Other Interests

I study psychology with the Open University. This year I’m studying cognitive psychology. I shall shortly be heading off for my first tutorial of the year. I like the OU, their use of distance learning enables me to study in my spare time during the evenings and weekends. I’m in my final year of study. I’m feeling a mix of emotions, happy that come October the weekends will be mine again. Yet, there’s also an element of sadness. Studying with the OU has enabled me to push the boundaries of my limits. For example, I’ve discovered that I can write 1000 coherent words of an essay after a day at work. I’ve also met people at summer and day schools who I wouldn’t ordinarily meet in my day to day life. My confidence has increased because of these achievements.

My main motivation for studying is for career development. If I want to progress in my current organisation then I need to gain a psychology qualification to enable me to climb the ladder. I think it unwise to say much more about my work. I could link to my specific interests but I’m probably safest saying that I take a keen interest in the measurement of individual differences.

If I don’t get a move on then I’m going to be late leaving LittleFeet Manor. However, I’m not going to publish this post until I point out that until now, I have made no mention of eating disorders. This is a Good Thing, perhaps this is the beginning of the end?

The Wibbley Wobblies

Five days ago I decided to have another stab at taking Citalopram. At the weekend I found myself preoccupied by day dreams and thoughts of my violent death. Constant thoughts about death is not living, it’s existing, and not an enjoyable existence at that. Though, I do find a perverse joy in meditating on death. Unfortunately, I fear it’s not a particularly healthy habit to form. I know that life has more to offer than this broken record of suicide and it is with some reluctance that Citalopram has re-entered my daily routine.

When I tried Citalopram in December, I took 20mg for 3 days and 40mg thereafter. I lasted 6 days before the side effects became too much. I didn’t want to return to work in a zombie state after Christmas. My current fear is that if I don’t start taking Citalopram now then I may not be alive for much longer. I know it all sounds rather dramatic but the level of clarity that surrounds my current thinking regarding suicide is high. It’s planned to the nth degree. Most of the time I’m not in an acutely suicidal state but I know that I’m teetering on the edge and antidepressants may well help to pull me back from the brink.

I’m currently on day 5 and feeling wibbley wobbley and a bit spacey but I think I’m doing OK. I’ve started waking up between 05:00-06:00 and feeling lethargic. This morning I woke at 06:00 and went back to sleep at 07:00. Thankfully with half an hour to go before I needed to leave for work, Housematey noticed that I was missing from my usual spot on the sofa. When I say usual spot, what I mean is sleepily eating a bowl of porridge, glued to my laptop and reading blogs.

I went to see Flowery Skirt Counsellor (FSC) today. We talked, laughed and I cried. It was just a one-off session and we agreed the main aim of the session would be for FSC to help point me in the direction of further longer term therapy.

After a brief outline of the different approaches to therapy we then talked about local services where I may be able to get help. I won’t investigate any further options until I finish treatment. It’s against The Rulez of the study to have any other treatment because it may introduce confounding variables to the results.

It was during the last 10 minutes of time that we spent together that I spoke freely about life since university. I ought to draw a timeline or something but I first met FSC when I was slipping into depression. This was followed by a suicide attempt and as if depression wasn’t enough, an encounter with psychosis too.

Without wanting to sound melodramatic, I believe in part I owe my life to FSC. I found it really difficult to put into words the role she played. Between sobs I tried to thank her for the kindness, support and understanding she showed towards me. While the medics tried to shove me full of drugs, it was FSC who helped me to see my worth. I didn’t want to take medication because I deserved my depressive psychosis. The patience shown by FSC was what gave me hope and fueled my decision to try and recover.

Thank you FSC. I wish I could be more eloquent but perhaps my tears articulate how deeply our relationship has shaped me into the woman I am today.

Flowery Skirts

Dear [Flowery Skirt Counsellor]

How are you? I hope you are well.

I seem to have gotten myself into a bit of a pickle and I’m wondering whether you might be able to point me in the direction of help.

I have recently (in the last year or so) developed an eating disorder. I realised things were going ‘tits up’ quite quickly and decided that I had come too far to succumb to the notion that losing just a few more pounds would make me happy and solve all my problems.

I’m currently being treated by [A Plonker] at [The Hospital of Doom and Woe]. Unfortunately, I fear that treatment is in the process of breaking down. Although my eating disordered behaviour has largely disappeared, there are some fundamental things missing in the relationship I have with my therapist. Specifically, I don’t feel respected, safe and valued as a person. With that in mind, I’m giving thought to leaving treatment at [The Hospital of Doom and Woe]. However, I can’t help but think that it would be unwise of me to leave without putting other support structures in place.

Given that I’m not an enrolled student at [The University of Peace, Joy and Happiness], I’m aware that I’m not eligible to seek input from the counselling service. However, I was wondering whether it be possible for us to meet for a one-off session to discuss alternative treatment options?

I look forward to hearing from you.

LittleFeet

The worst Flowery Skirt Counsellor can say is “No, I cannot see you”, right? And even if she said that, I have faith that she do it in a kind way such that I wouldn’t feel even more rubbish about myself. With that in mind, what have I got to lose?

Spinning Thoughts

I’m going round and round in circles and getting further and further wound up. My thoughts are spinning and merging into one. I need to slow down so I can draw out each individual thought and let it develop. In the usual course of life, this is an unusual state for me to be in. Unfortunately the reason why I’m spinning round in circles is because I am, once again, asking myself the question “should I continue with treatment?”

Usually when it comes to making decisions where there is no clear way ahead, I research the answer. I look for the logical and rational arguments, weigh up the evidence and make a decision. I can spend years considering, thinking and pondering but I wouldn’t describe myself as indecisive. I don’t like to rush into decisions but equally once I’ve made the decision I tend to run with it.

Leaving treatment goes against my logic. I am ill and have been offered a treatment to make me better. Sounds good so far. However, the treatment isn’t going as I had anticipated and I’m thinking about leaving. This is where it starts to fall apart. If I leave treatment then I’d like to find an alternative. The I have evidence tells me I’m receiving excellent treatment. My frustration stems from wondering why the process of this treatment that is so sought after doesn’t seem to be agreeing with me. The treatment is working, there is no doubt about that. So, surely if the treatment is working, stick with it? I wish I was that simple. The problem is my therapist makes me feel terrible about myself. I come away from each session with a sense that there is something wrong with me rather than with the treatment because I feel the way I do. The reason why I’m thinking about leaving treatment is because I want to protect myself. If I’m going to come away from the process without an eating disorder but damaged from the process then I need to weigh up whether I should continue.

In the past I concluded that I should stick with treatment. Take the bits that work and leave the bits that don’t. However, I can’t leave behind the damage of my therapist questioning whether I want to get better. I can’t turn back time and pretend the Prozac disaster never happened because my boss remembers it too clearly. If I leave treatment, I will be left with a sour taste. I would like to try and continue with treatment but I’m worried that might be too damaging.

Kindness

Place 3 teaspoons of low calorie hot chocolate in your favourite mug. Add boiling water and stir. Add a splash of milk and a generous serving of Bailey’s. Stir again. Top with a handful of mini marshmallows. Drink.

Best enjoyed whilst listening to Dar Williams and reading a good book.

Calories? Tonight, I’m not counting.

Anonymous

This blog was set up in September 2009 when I had been referred for assessment at my local eating disorders unit. I recognised that I needed help but I wasn’t sure whether my disordered eating would be deemed severe enough to warrant treatment. Regardless of whether I was accepted for treatment, I planned to use this blog as a way to record what was going on with my chaotic life and also my potential experience of recovery.

In real life I’ve made no secret of my blogging among close friends. I felt there was enough secrecy around my dieting and bingeing without having a blog that no one knew about. I laid down one ground rule for myself. I’d never blog about anything I wasn’t prepared to tell my sister or close friends. I didn’t want to blog using my real name because I was embarrassed and ashamed. Developing an eating disorder wasn’t on my list of things to achieve before turning 30.

I didn’t expect the blog to last this long. I certainly didn’t expect anyone to read it and I couldn’t believe that anyone would ever comment, unless they wanted to sell me Viagra or tell me to stop being a whiney cow. I’m now at the stage where I feel like I’m leading a double life. I have multiple e-mail address, two facebook accounts and two twitter accounts. My reason for setting up these accounts is simple; a number of colleagues are my friends on facebook and I didn’t want them to glimpse an insight into my shameful eating disorder.

I was chatting with a friend on Monday about how treatment is going and also talking about how much has changed since September. I’m now on the road to recovery and it’s time to start being open with those who know me in real life. As I’ve mentioned before, if there’s one thing that I will talk and feel strongly about, it’s mental health. I don’t quite know how I’m going to start being open with people. My suspicion is that it will be gradual where I tell a little of what has happened to test the waters and then reveal according to what feels appropriate.

There is still the matter of what to do regarding the anonymity of blogging. I feel I want to be open with people on t’interweb but I’m aware that the reaction of everyone may not be altogether positive. I’m unsure of how to continue using a pseudonym when part of me wants to say “this is me, this is real” but equally I want to hide and deny that any of this is happening.

Six years ago I tried to kill myself, I did a pretty good job and for about 24 hours things were touch and go as to whether I’d pull through. I don’t remember a great deal, the last thing I remember is being taken into A&E on Saturday night and waking up in intensive care on Monday afternoon. I hallucinated a unicorn and I could also see beds rotating on the ceiling. It seemed a logical solution to hang beds from the ceiling when there wasn’t enough floor space. I remember trying to talk but being unable to do so because I was ventilated. My most vivid memory is closing my eyes in embarrassment and pain when a nurse removed my catheter.  Hmm, perhaps I’ll write about my suicide attempt another day.

After my suicide attempt I wanted to talk about it. I wanted other depressed people to know they weren’t alone. I wanted those who had never experienced depression to understand how isolating the darkness is. I wanted to educate, increase knowledge and promote awareness. The parentals were not so keen on the idea! They didn’t tell anyone they knew about my suicide attempt, they feared that they and I would be treated differently as a result. Surely a way to remove the stigma is to talk openly?

I’m counting down the days until the Talking About Mental Health conference. I have a sense of gratefulness that I’m well enough to attend and engage. I’m hoping the conference will be the catalyst to give rise to thought about how I can use my time and skills to help bust the stigma that surrounds mental illness.

Gym

I used to drink about 5 cups of tea a day. When I was nursing I once drank so much tea that at the end of the shift, I’m sure my pee smelt like tea. Around a year ago I switched to drinking herbal tea (as opposed to ‘fat tea’) so I could avoid consuming unnecessary calories from added milk. It was a strange decision because fat tea fills me up more than herbal tea. As part of my recovery from this silly and worthless (yet still slightly precious) eating disorder, I’ve started to drink fat tea again. As of the end of this sentence, I’m no calling it fat tea, it’s tea. The calories in the milk will not make me fat. I enjoy tea. Tea makes me happy, helps me to think, wake up and it keeps me productive at work. It is my firm belief that if leaders of warring nations sat down and found common ground over a brew with a few bourbons, custard creams and jammy dodgers then peace would soon follow. Of course, they might fight over whether the biscuits should be dunked in the tea but I was not intending to write an essay on the pros and cons of dunking biscuits in tea.

On Monday afternoon I was making my umpteenth cup of tea and chatting to a colleague who mentioned that she had joined a local gym. Obviously my eating disorder got a bit over excited and screamed that I was morbidly obese and needed to resolve the situation by joining the gym forthwith and hopping on a running machine for the next 24 hours. I was able to throw one straight back at the eating disorder because there was no way it would let me step foot in a gym. There are mirrors and I do not do mirrors. There are also tall, pretty and slim women there too. They are everything I am not. To me, a gym is not a gym, it is a palace of the beautiful and I am not invited.

I’ve decided it’s time to face my demons. Yesterday evening I joined the gym my colleague mentioned as a way of overcoming my fear of my body. When I started treatment I couldn’t look at myself in mirrors. At work I had a number of embarassing mirror related incidents; often I’d walk out of the toilet cubicle with my eyes closed so I could avoid seeing my reflection in the mirror opposite. Sadly there were also occasions when I’d walk into someone else because I had my eyes closed. Ooops!

So far I’m liking the gym. It’s more like a shack with a few exercise machines; the swimming pool is no more than 10m in length. It fits all of my criteria for membership. It’s on my route to/from work, parking is free of charge, it has a busy class timetable and towels are free of charge. When I had a look round I was delighted that there weren’t any barbies looking glamerous wearing the latest kit. I saw an older man on a cross trainer and a middle aged woman cycling gently. The staff seemed incredibly helpful and friendly, they greeted many of their members by name and there was a sense of community about the place.

Christmas afforded the opportunity to vastly increase the variety of food I’m eating. Provided I continue eating a healthy and balanced diet I think joining a gym is a step forwards. Last night I bought two Kinder Eggs, one for Housematey and one for me. I think it’s worth mentioning that I’ve not lost my touch for building the toys that come in the eggs. I built my enclosed toy rocket in a record 36 seconds.

Over exercise has never been a problem, I enjoy running and cycling too much to use them as a postive yet negative coping mechanism. However, there have definitely been times when I’ve felt compelled to exercise. The gym closes at 22:00 so the temptation to go running during the dead of night is going to significantly reduce.

Yesterday night I was feeling excited about heading to the gym after work tonight. I won’t deny that I was also feeling nervous about getting undressed in front of people, seeing my reflection in the mirror and having other people see me exercise. This morning I woke up to find more snow had fallen over night. I think it would be unwise to be out of the house for longer than need be today. Deep down I think I’m relieved that I have a day of grace when it comes to facing this battle though I am looking forward to fighting it tomorrow.

Thank you

I’ve been overwhelmed by the comments people left to my previous post. Everyone has shown such kindness and support; I wish I could put into words how grateful I am. Anyone for a group hug?

Therapy for the therapist

I saw my therapist today. I wasn’t worried about seeing her or the therapy itself. My main concern was around the weigh-in that happens at the beginning of each session. My BMI is in the healthy range and I can’t stand the idea of gaining weight. My weight had dropped by point something of a kilo so today I was able to engage with proceedings. If I gain weight then I can’t concentrate on what we’re meant to be discussing because I’m too busy beating myself up.

We spent most of our session today talking about rules. We talked about portion sizes and the weighing of food, timing of meals and my desire to always eat with the same crockery and cutlery. The general consensus is that things are going well; I’m breaking rules when I feel comfortable to do so and as yet the world hasn’t caved in. My therapist jokingly suggested that perhaps because I’ve broken the rules then I’m to blame for all the snow. I laughed about this in the session but I really hate those off the cuff jokes. If I had gained weight, my head would have been in a different place and who knows what would have happened? This evening I’d probably be exercising as if my life depended on it, clearing out the fridge and cupboards and stocking up on safe soup and cereal bars.

When the session was over my therapist asked how I was going to get to work. I replied that I was planning on driving; sadly I didn’t spot that it had snowed again until it was too late to catch the bus. My therapist started explaining that a few years ago she had driven while it was icy and had had an accident and now she NEVER drives in the ice or snow. Being the cheeky so and so that I am, I suggested she might like to break HER rules and drive in the ice and snow. If she will blame me for the weather then I will take on the role of being her therapist and make inappropriate and harmful suggestions. I might be short ass and have little feet but I can be a big bitch.