Part #3

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!