Part #9 - Oman Revisited

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don't remember anything else apart from this:

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

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

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

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

I told her, honestly...

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

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

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

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

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

She left immediately.

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

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

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

Supporting: Thoughts

Dying. Death.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Family Pics

I love you Annie.

Part #6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Urgh. Christ! I have said it!!

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

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

And thus the safety nets came in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wish it was that easy...