before, when my life had reached it’s lowest point, I had nothing to really fear any more. I’d lost everything but my life, and that didn’t seem much worth being sad about losing now.

Now, I have so much to lose. And I’m so grateful for that – but terrified of doing something to lose it all. I  know, this too, is in my control. And now I have to make sure I don’t make the same mistakes as I did in the past.

I remember back when I was getting unwell but didn’t yet realise, still in high school. I started really struggling to think properly and what used to be easy academically suddenly felt like literally squeezing what I’d known out of my brain from where it had gone hiding. I remember beginning year 11, the first day in Maths 1, the teacher asked us all to start by drawing a circle on our page. Just a simple circle. I picked up my biro and froze. I couldn’t remember what a circle WAS. It just wouldn’t compute. The teacher became extremely frustrated at me and jabbed at my page. In the end I managed a very wonky shape that didn’t look anything like a circle in hindsight. That was the beginning of me really being aware that something was wrong, it was more subtle before that.

Unbeknownst to me, the effects of major depression and malnutrition were making themselves known through my cognitive ability, or lack of it.

The last couple of years of school I struggled with my schoolwork. I got some really good marks as usual, but it was like pulling teeth to achieve them. Other subjects I just let go of. I stopped doing assignments – I’d try, and just panic more and more the closer it got to being due. I’d had constant nightmares about being chased by angry teachers demanding their unfinished work, and not being able to come up with it, and it was starting to be  a waking nightmare too!

(Image Source)

The school employed a tutor to help me with one of my subjects, the one I was struggling with most – Physics, something I had adored previously. Because I was at the dance school and we danced for most of the day 6 days a week, we did our senior high school subjects in a few hours each afternoon – the same amount of work but in half the time of regular students.  We were limited to set subjects because of this – but I chose to do physics by correspondence instead of art – and it was tough. It was basically do-it-yourself classes with exams and assignments to be sent in along the way.  (And all by snail mail – we didn’t use the internet then!) The tutor helped, but I was clueless. I don’t know how I scraped through.

At the end of year 12, we all sat a couple of days of huge exams known as the Core Skills Test. These exams aren’t so much to test our knowledge, but our capacity. I remember some multiple choice exams on language and maths and science, and another language one which involved writing an essay over the course of a couple of hours on some obscure subject. I got A+ across the board. This would have been awesome, except that suddenly my teachers realised that my struggle academically had NOT been because I was dumb as they must have thought. They decided I just could not have been bothered – and were very disappointed in me indeed.

I still regret this. I still have nightmares sometimes about being chased for work that I just couldn’t complete despite hours of pulling my hair out. Of exams that I’m panicking in because none of the questions make sense to me. Of knowing that I haven’t done my best and wondering what was happening to my BRAIN. Why I was suddenly so dumb. I know now, but then, it was frightening. At least near the end of those years I was again formally diagnosed with major clinical depression again which gave us some answers, but I was a perfectionist who couldn’t accept anything less than perfect, not only had I grown up with my mother asking me where was the 1% if I only got 99%, I’d been asking myself those questions too. Nothing was good enough for me if it wasn’t perfect, and I’d fallen the hardest way possible.

I let everyone down – including myself. 

Fast forward a bit, and my ballet began to fail too. I became more sick physically and was lethargic, giddy, dizzy. I started missing classes because I was just too unwell to go, and when I did, I knew I was nowhere near my former standard. I was panicking about that, too. I had graduated the dance school with such acclaim, had been formally introduced to the university staff by the dance school teachers – one to watch – and here I was letting everyone down again. 

So now, these days, when I miss a class or a date or an appointment, the feeling of guilt and fear of letting everyone down is overwhelming.

(Image Source)

When I missed that ballet class on Thursday, I panicked. I was dressed and ready to go, but I was too unwell, and I knew it would be silly to go in this state. I texted a friend for advice, who backed me up. I texted my home and community care worker who also said, you shouldn’t go. But I still felt bad. Would they be disappointed? Many people have been so involved in helping me get to be able to go to ballet again, and each of them was someone I felt I was personally letting down. The burden weighed heavily on my shoulders.

I feel this way about everything, not just ballet.

I’m scared of letting people down when I get a job, because I’m not reliable enough being unwell or simply unable to do it. When I was volunteering, I was offered a wage a few times, but each time I turned it down, because I couldn’t accept it without a major panic. Being unpaid, I knew I was putting my all into my work, and that it was enough. It was adequate. If they paid me to do exactly the same job, suddenly I couldn’t feel that I’d done a good enough job to earn that payment. Even after turning down the wages, I stepped up my efforts in the fear of being unable to do my very best for them.

I’m scared of letting people down by flunking out with ballet – skipping classes, not being able to do the classes. Not being able to juggle the extra nutrition that my body needs to do the class well enough to enable me to keep going.

I’m scared of letting down society by never being a productive and useful member again. Of always being a disability pensioner who needs help to just live, and just takes but never gives back.

I’m scared of letting down the people who read this blog, because you have been so supportive and lovely. Many people have said that I’ve inspired them – that is amazing, but I have never seen myself as inspiring, and I’m scared that I will prove myself to be not inspiring at all by falling flat in my face. For example, if I were to relapse – how would someone who has previously felt that turning their own ED around was impossible and gained hope from reading about my progress feel? Would their faith in possible recovery be dashed too?

I’m most terrified of relapsing with the eating disorder – because I would let down all the people who have saved my life then helped me get to this point. Not only that – but to have come so far, been able to taste what life could actually be like and realise that I COULD live life, really LIVE – and then lose it all again – that would be devastating. I know that I couldn’t summon up the energy physically or emotionally to start from scratch again – this is it. 

As I said before – I know what I need to do. All of this, it’s up to me. In my control. All these fears can only come true if I allow them to stop me hanging on and always pushing forwards.

(Image Source)

So in the short term, I’m again going back to my meal plan, every meal is a new start, even if I’ve failed at breakfast, morning tea is a fresh beginning. I’m keeping all appointments unless I’m dead (I’ve actually cancelled a doctors appointment because I’m too sick to go, how ironic is that!) and I am being firm with myself about going to Art and to Ballet unless it’s something dire. It’s not been that I haven’t been going to things that I have missed without good reason – the fear of it being harder to go the next time gets to me too. It’s very easy for me to withdraw when I’ve missed a few appointments here or there – I still have strong social anxiety. I just shove it down every day and get out regardless. If I miss a day, it’s not as easy to shove it down again. (Hope that makes sense!)

What fears do you have (or have had)? Why do you think you have these fears? Have they ever been real, or do you think they are mostly mind over matter? How have you overcome fears, and how do you continue to overcome fears on a daily basis? 

Big hugs to all of you – thank you again for being such supportive and encouraging people. I know I have said I have a lot of fear of letting readers down, but it’s been a hugely positive thing for me to be able to write about my own experiences and know that people out there take something good or hopeful from this. Never stop hoping!!! While there’s life, there’s hope.

(Featured Image Source)

Exercise And ED; And A Catathlete.

Hi everyone! This post has been made possible by my hot water bottle and about 2890873243 layers of clothing. It’s gotten extremely cold here and the only way for me to stay warm is to become a walking laundry pile and continuously clutch that hot water bottle. I also have to keep it out of the way of a certain set of claws – Shalimar has already popped two hot water bottles in her life time. Thank God I don’t have a water bed..

I often wonder, how do people with an ED (or just more susceptible to feeling the cold) cope in countries where it gets far colder than here in Australia? The weather here sounds balmy compared to the UK, or many parts of the USA in winter. Here in Brisbane, we don’t even get snow.

As you can see, what I call freezing isn’t all that bad..

Fahrenheit for those non-Aussies

I know that most houses in those colder climes seem to have central heating as standard – that’s something you will not see here in my city.  But how do you cope out of doors?  I find winter a lot easier than I used to – I don’t feel the same sort of cold as I did then – it was like having ice in your veins. You could have all the hot water bottles, warm clothes, heaters, doonas in the world and never get warm – it was inside you. Now I just feel cold from the outside in – unless I’ve done something silly like eat frozen things in the cold (like I used to a lot!). It’s a totally different ‘cold’ feeling and one that’s easily fixed.

Add this to all the rain we were having – and poor Shalimar had been going crazy. Cabin fever. I have been doing my best – but I just can’t walk around 24 hours a day with string.

It means I’ve had to be quite imaginative. I’ve put the above ball of string in my pocket as I walked around the house, just happened to be trailing quite a bit of it behind me. Funny being chased after by a scampering cat everywhere! I’ve also draped it over various objects, and hung it from the ceiling..

Thankfully it’s been sunny since Friday though – and Shalimar has enjoyed it. Very much so! In fact, I think she should have been a catathlete. I spent Sunday afternoon running up and down the garden path with her string and Shalimar trailing. She never got tired! Even when we took a rest break, Jaws attacked!

PHEW.

So despite the weather, we have both been getting some exercise! Which brings me to what I wanted to write about today. I’m taking part in one of those University studies – this one is about the role of exercise in anorexia, and in people’s recovery. It’s for people at any stage of their ED, and it involves a couple of interviews on the phone. I can’t hear on the phone, so I use the National Relay Service, and took the first interview this afternoon. It took about two hours. It would have been about one, but the relay means it’s slower.

By the way, that relay service is a godsend.  I’ve overcome my extreme phobia about using the phone and can make ‘calls’ now easily and without having a panic attack.

The first interview covered my feelings and behaviours around food, eating habits, body image, and weight. It was very full on, and it’s all stuff I’ve known for a long time, but a very good opportunity to have a good look at myself again. We often live with a reality that we ignore much of the time – and this is true for me to some degree. I can’t live without the eating disorder being rubbed in my face as it touches every single aspect of my life – but I try and hide the worst of it from myself. It’s simply too scary to focus on for long – it’s frightening to have so many things I still feel powerless over, and it’s frightening that the ED way of life has become my ‘norm’ and been that  norm for so long. Talking about it to someone who does not (I’m assuming!) have an ED makes you realise that it’s just SO different to what other people do, not in a good way either.

But the main focus of this study is on exercise – before, during and after the illness. I cannot say anything about exercise in recovery – because I have not been there yet. But I’ve been a dancer pretty much all my life, and for my teens I considered myself an athlete in a dancer’s way – strong and fit. My dancing did not have anything to do with developing an ED as far as I believe.

Body image was a very pressured area – I totally felt the pressure to be slim and toned, and most of the other girls in my classes did too. We were coached on training ourselves and refining our appearance, in a teacher’s words, “Like prize racehorses”. There were quite a number of girls who took it too far – a graduate sent home from the national ballet school for losing too much weight (who simply joined in our classes instead of recuperating.) A girl known to be vomiting after every meal. A girl who collapsed in class, whose technique has been suffering along with her extreme weight loss. It was heartbreaking but it was there. Hazard of the occupation, sadly.

Not that it should be – I long for the days when ballet dancers and gymnasts are normally healthy. Above a BMI of 20 – despite aesthetics. I don’t expect it to  happen – when all models are above a BMI 20 in our magazines and on our catwalks, I might start hoping then. Professional dancers and gymnasts are STRONG though – very strong. As a rule, they are not starving, not purging, they take care of their bodies. But it’s still a high pressure area with often unrealistic expectations.

I believe my eating problems were there from a very young age. I was hiding food despite being hungry and liking it at four years old. I was fighting with my mother because I couldn’t eat breakfast, I just could not face it. Already being deceptive to get out of eating it but make it appear I was. And then there was the push and pull she and I had over food – pushing it on me, pulling it away.  So dancing was not the cause, and my body image was fairly okay in my teens – I realised that I was actually one of the thinnest girls in the school and often wished I could be a bit ‘softer’ – have feminine arms like another girl had instead of them appear hard and sticky, for example. I was overall, quite okay with my body.

I don’t know when this changed for sure. Throughout those years in my teens, what my body could do was the most important thing for me. I loved that it could dance, that it carried me around. I loved feeling strong and limber. It was immensely important to me to not just preserve these functions, but to improve on them. Be able to dance longer, harder, higher, stronger. In fact I do see I was obsessive about this – exercising every spare moment I had – even overnight in my bed or while I was doing everything else. I couldn’t stand still, I had to be doing barre exercises. I couldn’t sit still, I was doing foot exercises or arm exercises or something. 

I now see that this wasn’t a good sort of obsessive at all. It was actually my way of coping with the abuse that was going on at home and the bullying that was happening at the school. I did not think about it, and I kept on pushing down my feelings. Instead, I flooded my brain with the counting of the exercises, the music I imagined playing while I did them, and swapped the bodily sensations from whatever happened for those these exercises caused. It was a blatant “Nothing is happening and I’m FINE.“ lie in the face of the reality. A lie to myself as much as it was to the world.

I have some brief memories here and there of body image becoming a problem. When I graduated from the dance school and then was accepted into the university, we went on an orientation camp, and the food was awesome (especially compared to at home). I ate so much! I remember one of the dance lecturers asking me if I was going to go on a diet after I devoured a pile of salads. I finally grew out of the shorts I’d worn since I was about ten years old (I was 16 – 17) in a very seam-splitting way. I noticed all this and I do remember some panic.

Fast forward a few months, and I was out of home, and completely a mess. I’d begun eating everything not tied down and gained a lot of weight. I reached about 70 kg at my highest (which for my height is only just bordering on underweight, but for a dancer, was awful.) I was also having dance lecturers tell me that I was getting ‘too big’ to be a dancer. There were times I was lying in bed crying because I’d eaten so much that it hurt, and I didn’t feel in control at all. Everything had become about my body, about feeling fat, needing to lose weight, hating myself, trying to hide, camouflaging my body in any way I could, hiding away and not going out (I had extremely bad acne too). I was so ashamed.

Wanker was on the scene and I’m sure that played a huge part in things too. I was very suddenly thrown into a woman’s body and I hated it.

My dancing was no longer enjoyable, and I couldn’t leave my problems ‘at the door’ the way I used to. Exercise as a means to lose weight – with desperation – took over. Counting calories to my steps as I marched around the city, doing aerobics classes back to back and hours in the gym, reading every diet book in existence, planning my days around food and exercise – it was like someone flipped a switch somewhere. It didn’t happen overnight, but to me, I don’t remember it creeping up so much as it was just there.

So, since then, exercise has been a tool with which to lose weight, to punish myself more, and to block things out. I can totally  understand my treatment team requiring me to stop all of this – on a physical level, it was frankly dangerous for me, on a psychological level, I was never going to deal with anything if I just kept on blotting it out that way. And while I was in hospital, not only was it medically a danger a lot of the time, but the more I exercised, the longer I would be stuck there – it was counter-productive to their main aim for me of weight gain.

But what if exercise could have helped me?

I really do think it could have, and still could help me where I’m at now.

During refeeding, I felt awful. Bloated, sluggish, heavy, slow. My body gained weight so fast and put it on in a ‘newborn baby’ sort of pattern (common, because your body is so used to being  starved it’s depositing fat in the fastest possible places at first) so my face puffed up, as did my tummy – like a pregnant belly. I pretty much spent my time sitting there watching myself grow. It was often painful – cramps and that sluggish feeling you get when you just can’t move around very much and are always FULL to bursting with a  huge sugar-load of carbs. I’m sure you can imagine it – or have already been through it.

Being able to do some kind of daily, gentle exercise would have helped me through this time a LOT. I am sure I would have found it a bit easier to accept my body, too, had I been able to move it instead of being stuck on my bed. I also feel so uplifted after I’ve done some exercise. My body feels better, my mind feels better - I feel better.

But there is just too much risk of exercise being a negative too, especially in treatment. So this is why I think we should have some focus and inclusion of good gentle exercise while in treatment or wherever someone does their work towards restoring their health.

I can probably bet you that the majority of people with an ED that you talk to will have a pretty screwed up relationship with exercise. (This again, is an assumption.) What is it teaching us to have exercise off limits? It’s not teaching us how to to have a healthy relationship with it. It’s not teaching us that it should be for fun and feeling good rather than for self flagellation, weight control, or purging calories. And it’s very likely that if someone has been unhealthily exercising before treatment, they will go back to that afterwards too.

Many of my friends who I’ve talked to about this with have said that they struggle to find the middle ground – once they start, it’s very hard to not give in to that obsessiveness again. Fifteen minutes might be fine, but then it suddenly could be twenty. Or they aren’t doing it hard enough. Why not thirty minutes? And so on. It is never enough. Some of them manage this by setting themselves a definite time limit and routine that they must not stray from, some of them avoid exercising altoghether, and some let it take over again. Personally, I find that it starts to creep into the obsessiveness again and I have to shut it down completely, usually for a week at least, then start from scratch with what was originally our agreed appropriate amount again.

Since I’ve been doing physiotherapy, and now Ballet, the way I feel about my body has been far better. Just that bit less uncomfortable and hateful of it. And I am starting to imagine how good it would be to place importance on the way I feel and what I can do again instead of what my body looked like and weighed. I can’t go back to the obsessiveness about being the ‘best’ I could be in function either, but I do think it would be far better for me to focus on being strong and healthy and feeling good instead of being a certain weight or shape.

So I’m very interested in hearing your thoughts on exercise. What is your relationship with it like? If you are in recovery (or managing your disorder) has it had a role in that? If you aren’t, can you imagine whether it would be helpful for you or not? And anything else you are thinking  

And a bonus question – do you feel the cold?

Thank you for reading so far!! I just realised I am responsible for over-exercising your eyeballs

(Image Source)