Part #21a

I was going to remove the blog today and go private, but that is giving in. So I'm not. For those of you to whom I sent an invite to the new one, ignore it. It was an impetuous whim borne from anger and insecurity. Anorexia feeds from that and why should she get bloated when I don't?

WHY?

Why does it have to affect everyone you touch? Why is it The Midas Touch in reverse? Everything you are offered, you refuse...everything which is good for you you turn down, turn your nose up at, abuse, neglect and reject. And I don't just mean food; I also mean support and affection...and even love.

This gremlin squats in my head, living rent-free. It has never paid me anything. A parasite of vast proportions, sapping every bit of my life-blood. Even when I have sat on it and smothered its voice for lengths of time, it can suddenly find some breathing space and yell at the top of its voice. And because it is such a shock, I hear it. And worse still, I listen to it.

I never thought I would say I would opt for deafness if I was to lose a sense. I would have said my sense of smell if forced...but I really want deafness from this Voice in My Head. 

The gremlin sounds like my mother, father, brother, and a fair number of ex-partners. Never-ending criticism: moan, moan, moan. Not good enough, got to do better, try harder, not as good as x, y, z. But it's me now, isn't it? They aren't in my life any more - I have had the guts to cut those negative people out, once and for all. Their voices still echo resoundingly, but now in my voice.

Why do we abhor the most basic of requirements? Why don't we think we are worthy of comfort, nutrition and love? Why do we find ourselves so grotesque that we punish ourselves repeatedly?

I don't have this answer. Because if I did, I wouldn't be writing this. I'd be making a fantastic meal for me and my husband, ready for his return.

Numbers don't matter that much to me if I am being '90%' honest. Weight, height, BMI etc. Age is a number, too. What matters is the effect it has on you and yours. Especially 'yours'. They didn't ask for this to happen to them. They cannot change you - only you can. And sometimes it seems such a hard, tough road with many, many battles to conquer. 

I keep telling myself it will be worth it in the end as I have known happiness. I really, really have. And I want to go back to that place. It just seems to be located from a long-haul flight with an awful lot of interconnections which I have to negotiate. And it feels like I have to do it on my own, with a massive amount of excess baggage.

Part #21

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Supporting Anorexia: Control & Intervention

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part #20

OK. So, sort of a confession in that I didn't go to see my counsellor on Monday as originally arranged. But I did reschedule and went this morning, which I feel was better for me: have a ten day break as opposed to a seven day one.

At 5am, I woke up in a bit of a panic about it. My stomach went into knots, the sweat started pouring out of me and I fretted for a while, thinking up excuses as to how to postpone again. But I eventually fell back to sleep for a short while before the alarm and resolved to go, come what may.

I drove there very sedately - normally, I drive like a frenzied madman, rushing to get to places and snarling at anyone on a bike who is in my way. But this morning, I wound the car window down, took it 10mph below the speed limit and marvelled at the fantastic colours in the autumnal trees. It really has suddenly become spectacular around here - no doubt it is due to the torrential rains and then the beautiful, warm, early autumn sunshine we have been lucky enough to have for a whole three days! The reds, oranges and yellows are quite breath-taking and the early morning, dewy smells just make me want to bottle them for future use.

I felt hollowed out this morning; flat as a pancake; sick to my stomach and so very, very sad inside. Ian had spoken to me at length last night about things bothering him and I listened intently, without interruption or judgement, so he felt he could speak without fear of recrimination, condemnation or an argument. I am glad he feels able to talk to me still. If the lines of communication between us break down, then we are in serious trouble, but luckily, we both insist upon talking to each other and make a big point of this.

I wasn't sure if I would be up to talking for an hour. I am in utter agony today with my legs, hips and pelvis. Climbing any steps or stairs is an effort; my heart is banging out of my rib-cage; and I feel weary. I anticipated that all I would do was sob, I felt so rotten.

I surprised myself! I shed nary a tear, and even had a few laughs with Sue at certain points. As last week, she was kindness itself. Attentive, empathetic, understanding and personable. I do like her, very much. And she'd had the decency to read this blog as I suggested, so she could get a bit of background to me without my having to repeat myself. I was really pleased about that. Many people say they will read stuff you have written, but don't bother. But she had taken the time and for that I was very grateful.

We spoke about the time since our last meeting. Ian and I had a very good weekend, but Monday and Tuesday were nightmares - quite literally, as on Monday night, I sleep-walked twice, spat invective at him, and had no idea what he was on about next day. It knocked him for six and we had a very edgy 24 hours together.

We spoke at length about my relationship with my parents and my concomitant guilt about everything. I was always made to feel guilty about everything if it didn't conform to my parents' high standards. My guilt, I sort of discovered today, from my own exploration of events with Ian later, is deeply manifested in the way my mother spoke to me. I was constantly being told, if it wasn't for me, she would have left with my brother and been a happier woman: gone to secretarial college; met a new man; made a life for herself...but I was in the way, eight years younger than Paul.

She and my father rowed explosively. On a regular basis, I had no idea what atmosphere I would be returning home to: animosity; acrimoniousness; silence; maybe easiness? As Sue described it, it was 'chaotic'. Whenever they had rowed, my mother would confide in me and tell me, in great detail about what they had argued over. Some things she told me should never be divulged to a small child or even a teenager. I grew to despise my father - but then, I was terrified of him and his violent temper anyway, so any excuse to hate him further sat well with me. But it was one-sided. I only ever heard her point of view.

She told me about something which he'd said once, which I have never forgotten and which has always made me feel very queasy and uncomfortable. I'm not certain what age I was, but I was still 'innocent'. My father had brought some fresh fish home from the kitchens at his work, taken a seat on the bench in the garden upon his return from work, put the bagged fish under the bench, and promptly forgotten about it. A few days later, having sat in the summer temperatures, that fish was starting to stink. The pair of them sat on the bench one evening and my father remarked on the fishy stench. He then turned to my mother and told her to close her legs as he didn't like the fishy smell.

At a young age, I had a vague idea what was going on with this comment and it sat very, very uncomfortably with me. I didn't want to hear my mother being subjected to such an obnoxious statement and I didn't want to know that my father had said it. I should never have been told it: full stop. I always have to ask myself, though, was it really said, because my mother is a past master with lies.

She lied to me dreadfully when I split up with my ex-partner (let's call him 'Richard'). Told me he had rung her and said he couldn't abide me; I was driving him around the bend; I needed to be put away - words to that effect. Indeed, I discovered 12 months ago that it was she who had called him and ranted without him able to get a word in edge-wise and told him to keep away from me. And she led me to believe that he hated my guts. I was shocked when he told me the truth some time later...And I was even more shocked that she admitted it about three weeks ago in our last (ever) telephone call, with such calculation, chill and utter lack of remorse or apology.

Sue and I went on to discuss the control issues I have. The controlling influence my parents have had on me, making me apologise for every single 'mistake' - I will apologise to anybody for everything. I feel guilt for everything. Even today, she quoted an eminent American psychologist to me and I asked if his name was 'with a K'. She replied, 'No, a C'. 'Oops, sorry,' I blurted instantly. 'Why are you apologising?'...and I felt so stupid. I could feel my ears burning with shame that I had done it again. Apologised when I didn't really have to.

My father has told me on three occasions that he has a stake in my life. This is due to the monies he gave to me to buy this house. Both me and my brother were given the same amounts to purchase our houses. I refused my money for some time, suspecting that I might be held to ransom, but they played the guilt-card over the girls, saying that they needed a 'decent home' in which to be raised and admittedly, house prices in Cheshire, at the time, were way over the top for somebody in my position. So, I eventually accepted the money and it was proferred as a gift and I was assured that my brother would receive exactly the same amount.

I was never allowed to forget it. Every 'manly task' I asked my father to do for me was done with the smell of burning martyr. If I offended him, a piece of paper would be pulled out of his back pocket with all the work he had done and how much it would have cost me had I hired a tradesman.

I do everything for my daughters, without wanting a penny's recompense, and I would imagine that most parents are the same as me.

My brother doesn't speak to my parents any more, either, I believe. There was an uneasy reconcilation in January last year when my mother was taken into hospital with pericarditis. And it has fallen flat again. He once described living with them like 'being on Monserrat'. Before this uneasy reconciliation, he was cut out of their will. I was consulted about the exclusion and said I wanted no part of his share - I told them I thought they should attempt to make amends. They did try, and he wasn't interested, but I still insisted that those monies should not go to me or my daughters.

So, at the time, they re-wrote their wills. And put conditions onto their legacies. Rosemary, Bethan and I would have to undergo health checks and blood tests to ensure that we had no history of smoking, imbibing alcohol or taking drugs before any inheritance was released. When I heard this, I scoffed and said, Well, I'm not giving up smoking! So you might as well bequeath my share to a charity. The girls have been told, in plain English, their conditions. I have spoken to them on an aside and said, Well, you know my feelings about drugs and smoking, but what I would do, is stay as clean as possible and then order a few Magnums of champagne once the money is in your bank account! They just shrugged their shoulders. They won't ever go without and if their bitter, twisted grandparents want to control them from the grave, I don't think they are actually going to manage it as they are secure with me, Ian and, indeed, Anal.

More conditions have been imposed today. Ian took Rosemary to a counselling session which she has had to attend since her overdose. It was her last session today. But Anal has been playing up again and 'the other woman' has also attended a meeting in order to persuade the counsellor to see that Bethan is being unreasonable. 'The other woman' and Anal now think a meeting between them and Ian and me is in order. Ian snorted when told this and I did, too. So, we all sit there, four 'mature adults'; they knod their heads knowingly, agreeing with everything this weird beardie says, we dispute it as we know what these girls go through, and are then made out to be the unreasonable ones. And why the hell would I want to see her? She sports teeth which she is breaking in for a racehorse and her legs are on upside down (her ankles are fatter than her thighs - and that is how Anal once described her, prior to their tryst!). She also betrayed me immensely. So, no, I don't want to see her, nor do I want to talk with her, in any way shape or form. They are the most duplicitous pair I have ever met. They say whatever the counsellors want to hear and then do the opposite 'in real life'. 

We've just had a chat with Beth and I have heard some heart-wrenching stuff from her. She needs our support and she'll bloody get it. And the CAMH counsellor will hear it too, in a letter from me. If you have to fight badness, you have to fight it. And I'll fight for my girls until the bitter end...

More tomorrow...

Part #19

In my days of reading self-help books to fight the ED (and I must have read pretty much every single one now!) I came across a quote from a psychiatrist who believes one never recovers from an ED, one simply comes to 'an understanding' around food.

I actually think this can be the case for some people in recovery. In 'normal' times, when I am not abusing my body with anything but nicotine, although I will eat, I still think about every mouthful which goes inside me. There's almost a whirring of cogs going off if I am having a meal at a restaurant, mentally calculating fat contents, calories, sacrifices to be made next day. If I have a meal which is made with, say, a cheese-based sauce, I know I have to have salads for a few days afterwards. I rarely allow myself a pudding, but will dip into other people's at their invitation. I haven't actually derived much gastronomic pleasure in 'normal' times, but at least I have been at a healthy weight and looked well.

About 18 months ago, I gave up red and white meat. Not for ethical reasons - for dietary ones - and chose to eat fish and seafood. I have always enjoyed anything which 'swims or sticks to rocks', so the decision was not a hard one! Since Christmas, whenever the girls are staying with us for the weekend, we have started a tradition of having Sunday Roast together. This entails a hell of a lot of work, admittedly, but it's worth it for us all to sit and enjoy our time together, discussing our week gone and week to come. I have attempted the chicken on a couple of occasions and end up feeling ghastly afterwards. My digestive system just cannot cope with that type of meat any more. 

Ironically, I love to bake and cook. I will bake for hours on end making all sorts of sumptuous delights for the girls and Ian. And I DO derive great pleasure from seeing others enjoy their food...in a slightly wistful way.

I find myself checking out the shapes of other women in the street, particularly if they are with a man, and feeling envious that they look so comfortable with their bodies. Curves on a woman are still beautiful in my opinion. I don't think I look attractive, but this ED isn't about my looks; it's more about my self-loathing and punishment. I often can feel rather jealous if I see women tucking into chocolates, crisps, 'fatty foods' - I have never felt sanctimonious about my 'control' (or lack thereof) and seen myself as superior because I am 'thin'. Never. I am just jealous of them and how they are able to go from day to day without batting an eyelid about what they eat.

Both our girls have beautiful bodies. Rosemary has a figure like Catherine Zeta Jones and as Beth pads out, I imagine she will be very similar. Rosemary will often talk to me about my ED and I am always open with her - the more she understands, the less likely she is to follow my pattern, I hope. She has girlfriends who have had anorexia and thinks it's sad. Knowing what it does to a person, first-hand, I think is giving her knowledge, and knowledge is power. She has laughed with me and said, I don't think I could ever be anorexic, Mum - I love my food too much! And I hug her, kiss her and tell her that's the best thing I could ever hear.

She's a very grounded girl, these days - especially now that she is back living with me and Ian. She craved a normal family life and it took her a while to realise that she had it, hence a few lairy moments over the last 10 months. Since returning to High School after summer break, she has become a different person in some ways. She and Ian get on marvellously, which warms my heart - sometimes, step-relationships can take a turn for the worse, can't they?

She's going to France on Sunday with her school and I had to sign a permission slip a few weeks ago to allow her to sample frogs' legs and snails. I was quite shocked that I had to sign this! When she saw that I had agreed, she showed mock indignation that I could subject her to it. But I explained that the choice was hers - she could choose to refuse if she so wished. She suspects she is going to be brave enough to sample the frogs' legs, but probably not the snails. I told her they were the best bit. I had snails years ago in South Africa. They were out of this world! Although they didn't stay down...

Ian and I have some weird and wonderful conversations at times. Last week, on the way back from the counsellor, we stopped for a drink at the pub and he asked me, if food had no calories, fat content, health connotations, what would your meal be? I was allowed three choices of starter, main and pudding. I chose the following, which made him blanch somewhat:

Oysters Kilpatrick

Garlic Snails

Eland on brown bread toast

Barbequed baby octopus on a fresh orange and green leaf salad (something I sampled on a daily basis in Surfer's Paradise, in Queensland)

Lobster Thermidore

Seafood risotto, heaving with lobster and squid

Cheesecake: blackcurrant; and Baileys (this counts as two choices!)

The cheeseboard with loads of pongy blue, strong cheeses, Camembert, Brie, Double Gloucester, the white crumblies such as Lancashire, Cheshire or Caerphilly and lots of Digestive or Hovis biscuits. No puffy water biscuits, thank you!

He, in turn, gave me his. Which involved fillet steak. So that night, I cooked it for him. I'd bought a fantastic chunk of prime fillet from our local butcher rather than the supermarket and it was lovely. And he told me it was the best steak he had ever had in his life, which is praise indeed from Ian where his steaks are concerned!

I know that Ian wants his curvaceous Annie back. He has become wary of complimenting me at times in case he puts the idea into my head that he prefers me like this. I know he isn't that shallow. I know that Ian never puts any hold on what people look like; he's only interested in what's inside their heads and hearts, so there is never any pressure from him to conform to some 'Glossy' ideal. One of my friend's daughters has been under inordinate pressure from her boyfriend to be thin. He has eaten away at her self-confidence and thus she has eaten away at her heart. She developed anorexia, much to Alison's dismay and sadness.

What don't ED sufferers understand about food? Why don't we shake off the low self-esteem issues? Why do we punish ourselves by denying ourselves something which is vital? And it is a denial. Drug and alcohol abuses are not denials of vital things. Yes, they can ruin vital things, but they are a partaking of something extra. Bulimia and Anorexia stop your enjoyment of something wholly normal and wholly necessary for survival. And it sucks.

So, I do hope that an understanding is reached at some point for me. And a true one - not a wishy-washy, I-Must-Count-Every-Calorie-Which-Goes-Inside-My-Body understanding. If I have rambled, I apologise. It always helps to get my confusing thoughts down, though...

Part #18

Just been to see my GP, Dr R. I wish I could have him preserved. I dread the day he retires; he is such a marvel. I have never encountered a GP as empathetic, pro-active and caring as he is, in this country.

We had a good long chat and I probably really annoyed the person due in after me as I must have taken up way more than my allotted ten minutes.

With all the bruising on my body, Dr R suggested that I may be suffering with scurvy. We had a small chuckle about it and indeed, Ian suggested I wrote a bit of a nautical, whimsical post for HME about it. Yes, Seaman Staines, Master Bates and Cap'n Annie Rexia. I can see it now!

So, I am off for coagulation tests on Thursday morning. With reference to a very droll comment by Linda as to how much the womb weighs, I wonder how much a syringe of blood weighs. (I am being sardonic, here!)

I am being referred 'urgently' to a specialist due to rectal bleeding. About 7-8 years ago, I had a haemorrhoidectomy and during the investigations, pre-cancerous Adenomatous polyps were discovered. They were subsequently removed via colonoscopy. I did explain in this post that it was suggested to me by the surgeon that anal sex could be a contributing factor in the cause of these things - but I cannot be sure as I also smoke, drink alcohol and have eaten fatty foods in my past. I was also advised to have 3-yearly checks. And I haven't. Why? Because I have been dreading what might be found; dreading the prospect of a further haemorrhoidectomy (which was more agonising than giving birth to quintuplets) and dreading having to go to Leighton Hospital, which is Satan's own personal Shop of Horrors in Cheshire.

Thank God, Ian now has me covered under his private medical, so I can go to a clean hospital, where there isn't vomit drying on the floor next to your bed for days; old ladies aren't left soaking in their own excrement, sobbing for a nurse; where asking for a bed pan isn't seen as a bother and chore.

Leighton Hospital terrifies me. I was taken there for the first time ever in November 2006. It's not a day I want to remember but it appears to be seared into my memory. I shan't go into the ins and outs of why I had taken an overdose, and why I was then badly with the ED: but it was living hell. And it never got better for a long time.

When I finally got my discharge, three days later, having seen a psychotherapist who asked me why on earth I had attempted suicide using such an unreliable method (a question which beggars belief, even to this day, especially as he asked it in such a jovial manner), I attempted to get access to my house.

I had been taken in by the police and paramedics. I was taken as found - comatose, lying in blood and vomit. They had broken into my house after receiving a phone call from my ex-partner. All my clothes were cut off me, my jewellery was never to be seen again, and I had no money or mobile phone. I asked a kind lady if she would mind 'giving' me £1.00 - there was little way I could pay her back; and she did. So, I rang my Mother and asked if she had my spare keys.

She spewed venom at me and told me Anal had them. So I rang off quickly, asked him if this was the case and he denied it with such conviction that I knew he was telling me the truth. So I called her back and then she told me the Police had them and that there was no way she was trekking to the police station (30 minutes away) to get them for me. I informed her that without my keys, I had nowhere to go, had no access to my house and the hospital didn't want me any more. After some further questioning, she admitted that she had them.

I begged her to leave them in a safe place for me for my return at 3pm. And I asked her NOT to be waiting for me as I was so depleted there was no way I could stand further tirades from her.

I returned to a bitterly cold house. Upstairs, it looked like the rooms had been ransacked by burglars. Books were scattered all over the floor, the bookcase had been shunted into the bathroom with no access to the toilet, so that the paramedics could stretcher me out down the narrow staircase into the ambulance; and there was blood all over the bed and vomit up the walls.

And downstairs, propped up on the mantlepiece, was a letter in very familiar handwriting.

So, she had acquiesced to my request not to be there in person but she left her stamp. The letter went on for about eight pages, both sides, denegrating me; calling me a 'useless bastard'; an evil woman; a woman not deserving of living; hardly surprising that I was now single...and on, and on, it went. I sat here, on the living room floor, in hospital cast-offs, walls devoid of paintings because they had gone with my now non-existent partner, the place cold and damp, smelly and dirty. It was a hard home-coming. I rang my brother who promptly told me to 'Piss Off' and at that point I knew I had little left.

I called Anal and asked him to return the girls to me. He refused and thus started one of the most bitter court cases I can imagine wherein he made me out to be worse than a paedophile; a danger to society; told the most dreadful lies about things the girls allegedly said (and I know these to be lies because they have confirmed it since); supervised the hourly contact I had with Beth each week; and had me condemned as a criminal.

I attended court more times than I care to mention in 2006/07. I was represented by a Barrister who couldn't be fagged to make it on time and got chastised by the Judge. I had medical evidence to disprove some of the lies Anal was levying at me, but nothing got through. Every day was an ordeal. I wrote about it - had a piece published at one point. It was unpaid, but it just helped me get through things.

We had to return to CAFCASS who 'put children first'. We had the most arrogant male officer known to man whom, I swear, was a misogynist. He despised me and fawned over Anal. He wouldn't listen to Beth who was 'for' me; would only listen to Rosemary who was 'against' me - she didn't speak to me for six months. I was harangued and lied about. In the end, I actually started to analyse all the reports and check facts. They were sorely lacking. So, I started reading Human Rights and Childrens Acts reports, looked up guardian ad litem facts and set about fighting with a zeal. I lobbied my local MP for assistance - and he was marvellous and utterly galvanised things. CAFCASS suddenly had to answer to their errors. There was an investigation into malpractise and mis-information...and unfortunately, it all suddenly went belly-up because it was due to the initial reportage from the Police.

Things actually turned around of their own accord, despite all the warring and fighting. One gets used to being alone and the visits from the girls were wonderful and welcome. But I threw myself into work with a gusto - working 12 hour days and often at the weekends. My house was pristine; I went out dating with morons (which is all written about, in gory detail on HexMyEx) and after about eight months or so, the broken heart which I held for my ex-partner, (not Anal!) had mended resolutely. Then Ian came back into my life, which was the most wonderful thing to happen, and the girls, still fighting to return to me, took matters into their own hands...

Rosemary, by this stage, needed Mum. She wanted 'gurlie things' to discuss with a female; not her hunch-backed father. She started to play up dreadfully. Accusations of abuse were flung around and Ian and I set off at 10pm to collect her more times than either of us care to remember. One particular night, she was exceptionally sensitive to everything - she was to return to her father's house the next day (I was the non-residential parent at this stage). She and I argued about something, and suddenly, she had taken an overdose.

Life just seemed to go into a pale drag. I recall ringing NHS Direct; I recall Ian trying to calm her down; I recall her face, smeared with mascara, bright red with her dreadful urticaria which was flaring terribly due to stress; her pink fluffy dressing gown; the utter panic from Beth...and then we were in the ambulance, and off to The Shop of Horrors.

It was a rough night. It took me an hour or so to pluck up the courage to call Anal. In the meantime, I sat with her while she had her bloods taken, helped the lady in the next bed whose son had suffered concussion and was vomiting endlessly and needed more 'kidney' bowls, and legged it outside for furtive cigarettes.

Anal arrived at 2am. We both decided it was time to go at 4am and I asked for a lift home. Thankfully, he agreed. I walked back to the house (I asked him to drop me on the main road) to the birds coming awake and felt sick to my pit.

Next day, I phoned my boss and told him what had happened. He was good to me. I then awaited a phone call from the hospital to tell me when we were needed for the psycotherapy team, CAMH. I didn't have the energy to return beforehand, and also had an 11 year old to sort out. So Ian and I went when called. And Anal was there, too. And to my utter, retrospective anger, I didn't bring Ian in to the meeting - we weren't married then.

Anal and I were asked to listen to what Rosemary had been saying about her sadness and desire to self-harm. I said nothing at all. Anal attempted to shout down the psychotherapist, D, repeatedly. It was embarrassing for him, as he came across so arrogant and foolish. Rosemary was wan, tired, and had impressed upon D that all she wanted was to return, full-time, to her mother.

And she did, thank God. 5 March 2008. Anal gave up his fight - not graciously, at all! He made out to all and sundry who cared to listen that he was only 'doing it for the girls' and believed that a return to him would be best all round in the end. But, for once, nobody was listening TO him.

Rosemary and I still have bitter rows. She is almost 14 and exploring avenues which I am not too happy about. Intrinsically, she is a very good girl, but gets very distracted. She has a long-standing boyfriend and I know certain things have happened which destroyed me, but I have to support her and be open with her - otherwise, where can she turn?

Out of all that battle, last year, there were a lot of people I despised: the ex-partner for letting me down when I needed him most; the ex-husband for stepping up his campaign of destruction; and my parents for all the reasons I have divulged.

I no longer despise my ex-partner: he is a character long gone out of my life and I hope to God he never returns. The ex is unfortunately a necessary evil while the girls are under the age of majority; but my parents...

I am revolted by my mother. I had a dream about two weeks ago wherein I turned to her and said, Aren't you dead yet? That must sound horrible, but in some ways, I feel the only release from her bitterness, twistedness, and that osmosis of 'Annie-hating' to my father (who claimed, only 18 months ago that he had a 'stake in my life' due to the monies he had given me to purchase this house) will only be cleansed once she has gone.

I dreamed last night that my father had come to the house to talk. I offered him my homemade cakes, sat him down in our new conservatory where he wondered and complimented. We sat and chatted amiably while he tickled the kitten (he adores cats) and then he broached my mother. And I told him I never wanted anything to do with her, ever again. In response, he told me that she was dying.

To my 'detriment'(?), my response was the same: I want nothing further to do with her.

Now I am awake, I can reaffirm, this is STILL the case...

Part #17

I guess this is just a diary post and doesn't have any rhyme or reason...'Note to self: eat some food, for God's sake...'

So, second session of counselling to come on Monday and an early doctor's appointment. I'm already thinking of excuses not to go to either, but realise I just have to. I'm not really sure what it is which bothers me so much. Not exactly 'realisation' of things and 'confrontation' of events - I do that in this blog. Just a bit of background dis-ease. 

My weight has plateaued for a while. And suddenly, 3lb have come off. And oddly, I have been trying really hard to keep meals in as often as possible, too. Last night, a small plate of fish and veg stayed in and down. I guess it could be something to do with the biochemistry of digestion and carb-burning, but it's 18 years since I did Biol, so forgive my rustiness!

I'm also not 100% certain exactly WHY the pain in my legs and hips is now worsening to such a degree that I don't know what to do with myself at times, although I know malnutrition is obviously a major factor. The mineral inbalances won't help, either, despite the supplements I take. Last night, I couldn't get comfortable - sitting on a hot water bottle like an old woman with piles! Up-down; up-down; moan, moan, moan. I was a miserable bugger last night! When we went to bed, I had this startling sensation through my left leg. You know when you awake in the mornings, have a stretch and you can't quite clench the muscles in your hands properly because they are so relaxed from the sleep? My whole left leg went like that. All the muscles were useless. It perplexed me slightly. More so because it took me a while to actually describe what it was like to Ian.

I seem to be teetering back towards 'bulimarexia'. It's not a condition I am happy to be heading towards at all. Confusion reigneth in my head so much and I feel like I am going bonkers sometimes. It's playing havoc with my circulation and I am either ice cold or the sweat literally pours out of me. There are times such as last night when I will eat a small meal and force myself not to get rid of it - even though this can sometimes cause me a fair bit of mental angst for a good hour or so - and there are other times when I cannot go near food for wanting to retch...then there are the times when I want to hoover up everything savoury in sight. 

I suppose the bingeing could be unkindly misconstrued as greed. It must appear rather odd to someone who enjoys their food 'normally' to watch someone gorge on all sorts of delights (although my 'downfall' is simple bread) and then bring it all back up. It's so much deeper than that, though - and extremely difficult to explain. It's not an example of 'wanting my cake and eating it' (if you'll pardon the pun!) it's that old demon, 'control'...and its sister 'lack of...' The 'white mist' I described in an earlier post which took over during my cutting periods is very much alive and present during the binge times and is visiting more often than I like.

I have become dreadfully self-conscious. I feel myself burning up with embarrassment at all sorts of events, comments, situations. Where once I could back-chat any man, now they only have to look at me and I can blush dreadfully. If I screw up my reverse parking, I am blushing, even if there is no-one around; sexual innuendoes make me blush; certain things which have happened to me over the years - if I recall them - they have the potential to make me blush...even if I am completely alone and am not discussing it with anyone. I hate it. I thought I had got over my ridiculous blushing in my early 20s when I left home. It is horrible that it has returned with such a vengeance now. Why on earth should it have come back?

I don't feel very attractive at all. Although I haven't exactly stopped taking pride in my appearance, I find just blending in to the background, wearing jeans, sloppy tops, boots etc just lets me fade into insignificance. My wardrobe of beautiful skirts and dresses hardly sees the light of day. Little fits, admittedly, but certain outfits I feel as though I'm not worthy enough to wear. Does that make any sense? Where once I was flattered by a compliment, now I feel very uncomfortable. If someone hasn't seen me for a while and comments on my weight loss, I squirm inside and try to change the subject rapidly. If it's a woman who remarks, it can be a bloody nightmare, as they "Want To Know [My] Secret".

So, this evening, we are making the effort to 'dress for dinner'. Candles, tablecloths, posh outfits - the works. A bit of lippy won't go amiss, either! It's all too easy to sink into a rut. And climbing back out from the bottom is harder than working your way back from half-way up. As long as you can keep getting out of bed in the mornings...

As Anne Lamott said:

Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: You don't give up.

Part #16

[Caveat: I have debated long and hard as to publish this post. I apologise if it offends anyone. If it does, write to me personally.]

I have had this 'Memory Post' burning up in me since I got out of bed this morning. It was cobwebbed from the comment I made yesterday about how the ex had said I was a victim and brought a lot of it on myself due to being 'soft'.

The ex used to enjoy his Dubai 7s Rugby Tournaments and went each year. He would always take my mobile phone because it 'roamed' and his didn't, in the event that I needed him. The moment he got in his car to drive up, he'd turn it off. I never recall him having it turned on, to be honest.

The first time he went, I was up to High Doh because I had lost a whole book's worth of 'floppy discs' - can anyone remember those now?? I had been editing/writing The Muscat Explorer and all my work was saved onto three 3.5" floppies. I was going frantic. I knew where I had last left them, and I knew my deadline. Was I going to have to do it all over again? I begged him to stay and help me find them, and in the event that I couldn't, he could at least care for the girls whilst I made reparation, but he refused: Nope, I am off. Doesn't matter.

But it did. It meant so much to me due to all the hard work I had put in - covering for sloppy correspondents and re-writing their restaurant entries by getting chatted up by cheesey Lebanese managers; visiting girlie bars and reviewing 'the food'; contacting Ministries, Police, Customs - it was a massive task and I had thrown myself into it with gusto and enthusiasm. 

And I couldn't find those bloody floppy discs ANYWHERE!

For some very odd reason, I prayed to St Anthony, who is the Patron Saint of Lost Goods. Now, at the time, I was not Catholic, but I just flipping well did it. I lay on the marble floor in the spare room downstairs, looked up at the ceiling and prayed - the ex had cleared off by this stage. I swear to you, I turned my head to the filing cabinet, to my left, and there, shoved up hard underneath the finger grabs were my floppy discs.

The ex claims Rosemary must have done it (she was about 3 at the time). Maybe, but I still wonder...

The next time he took my GSM and went to Dubai, we were in a struggle with some people to whom we had lent a lot of money. I had an anonymous call telling me the chap was getting out of the country that night, so I galvanised and attempted to stop his escape. I contacted "Very High Up People" with 'wosta' (and Mars, I guess you will understand that expression), cajoled, begged and did as much as possible in order not to see my thousands of pounds vanish from the country - we'd only lent them this amount because they were pleading poverty - and it was a loan. Not a gift.

I was starting to despair, so I went to another local chap, Hilal, and begged him for help - he knew everyone; an Arthur Daley if ever there was...He promised to help and made a few calls for me. I was still attempting to call Anal at this stage, only to be presented with the 'Afwan..' (Sorry, your call cannot be taken...) message. I started to give up and just relinquish those monies. At the time, I thought we still had a goodly few years ahead of us with a tax-free salary to recouperate things. 

As Hilal had been so kind, I invited him home - I had arranged to meet him in the Rugby Club - and we returned. I offered him coffee or wine and he chose wine.

And then he flicked through my CD collection and put on Ravel's Bolero. And he grabbed me and told me he adored me, had always loved me, wanted to marry me and would kill Anal for the priviledge. I was terrified out of my wits. I had my daughters upstairs, asleep, and didn't know what the hell to do. I had to dance to that bastard music. I hate it now. Torville and Deane won the Gold for the Brits in the 1984 Olympics and EVERYONE knew it...I loved it then. It makes me feel like vomiting now.

I only know that it was through my shrewdness that I managed to get him out of my house. I didn't succumb to him - don't think that! I cajoled him into believing how tired I was, while he pawed at me and slobbered over my neck and face, how much I had to do to get my money back and that the girls would be up very early. He left, thank God.

The next day, he called my house phone. I tried to get rid of him as quickly as possible and made sure all the doors were locked. We had one-way glass in our house, thankfully, so when I saw him come to the house later that afternoon, I could just sit very silently knowing he couldn't see me.

The ex was due back the next day. I didn't hear from him at all. It seems he was having a jolly good time up there and I was informed later that his face was emblazoned all over one of the big screens - ogling a young blond girl's breasts as she giggled with him.

I tore into him when he returned - about not having my phone on and that I had needed to contact him. It all came pouring out in rage, anger and hurt. I must have yelled at him non-stop for half an hour. He sat there and took it all. Then I fell to pieces, burst into tears and told him of my encounter with Hilal. He nodded his head slowly and then turned to me and said, Well, I've told you not to get friendly with those blokes. You know what they're like with the expat women at the Rugby Club.

His stand and defence of me was breath-taking in its passivity! A year on from that, and Hilal one night said to him, Is there a problem? And Anal told him what I had said. Hilal denied it resolutely and screamed that I was a liar. Guess who was believed?

When I put on the first pantomime for the school, we had a panto Dame - J - a huge chap, easily 6'4" and built like a brick sh*thouse. He appeared to be a lovely man. Many women swooned over him - charm itself. He had a glamorous wife who taunted the local authorities by revealing way more than she should have done in a Muslim country. Certain expat wives got up to high dudgeon over her, claiming she was an embarrassment to expats and highly disrespectful to our Muslim hosts. I think, personally, they were riven with jealousy as she had a body to die for. But, when in Rome...

They had 'an open marriage' - and I don't think it was happy like that, even. Neither were faithful to the other and were often seen out on the town with other people. One night, after a panto rehearsal, we were all invited back to K's. Drinks were really flowing, I ended up being thrown into the swimming pool, fully-clothed, because I had been a tough task-master that night with the cast forgetting their lines repeatedly, and we were having great fun. The ex was at home!

At one point, everyone was running very low on cigarettes and J asked me if I fancied accompanying him to the garage to pick more up. We were given a long list of cigarette brands, orders to get nibbles in, and to get to the Grog Shop before it shut. Fine. Off we went, got all the gear and then set off back. K lived in an area with which I was not familiar at all and so with J driving, I had little idea of how to get back.

But when we pulled up to a pitch-black house, I looked at him quizzically and said, Where are we? 

I want to show you something, he replied.

He took at key out of his pocket and opened the door. The house was bare. It was one which he had vacated only the previous week and he hadn't yet returned the key.

I want you to see this beautiful view, Annie, as I think you will appreciate it.

He took me to a fantastic galleried landing which looked out onto the sea. It really was spectacular and I was quite taken aback.

I was even more taken aback when he came back into the room stark-naked and ordered me to strip off.

I begged him not to be so daft, that the others were waiting for us, and this was silly; he'd had too much to drink; he was being soppy. But he just kept telling me to get my clothes off. Then he started doing it for me. 

Now, there are certain situations in which a woman can fight her corner. Particularly if she is wearing stilletoes and there is a bit more equality in weights and sizes, but I was 5'8" and 120lbs or so. And I was wearing bloody flip-flops...

I knew that to even attempt to overpower him would be futile and to be perfectly frank, I was terrified and not thinking straight. So I was stripped naked and pushed onto the marble floor. I lay perfectly still while he did what he wanted to and then he let me get dressed.

I asked him to take me straight back to my house. And he did.

The ex was asleep until I got in, and then started bitching at me for being out late. 

I went for a shower to clean myself up and stop shaking.

The next day, the ex went to work while I got the girls ready for school. I felt sickened by what had happened and suddenly there was a phone call. It was J.

I was a bit of an animal last night, wasn't I? I hope that I didn't cause you any trauma because you know that if there is any problem between us, I won't be able to act for you and then the panto will have to end.

So, there was no trouble. I had to put this bloody pantomime on as we were only a matter of days away and we had already raised a heap of money in sponsorship and spent a fair bit on lighting, rigging, sound decks, costumes and set.

After the panto, I finally told Anal what had happened that night. His response was that I knew J had a reputation for being a Ladies' Man and therefore I should not have got myself into such a compromising situation with him. My fault. 

Again...

So some of you may be wondering, Why didn't she report it? Why didn't she get him deported? All I can say to you is, Have you lived in a foreign country where expat women are treated as second-class citizens, where the police don't speak English (or very little), and where the oil men (and J was very high up in one of the oil companies) are treated like kings? I didn't stand a chance. Were it to have happened here, in the UK, he would have been thrown into the cells immediately. But he knew that I couldn't do that and thus took his advantage.

Part #15

Hypoglycaemia.

It's a term normally associated with diabetes. But it does happen to those who don't eat. The human body needs carbohydrates in order to survive - feed the brain; feed the muscles. I know this. I did an A' level in Human Biol.

My mother is insulin-dependent diabetic. She was diagnosed when I was around 11 or 12. She was vicious when 'hypo'. The first time we witnessed it, the household awoke to her screaming in agony due to the cramps. I thought she had gone mad; my father didn't know what to do; and the only person she called for, repeatedly, was my brother. She was bundled off into an ambulance and 'stabilised' at the hospital. We became inured to it in some ways. We could tell when she wasn't looking after herself - she'd go and treat herself to some delicacy from the bakery, cheat her insulin and then fall flat after these 'fast carbs' had been eaten away by the extra insulin with which she had injected herself. She always used to tell me she would rather I succumbed to cancer than to diabetes.

I recall one night, waking up at around 3am and seeing the kitchen light on from my bedroom window. I went downstairs and saw her making a hot drink. Into it, she was ladling margarine. I didn't stop her - I was only about 13 then and just thought this was some weird way of bringing her out of her hypo, but when she took a mouthful and gagged, I realised she had got mixed up.

She never wanted anyone but my brother when she was very low. She would literally howl for him. I would run to her to hug her and she would push me away abruptly, begging for Paul. I know she wasn't in a compos mentis state of mind, so I definitely do not bear her any ill will for this.

When I returned from Oman in 2003, I used to suffer hypos a lot. And I have suffered 'the real' ones, too, from having injected myself with my mother's insulin as a teenager in order to do away with myself. So I know what they are like. The less you eat and the more you work, the less you can function.

The ex had advised me, by phone from Oman, that I could have monies to pay the mortgage and utilities and that was it. The rest of the monies I had to find myself. So he was living in a rent-free villa, with all expenses paid apart from his clothes and food, on a tax-free salary of around £45,000 (US$90,000) and I had to get a job to feed and clothe me and the girls. As the girls were so young (8 and 6), and I was guilt-tripped by Mother into NOT getting an office job, I went out to clean other people's houses, iron their clothes and work as a dinner lady at the local High School. I have to confess my snobbery here and admit that it felt very ignominious at times. I had been a successful journalist and editor, and now I was scrubbing other people's toilets. But, sod it, I am not that proud when the chips are down.

I was probably cleaning for six hours each day as well as doing two hours at the school. The ironing was delivered to my door every other night and I would get up at 5am to do it. Now, I am not wallowing in self-pity here. I am simply stating what I was up to. That's all. Some days, I would get so stuck into the cleaning that I felt simply marvellous - seeing a gleaming house is something worth stepping back from and saying, Great! That looks bloody good! (And I got paid for it!)

But because I wasn't eating - and I think this was probably the start of the anorexia proper, moving from the bulimia which had plagued me over the previous years - I did start to feel somewhat washed out at nights and weekends. And one weekend it took its toll and I passed out in our local supermarket, Asda (Walmart). I keeled over, fell to my knees and blacked out.

I remember coming to on a public bench in the shop with staff hovering over me and trying to placate the girls with colouring books, sweets, cakes etc. I was utterly bewildered and disoriented. One lady, Wendy, wanted to take me to the local hospital, but I refused and told her I would be more than fine. So she drove me home in my car - we still chat now whenever I go into the shop and she is always kindness itself.

I told the ex over the phone and he grunted.

He was due to return to the UK on leave within a few days. He took the girls up to see his sister in Yorkshire and I decided not to go - for personal reasons (i.e. his sister was a condescending woman who enjoyed nothing better than to belittle me when wearing her D & G/Armani/Gucci/Versace clothes and skitting me for shopping at Second Hand Shops). The girls told me when they returned that they had felt sickened at their laughter at me passing out at Asda. He had related the incident to his sister, C, and they had fallen about laughing when he stated, She f*cking doesn't eat, what the f*ck does she expect, silly, f*cking b*tch!

And this was the man who had promised me we would make 'it work'.

As I write all of this, it does read back like wallowing in self-pity. But please believe me, I am not. I actually feel quite stalwart! I actually can read it and think: Well, you git! You purported to love me and did this?! I am well rid of you, matey!

That's truly what I am feeling - I don't want any sympathy. These are just facts - not 'please-like-me-and-feel-sorry-for-me statements'.

But in a roundabout way, what I am trying to say is that my behaviour, without carbs, is erratic. I forget so much, short-term memory-wise. I stagger and slur at times because I am not up to speed. I wake up in a 'swamp' of perspiration from the night sweats, and the cramps are very painful at times, let alone the lack of circulation wherein I have to plunge my hands into the sink full of hot water.

But honestly, I can, actually, see a light at the end of the tunnel. I think this is actually the first 'Memory' post wherein I don't feel sad - I feel quite detached. I am just getting it down. If it offends anyone, I apologise. But what is a blog, if not a journal of thoughts and memories? It can be used for vanity, catharsis, antagonism...many things. Mine is used for catharsis. And that's it.

And that's all for today!

Part #14

So. First therapy session has now been and gone - this morning at 11am.

The dread I was feeling prior to this morning dissipated during the night and I woke up feeling numb, unwell and hollow. There had been a few 'Will she? Won't she?' moments, I must admit. I think, upon waking today, I had just resigned myself to the inevitable, but not in a defeatist way.

I really have felt unwell today. I cannot begin to express the pain which is searing through my legs and hips. Every step I take is like having a red hot poker going up through my pelvis. Sitting, standing, lying down, walking. I don't get any respite, no matter what position I attempt. It was a bit difficult for me to get comfortable at the therapist's. Although she had a huge sofa chair and also offered me a cushion, it just wasn't happening. Added to this, my bowels were on fire from the laxatives I had held off from taking until the very last thing, last night.

I allowed myself some pride in my efforts yesterday. I didn't go near the scales and had it in my head NOT to take any Dulcolax. I nibbled on 'safe' foodstuffs through the day and drank quite a lot of milk. So, I retired feeling pretty pleased with myself. But the slightest thing can make me feel inadequate and an ill-perceived slight led me to the Dulcolax and the fridge...then the toilet...And it was all my fault, and I know that to be true.

The therapist was everything I hoped she would be. Her name is Susan. Her room was like a sparsely-furnished living room, but not so austere as to make you feel cold and uncomfortable. And she was approachable, warm, understanding, pertinent and competent. She didn't make me feel a time-waster like some therapists have. And nor did I think she would feel I was fabricating things - indeed, I asked her that after she remarked that I had been surrounded, for many years, by people who had criticised me and dragged me down.

It's a strange thing when someone acknowledges this. Although I want someone to understand, the minute they do, I feel inordinate guilt - as though I have been 'naughty' and ratted on someone. She remarked on this, too. It's normal to respect your parents, and therefore, when you have no respect for them, it goes against the norm...if you know what I mean? 

We talked a lot about Anal, actually. Probably more about him than my family. We also talked about my relationship with Ian and the girls - I think these mentions were the only ones at which I smiled. I also confessed the one thing I have 'achieved' at which I do, secretly and quietly (but not any more, I guess!) give myself a pat on the back for - and that's the integrity I have instilled into Beth. Beth has more moral fibre than any person, adult or child, I have ever known. She looks out for the underdog, is fierce about right and wrong, and is not frightened to stand up for the 'right' side, either. She's as vocal and adamant as I wish I could be. We've talked morals together for hours on end. I've tried to teach her right and wrong; about love, care and consideration - about unconditional love. She's soaked it up like a sponge. Rosemary also has these morals - I am sure of that as I witness the way she defends her friends when they are in trouble...but she, at the moment, is absorbing boys, make-up and education more than 'fighting the good fight'. And that is how it should be for her, too, at this time of her life.

I must confess that this first session was quite draining for me. I had to use the bathroom part-way through and suddenly found myself wanting to 'grey out'. Some deep breathing cleared my head and didn't make me lose my sight. It left me feeling very nauseated, though, and I admitted to Sue that I felt somewhat unwell. She offered to end the session, but we ploughed on.

These spider webs of memories can be painful. Ian and I went to the pub afterwards for a chat. And I tried to relate to him as much as my tangled head could recall. So much junk in there which needs taking to the bin and destroying, once and for all - no recycling here, thanks!

When I was little - I can't think that I was much more than 7 or 8, I ended up in hospital. I had made myself ill with my own thoughts, I guess. My mother was constantly threatening to desert me; impressing upon me that her own unhappiness and malcontent with my father was due to my existence - "I'd have left if it hadn't have been for you being born" - and I started to fear that every time I left the house, I'd return to find her gone. I stopped coping with food due to the nausea. I found eating very, very difficult. And I also started pleading sickness in order to stay at home and keep an eye on her. Ensure that she didn't leave without me. I lost a lot of school that year. My mother took me into her bed with her at night because I was sick so much. I liked that even more - I had her under my beady eye 24/7 in effect.

When I started vomiting blood regularly, I was taken into hospital. The medics suspected kidney or liver damage but tests revealed nothing of the sort. I had hospital schooling for a while and pleaded to go home on what seemed like an hourly basis. My mother had been told she could stay with me in her own room if she wanted, but she decided that she didn't. So, I didn't have her anyway.

Upon my discharge, tensions were very high at home. My father was sick of me; my mother was, too, and I was just so bloody terrified of my own shadow that the nausea was there on a permanent basis. I started vomiting, involuntarily, at school, too. I'd only have to have a drink and it'd come straight up. And I could never get to the toilet on time. The amount of times my teacher berated me are numerous.

My mother has mentioned this time to me only once and described it as when I was 'a total pain in the arse and going round the bend...' Then again, she has often described me as a 'useless bastard'...

I did get over it. My father threatened me with all sorts of punishments if I didn't 'straighten [myself] up'. So I had to as he terrified me. One particular night, when he had really had enough of me whimpering for my mother's return, he smacked my backside so hard, it was raw, and then threw me into a scalding hot bath from which I was not allowed to move. The heat was so high it was like ice, almost. I cried quietly, not daring to move as this would mean the heat circulated even more. He roared at me to stop crying, but the pain was intense and I didn't know what the hell to do. I will never forget that night as long as I live. I remember staring at my face in the bath overflow, all distorted and strange-looking, sitting on my hands, attempting to protect my buttocks. 

My mother has denied this event ever happened. That my father would never do any such thing. But how would she know? She was out dancing with her fancy-man.

Ian has referred to this, and other things, as 'abuse'. It doesn't sit easy with me. I often remark, At least I wasn't abused as a child. He refutes this. It's hearkening back to my statement above. One doesn't want to think ill of one's parents, and to do so goes against the norm.

I told Sue today that I really miss 'A Mum'. Not her - A Mum. She discussed this with me very empathetically and perceptively. I got a lot out of her empathy there as I have often felt a bit of a wuss admitting it. Many people are unlucky enough to lose their parents and some struggle to get over it. A close friend of mine is still heartbroken at the loss of her lovely Mother and I have wrestled with my guilt at divulging my own feelings towards my mother to her. Thankfully, she is an objective woman and can see big differences in my upbringing to hers. (And thanks for that, Melon.)

So, the start of new and hopefully good things to come. I explained to Sue that I want to get rid of this rubbish once and for all. She has told me, honestly, it's going to be a long journey. I know that - I'm not daft! 38 years of incessant degredation and criticism don't disappear in six weeks, do they?

Ian told me today that he was proud of me for taking this step. He told me he wondered if I would go through with it as twice I had threatened to cancel. I have asked him to turn Captain Caveman on me if I wobble, sling me over his shoulder and club me. But get me there. We got into a bit of a debate as to 'who should be thanked/praised the most'. I have agreed to disagree on this one and asked him to tell me he is still proud in about four weeks - perhaps I will then have the grace to accept it?

Part #13

"Therapy for me has always been a double edged sword. There's a part of me that wanted to be the perfect patient, but a bigger part that wanted to prove that I was the best anorexic, therefore making me worse."

I found this a very interesting comment from Lexy. It resonates with me. Making the appointment to see the therapist last night was done out of being sick and tired of being 'sick and tired'. Ian has been encouraging me to do this for months and I have procrastinated, made excuses (the financial ones have been genuine concerns) and 'forgotten'. I'm looking forward to getting better. But I am also very scared for some reason. I guess this hearkens back to Linda's comment about 'validation'. (Is this blog going to end up purely being quotes from other people?!)

It is daunting for me. I guess the first few therapy sessions will be dredging up the past and what has led me down this road. I know writing this blog has sometimes left me in floods of tears as old feelings of insecurity and worthlessness have been illuminated. And when one memory came in to my head, others would flood in alongside it, like a cobweb and the way it spreads out. I didn't realise just how much I have tried to block things out until writing things down. I've noticed that my nightmares have increased dramatically, too. Wednesday night was hell. All I seemed to do was yell, moan and jitter. After each section of disjointed sleep, my legs were on fire as I had been agitating so much in my sleep. Consequently, Ian looks like death warmed up half the time.

After I uploaded 12a last night, the girls returned from their father's. There had been trouble. I find it incredulous that a man who purports to love his daughters can be so cruel, heartless and selfish. He has put the pair of them into a very compromising position and also attempted to manipulate Rosemary into doing his dirty work for him. He knows Beth's feelings about 'the other woman' whom he still sees despite her living many miles away, and he has also been told by the counselling team who have worked with the girls, to stop forcing them to accept/see her. He has been telling me for three years that it is my duty to force the girls to accept 'the other woman' until I totally lost my temper in a 'family therapy' session recently and expostulated that it was not within my remit to condone adultery to the girls. The therapist backed me up 100%.

So, the girls' cousins (all budding actresses) whom they adore, are starring in a pantomime in November. The girls can't wait to see it. And their father has sneakily invited 'the other woman' and her son along. So Beth is caught between a rock and a hard place. We offered to drive them up there, keep out of the way, but at least give them moral support. Neither girl thought this would be a good idea - I guess they thought there would be some form of showdown, but there wouldn't. Not from us, anyway. Beth doesn't know what to do. She is disgusted by her father's underhandedness, full of anger and resentment and cried greatly last night at his betrayal of her. She feels as though he has put 'the son's' feelings before her. She has always felt (and it's hard not to believe her when I have witnessed certain things for myself) that he didn't want a second daughter; he wanted a son.

He has hidden behind Rosemary; said this was purely his sister's idea (who doesn't give a turquoise toss about anybody); says that 'the son' needs Beth's moral support; and asked her to persuade Beth to go.

And he has described me as 'manipulative'!

This is the type of man I married: a coward. A manipulator. A liar, and an adulterer to boot. 

And I know that he has been a big part of my problem and lack of self-esteem. 

So I guess this is as good a time as any to conclude my account of the final months in Oman. Get it over and done with. I have told the therapist about this blog, which she said was an excellent idea, and I am hoping she will read it and get the bigger picture.

After I lost the plot and told the ex the affair had to be finished forthwith, he refused at first. Told me he loved her, that he wouldn't give her up for me and that he was moving out. So I informed him, coldly and with immense anger that I would be clearing off back to the UK with the girls and that he'd be lucky to see any of us ever again. 

He back-tracked immediately. Promised to speak to her that afternoon and end it all. When he returned from work, he confirmed that he had done this. But her husband told me otherwise. She had written Anal an email that afternoon and printed it out. She had accidentally left it in their office and AM had found it. He read it to me. Despite Anal's protestations that there had never been any sex, she stated that she could 'feel [him] within her' and that they would never be parted.

There was little I could do about this. Anal had promised to give this another go and I had promised to let it go. It was hard, I can tell you. I felt so betrayed - more so by 'her' than by the ex, believe it or not. I really did hold her in such high regard and had never enjoyed a friendship as great as with her and her husband.

Anal & I took the girls to South Africa on holiday a few weeks later. It was to be a 'fresh start' for us. There was no intimacy between us. He wouldn't go near me, and I wasn't particularly interested either. But it was a fun time with the girls and we met some nice people in the different hotels we stayed at with whom we socialised.

Upon our return to Oman, life just carried on as 'normal'. My ED was not too bad, but I was drugged up to high heaven: I'd lost my 'best friend' and I was cutting badly. However, I had made some positive steps. I was seeing a psychiatrist and a counsellor, could see some light at the end of the tunnel, and I was freelancing again - quite prolifically, actually - and it took me out of the house on a regular basis when the girls were in school.

But one day, I didn't have an assignment and was pottering around in the villa, alone.

There was a knock at our front door, which surprised me as it was only 8am. The girls started school at 7.30am, so the house had been quiet for a while.

To my utter shock, it was my parents. They had just flown in from the UK. Anal had called them, unbeknownst to me, and told them that I had to get back to the UK for urgent medical treatment. I was given 24 hours to pack my bags, say goodbye to all my friends and my resident's visa was ceremoniously cancelled at the Airport Customs by Anal who didn't want the prospect of his wife's return.

The girls were not allowed to accompany me. I had to leave them there. I begged my father not to go along with this but, at the time, they hero-worshipped Anal and believed everything he told them with every single glib word which slipped from his lying mouth.

There was no treatment available here in the UK. Nothing at all. At least I was getting somewhere in Oman.

So. When the girls came to the UK six weeks later, and then Anal returned to Oman, what do you think he was up to? Why do you think I was kicked out of the country?

If any of you need me to answer this, I will. He was continuing his affair. I received intimations of it from friends. They wouldn't come out with it totally, but there were certainly enough allusions. And that was not my paranoia - they have admitted it since...

So we continued this facade for 12 months. He stayed in Oman, I stayed in the UK and raised the girls alone. 

Upon his return, in May 2004, within two days, I knew he was still with her and missing her. I asked for a divorce. He agreed readily and embarked upon the most God-awful campaign of hatred I have ever endured. His Court Statements still leave me speechless due to his dreadful lies. He claimed Rosemary called Ian 'Mr Safety'...when I asked her who 'Mr Safety' was, months later, she looked at me blankly and said, What the hell are you on about, Mum?

And as my solicitor said, it all sounded so plausible...

Thank God I am away from him. Thank God I have a man with such integrity as Ian. It took him some soul-searching, and he has put up with some demons himself in order to commit. But he's done it. Because he believes me. And believes IN me.

That's someone who loves you...And I love him for it...