Words

I have so much I want to say, words I need to express. My words are trapped inside, caught up and unable to escape. I would like to try and articulate my pain, worry, fear and weakness. Instead, the well of words has dried up; I open my mouth to try and speak but nothing comes out. The most I can say is “Urgh” or “Meh”. I am exhausted and need sleep. I want to sleep and not wake up again.

On Monday I fear a prescription for Prozac will be coming my way; I’m debating whether to elaborate on my previous Prozac experience to The Professional People. We had a brief but turbulent encounter a number of years ago. The turbulence was such that it caused my stomach and intestines to ferociously expel all I had eaten during the day when I took the first dose. Such was the reaction that a strange thing happened. My body travelled forward in time and started to reject food that I had not yet eaten! A most unpleasant experience, I’m sure you will agree.

I’m now in a situation where this reaction would be so very welcome because it would render me unable eat. A wonderful eating disordered justification not to eat, just what I need!

Regrouping

In an attempt to regroup, gather my thoughts and reflect before Christmas arrives, I’m leaving Happyville and disappearing off to chill out for a couple of days. My suitcase is packed with a few clothes, lots of safe food, a couple of my favourite books, a journal and a set of coloured pens. I’m deliberately leaving my laptop and BlackBerry at LittleFeet Manor and looking forward to having a few days disconnected from the hubbub of life.

See you in a few days.

LittleFeet

Falling Off The Wagon

Yesterday afternoon I fell off the wagon. Well, let’s face it; I didn’t just fall off the wagon because while I was lying dazed and confused, I was then repeatedly run over by the damn thing. So, what caused the wagon carnage?

I reside in Happyville, the place where I went to university. One of the reasons why I still live in Happyville is because of Sunday lunch. As a fresher I joined various societies and one society in particular invited all students to regular Sunday lunches. These lunches provided an opportunity for us to get to know other students and also other non-studenty types (grown ups or ‘real people’). I can rarely recall a Sunday passing when I haven’t gone out with friends for Sunday lunch.

Over the years many friends have come and gone but a (hard?!)core group of us remain and chose to remain because we put down roots in Happyville. In part, some of these roots can be attributed to the role that Sunday lunch played in providing something constant in an otherwise chaotic and ivory tower like student bubble.

On Sundays I see friends who still live in Happyville but many friends choose to return from other towns and cities where jobs or families have taken them because of Sunday lunch. When I started flirting with my eating disorder I told myself that I’d know I had a problem if I started skipping Sunday lunch. As the eating disorder began to take hold I still went to lunch on Sunday because it afforded the opportunity to eat ‘properly’ once a week.

Yesterday I went to lunch and as I was eating I began to feel my stomach filling up, a sensation which fills me with disgust and signals a lack self control. I knew what was coming. I could not continue to justify breaking the rules, MY rules in this way. Yet, I smiled, laughed, joked and maintained the façade of being OK.

I walked home from lunch filled with self loathing, each step I took towards home was filled with a combination of relief (vile fattening calorie laden food will go!) and dread (I would have to account for this in treatment). Such was the urgency to expel my lunch and guilt I didn’t bother to take off my coat before I started to make myself sick. I needed to regain my control and that despicable lunch had to leave. No ifs, no buts, it was going, it must be gone.

Since starting treatment three weeks ago I have resisted making myself sick. I suspected the various handouts I had been given would say something about what to do if this situation arose. As I flicked through various papers containing text, diagrams and graphs I found a sheet that said ‘if you make yourself sick, the meal/snack does not count as part of regular eating’. I took from this that in order to adhere to my treatment plan that I should eat again. I was still full from lunch and resembled a balloon that needed to be popped so I ate a cereal bar.

The voice, that voice would not be silenced and I felt no relief. I’d fallen off the wagon so I did the logical thing and broke the rules. Again. I’ve spent weeks at a time caught up in the cycle of binging and purging and eventually the cycle was interrupted in the form of a friend calling me on Skype.

Where does this leave me? Today my body is broken and my mind feels sad. I am losing the will to fight this battle. I am trying to hold to the notion that I have a life to live for; friends, family, a job and a career ahead of me but I’m slowly but surely slipping away from those things as I continue on this path of self destruction.

Eating Disorder Sudoku

Life with an eating disorder feels like an unsolvable puzzle

Moving Backwards

If you are of a nervous disposition I would recommend reading no further than this paragraph. What I’m about to say may not be very helpful to everyone. May I recommend adjusting your television set computer to an alternative site? How about b3ta.com? Many hours can be wasted there. You have been warned! Err, why are you still reading? Seriously, go, please do what I say. Thank you. I shall begin…

I was envisaging this blog as a place where I would document my recovery. It would tell a story of how I never wished to return to the darkness, fear and terror of being held captive by an eating disorder. I would write about breaking rules, trying new foods, eating out with friends and discovering equilibrium. I wanted a place to celebrate my achievements.

Instead, I am not recovering, I am moving backwards. I’ve dug my heels in and I’m clinging to my eating disorder and the rules and restrictions that I trust. The rules are working so well that I’ve succeeded in putting new measures in place to keep me eating less and to continue shrinking. My mindset has become even more rigid. I think of little else other than how to avoid food. I’m playing games and discovering new tactics to delay eating. I’m experimenting with eating the smallest amount possible, but just enough so that I won’t end up bingeing and purging.

Given that I’m in treatment, it does seem pertinent to take stock and reflect on what has happened so far. Well, not much, it would appear that in this stage I am meant to be building trust and rapport with my therapist. I think this has been achieved. I’ve been open and honest (blunt) from the beginning and we appear to have an increased appreciation of our different styles.

The only changes I have been asked to make are to stop weighing myself outside our weekly weigh-in sessions and to eat an evening snack. I’ve swapped weighing for prodding, poking and peering at myself in mirrors instead. At assessment I said that prodding etc wasn’t a problem so I guess they have no reason to ask and I’m not in any hurry to explain. I have incorporated an evening snack into my meal plan but that came straight from my afternoon snack so I’ve not added anything, I’ve simply re-distributed what I’m eating and adjusted timings.

I’ve told the therapist that my goal is to become like a feather. I would like to be thin, small, dainty and light. I am disgusted by myself when I binge so thanks to the treatment I’ve received so far, I’ve largely given up. Why faff around with such behaviour when I’m aiming to disappear? The graphs and lines of my weight are moving in the right direction but they’re not moving fast enough.

Quitting

I went to my last therapy session this morning. It was apparent to me that after 3 sessions we hadn’t formed a good relationship, let alone anything that might be termed vaguely therapeutic. With all guns blazing I explained I didn’t trust them and that I thought they might be doing more harm than good. I spoke of my decision to give up, not only on treatment but on life. If I can’t kick my eating disorder then I may as well embrace it.

I was expecting to be told off and informed of my bad decision. I was waiting to be presented with the evidence that says I would crash and burn if I left treatment. Where I’m being treated, they like evidence. This is a good thing because on the whole I like evidence too. However, when the evidence doesn’t work in my favour then I prefer to gloss over it. In the past I’ve explained away results I don’t like by talking about poor studies. You know, n=1, questionable reliability and validity, that kind of thing.

After I’d finished ranting, what happened? Something strange! Instead of being asked yet more patronising questions and then given the right set of answers in a condescending manner, we may have actually engaged in something meaningful. I came close to crying. I don’t cry in front of other people; I despise myself for crumbling and showing my weakness.

I am no longer leaving treatment because for the first time today I experienced a hint of understanding and a glimmer of compassion. Could this be the beginning of good relationship with my therapist? Is this the start of recovery? I don’t mind giving up my eating disorder per se. I just don’t want to change, eat more variety and exercise less.

Decision

I made a decision. It is an unwise decision, but a decision it is. This decision won’t impress The Professional People who are trying (albeit with limited success thus far) to help. My decision is to turn for longer, run faster and try harder to lose every ounce of weight that I carry.

Losing weight feels good. Really good. I feel happier when I am thinner, but I am not yet thin enough.

I have pushed the self destruct button. Let the weight loss commence.

Sausage

I am a lump of meat. Treatment has determined that I will become a sausage. At the moment I appear to be stuck in the grinding process. Seasoning for the week is to eat an evening snack.

There is only one problem. Lumps of meat come from different places and have seen different things. Yet, we all go through the same sausage machine that has only one setting.

Friday Rant

Treatment is not going to plan! I had my second therapy session on Friday afternoon and wrote the following rant. Another rant or two will follow but I’ll hold back for a day or two before I post them so I can go through and edit out all the rude words.

I concluded from this rant that I need to address the current relationship I have with my therapist. This treatment isn’t going to work if I don’t trust my therapist, perceive insincerity or feel patronised.

19.00 – Friday 6 November 2009

What’s making me feel bad, worse than about food/weight/shape etc is treatment. I cannot be honest because there is no space. In the two sessions I’ve had I have been asked several questions where there isn’t the time to think the answer through. I cannot give an honest and well thought through answer because while I’m thinking another question is thrown my way. When I attempt to form some kind of articulate answer in my head I get asked question after question… I try and answer that but there isn’t time. So, I just give up. What’s the point in trying if there isn’t any space to do so? Repeat this several times and I just become flippant and answer with ridiculous answers in my head that make me giggle out loud. Ooops!

Each time I don’t give the right answer to a question, I am told the right answer. I’m not going to be able to figure the answer out for myself because I either don’t have time to answer the question or the answer has been pre-packaged and chosen for me. Why not just give me the facts? It has the potential to save a whole load of time and might give me a bit more faith in the whole process. At the moment I just feel patronised. I’ve hung lots on this treatment actually working and right now I’m watching it slip away from me and I’m scared.

It’s not going to work in my favour if I go through this whole thing nodding away and playing the game. If I go through this with a half hearted attempt then I suspect this eating problem is going to crop up somewhere else, probably when I least expect it and I don’t want that to happen. If I’m going to go through with this then I don’t want to be left more messed up when I’ve finished than when I began.

Right now? I think I’ve made a serious mistake and feel bad that I’ve wasted a whole load of their time. I don’t think there’s any point because at the moment this isn’t working. I’ll go back next week but it’s probably wise to think about whether this treatment is really going to work for me in its current form.

In The Beginning…

Treatment started yesterday and already I may be forced to strangle the next person who asks me how many times in the last 28 days I’ve taken laxatives, how often I weigh myself, or to describe what I eat in a typical day. There are only so many times I can answer these questions without wanting to bash my head against NHS standard issue filing cabinets.

I’ve not weighed myself since Tuesday morning. This is because I was asked to stop weighing myself with such virulent frequency. I realise it was only Tuesday yesterday but for me, it’s quite an achievement. It would be too much to expect my attitude to have changed so I suspect it’s only because of a combination of willpower and compliance (for me? how rare!) that I’ve been able to keep up this pretence. Obviously because I haven’t weighed myself today I reckon I have gained approximately 239lbs and feel an intense need to further restrict my diet.

I’m wondering what kind of future my scales have. I have three sets of scales. The first set tells you you’re 8lbs lighter than you really are. I’m thinking they might need to be binned. Housematey made me surrender the second set when she discovered that I weigh myself more frequently than she does. The second set work well (though the number has never been low enough) but they are my preferred set. We’ve had good times together and some equally dire times. When I surrendered the second set of scales, I did the natural and totally obvious thing and bought a third set without the knowledge of Housematey. These scales contain a fancy microchip or two and can give a complete biographical account of your life, but only if you press the buttons in the right order and ask nicely.

The first set aren’t much use to anyone, I don’t know why I kept them when I discovered they were completely and utterly inaccurate. I’m thinking the third set can go on freecycle, they provide just a bit too much information to be ‘helpful’. This means I shall keep the second set but first I have to rescue them from Housematey. It’s time to say my pretty pleases (with a cherry on top) and thank yous and promise that I won’t weigh myself 87,341 times a day. Wish me luck!