Just a quickie

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

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

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

Denial is not just an Egyptian River!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only time will tell, I guess...

Part #29

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Since then, there have been no further calls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I just want it all, don't I?

Part #25

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rosemary's tone this evening was exactly the same.

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

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

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

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

So I have agreed as that is sensible.

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

Part #24

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part #21

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Supporting Anorexia: Control & Intervention

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part #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 #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?