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 #12a

I'm getting help.

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

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

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

Within minutes, she had called me back.

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

And for the first time today, I have smiled.

And we have both cried with relief.

This is the start of my recovery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part #8: Rejection and Abandonment

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

Rejection and Abandonment.

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

They are both very, very real for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Are Dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Supporting: Thoughts

Dying. Death.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Family Pics

I love you Annie.

Part #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...

Part #5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Am I leaving a legacy already?

Supporting: Meandering Words

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I promise that I will always love you,

Always care for you,

And always be there for you.

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

I will yearn to be close to you,

And never to be parted.

I love you.

Part #4

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

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

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

Random memories which sprang up yesterday:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Supporting: What I Thought Would Be Easy...

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

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

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

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

I was so totally wrong.

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

I was wrong on that one too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part #3

So, where were we?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I refuse to take anything but sleeping tablets now. I am sick and tired of being sick and tired. I have escaped with drink - I will admit that. It pains my husband dreadfully, and he abhors it. Alcohol abuse is not a pretty sight in a man, but definitely not in a woman. The alcohol has eased the pains in my bones. It helps me run from my thoughts, too. I don't even like the bloody taste of it, you know...When I am OK, I don't need the booze. But when I am not, I do. I have had conversations with other ED sufferers who have said the same: the booze helps you to oblivion-seek. It doesn't mean we are alcoholics; it just means that we are trying to escape.

I am trying to get counselling and have been referred to an Specialist ED Unit. I was referred there once before but was not deemed 'ill enough'. I am not holding my breath this time, either - particularly after my doctor looked somewhat glum and admitted that he had never had any success with them in the past. There's a six-month waiting list for NHS counselling - you could be dead by then - and so my only other alternative is to go private. This costs an arm and a leg. As I am not working at the moment, I am not getting paid. I don't really know how we can afford it. Do I return to work as soon as possible and risk passing out like I did two weeks ago, bashing my head on the toilet bowl and coming to sporting a beautiful purple egg on my forehead?

This has been a particularly hard post for me to write. I am admitting things here which make me feel very ashamed and very uncomfortable. I want to ask you not to judge me for my confessions. Bizarrely, I want to be liked by any visitors to this blog! How pathetic is that?

But, duty calls and it is now time to rouse the household. Bad dreams woke me at 4.30am and I thought I would put the quiet time to some good use.

I will be back!