Annie's Rexia

Still Alive and Kicking...

2009-02-13T05:41:00.004Z

I'm sorry: I feel rather guilty for my silence on the blog and the concerned messages I have received. I'm still here, and still intact...and thanks to those of you who have written to me, and expressed your worries for me. I'm gratified that you think so much of me - thank you!

A bit of a catch-up for you. A week ago, I had to go into hospital as I had been fainting and suffering quite bad heart pains. The bizarre thing was, the actual medical condition got completely swept away when the services realised my history of self-harm and overdoses and thus, at 2am, I was waiting for an interview with the psychiatric department to plead for my release. I still don't know why I was fainting and blacking out, but I was told vaguely, by a nurse, that my blood pressure was very low and my pulse rate had dropped to 58 bpm. I was very reluctant to bring the psychiatric stuff up, and loathe to go to hospital, so I ended up having a permanent police escort in case I 'did a runner' - I was given the opportunity to go willingly, or be sectioned. As it stood, I was told later, I was under some form of sectioning whether I liked it or not. A bit of a three-lined whip there and what a waste of resources? Ian and I ended up playing 'I Spy' and other ridiculous games with our bobby on the beat. He was as bored as we were...And I think he realised that it was a waste of his time, too, having to make sure I 'behaved'.

Rosemary is still at her father's house and has embraced the purse of The Other Woman with outstretched hands. She was treated to about £100 worth of designer gear two weeks ago and has rubbed her sister's nose in it repeatedly. She has blown hot and cold with me over the telephone. We redecorated her bedroom last week - our house is a work in progress and the only room left now is the bathroom. Simply redecorating the room caused ructions as Beth claimed it was now a 'Guest Bedroom' - this led to Rosemary storming out of our house within five minutes of arriving - ostensibly she had come to 'say hi', but she was actually waiting here for her friend to invite her over for tea. Doors slammed, and then reopened as she stormed through the house, up the stairs, crashed drawers, cupboards...I took it for about ten minutes, and then decided enough was enough. There ensued yet another stand-up lecture about how this behaviour was not endearing her to us, and if she wanted to return here, hard work was going to have to be done.

This ill atmosphere infiltrated the house and left us all feeling rather flattened. As it came for her to go to her friend's, she gave me a hug...and I felt again as though my Rosie was in my arms - she didn't want to let go, and it was so sweet. Then she stalked off and I haven't seen her since.

I've not been drinking (sorry, Lola!) and thinking more clearly. I've cut down on the laxatives and I nibble through the day. I am trying to eat a main meal in the evenings and 4/7, I succeed. I am, however, finding that around 5pm, after I have accumulated worries through the day (mostly of my own making, and my own over-active mind), I will succumb to a binge-purge. Generally, just the one. It sort of takes all the crap out of my head and it gets flushed down the toilet along with the rest of the gloop. That one action really seems to exorcise my demons - and takes much less toll on the rest of the household than me caning the red wine or vodka.

The dynamics between Beth, Ian and me are fantastic, I must admit. It's as though there is more oxygen to breathe in this house. There is more levity, more fun, more peace, and stacks of laughter. I actually feel better now than I have done for around 12 months. Ian and I are getting on very well and nary a cross word has passed between us for over two weeks. Even Beth has noticed the vast improvement in our relationship and she rarely notices anything unless it is covered in fur and meows. Although I miss Rosemary, I don't miss the rows, stress, tip-toeing over eggshells, and the volatility of her temper. I hope that she thinks hard about my 'speech' to her wherein I explained that although we loved her deeply, we didn't love her behaviour and all we want is respect and civility...somehow, though, I don't think she will mither too much as she is currently being treated to everything her little heart desires. Her father is acting as though she is the injured party, The Other Woman is all over her like a rash and she is the centre of all attention. The only problem in all of this, is that Beth is now being treated by her father like the poor relation and it bites. Ian and I are doing our utmost to ensure that she is happy and contented here, but as I said to him, we have to always be aware that we cannot concede too much, otherwise another spoilt child emerges and that's no good to anyone.

I was rather shocked to learn my weight at hospital. My own bathroom scales would appear to be extremely wrong and I was 8lbs lighter on the hospital scales, fully clothed - this was also the case when I weighed in at a spa a few weeks ago. The really strange thing for me is that I feel my mind-set moving away from struggling with an ED. I don't really consider myself 'suffering', as it were - I feel as though I am trying to fight it inwardly and outwardly. I will force myself to eat, even if I don't want to, rather than surrender and starve. As I say, the ED manifests itself, physically, mainly in that one binge-purge of the day, which is a vast improvement on a few weeks ago when it could have happened 3, 4, 5+ times a day.

Mother dearest is on top form, as usual! It seems the ex has had to go for a brain scan (I wonder if they found it?). And she is deeply concerned: baby-sitting, making meals for him (the last of which he was violently ill with: a fact which raised a wry smile to my face - perhaps she is surreptitiously attempting to poison him, and the matiness is all a big front?! That's My Mum!!) and even kissing him better...'kiss-ass' was mentioned by Beth a few more times having witnessed these events this week! She is also now asking after The Other Woman. No doubt TOW will be invited for dinner one weekend in the not too distant future. Considering this is the woman my Mother christened 'That Bitch', this will be interesting to observe...

And I have actually been able to detach from it somewhat. Each little revelation from Beth brings its own twisting of the knife, but after a good night's sleep, I can generally shrug it off and objectively amaze at how completely rotten the woman is, through and through. Anyone who can behave like this towards their own child has to be mentally unstable. I appear to have been given the wrong mother and therefore, I have to cast her aside - I've done that physically, and mentally/emotionally, it's definitely on its way nowadays, thank God.

My one big hang-up at the moment is not being employed. I handed in my notice with the pharmaceutical company for whom I worked. I knew a return to that manic environment, with a boss who considered me one techy fact below Bill Gates, gave me the vaguest remits for jobs and then lambasted me if things went wrong would not be conducive to a healthy future, either mentally or physically at the moment, and thus resigned. I have been approached by a number of agencies over the last few months to apply for other Search Marketing jobs, but have declined. However, I now feel ready to face the Rat Race again in many ways. I feel very inadequate at the moment. Going from competent trouble-shooter to cosy domestic doesn't sit comfortably with me. Keeping a spotless home, cooking, ironing, running errands is all well and good, but for a very strange reason, it doesn't seem a valuable or valued job in my eyes. I want to feel as though I am contributing to this household financially as well as practically. Having been an independent, single parent for quite a long time, it is a shock to be a 'kept woman' and I don't think I like it.

But my sticking point is going to be my sickness record. Few employers would touch me with a barge-pole at the moment, and I haven't a clue how to explain it all away without coming across as a total basket-case. How do you explain anorexia to a businessman who will probably think I have a dieting obsession? How do you explain bulimia to a boss who cannot start his day without a Full Monty fry-up? I'm not generalising here - from my own work experience, every boss of mine has been enormous, or at least, thoroughly enjoyed his first light bacon butties...

So, I need to get my thinking cap on and work out how to get around this blip. Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated!

Events

2009-01-27T18:14:00.002Z

'Kiss-Ass'...

It's a fairly new term to the British Isles, I find, (or am I just not 'with it'?!) but frequents our current teenagers' common parlance.

'Kiss-Ass'! To me, it's 'bum-licker'; 'creep'...or if we are being more eloquent: 'sycophant'.

And 'Kiss-Ass' is the term my youngest daughter used, only 30 minutes ago, to describe her grandmother - my mother, for those of you still in doubt.

I am furious: with my ex; with my oldest daughter; and with my so-called parents.

'Parent': One who begets, gives birth to, or nurtures and raises a child; a father or mother.

'Nurture': to support and encourage, as during the period of training or development

Makes me laugh...sardonically.

My mother, on Sunday, having been invited around to the ex's house for a cuppa and to see the girls, took him both a birthday cake and card...and then offered to clean his house for him.

This is the woman who, only 18 months ago, told me that if she had the money, she would hire a mercenary and have him snuffed out like a candle because she despised him so much.

We have had to ask Rosemary to leave this house and return to her father's. Three times she has raised her fist to me: every night she is belligerent, obnoxious, trouble-making, and refuses to kow-tow to the most basic rules of discipline - e.g. wash up your dirty dishes; put your dirty laundry into the basket; let us know where you are and when you will be home...not a lot to ask...my rules were those you would ask of any normal, civilised human being, but she chose to abhor them, raised her hand to me and enough was enough. Whenever she dislikes the rules in this house, she calls her father immediately, who comes running, cajoling and caressing. He has never told her to 'listen to your mother' - he has set up opposition with me consistently.

'Good Cop; Bad Cop'

Or, as he used to term it:

'Dragon; Fun Daddy'.

Ian and I had fun and games with him on the doorstep on Sunday morning. Saturday night, we had been texting him repeatedly, asking when we could drop belongings off for the girls who needed them for Monday morning. No reply. At 9am, Sunday, I was called and told that he would be at our house, 'shortly' and needed X, Y and Z. Our Sunday morning, wherein we were lying in bed, dreaming of having won the lottery and being ordered around to find stuff. I explained that this was NOT convenient and that we would bring the items over later.

But no. No. He has to take control and tells me that Rosemary has a key and they will let themselves in and find what they need.

Well, I am sorry, but that bastard is not getting into my house again - he did it last May...Ian was away at a conference; Rosemary fell out with me, stalked over to her pal's house and, while I was asleep, allowed him access to this house with her key. He told me on the phone he came into my room and saw me pushing out the zeds.

I felt violated. Somebody, totally uninvited, and whom I despise, loathe and detest, came into my house. And he still feels as though he can, even to this day.

Ian called the Police. The laws in the UK state that he couldn't have been done for anything: trespass - nope: he didn't wreck anything...breaking and entering: nope: he had a key...he didn't violate a single law apart from my sanity and peace of mind.

We asked him on Sunday for the return of Rosemary's keys...We are still waiting for them, so it is time to get those locks changed. I don't trust that bastard as far as I can spit him.

This is not helping in any way, to be honest with you. I thought I was putting on weight. After four days of abstaining from the scales, I now discover I have lost five pounds and, once again, those size 6s are feeling a bit loose around the thigh region.

Maybe I felt so heavy due to all the guilt which is resting in my heart, head and upon my shoulders? Because it is weighing me down like a ton of bricks.

I am terrified I am treating Rosemary in the same way that my mother treats me. I discussed this, at length, with my counsellor, yesterday. She believes my treatment is very different because I keep in touch with Rosemary, have spoken to her at length about her behaviour, have given her many opportunities and still tell her that I love her greatly. But the ex sticks his knife in and twists it, slowly, with his 'ever-so-caring-considerate-let's-all-think-of-her-feelings-here...' approach to us and our stance.

During his Sunday Sermon, the ex told us that he was going to ask Rosemary to keep us informed of whenever she wanted to visit - she appears to think that she has to punish us at the moment, which is fair enough...so, I was furious that she pitched up, with undisguised arrogance, unexpectedly, after school yesterday, expecting to be fed, watered and cossetted. I don't believe it is wholly her fault - I believe the ex still thinks of me as 'his property' wherein he can treat me how he pleases. I left a rather snarly voicemail on his phone, asking for a bit of courtesy. It broke me that Rosemary ran out of the house and started walking the streets.

I drove all over our village trying to find her and when I did, I brought her home, made her a hot drink and gave her something to eat. She stayed in her room, but when the time came for her to go and see her boyfriend, I caught a glimpse of my daughter - the nice girl who loves people, cares for them and wants to be pleasant. And I didn't want her to go. But she did, and I fell to pieces over the following hours.

I have been advised by two medical professionals that I have done the 'right thing' for me, my marriage and my relationship with my daughter. My doctor told me that if I hadn't taken her back to her father's already, he would have been strongly urging me to, anyway, as she is a Force of Destruction in this house.

This is not conditional love - I love her without question, but I do not love her behaviour. There is no excuse for physical violence and for treating people like scum because you are allowed to get away with it by others.

It still hurts like I have been beaten by a brick-bat, though...

All is Well

2009-01-13T12:41:00.001Z

Thanks to those of you who have written to me personally and on the blog asking if all is OK.

It is, thanks. And normal service will be resumed shortly!

Guilty Conscience?

2009-01-06T18:16:00.002Z

Guilt is an ever-pervasive feeling in the life of Annie T. The amount of times I feel guilt over things is inordinate. If I was able to list each guilt with a number and then submit those numbers to the National Lottery, I feel pretty damned sure I would win in the very near future. Yes, I am being fascetious. Don't ask me for the winning streak. I would be inclined to be rude to you!

I thoroughly read a blog today by Lola Snow. She is in recovery and is doing marvellously - I admire her from the tip of her toes to the top of her head. She writes with such wit, honesty, candidness and humour. I love to read Lola's blog - so should you! And this is not a commercial plug because, as yet, she has not agreed to pay me any English Pounds whatsoever!

Where am I? I went back to see my therapist today, for the first time in about four weeks...maybe more. We are now seeing each other under the NHS and at my local GP surgery, so there is no excuse for me to blob. And, by God, I really, really wanted to see her - there was no question of me blobbing from this engagement. And, as usual, she was marvellous - she really ought to be preserved. I wish, in some ways, that I knew her outside of our client-therapist relationship, as she has a great sense of humour, and I truly like her...

We talked about many different things, not dwelling too hard on too many. We talked about the rows between me and Ian, which are becoming way too frequent to bear; the rows between me and Rosemary, my eldest, which are just designed to assassinate; my lack of self-worth; my lack of self-esteem; my feelings of total ugliness since the hair-chopping episode (I still feel like some butch, ugly thing); and...my complete and utter anger towards my Mother.

OK. So, there are things I haven't written about recently - I published a post about seeing her in the pub and then pulled it. But, since then, she has been in touch with MY daughters (whom she calls, 'my girls') and explained to them that, when she snuffs it (which I ardently hope will be soon) they will be in for a grand fortune. I guess I have been cut out of the will, and thus, Rosemary, Bethan and my brother, Paul, are in for a fair few bob...as long as they don't drink, smoke or take drugs. Ever. There are so many caveats to this will (and I have read it, so I know) that those girls are not going to be allowed to experience any normal processes of growing-up.

I smoke, I drink and I was first introduced to drugs (pot, only) when I went to University. I have sporadically smoked dope since; continued to smoke cigarettes, and thoroughly enjoy a glass of vin rouge. I also help old ladies with their shopping bags; take lost kiddies home when they are crying outside of Tesco, knowing their mother is in the Ring O'Bells playing darts; take the poorly priest a roast dinner; and help the disabled pharmacy assistant with the rubbish to the bin at the back of the shop. I'm not a bad bugger, deep down.

Things are eating me up inside today. I discovered the so-called reason for my mother's refusal to speak to me yesterday. Although, when I told her of my engagement to Ian, her only words were, Dear God!, and then a slamming down of the phone and total silence from thereon in.

It would appear that she is not speaking to me due to the way I treated her prior to announcing the engagment. Back in early October 2007, they let themselves into my house at 9am on a Sunday morning. I had treated myself to a bottle of red wine on the Saturday night - my first in many, many months and it had gone to my head. I called her out of duty - if I missed a night's call, there was trouble. She went ballistic at the fact I had drunk red wine. She has a massive problem with people drinking as her brother died of alcoholism whilst in the Royal Navy. His body was found in a ditch when he was on active service, three days after he had actually died.

And so, they hauled me out of my bed, screamed abuse at me, calling me 'a dirty fucking bitch', 'filthy', 'scum' and 'worthless'. Saturday night. One bottle of cheap red plonk, what I deemed would be a usually boring telecon...and then the aftermath. I was actually termed bone idle for being in my bed at 9am on Sunday. I wonder if this is why I ended up having so much trouble enjoying a lie-in for so many months?

Consequently, although I had to apologise profusely, I felt very, very angry about the whole set-up. 37 years of age and being treated like a naughty teenager. The fact that they let themselves into the house grated me no end. Yes, I had given them a key, but it was not to be used abusively. And so, I did speak to them with caution, and conservatively. But I was never, ever rude or belligerent. They deemed it their duty to come here every Monday evening to 'mind' the girls before I returned from work. I dreaded every Monday night. I would only have to clack my heels along the pathway and my mother was waiting for me in the kitchen to berate me over one thing or another. One night, I actually teetered on the frame of the door, attempting to get into my home, while she shook her finger at me, criticising me for the food I had left for the girls - home-made chilli and garlic bread. She didn't know how to bake the garlic bread. But there were instructions on the cellophane? She didn't have her glasses with her. But Rosemary can read them out for you?

So, that is where I am today.

I spoke to a dear friend, N, last night. I have known him since I was 15 and he is married to my good friend whom I have known since I was 16. I adore the pair of them but we aren't great at keeping in touch, unfortunately. I sent him an email with this blog URL and asked him to read it. And he did! It often astonishes me that my friends bother to read it - one, Z, keeps in touch with it regularly to find out how things are going. It's heart-warming to know I have mates like these, and like my commenters who never cease to say such wonderful, kind things.

N emailed me back, having read all the posts last night, from #1 to #19. And he wrote this little message, which made me giggle, made Ian querulous, and may make you think, too!

"Each blog is like you sitting talking in front of me as your strong (if dubious at times!) sense of humour is streaked through each one. (I am thinking now of the young lady who would so easily do unspeakable things with my cantaloupes on the patio in Warrington :)"**

I have to keep telling myself that with friends like N, R, Z and a wonderful husband like Ian, I don't need my mother. And that is it.

**If you really want to know what I did with those cantaloupes, you'll have to email me. And, when I have told you, I'll have to kill you...

Happy New Year

2009-01-01T20:52:00.003Z

Happy New Year, all of you - I hope 2009 is a marvellous one for all of us.

I occasionally write a more light-hearted blog and was re-reading some posts tonight from 18 months ago. I know that on Annie's Rexia I describe the slights and criticisms from my parents and the ex with sadness, hurt and bitterness, but I have attempted to inject some levity into them, too. I therefore thought I would be bone idle and copy an old Hex My Ex post into this blog just so that we can remind ourselves from time to time that we can try our damnedest to laugh at things.

I hope it raises a small smile...

I have recently been thinking about the veiled insults, back-handed compliments and the insecurity springboards which I have received over my colourful life.

Most of them have come from my dear family members, mainly from Mother Dearest who wouldn’t know how to give an unconditional compliment if it came on a silver platter and garnished with parsley. And so, dear reader, I shall share some of these with you and then you in turn might wish to employ them in order to screw with the heads of your foes.

On getting a C grade in Human Biology A Level at night school:
Father: Couldn’t you have got a B?

On getting 83% in a Health & Social Care assignment:
Father: That’s what you got last time. Couldn’t you have got 84%?

On having my hair cut into a new style:
Mother: That style really suits you. I wish you’d stop dying your hair that dark colour, though, it looks trashy.

On losing weight:
Mother: You’re getting too thin.

On subsequently gaining weight:
Mother: You look like a Sumo wrestler.

On my figure:
Mother: You’ve got a smashing figure. It’s a pity you’ve got that belly, though. Have you tried sit-ups?

On dressing up for a family meal:
Mother: I’m glad to see you are smartening up these days. You look really nice when you go out. But don’t wear that awful black thing tonight. You look like a witch.

On commenting whether I needed to lose weight or not:
The Ex: I’ll give you a stone either way. Put on a stone and you’re dumped; lose a stone and you’re dumped.

On commenting how romantic candle-lit meals were:
The Ex: Don’t expect me to be making soppy remarks to you over the dining table. I’ll have me head down eating me nosebag.

On making a three course birthday meal for my Mother:
Mother: Is there garlic in this? Urgh, I hate garlic.

On playing the baddy in a pantomime:
All my 'friends': You're very natural as a witch.

On getting the principal boy part in a panto with lots of singing:
The Ex: The only people in the audience who'll appreciate your singing will be the handicapped kids.

On asking why a (then) boyfriend had stayed so long with his psychopathic exgirlfriend:
Ex-boyfriend: Because it was the best sex I have ever had in my life.

On being offered a dream job as a writer:
Mother: You'll be home later than usual? You can't do that. What about the children? Why don't you go cleaning? Cleaners get well paid and you can choose your own hours.
[Obviously, this is why I am studying an English degree, as there is a high demand for well-read cleaners]

On being offered a dream job as a writer #2:
Daughter No.1: So you'll be home later than before? So all you care about is the money and not me? You just don't care about me, do you? [I turned the job down, eventually]

On losing quite a lot of weight and fancying a bit of hanky-panky that night:
The Ex: You look like a road traffic accident.

On going on a diet after repeated remarks from Mother that I was huge:
Mother: Have some apple pie and cream. Go on, I made it especially for you.
Me: I told you I was on a diet.
Mother: That won’t kill you.
Me: No, but it will put weight on me.
Mother: You’re obsessed, you are…

On taking my driving test after 12 lessons:
Mother: You’ll not pass. It took me 25 lessons before I passed. Waste of good money.
Ha! I passed!

All I can say is that it’s a jolly good job I am thick-skinned and have oodles of self-esteem. But, I have to end it here - I must go now as I have an appointment with my psychotherapist…

My Mother, My Self?

2008-12-25T07:01:00.005Z

I'm reading a book at the moment called, "When You and Your Mother Can't Be Friends" by Victoria Secunda and it is a shocker. Although it focusses mainly on mother-daughter relationships, there is absolutely no reason why 'she' cannot be substituted for 'he'. Although mother-son relationships are different, if the mother fits into any of the categories listed by the author, the same screw-ups can apply the whole world over regardless of race, creed or gender.

It has been an eye-opener for me. Although I remember a lot of events in my childhood which have affected me, I would be inclined to say that those events occurring in my adulthood have left me feeling most bereft, unloveable, useless and groundless. Many of these I have firmly believed have been solely my fault: that I have driven my mother to such frustration that she has lashed out and I have paid my penance. Reading similar stories in black and white suddenly angers me that it was not necessarily my fault and I had every right to want to be ME.

From leaving home, aged 21, my every move was monitored and criticised. My first taste of freedom was in a dingy room in a shared house in Headingley, West Yorkshire. I was studying at the Metropolitan University in Leeds, and taking a BSc in Speech and Language Therapy. This was not my first choice, I must explain. I wanted to study Occupational Therapy; but this was just 'glorified nursing' according to my mother, and suddenly, placements were lined up at speech therapy clinics by 'nice Mrs Cleaver' the Senior SLT for Halton Borough, who was a neighbour. And so I started a course in SLT.

My grades (attaining either first class or 2:1s in the first year) needed to be surpassed each time; I wasn't feeding myself well enough (I lived on vegetarian pastas for some time which I made myself, from scratch); I didn't do my laundry enough; I wasted electricity, gas, water; my housemates were useless and idle; my friends were either 'lovely girls' and 'adore their mothers' or wastes of space...nothing was ever good enough or right.

When my long-standing boyfriend, Mike, and I split up after 5 1/2 years, I was in the dog-house with her. She called him every week to see how he was and reported back to me how heart-broken I had made both him and her. She hated my new boyfriend (who went on to become my first husband and now 'The Ex') and refused to say anything pleasant about him, preferring to compare everything about him to Mike.

I married Anal despite what she said. She had nothing to do with my wedding plans which embittered me: I'd had dreams of going shopping for a dress with her; choosing the bridesmaid's outfit; picking out menus, flowers, favours - all sorts of things. Nothing from her. The most she contributed one day was to tell me about a pink lacey nylon wedding dress she had seen on Albert's Stall in Widnes Market for £25.00 and that would be perfect for me. By this stage, I had saved up enough money to purchase a raw silk, hand-made dress from one of my clients (I was a Personal Tax Senior at the time) and was gutted that she could belittle my wedding so much as to suggest such cheapness. Her later comment, when I informed her that I was actually marrying out of the parish church where Anal and I lived rather than return to her region, was that of supercilious scoffing. She advised me that I may as well get married over the Blacksmith's Anvil in the village and have a fish 'n' chip supper, to save on money.

After our marriage, and as I asserted myself as a wife, woman, housekeeper, worker etc., the bitterness and criticism became more and more apparent. An invitation, during the summer, to spend a week in our cottage and use it as a B & B, to come and go as they please, turned into an exercise in taking over my every authority in the house. When I firmly asked her, after four days of this, to STOP; that it was MY house and I was more than capable of handling things, she lost the plot, screeched to my father that they were leaving and I didn't hear from her for over four months.

The only reason she spoke to me at Christmas was because Anal wrote to her, explained that our first baby was due in four weeks and would she want anything to do with it? She returned her response, dripping with vitriol, emotional blackmail, hatred and venom, but said that it was her duty as a grandparent to get to know the child. We arranged for a peace-keeping mission on Christmas Day 1994. We drove over 100 miles to get there for lunch. My grandmother, who was still alive then, was attending the meal, too. My brother had cleared off from the house at the crack of dawn to spend the day with his girlfriend.

So, around the table sat Nanna, Anal, my father, my mother and me, heavily pregnant, dispepsic, nauseous and very, very nervous. Even as I had walked into the house, the first words spat at me were, not, Happy Christmas, but 'There are three bin bags of your stuff there. Get rid of them.' At present-giving time, I received nothing, but the gifts I passed to my parents were dismissed. I bought my mother diabetic chocolate and a Wedgewood biscuit barrel.

'Huh. Chocolate'...thrown onto the bookcase...

The corner ripped from the paper on the biscuit barrel; a quick peek at the pattern, no words, and taken into the kitchen.

A classics album for my father...

'Don't like this type of stuff. You can have it back...'

The night I went into labour: February 2nd 1994. I sat on the toilet downstairs, heaving with contractions, excited, scared and full of wonderment. Anal was equally as excited. Who should we tell? Who is going to be the first to hear about Sam's birth? (I was 100% convinced I was having a boy, and his name was Sam...later to be changed to Rosemary April!). Anal suggested ringing my mother. He told her I was in labour and passed the phone to me.

'Do you want me to call you when the baby is born?' I asked.

'Not if it is in the early hours, no. Your father has to get up for work in the morning, to wake him would be selfish. Leave it until a sensible hour.'

I can still remember the sock in the guts as I heard those words. My own mother didn't want to know about her first grandchild.

And so as it stood, the first person to hear of Rosemary was my best friend, Rebecca, at 3.20am, and then, Anal went through his family, shouting his news with joy.

My parents were informed at 11am on 3 February. Mother's first words were, I thought you were having a boy? How would I know? Gender scans were not permissible in the 90s. You ensured the baby was healthy and that was it. Any indications of a penis were not vocalised at all...

'Well, your Dad will be pleased, anyway. He hates boys...'

So I had, at least done one thing right in having a girl...

We moved to Bath when Rosemary was just shy of three months old. I had a fair number of friends in Yorkshire, whom I knew I would miss greatly, but I kept in touch with them by telephone as often as possible. We were moving down to Anal's old stomping ground; to the friends with whom he had visited prostitutes in Bangkok; brothels in Paris; threesomes in a bed with two blondes; 'F*ck 'em and Chuck 'em' girls...his best man had given the speech of a lifetime at our wedding...the video recollection is a real 'Before and After'...as it starts, I am happy, glorious, gay and radiant...at the end, my brow is furrowed, worn; my face is pale and I return from heaving my guts up in the toilet with vomit smeared down my silk wedding dress...It was during that speech that I learned about the whores. Such taste. Thank you, G...

I dreaded that move, but determined to throw myself into everything, which is my leveller whenever a move is anticipated. We found a beautiful 1930s semi-detached, shifted our furniture in and attempted to start anew. We were living in a very small town. I discovered, from my forays into baby groups and health centres, that few people made friends as all their relatives were on their door step. I was an outsider and they weren't interested.

In desperation, I placed an ad into a local paper, asking to meet like-minded people with young children for days out, coffees, chats, walks in the park etc. I got three responses, by letter. The first was utterly bonkers - a chap who thought my words were euphemisms for rampant sex. The second was a young lad who worked at a second hand car sales garage, never married, no children but who wanted to try 'Out of Body Experiences' with me; and the third was a girl with two children, a third on the way, all to different fathers, who wanted to train as a midwife.

We met up in the park. She bore tattoos all over her knuckles; she swore at her children, and she laid a blanket out on the grass, smeared with excrement. Rosemary crawled right through it...I tried my damnedest to talk to her, but she was monosyllabic and when the time came to take Rosemary home for her evening meal, the relief poured from me...When Anal got home from work, having had a 'few sherberts' in Bath with his chums, I was beside myself with perceived failure.

I felt virginal, frigid and childish next to those tales which were regaled amongst the lads and I have to admit, much to my shame now, that I set out to surpass any paid whore. And I know that I undermined myself in some ways: allowed myself a lot of subjugation, humiliation, pain and disrespect.

All along, I used to inform my mother that my married life was marvellous: every aspect of it; particularly between the sheets...she would rejoinder that sex was disgusting, that she had never enjoyed a moment of it and that all it brought was humiliation to the woman. I goaded her, gleefully, with how much fun I had. But I did lie, profusely, because there was never one iota of love in our 'love-making'...to be perfectly frank, I cannot remember one single episode during our sessions where Anal actually kissed me...maybe he did, but it must have been so rarely that it has been long-forgotten.

I can also recall, vividly, two years ago, telling my mother exactly how many men I had slept with. She thought it was three. I was thrilled to spit at her: Nope! Many More Than That...

Why did I feel that this form of cheapening myself was one-upmanship? She lied to me and told me that she had never had sex before marriage, and when I did, after the initial understanding and warnings, I was later told that God would not want me as I was sullied goods: that no other man would ever want me as they demanded virgins on their wedding nights. To be a virgin, to me, was something elusive, ethereal, God-like and sacrosanct - and I had blown it at the age of 15. So, I was dirty...and therefore, I decided to go hell for leather having one-night stands, screwing around whenever I felt like it. At the time, I didn't once feel cheap or dirty: I always felt as though I was getting what I wanted as I enjoyed sex...most of the time it was utter rubbish, admittedly, but so often, I slept with somebody in order to stick two fingers up at my ex and most of all, my mother.

My attitude has changed out of all recognition now. My parents frown and condemn my union with Ian. It makes me balk that rather than get to know this lovely man who shares mine and my daughters' lives, they would rather cock their snooks and befriend the man who beat me, belittled me, drove me towards insanity, cheated on me, and walked out on me. They are sick and, returning to that book, becoming more aware has riven me with the desire for revenge - something I never really considered before.

On Christmas Day, after they had called the girls at the ex's house, Rosemary and Bethan told me how they had said how 'touched' they were to receive a card from them. Ha! The ex had forced them to write one because they had treated him to a pub meal a couple of weekends ago...that blog was in process and then left...maybe I need to finish it so I can tell you how I felt when I saw that bitch for the first time in 18 months, purely by accident?

I do want revenge at the moment. I want to regain 38 years of wasted, angst and guilt-ridden feelings. I want to reclaim my life as I feel as though so much time has been lost. I can only keep on reading, assimilating, accepting and one day, come to terms with it all.

When I recognise things like this, it makes me cold; I lack the desire to eat at all - not even to binge; I withdraw into myself and I introspect. I also become moody, aggressive and bad-tempered. And Ian has borne the brunt of this on many an occasion. I attempt to talk about my feelings, but sometimes, it is hard to vocalise them - I find it far easier to write them out.

I ate well on Christmas Day - I forced myself to be 'normal' and we started off with a home-made spiced mackerel paté on toast with Buck's Fizz. At lunchtime, with us clearing off to collect the girls from their father's house, and having gone for a lovely walk to blow the cobwebs off, we snacked. Our evening meal contained salmon fillets, marinated in sherry, spices, lemon & lime, soy and balsamic together with steamed vegetables. I refused to weigh myself the next day. Nor did I overdo the laxatives.

I got on the scales this morning and found that I had lost 4lbs. Ian says I look thinner than normal. I am full of cold and heading towards a chest infection by the sound of my wheezing. Food is the last thing on my mind; bingeing is even further away. The violence required to throw up a cal-fest is not something I have the energy for, so I would rather nibble peacefully, or go without.

I still want to be a size 8 by the end of January. I no longer wish to entertain size 6s...

Happy Christmas

2008-12-24T06:29:00.002Z

Thank you to all of you who have left such kind comments on the blog this year; and the constructive commenters, too!

Blogging is off until after Christmas, but events aren't too bad here, all things considered.

I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas, wherever you are.

May 2009 bring happiness, peace and understanding to us all.

Annie x

Self-Harm & Self-Hatred

2008-12-13T11:13:00.002Z

I found this video on You Tube this morning which you can view below. It's very quiet in the house. The girls are at their father's, and Ian has gone out to the shops for a few hours. I despise Christmas Shopping, and do all my stuff online - he's more of a pioneer than I am and braves the crowds while I cower behind the PC monitor.

I guess I must confess that I have dropped to my nadir.

Did I implode on Thursday night? I think, possibly, I did.

And I hope to hell that this is now my turning point.

There may be a few readers who can empathise with me when I write that self-harming seems to come, hand in glove, with an ED. Indeed, the video also shows it. I have self-harmed, on and off, since 2001. My arms, legs and torso are scarred dreadfully, and summer can be a trial as I attempt to hide the marks with loose, long-sleeved blouses, light cardigans or what have you.

But I have never done this before.

I shaved my hair off.

I felt so disgusting; so ugly; so repulsive and despicable inside that I wanted to show it on the outside, too. I was frantic, manic, inconsolable and mad. It happened in three stages, strangely. I have (had) very, very thick hair. I tried to get Ian's clippers through it. All that happened was that my hair thinned out. I screamed, cried, and got the scissors. And hacked clumps out...and then the clippers did the final work.

I now look like a reject from Auschwitz. Skinny, saggy, shaven and sad.

There was hair all over the bedroom floor and I got the vacuum cleaner out to suck it all up today. I also recovered a stack load of empty blister packs from the tablets I had, once again, taken, and passed out with. Two crews of ambulance men were sent by my eldest daughter to the house and I blagged my way through it, laughing away, lying incessantly that I hadn't taken a single pill. This will probably also come as a revelation to Ian as I haven't even had the decency or guts to tell him. I hid the blister packs under the bed for disposal at a later date. This morning was prime time.

And as I approached the bin, I saw my thick, heavy hair, lying, dead in the purple bin. I grasped it in my hand, felt its softness, its luxuriousness and I sobbed my heart out at my stupidity, my selfishness, my desperation and my madness.

I have hardly slept. All through the night, I sweated, agonised, tossed, turned and my head felt as though it was exploding with all the fears, worries and anxieties rushing through it. I even, seriously, considered banging my head against the wall to try to numb it all. But I didn't.

Do you know what I did do?

I went downstairs and ate two slices of toast with Marmite.

I have to make an effort for a change. So I did.

It came out later - not via my mouth, but I shan't go into any further detail (!).

Why do you think Ian has gone shopping without me?

Because I am too scared to set foot out of this house. And he has gone to buy me a wig. I don't care, really, what it looks like as long as it isn't blonde, as I'd look really, really daft with blonde hair what with my dark colouring. In my wildest dreams, I hope it is bright red. Something to stick two fingers up to the world with, in effect. Whatever he gets for me, I know he will have chosen it with love and care. Because he does love me. And all I do is drive him away.

And it's time for a change.

Bob_J, a regular commenter on this blog, remarks about "emotionally tuned responses" from my mother and asks me if I felt/feel/understand them. I think Bob is a very, very switched on chap and I wish he had a blog we could read (hint, there, Bob!!!). I guess he works in some form of mental health environment. He understands things so well.

No, Bob. I don't have any emotionally tuned responses. At all. I cannot remember the last time I was in tune with my emotions, really. They seem to be all skew-whiff with me nowadays...

I am unsure as to whether I need to take a short break from Annie's Rexia. It seems to deplete me an awful lot. Ian, bless his heart, reads these blogs and sees the sadness which emanates. He wants me to discuss them with him but I am rubbish without a 'feeder' question - I rarely, unless very impassioned, bang on about myself without a prompt. I told him this last night. And so, I think things will work out for the better from that confession.

Wish us luck, please x

Just a quickie

2008-12-13T10:36:00.003Z

I have a wonderful friend who, for personal reasons, has had to go undercover! She has a great blog at I HATE TO WEIGHT and I think you'll recognise her instantly!

She talks sense and she writes with honesty, compassion, warmth and a rawness which can make you whince at times!

I hope any readers of Annie's Rexia check her out - she makes for some interesting reading...

Have you noticed...

2008-12-11T13:48:00.005Z

...that I have stopped calling these entries 'Parts'? I got fed up of having to check back to know what number I was up to and realised the titles were rather dull and needed enlivening!

I haven't taken any laxatives today. It has, so far, been a conscious avoidance of the box of Bisocodyl sitting on my kitchen worktop. I feel a bit panicky, a bit brave, a bit naive and a lot scared. I didn't get a good night's sleep because I was on the toilet so often, having taken far more laxatives than I had initially promised myself. Damn. Just writing this is agitating me now...

Do any of you visitors look at the poll in the top right hand corner of this blog? Ian advised me to taken it down if we ever reached 100. That almost sounds mercenary, doesn't it, in black and white. That wasn't the intimation behind it...Almost every day, that poll depresses me more and more. It now stands at 47% current ED sufferers. 22% have never suffered, and thus the remaining 31% have been touched by an ED in some way, shape or form. So why, if this blog is public, open to any cross-section of demographic, do we have almost half of its viewers as sufferers and we are told by our health services that EDs affect 1 in 10 people. I did my Maths O'level one year early and got a B. I iz not thick. There is a vast difference between almost 50% and 10%...

Ok, ok, you could turn to me and say, Well, only those who are interested in EDs are going to be drawn to your blog. And I will certainly hold up my hands to that statement.

But the hard fact is that it's scary.

What is even more scary - and girls, this is not said with any acrimony, bitterness, condemnation or judgement; I am gratified that you deem this blog worth reading - is that there are some Pro-Ana authors reading. They are very quiet, peaceful people. They don't make waves, and they don't advocate their own beliefs. They are NOT to be condemned, but at the same time, sorry, girls, I don't condone it.

The next few paragraphs are going to be total juxtapositions; possibly hypocritical; extremely confused...

I see the photos on Thinspo. I see the bones, the tendons, the blank, bland eyes which are lifeless, devoid of emotion, care, feeling, yet filled with utter self-hatred - although that is my opinion. I can quite honestly say that there is nothing about those images which fills me with envy, desire, jealousy or longing. I don't want to look anything like this.

I wrote a comment on a blog today about an email I had received in response to a petition to the British Government demanding more help for ED sufferers. After waiting for about three months, we had a response from our glorious leader, Gordon Brown (who could probably do with staying off the pies for a few months himself) that parliament were proud to inform us that, over the next three years, the issue of eating disorders will be injected with a governmental grant of £135,000. (About US$ 210,000). Divide that by three. How many of you live in a family where the annual income is less than £40,000 p.a.? There aren't that many. So, to feed a family of two adults and 2.4 children costs around £45,000 p.a. And £5000 less than that is being spent on the so-called 10% of nationwide ED sufferers in the UK.

I feel like being sick. And that is without sticking my fingers down my throat.

I don't want to end up looking like that girl in the above picture. Truly, I don't. I don't enjoy any aspect of this 'disorder' but I keep driving myself on - it's like a competition with myself. Over the last couple of days, four extra pounds have come off. I was actually shocked, as I had been trying so hard to eat bits here and there - way more than normal. Our scales also seem to be out of kilter. When at the hotel two weekends ago, having worked out at the gym, I was 9lbs lighter on two different sets of scales than that which read on our own scales, my brow furrowed. So, if they stated I was 8.7 stone then, and my scales stated 9.2 and I have now dropped by 4lbs, things are going awry, aren't they?

I sit here, writing this blog and as I do so, my stomach naturally sucks itself in. It's not due to vanity as I am wearing my husband's big, baggy fleece as it is so bitterly cold. It just happens, and suddenly, I am thinner than I was five minutes ago.

If any of you readers hate this, too, and want to overcome it, we need to unite. We need to fight this bastard with tooth and claw. EDs create indolence, comfort zones, walls and pain. If nobody else can help us, surely together, we are a force to be reckoned with?

Don't let me down. Please. We CAN do it.

A xx

Phone calls...

2008-12-09T18:28:00.006Z

Trying times.

Too much rattling around in my head.

I am rarely alone in this house as my husband works from home. And so I am always putting on a face. He doesn't demand this from me - I do it because I have to. For me. And so, when left alone, all the walls come crumbling down around me and I behave as I wish I could at any time I choose.

And so, last night, when Ian and the girls went Christmas shopping, I found myself pondering those two missed calls from my parents' mobile phone number, and without thinking anything through clearly, impetuously called their house.

I was very polite at first. My mother became belligerent, aggressive, defensive and told me she hadn't called the house at all. I was able to dispute this, so a stream of lies issued forth. Then she squawked for my father who didn't have a clue what was going on. She made out that I would have picked the phone up, that I never went out...so I told her I had been in hospital that weekend.

'Because you are 'dying' of anorexia?' she sneered.

I declined to answer that question.

At the very end, I said to her: "The girls are f*cked up enough as it is. Stay out of their lives, for God's sake."

She started to screech abuse at me, so I put the phone down.

And then I sobbed my heart out. And later on, I took it out on my best, beloved husband, who adores me unconditionally; who tries to make it all right for me; but cannot ever hope to compete with that demonic woman.

Phone calls. Even more of them...

The ex called last night to speak to the girls. I explained they were out shopping. He paused and then thanked me for encouraging Beth to meet with TOW two weekends ago. I was agog and almost speechless. I just about uttered a 'You're welcome'. And as we hung up, again, I cried at how hard and bitter we have to take things before there is any civility. I honestly considered that a change had taken place after that. So I called him only 20 minutes ago and asked, Please can I have my keyboard back.

I had eight years of organ lessons and became quite a proficient player. If Ian and I visit a church, the first place I hit is the organ, hoping that it is unlocked. It never is. In the summer, I asked Beth, by phone, on our way back from an afternoon out, could I have my keyboard. Nobody but me plays. It has sat in the ex's spare room for four years, untouched, gathering dust. He came out, dismissed Beth, and told me, in front of Ian, that the keyboard was now his. This is despite me saving for it from my own freelancing, and despite me being the player. I turned on my heel and walked away. I will not beg.

I thought, after his thanks last night, he would be a more benevolent character.

No. After my initial request, he ignored me, started talking to the girls whilst on the phone, then came back to me and said, What? What do you want?

He had heard me, rightly enough.

So I repeated it, feeling smaller and smaller as I did so. I even told him how much I missed playing. He 'ummed' and 'aahed' and then, eventually said, I guess so...

I feel so ridiculously stupid now...

Another phone call today. To our priest, Father Farrell. I am not a Roman Catholic by choice, really - I converted two years ago out of selfishness to get the girls into a decent local school. Prior to that, I was an extremely poor Wesleyan Methodist (no drink, no fags, no sex, no nothing - yeah, right!). But Fr F has taken me into the bosom of his heart and never, ever given up on me. Every week, I had to attend one-on-one classes with him telling me about the Scriptures, the Popes, the tenets, the Mortal Sins. It went in one ear and out of the other to a certain extent, but I always respected Him, as a human being. He made me laugh out loud when he told me his views of Adam & Eve; Noah; the Old Testament as a whole...he may be in his late 60s or so, but he is one Cool Chap. And I love him so much.

I invited him for lunch on the 19th. He said to me, You sound marvellous, Alison. Really, really good. I walked out of the conservatory, where Ian sat working, and told him the truth.

And now I will tell you the truth. It's taken a while, hasn't it? 'Cause I am not reet good at the truth from time to time.

Why was I in hospital three weeks ago?

Because I tried to take the overdose to end all overdoses.

I have no recollection of anything after Ian finding the empty blister packs where I had hidden them behind the curtain on our bedroom window ledge. He told me that my breathing almost stopped, that I was in so much rigid spasm he couldn't place me into the recovery position suggested by 999. I have also been informed that while under the influence, I was sent for a CT scan as nothing was functioning. The only time there was any recognition was when my eye flickered as Ian kissed my brow. Does that sound cheesey? He asked me the same question. It didn't sound it to me...

I was supposed to stay in for about five days. They put me onto all sorts of drips to which I had enormous allergic reactions, desperate for breath, crying out for help. It took 15 minutes for a nurse to bring me the oxygen I so badly needed. I had four canulas inserted into me - badly...I developed minor phlebitis and moving my wrists and arms was painful for about a week.

They hammered me. But then, why shouldn't they? A suicide case? Someone who doesn't give a turquoise toss about themselves? Why should those over-worked, under-staffed, filthy hospitals care? I don't blame them. I am just a drain on their resources.

I discharged myself. I fought for it, I'll admit. I had to lie through my back teeth to get out of there, stating that I regretted my actions; that I should never have done it; that I would never, ever think of it again.

Don't get me wrong. It's far from my thoughts at the moment. And to be honest, I have a slight, sneaking suspicion it is never, ever going to return due to a 'switch flick'...

I have digressed.

I told Father Jim about it. He went silent, and then he told me one of the most plaintive things I have ever heard in the whole of my life: he told me he would be incapable of conducting my funeral because he loved me too much. He said he would be unable to speak for crying.

He told me that he had few friends, but a certain number had touched his soul since arriving in Weaverham four years ago. And I am one of them. He told me that, from the moment he met me, he liked me; that I am a very good friend to him and that to lose me would hurt him immensely.

I don't tell you this to boast. I tell you this because I have never been told this before. It is alien to me. It chokes me because, instinctively, I think, deep down, I am a rotten, evil bastard. Why does a priest see good in me?? Am I that good an actress? Because I am black to the very core of my being. And only I know that.

I'm not trying, food-wise or laxative-wise at the moment. I haven't binged, but I haven't eaten. My stomach feels so full all of the time with all the liquids I keep swilling into it - I have suddenly become an ardent tea drinker after years of despising the stuff! Coffee is now anathaema! How strange...

OK. Another confession, and one which Ian may berate me for (sorry, darling). He bought me some raunchy stuff last night - nothing overly mucky, honestly: just sexy. I put the dress on tonight after showering and curling my hair. We have a large mirror in our bedroom by which I titivate myself when feeling up to it. I stared at myself in that mirror and realised that I looked like a plank of wood. No breasts; no bum; no belly. Just a piece of 6 x 4...How abhorrent.

What does he see in me?

What does anybody see in me?

As a PS, the ex didn't return the keyboard to me. What a suprise...

Denial is not just an Egyptian River!

2008-12-05T10:33:00.004Z

Yesterday, I drove out to TK Maxx (this is a sort of designer outlet store in the UK wherein you can get famous brands for about 60% less than in the High Street shops) to buy some jeans for myself. I knew they had a sale on and jeans were available for around £7.00 (about $12.00) from the likes of Diesel, Guess and FCUK. I do like my designer jeans, but NOT at designer prices! As it stood, I had only one pair of jeans which fitted me; all the others were my eldest daughter's cast-offs and cut on the 'skinny leg' which is not a flattering look for a 38-year old woman, I don't think.

I purchased all sorts of wrong sizes for myself. Not wholly intentionally - a bra I thought read at 34A, according to the section it was in, was actually a 36B and dropped off my chest when I put it on! But the jeans were intentionally mis-sized. I have dropped to a size 6 (US 2) and don't like to admit to it, verbally. So, I bought size 8s and they hang from me.

Why have I done this? I simply couldn't bring myself to acknowledge that I am officially a size 6. I was completely in denial that the weight is not coming on; it's coming off. I refuse to believe the girls and Ian when they say they can see my ribs, that my arms are skinny, that my legs are like sticks and that I have no backside. I fob them off - particularly Beth - and joke about it all. It doesn't cut the mustard. I know.

Ian told me yesterday that I was starting to look 'ill'. I don't know if I am or not. I don't seem to look any different, facially, to how I looked a few months ago, complexion-wise. Certainly less spotty, for some odd reason, though.

I have noticed that if I do any leg exercises, while lying on the floor, the skin which sags downwards from my thighs, pulled by gravity, looks like an old lady's. If I bend over the bath, naked, my breasts hang like two thin pieces of veal. Most unattractive - 'withered' as my doctor described them.

Yesterday, whilst out at the shops, my mind wandered and I lost myself thinking about anorexia and what harm it is doing to me. I wracked my brains, repeatedly as to why I continue with this behaviour, why I cannot simply let go of it, why putting on weight fills me with such dread and why the low self-esteem manifested itself in this particular way.

Self-esteem is a big thing for me at the moment. The terrible blushing has disappeared again, thankfully, but there are too many 'labels' and insults flashing around my brain. I wrote this, as part of a letter, two days ago and the more I return to it, the more it hurts me:

Deep down, I guess I am quite a bitter person. I feel selfishly hard-done-to. Little things make me cross – stuff which shouldn’t. I feel angry that nobody bar Maureen has attempted to communicate with me from work. I feel petty anger that, twice, I have told my friends in Oman about my marriage yet received nary a Kiss-My-Ar*e or nothing. I feel cross that I worked so hard at Rowlands and was called a f*cking tw*t when something screwed up, which was a complete accident on my part and ultimately, perhaps similarly to you, I feel as though I have missed out on a healthy parental relationship. As a teenager, I was so bitterly jealous of my girlfriends who got on with their fathers. And as I got into adulthood, I started to become jealous of those women who rang their mothers on a regular basis, went shopping, had fun and laughter, and were not just related, but were friends. I miss having a Mum. I don’t have a Mum – I have a Biological Mother who despises me for me doing my own thing. She despises me because I haven’t followed her every footstep and dictat. And that is a hard lesson to learn and assimilate because I know very well that this is extremely wrong. One doesn’t have children in order to mould them into something you wish you could have been…I don’t know why I was born to be honest – and that isn’t a ‘suicidal’ or self-pitying thought. I just query, in my own head, why? Eight years difference between me and my brother? Times of severe hardship financially? Being told that labour was horrific and not wanted ever again? Being told that if it wasn’t for me, happiness would abound? I genuinely don’t think I was a wanted child…There are many studies performed of babies in the womb and how they pick up on things from the mother. Do I self-destruct because I have never felt as though I should be here? Maybe that sounds histrionic, but it does run through my head from time to time. Why, when under the influence of NLP/hypnotherapy, did I suddenly get a traumatic image of abortion when my timeline was drawn back to the womb? All conjecture, I know. And I apologise for any hyperbole or melodrama. These are simply my meandering thoughts.

My brother moved out of the parental home, at the age of 44, he didn't even tell our parents. Little by little, he just shunted out his few belongings and that was it: never seen or heard of for a long time. My mother was bereft. My father was disgusted. He is a very accomplished carpenter and had crafted a solid mahogany table for Paul for his own home. Paul walked out and left it. Months of hard work and graft, just left. Each Mother's Day, Mother's Birthday, Christmas and Wedding Anniversary which passed, without a card, left my mother more and more depressed. When she was admitted into hospital for a hip replacement, I called my brother at his place of work and asked him what was going on. He refused to speak to me, and refused to visit. My father then decided to cut him out of the family will. Although this never actually came to fruition. When my mother was taken into hospital with pericarditis, in January 2007, Paul finally came to visit as it was life-threatening. I couldn't bear to look at him and was thus harshly berated for my attitude towards my brother. My mother told me that all she wanted was a happy family. Paul made that choice to detach from his parents without any indication of what had sent him over the edge. I know for a fact that my only misdemeanour is to have married Ian, yet I have been damned for the rest of my life by them, in some ways.

My father has been in touch with the girls again. My mother is making it patently clear that she wants nothing to do with them. They couldn't care less and cannot understand why I ask them questions about the contact. I guess I am like a dog with a bone, gnawing away at something which takes an eternity to wear down and splinter. I am glad that my mother's ostracism of the girls doesn't bother them (or doesn't appear to, fundamentally) and I am so glad that they are sensible enough to realise that she has more problems than the four of us put together. So, if two young girls can do that, why can't I? Why don't I adopt that type of detachment?

Beth once asked me if I would ever punish her for doing something I disagreed with like her Nanna did to me. I roared laughing, and firmly said, No! But it's not actually funny, is it? Why did I laugh? Did I find it so utterly ridiculous that she could think I would behave like my mother, or was I laughing because I didn't know what else to do?

Everything in the garden ought to be rosy at the moment. Financial worries have been utterly lifted; the girls are calm, happy, hilarious and amusing; Christmas (one of my favourite times of the year) is almost upon us; the house is warm, inviting, beautifully decorated and furnished and things, on the whole, despite a few blips from time to time, are much better between Ian and me (touch wood! *pats herself on head*!).

So why do I feel so much unrest and dis-ease? Is it a chemical thing? After being in hospital a week or so ago, I had to come off the anti-depressants (Citalopram). Ian had given them to the orderlies who proceeded to lose them. I then had to reorder a prescription upon my discharge which took a few days, and thus, I was six days without the drugs. It's almost like my body is learning to get used to them again and so, by mid-afternoon, I feel slow, sluggish, laboured, yet agitated in my limbs and nauseated. When I went to bed last night, and after I heard Ian breathing deeply, my buttocks went into overdrive. I jiggled, shook, rattled, battered and felt like screaming out with frustration, anxiety, anger and pain. I could not stop. And it was driving me bananas. I so wanted those muscles to relax, ease off, be still and quiet - and they would not give me a moment. So, I have woken this morning, feeling, once again, like I have trained for a marathon. Why isn't my backside as taut as Kylie's at this rate??!

Does it sound like I miss my parents? Believe it or not, I don't. But I do struggle with confusion, co-dependency and fears. I still fear my parents terribly. There is a lull for me at the moment, but each day, a quick thought will pass through my head, when the postman has been, is this going to be the delivery which contains that letter? That letter of vitriol, condemnation, hurt and recrimination?

Only time will tell, I guess...

Part #29

2008-11-23T07:34:00.007Z

I wasn't going to post for a while, as I am feeling a bit raw at the moment, but there are some things burning inside me which need to be put down on 'paper'.

I have been in hospital for three days. I discharged myself, against medical advice, but to be perfectly frank, I am making better progress away from that filthy hell-hole stuck in a six-bay ward with four men (all wards are mixed, but despite there being space in a more female-dominated ward, they kept me with the men) where you get no sleep; the bathrooms are shared with the men (and the toilet doors didn't lock properly); the nurses are foul-mouthed, lazy, and 'forget' your drips: I was left for 15 minutes, gasping for breath before they could be bothered bringing me oxygen when I had an enormous reaction to the stuff they were pumping into me. What a place.

The nurses hammered me so hard with canulas that I have suffered bruising across each wrist, so bad, it is wholly purple and yellow. The pharmacist agreed that it may be the start of phlebitis, the veins have been so battered, but it is subsiding now, as is the pain. There were four attempts to insert a canula as veins were not forthcoming due to my low blood pressure. The liquids they filled me with have caused veins to stand out across each arm so I could now easily give Madonna a run for her money...or, slightly less glamorously, some Wicked Stepmother from a fairy tale.

I hate hospital with a vengeance - at least, I hate that hospital which is Beelzebub's Holiday Cottage. Considering I was on a cardiac ward, it was incredible that the patients were fed greasy fish and chips, peas boiled into submission and a thick, clarty rhubarb crumble covered by custard with which you could have rendered the outside of your house.

No, I didn't eat any of it...

I discharged myself on Saturday and came home to two very subdued young ladies who had attempted to go up to Yorkshire with their father and The Other Woman (who shall hereon in be abbreviated to TOW as I can't be fagged writing it all out all the time). Beth lasted two minutes in the house before bursting into tears, watching TOW walk around the kitchen, helping herself to 'snackettes' and ordering her son to dry his hair, using Beth's drier, in Beth's bedroom where he had slept the night before. TOW couldn't have made Beth feel more like a stranger in her own home. She ran out to Ian who had promised to wait for a few minutes, 'just in case', and Rosemary followed closely on her heel.

I was so proud of the three of them. Beth tried to do something which had filled her with so much insecurity, uncertainty, fear and confusion. But she tried it. Rosemary, despite desperately wanting to go to the pantomime, and spending an eternity on getting herself ready, stood by her sister without any conditions or guilt-trips, and Ian gave them the support, encouragement, listening ear and comfort that they so desperately needed at that time. I hated myself for not being there for them.

On Saturday evening, I noticed a strange answer machine message from a mobile number which I didn't recognise - nor did anyone else in the house. The message, according to our service provider, couldn't be delivered. This, in itself, was odd. So, I called the number and the phone had been turned off. There is only one person I know who uses Tesco mobile services and that is my mother. Sure enough, when I checked through my blocked numbers, hers came up and it was the same as the number on my phone.

She, or my father, called on Thursday night. The night I was taken to hospital, and also the night my father called the ex, crying, purportedly, that he missed his grandchildren. There are only two reasons why they would call here. First, they want to know why I am in hospital OR, the ex has told them to sort out Christmas (which my father is trying to organise) with me. Either way, I am not interested in communicating with them. Beth feels that her grandmother now despises her. My mother refuses to talk to either girl - it is only my father who is making the effort. Beth has told my mother to stop this nonsense and my mother, as I have written before, has taken umbrage at being told off by an 11-year old. That is how petty she is. A child gets 'sent to Coventry' for speaking her mind.

Since then, there have been no further calls.

And also since then, I have done a lot of thinking about my life and my family. Ian and I have talked long and hard about events which led me to the hospital's A & E. There is a shift in my thought patterns. There is resolve about certain aspects of my life - I have no doubt that the resolve will falter from time to time as I am human, but for the moment, it is very strong. To this end, I have ditched the alcohol, am throwing myself into writing and work, laughing more, and accepting that where my parents and my ex are concerned, I simply cannot do anything about them and there is no point worrying myself sick about their actions. The only things I can do, from now on, are to ignore them, talk things through thoroughly with Ian, accept that they cannot and will not change, but also accept that they do not have to spoil my day. With this realisation has come a happier, marginally calmer, more trusting Annie.

I have gained a bit of weight - a few pounds. It doesn't sit well with me, at all and I am not, deep down, happy about it, but I am also not doing anything about it. I haven't restricted myself stupidly, I haven't stepped up the laxative intake, and I haven't gone exercising as though I was training for a marathon. I am just ticking over, trying not to upset the equilibrium.

The atmosphere in this house has changed perceptibly. Although there have been 'challenges' from the daughters, and external worries which, last week, would have tipped me over the edge, this week, I am attempting to remain calm and take things in my stride. I don't know if it is my imagination, but it seems to have infected Ian, too, who is handling parenting issues with the wisdom of an old hand, which helps me inordinately in many different ways.

I am tired of punishing myself and, by default, punishing my family. Everyone has a right to be happy in this life, so why shouldn't we take our cut of it? There's still a nugget of self-doubt in me...which is akin to self-hatred. From time to time, during the day, a thought will flit across my mind that I am doing everything wrong; I'm rubbish at this life and I yearn to be a different person.

Each day, since 'escaping' the hospital, I have felt glad I am home and alive. I almost wasn't, from what I can gather.

It's now time for a change and one for the better. The gremlin still talks to me on an hourly basis, but mentally, I am walking away from him, raising my hand to him and saying, Enough - you bore me. Sometimes I am unable to get away from him, particularly late at night when I am tired and at my most fretful/agitated, but I am coping much better during the day than I have for about six months.

I feel fear about the future from the ED point of view, paradoxically. I really, really dread gaining weight. I dread losing what I deem my own control, but I also see that I am controlling other aspects of my life more efficiently than ever before, so perhaps one will substitute for the other? I want to see my ribs still, yet I want my breasts to return. I want to keep my thin thighs, but I don't want the sagging empty skin on my buttocks. I want to keep boney legs but I don't want the concomitant bruises. I don't want to take my bigger clothes down from storage, but I don't want to undermine my daughter's self-esteem by being in a size smaller than her.

I just want it all, don't I?

Part # 28

2008-11-18T19:43:00.003Z

My blogging buddy, Melissa, who authors Balancing the Scales has written a new post in which she explains that it is her ED talking, and not her rational self. I found that admission incredibly brave. Or was it that the fact that she could 'realise and acknowledge' that I envied?

There are a number of arguments, harsh words, worries, anxieties and fears which are borne from the ED for me. My husband differentiates between 'me' and 'Annie-under-the-influence'. He can see that when I am not consumed (if you will pardon the weak pun) by anorexia and its concomitant neuroses, I am loving towards him, pro-active, hard-working and (relatively - I am a woman) reasonable. But when I am listening to that Gremlin, I weaken, turn vituperous, malificent and vindictive. I must be a horror to live with. Although he acknowledges this difference, it isn't always easy for him to remain objective, which is perfectly understandable whilst under attack.

The ED spoke to me quite loudly tonight - not for long, admittedly, and I was strong enough to not react verbally - but upon my return from taking my daughter to the Orthodontist, Ian informed me that he had his first counselling session booked, for December, through our Doctor's surgery. He has had to wait for approximately six weeks. I was informed, right from the outset, that I could be waiting six months, and thus, it would be better for me to go private. So, scrimping and saving, we have done. I have a 15 mile round trip; Ian has less than a mile round trip. I have 16 years of ED problems and its side-effects; Ian is screwed up by me, my behaviour and my tempers.

It broke my heart. I felt let down by my GP, whom I have always revered, and also, very, very jealous and bitter. My ED wanted to spit at Ian: What the hell is wrong with you? You frigging left me! You wanted me back in your life! I did so and NOW you can't cope! Get a grip!!

I am also eaten away inside by anxiety over the forthcoming weekend. 'The Other Woman' is finally getting to meet Beth. Beth has succumbed/acquisced/agreed because she wants to see her cousins performing in a pantomime. The ex informed her, unceremoniously, on the back of a placatory email from me, that 'The Other Woman' would also be accompanying them in the two-hour drive. So, the first time in five years that Beth meets her will be in the claustrophobic environment of the car.

I'm probably, in all honesty, more wound up than she is. I feel so bitter that, over the last five years, I have been made out to be 'The Evil One'. Many a time and oft, without evidence, the ex has claimed that I had affairs which led him to stray towards my 'friend'. It could not be further from the truth. I sought out friends when he wasn't, or wouldn't make himself, available; yes, one was 'her' husband, but he was as lonely and disillusioned as me and we found that we laughed long and hard together, shared the same interests, could talk to each other without recrimination, commitment or condition.

It feels, in all wallowing self-pity, that they have come up trumps again. My faults towards my first marriage included nurturing my own life: getting a highly-paid, respected job for the government; being a freelancer for international mags; running a charitable theatre group; acting in a semi-pro drama troupe...and making good friends outside of the ex's work colleagues' wives. I was told, by Expats International, before I expatriated, that to do so took a 'Pioneering Spirit'. I took that statement to heart and swore that NOTHING would stop me throwing myself into my new life and environment wholeheartedly. So I did. And even after the ex had told me to 'Get A Life', it didn't sit well when I took him up on the offer.

What does a cornered rat do? It bites back. Anal was cornered; threatened by me, so it would seem from his bullying, aggression, belittling and threats. Unfortunately, although outwardly I would fight tooth and nail, inside it killed a little more of me.

When we divorced, in December 2005, I naively assumed that was it: I would never have to tolerate any more of his bullying, control or dictat. I have never been more wrong in the whole of my life. Divorce has led to the most inordinate amount of manipulation, twisting, coercion, demands and unhappiness than I could ever have envisaged. He plays the girls as pawns, constantly. I attempt, so hard, NOT to play these stupid mind games, but when he garbs my 13-year old daughter in a hooker's outfit (low-cut, clingy black satin, barely skimming her backside, coupled with 'f*ck-me' patent leather 5" heels) and I protest; he puts the phone down...I just bang my head against the brick wall with frustration, bewilderment and desperation.

And what does it make me do?

It makes me obssess about food. It makes me ponder cutting, purely for release. It makes me feel low, sometimes almost suicidal, as I feel such a frigging failure, and so bloody impotent that I wonder if it will make any difference me being here or not (and that is NOT a statement to engender sympathy: it is purely what goes through my head). It also makes me regret so much, feel so weary, so defeated, and so desperate to escape.

I don't feel particularly strong at the moment, to be honest. I feel very, very turmoiled; as though my stomach has partaken of a salmonella bug: it is rumbling, hurting and annoying me. Just like my head and my thoughts.

I want to be alone for some time, to think, ponder, assimilate and get my head around everything. I rarely have this solitude. Even now, as I write this blog, I am being asked about spellings, mathematical equations, English translations for métier, and I would like to get this out. But that is just bloody-minded selfishness. Because they need me and I must be there.

I want to lose more weight. That's the simple and honest truth. Because I feel like my grip is going. I need some grip. I am not doing well, am I?

Part #27

2008-11-12T09:50:00.003Z

I seem to be making a habit of this. On Monday, I passed out again in the bathroom, after engaging in a massive purging session. I fell against the chrome toilet roll holder attached to the wall, cut my upper eyelid and am now sporting a marvellous purple and black egg there. It hurts immensely - as though I have a toothache which will not stop niggling. All I remember is crawling off to bed and waking about four hours later feeling like I had been partying non-stop. It didn't go down very well. I was very disoriented, very out of the game and just 'not there'.

Things are getting me down immensely. Ten days ago, my GP prescribed me anti-depressants. I am normally loathe to take these things but I acquiesced. So far, they don't seem to be agreeing with me very well, but I have been told by a number of people, that the initial side-effects abate after 2-3 weeks. Side-effects at the moment involve constant 'jiggling' and agitation of the buttock and thigh muscles which cause horrific aches and pains; nausea; tiredness; paranoia and wild nightmares. I have another 4-11 days, potentially, of riding these things out before I throw in the towel and say, Enough! if necessary...

I haven't been near the scales for two days now. I refuse to countenance them. I don't like how they affect my mood for the whole day: so out of sight; out of mind. I am still eating one healthy meal each day.

On Monday night, I succumbed to an old, negative behaviour. All I can remember is feeling so bloody weary, so bloody fed up of this carousel and desperate to rid my head of the screaming voices. I felt very furtive, duplicitous, ashamed and guilty as I tried to get five minutes alone. But I did, and I took a carving knife and sharpening steel into the outhouse toilet and in the semi-dark, with only spiders and cobwebs for company, I honed the knife and sliced myself on the arm, upper thigh and across my breast.

Just writing that has sent a cold belt of steel across my heart, if you can sort of understand that. A belt of utter shame and disgust.

From my former cutting days, I have arms like trellises. My right leg sports a gash which you would presume came from a car crash. It became infected at the time so that I was unable to walk for a few days and was given antibiotics. It was never stitched, hence why it is so noticeable to this day. The day Ian left, I carved his name into my left thigh. For some unearthly reason, that disappeared, but none of the others have. My friend, Rebecca, joked to me at the time, that I could turn it into the phrase, 'I've been to Spain', until I pointed out that '-ain' and '-ian' are different...so we decided that I could purport to have dyslexia. Light-hearted banter about heavy-hearted things. We need to do that from time to time.

That gash on my right leg featured in my dream of Monday night. I dreamed that I had it across the breast I had cut and it was ugly, gaping and repugnant. When I awoke yesterday morning, my fear was how to disguise it during any love-making between Ian and me. I resolved to refrain from intimacy for a few days until the rawness had abated. That's not a good thing, or a solution, though, is it? And unbeknownst to me, Ian had observed spatters of blood and put two and two together. When we think we are being so clever as to conceal things, we always miss dead give-aways...such as the blood on the top of my jeans: the blood on my nightdress which I didn't notice until much later.

Before I expatriated to Oman I was an Autumn Child. I loved the nights drawing in; the cosiness by the fire; the smell of bonfires in the air; snuggling up in bed, watching crappy black and white movies on telly; wearing thick, heavy jumpers and embracing the cold, crisp days. I hate them nowadays. This darkness only reflects my moods. It is depressing that the sky is black at 4pm, the rain soaks, chills me to the marrow and I rarely feel warm. I long for the sun on my face. I don't like all the anniversaries which bombard us at this time of year, either. There are too many of them. These memories stir up different emotions, none of them positive. They imbue me with guilt, sadness, concern and fear for the future.

I live in the past; too much for my own good. I have mentioned 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' before. I so wish I could gain that - obliterate my mind of the painful memories - be selective, too, in holding on to the good ones. I am asking for way too much, I know that - I sound like a spoiled Verruca Salt (of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory!) who wants it all: Daddy! Daddy! Get Me That Unsullied Memory, NOW!

What a complex organ the brain is. How can it hold so many abstract and intangible things? No wonder scientists claim they can only fully understand about a 1/3 of its workings. How can those electrical impulses which constantly fire off cause elation, sadness, euphoria, desperation, hunger, warmth, irritation, love, affection, anxiety...ad infinitum...What an amazing creation we have, sitting in our 'shell-likes'. And I am rambling...

Things aren't all bad in Annie's World, though, so I apologise for being so morose. In my last post, I described my current worries. One of those, as Ian predicted, has now gone. He finally 'sold' his house yesterday - all the legalities are now in place and it is time to clear the property. When we first got back together, over a year ago, he told me he was going to do things properly this time and before I agreed to a future together, he was discussing placing his house on the market. The Global Economy Crisis is taking its toll everywhere and it has taken a year for his house to sell. Believe it or not, that's not too bad here - my neighbour split with his wife in 2006 and the house is still for sale. We have been lucky to a degree.

Ian's ardent desire was to start afresh. Get rid of his property, feel part of this household, 100%, and make a go of it. The economy has been against us, materially. Before we realised how bad the credit crunch was getting, we started looking at properties for ourselves - a new life, together. We found a fantastic house which was formerly a Scottish Manse house. It was in a fair state, but needed a lot of work. It had been on the market for two years and had depreciated by £100,000. We knew we would have to bust a gut to get it fit for the four of us. But everything is corrolated. My property, where once I had a hell of a lot of equity in it, is now not worth as much; Ian's house has been dropped by 17% to sell. So we must hold on.

I have always seen Ian's house as his bolt-hole: somewhere to run when the going gets tough. It has left me foundationless, insecure and feeling like a cat on a hot tin roof. I abhor the arguments where the bags are packed, the doors are slammed and silence reigns in the house. I need some form of safety net and security which is unconditional. I hope that this house sale goes some way to affording me some sanctuary from my fears.

Most dreams I have these days are about being lost and not being able to find my way back. I beg people for assistance but I am always let down. There are obstacles in my path; there are obstreperous characters to handle; there are problems to overcome...but I just don't seem to get there, ever. Strangely, Ian rarely features in any of my dreams - I am always begging my parents to help me, and they never do. What does that mean, I wonder?

What a rambling mess!

Part # 26

2008-11-10T09:46:00.003Z

Blogging has taken a back seat for me just recently. I have been urged and encouraged by a number of people to attempt to put this account down in book form, and so I made a start last week. I am not so vain as to think that it will ever go anywhere, but what I have noticed is that blogging contains superficial details, on the whole; whereas writing a book requires more attention, minuteness, background and concise information. Only nine pages have been written so far. But they were nine pages of so many early childhood memories. So many of them had either been pushed aside, forgotten or blocked off that it was strange to relive them so vividly. I have an incredible long-term memory (short-term is rubbish!) and can recall smells, shapes, colours, clothes, sensations as if they were happening to me in the here and now.

Ian can tell me something and hours later I will have forgotten and ask him about it again. He sighs wearily and I apologise. Bizarrely, though, months later, I would be able to recall it with vivid detail - and that is where he will have forgotten! I wonder if it is the medication I have been prescribed which provides that 'comfortable numbness'?

I have to hold my hands up in submission now and state, quite honestly, that I don't think I am improving. One meal each day, keeping it in and down is bugger all, in truth. If you are only eating grilled/baked/steamed fish/seafood with steamed veg, you aren't exactly having a Hog Fest, are you? I guess I am kidding myself, really.

There are so many things which are either irritating the hell out of me or worrying me sick at the moment that I cannot seem to drop them and concentrate on me. For the purposes of catharsis, I am going to list them. Just to see them in black and white and potentially be able to reason with them at a later date today or tomorrow.

Ian will get sick and tired of me struggling with this bastard disorder and leave
I am way too sensitive for my own good and any perceived slight affects me so much as to cause a row
I dread confrontation with either my family or Ian's family - Ian calls these 'missiles' and they come in the form of texts, letters, emails, phone calls. Each time his own mobile phone beeps or rings, my heart sinks. Each time our home phone rings, my heart sinks. For six months, I have been given an easy life. I wonder how much longer I can 'enjoy' that as there have been no missiles recently...
Will Ian's house finally sell? Will we have less financial worries? Paying two mortgages isn't much fun. An empty house, acting like a money pit, down south, is a millstone around our necks. We are always 'so close' to completion of the sale, and then the purchasers' solicitor gets his teeth into a silly issue which has to be thrown back and forth until Ian's solicitor gives them a rap across the knuckles and tells them to behave. But it's long, slow and arduous.
Am I about to be usurped? Beth has finally relented and agreed to meet with 'The Other Woman'. Recalling 'The Other Woman's' campaign of 'Being The Most Popular Mother in Oman' is not something I can forget easily. Remembering her telling me she adored Rosemary as if she were her own daughter, seeing the presentation of very expensive diamond earrings to Rosemary for birthdays, and the oppositional attitude of attending to every cut, bruise, fall by fussing and falling over them makes me quail. Although I am a firm believer in unconditional love and affection, I do not believe that a paper cut on the finger requires Calpol, a hot water bottle and a Band Aid. She did...And the girls revelled in that at one time...
I worry that I have lost my way. I was once such an ambitious woman. I was the only person in the organisation who understood my job. Everyone else listened to me and heard what I was saying. I was both self-taught, on-the-job-taught, and passed exams with high 80 percentages. I knew what I was delivering and in my first month of taking over the role, I turned over more stock from my online nicotine replacement sales than the whole of the 500 branches across the UK. That is vanity more than anything. I increased turnover by 1500% in three months but I don't ever feel I can go back to it as I am terrified of my colleagues. A former worker, K, suffered with bulimia (I never met her). She had been gone for a good 12 months by the time I started work. They still tore her to pieces for it. Anybody, with any 'mental health' problem, was annihilated. Considering it is a health industry, they ought to hang their heads in shame...
I worry about my position in this family. Reputedly, I am the 'Figure Head': the one who holds us together, mediates, softens, delegates, and acts as diplomat. I don't want to do it any more in some ways. I am weary of having to flit between one set of hurt to another. I want hurt people to talk to each other openly, which is what I would do, on the whole. Being a mediator is a hard task. But, at the same time, I know that it is hard for the other three and they DO need a mediator. We had a social worker at one point who said that being a step-parent was the hardest job in the world. I agree, implicitly. But I also think that being the natural parent on a new marriage is pretty tough, too, due to divided loyalties and attempting to maintain some form of equilibrium

So, don't get me wrong. Things 'chez Annie' are not awful - far from it. There has just passed a lovely, gentle, interesting weekend. Nary a cross word passed (apart from the general bickering between Rosemary and Bethan, to which I have selective deafness!) between any of us, and it has been notable in its unremarkability. I give thanks for that.

I just wish I could escape from my thoughts. My dreams last night were full of angst. They were actually filled with 'missiles'. I awoke at 4.30am with severe heartburn, got up for ten minutes, swilled down a load of water and some peppermint, and then returned to bed where I fell into a deep sleep. My final dream was that all my eyebrow hairs had fallen out due to the anorexia. I checked them out this morning, after my husband had complained that his face was a mess due to me picking a spot on his cheek.

Such is life, eh?!

Part #25

2008-11-04T19:44:00.003Z

I felt very confused on Sunday evening. Confused by my conflicting emotions and how I was going to cope through the rest of the night.

I tend to get more morose and low, late evening, as the nights draw in earlier. I am not one who is scared of the dark, but that blackness appears to enhance my moods at times and so if any arguments are going to occur within the family, it is generally at this time of the day.

I have been making a concerted effort to eat at least one healthy meal each day and keep it in/down. And I am not referring to one dry crispbread as a meal here! I am attempting to eat a small piece of baked fish with steamed vegetables every day, or a home-made vegetable soup, or a seafood salad (I no longer eat meat other than fish as it screws my digestion up terribly - I am not a tree-hugging, animal liberator...but my colon is!). I am actually, quietly, very proud of myself. For the last 7-10 days, I have managed it. With success. OK...possibly during the day I may have binged or simply starved, but there has been some nutrition going into me. Although I still lose weight daily.

Ian and I hadn't been out together of an evening for a long time and we decided to visit a restaurant which is close to our hearts as it is where we announced our engagement and forthcoming wedding to the girls. It is a small family-run Italian restaurant in a neighbouring village and the staff know us very well as we celebrate every special occasion there. As the weekends around Bonfire Night (November 5th) have people out at firework displays, the restaurant was suprisingly empty - only one other couple occupied a table. And I was able to order off the menu and asked for a seafood salad. It was out of this world. No heavy, 'threatening' dressings - just citrus juice - no carbs, just succulent, beautiful squid, prawns, octopus and mussels with fantastically colourful leaves. Delicious!

I left this house somewhat perturbed. Shortly before we left, I had called the girls at their father's house where they were staying for the weekend, to see how things were for them. Beth advised me that my mother had written them a letter.

The letter stated that they missed them immensely, the girls were always in their thoughts and just because she and I weren't talking any more, it didn't mean that they couldn't still speak.

I listened very hard to Beth and then asked her if she intended to respond, and how she felt. She was very dismissive - blasé, almost. Nope, not replying, she told me. If she can't make friends with you, why should I?

Rosemary's tone this evening was exactly the same.

Rosemary asked me in a tentative way, if it was wrong of her to feel that her Nanna was playing games with her feelings and emotionally blackmailing her. That was a very difficult question to answer. Thing is, without even seeing that letter, I can almost hear the tone of voice in it. The smell of burning martyr is strong once that envelope is opened. I explained that I couldn't fairly comment as I hadn't read the letter for myself but that her feelings were as valid as anyone's. And that was it, basically.

I was torn between two trains of thought: how awful; how sad, that a grandmother does not feel able to speak to her grand-daughters and imposes that restriction upon them by snail mail. How would I feel? I'd feel empty, saddened, depleted and desperate to sort things out.

The flip-side was, You stupid, ignorant woman. You have been told by four people to sort this out as it is ridiculous and you are cutting off your own nose to spite your face, but still you will not get down from your high pedestal of omniscience and self-righteousness.

I don't want to get involved with her ever again - and Ian supports me 100% on this, having been on the receiving end of her poison himself. But, I don't particularly want to sully a grandparent relationship when it is not necessary. Ian had a totally different take on it all. He explained how he was in the first-hand position of seeing how her control had affected me and the last thing he wanted was for the girls to succumb to it, too. I had to agree. His stance was that if the girls wanted to respond to her letter, they would; if not, he wouldn't push it.

So I have agreed as that is sensible.

If she weren't my mother, I would still feel that pang of pity for her. It's a person destroying themselves for their own arrogant pride and ignorance. What a life?

Part #24

2008-10-30T09:30:00.007Z

I have read a post on a blog called So Much Straw recently, entitled Punching Bag. It's a very thought-provoking piece, describing this woman's desperation and bewilderment at how her daughter is making her feel responsible for her eating disorder.

I get very mixed feelings when I read posts from parents who are caring for their suffering children. It must be hell on earth for them. It must be awful to be blamed for something which they are trying so hard to support and doing their best to facilitate recovery. I have seen families, from first-hand experience, trying to help their children to get better at an in-patient clinic when I admitted myself privately for a mental health problem (not an ED) a number of years ago. Some mothers were in their 60s and still trying to help their adult daughters. Without wanting to garner any sympathy, I was the only patient there who had no visitors or calls from family.

I can't, in all honesty, lay total and complete blame at my parents' or my ex's doors for my succumbing to anorexia and, previously, bulimia. That would be wrong of me. None of them have starved me, forced laxatives down me, stuck fingers down my throat. I did that all by myself. So there are times when I feel somewhat guilty for writing about things I have experienced in my life which have left residual hurt and insecurities as the implication is: look what they did; look what I became.

It's a bit of a can of worms when you start to analyse it.

I have only had one 'significant other' in my life to support me through an ED - and that is Ian. The ex had no time for it at all and if I sloped off to toilets after meals or took laxatives I was berated purely for having 'wasted' the food or the laxative money. His oft-repeated snarl to me was that he might as well get a plate of food and flush it down the toilet, to cut out the middle man.

My parents, when I finally revealed I had bulimia, were somewhat ignorant of its implications. This was a problem which wasn't that well discussed in the UK at the time - we'd all heard of anorexia due to the deaths of Lena Zavaroni and Karen Carpenter - but bulimia was still an unknown quantity. OK, Princess Diana had this 'strange' problem, but the press didn't really go into great detail about its physical manifestations. By this stage, though, I had read some books about its triggers, the side-effects, the long-term damage and was a bit more clued up. My father asked to read the particular book I told him about and upon my next visit to their house, I asked what they had thought about it. A frosty atmosphere already abounded upon my arrival directed at me from my mother, but at this point, she stormed out of their lounge, returned with aforesaid book and with dizzying hubris at what rubbish it was, hurled the book at me, catching me square on the side of the head.

And thus ensued a diatribe of what an ingrate I was; how rude I was to suggest that she or my father were to blame for the ED; and that I was probably doing this to attention-seek anyway.

The ironic thing was, I hadn't pointed out a single chapter to her, yet she had picked up on the one which suggested that critical and conditional parenting could have a profound effect on the self-esteem of a child or young adult and could contribute to the emergence of an eating disorder.

This happened in my early 20s. I had just got married and was hoping to start a family at some point. I had moved quite a way from my home town and was trying to find my feet in a very small Yorkshire village. I made some wonderful friends through the church where the ex and I had wed, some of whom became almost surrogate parents to me. It was also at this time that I bought a book called 'My Mother, My Self' by Nancy Friday and, boy, did it open my eyes! It propounds that 'The greatest gift a good mother can give remains unquestioning love planted deep in the first year of life, so deep and unassailable that the tiny child grown to womanhood is never held back by the fear of losing that love, no matter what her own choice in love, sexuality, or work may be.' I was able to relate to many of the interviews contained within the book; many of the disfunctional relationships which were described and how the women had been affected.

The common thread was that none of these women had been given unconditional love from their mothers. It wasn't a concept I had come across before as, despite having studied Psychology at college, we looked more into the effect of sleep deprivation on monkeys, and other bizarre studies from the 60s! Being able to empathise with the different experiences in the book gave me an inordinate amount of guilt trips. I felt very disloyal to my mother for recognising certain characteristics and suspecting having been subjected to similar withdrawals of affection. It felt very, very wrong to make these associations.

As time went on, with the insight of this book, I started to feel rather bitter towards my mother. I discussed this with a counsellor I was seeing at the time, and she suggested that I asked my mother to attend counselling sessions with me for a short period. This would mean driving over to Cheshire to collect her and take her back the next day, and I was prepared to do this in order to heal the rift I felt could get worse and worse. Well, I approached her and was met with the hysterical rant my ex predicted would come: there was nothing wrong with her; nothing wrong with the way she had raised me; I was the mental case not her...And so, ignorance is bliss.

But there are parents out there who genuinely want to help their children and will work through any amount of baggage to arrive at equanimity. And it is these parents who I feel the inordinate amount of pity for (in an extremely non-patronising way). I am a parent to two daughters. One is almost 14; the other almost 12. Perhaps they will have issues with me as they get older. I know the divorce affected them deeply as have other events in their short lives. I know that Rosemary blames me for a lot of things - even down to her leaving her school shoes at her father's house, one memorable occasion! But I feel that, on the whole, we always talk things through when the dust has settled, and both of us are able to discuss where we went wrong; why an argument has happened; and we can both apologise and make up.

And I know for sure that if she needed me to attend counselling with her, I would. Because I have. And I have heard things which hurt, but which I will also address. And maybe that is the difference between my mother and some other mothers who have children with EDs. The latter mothers, although it is painful, can be willing to listen and help. And this is possibly why they feel like punching bags.

As it stands, my mother is speaking to neither me nor my brother (or to be more specific, my brother refuses to countenance her). My own daughters do not like her for her manipulative tactics and avoid any contact with her if they can. She speaks to only one of her siblings on a regular basis and criticises the others as if they were social pariahs. Yet she is always in the right, and hard done-to.

Any parent who believes they have no part in the negative behaviours of a child should not take any credit for the positive behaviours. As parents, we nurture and encourage (or discourage) our children. They take their cues from us as well as their peers. And we can get it wrong, repeatedly. But, I believe it's when we are so arrogant that we believe our absolute 'rightness' that we are failing our offspring. And arrogance can only breed malcontent and chaos.

Part #23

2008-10-27T08:59:00.006Z

Well, I haven't posted for a wee while as I've wanted the light relief writing of HexMyEx. But thank you to Bob and Cassie for your comments of concern. All is relatively OK here, but thank you very much - your messages really made me feel good.

Last Thursday, Melissa S and I decided to have an 'International No-Scales Day' (she lives in the States, and I live in the UK, so if that isn't International, I don't know what is!). To be perfectly frank, the scales don't control my life like they used to, since Ian got rid of the last set. They are hidden under our bed and it really is a case of 'out of sight, out of mind'. So, it wasn't as tough for me as it may have been for her, and although she struggled, she got through it and I am really chuffed for us both but especially her.

I have also been attempting to eat more and more. And a lot of it has stayed down and in. The laxatives are still playing a major part in my life, but again, I am attempting to cut down on a gradual basis.

I saw my counsellor on Friday and had a very good session with her. We talked very deeply about things, I felt. She described me, from what she had heard and read so far on this blog, as behaving like an apologetic little girl - constantly wanting to please; terrified of offending; punishing myself in my head, with my mother's intonation when I was being 'silly'; and trying to perfect myself. Listening to her slant, and understanding her rationale of it all, I was able to see that the way I speak to myself is very, very harsh: I never stop telling myself I am 'stupid', 'pathetic', 'childish', 'rubbish', 'a whingeing faggot' ('faggot' doesn't mean the same in the UK as it does in the States, by the way!); 'a waste of space'...the list goes ever on...

I divulged a few things to my counsellor about my Mother's control of me last Friday. These things are still exceptionally painful to me and it never ceases to amaze me that a parent could do this to their adult child, with full compos mentis.

Last May, I was working as an account director for a website design company. My job involved 'schmoozing' with potential clients; drumming up business at British Businessmen's Meetings (even though I am a woman!); quoting for work; running the e-marketing side of the business and making the coffee! (I was the only female in the company and it sort of always fell to me...). At the time, I was recovering from my last 'episode'. I was eating healthily, keeping it all in, not taking any laxatives, not touching alcohol, socialising and also working very long hours to get stuck in and leave a good impression. I was also fighting my ex, tooth and nail through the courts to get access to my children, which he had denied me after I fell to pieces when Ian and I split up in November 2006. I was a very driven woman, with high ambitions, going out on dates 3-4 times each week, looking healthy, slim and smart.

One day, out of the blue, my mother called me at work. My initial thought was one of panic, as neither of my parents ever disturbed me at work unless it was important. So when she asked me if, when I got home that night, I would call her and help her to write a medical letter, I was relieved and more than happy to assist. She had, four months ago, been taken into hospital with pericarditis, and I knew it was still troubling her, so my first assumption was that she was demanding better care and medication.

When I returned home, quite late, I called her and asked her to read the letter to me.

She started off:

Dear Dr R****.

I am writing to inform you that I am greatly concerned about my daughter, Alison, who, as you know, has suffered with an eating disorder and depression for many years. She is still struggling greatly and I feel, it is now time, for her to receive inpatient care and I am wondering how you would feel about sectioning her for some time...

At this point, I stopped her. I was utterly speechless that she could do this to me when I had put on weight, I was eating, I was very, very happy (apart from the legal wranglings), doing exceptionally well, career-wise, and earning a hell of a lot more than her darling son who had two Bachelor's Degrees and a Master's under his belt and was little more than an Office Junior, according to her. So what was her problem? Why, at this juncture in my life, did she decide she had to step in and cause trouble? I have my own suspicions and I am fairly sure that she could see me slipping away from her dictat and was attempting to reel me back in.

It didn't work. In November 2007, when Ian and I reunited and I informed her that I was engaged to be married (we weren't on best of terms at the time, anyway, as I had just started a new job, and again, was doing rather well so she had decided to give me grief at every turn) she slammed the phone down on me and has only spoken to me twice since; both times, I have had to call her about the way she has been manipulating my daughters.

Five weeks ago, she telephoned my GP. He was unable to take her call at the time but told me the next day when I attended a medical appointment that he found it odd for a Mother not to know her daughter's new married name. I begged him not to return her call and he readily acquiesced, advising me that there would be nothing he could or would divulge to her, being bound by the Hippocratic Oath. She is aware that I am struggling with anorexia at the moment. She knows nothing else about my life, though and that's the way I intend to keep it.

Today, I have undergone an operation and am a bit groggy from the GA - most of this post was written yesterday, actually. Beth and Ian accompanied me to the hospital - two of the three people I love most in this world. I was 'nil by mouth' from midnight. And for the first time, this morning, I utterly craved a slice of toast! How ironic is that?

I'm in a heck of a lot of pain to be honest - but writing is a distraction from it. And I'm not looking forward to going to the toilet tomorrow! I'm on 'legal' laxatives - prescribed by the surgeon. I am apprehensive about it all - I have had this type of operation before and was in agony for about three weeks. However, I did succumb to a bacterial infection that time, which exacerbated the wounds 100-fold.

My oldest daughter isn't talking to me at the moment as we had a furious row yesterday. She went to stay with her father to calm down and hasn't made contact at all. This hurts, too. I am too weary to fight with her tonight if she is still angry. I shall call her tomorrow and see how she is, but for today, it's just time for quiet, I guess.

I feel as though there is a small shift in things. Despite feeling like crap, and having worried myself sick about this op, I have achieved a good number of defeats of that gremlin over the last week. Certainly, I have won more times than he has. And although I'll still be taking the laxatives, there will be no other form of purging going on. So things are looking up. Two steps forward, one step back is far superior to two steps forward, three steps back...

Part #22

2008-10-19T16:43:00.005+01:00

Is anorexia a choice?

There are two camps on this, aren't there? Some people refer to it as a 'selfish' disorder and that sufferers have a choice - "to be or not to be, that is the question..." (with apologies to Shakespeare).

So, if I am totally wrong, then why is Thomas R. Insel MD and Director of the National Institute for Mental Health stating, in a public letter, that eating disorders are, from research they have discovered, a 'brain disease with severe metabolic effects on the entire body. While the symptoms are behavioural, the illness has a biological core, with genetic components, changes in brain activity and neural pathways, which are currently under study...'

Why does one of the directors of FEAST write in response to my comments and tell me:

"Annie,

The information is out there, but not making its way into practice as quickly as it should. Most clinicians were trained in an earlier era, and because treatment requires multi-disciplinary teams there are a lot of non-scientists having to cope with a paradigm change that isn't easy for laypeople to get a handle on.

Our best bet is to find and work with teams who do have that interest and training - few and far between. But there was a time when people scoffed at the idea of bacteria and viruses, too.

You are not fooling yourself. Your illness is NOT a choice you are making, and there is ZERO selfishness involved. You have a brain condition that distorts reality and holds you back from progress. But it is TREATABLE. You can fully recover! You need skilled clinicians who can bring your brain function back to normal: with nutrition, normalizing behaviors, time, support, skills, and a safe environment. Put yourself in the hands of a team that believes you can recover, and will help you get the tools to do it. YOU CAN RECOVER, but YOU DON'T NEED TO DO IT ALONE."

So, where are these skilled clinicians for us UK-based people? The States seem to be a hell of a lot more switched on than us Brits with our stiff-upper lips who still believe that mental illness is to be ignored, euphemised and locked away. The amount of 'lunatic asylums' which have now been turned into Executive Housing here is astonishing. Obviously your Local Yuppy needs a home more than your Local Loony. The Health Service have advocated 'Care in the Community' and consequently, "hidden homelessness" is now estimated at 400,000 people in England, Scotland and Wales - those who have slipped through the net and aren't counted on the census. And they are estimated to be there due to:

Physical and/or mental health problems
Substance misuse
Unemployment
Basic skills needs
Dyslexia and other learning difficulties
Experience of sexual or physical abuse
Have spent time in care
Have spent time in the armed forces
Experience of the criminal justice system
Relationship breakdown
Problems accessing welfare benefits

Doesn't make our welfare system look particularly good, does it?

Trying to get help for any form of mental health issue in this country is like trying to get blood out of a stone. Referrals take forever and are generally knocked back. Private medical insurance won't cover you over £500 p.a. in my experience, and with therapy costing approximately £100 per session at specialist clinics such as The Priory, we are allowed five sessions to 'get better'. I am on a waiting list for NHS ED help. And I know for sure, from past experience, I will not get that help. I wait the six months and then they tell me I do not 'fit the bill'. There are no self-help groups in the locale; there are no help-lines running at certain times of the day and night; and GPs are, as described, General Practitioners, with ten minutes allocated per patient.

I can't even get to see a dietician! Can you believe that? So, I do my own research, constantly. I read, I try, I attempt to re-programme myself, I deny myself 'comforting behaviours' and end up wound up to high heaven because I, as yet, don't know how to handle these massive conflicting thoughts whizzing around in my head. Because my only lifeline is seeing a private counsellor for one hour each week.

Today has been a sh*t day for me. I discovered, much to my chagrin and horror, just how much self-confidence I have now lost, when I was put in a situation which I wasn't expecting and to my embarrassment, didn't have the tools to cope with it. Something which used to come second nature to me filled me with nausea, fear and an urgent desire to leg-it as fast as I could. And it knocked me off kilter for the rest of the day as I was so shaken by how this situation had affected me so profoundly.

Tomorrow may be a sh*t day for me. I anticipate some anxiety surrounding it - and that is not meant as a self-fulfilling prophesy, as I can feel the agitation there already.

Tomorrow, I go to see a specialist for a possible sigmoidoscopy/colonoscopy due to the rectal bleeding.

And it's my mother's 73rd birthday. And it is the first birthday of hers which I have chosen to ignore. No card, no acknowledgement, no phone call. I haven't even reminded my daughters to 'send Nanna a birthday card' as they aren't with me this weekend.

Karen coined the whole 'Mother/Daughter' debate up very well in her last post, A Mother's Love . This post resonated with me. It's times like this when we want 'A Mum'. There have always been times when I've wanted 'A Mum' but she's rarely been there. Not at my last wedding; not through either of my pregnancies (once due to distance; the other due to her not talking to me); not through the rough-housing I received from my ex; not through the breakdown of my relationship with 'the ex-partner' which blew me sideways.

So. I made the decision not to acknowledge her birthday some time ago. It's not just a 'tit-for-tat' thing, it's a weariness and an inability to be a hypocrite. But it has affected me deeply today and the few days where things have been good have gone to rat-sh*t today as I am struggling to both cope with and vocalise my turbulent thoughts.

But, tomorrow IS another day. And perhaps it won't be as rubbish as I am expecting?

Part #21a

2008-10-14T16:42:00.004+01:00

I was going to remove the blog today and go private, but that is giving in. So I'm not. For those of you to whom I sent an invite to the new one, ignore it. It was an impetuous whim borne from anger and insecurity. Anorexia feeds from that and why should she get bloated when I don't?

WHY?

Why does it have to affect everyone you touch? Why is it The Midas Touch in reverse? Everything you are offered, you refuse...everything which is good for you you turn down, turn your nose up at, abuse, neglect and reject. And I don't just mean food; I also mean support and affection...and even love.

This gremlin squats in my head, living rent-free. It has never paid me anything. A parasite of vast proportions, sapping every bit of my life-blood. Even when I have sat on it and smothered its voice for lengths of time, it can suddenly find some breathing space and yell at the top of its voice. And because it is such a shock, I hear it. And worse still, I listen to it.

I never thought I would say I would opt for deafness if I was to lose a sense. I would have said my sense of smell if forced...but I really want deafness from this Voice in My Head.

The gremlin sounds like my mother, father, brother, and a fair number of ex-partners. Never-ending criticism: moan, moan, moan. Not good enough, got to do better, try harder, not as good as x, y, z. But it's me now, isn't it? They aren't in my life any more - I have had the guts to cut those negative people out, once and for all. Their voices still echo resoundingly, but now in my voice.

Why do we abhor the most basic of requirements? Why don't we think we are worthy of comfort, nutrition and love? Why do we find ourselves so grotesque that we punish ourselves repeatedly?

I don't have this answer. Because if I did, I wouldn't be writing this. I'd be making a fantastic meal for me and my husband, ready for his return.

Numbers don't matter that much to me if I am being '90%' honest. Weight, height, BMI etc. Age is a number, too. What matters is the effect it has on you and yours. Especially 'yours'. They didn't ask for this to happen to them. They cannot change you - only you can. And sometimes it seems such a hard, tough road with many, many battles to conquer.

I keep telling myself it will be worth it in the end as I have known happiness. I really, really have. And I want to go back to that place. It just seems to be located from a long-haul flight with an awful lot of interconnections which I have to negotiate. And it feels like I have to do it on my own, with a massive amount of excess baggage.

Part #21

2008-10-14T09:31:00.006+01:00

A fellow blogger, Melissa, has very recently started to correspond with me via email. She appears to be in a much better place than I am at the moment and is really getting to grips with her own ED and managing it. She commented in one of her mails to me that "Anorexia is the hardest one of all. The most difficult form of self-hatred, loneliness and despair..."

In retrospect, I have to say that I agree with her - and I am not really sure why.

When I struggled with bulimia - which started at age 22 - although there was some weight loss (perhaps up to 20lbs at its 'peak'), I was still maintaining a semblance of normality. I could still go out with friends and family, sit at the table and eat and then make my plausible excuses to get rid of it. I was quite good at fluidly sneaking away at times and always ensured I had my make-up to hand to touch up those sparkling red eyes and the glowing, snotty nose! Although slim, I don't think I could have been deemed 'thin'.

The side-effects of the laxatives were a bit more difficult to hide, for obvious reasons, particularly when having eaten, that chain-reaction of needing to go for the next hour or two becomes apparent and you are sitting at the table, sweating profusely with your eyes and legs crossed. I always seemed to have 'a bit of an upset stomach today' when we were socialising.

Going out running at night didn't raise anyone's eyebrows either. People just thought I was trying to counter the effects of nicotine withdrawal (something which lasted for a grand total of three months!). Those who paid me more attention could see my behaviour wasn't quite normal, though. How could I eat so much and still stay slim? Their perception led to some reluctant confessions, but I did learn to be more honest with people.

Being honest about having an ED is a double-edged sword. As soon as you let people in to your secret, you feel obliged to tell them your every move. Every question has to be answered. Have you weighed yourself today? How many laxatives have you had today? How many binges/purges/meals have you eaten?

These questions are not tedious and do not annoy me. But they do make me squirm inside and although my first reaction is to lie, I don't. Much...Keeping it secret can be a lot easier in some ways.

But nowadays, it seems so much more complicated. As though anorexia has much deeper layers for me, personally. I remember how difficult it was for me to cope with bulimia, but this seems a hell of a lot tougher - both on my body and on my mind.

There's a real, strong aversion to food now squatting in my head - I still loved the taste of food during the bulimia. I actually do now feel 'fat' and 'clumsy' in some ways and am repulsed by the saggy skin on my thighs and my belly whereas the weight loss previously was something which drove me on further and gave me an amount of perverted satisfaction. This weight loss never ceases to disappoint...because my 'control' of it just doesn't seem to be 'good enough'. Mentally, I don't know which way is up and my mood swings are like a force of nature at times. Something I am definitely not proud of, and definitely don't like. It is a real effort at times not to lose my temper at some ill-perceived slight or some jealous feeling of insecurity which can fester away inside of me for hours.

The words 'perfect' and 'perfection' seem to be creeping into my vocabulary more and more. Indeed, Ian mentions it in his last post. I just don't feel as though I am achieving anything, no matter what I do. The house is never 'clean enough'; the food isn't 'good enough'; my grades were never 'good enough'; I was never a 'good enough' Mum, daughter, wife, friend...whatever. I always feel and have felt as though I am not cutting the mustard in many aspects of my life.

Linda appeared to identify in her comment that I was setting myself the 'perfection' standards rather than Ian setting them. And this is true. When I feel as though I am letting others down, I can and will lash out that they 'expect' me to be perfect. But it's not other people, is it? It is me feeling like a loser because I haven't met my own targets. To blame other people is cowardly of me and I am glad that I am suddenly seeing this after reading the responses to his post.

I did have 'yardsticks' to measure myself by, though as I grew up. They were imposed upon me, most definitely. I was never as beautiful as Catherine Zeta Jones; I was never as intelligent as Jan D (who is a beautiful girl and such a marvellous doctor. Just think what you could have done if you'd put your mind to it); I was not as biddable or helpful as my brother; I was not as good a daughter as Janet and Jayne a few doors down. So I had to strive to meet expectations when I didn't really know how the hell to do it. There's no way I could ever look like CZJ, despite my mother primping my hair nightly into her style; I simply didn't have Jan's innate intelligence; I didn't want to stay in the house all the time like my brother, keep quiet and clean my room every day; and Janet & Jayne had a well-off extended family who slipped them quite a lot of money and told them to treat their widowed mother on a regular basis.

Now, I am not bleating here. I'm just stating facts. Being 'good enough' and 'doing your best' were not things I was told as a child. Actually, I lie here. The one time I was told 'do your best' was over my O Levels at age 16. I was pushed into doing chemistry and history, two subjects at which I failed miserably right through my High School years despite revising my backside off. I got two 'Ungradeds' and was thus sent to Coventry for the next three weeks after having been told what a dead loss I was.

So, the self-hatred really kicks in because you never seem to meet your own ridiculously high expectations...and that's a very lonely place because you feel everyone is better than you, that you're just an otiose waste of space and taking up valuable oxygen. And thus that despair sets in because you are striving to change things, and not accepting that certain things just cannot change. I know in my logical mind that I can only look as good as me; be as intelligent as me; be as nice or horrible a person as me; and be as generous and helpful as me. So why does my illogical mind have so much control at the moment? I am fairly sure that most people outside of my family would describe me as a 'normal' person, far from irrational. But again, that's where the loneliness creeps in because you are trying to hide so much of that black character from others.

I started reading work by eminent American psychologist Carl Rogers recently - after Sue mentioning him to me and I discovered this quote:

"The human capacity for awareness and the ability to symbolize gives us enormous power, but this awareness is a double-edged phenomenon : undistorted awareness can lead to full functioning and a rich life, while distortions in awareness lead to maladjustment and a multitude of destructive behaviors" (Rogers, 1965).

So, it would appear that I need to work on my distortions in awareness - and isn't that what anorexia (or indeed any 'disorder) is about and as I have described above? Because, again according to Rogers, undistorted awareness leads to The Good Life. And I'd like a taste of that with my food.

Supporting Anorexia: Control & Intervention

2008-10-12T20:27:00.006+01:00

Annie told me to pull this. She said it was hypocrisy. She told me tonight that she doesn't see a future for us. She told me tonight that she has no one. That she thinks that I expect perfection. She thinks I don't love her anymore, and that she's not sure whether she loves me. Maybe I'm not acting like I do love her. Maybe I'm struggling with this ED more than I know. As I paste this post back into the blog, please remember that it was written over the course of a week. I hope it helps you, the reader, come to terms with just how rough it is supporting someone with an ED. Maybe you should ignore this and take it as a list of things not to do. Knowing what to do, and actually doing it, are sometimes two very different things.

I hope this doesn't come across as vanity publishing. I really do...

(Ian, 12/10/2008, 20:36)

So. Not posted for a while, and to be honest, this is the longest of them all I think.

Things have been pretty rough for me over the last couple of weeks. My boss has generously given me a few days off, which has helped enourmously to catch up on sleep etc, but it hasn't really helped with the "coping" which, at the moment, is getting harder.

It's difficult not having anyone to talk to. What's worse is the fact that Annie can see when things aren't right, and there is no point in lying to her. As soon as I discuss my fears, it seems her fears return even stronger and her renewed conviction that I'm going to leave comes to the fore. Before long, we're fighting, and I'm not even sure anymore why. We do now, seem to have reached an agreement whereby I can talk when I need to with Annie just listening. This is a tenuous agreement though, because when Annie's ED has a strong hold (or the effects of it), it becomes very difficult.

The girls were away last weekend, and with me devoting time purely to Annie, we had a lovely time. No worrying about cooking, no pressures on me from work, and just a nice peaceful time to relax and enjoy each others company. I dragged Annie out on both days, and we enjoyed a short walk down by the river on Sunday, blowing the cobwebs away, and generally just chilling out. The best news of all for me though, was that Annie managed a light lunch and an evening meal on both days, which must have been tough, but as we discussed later, was made easier by the fact that there were no pressures from the kids or any other extrnal sources.

Monday wasn't so good. I went into the office for the first time in a while, and Annie had a bit of a traumatic day to say the least. Having a conversation over the phone is not one of my strong points. Firstly because there is nowhere quiet in my office, and the only quiet places are within earshot of other people. This doesn't help much unfortunately when you're trying to talk to someone about how much pain they are in, and all the other worries. Dividing your time between someone with an ED, and other demands can be very difficult, and at times I am distracted by work "please do this asap" emails.

So when I got home on Monday night, Annie was not well. She was exhausted, and in a good deal of pain. She woke me up in the middle of the night with her somnambulism, and was not happy. This happened a couple of times during the night, and I found myself laying next to her, drifting in and out of sleep, constantly checking the bed next to me to see if she was still there. When I awoke in the morning and commented on what a rough night it had been, Annie had no knowledge of the events.

Now this has happened a couple of times before, and the arguments we've had while she's been asleep have hurt me, and left me feeling hollow the next day. There is no recollection of the argument, and thus there is no closure to the words we exchange. I'm a brooder too which doesn't help, and as we are all wont to do, I dwell on the negative words rather too much sometimes. I do treat Annie's ED as a seperate entity, but it is really very difficult at times not to take offense at the person who is using words borne of "the voice". I wish I didn't dwell on these things so much.

Talking to Annie about my feelings is a mixed blessing. As I sat at the table one night last week, and poured out random rubbish from inside my head, I couldn't help notcing the sadness in her eyes as she sat there, thinking. I didn't probe further, because, for a change, I needed to get things out. I'd been to see a counsellor earlier in the day - provided by my employer. I was later told that this counselling is often of a "quick fix" type. It was clear that this was the case, as there was little empathy from the lady who seemed to want to just get to the bottom of things. Indeed, after I had recounted the tales that you have read as part of this blog, we both just sat there in silence. Me, waiting for her to say something helpful, constructive or insightful, and her, just mulling things over quietly to finally reply with "hmm... that sounds like it must be quite difficult.". I'm not sure I'll go again. I stated from the outset what I wanted to achieve, which is a mechanism for coping with the effects of supporting someone with an ED. There was recognition that this was even possible from her point of view, and no feedback from my one hour monologue.

I do think that it takes a "skill" for wont of a better word to look after someone who has an ED (or any other type of disorder). Jumping in blind definately doesn't work. You need infinite patience, and the ability to listen and empathise. After my counselling session, I came away thinking that I had better skills at this than the person I'd just been talking to. And even I know that I need help honing these skills.

I've been thinking a good deal about intervention and control recently. How do I intervene without taking control from Annie? Can I do this? Is it possible, or is it not my job, and should intervention be best left to those with the skills?

Control is something that is difficult to understand, as it is based on the perception of the "controller" and the "controlee". As a very simple example, #1 was getting the pep talk last night about "going out". We said that if she went out, we would want to know where she was going, how she was getting there, how she was getting back, and what time she was going and coming back. These things are asked purely to make sure she is safe. Is she going to be walking alone in the dark? Is she going to be with friends? What time do we need to start to worry if we haven't heard from her? However, her perception is entirely different I'm sure. She's a teenager after all. She wants independence. She wants freedom to do as she pleases, and she doesn't want nosey parents sticking their oars into her business. Does she see it as control? Probably. Our words that say we only want her to be safe, could be construed as excuses for the real reason (in her eyes): They're watching me! This is a simple example of control, and how it can be perceived differently. it is control, because, as parents, we state that if those conditions are not met, she's not going out. Is it reasonable? I'm sure parents of teenage girls would say yes, but what about a teenage lad?

Looking at an ED is far more complex. It is borne of a feeling of a lack of control, so intervention is even more difficult, as almost anything that can be perceived by the sufferer as "control" will be. When I speak, I have to be careful that words expressing care and concern are not taken as words of control.

So I did some reading on Intervention, and discovered that, like all concepts, it's a bit more complicated than you might think, so before I start, I think I need to define what I mean by intervention.

For the purposes of this blog, I define intervention as "doing something that would interfere with the natural order of things". From turning off a tap to prevent it overflowing, to taking an axe to a set of scales. Some of the people who have read this blog have intervened by posting comments. Some have chosen not to, by just reading, then moving on to something else. Maybe they come back, maybe they don't, but they choose not to intervene for whatever reason.

And these reasons for intervention are complex. Often, intervention takes place without thinking about it. The tap gets turned off, because that stops the sink flooding, and expensive repair bills. Very straightforward. But perhaps the sink was being filled by someone else for a purpose unbeknownst to the tap-turner-offer (I really must get used to typing in some form of "person"... I don't want to use "you" because that implies I am telling you something. I hate using "one" because it's clumsy. Suggestions, as always, appreciated). That intervention then becomes less useful, because the sink still has to be filled. Am I rambling uselessly here?

OK. Get to the point Ian. Support is a form of intervention. Without support, Annie's Rexia would follow a course of action. Maybe she would get help on her own, maybe she wouldn't. Taking this a step back even further, I am actually intervening simply by being part of Annie's life. I knew that I would be doing that when I contacted her almost a year ago now. Love was the motivating force then, and it remains my guiding light of hope now.

I watch Annie and her ED, and it makes me scared. I don't want her to die. It's that simple. I want her to be happy, healthy, and making me chuckle with Hex My Ex. It is a natural urge (I think) to want to change things when you see them going wrong. Especially if you have made the same mistakes, and can offer advice and help to prevent the same mistakes being made. How many books and DVD's are there out there telling you how to do pretty much anything from lose 200lbs in 5 seconds, to building your own house.

Dragging this back to the point though, when I see Annie suffering, I want to make things better. As someone that has never suffered an ED, my mistake was to assume that simple intervention would save the day. Eating Disorder. Answer:Just eat. Fall flat at the first hurdle, do not pass go, do not collect £200.

And therein lies the problem with any intervention. If you don't know what it is your trying to help with, how can you possibly know how to help? On the face of it, eating disorders are a relatively common psychological illness. Yet there is no straightforward "cure", despite many many experts' efforts. How then, can you, as a supporter of someone with an ED, help?

Well, you can and you can't. Is that clear? Nope? Good. Now you're beginning to understand the complexities here. Understanding the issues behind Annie's ED is the key for me. I really need to be able to put myself into Annie's shoes, and that may sound easy, but an ED is a devious bastard, and all too often I am lured into thinking everything is OK, only to find out later that it's very much not. Complacency is probably my greatest enemy.

Take this blog as an example. Writing these events down has no doubt taken its toll on Annie. As I read each post, I go to see her and ask if she's OK. Mostly, we chat about what she's written, I put my arms around her, and we hold each other. Not much that has been written here is old news to me. I've heard all these stories several times, which invariably lessens the impact. The problem is that Annie is living with these things inside her head, every single day. To write them down like this is so tough for her, yet I forget sometimes how tough that can be. I need to be there to support her, and I think I am most of the time, but sometimes (when I'm at work for example, and in the middle of something) I fall down. Indeed, it was my idea that she blog this. I see myself as responsible for any ill effects of this, even though it is Annie's choice to post. Was this intervention good? Time will tell I guess, but the magic 8 ball currently says "possibly" (although it also said "yes" in response to "greqgfda gfda d dfsa?". I hope I found a good balance between intervention and control here. I planted an idea, and Annie (for the most part) has carried it through.

Getting help from Sue though had to be her choice. Again, I suggested it, but I couldn't arrange the appointment. When Annie finally did it, I cried with relief. I think Annie was a little surprised at my reaction, but these tenative first few steps are so important because they are actually steps in the right direction.

So today, I read a site that Annie has pointed out to me: Anorexia Carers. It is a great site for quick, easy to read information on how to help someone suffering with Anorexia. I will be adding it to our list of recommended links. One of the more interesting analogies on the site talks about the "gremlin" that is an ED. The sufferer is regarded as normal, but with this gremlin on their shoulder. What I partcularly liked about this description is that each step on the road to recovery is like a slap in the face to this gremlin, whose sole objective is to get rid of you (the support) so that it can work on the sufferer un-interrupted. Let me tell you, I relish every slap and kick I give (or help Annie to give) to this horrible little thing. I just wish I could steel myself against the pain it so often causes me, so I could better support Annie.

Part #20

2008-10-10T15:46:00.014+01:00

OK. So, sort of a confession in that I didn't go to see my counsellor on Monday as originally arranged. But I did reschedule and went this morning, which I feel was better for me: have a ten day break as opposed to a seven day one.

At 5am, I woke up in a bit of a panic about it. My stomach went into knots, the sweat started pouring out of me and I fretted for a while, thinking up excuses as to how to postpone again. But I eventually fell back to sleep for a short while before the alarm and resolved to go, come what may.

I drove there very sedately - normally, I drive like a frenzied madman, rushing to get to places and snarling at anyone on a bike who is in my way. But this morning, I wound the car window down, took it 10mph below the speed limit and marvelled at the fantastic colours in the autumnal trees. It really has suddenly become spectacular around here - no doubt it is due to the torrential rains and then the beautiful, warm, early autumn sunshine we have been lucky enough to have for a whole three days! The reds, oranges and yellows are quite breath-taking and the early morning, dewy smells just make me want to bottle them for future use.

I felt hollowed out this morning; flat as a pancake; sick to my stomach and so very, very sad inside. Ian had spoken to me at length last night about things bothering him and I listened intently, without interruption or judgement, so he felt he could speak without fear of recrimination, condemnation or an argument. I am glad he feels able to talk to me still. If the lines of communication between us break down, then we are in serious trouble, but luckily, we both insist upon talking to each other and make a big point of this.

I wasn't sure if I would be up to talking for an hour. I am in utter agony today with my legs, hips and pelvis. Climbing any steps or stairs is an effort; my heart is banging out of my rib-cage; and I feel weary. I anticipated that all I would do was sob, I felt so rotten.

I surprised myself! I shed nary a tear, and even had a few laughs with Sue at certain points. As last week, she was kindness itself. Attentive, empathetic, understanding and personable. I do like her, very much. And she'd had the decency to read this blog as I suggested, so she could get a bit of background to me without my having to repeat myself. I was really pleased about that. Many people say they will read stuff you have written, but don't bother. But she had taken the time and for that I was very grateful.

We spoke about the time since our last meeting. Ian and I had a very good weekend, but Monday and Tuesday were nightmares - quite literally, as on Monday night, I sleep-walked twice, spat invective at him, and had no idea what he was on about next day. It knocked him for six and we had a very edgy 24 hours together.

We spoke at length about my relationship with my parents and my concomitant guilt about everything. I was always made to feel guilty about everything if it didn't conform to my parents' high standards. My guilt, I sort of discovered today, from my own exploration of events with Ian later, is deeply manifested in the way my mother spoke to me. I was constantly being told, if it wasn't for me, she would have left with my brother and been a happier woman: gone to secretarial college; met a new man; made a life for herself...but I was in the way, eight years younger than Paul.

She and my father rowed explosively. On a regular basis, I had no idea what atmosphere I would be returning home to: animosity; acrimoniousness; silence; maybe easiness? As Sue described it, it was 'chaotic'. Whenever they had rowed, my mother would confide in me and tell me, in great detail about what they had argued over. Some things she told me should never be divulged to a small child or even a teenager. I grew to despise my father - but then, I was terrified of him and his violent temper anyway, so any excuse to hate him further sat well with me. But it was one-sided. I only ever heard her point of view.

She told me about something which he'd said once, which I have never forgotten and which has always made me feel very queasy and uncomfortable. I'm not certain what age I was, but I was still 'innocent'. My father had brought some fresh fish home from the kitchens at his work, taken a seat on the bench in the garden upon his return from work, put the bagged fish under the bench, and promptly forgotten about it. A few days later, having sat in the summer temperatures, that fish was starting to stink. The pair of them sat on the bench one evening and my father remarked on the fishy stench. He then turned to my mother and told her to close her legs as he didn't like the fishy smell.

At a young age, I had a vague idea what was going on with this comment and it sat very, very uncomfortably with me. I didn't want to hear my mother being subjected to such an obnoxious statement and I didn't want to know that my father had said it. I should never have been told it: full stop. I always have to ask myself, though, was it really said, because my mother is a past master with lies.

She lied to me dreadfully when I split up with my ex-partner (let's call him 'Richard'). Told me he had rung her and said he couldn't abide me; I was driving him around the bend; I needed to be put away - words to that effect. Indeed, I discovered 12 months ago that it was she who had called him and ranted without him able to get a word in edge-wise and told him to keep away from me. And she led me to believe that he hated my guts. I was shocked when he told me the truth some time later...And I was even more shocked that she admitted it about three weeks ago in our last (ever) telephone call, with such calculation, chill and utter lack of remorse or apology.

Sue and I went on to discuss the control issues I have. The controlling influence my parents have had on me, making me apologise for every single 'mistake' - I will apologise to anybody for everything. I feel guilt for everything. Even today, she quoted an eminent American psychologist to me and I asked if his name was 'with a K'. She replied, 'No, a C'. 'Oops, sorry,' I blurted instantly. 'Why are you apologising?'...and I felt so stupid. I could feel my ears burning with shame that I had done it again. Apologised when I didn't really have to.

My father has told me on three occasions that he has a stake in my life. This is due to the monies he gave to me to buy this house. Both me and my brother were given the same amounts to purchase our houses. I refused my money for some time, suspecting that I might be held to ransom, but they played the guilt-card over the girls, saying that they needed a 'decent home' in which to be raised and admittedly, house prices in Cheshire, at the time, were way over the top for somebody in my position. So, I eventually accepted the money and it was proferred as a gift and I was assured that my brother would receive exactly the same amount.

I was never allowed to forget it. Every 'manly task' I asked my father to do for me was done with the smell of burning martyr. If I offended him, a piece of paper would be pulled out of his back pocket with all the work he had done and how much it would have cost me had I hired a tradesman.

I do everything for my daughters, without wanting a penny's recompense, and I would imagine that most parents are the same as me.

My brother doesn't speak to my parents any more, either, I believe. There was an uneasy reconcilation in January last year when my mother was taken into hospital with pericarditis. And it has fallen flat again. He once described living with them like 'being on Monserrat'. Before this uneasy reconciliation, he was cut out of their will. I was consulted about the exclusion and said I wanted no part of his share - I told them I thought they should attempt to make amends. They did try, and he wasn't interested, but I still insisted that those monies should not go to me or my daughters.

So, at the time, they re-wrote their wills. And put conditions onto their legacies. Rosemary, Bethan and I would have to undergo health checks and blood tests to ensure that we had no history of smoking, imbibing alcohol or taking drugs before any inheritance was released. When I heard this, I scoffed and said, Well, I'm not giving up smoking! So you might as well bequeath my share to a charity. The girls have been told, in plain English, their conditions. I have spoken to them on an aside and said, Well, you know my feelings about drugs and smoking, but what I would do, is stay as clean as possible and then order a few Magnums of champagne once the money is in your bank account! They just shrugged their shoulders. They won't ever go without and if their bitter, twisted grandparents want to control them from the grave, I don't think they are actually going to manage it as they are secure with me, Ian and, indeed, Anal.

More conditions have been imposed today. Ian took Rosemary to a counselling session which she has had to attend since her overdose. It was her last session today. But Anal has been playing up again and 'the other woman' has also attended a meeting in order to persuade the counsellor to see that Bethan is being unreasonable. 'The other woman' and Anal now think a meeting between them and Ian and me is in order. Ian snorted when told this and I did, too. So, we all sit there, four 'mature adults'; they knod their heads knowingly, agreeing with everything this weird beardie says, we dispute it as we know what these girls go through, and are then made out to be the unreasonable ones. And why the hell would I want to see her? She sports teeth which she is breaking in for a racehorse and her legs are on upside down (her ankles are fatter than her thighs - and that is how Anal once described her, prior to their tryst!). She also betrayed me immensely. So, no, I don't want to see her, nor do I want to talk with her, in any way shape or form. They are the most duplicitous pair I have ever met. They say whatever the counsellors want to hear and then do the opposite 'in real life'.

We've just had a chat with Beth and I have heard some heart-wrenching stuff from her. She needs our support and she'll bloody get it. And the CAMH counsellor will hear it too, in a letter from me. If you have to fight badness, you have to fight it. And I'll fight for my girls until the bitter end...

More tomorrow...

Part #19

2008-10-09T09:32:00.004+01:00

In my days of reading self-help books to fight the ED (and I must have read pretty much every single one now!) I came across a quote from a psychiatrist who believes one never recovers from an ED, one simply comes to 'an understanding' around food.

I actually think this can be the case for some people in recovery. In 'normal' times, when I am not abusing my body with anything but nicotine, although I will eat, I still think about every mouthful which goes inside me. There's almost a whirring of cogs going off if I am having a meal at a restaurant, mentally calculating fat contents, calories, sacrifices to be made next day. If I have a meal which is made with, say, a cheese-based sauce, I know I have to have salads for a few days afterwards. I rarely allow myself a pudding, but will dip into other people's at their invitation. I haven't actually derived much gastronomic pleasure in 'normal' times, but at least I have been at a healthy weight and looked well.

About 18 months ago, I gave up red and white meat. Not for ethical reasons - for dietary ones - and chose to eat fish and seafood. I have always enjoyed anything which 'swims or sticks to rocks', so the decision was not a hard one! Since Christmas, whenever the girls are staying with us for the weekend, we have started a tradition of having Sunday Roast together. This entails a hell of a lot of work, admittedly, but it's worth it for us all to sit and enjoy our time together, discussing our week gone and week to come. I have attempted the chicken on a couple of occasions and end up feeling ghastly afterwards. My digestive system just cannot cope with that type of meat any more.

Ironically, I love to bake and cook. I will bake for hours on end making all sorts of sumptuous delights for the girls and Ian. And I DO derive great pleasure from seeing others enjoy their food...in a slightly wistful way.

I find myself checking out the shapes of other women in the street, particularly if they are with a man, and feeling envious that they look so comfortable with their bodies. Curves on a woman are still beautiful in my opinion. I don't think I look attractive, but this ED isn't about my looks; it's more about my self-loathing and punishment. I often can feel rather jealous if I see women tucking into chocolates, crisps, 'fatty foods' - I have never felt sanctimonious about my 'control' (or lack thereof) and seen myself as superior because I am 'thin'. Never. I am just jealous of them and how they are able to go from day to day without batting an eyelid about what they eat.

Both our girls have beautiful bodies. Rosemary has a figure like Catherine Zeta Jones and as Beth pads out, I imagine she will be very similar. Rosemary will often talk to me about my ED and I am always open with her - the more she understands, the less likely she is to follow my pattern, I hope. She has girlfriends who have had anorexia and thinks it's sad. Knowing what it does to a person, first-hand, I think is giving her knowledge, and knowledge is power. She has laughed with me and said, I don't think I could ever be anorexic, Mum - I love my food too much! And I hug her, kiss her and tell her that's the best thing I could ever hear.

She's a very grounded girl, these days - especially now that she is back living with me and Ian. She craved a normal family life and it took her a while to realise that she had it, hence a few lairy moments over the last 10 months. Since returning to High School after summer break, she has become a different person in some ways. She and Ian get on marvellously, which warms my heart - sometimes, step-relationships can take a turn for the worse, can't they?

She's going to France on Sunday with her school and I had to sign a permission slip a few weeks ago to allow her to sample frogs' legs and snails. I was quite shocked that I had to sign this! When she saw that I had agreed, she showed mock indignation that I could subject her to it. But I explained that the choice was hers - she could choose to refuse if she so wished. She suspects she is going to be brave enough to sample the frogs' legs, but probably not the snails. I told her they were the best bit. I had snails years ago in South Africa. They were out of this world! Although they didn't stay down...

Ian and I have some weird and wonderful conversations at times. Last week, on the way back from the counsellor, we stopped for a drink at the pub and he asked me, if food had no calories, fat content, health connotations, what would your meal be? I was allowed three choices of starter, main and pudding. I chose the following, which made him blanch somewhat:

Oysters Kilpatrick

Garlic Snails

Eland on brown bread toast

Barbequed baby octopus on a fresh orange and green leaf salad (something I sampled on a daily basis in Surfer's Paradise, in Queensland)

Lobster Thermidore

Seafood risotto, heaving with lobster and squid

Cheesecake: blackcurrant; and Baileys (this counts as two choices!)

The cheeseboard with loads of pongy blue, strong cheeses, Camembert, Brie, Double Gloucester, the white crumblies such as Lancashire, Cheshire or Caerphilly and lots of Digestive or Hovis biscuits. No puffy water biscuits, thank you!

He, in turn, gave me his. Which involved fillet steak. So that night, I cooked it for him. I'd bought a fantastic chunk of prime fillet from our local butcher rather than the supermarket and it was lovely. And he told me it was the best steak he had ever had in his life, which is praise indeed from Ian where his steaks are concerned!

I know that Ian wants his curvaceous Annie back. He has become wary of complimenting me at times in case he puts the idea into my head that he prefers me like this. I know he isn't that shallow. I know that Ian never puts any hold on what people look like; he's only interested in what's inside their heads and hearts, so there is never any pressure from him to conform to some 'Glossy' ideal. One of my friend's daughters has been under inordinate pressure from her boyfriend to be thin. He has eaten away at her self-confidence and thus she has eaten away at her heart. She developed anorexia, much to Alison's dismay and sadness.

What don't ED sufferers understand about food? Why don't we shake off the low self-esteem issues? Why do we punish ourselves by denying ourselves something which is vital? And it is a denial. Drug and alcohol abuses are not denials of vital things. Yes, they can ruin vital things, but they are a partaking of something extra. Bulimia and Anorexia stop your enjoyment of something wholly normal and wholly necessary for survival. And it sucks.

So, I do hope that an understanding is reached at some point for me. And a true one - not a wishy-washy, I-Must-Count-Every-Calorie-Which-Goes-Inside-My-Body understanding. If I have rambled, I apologise. It always helps to get my confusing thoughts down, though...

Part #18

2008-10-06T09:40:00.009+01:00

Just been to see my GP, Dr R. I wish I could have him preserved. I dread the day he retires; he is such a marvel. I have never encountered a GP as empathetic, pro-active and caring as he is, in this country.

We had a good long chat and I probably really annoyed the person due in after me as I must have taken up way more than my allotted ten minutes.

With all the bruising on my body, Dr R suggested that I may be suffering with scurvy. We had a small chuckle about it and indeed, Ian suggested I wrote a bit of a nautical, whimsical post for HME about it. Yes, Seaman Staines, Master Bates and Cap'n Annie Rexia. I can see it now!

So, I am off for coagulation tests on Thursday morning. With reference to a very droll comment by Linda as to how much the womb weighs, I wonder how much a syringe of blood weighs. (I am being sardonic, here!)

I am being referred 'urgently' to a specialist due to rectal bleeding. About 7-8 years ago, I had a haemorrhoidectomy and during the investigations, pre-cancerous Adenomatous polyps were discovered. They were subsequently removed via colonoscopy. I did explain in this post that it was suggested to me by the surgeon that anal sex could be a contributing factor in the cause of these things - but I cannot be sure as I also smoke, drink alcohol and have eaten fatty foods in my past. I was also advised to have 3-yearly checks. And I haven't. Why? Because I have been dreading what might be found; dreading the prospect of a further haemorrhoidectomy (which was more agonising than giving birth to quintuplets) and dreading having to go to Leighton Hospital, which is Satan's own personal Shop of Horrors in Cheshire.

Thank God, Ian now has me covered under his private medical, so I can go to a clean hospital, where there isn't vomit drying on the floor next to your bed for days; old ladies aren't left soaking in their own excrement, sobbing for a nurse; where asking for a bed pan isn't seen as a bother and chore.

Leighton Hospital terrifies me. I was taken there for the first time ever in November 2006. It's not a day I want to remember but it appears to be seared into my memory. I shan't go into the ins and outs of why I had taken an overdose, and why I was then badly with the ED: but it was living hell. And it never got better for a long time.

When I finally got my discharge, three days later, having seen a psychotherapist who asked me why on earth I had attempted suicide using such an unreliable method (a question which beggars belief, even to this day, especially as he asked it in such a jovial manner), I attempted to get access to my house.

I had been taken in by the police and paramedics. I was taken as found - comatose, lying in blood and vomit. They had broken into my house after receiving a phone call from my ex-partner. All my clothes were cut off me, my jewellery was never to be seen again, and I had no money or mobile phone. I asked a kind lady if she would mind 'giving' me £1.00 - there was little way I could pay her back; and she did. So, I rang my Mother and asked if she had my spare keys.

She spewed venom at me and told me Anal had them. So I rang off quickly, asked him if this was the case and he denied it with such conviction that I knew he was telling me the truth. So I called her back and then she told me the Police had them and that there was no way she was trekking to the police station (30 minutes away) to get them for me. I informed her that without my keys, I had nowhere to go, had no access to my house and the hospital didn't want me any more. After some further questioning, she admitted that she had them.

I begged her to leave them in a safe place for me for my return at 3pm. And I asked her NOT to be waiting for me as I was so depleted there was no way I could stand further tirades from her.

I returned to a bitterly cold house. Upstairs, it looked like the rooms had been ransacked by burglars. Books were scattered all over the floor, the bookcase had been shunted into the bathroom with no access to the toilet, so that the paramedics could stretcher me out down the narrow staircase into the ambulance; and there was blood all over the bed and vomit up the walls.

And downstairs, propped up on the mantlepiece, was a letter in very familiar handwriting.

So, she had acquiesced to my request not to be there in person but she left her stamp. The letter went on for about eight pages, both sides, denegrating me; calling me a 'useless bastard'; an evil woman; a woman not deserving of living; hardly surprising that I was now single...and on, and on, it went. I sat here, on the living room floor, in hospital cast-offs, walls devoid of paintings because they had gone with my now non-existent partner, the place cold and damp, smelly and dirty. It was a hard home-coming. I rang my brother who promptly told me to 'Piss Off' and at that point I knew I had little left.

I called Anal and asked him to return the girls to me. He refused and thus started one of the most bitter court cases I can imagine wherein he made me out to be worse than a paedophile; a danger to society; told the most dreadful lies about things the girls allegedly said (and I know these to be lies because they have confirmed it since); supervised the hourly contact I had with Beth each week; and had me condemned as a criminal.

I attended court more times than I care to mention in 2006/07. I was represented by a Barrister who couldn't be fagged to make it on time and got chastised by the Judge. I had medical evidence to disprove some of the lies Anal was levying at me, but nothing got through. Every day was an ordeal. I wrote about it - had a piece published at one point. It was unpaid, but it just helped me get through things.

We had to return to CAFCASS who 'put children first'. We had the most arrogant male officer known to man whom, I swear, was a misogynist. He despised me and fawned over Anal. He wouldn't listen to Beth who was 'for' me; would only listen to Rosemary who was 'against' me - she didn't speak to me for six months. I was harangued and lied about. In the end, I actually started to analyse all the reports and check facts. They were sorely lacking. So, I started reading Human Rights and Childrens Acts reports, looked up guardian ad litem facts and set about fighting with a zeal. I lobbied my local MP for assistance - and he was marvellous and utterly galvanised things. CAFCASS suddenly had to answer to their errors. There was an investigation into malpractise and mis-information...and unfortunately, it all suddenly went belly-up because it was due to the initial reportage from the Police.

Things actually turned around of their own accord, despite all the warring and fighting. One gets used to being alone and the visits from the girls were wonderful and welcome. But I threw myself into work with a gusto - working 12 hour days and often at the weekends. My house was pristine; I went out dating with morons (which is all written about, in gory detail on HexMyEx) and after about eight months or so, the broken heart which I held for my ex-partner, (not Anal!) had mended resolutely. Then Ian came back into my life, which was the most wonderful thing to happen, and the girls, still fighting to return to me, took matters into their own hands...

Rosemary, by this stage, needed Mum. She wanted 'gurlie things' to discuss with a female; not her hunch-backed father. She started to play up dreadfully. Accusations of abuse were flung around and Ian and I set off at 10pm to collect her more times than either of us care to remember. One particular night, she was exceptionally sensitive to everything - she was to return to her father's house the next day (I was the non-residential parent at this stage). She and I argued about something, and suddenly, she had taken an overdose.

Life just seemed to go into a pale drag. I recall ringing NHS Direct; I recall Ian trying to calm her down; I recall her face, smeared with mascara, bright red with her dreadful urticaria which was flaring terribly due to stress; her pink fluffy dressing gown; the utter panic from Beth...and then we were in the ambulance, and off to The Shop of Horrors.

It was a rough night. It took me an hour or so to pluck up the courage to call Anal. In the meantime, I sat with her while she had her bloods taken, helped the lady in the next bed whose son had suffered concussion and was vomiting endlessly and needed more 'kidney' bowls, and legged it outside for furtive cigarettes.

Anal arrived at 2am. We both decided it was time to go at 4am and I asked for a lift home. Thankfully, he agreed. I walked back to the house (I asked him to drop me on the main road) to the birds coming awake and felt sick to my pit.

Next day, I phoned my boss and told him what had happened. He was good to me. I then awaited a phone call from the hospital to tell me when we were needed for the psycotherapy team, CAMH. I didn't have the energy to return beforehand, and also had an 11 year old to sort out. So Ian and I went when called. And Anal was there, too. And to my utter, retrospective anger, I didn't bring Ian in to the meeting - we weren't married then.

Anal and I were asked to listen to what Rosemary had been saying about her sadness and desire to self-harm. I said nothing at all. Anal attempted to shout down the psychotherapist, D, repeatedly. It was embarrassing for him, as he came across so arrogant and foolish. Rosemary was wan, tired, and had impressed upon D that all she wanted was to return, full-time, to her mother.

And she did, thank God. 5 March 2008. Anal gave up his fight - not graciously, at all! He made out to all and sundry who cared to listen that he was only 'doing it for the girls' and believed that a return to him would be best all round in the end. But, for once, nobody was listening TO him.

Rosemary and I still have bitter rows. She is almost 14 and exploring avenues which I am not too happy about. Intrinsically, she is a very good girl, but gets very distracted. She has a long-standing boyfriend and I know certain things have happened which destroyed me, but I have to support her and be open with her - otherwise, where can she turn?

Out of all that battle, last year, there were a lot of people I despised: the ex-partner for letting me down when I needed him most; the ex-husband for stepping up his campaign of destruction; and my parents for all the reasons I have divulged.

I no longer despise my ex-partner: he is a character long gone out of my life and I hope to God he never returns. The ex is unfortunately a necessary evil while the girls are under the age of majority; but my parents...

I am revolted by my mother. I had a dream about two weeks ago wherein I turned to her and said, Aren't you dead yet? That must sound horrible, but in some ways, I feel the only release from her bitterness, twistedness, and that osmosis of 'Annie-hating' to my father (who claimed, only 18 months ago that he had a 'stake in my life' due to the monies he had given me to purchase this house) will only be cleansed once she has gone.

I dreamed last night that my father had come to the house to talk. I offered him my homemade cakes, sat him down in our new conservatory where he wondered and complimented. We sat and chatted amiably while he tickled the kitten (he adores cats) and then he broached my mother. And I told him I never wanted anything to do with her, ever again. In response, he told me that she was dying.

To my 'detriment'(?), my response was the same: I want nothing further to do with her.

Now I am awake, I can reaffirm, this is STILL the case...

Part #17

2008-10-04T11:12:00.005+01:00

I guess this is just a diary post and doesn't have any rhyme or reason...'Note to self: eat some food, for God's sake...'

So, second session of counselling to come on Monday and an early doctor's appointment. I'm already thinking of excuses not to go to either, but realise I just have to. I'm not really sure what it is which bothers me so much. Not exactly 'realisation' of things and 'confrontation' of events - I do that in this blog. Just a bit of background dis-ease.

My weight has plateaued for a while. And suddenly, 3lb have come off. And oddly, I have been trying really hard to keep meals in as often as possible, too. Last night, a small plate of fish and veg stayed in and down. I guess it could be something to do with the biochemistry of digestion and carb-burning, but it's 18 years since I did Biol, so forgive my rustiness!

I'm also not 100% certain exactly WHY the pain in my legs and hips is now worsening to such a degree that I don't know what to do with myself at times, although I know malnutrition is obviously a major factor. The mineral inbalances won't help, either, despite the supplements I take. Last night, I couldn't get comfortable - sitting on a hot water bottle like an old woman with piles! Up-down; up-down; moan, moan, moan. I was a miserable bugger last night! When we went to bed, I had this startling sensation through my left leg. You know when you awake in the mornings, have a stretch and you can't quite clench the muscles in your hands properly because they are so relaxed from the sleep? My whole left leg went like that. All the muscles were useless. It perplexed me slightly. More so because it took me a while to actually describe what it was like to Ian.

I seem to be teetering back towards 'bulimarexia'. It's not a condition I am happy to be heading towards at all. Confusion reigneth in my head so much and I feel like I am going bonkers sometimes. It's playing havoc with my circulation and I am either ice cold or the sweat literally pours out of me. There are times such as last night when I will eat a small meal and force myself not to get rid of it - even though this can sometimes cause me a fair bit of mental angst for a good hour or so - and there are other times when I cannot go near food for wanting to retch...then there are the times when I want to hoover up everything savoury in sight.

I suppose the bingeing could be unkindly misconstrued as greed. It must appear rather odd to someone who enjoys their food 'normally' to watch someone gorge on all sorts of delights (although my 'downfall' is simple bread) and then bring it all back up. It's so much deeper than that, though - and extremely difficult to explain. It's not an example of 'wanting my cake and eating it' (if you'll pardon the pun!) it's that old demon, 'control'...and its sister 'lack of...' The 'white mist' I described in an earlier post which took over during my cutting periods is very much alive and present during the binge times and is visiting more often than I like.

I have become dreadfully self-conscious. I feel myself burning up with embarrassment at all sorts of events, comments, situations. Where once I could back-chat any man, now they only have to look at me and I can blush dreadfully. If I screw up my reverse parking, I am blushing, even if there is no-one around; sexual innuendoes make me blush; certain things which have happened to me over the years - if I recall them - they have the potential to make me blush...even if I am completely alone and am not discussing it with anyone. I hate it. I thought I had got over my ridiculous blushing in my early 20s when I left home. It is horrible that it has returned with such a vengeance now. Why on earth should it have come back?

I don't feel very attractive at all. Although I haven't exactly stopped taking pride in my appearance, I find just blending in to the background, wearing jeans, sloppy tops, boots etc just lets me fade into insignificance. My wardrobe of beautiful skirts and dresses hardly sees the light of day. Little fits, admittedly, but certain outfits I feel as though I'm not worthy enough to wear. Does that make any sense? Where once I was flattered by a compliment, now I feel very uncomfortable. If someone hasn't seen me for a while and comments on my weight loss, I squirm inside and try to change the subject rapidly. If it's a woman who remarks, it can be a bloody nightmare, as they "Want To Know [My] Secret".

So, this evening, we are making the effort to 'dress for dinner'. Candles, tablecloths, posh outfits - the works. A bit of lippy won't go amiss, either! It's all too easy to sink into a rut. And climbing back out from the bottom is harder than working your way back from half-way up. As long as you can keep getting out of bed in the mornings...

As Anne Lamott said:

Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: You don't give up.

Part #16

2008-10-01T10:33:00.010+01:00

[Caveat: I have debated long and hard as to publish this post. I apologise if it offends anyone. If it does, write to me personally.]

I have had this 'Memory Post' burning up in me since I got out of bed this morning. It was cobwebbed from the comment I made yesterday about how the ex had said I was a victim and brought a lot of it on myself due to being 'soft'.

The ex used to enjoy his Dubai 7s Rugby Tournaments and went each year. He would always take my mobile phone because it 'roamed' and his didn't, in the event that I needed him. The moment he got in his car to drive up, he'd turn it off. I never recall him having it turned on, to be honest.

The first time he went, I was up to High Doh because I had lost a whole book's worth of 'floppy discs' - can anyone remember those now?? I had been editing/writing The Muscat Explorer and all my work was saved onto three 3.5" floppies. I was going frantic. I knew where I had last left them, and I knew my deadline. Was I going to have to do it all over again? I begged him to stay and help me find them, and in the event that I couldn't, he could at least care for the girls whilst I made reparation, but he refused: Nope, I am off. Doesn't matter.

But it did. It meant so much to me due to all the hard work I had put in - covering for sloppy correspondents and re-writing their restaurant entries by getting chatted up by cheesey Lebanese managers; visiting girlie bars and reviewing 'the food'; contacting Ministries, Police, Customs - it was a massive task and I had thrown myself into it with gusto and enthusiasm.

And I couldn't find those bloody floppy discs ANYWHERE!

For some very odd reason, I prayed to St Anthony, who is the Patron Saint of Lost Goods. Now, at the time, I was not Catholic, but I just flipping well did it. I lay on the marble floor in the spare room downstairs, looked up at the ceiling and prayed - the ex had cleared off by this stage. I swear to you, I turned my head to the filing cabinet, to my left, and there, shoved up hard underneath the finger grabs were my floppy discs.

The ex claims Rosemary must have done it (she was about 3 at the time). Maybe, but I still wonder...

The next time he took my GSM and went to Dubai, we were in a struggle with some people to whom we had lent a lot of money. I had an anonymous call telling me the chap was getting out of the country that night, so I galvanised and attempted to stop his escape. I contacted "Very High Up People" with 'wosta' (and Mars, I guess you will understand that expression), cajoled, begged and did as much as possible in order not to see my thousands of pounds vanish from the country - we'd only lent them this amount because they were pleading poverty - and it was a loan. Not a gift.

I was starting to despair, so I went to another local chap, Hilal, and begged him for help - he knew everyone; an Arthur Daley if ever there was...He promised to help and made a few calls for me. I was still attempting to call Anal at this stage, only to be presented with the 'Afwan..' (Sorry, your call cannot be taken...) message. I started to give up and just relinquish those monies. At the time, I thought we still had a goodly few years ahead of us with a tax-free salary to recouperate things.

As Hilal had been so kind, I invited him home - I had arranged to meet him in the Rugby Club - and we returned. I offered him coffee or wine and he chose wine.

And then he flicked through my CD collection and put on Ravel's Bolero. And he grabbed me and told me he adored me, had always loved me, wanted to marry me and would kill Anal for the priviledge. I was terrified out of my wits. I had my daughters upstairs, asleep, and didn't know what the hell to do. I had to dance to that bastard music. I hate it now. Torville and Deane won the Gold for the Brits in the 1984 Olympics and EVERYONE knew it...I loved it then. It makes me feel like vomiting now.

I only know that it was through my shrewdness that I managed to get him out of my house. I didn't succumb to him - don't think that! I cajoled him into believing how tired I was, while he pawed at me and slobbered over my neck and face, how much I had to do to get my money back and that the girls would be up very early. He left, thank God.

The next day, he called my house phone. I tried to get rid of him as quickly as possible and made sure all the doors were locked. We had one-way glass in our house, thankfully, so when I saw him come to the house later that afternoon, I could just sit very silently knowing he couldn't see me.

The ex was due back the next day. I didn't hear from him at all. It seems he was having a jolly good time up there and I was informed later that his face was emblazoned all over one of the big screens - ogling a young blond girl's breasts as she giggled with him.

I tore into him when he returned - about not having my phone on and that I had needed to contact him. It all came pouring out in rage, anger and hurt. I must have yelled at him non-stop for half an hour. He sat there and took it all. Then I fell to pieces, burst into tears and told him of my encounter with Hilal. He nodded his head slowly and then turned to me and said, Well, I've told you not to get friendly with those blokes. You know what they're like with the expat women at the Rugby Club.

His stand and defence of me was breath-taking in its passivity! A year on from that, and Hilal one night said to him, Is there a problem? And Anal told him what I had said. Hilal denied it resolutely and screamed that I was a liar. Guess who was believed?

When I put on the first pantomime for the school, we had a panto Dame - J - a huge chap, easily 6'4" and built like a brick sh*thouse. He appeared to be a lovely man. Many women swooned over him - charm itself. He had a glamorous wife who taunted the local authorities by revealing way more than she should have done in a Muslim country. Certain expat wives got up to high dudgeon over her, claiming she was an embarrassment to expats and highly disrespectful to our Muslim hosts. I think, personally, they were riven with jealousy as she had a body to die for. But, when in Rome...

They had 'an open marriage' - and I don't think it was happy like that, even. Neither were faithful to the other and were often seen out on the town with other people. One night, after a panto rehearsal, we were all invited back to K's. Drinks were really flowing, I ended up being thrown into the swimming pool, fully-clothed, because I had been a tough task-master that night with the cast forgetting their lines repeatedly, and we were having great fun. The ex was at home!

At one point, everyone was running very low on cigarettes and J asked me if I fancied accompanying him to the garage to pick more up. We were given a long list of cigarette brands, orders to get nibbles in, and to get to the Grog Shop before it shut. Fine. Off we went, got all the gear and then set off back. K lived in an area with which I was not familiar at all and so with J driving, I had little idea of how to get back.

But when we pulled up to a pitch-black house, I looked at him quizzically and said, Where are we?

I want to show you something, he replied.

He took at key out of his pocket and opened the door. The house was bare. It was one which he had vacated only the previous week and he hadn't yet returned the key.

I want you to see this beautiful view, Annie, as I think you will appreciate it.

He took me to a fantastic galleried landing which looked out onto the sea. It really was spectacular and I was quite taken aback.

I was even more taken aback when he came back into the room stark-naked and ordered me to strip off.

I begged him not to be so daft, that the others were waiting for us, and this was silly; he'd had too much to drink; he was being soppy. But he just kept telling me to get my clothes off. Then he started doing it for me.

Now, there are certain situations in which a woman can fight her corner. Particularly if she is wearing stilletoes and there is a bit more equality in weights and sizes, but I was 5'8" and 120lbs or so. And I was wearing bloody flip-flops...

I knew that to even attempt to overpower him would be futile and to be perfectly frank, I was terrified and not thinking straight. So I was stripped naked and pushed onto the marble floor. I lay perfectly still while he did what he wanted to and then he let me get dressed.

I asked him to take me straight back to my house. And he did.

The ex was asleep until I got in, and then started bitching at me for being out late.

I went for a shower to clean myself up and stop shaking.

The next day, the ex went to work while I got the girls ready for school. I felt sickened by what had happened and suddenly there was a phone call. It was J.

I was a bit of an animal last night, wasn't I? I hope that I didn't cause you any trauma because you know that if there is any problem between us, I won't be able to act for you and then the panto will have to end.

So, there was no trouble. I had to put this bloody pantomime on as we were only a matter of days away and we had already raised a heap of money in sponsorship and spent a fair bit on lighting, rigging, sound decks, costumes and set.

After the panto, I finally told Anal what had happened that night. His response was that I knew J had a reputation for being a Ladies' Man and therefore I should not have got myself into such a compromising situation with him. My fault.

Again...

So some of you may be wondering, Why didn't she report it? Why didn't she get him deported? All I can say to you is, Have you lived in a foreign country where expat women are treated as second-class citizens, where the police don't speak English (or very little), and where the oil men (and J was very high up in one of the oil companies) are treated like kings? I didn't stand a chance. Were it to have happened here, in the UK, he would have been thrown into the cells immediately. But he knew that I couldn't do that and thus took his advantage.

Part #15

2008-09-30T13:27:00.005+01:00

Hypoglycaemia.

It's a term normally associated with diabetes. But it does happen to those who don't eat. The human body needs carbohydrates in order to survive - feed the brain; feed the muscles. I know this. I did an A' level in Human Biol.

My mother is insulin-dependent diabetic. She was diagnosed when I was around 11 or 12. She was vicious when 'hypo'. The first time we witnessed it, the household awoke to her screaming in agony due to the cramps. I thought she had gone mad; my father didn't know what to do; and the only person she called for, repeatedly, was my brother. She was bundled off into an ambulance and 'stabilised' at the hospital. We became inured to it in some ways. We could tell when she wasn't looking after herself - she'd go and treat herself to some delicacy from the bakery, cheat her insulin and then fall flat after these 'fast carbs' had been eaten away by the extra insulin with which she had injected herself. She always used to tell me she would rather I succumbed to cancer than to diabetes.

I recall one night, waking up at around 3am and seeing the kitchen light on from my bedroom window. I went downstairs and saw her making a hot drink. Into it, she was ladling margarine. I didn't stop her - I was only about 13 then and just thought this was some weird way of bringing her out of her hypo, but when she took a mouthful and gagged, I realised she had got mixed up.

She never wanted anyone but my brother when she was very low. She would literally howl for him. I would run to her to hug her and she would push me away abruptly, begging for Paul. I know she wasn't in a compos mentis state of mind, so I definitely do not bear her any ill will for this.

When I returned from Oman in 2003, I used to suffer hypos a lot. And I have suffered 'the real' ones, too, from having injected myself with my mother's insulin as a teenager in order to do away with myself. So I know what they are like. The less you eat and the more you work, the less you can function.

The ex had advised me, by phone from Oman, that I could have monies to pay the mortgage and utilities and that was it. The rest of the monies I had to find myself. So he was living in a rent-free villa, with all expenses paid apart from his clothes and food, on a tax-free salary of around £45,000 (US$90,000) and I had to get a job to feed and clothe me and the girls. As the girls were so young (8 and 6), and I was guilt-tripped by Mother into NOT getting an office job, I went out to clean other people's houses, iron their clothes and work as a dinner lady at the local High School. I have to confess my snobbery here and admit that it felt very ignominious at times. I had been a successful journalist and editor, and now I was scrubbing other people's toilets. But, sod it, I am not that proud when the chips are down.

I was probably cleaning for six hours each day as well as doing two hours at the school. The ironing was delivered to my door every other night and I would get up at 5am to do it. Now, I am not wallowing in self-pity here. I am simply stating what I was up to. That's all. Some days, I would get so stuck into the cleaning that I felt simply marvellous - seeing a gleaming house is something worth stepping back from and saying, Great! That looks bloody good! (And I got paid for it!)

But because I wasn't eating - and I think this was probably the start of the anorexia proper, moving from the bulimia which had plagued me over the previous years - I did start to feel somewhat washed out at nights and weekends. And one weekend it took its toll and I passed out in our local supermarket, Asda (Walmart). I keeled over, fell to my knees and blacked out.

I remember coming to on a public bench in the shop with staff hovering over me and trying to placate the girls with colouring books, sweets, cakes etc. I was utterly bewildered and disoriented. One lady, Wendy, wanted to take me to the local hospital, but I refused and told her I would be more than fine. So she drove me home in my car - we still chat now whenever I go into the shop and she is always kindness itself.

I told the ex over the phone and he grunted.

He was due to return to the UK on leave within a few days. He took the girls up to see his sister in Yorkshire and I decided not to go - for personal reasons (i.e. his sister was a condescending woman who enjoyed nothing better than to belittle me when wearing her D & G/Armani/Gucci/Versace clothes and skitting me for shopping at Second Hand Shops). The girls told me when they returned that they had felt sickened at their laughter at me passing out at Asda. He had related the incident to his sister, C, and they had fallen about laughing when he stated, She f*cking doesn't eat, what the f*ck does she expect, silly, f*cking b*tch!

And this was the man who had promised me we would make 'it work'.

As I write all of this, it does read back like wallowing in self-pity. But please believe me, I am not. I actually feel quite stalwart! I actually can read it and think: Well, you git! You purported to love me and did this?! I am well rid of you, matey!

That's truly what I am feeling - I don't want any sympathy. These are just facts - not 'please-like-me-and-feel-sorry-for-me statements'.

But in a roundabout way, what I am trying to say is that my behaviour, without carbs, is erratic. I forget so much, short-term memory-wise. I stagger and slur at times because I am not up to speed. I wake up in a 'swamp' of perspiration from the night sweats, and the cramps are very painful at times, let alone the lack of circulation wherein I have to plunge my hands into the sink full of hot water.

But honestly, I can, actually, see a light at the end of the tunnel. I think this is actually the first 'Memory' post wherein I don't feel sad - I feel quite detached. I am just getting it down. If it offends anyone, I apologise. But what is a blog, if not a journal of thoughts and memories? It can be used for vanity, catharsis, antagonism...many things. Mine is used for catharsis. And that's it.

And that's all for today!

Part #14

2008-09-29T14:36:00.003+01:00

So. First therapy session has now been and gone - this morning at 11am.

The dread I was feeling prior to this morning dissipated during the night and I woke up feeling numb, unwell and hollow. There had been a few 'Will she? Won't she?' moments, I must admit. I think, upon waking today, I had just resigned myself to the inevitable, but not in a defeatist way.

I really have felt unwell today. I cannot begin to express the pain which is searing through my legs and hips. Every step I take is like having a red hot poker going up through my pelvis. Sitting, standing, lying down, walking. I don't get any respite, no matter what position I attempt. It was a bit difficult for me to get comfortable at the therapist's. Although she had a huge sofa chair and also offered me a cushion, it just wasn't happening. Added to this, my bowels were on fire from the laxatives I had held off from taking until the very last thing, last night.

I allowed myself some pride in my efforts yesterday. I didn't go near the scales and had it in my head NOT to take any Dulcolax. I nibbled on 'safe' foodstuffs through the day and drank quite a lot of milk. So, I retired feeling pretty pleased with myself. But the slightest thing can make me feel inadequate and an ill-perceived slight led me to the Dulcolax and the fridge...then the toilet...And it was all my fault, and I know that to be true.

The therapist was everything I hoped she would be. Her name is Susan. Her room was like a sparsely-furnished living room, but not so austere as to make you feel cold and uncomfortable. And she was approachable, warm, understanding, pertinent and competent. She didn't make me feel a time-waster like some therapists have. And nor did I think she would feel I was fabricating things - indeed, I asked her that after she remarked that I had been surrounded, for many years, by people who had criticised me and dragged me down.

It's a strange thing when someone acknowledges this. Although I want someone to understand, the minute they do, I feel inordinate guilt - as though I have been 'naughty' and ratted on someone. She remarked on this, too. It's normal to respect your parents, and therefore, when you have no respect for them, it goes against the norm...if you know what I mean?

We talked a lot about Anal, actually. Probably more about him than my family. We also talked about my relationship with Ian and the girls - I think these mentions were the only ones at which I smiled. I also confessed the one thing I have 'achieved' at which I do, secretly and quietly (but not any more, I guess!) give myself a pat on the back for - and that's the integrity I have instilled into Beth. Beth has more moral fibre than any person, adult or child, I have ever known. She looks out for the underdog, is fierce about right and wrong, and is not frightened to stand up for the 'right' side, either. She's as vocal and adamant as I wish I could be. We've talked morals together for hours on end. I've tried to teach her right and wrong; about love, care and consideration - about unconditional love. She's soaked it up like a sponge. Rosemary also has these morals - I am sure of that as I witness the way she defends her friends when they are in trouble...but she, at the moment, is absorbing boys, make-up and education more than 'fighting the good fight'. And that is how it should be for her, too, at this time of her life.

I must confess that this first session was quite draining for me. I had to use the bathroom part-way through and suddenly found myself wanting to 'grey out'. Some deep breathing cleared my head and didn't make me lose my sight. It left me feeling very nauseated, though, and I admitted to Sue that I felt somewhat unwell. She offered to end the session, but we ploughed on.

These spider webs of memories can be painful. Ian and I went to the pub afterwards for a chat. And I tried to relate to him as much as my tangled head could recall. So much junk in there which needs taking to the bin and destroying, once and for all - no recycling here, thanks!

When I was little - I can't think that I was much more than 7 or 8, I ended up in hospital. I had made myself ill with my own thoughts, I guess. My mother was constantly threatening to desert me; impressing upon me that her own unhappiness and malcontent with my father was due to my existence - "I'd have left if it hadn't have been for you being born" - and I started to fear that every time I left the house, I'd return to find her gone. I stopped coping with food due to the nausea. I found eating very, very difficult. And I also started pleading sickness in order to stay at home and keep an eye on her. Ensure that she didn't leave without me. I lost a lot of school that year. My mother took me into her bed with her at night because I was sick so much. I liked that even more - I had her under my beady eye 24/7 in effect.

When I started vomiting blood regularly, I was taken into hospital. The medics suspected kidney or liver damage but tests revealed nothing of the sort. I had hospital schooling for a while and pleaded to go home on what seemed like an hourly basis. My mother had been told she could stay with me in her own room if she wanted, but she decided that she didn't. So, I didn't have her anyway.

Upon my discharge, tensions were very high at home. My father was sick of me; my mother was, too, and I was just so bloody terrified of my own shadow that the nausea was there on a permanent basis. I started vomiting, involuntarily, at school, too. I'd only have to have a drink and it'd come straight up. And I could never get to the toilet on time. The amount of times my teacher berated me are numerous.

My mother has mentioned this time to me only once and described it as when I was 'a total pain in the arse and going round the bend...' Then again, she has often described me as a 'useless bastard'...

I did get over it. My father threatened me with all sorts of punishments if I didn't 'straighten [myself] up'. So I had to as he terrified me. One particular night, when he had really had enough of me whimpering for my mother's return, he smacked my backside so hard, it was raw, and then threw me into a scalding hot bath from which I was not allowed to move. The heat was so high it was like ice, almost. I cried quietly, not daring to move as this would mean the heat circulated even more. He roared at me to stop crying, but the pain was intense and I didn't know what the hell to do. I will never forget that night as long as I live. I remember staring at my face in the bath overflow, all distorted and strange-looking, sitting on my hands, attempting to protect my buttocks.

My mother has denied this event ever happened. That my father would never do any such thing. But how would she know? She was out dancing with her fancy-man.

Ian has referred to this, and other things, as 'abuse'. It doesn't sit easy with me. I often remark, At least I wasn't abused as a child. He refutes this. It's hearkening back to my statement above. One doesn't want to think ill of one's parents, and to do so goes against the norm.

I told Sue today that I really miss 'A Mum'. Not her - A Mum. She discussed this with me very empathetically and perceptively. I got a lot out of her empathy there as I have often felt a bit of a wuss admitting it. Many people are unlucky enough to lose their parents and some struggle to get over it. A close friend of mine is still heartbroken at the loss of her lovely Mother and I have wrestled with my guilt at divulging my own feelings towards my mother to her. Thankfully, she is an objective woman and can see big differences in my upbringing to hers. (And thanks for that, Melon.)

So, the start of new and hopefully good things to come. I explained to Sue that I want to get rid of this rubbish once and for all. She has told me, honestly, it's going to be a long journey. I know that - I'm not daft! 38 years of incessant degredation and criticism don't disappear in six weeks, do they?

Ian told me today that he was proud of me for taking this step. He told me he wondered if I would go through with it as twice I had threatened to cancel. I have asked him to turn Captain Caveman on me if I wobble, sling me over his shoulder and club me. But get me there. We got into a bit of a debate as to 'who should be thanked/praised the most'. I have agreed to disagree on this one and asked him to tell me he is still proud in about four weeks - perhaps I will then have the grace to accept it?

Part #13

2008-09-26T09:38:00.008+01:00

"Therapy for me has always been a double edged sword. There's a part of me that wanted to be the perfect patient, but a bigger part that wanted to prove that I was the best anorexic, therefore making me worse."

I found this a very interesting comment from Lexy. It resonates with me. Making the appointment to see the therapist last night was done out of being sick and tired of being 'sick and tired'. Ian has been encouraging me to do this for months and I have procrastinated, made excuses (the financial ones have been genuine concerns) and 'forgotten'. I'm looking forward to getting better. But I am also very scared for some reason. I guess this hearkens back to Linda's comment about 'validation'. (Is this blog going to end up purely being quotes from other people?!)

It is daunting for me. I guess the first few therapy sessions will be dredging up the past and what has led me down this road. I know writing this blog has sometimes left me in floods of tears as old feelings of insecurity and worthlessness have been illuminated. And when one memory came in to my head, others would flood in alongside it, like a cobweb and the way it spreads out. I didn't realise just how much I have tried to block things out until writing things down. I've noticed that my nightmares have increased dramatically, too. Wednesday night was hell. All I seemed to do was yell, moan and jitter. After each section of disjointed sleep, my legs were on fire as I had been agitating so much in my sleep. Consequently, Ian looks like death warmed up half the time.

After I uploaded 12a last night, the girls returned from their father's. There had been trouble. I find it incredulous that a man who purports to love his daughters can be so cruel, heartless and selfish. He has put the pair of them into a very compromising position and also attempted to manipulate Rosemary into doing his dirty work for him. He knows Beth's feelings about 'the other woman' whom he still sees despite her living many miles away, and he has also been told by the counselling team who have worked with the girls, to stop forcing them to accept/see her. He has been telling me for three years that it is my duty to force the girls to accept 'the other woman' until I totally lost my temper in a 'family therapy' session recently and expostulated that it was not within my remit to condone adultery to the girls. The therapist backed me up 100%.

So, the girls' cousins (all budding actresses) whom they adore, are starring in a pantomime in November. The girls can't wait to see it. And their father has sneakily invited 'the other woman' and her son along. So Beth is caught between a rock and a hard place. We offered to drive them up there, keep out of the way, but at least give them moral support. Neither girl thought this would be a good idea - I guess they thought there would be some form of showdown, but there wouldn't. Not from us, anyway. Beth doesn't know what to do. She is disgusted by her father's underhandedness, full of anger and resentment and cried greatly last night at his betrayal of her. She feels as though he has put 'the son's' feelings before her. She has always felt (and it's hard not to believe her when I have witnessed certain things for myself) that he didn't want a second daughter; he wanted a son.

He has hidden behind Rosemary; said this was purely his sister's idea (who doesn't give a turquoise toss about anybody); says that 'the son' needs Beth's moral support; and asked her to persuade Beth to go.

And he has described me as 'manipulative'!

This is the type of man I married: a coward. A manipulator. A liar, and an adulterer to boot.

And I know that he has been a big part of my problem and lack of self-esteem.

So I guess this is as good a time as any to conclude my account of the final months in Oman. Get it over and done with. I have told the therapist about this blog, which she said was an excellent idea, and I am hoping she will read it and get the bigger picture.

After I lost the plot and told the ex the affair had to be finished forthwith, he refused at first. Told me he loved her, that he wouldn't give her up for me and that he was moving out. So I informed him, coldly and with immense anger that I would be clearing off back to the UK with the girls and that he'd be lucky to see any of us ever again.

He back-tracked immediately. Promised to speak to her that afternoon and end it all. When he returned from work, he confirmed that he had done this. But her husband told me otherwise. She had written Anal an email that afternoon and printed it out. She had accidentally left it in their office and AM had found it. He read it to me. Despite Anal's protestations that there had never been any sex, she stated that she could 'feel [him] within her' and that they would never be parted.

There was little I could do about this. Anal had promised to give this another go and I had promised to let it go. It was hard, I can tell you. I felt so betrayed - more so by 'her' than by the ex, believe it or not. I really did hold her in such high regard and had never enjoyed a friendship as great as with her and her husband.

Anal & I took the girls to South Africa on holiday a few weeks later. It was to be a 'fresh start' for us. There was no intimacy between us. He wouldn't go near me, and I wasn't particularly interested either. But it was a fun time with the girls and we met some nice people in the different hotels we stayed at with whom we socialised.

Upon our return to Oman, life just carried on as 'normal'. My ED was not too bad, but I was drugged up to high heaven: I'd lost my 'best friend' and I was cutting badly. However, I had made some positive steps. I was seeing a psychiatrist and a counsellor, could see some light at the end of the tunnel, and I was freelancing again - quite prolifically, actually - and it took me out of the house on a regular basis when the girls were in school.

But one day, I didn't have an assignment and was pottering around in the villa, alone.

There was a knock at our front door, which surprised me as it was only 8am. The girls started school at 7.30am, so the house had been quiet for a while.

To my utter shock, it was my parents. They had just flown in from the UK. Anal had called them, unbeknownst to me, and told them that I had to get back to the UK for urgent medical treatment. I was given 24 hours to pack my bags, say goodbye to all my friends and my resident's visa was ceremoniously cancelled at the Airport Customs by Anal who didn't want the prospect of his wife's return.

The girls were not allowed to accompany me. I had to leave them there. I begged my father not to go along with this but, at the time, they hero-worshipped Anal and believed everything he told them with every single glib word which slipped from his lying mouth.

There was no treatment available here in the UK. Nothing at all. At least I was getting somewhere in Oman.

So. When the girls came to the UK six weeks later, and then Anal returned to Oman, what do you think he was up to? Why do you think I was kicked out of the country?

If any of you need me to answer this, I will. He was continuing his affair. I received intimations of it from friends. They wouldn't come out with it totally, but there were certainly enough allusions. And that was not my paranoia - they have admitted it since...

So we continued this facade for 12 months. He stayed in Oman, I stayed in the UK and raised the girls alone.

Upon his return, in May 2004, within two days, I knew he was still with her and missing her. I asked for a divorce. He agreed readily and embarked upon the most God-awful campaign of hatred I have ever endured. His Court Statements still leave me speechless due to his dreadful lies. He claimed Rosemary called Ian 'Mr Safety'...when I asked her who 'Mr Safety' was, months later, she looked at me blankly and said, What the hell are you on about, Mum?

And as my solicitor said, it all sounded so plausible...

Thank God I am away from him. Thank God I have a man with such integrity as Ian. It took him some soul-searching, and he has put up with some demons himself in order to commit. But he's done it. Because he believes me. And believes IN me.

That's someone who loves you...And I love him for it...

Part #12a

2008-09-25T20:37:00.003+01:00

I'm getting help.

I have made an appointment to go to see a private counsellor. My GP recommended her and we have just given up and said, Sod the cost, it has to be done.

Do you know what forced me into it? Ian and I were walking to the shops together and each step got more and more painful. The pain in my legs was reverberating up to my spine and I thought my heart would burst with the effort I was putting my body through.

As soon as I got back, I found her number on the leaflet and left a message.

Within minutes, she had called me back.

And she sounded lovely. A warm, kind approachable lady - competent, switched on and knowledgeable.

And for the first time today, I have smiled.

And we have both cried with relief.

This is the start of my recovery.

Part #12

2008-09-25T10:15:00.005+01:00

Yesterday, I received this letter through the post:

Dear Dr R****

Re: AAT

Thank you for the referral for the above lady. As you know, at the Eating Disorder Service, we aim to assess and treat people with the eating disorders of anorexia nervosa and bulima nervosa. I am afraid that with respect to this referral you would need to give more information as to the presence of an eating disorder that has recently worsened in view of the problems that you describe.

From reading this referral, it would appear to me that the principal problems currently are her history of self harming and a number of psychosocial difficulties. If this case were appropriate to our Service, I would expect to see a history of resurgence of eating disordered behaviours and a possible drop in weight. We will not triage or process the referral until we have received this.

I know my doctor well. We have an excellent relationship and he has told me, repeatedly, that he wants me well as he knows I soar when I am. Last time I went to see him, he agreed to state everything as plain as the nose on your face to this ED service. He also looked rather glum and confessed that he had never had a referral who had been accepted by them.

This letter is almost a carbon copy of the same one he got about me 18 months ago. He told them about my repeated 'episodes', but also advised of the self-harming history (which is now history) and concomitant depression.

Ironically, I rang the Chester ED Service and spoke to a wonderful counsellor there. I told her how bad things were and she said it ALL needed to come out in a referral letter which would make my 'case' for treatment stronger...but because I am two miles out of their boundary, she couldn't help me at all and I needed to be referred to Macclesfield. And their stance is somewhat different as you can read above.

I have no doubt that my doctor has told them this is the third time he has seen me with an ED over the last three years. He's not daft! If he is referring me for anorexia, he's going to bring the ED up, isn't he? So why have they chosen to concentrate on my cutting 'history' - literally something which happened in the past. As I have admitted, I haven't cut for two years. My 'psychosocial difficulties' are easily the cause of the ED and so how do we get out of this goal-post moving exercise?

A lovely lady left a comment yesterday explaining her story with her daughter who has suffered for three years. Her daughter sees a therapist twice a week. I wish I could see a therapist just once a month! It feels like pulling teeth. Ian is pushing me hard to go for private therapy, but I am refusing point blank at the moment due to financial constraints. God willing, this will all change in about four weeks when his house sale goes through, finally. Then I will go all out to get private treatment.

And do you know, I approached the two private ED therapists who advertised themselves on the B-eat website for this area some weeks ago. One dismissed me, despite my lengthy email explaining my ED, how it was affecting me, how much weight I was losing, how I felt and that I could pay (we initially believed that I was covered under Ian's private medical policy through work) and the other didn't even bother to respond.

Lexy advised me not to 'wallow'. I reckon sometimes that's a frame of mind one can fall into. And I have to admit, today, I am wallowing as I am fed up, disillusioned and wondering where to go next. I am honest enough to admit that reading self-help books have rarely done it for me. The only one I have ever read which gave me some relief was Cosmic Ordering by Jonathan Cainer...and he's an astrologist, so am I as potty as the women who buy Heat, Sugar and Shout!?

I need strategies and guidance because I simply don't have the tools to do it completely alone. I need someone to show me how to do it. That's the simple truth - I am always better following instructions: always have been. A good friend of mine reads self-help books like they are glossy magazines. They do it for her. She is calm, peaceful and light itself - it glows from within her. And she puts it down to her meditation, Reiki healing, reading, and relaxation. She lent me the books. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't do it on my own. The minute I tried to meditate, I'd start to worry that I hadn't made the dinner, hadn't finished off an article, how would the atmosphere be when the ex came home? Rubbish.

I'm going to return to my doctor tomorrow - he wants to discuss this letter with me. I'm going to make notes for him and suggestions as to how we can impress upon Macclesfield that I could really do with their help. You can't give up without some form of a fight, I know that.

But today, the fight has temporarily drained from me.

Supporting: Perception & Communication

2008-09-24T13:00:00.040+01:00

OK, so this is the second post for today. Annie's post here was uploaded earlier this morning. Scroll down after my blurb if you want to read the rest (or just click the link). There are quite a few photos in this post, so there might be a fair bit of scrolling!

So I've been meaning to blog about this for a while now, as it's something that annoys me no end.

The Media.

Annie and I were looking at #1's magazines over the weekend, clearing up mess from a very angry cat who had savaged a couple of magazines in #1's bedroom.

Every page. Every page had glossy photos of what they presume to be perfectly sculpted

pictures of celebrities. The celebs that weren't pictured in their best light, had circles around wrinkles, tan lines, and God knows what else.

At least the ones that I saw had belly buttons, semi-plausible faces, and straight legs, unlike the models above.

How does anyone know what is real any more? Is this Clive Owen?

Credit due here to Photoshop Disasters which, if you have the time, and inclination, will provide you with some amusement and lightheartedness. Something we all need from time to time.

Something less amusing is this Dove advert (below) from their campaign for real beauty. Further searches on You Tube for Photoshop makeovers reveal some quite shocking things.

A while ago, before this latest anorexic episode, I offered to help Annie come up with an avatar for Hex My Ex. She put some make-up on, grabbed a cloak for that "witchy" look and I snapped away with a camera.

I've put together a few pictures below to show you what can be done with no real knowledge of what you're doing in photoshop, but a bit of time spent playing around can yield some results that, as a newbie to photo-manipulation, did impress me.

I was proud of these photos, until I realised that they could well be part of the problem. Is the picture in her avatar recognisable as her? What I had effectively done, was to promote the feeling that her own natural looks were not good enough, and that I wanted my wife to look like a movie star. Of course that's not what I intended, but that mis-understanding of how an ED voice can twist the most innocent of actions. Indeed. Looking back now, although the intent was not to create some sort of idol that Annie had to become, it could be viewed that I did in fact create that. Something I'm not proud of.

It's difficult to know what to say to someone who's suffering from self-esteem issues related to their appearance. When I have complimented Annie on her appearance in the past, it was just a simple genuine comment. Now, when I say "You look beautiful today", I am wondering whether she is thinking "Does that mean I looked like crap yesterday?" or "he likes me at this weight." Annie says she doesn't think the former. I don't know about the latter. I do know that she is uncomfortable about the modifications I made to the photos. And to be honest, there is no "thinning" going on, just manipulation of light and exposure, with a couple of special effects applied. Still, it doesn't sit well with me that I did this, and it has changed the way I approach photography now.

Building self-confidence with positive affirmations is a double edged sword. It's only by talking to Annie, that I can realise what effect my words are having. Communication is the key to any successful relationship, but in a relationship where an ED has a grip, it's a damned necessity.

Annie's #10 post was brilliantly written. If you are trying to support someone with an ED, it is well worth a read. There is a lot going on in all of our heads, and the only way one can ever understand what is going on, is by talking to that loved one and trying to understand what they are going through. Sure, there are generalisations that apply, such as a (feeling of a) lack of control, worthlessness, low self-esteem etc. But the roots of these problems will be different and deeply personal for each and every sufferer. Talk. Listen, and try your best to empathise.

As to intervention. That's a whole topic all in itself, and if you're looking to solve a problem, the very first part is to understand what problem it is you're trying to solve. It may be that there's nothing you can do but listen. It may be that there's a lot you can do. Until you understand the problem though, you are in danger of making things worse. Something I have done in the past.

Part #11

2008-09-24T09:55:00.005+01:00

"It is so important to give a child tools to cope in life, nurture them and value them. It is so hard, as an adult, to have to build a new set of coping skills to get you through just normal day to day stuff." I am plagiarising Linda here, but I feel sure she will forgive me!

I am trying hard to remember coping strategies which I was offered during my formative years: I wasn't taught an awful lot about love - I can't recall ever being told that I was 'loved'; I was taught that if somebody upset you, you didn't talk to them until they caved in; I was taught that forgiveness is difficult to obtain without utter prostration; I was taught that if you were slighted, you got revenge; I was taught that love is conditional and easily withheld.

I don't recall being taught to love myself; that to err is human, to forgive is Divine; that love can be wholly unconditional and wonderful; that to work hard and achieve is worthy of praise and not a goal-smashing exercise.

I think, in many ways, this lack of positive reinforcements has made me a very 'needy' person. It's not a trait I like in myself and I have many mental arguments with myself, fighting my 'need' versus fighting what is rational and acceptable. More and more, I am being able to step back from the 'needy' Annie and stamp her down. I encourage my daughters to be as independent as possible from me; praise them incessantly; tell them that they should be so proud of every single achievement and that if they haven't done so well this time, well, there's always next time. I tell them that if they feel they are doing their best, that's all they can ever do - nobody can ever condemn someone for trying their best. We tell each other how much we love each other constantly. Nobody leaves the house or puts the phone down without an 'I love you'. They aren't said automatically - they are said with feeling and depth. Always.

I'm so glad and grateful that there is so much love in this house. I joke to Ian that if I ever turned into my mother he should have me 'put down'.

Did I make a sub-conscious decision at some point to be the total opposite of my mother? She has criticised and condemned my parenting skills without fail over the years. She has left me very uncertain of my ability as a mother and has, at times, broken me and I have succumbed to her style, albeit for very, very short periods. One of my most shameful memories where I did listen to her and succumbed left my two girls and me in hysterical tears.

She was visiting us in Oman. She had been nagging at the girls (who were about 4 and 2 at the time) to eat. I'd made them a nice dinner, but I did have a tendency to give them too much food. Habit from over-filling myself, I guess. I would generally let them leave the table without clearing their plates but this was anathaema to my Mother's soul. She got me to one side and told me she had heard a radio debate on BBC Radio 2 where an eminent nutritionist was discussing picky-eater children. My Mother deemed the girls to be picky. This was because they didn't like her food and preferred mine. Considering neither of them had been raised on Heinz Baby Gloop and only on fresh puréed foods made by me, and that they would eat any fruit or veg on this planet, I thought they were pretty good girls!

This 'nutritionist' had the answer to 'picky-eaters' - you tied them up to the chair and refused to allow them to come down until every last morsel had been finished. Now, in retrospect, and actually seeing this written in black-and-white, I am starting to smell my Mother's 'psychology' behind this rather than some expert's. In fact, it reeks of it now...

I laughed at her, long and hard, but she didn't give up. She was staying with us for three weeks and night after night, she ground me down if the girls weren't finishing their food. Shamefully, I weakened, gave in, and did as she suggested, using two skipping ropes around the girls' waists. Within ten seconds, they were petrified, hysterical and I ripped the ropes off as fast as possible. It was cruelty itself. I gathered the girls up, took them up to my bed, and held them until they calmed down. When the ex returned, he saw us all, tearful and bleary-eyed. I told him what had happened and he was disgusted - both with me for relenting and with my Mother for such a cruel, wicked, Draconian method of forcing someone to eat. This is the type of behaviour which engenders eating disorders - of that I have no doubt and God forgive me for doing it.

Every day is a learning curve for me. Working out in my head how best not to lower the girls' self-esteem. Both of them have said they feel safest here. They feel very loved and contented which gives me the most inordinate amount of pleasure and relief. They struggle at school from time to time - don't many teenagers? And there are many tales of bitching and back-biting which I listen to. It's sad to hear, but I also know that it is a necessary evil. You can't go through life without a few set-backs from others, but as long as you feel, integrally, that You Are OK, you'll succeed. That's my opinion, anyway.

Constant criticism/denegration is soul-destroying. I once wrote a light-hearted piece on the other blog, HexMyEx, about it. I was making light, but at the time, those comments cut me to bits. I constantly felt a failure, even when I had achieved.

Linda, again, made reference to a thought-provoking point. She stated: "Sadly, it seemed to validate me, as I thought being thin meant I was surely a better person."

Validation. This was a word Ian brought up to me yesterday. He asked if I felt my anorexia validated me. Without thinking too hard, I denied it. But I have thought further. It means to 'substantiate' and I suspect that, yes, I do feel as though it validates me. And that is a pretty pathetic admission. Does anorexia give substance to me (despite it actually depleting my 'substance'? Another oxymoron if ever there was one!)?

I appear to be pretty good at it - and that is not 'pride'; it's irony. Therefore, am I known as Annie the anorexic because I am good at it, it 'validates' me and thus gives me 'substance'? These are most definitely meandering thoughts and I don't know how to answer them at all.

Perhaps Lexy, in her thought-provoking comments is trying to get me to recognise one thing - can I 'subsist' without it? Can I give up anorexia? I dread the work I am going to go through in order to do so. I am going to have to face some very nasty issues about myself. And I am quite a peaceful person deep down, always avoiding confrontation as it upsets me so much.

This is a true journey for me - one of realisation, understanding, compromise and hard, hard work. I know this will take time and every day, with thought, my rationale gets just that little bit clearer.

Part #10. To Be or Not To Be...

2008-09-23T10:29:00.010+01:00

I've edited and re-edited this post so many times today in the hope that I can get these jumbled thoughts into some form of coherent message, but I'm not certain that I have succeeded. Parts of this post are dreadful - 'sphincter-winkingly bad' (*cheers* Linda!) - but I hope that sections will not be misconstrued and taken out of context.

There was mention made in one of the comments on yesterday's post that an ED is a choice. It is a choice to take laxatives; a choice to purge and vomit; a choice to starve oneself; and a choice to scale-hop. Logically, of course these are 'choices'. But where is the logic in an ED? The name gives it away immediately - 'disorder', the definition of which is: lack of order or regular arrangement; confusion.

I feel a great amount of confusion with anorexia. I have crumbled over the last six months whilst suffering with this episode, going from an extremely capable woman with a senior management position, running a household and caring for two daughters and a husband, to a woman who simply cannot think straight where food is concerned with a self-destructive streak. My house is still spotless, the girls enjoy an excellent relationship with me and Ian, and we are all, still, able to have many times of laughter, leg-pulling, conversation, and contentment. (I almost feel as though I am having to justify myself here, even though I don't!)...

There are an estimated 1.15 million men and women suffering with an ED in the United Kingdom for which there is very little healthcare funding. I feel fairly sure that if they were told they had the choice to have or not have an ED, most of them would say "I'll choose to go without, please..." I certainly know I would. To insinuate that an ED is a choice is becoming more and more of a laughable statement to me. It is also a condescending statement. An ED is a form of mental health problem - as are schizophrenia, post-natal depression, bi-polar disorder, OCD. Are they life-style choices, too? Can we pick them out of a glossy catalogue and say, "Ooh, Gosh! I think I'll have...hmmm...THAT one!"

I do, however, believe it is a choice to fight it, though. Just admitting it is one of the boldest steps a sufferer takes. Many people are in denial about it - hence the 'estimated' figures - and a spiral of deceit sets in which is harder to work with and support than anyone who has started the fight and held their hands up and said, "Help me. Please." As soon as there is an admission, tactics, loving support, therapy and even medication can be introduced. It can be a long, slow process for some people - an ED has often been described as the sufferer's 'Friend' - it's something they feel they can always rely on where everything/everyone else has let them down. Obviously, it isn't a 'Friend' - it's most definitely 'The Enemy'. But it's been reliably inimical. And that's exactly why it isn't simple enough to just say: it's your choice.

I have no right to say either my ex or my family forced me into my anorexia and bulimia - they didn't force-feed me laxatives or stick my fingers down my throat or even starve me. But their treatment and neglect of me left me feeling so isolated, rejected and lonely, that I often felt physically sick inside. When a person feels sick, they don't want to eat. And sooner or later, weight does start to come off. And often, a person can get compliments. Where they have been feeling rejection, suddenly, somebody has said something which makes them feel nice - they've been noticed and received a remark of positivity rather than condemnation. It is always great to be complimented.

How many times have you said to someone, 'You look great - you've lost a bit of weight, haven't you?' And they'll have been chuffed, no doubt - particularly if they are actually on a diet. Perhaps someone has also told you, 'Gosh, you look well - you've lost weight', and I bet you've felt good for the day...

So, that's going tickety-boo for a while. But it is the 'disorder' (and I believe that word actually applies more to the disordered thinking squatting in the mind of a sufferer) which makes one believe - 'OK, if I lose a bit more, maybe people will notice me more, think more of me, like me more...' And this is where ignorance can kick in and people think - God, that's sooo vain; so an ED is just about vanity? And I really don't want this taking out of context and distorting...

Many ED sufferers have a common theme - they have felt rejection, abandonment, pain, neglect or abuse throughout their lives from some place or person. And that is not a generalisation - that is a hard fact. I would never have dreamed that anorexia and bulimia would befall me. I didn't even know what bulimia really was until it happened to me. I had no idea it had a name. It was my ex who told me later what it was - it transpired that his ex-fiancée had also suffered with it. She broke their wedding off weeks before it was to take place by telling him she could never marry the most selfish man she had ever met...

'Control'. This is another word very often used in connection with an ED. I rarely felt as though I was in control of things. I was rarely allowed to assert myself - if I did, I was punished severely. The one time I stood up to my mother, as a 21-year old, my father grabbed me by the throat and gave me a whallop right across the face. But I was able to control what I ate, when I ate, how much I ate and if to eat at all. And having, for the first time, that opportunity to control something was a power in which I revelled. I had power, for once in my life. I could finally take charge of things. And it was addictive.

But there is a fine-line, I do know that. And it is like throwing a stone into a pond and watching the concentric ripples spreading out from that one sploosh. If your brain isn't being fed, and your organs aren't receiving nutrition, the disordered thinking takes a hold. The subconscious mind starts to feed the conscious mind instead. And all those negative feelings start living rent-free in your head. And because they get louder and louder, with each day that passes, you crave more and more control - those feelings drown out the voice of reason and no matter how much you tell yourself, Just Don't Bloody Do It! you do! You succumb. Because they, at the time, have the control...And as soon as they have won, you can relax. They are quiet for a while. Until the next time...

I have a great many feelings about my ED. I feel self-loathing; disgust; shame; embarrassment; sorrow; pain and weariness. But I have never felt pride or guilt. Pride, because what on earth is there to be proud of? What part of an ED makes you feel proud of what you are doing? And guilt? I didn't 'choose' this. I really didn't. Just like Princess Diana didn't 'choose' her bulimia; just like Lena Zavaroni, Karen Carpenter, and eminent academic Rosemary Pope didn't choose to die from their own EDs. (And please may I suggest any dissenters read the link to Rosemary)

Research is currently under way to attempt to ascertain if malfunctioning DNA plays a part in a person's susceptibility to succumb to an ED. For many years, homosexuality was deemed a 'choice' - it has now been proven, scientifically, that it isn't. And how many gay men and women were ostracised, criticised and 'purged' from the planet for just being how God created them?

I do feel guilty for causing my family pain without wanting to. But I don't feel guilty for having an ED. If I could clear this from my system once and for all, I would do it. Right now. But it's not that easy. Anyone who says recovery from any form of mental health illness is easy is simply ignorant and arrogant.

And to those people who advocate that Ian leaves me forthwith, let me put this question to you. If you had a child who succumbed to an ED in his/her teens, would you abandon them?

Part #9 - Oman Revisited

2008-09-22T08:09:00.009+01:00

OK. It was a crappy, rotten day yesterday. More weight had come off, which again, gave those paradoxical feelings of both delight and fear. But, the day got better temporarily, as I wrote and Ian ironed (Bless him!), and then it suddenly slumped, God-awfully.

Ian received an Anonymous comment on his 'Meandering Words' post. It advised him to leave me as soon as possible, told him I was 'poison'; that I might want to fade away but that he would 'fucking DIE'. This person left their girlfriend. They did it for their own self-preservation. He/she also stated that I loved my ED more than Ian. That bit hard. I hate my ED. I hate it so much that I have wanted to 'fade away' in order not to cause any more suffering to my loved ones because I have no bloody help here in Cheshire from the NHS.

We debated whether to publish the comment - I was all for it at first; reckoned that everyone had a right to comment. Then we thought more. The poll states that there are currently six people reading this blog who suffer with an ED. How would it affect them to read this person's words? This is not a Pro-Ana site. This is mine and Ian's journey. We are battling hard, and we will win. But we don't need comments like that.

Ian left me once before as some of you may know. And since his return, it has been a permanent fear of mine that he will do so again if the going gets tough. The girls also fear it as both of them adore him. Having someone encourage him to do it again left me quite bereft and panicky.

Ian feels this person is full of anger, guilt and cowardice - and wants someone else to do the same to justify his/her own actions. I am slowly starting to see it from his point of view...

So. Today. It's the 2nd day of Autumn (officially) in the UK and after a gloriously hot weekend, where an Indian Summer seemed a reality, it has become a bit overcast and grey. But that's OK. I am typing in the conservatory rather than in Beth's bedroom. The heating is on, and it's not bad. Oscar, the daft kitten is tinkling around, jumping on everything and driving me bonkers with the constant tintinabulation of his collar bell.

I'm going to return to my tale of Oman and my final months there. I need to get this off my chest, once and for all.

After the trip to Dubai, I went downhill quite badly. The pantomime was peformed (to great acclaim, thankfully, and we raised around £20,000 for the school) and I was able to relax. But not having anything to do left me very self-destructive. I am shocking when I am bored - I think this is why I never stop cleaning or baking. Anything to keep my mind away from my own thoughts.

Anal increased his social nights out. He joined a Gaelic football team; did Rugby training; played golf (wherein every Friday morning [the Gulf weekend] he would return with his mates and I would make a Full Monty fry-up for them); and went to the Monday night, Intercon Hotel Quiz at the Al Ghazal bar. With 'the other woman'.

And 'the other woman' started to drop in to the house more regularly than she had ever done. And always about an hour before Anal's return from work. An hour to ostensibly chat to me, and then a few hours to be with Anal? She started taking an inordinate amount of pride in her appearance - something she hadn't really been bothered with before, unless we were going out to a formal of sorts. She manicured and pedicured constantly. And complained that she didn't have a steady hand to varnish her toes. Anal had done mine for me in the past, as he did have a steady hand so I suggested he did her toes for her. They sat in front of me on the settee, and I noticed her foot inching into his groin.

"Excuse me, but will you take your foot away from my husband's dick?" I remarked. She snorted at me, but did as I asked. I felt a bit odd at what I had seen. I had made this comment with laughter in my voice, but something didn't feel quite right. Weeks ago, when they had been painting the set for the panto one evening, I had gone to bed for the night. However, I woke up, wondering where my then husband was: at midnight, Anal still wasn't home. He didn't have his mobile with him, so I called 'the other woman''s. "What are you up to? Are you shagging my husband on the stage?" I joked. She didn't speak to me for a week out of umbrage, and her husband told me months later he had found an email from her to a friend stating that she might just shag Anal, just to show me...

I entered a serious episode of depression due to the ED. I paid to see a psychiatrist who informed me that I had bi-polar disorder, with associated psychotic thoughts. My English GP snorted with laughter when I told him this and informed me that I was the least psychotic person he had ever met, and most definitely didn't suffer with bi-polar (manic depression)...it was used against me in the divorce, though. I was put onto Xanax and Olanzapine. These drugs turned me into a zombie - Ian would have adored me even more then, as he loves his ridiculous Zombie Movies! I walked around in a permanent haze and fug. Everything was slow, pale and bland. My emotions diminished, my energy evaporated, and I simply existed. I didn't enjoy a life. I purely breathed. In and Out.

One morning - and I don't know if it was due to greater tolerance to the drugs - I had a moment of clarity. I decided to take an overdose and see myself off, once and for all. I was sick and tired of the ED - my gut was rotten with all the acid; my bowels were in a terrible state; I was so very, very lonely and I could not see what the point of it all was. I had a month's supply of Xanax and Olanzapine and took the whole lot, washed down with a half bottle of Vodka. Within minutes of me taking it all, 'the other woman' was at the door, coming over for a natter. As I started to fade away, she got me to hospital.

I don't remember anything else apart from this:

About 24 hours after taking the tablets, I came to. In my very groggy state, I opened my eyes and saw Anal and 'the other woman' kissing passionately (snogging for you Brits!) at the foot of my bed. I didn't have the energy to say anything and fell back into my comatose state.

I was discharged the next day. I came home, rather whoozy. 'The other woman' came along with Anal to collect me and they both bustled me off to bed. We, at that point, lived on a compound - 16 villas surrounding a swimming pool and terrace. The girls were in and out of their friends' houses all the time. They went to see B and her Mum, AB, asked where I had been. They told her: in hospital. She could see Anal and 'the other woman' sitting around a table by the poolside from her windows. She phoned me rather than walk across and have to acknowledge them.

AB was a tough Cockney bird. Called a spade a shovel. No holds barred.

"What the f*cking hell is going on? You've been in f*cking hospital? What the f*ck has happened?"

I told her, honestly...

"And have you seen that pair out there? Open your bloody eyes. She's all over him. She's rubbing her f*cking foot up and down his leg as I speak to you; they're sharing a bottle of bloody wine and you've just come out of hospital after taking an overdose. Why aren't they there with you? They're having a f*cking affair!"

I protested, and said that they were just friends. She hung up on me in disgust. I called another close friend and asked her opinion. She confirmed it.

After 'the other woman' had left, I confronted Anal. He admitted it readily and told me that he loved her and not me. I told him that I was pleased for him and that if he was to fall in love with anyone, I was glad it was 'the other woman' as I loved her, too. I told him he had my 'blessing'. Was I mental? I think I must have been, for a week later, when he had been out every night with her, I suddenly saw red, called his mobile and demanded that he came back forthwith.

He had the cheek to bring her into the house with him.

"Get out of my f*cking house! And let me talk to my husband!" I spat at her.

She left immediately.

He told me he loved her, he wouldn't finish with her for me, he would move out and go into Bachelor accomodation...and then he swigged back a load of vodka and started punching walls.

I guess there is a part 3 to this as I cannot continue any further. These memories hurt greatly. I have a very vivid memory - can see colours, recall smells, tastes, atmospheres, and it is all in my head as though it was yesterday.

But this is an exorcism. I just now need a break...

Part #8: Rejection and Abandonment

2008-09-21T12:56:00.008+01:00

I said I would continue with the Oman story, and I will, but just for the moment, I am going to diversify into a different topic:

Rejection and Abandonment.

It would be interesting to see how many visitors to this blog have felt this in their lives, and how it has caused them to react. Of the 9 people who have voted on our new poll claiming to either have an ED or are in recovery, how many of them have felt some form of severe rejection or concern about abandonment?

They are both very, very real for me.

Rejection was established in me almost from my earliest memories. My father and my brother (eight years older than me) barely looked at me from one month to the next, let alone spoke to me. If I walked into a room, my brother would walk out immediately. If I dared to speak to my father after his evening meal he would initially ignore me until I badgered: Dad. Dad? Dad?? He would then turn to me (and I can picture him so vividly, right now, sitting on the rug in front of the fire, back against the armchair) with a look of such contempt and disdain.

What? Wassup wi' yer? Am watchin' the bloody telly. Shurrup.

I would 'shurrup'. I would say nothing. I would often want some help with my homework as he was very clever with maths and chemistry but sometimes it was easier to call a friend on the phone. And believe me, every time I did so, I had to pay my father £1.00. In the 80s, this was a fair bit of cash for a teenager to part with. It became easier to go back to a mate's house and walk 4-5 miles home after missing the school bus at 3.30pm, as I simply couldn't afford his exorbitant phone charges.

Even when I returned to the UK, aged 33, and sat with him one night, just the two of us in his living room, interrupting his viewing of a programme to talk about some words I had discovered in a dictionary I was flicking through caused him to say: Will you shut up and let me watch the bloody telly.

We never spoke. We never communicated. I was never taken out anywhere by him. One time he had to go to the farm for eggs for my Mother as she wasn't very well and couldn't go herself. He dragged me with him, despite my protestations. I didn't want to go with him - how many times had I asked him to do something with me and been told to 'Bugger off!'? That was the one and only time I ever remember him taking me anywhere with him. We only had two family holidays in the years I grew up - he didn't 'believe' in holidays and expostulated that my brother and I had everything we needed where we lived - fields, woods, streams, ponds...I wouldn't be seen during the school summer holidays. I'd be out of the house from 7am, reluctantly return for meals, and out the minute my plate was cleared. Anything to get out of that house and the common atmosphere of frostiness due to their frequent rows and ensuing silences.

Trying to stay out of the house as much as possible led me to the most inordinate amount of trouble and one occasion has never been forgotten by me.

There was an area in our village called Pex Hill - a local 'beauty spot' which was being looked after by a team of Rangers from the Forestry Commission. My friend, Janet, and I got 'friendly' with two of them. One particular night, 30 August 1985 (I remember the date clearly as it was the eve of Janet's 15th birthday) I was under strict orders to be home by 8.30m. I knew my parents would be out that night to their regular haunt and they left, religiously, at 8.15pm. So I decided to risk staying out. By 8.45pm, Janet and I knew we had chanced our arm, it was getting rather dark, and the Hill was quiet and becoming a little creepy.

So we set off on our walk home, which was only about ten minutes away, but took us down a steep, densely wooded path. As we walked, a tall, slim shadowy man, wearing black biking leathers, came slowly towards us, and in front of his body, he was snapping a heavy bicycle chain ominously. We couldn't see his face properly for the gloaming light, and I clutched at Janet, and she at me in fear. We were petrified. We thought it was a nutter going to rape or kill us.

It was my brother. He had been sent up to the Hill to find me. His first words to me?

You Are Dead.

I knew then that I was going to suffer immensely for the extra 30 minutes I had taken without permission. And, By Christ, I did. As I walked down the path of the house, my father was stood in the doorway. He grabbed me in by my hair, threw me in front of him and beat me with his hands, screaming constantly: You Dirty, Filthy Bitch! You Dirty, Bloody, Filthy Bitch! He pushed me to the stairs where I stumbled and fell, so he kicked me up every single stair. There were 13 stairs to our bedrooms and I received 13 hard kicks to my backside and thighs. He was wearing his 'going-out' shoes if you are wondering...I crawled into my bedroom, as I wasn't allowed to stand up, he kicked me some more and told me again what a Filthy Cow I was. I genuinely thought it was because he had found out that I had been kissing a boy.

The next day, the silence was deafening. I was only allowed out of my room to eat food and receive more vitriolic abuse at what a Dirty Bitch I was. I was grounded for a month. It seemed a somewhat harsh punishment for risking an extra 30 minutes out, particularly as I was 15 years of age, and it was still the school hols.

The first time I tried to kill myself, I injected myself with my mother's insulin. I genuinely wanted to die as I felt so low, rejected, sad and lonely, and it was the only way I could think it might happen. When I was released from hospital days later, my father informed me that I would be visiting relatives that day, although I felt so ill and nauseated due to the terrible 'hypos' I had gone through in the hospital, as I had 'spoilt [his] bloody weekend enough'...

My mother - how many bloody times was I rejected by her for not being a mini-me? I don't think I could even count them.

There is a very British expression for not talking to somebody - Being Sent to Coventry. I was sent to Coventry so many times that I could probably draft an Ordnance Survey map of the place. If I didn't eat her awful cooking; if I didn't have my bedroom spotless; if I didn't act upon her wishes immediately; if I liked somebody she didn't; if I didn't want to go out with her shopping. All these things would mean I was 'Sent to Coventry'. And we're not talking an hour or so here, we're talking weeks. As it stands, my Mother has now beaten her own record and not spoken to me for ten months because I married Ian. Prior to that, she didn't speak to me for six months when I fell pregnant with Rosemary.

I can't list all of these, you know - I can remember utter dread at her regular threats to leave the house and never come back; her threats that she was going to kill herself; her statements that if it hadn't have been for me being born she'd have left my father and taken my brother with her and been happy...It seemed to always be my fault.

One night when I had complained (as children do) about a meal, her reaction was startling. She started hurling the food around, screamed abuse at me, and ran upstairs to my bedroom. After quickly shovelling the disgusting mushy peas down my throat and gagging at each mouthful, I went up to apologise and grovel. She told me she wanted to kill herself. I ran downstairs and found my father sitting on the garden bench, smoking. I told him what she had said. His response was: I feel like killing myself, too.

There was nowhere to go. I sat in the front room, alone, crying and despairing that I was going to lose both my parents because I hadn't wanted to eat my mushy peas.

I see now, as an adult, that they must have had some dreadful row and my rejection of my mother's food had sent her over the edge.

I didn't see that when I was eight years of age...

Memories are strange things, aren't they? They can bring up so many feelings of sadness at times - as well as happiness, though. Some of my most beautiful memories involve the girls, Ian and I having days out. One of my happiest was 5 November 2007 when he proposed to me. Another was 5 November 2006, days before he left me, unable to cope with the ED and my inability to confide in him, when we visited a seaside town in Wales, out of season, and waltzed along the pier, embarrassing the girls profusely!

These bad memories need to be exorcised. Writing them out is helping me to detach and see things more objectively. Gradually, the pain will separate from them. I feel sure of that as I can sense it happening (albeit in a very small way) already...

Supporting: Thoughts

2008-09-20T22:02:00.008+01:00

Dying. Death.

Two words you hear a lot when referring to an ED. Of all mental illnesses, Anorexia claims the highest fatality rate, and the majority of those are through suicide. Something Fishy has a memorial page that makes for some very tearful reading. Even more terrifying for me is the thought that my Annie could join that list.

I will never forget the time I drove back with her from the hospital after her overdose. She was lying on the back seat of the taxi, her face pale, her eyes closed and her breathing shallow. As I stroked the hair from alongside her face, I let a finger stray close to her nose so I could feel her exhale. Every time I felt the warm air across my skin, relief flooded through me. Another breath. And another. Keep breathing Annie. Turns out that the amount of Iuprofen she took wasn't that lethal, but it put the absolute fear of God into me.

I can't bring myself to talk about the next time. It was after another argument, and I came home from work to find a length of rope on the floor, and an internet page open displaying knots.

Those feelings that course through you when you discover things like this are so powerful. I can only think that it must be the love I have for her that makes these attempts hurt so much. It's ironic really. The pair of us will punish ourselves for our own perceived shortcomings, and in punishing ourselves, we cause pain to the other. Annie looks at the sadness in my eyes, and feels responsibility for it. This in turn causes her to punish herself, which makes me even sadder, thus beginning another cycle of self-harm (in whatever form). My frustration at this awful hold the ED seems to have builds like a pressure cooker in my head until often, the only solution is to either go mad, or have a jolly good cry.

I feel as though we're both damned if we do, and damned if we don't. Annie has often told me that I would be better off leaving. "It's not fair that you have to suffer this," she says. I tell her that to be without her would make life utterly pointless. How can you leave the woman that has given you the ability to see the world in colour after so many years of grey?

And tonight in the bath, I asked her why she wasn't looking forward to her dinner. Thoughtfully she replied: "I think it's because deep down, I just want to fade away."

Now I know that Annie will reprimand me for taking her out of context here. She has said many a time that she enjoys her time with both me and the girls. But deep inside me, I knew she meant it in an utterly lonely way. She wanted to be alone. She wanted respite from the thoughts hammering away at her. And I just felt like a failure. I felt like she didn't love me enough to want to stay. But that's not true. It has nothing to do with me. Annie's 'rexia has the upper hand.

I have told Annie many a time, I would give my life for her (and the girls). If there was a way I could take away all that pain, I would. But reality bites hard on this one, and there is nothing I can do to take away that pain. All I can do, is once again, the best I can, which is to listen, encourage, and love the only woman that has ever had my heart.

But by God it's hard. It's like trying to mould dry sand. It just seems to slip through your fingers. Every so often, you feel like you're getting somewhere, and then, Wham! Along comes the ex, the mother, or someone else, and stamps on all your work. Sometimes I'll drop it myself. Poor me? Nope. Try again. How about poor Annie who has climbed a mountain and slipped, suddenly finding herself hanging on by a fingertip over a deep crevasse. Bah. I'm metaphorising (new word btw) too much here.

Tonight has been rough for me. Annie thinks that it might have something to do with this blog, but it doesn't. I'm mortally afraid of this blog becoming an epitaph. I don't know what I'd do if I lost her.

My last word here is one of my favourite pictures. I took it on a tripod with a timer then washed the colours out in Photoshop. It's called "Comfort".

From Family Pics

I love you Annie.

Part #7

2008-09-20T14:58:00.007+01:00

So much to write about today. It's a fantastically beautiful Autumn day here but I feel washed out, sapped of energy, aching, have a need to be near a clean, private lavatory, and just want to get things out - so a second post for today! Well, considering I was awake at 'stupid o'clock' again, what do you expect?!

I'm going to write about my last few months in Oman now and it may take two posts as all sorts of things are returning to me. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin...(this was always the preamble on the radio in the 70s for a children's story-time show called 'Listen With Mother'!)

We were nearing the performance of the pantomime I was directing for the school and I was getting fairly stressed out with our prima donnas, the in-fighting, the inability to get the back-stage crew working and all the other odds and sods which accompany putting on a theatrical production. I went to see a doctor at a nearby surgery - you could pretty much use any doctor you wanted out there as long as you paid up - and I had heard that this doctor was a bit of a pushover. I asked her for tranquilizers and she prescribed me a type of Valium. Only a week's worth, but enough for me to just slow down a bit and get some sleep at night.

My cutting was very bad. I was slicing my body as though I was taking a cheese grater to myself. Indeed, it has taken five years for me to expose my limbs in the warm, summer months as they looked so shredded. If the 'White Mist' kicked in and I wasn't near a knife, I'd go for anything: Coke can ring-pulls; scissors; the lids off tin cans; razors and one night, I sat and held the lit end of my cigarette on the inside of my forearm - anything to cause external pain and distraction from the ongoing screaming in my head.

I was looking quite slim at this stage - bulimia was utterly ravaging me now and had more than dismissed the initial, sensible Weight Watchers diet I had embarked upon - and the scabs and scars covering my body prompted that memorable comment from the ex about me looking like 'A Road Traffic Accident'. I knew I looked pretty repulsive, but I'll never forgive him for compounding it like that when all he had to do was show some compassion.

We visited Dubai for the weekend: me, the ex and the girls; my 'best friend', 'the other woman', and her husband; their son, and her brother, C. There was a definite male-female split to the trip: 'the other woman', an ardent shopaholic, took me to Deira City Centre while the men took the children to the Wet 'n' Wild park. I'd had an anxiety attack alone in our room, binged and purged quite badly, and taken a ring-pull to my legs as no blades were available. I guess it had been a bit on the dirty side, as I had pulled it from a bin, and the cuts did end up rather infected. I had to trawl around the shops for hours with 'the other woman'. It was tedious. I might be one of the few women who isn't that interested in walking around shops - give me eBay any day!

Eventually, I begged 'the other woman' to return with me as I was starting to limp more and more; the cuts were still bleeding on my legs and blood stains were seeping through my trousers. I felt exhausted and when I passed comment about it to the ex, upon his return with the girls, I was treated to a somewhat sarcastic tirade about how shopping didn't appear to be anywhere near as much hard work as looking after two lively girls in a water park.

We had organised hotel baby-sitting for the night as we were all set to go out on the town. I wore my new clothes, did my hair nicely and, for a change, felt quite attractive. 'The other woman''s husband, AM, told me I looked 'stunning' which was a lovely compliment for me. He was a very kind man to me - he was my confidante throughout all of this as he had self-harmed many years previously. Where Anal let me down, AM stepped up to the challenge. And Anal didn't like it - and still, to this day, wrongly accuses me of having an affair with him...As an aside, the ex didn't pass any comment about my appearance. Which is hardly surprising considering what ensued in the following weeks.

We were to eat at a Thai restaurant. Five adults - no children. I was utterly dreading it. I didn't want to go through the ignominy of eating, having money spent on me which would ultimately be wasted, and then have to go searching out the toilets. I begged them to let me walk around the shops - it was Ramadhan and the shops were open until very late in the malls - and I would meet them when they had finished. They wouldn't let this happen, and so the inevitable did.

I hated it: I hated the way as soon as food hit my stomach, I fell on everything else like a greedy pig, devouring the fattiest, most calorific, tastiest foods: Aren't you eating that? Can I have it? Who wants this last one? Oh, I'll have it then. Shall we get pudding? Who's for Tricky Coffees?

And then it's the same old chestnut: Just need to pop to the loo. Shan't be long...

But you are a long time. You've got your head bent over a public loo, not knowing whose backside has been on it previously, hoping against hope that nobody comes in and hears the filthy noises. And if they do, then you have to break off, vomit and bile dripping from your nose, mouth and hands, hovering over the bowl as silently as you can muster. And then you resume when the hand-drier starts and you puke and puke until you feel like you're going to bring up your intestines. And then you use tissues to clean up so you don't emerge looking like The Creature From The Swamp. And then your bowels realise that some part of that meal hasn't been brought up, so they decide they'll get moving, too. Can you get cleaned up in time to take off your trousers without leaving vomit stains on them? Are you going to have an accident? Oh God! Hurry Up!!

It's like being in a 24/7 nightmare having an ED. It's a nightmare of shame, mortification, secrets and lies.

As soon as you're able, you can leave the sanctuary of the toilets. But not without applying a heap of make-up in the hope that the lipstick isn't going to enhance the redness of your eyes and nose. Hoping that the so-called 'waterproof' mascara which is now half-way down your cheeks can be wiped off without too much damage. And hoping that nobody is starting to talk about your lengthy absence.

We partied quite hard that night. AM and I broke away from the others - they wanted to return to their rooms, but we were having fun for a change. We went to Scarlet's Bar at the top of the Emirates Towers and the view was incredible. We drank cocktails, laughed uproariously at his ridiculous jokes and then the bar closed for the night.

We got in the lift and arrived at our floor. AM took me to my room, and we walked in. To find Anal and 'the other woman' in bed together...

OK. There was no hanky-panky going on - they were both fully clothed at that point - but they said they were cold and under the covers was the warmest place. I, personally, would have just turned down the A/C...What would you have done?

Sometimes, I can't see the wood for the trees. I can be fairly gullible and shrugged it off. Maybe I just didn't really care that much? I knew what a bastard he was by that stage and there was no love there. Perhaps, though, if I'd have thought a bit harder, I'd have been a bit more wary of my 'best friend' who I did love, very much.

I've left Ian downstairs for way too long now, and so I am going to see my wonderful husband and enjoy the rest of my Saturday - but this post needs to be followed up and there is a lot to come. There's a lot of anger going to follow, too, so I may end up swearing a bit! Apologies in advance.

Don't forget - if you do happen on this blog, please try to leave a comment. The more positive the better (not just for my own ego and fragile self-confidence, I hasten to add) as I am discovering that people really are getting something out of what I thought might be classed as self-indulgent vanity posting. I can assure you - this wasn't written for those reasons. If we can help others, and I can ultimately help myself with this, it won't be a waste of time.

Part #6

2008-09-20T07:12:00.005+01:00

Health-wise, things aren't too good for me at the moment. And yes, I know it is my own fault! The pain in my legs, hips, and pelvis last night was worse than it has ever been and even the belt loops on my jeans were digging into my waist and hurting. I didn't really know what to do with myself. We were watching a lovely film together, just the pair of us as the girls are at their father's for the weekend, and although I can rarely sit still, Ian had almost threatened to tie me up unless I rested!

I take x-amount of laxatives most days. I am trying very hard not to increase the amount, but to attempt a gradual reduction. I had started to feel that my body had become quite reliant on the set amount and wasn't playing ball - this was a little disconcerting, I must admit. However, yesterday, and I don't know if it was a cumulative effect, they really kicked in. By the time Beth had gone to the ex's, my intestine was on fire, the noises coming from my gut were almost embarrassing, and I don't think I managed more than about 30 minutes between each toilet trip.

Ian, again, had made a lovely dinner for us - marinated salmon, broccoli, mushrooms and carrots. No fat: all steamed and baked. And for the first time, I really, really didn't want to put any of it past my lips. It actually revolted me (sorry, Ian - it's not your cooking; you know that) and I picked and played. I did eat some. I made myself do it. But not a great deal and I explained how I felt. I put the rest in the kitchen for later and have gone back to it, having a mushroom here and there, picking off the salmon flesh. I was proud of myself for not hurling it back up and made myself sit and watch the film until 'The Optimum Time' had passed (that's my own mental time limit for throwing up. If I go past it, I know there is little point bothering...).

After what seemed like the hundredth time of dashing off to the loo, I hopped onto the scales. I had lost 6lb in two days. Although I was deep-down thrilled, I was also frightened. How paradoxical are ED sufferers? I remarked on it to Ian. He knew - he told me he had noticed it in my thighs. When we are curled up in bed together and he is holding me, I also know that he is feeling my bones, counting my ribs; the knobs on my spine. It hurts me - for his sake - and I worry that, one of these days, he will find me revolting and I'll stop feeling his embraces. The ex informed me once that there was no way he could have sex with me as I revolted him. Indeed, his exact words were that I looked like 'A Road Traffic Accident'.

I think I hate my laxative addiction more than any of the other negative behaviours I display. It produces such disgusting behaviour. What is normal about rushing off to the toilet with diarrhoea every 30 minutes? I hate having to scrub the toilet bowl after each visit - I can't expect anyone else to use the toilet after I have fouled it up - and thus always seem to have a bottle of bleach in my hands!

This is possibly going to be the most embarrassing thing I will ever, in a million years, write. I am sitting here, wrestling with the words in my head, and I am actually blushing with shame just thinking about it...

There have been occasions, just recently, when I have soiled myself whilst asleep.

Urgh. Christ! I have said it!!

Laxatives create an inordinate amount of flatulence, as well as making you go to the loo. And what happens when we sleep? Our bodies relax, wind seeps out and you don't need any more Biology lessons from me. The first time it happened, I was horrified. I had to wake Ian up at 3am and we changed the bed, scrubbed the mattress, turned it over and remade the bed with clean sheets. It has happened three more times since then. Some nights (such as last night) I sleep with two pairs of knickers (in the style of Bridget Jones - excellent passion killers!) and atop a thick towel which drives me bonkers as it ruches up and gets uncomfortable. But that's a small price to pay for disturbing Ian and having him see such a foul, watery mess.

It happened again last week. I was petrified that he thought he was living with an incontinent. I ended up crying on the bed with shame and mortification. How many men have to sleep with a 'filthy beast' (which is how I view it) like me? All I could think was that his other girlfriends never did such disgusting things. Such shame...

And thus the safety nets came in.

I have the double whammy of not having a great amount of control 'down there' anyway - about seven years ago, I had to have a haemorrhoidectomy. It was performed at a private hospital in Oman and the surgeon showed me the latest technique (then) which was to cut rings of skin and sphincter muscle away to make the rectum smooth and pile-free. The 'piles' had become 3rd and 4th degree, which is close to thrombosis, and the surgeon informed me that they could be very dangerous if not removed. Then again, it was an expensive op. and it was an expensive hospital, so who knows? The piles had come during pregnancy, but I had exacerbated the situation badly with continued laxative abuse. During the pre-op examinations, rectal pre-cancerous polyps were also found. I asked the causes of this...I was informed that anal sex played a part. My ex refused to believe this. And I will say no more on that as I don't really think I need to, but see my description of our 'love-making' in an earlier post (an oxymoron if ever there was one).

Oh gosh! Yet another embarrassing admission must come out now. I feel like I am at church in the confessional at the moment!

Around four weeks ago, I set about suicide. Ian was at work, I was so very, bloody low, and took a vast amount of Ibuprofen (which I have since discovered is one of the safest household drugs and you'd have to take around 500-odd to do any damage!). I actually wrote letters, too. They hurt. I said a lot in them. I apologised a lot, too. But I just didn't want to do this to anyone any more. I was taken to hospital before I knew it. Ian called the paramedics. I could tell one of them had no time for suicides. He spoke to me as though I was a no-mark. There was no bed, and I was told to stand in A & E to wait for an examination. I pondered making a run for it, to be honest, and started to edge nearer and nearer to the door. The paramedic shouted, Oi! You! Where do you think You're off to?

I must admit, I treated him with the same contempt as he treated me. Normally, I am politeness itself and will talk to anyone. But he had no compassion and I wondered why the hell he was in the job.

I eventually got a bed and bloods were taken. I was desperate to get home and discharged myself, promising to call back later for the results, and if there were any problems, I would return.

Ian called the hospital and was told my mineral levels weren't too good - not dangerously low - but not healthy. This, it would seem, is due to the laxative abuse: washing out all the goodness; and probably drinking alcohol as that has a preventative effect on vitamin/mineral absorption...I hesitate a bit on that one. Not just because I know, at the moment, I need to 'self-medicate' for the pain with the disorder (God, that sounds cheesy and a weak excuse in some ways...) but also, if I am not eating, what on earth am I attempting to absorb? But I'm doing without...

Ian looks exhausted at the moment. With me getting up through the night repeatedly to use the toilet, I disturb him. He also looks at me with such sadness and pain that it feels like a sharp knife twisting inside of me. I worry that he will 'do a runner' again. I don't want him to go again. When he did it the first time, two years ago, I didn't think my heart would ever mend - but it did. And it took me a while to trust him again. I had put up such a carapace which nobody was able to chip away. But he has broken that shell of protection. Bethan did the same - I think her shell is still in existence, though, as she often asks, if we have had a set-to, is he going to leave. He continues to reply in the negative. I have to try to believe that - but I know how hard it must be, living with someone like me. If he stays, I will honestly be able to say that he has the most strength of character of anyone I know, apart from Bethan.

I don't really know where I have been going with this post. I hope this hasn't bored anyone. I'd hate for people to think, God, she's a self-indulgent, whingeing bitch, isn't she? Why doesn't she just f*cking eat and stop cr*pping?

I wish it was that easy...

Part #5

2008-09-19T11:38:00.014+01:00

I was trying very hard not to post today (although itchy fingers and an agitated mind got the better of me) as Ian has also uploaded something and I certainly do NOT want to usurp him. So if you read this post, please also scroll down a little further and take note of his as it is very heart-felt and caused him some agony to write. We discussed it long and hard after he had drafted it last night, and then he completed it this morning. Please do take a look...

I had actually blocked out the night Ian described. I had wiped it from my memory. 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' - it's not just a jolly good film; it's a quote from a poem by Alexander Pope: Eloisa to Abelard.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!/The world forgetting, by the world forgot./Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

So many times I have wished for this. A baby is born carte blanche and we, as parents, mould it, shape it, guide it...and we can also punish it, hurt it, condemn it and leave it with a legacy no solicitor would incorporate into a Last Will and Testament. I hope and pray that I am not leaving my beautiful, witty (and sassy!) daughters with a legacy which will lead them to a psychiatrist's couch.

I'm not going to comment much on Ian's post as it is his but to say that this particular night really was horrific. It was like watching some bizarre sacrifice - as he says, 'symbolic'. Watching him smash the scales with such anger, hatred, violence and malevolence was an awful sight. And I didn't condemn him, take out any anger on him - indeed, I actually gave him the permission to do it as I was weary of them, too. It's a horrible thing to see what you are, inadvertently, doing to your loved ones and fills you with an inordinate amount of guilt.

I have noticed the sadness and fear creeping in to my daughters' eyes these days. My oldest, Rosemary, is 13 1/2. She is 'at that age' where awareness of your body really starts to set in. She reads the most dreadful magazines which her father buys her (because, it transpires, he enjoys reading the Problem Pages) and each page bombards the reader with unfeasibly skinny girls...who have simply been PhotoShopped into submission. We cannot ever dream to attain those images of CGI-perfection. But many, many young girls hope to. And I wouldn't mind betting there are a hell of a lot of women, like me, in their 30s and 40s, who wouldn't say no, either.

She, alongside Bethan, has been paying more and more attention to my body than I am happy about - I have actually put a lock on my bedroom door now, for privacy (although I botched it and the rotten door doesn't even shut properly now!) as I don't like to see their eyes as they stare when I dress or undress in front of them. And that is not just due to my own embarrassment - it is because I can almost see behind the eyes and track the thought processes.

A week ago, Bethan needed socks. As I bent over the wash basket to dig a pair out for her (I had been somewhat tardy that day!), she screeched: Oh My God, Mum!

What? What? I asked, thinking something awful had happened.

You've got bruises all over your back. There's no fat on you.

I knew I was bruising. I can actually feel the tenderness to be honest. It's from bathing, lying on the hard bath, and one particular day, when I had been lying on the floor, crippled with wind from all the laxatives and attempting to 'get rid' (sorry - too much information??!) by curling into the foetal position and then bringing my legs up over my head. I cannot lie very comfortably even in bed now and have to have cushions between my legs at night as my knee bones grate together and hurt.

Rosemary came in at Bethan's expostulations and looked so very sad and desolate. I have had to ask to borrow her jeans just recently. This must have been so ignominious for her - her own flipping mother asking for her clothes. And it makes her feel fat. And she tells me so.

I respond otherwise, and quite vociferously. I tell her repeatedly that she is beautiful, perfect, has a figure to die for...and I am the freak. She is such a lovely girl - she has her moments, just like many teenage daughters - but she is so witty, so quick, so intelligent, and very, very beautiful.

She was very low last night, and I asked her to read my last post - I have to be quite careful about what I can let her read as I cannot taint her opinions of her father. Ian, Rosemary, Bethan and I also watched this YouTube video, which has had me in tears; Rosemary silent; Ian shocked; and Bethan walking away proclaiming she feels ill.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4au4ysQDHMk (Unfortunately, the HTML keeps corrupting so I can only provide the link)

Rosemary went for a bath after she had seen this. Ian took Bethan to the doctor and I sorted out meals for the evening and for school/work lunches. I came upstairs to sit at Bethan's PC. I'm quite a quiet person around the house and frighten people out of their skins more times than I wish to, and Rosemary didn't realise I was nearby.

I overheard her conversation to her boyfriend - for some odd reason she had him on speakerphone.

Do you think I am fat? But, I mean, like, are my thighs big? Would you like me to be skinnier?

His response was ponderous (he is only 13), but to his credit, I heard him say, It doesn't matter to me. I like you. These things don't matter.

She then stopped the speakerphone and continued to chat to him in the bathroom, still unaware that I had eavesdropped.

Am I leaving a legacy already?

Supporting: Meandering Words

2008-09-19T09:42:00.004+01:00

It's not easy. Not by a long shot. You need to love the person suffering with an ED completely unconditionally. One of the aspects of an ED is low self esteem. If you are judgemental in your support, then all you will do is create a feeling of self-worthlessness in your loved one as they believe that they are failing you.

Find out all you can about what your loved one is going through. An ED is rarely about food, it is more about a feeling of lack of control. The underlying reasons for that lack of control are the nub of the problem. So whilst you can read books and check out websites (and blogs!) this is no substitute for actually talking to your loved one.

And when they talk, you need to actually listen. Some of the stories that Annie is retelling now almost beggar belief. And that is because I personally have never encountered anyone that has been through anything like this. It's so easy to get into Black Catting (my cat is blacker than yours) to try and garner empathy ("I know how you feel. When I was a kid this happened to me."). All you are doing with this is further enforcing the belief that their problem is lesser than yours. But really.. Ask yourself... Are you killing yourself because of your problems?

Often, the best course is just to listen. And when you listen, you will begin to hear "The Voice". And when you hear the voice, you have found your enemy. Yep. I know. It sounds like I'm talking psychobabble, but I believe it to be true. I read about it in a great book called Diet Of Despair. This is an excellent book for those of you that don't like long words. It's aimed at teenagers, so the writing style is very very easy to read. The chapters are well defined, and it will almost certainly tell you something you didn't know about an ED. One chapter is devoted to the "Voice".

One of the most shocking (in terms of being surprise-shocked) things I have seen so far, is Annie's reaction to her mother ringing up the house and asking to speak to me. The abject fear in Annie's eyes scared me to my boots. When a loved one shows such terrible fear of something, your only urge is to protect and comfort, but Annie was inconsolable and we had to lock up the house and go out for fear of her mother coming over. The "voice" was in control.

That irrational "voice" completely overrides rational thought, and is one of the hardest things to deal with. When the ED is talking, your ability to reason with your loved one drops through the floor. Any slight drop in your support at this, the most difficult of times, can do terrible damage to the trust and bond you have built up. To recognise the voice, you will hear those superlatives. "Always, Never, Everybody, Nobody". The voice spreads itself out to encompass everything and everyone.

I'm not an angry person generally. However, I do get angry at irrationality. I know, I know... I am far from perfect, remember? When that voice starts talking, I can feel my anger rising, and it has taken me literally months to condition myself to understand that these are not Annie's true feelings, rather it is the voice of someone else. Even now, I still find it hard. Once I accepted the fact that the ED was "separate" to Annie's personality, I could handle the difficult words and times much more. But this was not always the case...

As an example, Annie and I were talking one night about her weight loss. The bathroom scales play an important part in her life. Every day, she would weigh herself several times, and her mood would change dramatically depending on the readout. I began to hate those scales with an absolute passion. She remarked that her mother had taken them off her at some point in the past, and it had made things worse. At an early stage, I vowed that I would never try and impose controls on Annie, but my hatred for this plastic thing in the bathroom was growing. My Annie's health and well-being rested on those scales. That night, I snapped. I can't remember the actual words that did it, but the pain in my wife's eyes and her utter sadness and desperation, prompted a desperate measure for me. I wanted those scales battered. I pulled £20 out of my wallet and laid it on the table. I was angry, Annie could see I was angry, and she was also fearful of me. I went upstairs and grabbed the scales. I then went outside into the garden (it was the middle of the night). It was pitch black out there, so I took a candle from the table, and sat it on the grass next to the scales. I could see Annie watching me from the conservatory as I went into the garage and came back with a long handled axe - the sort you use for chopping wood. I sank the axe blade into the ground next to the scales, then went back in to the conservatory. I can't remember my exact words, but they were along the lines of "I will buy you a new set of scales, but I really need to do this."

Looking back now, it must have seemed so symbolic. The scales on the grass, illuminated by a single candle, reflecting its light off the axe blade. The fury inside me as I smashed the scales into tiny pieces evaporated instantly. And it wasn't the act of actually destroying the scales that did it. It was the image of Annie standing there, staring at me in horror and fear. I was so sure she would wrap her arms around me and tell me that she understood, and I got it so wrong. All she saw was violence and anger directed at something she believed she was responsible for. I can tell you now Annie. I know that this is not your fault. How many times have we said that if you kick a dog enough times it will eventually bite you? You have been kicked so many times.

Crikey. These things are painful to write. Annie and I sat down last night and she read this. I wasn't sure whether I was actually helping by writing like this, and co-authoring the blog. After all, this is more about Anorexia than the support thereof, and even I'm not sure that the words I am writing are helping, hindering, or just fogging up the painful missives that Annie is trying to get down. My words drift a little, and maybe there isn't much in the way of a point to what I'm rattling on about. I guess I want to show that I'm not some sort of hero (and I do believe that). I'm just "normal". And what is "normal"? Everyone has stuff going on in their lives. Everyone has bad things that have happened to them. It's all just a matter of perspective. Some of you reading this will no doubt be shocked, some of you will empathise, and some of you may think that I'm doing more harm than good, but as I said above, I am doing the best that I can and every single day is a new opportunity to make things better.

The comments I received for my last post have given me some confidence, but the fear and worry I go through as I hit the "post" button do not lessen, and if nothing else, it has given me insight into how hard it must be for Annie to get her words down. And for that, I have great respect.

So I'll close with my wedding vows. I said them in front of a small group of people when we were married back in April, and I'll say them again now because I want them to define me and my desires.

I promise that I will always love you,

Always care for you,

And always be there for you.

For as long as there is a light in my soul,

I will yearn to be close to you,

And never to be parted.

I love you.

Part #4

2008-09-18T10:20:00.022+01:00

All sorts of thoughts have circulated around my head since I wrote my post yesterday and then Ian uploaded his version of events.

We seem to have done nothing but talk about the anorexia, bulimia, bulimarexia, and my history for many months now, but even more so since starting Annie's Rexia. Obviously, the name is a play on words, but Ann is actually my middle name and my father (when he was in a good mood with me) and now Ian have called me Annie. It is a name I infinitely prefer to my real one.

Linda stated in one of her comments that from reading my post, things had been brought up for her which were 'semi-forgotten'. The same is happening to me. It's akin to a runaway train now. So much is flooding back into my head and at the moment, it is having the effect of wrecking my sleep even more than the nightmares to which I seem to be succumbing.

Random memories which sprang up yesterday:

* Children at school telling me I had the fattest thighs in the year (I was actually simply the tallest) and I was 'common' because my mother shopped at jumble sales (OK, she did, but it was purely because my father wasn't earning a vast salary despite his chemical engineering qualifications).

* Buying The Clothes Show magazine and discovering a diet I thought would help me lose some weight after 'The Fat Cows' comment in the pub and my mother poking me, what seemed like every night as I sat down to eat, telling me I had arms and shoulders like an 'All-In Wrestler' (whatever one of those is). When I told her I was commencing this diet, she denegrated it immediately and initially refused to attempt any of the recipes (I still lived at home then, but worked full-time and my mother always wanted to cook for the family as she didn't go out to work).

When I explained that I was more than happy to make my own meals, she put her foot down and refused the offer - I don't think she wanted another woman usurping her in her own home. But from Day One of the diet, as soon as I had finished my salad/chicken breast/fish steak - whatever - an enormous plate of apple pie and custard/chocolate cake/lemon meringue pie (all home-made, and she was a very good baker) would be plonked in front of me. I refused each and every one with the same words, every time: I am on a diet and I need to lose weight.

She hated this. Hated it so much and would give me all sorts of abuse and guilt-trips - I didn't appreciate the hard work she was going to; I was going 'round the bend'; I was 'obsessed'...it never ceased, but I didn't give in to her that time...

* The first time I was caught out without a toilet to vanish to and purge the food from within. The ex and I were fairly active members of our local church, although the ex, I suspect, being an ardent Atheist, went purely to ingratiate himself with the farmers in order to shoot on their land. I went because I thought the village community were wonderful - and indeed, they were kindness itself to me, being the youngest, newest member and wanting to help out with fund-raisers, readings, visiting people etc.

We had a charity 'Beetle Drive' one night. This is a very quintessentially English game. A little like 'Bingo' but you roll a die in order to get a number which equates to a part of a beetle! And then there was the Fish 'n' Chips supper afterwards. I had resolved not to touch it as I knew what would happen. But the kind folk of Walton wouldn't have it and sat me down in front of an enormous bag of fish and chips which filled me with the type of terror which should only be reserved for watching Vampire movies. How ridiculous?

The food had been cooked in beef dripping (a very Yorkshire 'thing'), which revolts me anyway, but I was cajoled and fussed over and ate as much as I could, washed down with as much coffee and water as my stomach could allow.

Although we only lived about two miles away, it was down a very dark country lane and cars used it like an Autobahn. There was no way I was going to negotiate that journey, on foot, in the dark and alone - and, as I have stated, there were, unusually, no toilets in the Village Hall. This hall was located right on the periphery of the village, pretty much in a farmer's field. So, when the coast was clear, I made noises that I needed to go outside for a cigarette and staked out my safest position. The field had just been ploughed, it was muddy due to all the bad weather we'd had, and I stumbled repeatedly, falling down in the dirt in order to get to where I could conceal myself as best as possible.

I then brought up that fish and chip supper, and suddenly realised that I had no way of cleaning myself up. If there were no toilets, there was no hand basin, was there? I was utterly mortified. I was covered in fatty, fishy vomit (and I apologise if this turns your own stomachs), my nose was streaming and all I could use to give myself some semblance of a wash and brush up was to use the grass.

Oh God! It was horrible. I felt so bloody ashamed, dirty, smelly and revolting. I could hardly look the villagers in the eyes upon my return. Even though I had paid for my ticket (and thus my food), it all seemed so horribly wrong to do this to such kind, wonderful people. My ex didn't even realise I had left the hall, but did remark later at how muddy I had suddenly become.

(Caveat: This story has brought back yet another memory - not so much a bad one, though. Many years later, when I lived in Muscat and the bulimia had returned, I got so desperate one day that I called the UK Samaritans helpline - not that I was suicidal, but that I needed someone to talk to. A lady and I chatted for some time. She was so kind and helpful and I asked which branch I had come through to. She told me a place in Yorkshire, to which I replied that I had once lived near Wetherby, close to a village called Walton. She gasped audibly, and suddenly, I said to her: I know you, don't I?

And I did: Audrey. She had donated a heap of flowers from her own garden to fill the church on my wedding day as I couldn't afford the florists' prices. Purely to be kind.

Ironically, I got married to that bastard, Anal, 15 years ago today...)

Embarrassment is one of the major side-effects of an eating disorder. To purge - either by using laxatives, enforced vomiting or diuretics (which I have never used, I must admit) - is abnormal, and wholly against Nature. It's a shameful act and one which never ceases to leave me revolted. Whether it has been desperation to empty my bowels, or desperation to empty my stomach. I always feel the same self-hatred, loathing, lack of cleanliness, self-worth and dreadful, dreadful guilt. The same words come back to me, time and again: Think of the Starving Children in Africa - something my mother would say to me over and over if I didn't want to eat mushy peas or her dreadful, tough-as-old-boots pork chops which she would have fried to within an inch of their lives. (She might have been a good baker, but her cooking wasn't exceptional...)

Last night, Ian made me a squid soup. I love seafood and fish - I have classed myself 'pescetarian' for about 18 months now - to eat red or white meat actually makes me quite ill as I am so used to the more easily digestible qualities of those things which 'swim or stick to rocks'! It was a beautiful meal and he assured me over and over again that there was no fat in it at all. And I know that to be true. But as soon as that bowl of soup hit my stomach, my bowels started growling, my agitation increased and my mind went into white mist.

Ian has asked me many times to tell him when I am feeling like this, but cf. the paragraph about 'Embarrassment' above, it isn't something you go to someone and say, "Hey! I just feel like cleaning out the whole of the fridge, eating every single slice of bread in the house and then puking it up. Just 'cos I feel like shit.' (And I am sorry for using bad language - I abhor it in my own writing, to be honest, but sometimes, profanities are the only ways of getting your point across.)

But, do you know, I was so proud of myself - even though he got in there slightly before me - for the first time, I was going to tell him. I wrestled with the conversation in my head - we were watching a film, one which I had asked him to order for me: A Chorus of Disapproval (any irony there, eh?!) - and it went like this:

Tell him. He's asked you to tell him. But it's disgusting. How can anyone understand that you want to pig out and then puke up? But you've been 'good'. You've not eaten at all, all day. This is the first 'binge' you have had for a while, really. All you do is starve yourself. It's not as if you are wasting money. Tell him. He wants to know. What do I say? How do I broach this? How can I explain this overwhelming urge? Will he try to stop me? Is there any way I could actually do this without him realising...

He sensed the agitation in me, asked if I was OK, paused the film, and we talked. We talked about how much I had wanted to tell him and truly was going to if I could find the right words and then he let me, despite, I know, not wanting it, to get on with what I had to do.

Upon my return, he asked if all my hunger pangs had now abated - this was after visiting the bathroom - and I was honestly able to say, Yes. I am fine now. And later, I treated myself to two Weetabix with 1% fat milk. And we laughed uproariously about a Book of Spells which was given to me by a friend, years ago, and which I have since given to my eldest, Rosemary.

Ian is a bit of a hippy in some ways, whereas I 'Don't Believe In That Claptrap'. But he read me a spell to 'dispel' your past. Take a walk to a favourite place (mine would be the path down at the River Weaver) in your old shoes. Draw a line with chalk across your path, remove your shoes and jump across it. On the other side of the line, wear your new shoes and walk back.

I listened to this one intently, said it sounded feasible, and then remarked that I didn't have any new shoes. Ian smirked at me, and snorted, Yep, all you heard there was, Blah, blah, blah, New Shoes, blah, blah, blah.

I have never had Weetabix come out of my nose before...!

From a conversation today, Ian is going to upload 'Support' posts, which will intersperse my rants and ravings. I think this is a very healthy balance. He also needs to get his own feelings down. He is my soul-mate and, ultimately my best friend. And I feel very lucky and privileged to have him back, as this person, in my life. And it will get better...

But as an ending, this is the picture of me, aged ten, where my Mother labelled me a Sumo Wrestler.

Looking through some old photos yesterday, which I had surreptitiously swiped from the ex's house one night, I found this.

Supporting: What I Thought Would Be Easy...

2008-09-17T08:23:00.005+01:00

OK, so I think maybe I should chime in with some words here.

I have no intention of stealing Annie's thunder, but I wanted to try and provide something else that is sorely lacking (in my mind) today, and that is help for those that are trying to support someone with an eating disorder. a.k.a "Learn from when I fucked up".

I've had a relatively normal upbringing, with semi-normal parents, a normal teenage life, and a normal adult life. I've not always thought this about myself.... I used to think I was perfect. I'm not. I'm a stubborn, insensitive grouch, with stupidly high morals.

So when Annie first told me she had an eating disorder, I took it all in my stride. "No problem Ian", I said to myself. "You can fix this."

I was so totally wrong.

I thought it was just a case of "managing" the situation. Taking charge of things and watching what she ate. Making sure she ate properly and just "stopping" with all the non-eating nonsense. Telling her lots of wonderful things, and making promises that I had no clue how I was going to deliver. Most of all, I thought I could handle it all. With ease.

I was wrong on that one too.

That bullish attitude and arrogance caused more problems than you can imagine. My lack of understanding, and conditional love, was to hurt Annie more than all the things she has spoken about in the past. She stopped talking to me about it. Tried to hide it away. But in a family of four, that's not so easy, and I knew something was wrong. The problem was that I really didn't know how to talk about it, and was frustrated that I couldn't fix it. I didn't quite believe that it was as bad as she said, and that, dear reader, was my greatest mistake of all.

So I started to think it was me. In reality, I was part of the problem, but I wasn't the problem. "Annie was OK before I pitched up... Now she's not. She's cutting herself, not eating, taking tablets from the doc. The girls are worried, what if they think it's my fault too?"

I did what I thought was best at the time. I left. I left because I thought that would make things better. I left because I was frightened of the responsibility. I left because I was too scared to love my Annie the way she needed me to - unconditionally.

It's funny you know. Looking back at those times with hindsight, I really didn't like me that much. I probably wouldn't like the old me if I met him in a pub. But then it takes experience to learn. It takes mistakes to learn. And this time... This time I'm trying my hardest to understand and support.

I'll close for now, but I don't want to end this on a downer. Every day with Annie is a joy. I'm sure she would laugh bitterly at that, because that is the nature of the motivator behind an Eating Disorder (ED). However, the truth is that Annie is a wonderful, caring and beautiful wife, as well as an exceptional mother. She's a bit witty too.

Love, and love alone has given me the strength to stand beside her these last few months. I don't pretend to know how it feels to suffer as she does. Neither do I proclaim that the way I'm doing things is the right way. But I've told Annie I'm with her all the way, and I wanted to add maybe a small insight into supporting someone with an ED. Most importantly though, I want to show that I am not afraid to stand beside her wherever she chooses to walk.

Part #3

2008-09-17T05:41:00.004+01:00

So, where were we?!

I don't seem to be able to get a lot of this out in chronological order, so if it starts to get a bit confusing, I do apologise.

All sorts of memories came pouring back to me yesterday after I had uploaded #2 post. Things became rather tough after that, and a row ensued with my husband, wherein I stormed out of the house and drove down to the river, where I sat and then walked in the driving rain, feeling like shit and just never wanting to come back.

The eating disorder 'career' has not been constant - I have had periods of 'normality' and indeed, become considerably overweight, particularly after both pregnancies. I wouldn't say I have been happy to be overweight, but when caring for two young girls, your mind is more preoccupied with them than with your own feelings of low self-esteem in some ways. Does that make sense?

The first episode went on for about a year. This was during the run-up to my first marriage. Anal had already passed the fateful comment about giving me a stone 'either way' and I was paranoid about gaining weight in any way.

I was working for a small firm of accountants in West Yorkshire at the time and I hated it. My mother was in another fug with me and hadn't spoke to me properly since telling her of my impending marriage - that's a familiar occurrence!

It was bulimia first time round. I still recall the permanent state of embarrassment I felt at walking up to the supermarket in my lunch hour, spending anywhere from £5 to £10 on junk food, taking it back to the river where I would sit and fall on the food like a ravenous wolf. It must have looked dreadful to passers-by - a 22 year old woman eating like a pig at swill. By the time I had finished gorging, my stomach would be so distended and bloated that I could hardly walk back to the office. The toilets were located in the reception area which was a nightmare to someone who wanted to throw their guts up and I would have to run the hand drier repeatedly to mask the dreadful noises of my vomiting. After about ten minutes, I would emerge, looking like hell: bleary eyed, red-nosed, sniffling and snotty. It became common knowledge to the receptionists what I was up to and there would either be looks of pity from Brenda or averted eyes from Pam.

At this stage, I was also abusing laxatives dreadfully - at my peak, I was taking around 60 Senokot each day which was screaming through my system. Indeed, I have never had a comfortable relationship with my bowels since and they don't function very well even when I am eating 'normally'.

My wedding dress was taken in three times to accommodate my weight loss. I strove for this. I wanted it to be smaller and smaller - is wanting to lose weight so drastically simply wanting to fade away and disappear? It feels like that today...

My wedding photos were almost laughable. I looked lovely up until the meal, and then the change in my face is dramatic. To my shame, there are splashes of vomit down my dress which were so noticeable, despite me trying to wipe them off. That made them worse, unfortunately! Nothing like puke and water stains to show up on raw silk, is there?!

There was some video of me listening to the Best Man's speech. I look shocked out of my skin at one point where he tells the seated audience about my new husband's visit to a Parisian brothel. I nearly died a thousand deaths. I died inside even more when I discovered photos of him with Thai prostitutes. Beautiful young girls being bought for the week by stinking rich Western men. How abhorrent is that? He didn't try to lie about it (is that to his credit?) and described the process of purchasing them. It made my skin crawl.

Upon my return from our honeymoon, things became worse for me, eating-wise. I wasn't a happy new bride and more than once wondered why I had gone through with it. I used to walk across the fields from our house and sit on some rocks, sipping at small bottles of whiskey, wanting to run away from it all but not knowing where to go. Anal was keen to get out as much as he could and one night, when I begged him to stay in, he screamed at me that I 'always fucking needed [him]'. The thing was, I did! I desperately needed him to be kind to me; to love me unconditionally; to treat me with respect, care and love - but that just never happened.

I sound like a whingeing bitch, don't I?! No, don't answer that one, I may not like what I hear!

Lack of food affects pretty much all aspects of your body's normal functions - not least your state of mind. Depression kicked in badly with me, my stomach and intestines were on fire due to the laxative intake, and I felt so tired, constantly. I would sit in my office with the door shut and a heater blasting at top level. I was permanently cold and it got to the stage where I could only work wearing gloves to keep my hands warm.

During the 'episode' I am currently struggling with, again, I am permanently cold. Poor circulation (Reynauds Syndrome) means that my extremities turn waxy and white and the pain is pretty intense. Lack of minerals leads to many cramps in my feet and arms (have you ever had cramp in your arms? It is a bizarre experience!) and by around lunchtime on some days, I can barely walk for the pain in my buttocks, thighs and knees. Sitting is painful, standing is painful and I can't lie down all the time when there's work to be done! Lying in a hot bath helps to a degree, but unfortunately, due to the lack of fat along my spine and pelvis, the hard bath ends up bruising me. The only way to be comfortable for any length of time is to lie with my hands tucked underneath me.

I feel lower and lower each day, to be honest. I don't know what to do with myself. I don't know how to handle the dreadful thoughts whizzing around in my head - thoughts which don't even leave me alone in my sleep, wherein I wake up crying and moaning with nightmares, which must drive my husband potty as he loves his undisturbed sleep (don't we all?!).

I have visited our doctor three times now. Each time, he has given me different tablets. The first were anti-depressants. I have never experienced such dreadful paranoia. I think I took them for about three days and by the third day, my whole body was jangling and I couldn't keep any of my limbs still for agitation. I jiggled and tapped, fretted and almost walked a hole in the carpet. It got to the stage where my husband called the doctor who then prescribed Beta-blockers to calm my heart down, and stop the palpitations and agitation. I took these for about a week - the side-effects on these were dreadful nightmares - full of violence and terror. I wasn't just waking up crying, I was waking up shouting, jangling and petrified of my dreams. A new prescription was offered. Slow release Beta-blockers. One night, I thought my heart was going to stop...

I refuse to take anything but sleeping tablets now. I am sick and tired of being sick and tired. I have escaped with drink - I will admit that. It pains my husband dreadfully, and he abhors it. Alcohol abuse is not a pretty sight in a man, but definitely not in a woman. The alcohol has eased the pains in my bones. It helps me run from my thoughts, too. I don't even like the bloody taste of it, you know...When I am OK, I don't need the booze. But when I am not, I do. I have had conversations with other ED sufferers who have said the same: the booze helps you to oblivion-seek. It doesn't mean we are alcoholics; it just means that we are trying to escape.

I am trying to get counselling and have been referred to an Specialist ED Unit. I was referred there once before but was not deemed 'ill enough'. I am not holding my breath this time, either - particularly after my doctor looked somewhat glum and admitted that he had never had any success with them in the past. There's a six-month waiting list for NHS counselling - you could be dead by then - and so my only other alternative is to go private. This costs an arm and a leg. As I am not working at the moment, I am not getting paid. I don't really know how we can afford it. Do I return to work as soon as possible and risk passing out like I did two weeks ago, bashing my head on the toilet bowl and coming to sporting a beautiful purple egg on my forehead?

This has been a particularly hard post for me to write. I am admitting things here which make me feel very ashamed and very uncomfortable. I want to ask you not to judge me for my confessions. Bizarrely, I want to be liked by any visitors to this blog! How pathetic is that?

But, duty calls and it is now time to rouse the household. Bad dreams woke me at 4.30am and I thought I would put the quiet time to some good use.

I will be back!

Part #2

2008-09-16T11:40:00.001+01:00

So, I had to break off last night - it was all getting a bit too much for me. I took a sleeping tablet as my legs were crippling me and I needed, desperately, to rest; there were all sorts of shitty thoughts whizzing around; and then I don't remember an awful lot else due to the grogginess when I did, eventually, wake up.

My ex-husband (who inspired the HexMyEx blog in many ways) seemed to go out of his way to make me feel like crap almost from the start. If we went out together, or in a group, he would compare me to other women - 'Look at the tits on that'; 'She's wearing stockings. I can see the straps. She's a bit fit. I reckon she's got the eye for me...' and so forth. Many years later, when he was comparing me to a good friend of mine, in front of her husband, banging on about the size of her chest and asking after 'The Twins', her husband took him to one side and threatened to beat him to a pulp he if continued. He never told me about this (I was at home baby-sitting), but G did. And I was horrified with embarrassment.

Nothing I ever did was right. I worked my backside off, cooking, cleaning, keeping down a demanding career as a freelance journalist and editing for the Omani government. He'd come home from work and criticise me from start to finish.

There was no 'love-making' as such - being in bed with him was just being abused all over again as it was painful, brutal and degrading.

When my charge-out rate started to exceed his, he kicked off his physical campaign of abuse and I was systematically knocked about at night - particularly when he had been out drinking.

It's an odd one, but many women say they would leave instantly if their partners raised a hand to them. I was one of them. But, it creeps in so insidiously, that you don't even realise it is happening straight away. You can pass it off as a fight (because, By Christ, I would always fight back, and hard!), but then realisation does kick in. One particular night, I told him I had received some freelance payments. They were worth about £1000 (US$2000) and I wanted to buy a new settee and chairs. NOT, I hasten to add, a Gucci dress or Prada heels - a bloody settee!

He grabbed me by the throat, banged my head repeatedly against the wall, as if to drum home his words, and snarled at me that the monies would be used for food and that was it.

That was all the realisation I needed.

I ran downstairs into the spare bedroom and lay awake all night, terrified in case he came downstairs to continue what he had started. In the morning, when he got himself ready for work, I locked myself in the bathroom until I heard his car start up. I then got the girls ready for school and nursery and set about finding us a sanctuary.

My first port of call was to look up flights back to the UK - the second to call my mother.

Mother's response: You've brought this on yourself. The way you were boasting to me the other night about getting that magazine commission, it's no bloody wonder that he raised his hand to you. I felt like doing the same.

So, I didn't know where to go - I didn't have a house in the UK, nor did I have friends who would be able to put me and two young girls up for God knows how long.

I won't go into the ins and outs of that night, when he returned from work, but I did ask for us to discuss it on neutral ground, booked us a table at a restaurant and the bastard walked out on me during the main course, not liking what he was hearing, and I walked two miles home in the pitch black (there were few street lamps in Muscat!) to a darkened house.

And so, the old feelings of low self-worth kicked back in and I started to feel sicker and sicker at each meal time. The weight started to fall off me again, I dreaded sex with him and commenced drinking in order to numb the pain. When he came home at night, I had, by then drunk a few low-cal beers - they were only 68 cals/can, but got you fairly pissed, fairly quickly. They were my meals. Forget the Slimfast shakes, Miller Lites were just as good.

I still had to suffer the ignominy of his sexual cravings - which were not especially 'normal' or nice. Certainly, I derived little pleasure and 'faked it' more times than I care to remember! Anything to 'literally' get him off my back...

Around this time, I lost my job with the Omani goverment. There was a Nationalisation Programme which meant that as many expats as possible would be replaced by locals. For some very odd reason, the Ministry of Civil Service decided that a non-degree qualified Omani could write English better than me. My replacement, I discovered, allowed the website and publications department to collapse in months to come.

I didn't really know what to do with myself, but as I had been involved in amateur dramatics since I was 11, I decided to set up a drama group and raise funds for expatriate school our girls attended. In our first production, I acted, directed, set built, costume-designed, raised sponsorship funds, sold tickets and helped with learning lines. It exhausted me. I was getting thinner and thinner and I was struggling to sleep, think straight, see clearly or just simply function.

One night, after little food, apart from many, almighty binges (wherein the ex always used to say, Spending fucking money on food again are you? Just to throw it up, eh?), I walked into our kitchen. The girls were fast asleep and Anal was out on the town with my best friend, 'the other woman' (more of that later).

There's a strange expression I have heard from other people, but I know it to be true - The White Mist. Sounds melodramatic, but it really does exist. Without thinking, or comprehending anything, I took a knife, very slowly, from the kitchen drawer. Slowly, I sharpened it, cleaned off the detritus, and stared at it.

I then sliced it across my left arm, near the shoulder and watched the blood bubble up from the wound. It felt so good, so much relief from one single action. It was a deep cut and the blood started to drip onto the marble flooring. I did it again, again, again until the floor looked like a blood bath. Then I panicked and crawled around the floor on my hands and knees mopping it up in case anyone knew what I had done.

OK. I'm not titillating you. But this is doing for me and I shall try to return to it later. There's only so much you can reveal in one sitting!

More to come...

An Introduction to Annie Rexia

2008-09-15T14:52:00.003+01:00

I have been advised and cajoled by my husband to write this blog for a few months now.

It always makes me feel stupid and silly to actually do it, but, even if none of these posts are ever read, perhaps there is a cathartic quality from which I will glean?

A lot of this was prompted by a post by Linda. It wasn't that I didn't even have a sniff of her own, former problems, it was her raw, unadulterated honesty that galvanised me.

I have struggled with anorexia, and her slightly more benevolent sister, bulimia, since I was 22 - I am now 38 for those of you who want to do the maths. It's actually something you don't particularly want to boast about, even though to be 'Size Zero' is in vogue at the moment. For our American readers, to be Size Zero in the UK would mean I was YOUR Minus Four. Would I thus be floating off into outer-space?

So, as it stands (sits, as I am typing at this keyboard), I am now in a Size 6, UK size - US-size 2 and stand at 5' 8". And I am 38, and a mother, and have no illusions of being in the film industry, have no pretensions to grandeur, and just WANT TO BE...

First posts are always the hardest to write, aren't they? I feel such an idiot!

My problems with eating started earlier than I care to mention.

I have photographs of myself sitting, enjoying myself with my best friend and her siblings and Mother at their newly dug-out pool. My mother saw them and told me I looked like a Sumo Wrestler. That wonderfully happy time was marred instantly.

OK, you could turn round and say, You Eejit, ignore her, take no notice. But I was only ten...

It kicked off worse than this when I reached puberty. Being size 14 (10 for US) was abhorrent. She had never been like that, and indeed, could still fit into her wedding dress...if the bitch hadn't had to give it back to her sister-in-law because she was too cheap to buy her own...

Girls at school lied about their sizes, whereas I had always been brought up to tell the truth. I was size 14! They claimed 10s and 12s...but we all shopped at the same cheap outlet...

I got a boyfriend, at aged 17. I'd had one before, but he was a berk, took my virginity and ran, along with my Stranglers music. Mike loved me so much and it still, in some ways, pains me to admit it, because he did. He would do anything for me. Nothing was too much. If we had an argument, I would be waiting for him to drive down the A5662, to jump in his van with a letter I had written, explaining my angst, and he would read it, bring me flowers and White Linen, and all would be forgotten...

One night, Mike didn't come out with me. He had stuff to do, and that was cool.

I was dancing, in the pub, with a friend, and two men shouted out: Look at those Fat Cows, thinking they are fucking gorgeous.

I nearly died a thousand deaths and sat down immediately.

I set out on a very strict dietary course: no cheese, bread, red meat, carbs, fats....I INVENTED THE DR ATKINS DIET...Way before he did...

I dropped pounds like they were dandruff specs on the collar of your new black jacket. I looked rather good. I had all sorts of men from our accountancy firm wanting to chat me up. I couldn't give a stuff, to be honest!

So, Mike and I carried on, although it got turbulent. He told me one night, I don't want you to lose any more weight.
Why? I asked.
Because you will leave me and find another man. And I love you so much.
Wake-up words, eh? Were they controlling, or were they genuine?

I actually think they were genuine, knowing how kind and caring he was...

So, I became a size 10 and Mike and I lasted for a further 18 months, during which time, I was unfaithful to him. Kisses only, I hasten to add...no sex. We went our separate ways and I found Anal, as I prefer to call him these days.

From the first week Anal told me I could 'put on a stone or lose a stone'. If I deviated, I would be dumped. For a very odd reason, I didn't want us to split up - probably it was my material instincts kicking in, and the fact that he had a jolly nice home (which I had to clean) was better than the digs I suffered.

But these words kicked off the most mordant thoughts in me and sooner or later, I was unable to eat, think, cope and paranoia set in.

That's all I want to say for today as I am getting too wussy for words....