Part #15

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

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

"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

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

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

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

"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...

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

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

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

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

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

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...