Part #29

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Since then, there have been no further calls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I just want it all, don't I?

Part # 28

My blogging buddy, Melissa, who authors Balancing the Scales has written a new post in which she explains that it is her ED talking, and not her rational self. I found that admission incredibly brave. Or was it that the fact that she could 'realise and acknowledge' that I envied?

There are a number of arguments, harsh words, worries, anxieties and fears which are borne from the ED for me. My husband differentiates between 'me' and 'Annie-under-the-influence'. He can see that when I am not consumed (if you will pardon the weak pun) by anorexia and its concomitant neuroses, I am loving towards him, pro-active, hard-working and (relatively - I am a woman) reasonable. But when I am listening to that Gremlin, I weaken, turn vituperous, malificent and vindictive. I must be a horror to live with. Although he acknowledges this difference, it isn't always easy for him to remain objective, which is perfectly understandable whilst under attack.

The ED spoke to me quite loudly tonight - not for long, admittedly, and I was strong enough to not react verbally - but upon my return from taking my daughter to the Orthodontist, Ian informed me that he had his first counselling session booked, for December, through our Doctor's surgery. He has had to wait for approximately six weeks. I was informed, right from the outset, that I could be waiting six months, and thus, it would be better for me to go private. So, scrimping and saving, we have done. I have a 15 mile round trip; Ian has less than a mile round trip. I have 16 years of ED problems and its side-effects; Ian is screwed up by me, my behaviour and my tempers.

It broke my heart. I felt let down by my GP, whom I have always revered, and also, very, very jealous and bitter. My ED wanted to spit at Ian: What the hell is wrong with you? You frigging left me! You wanted me back in your life! I did so and NOW you can't cope! Get a grip!!

I am also eaten away inside by anxiety over the forthcoming weekend. 'The Other Woman' is finally getting to meet Beth. Beth has succumbed/acquisced/agreed because she wants to see her cousins performing in a pantomime. The ex informed her, unceremoniously, on the back of a placatory email from me, that 'The Other Woman' would also be accompanying them in the two-hour drive. So, the first time in five years that Beth meets her will be in the claustrophobic environment of the car.

I'm probably, in all honesty, more wound up than she is. I feel so bitter that, over the last five years, I have been made out to be 'The Evil One'. Many a time and oft, without evidence, the ex has claimed that I had affairs which led him to stray towards my 'friend'. It could not be further from the truth. I sought out friends when he wasn't, or wouldn't make himself, available; yes, one was 'her' husband, but he was as lonely and disillusioned as me and we found that we laughed long and hard together, shared the same interests, could talk to each other without recrimination, commitment or condition.

It feels, in all wallowing self-pity, that they have come up trumps again. My faults towards my first marriage included nurturing my own life: getting a highly-paid, respected job for the government; being a freelancer for international mags; running a charitable theatre group; acting in a semi-pro drama troupe...and making good friends outside of the ex's work colleagues' wives. I was told, by Expats International, before I expatriated, that to do so took a 'Pioneering Spirit'. I took that statement to heart and swore that NOTHING would stop me throwing myself into my new life and environment wholeheartedly. So I did. And even after the ex had told me to 'Get A Life', it didn't sit well when I took him up on the offer.

What does a cornered rat do? It bites back. Anal was cornered; threatened by me, so it would seem from his bullying, aggression, belittling and threats. Unfortunately, although outwardly I would fight tooth and nail, inside it killed a little more of me.

When we divorced, in December 2005, I naively assumed that was it: I would never have to tolerate any more of his bullying, control or dictat. I have never been more wrong in the whole of my life. Divorce has led to the most inordinate amount of manipulation, twisting, coercion, demands and unhappiness than I could ever have envisaged. He plays the girls as pawns, constantly. I attempt, so hard, NOT to play these stupid mind games, but when he garbs my 13-year old daughter in a hooker's outfit (low-cut, clingy black satin, barely skimming her backside, coupled with 'f*ck-me' patent leather 5" heels) and I protest; he puts the phone down...I just bang my head against the brick wall with frustration, bewilderment and desperation.

And what does it make me do? 

It makes me obssess about food. It makes me ponder cutting, purely for release. It makes me feel low, sometimes almost suicidal, as I feel such a frigging failure, and so bloody impotent that I wonder if it will make any difference me being here or not (and that is NOT a statement to engender sympathy: it is purely what goes through my head). It also makes me regret so much, feel so weary, so defeated, and so desperate to escape.

I don't feel particularly strong at the moment, to be honest. I feel very, very turmoiled; as though my stomach has partaken of a salmonella bug: it is rumbling, hurting and annoying me. Just like my head and my thoughts. 

I want to be alone for some time, to think, ponder, assimilate and get my head around everything. I rarely have this solitude. Even now, as I write this blog, I am being asked about spellings, mathematical equations, English translations for métier, and I would like to get this out. But that is just bloody-minded selfishness. Because they need me and I must be there.

I want to lose more weight. That's the simple and honest truth. Because I feel like my grip is going. I need some grip. I am not doing well, am I? 

Part #27

I seem to be making a habit of this. On Monday, I passed out again in the bathroom, after engaging in a massive purging session. I fell against the chrome toilet roll holder attached to the wall, cut my upper eyelid and am now sporting a marvellous purple and black egg there. It hurts immensely - as though I have a toothache which will not stop niggling. All I remember is crawling off to bed and waking about four hours later feeling like I had been partying non-stop. It didn't go down very well. I was very disoriented, very out of the game and just 'not there'.

Things are getting me down immensely. Ten days ago, my GP prescribed me anti-depressants. I am normally loathe to take these things but I acquiesced. So far, they don't seem to be agreeing with me very well, but I have been told by a number of people, that the initial side-effects abate after 2-3 weeks. Side-effects at the moment involve constant 'jiggling' and agitation of the buttock and thigh muscles which cause horrific aches and pains; nausea; tiredness; paranoia and wild nightmares. I have another 4-11 days, potentially, of riding these things out before I throw in the towel and say, Enough! if necessary...

I haven't been near the scales for two days now. I refuse to countenance them. I don't like how they affect my mood for the whole day: so out of sight; out of mind. I am still eating one healthy meal each day. 

On Monday night, I succumbed to an old, negative behaviour. All I can remember is feeling so bloody weary, so bloody fed up of this carousel and desperate to rid my head of the screaming voices. I felt very furtive, duplicitous, ashamed and guilty as I tried to get five minutes alone. But I did, and I took a carving knife and sharpening steel into the outhouse toilet and in the semi-dark, with only spiders and cobwebs for company, I honed the knife and sliced myself on the arm, upper thigh and across my breast.

Just writing that has sent a cold belt of steel across my heart, if you can sort of understand that. A belt of utter shame and disgust.

From my former cutting days, I have arms like trellises. My right leg sports a gash which you would presume came from a car crash. It became infected at the time so that I was unable to walk for a few days and was given antibiotics. It was never stitched, hence why it is so noticeable to this day. The day Ian left, I carved his name into my left thigh. For some unearthly reason, that disappeared, but none of the others have. My friend, Rebecca, joked to me at the time, that I could turn it into the phrase, 'I've been to Spain', until I pointed out that '-ain' and '-ian' are different...so we decided that I could purport to have dyslexia. Light-hearted banter about heavy-hearted things. We need to do that from time to time.

That gash on my right leg featured in my dream of Monday night. I dreamed that I had it across the breast I had cut and it was ugly, gaping and repugnant. When I awoke yesterday morning, my fear was how to disguise it during any love-making between Ian and me. I resolved to refrain from intimacy for a few days until the rawness had abated. That's not a good thing, or a solution, though, is it? And unbeknownst to me, Ian had observed spatters of blood and put two and two together. When we think we are being so clever as to conceal things, we always miss dead give-aways...such as the blood on the top of my jeans: the blood on my nightdress which I didn't notice until much later. 

Before I expatriated to Oman I was an Autumn Child. I loved the nights drawing in; the cosiness by the fire; the smell of bonfires in the air; snuggling up in bed, watching crappy black and white movies on telly; wearing thick, heavy jumpers and embracing the cold, crisp days. I hate them nowadays. This darkness only reflects my moods. It is depressing that the sky is black at 4pm, the rain soaks, chills me to the marrow and I rarely feel warm. I long for the sun on my face. I don't like all the anniversaries which bombard us at this time of year, either. There are too many of them. These memories stir up different emotions, none of them positive. They imbue me with guilt, sadness, concern and fear for the future.

I live in the past; too much for my own good. I have mentioned 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' before. I so wish I could gain that - obliterate my mind of the painful memories - be selective, too, in holding on to the good ones. I am asking for way too much, I know that - I sound like a spoiled Verruca Salt (of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory!) who wants it all: Daddy! Daddy! Get Me That Unsullied Memory, NOW!

What a complex organ the brain is. How can it hold so many abstract and intangible things? No wonder scientists claim they can only fully understand about a 1/3 of its workings. How can those electrical impulses which constantly fire off cause elation, sadness, euphoria, desperation, hunger, warmth, irritation, love, affection, anxiety...ad infinitum...What an amazing creation we have, sitting in our 'shell-likes'. And I am rambling...

Things aren't all bad in Annie's World, though, so I apologise for being so morose. In my last post, I described my current worries. One of those, as Ian predicted, has now gone. He finally 'sold' his house yesterday - all the legalities are now in place and it is time to clear the property. When we first got back together, over a year ago, he told me he was going to do things properly this time and before I agreed to a future together, he was discussing placing his house on the market. The Global Economy Crisis is taking its toll everywhere and it has taken a year for his house to sell. Believe it or not, that's not too bad here - my neighbour split with his wife in 2006 and the house is still for sale. We have been lucky to a degree.

Ian's ardent desire was to start afresh. Get rid of his property, feel part of this household, 100%, and make a go of it. The economy has been against us, materially. Before we realised how bad the credit crunch was getting, we started looking at properties for ourselves - a new life, together. We found a fantastic house which was formerly a Scottish Manse house. It was in a fair state, but needed a lot of work. It had been on the market for two years and had depreciated by £100,000. We knew we would have to bust a gut to get it fit for the four of us. But everything is corrolated. My property, where once I had a hell of a lot of equity in it, is now not worth as much; Ian's house has been dropped by 17% to sell. So we must hold on. 

I have always seen Ian's house as his bolt-hole: somewhere to run when the going gets tough. It has left me foundationless, insecure and feeling like a cat on a hot tin roof. I abhor the arguments where the bags are packed, the doors are slammed and silence reigns in the house. I need some form of safety net and security which is unconditional. I hope that this house sale goes some way to affording me some sanctuary from my fears.

Most dreams I have these days are about being lost and not being able to find my way back. I beg people for assistance but I am always let down. There are obstacles in my path; there are obstreperous characters to handle; there are problems to overcome...but I just don't seem to get there, ever. Strangely, Ian rarely features in any of my dreams - I am always begging my parents to help me, and they never do. What does that mean, I wonder?

What a rambling mess! 

Part # 26

Blogging has taken a back seat for me just recently. I have been urged and encouraged by a number of people to attempt to put this account down in book form, and so I made a start last week. I am not so vain as to think that it will ever go anywhere, but what I have noticed is that blogging contains superficial details, on the whole; whereas writing a book requires more attention, minuteness, background and concise information. Only nine pages have been written so far. But they were nine pages of so many early childhood memories. So many of them had either been pushed aside, forgotten or blocked off that it was strange to relive them so vividly. I have an incredible long-term memory (short-term is rubbish!) and can recall smells, shapes, colours, clothes, sensations as if they were happening to me in the here and now.

Ian can tell me something and hours later I will have forgotten and ask him about it again. He sighs wearily and I apologise. Bizarrely, though, months later, I would be able to recall it with vivid detail - and that is where he will have forgotten! I wonder if it is the medication I have been prescribed which provides that 'comfortable numbness'?

I have to hold my hands up in submission now and state, quite honestly, that I don't think I am improving. One meal each day, keeping it in and down is bugger all, in truth. If you are only eating grilled/baked/steamed fish/seafood with steamed veg, you aren't exactly having a Hog Fest, are you? I guess I am kidding myself, really. 

There are so many things which are either irritating the hell out of me or worrying me sick at the moment that I cannot seem to drop them and concentrate on me. For the purposes of catharsis, I am going to list them. Just to see them in black and white and potentially be able to reason with them at a later date today or tomorrow.

 

• Ian will get sick and tired of me struggling with this bastard disorder and leave
• I am way too sensitive for my own good and any perceived slight affects me so much as to cause a row
• I dread confrontation with either my family or Ian's family - Ian calls these 'missiles' and they come in the form of texts, letters, emails, phone calls. Each time his own mobile phone beeps or rings, my heart sinks. Each time our home phone rings, my heart sinks. For six months, I have been given an easy life. I wonder how much longer I can 'enjoy' that as there have been no missiles recently...
• Will Ian's house finally sell? Will we have less financial worries? Paying two mortgages isn't much fun. An empty house, acting like a money pit, down south, is a millstone around our necks. We are always 'so close' to completion of the sale, and then the purchasers' solicitor gets his teeth into a silly issue which has to be thrown back and forth until Ian's solicitor gives them a rap across the knuckles and tells them to behave. But it's long, slow and arduous.
• Am I about to be usurped? Beth has finally relented and agreed to meet with 'The Other Woman'. Recalling 'The Other Woman's' campaign of 'Being The Most Popular Mother in Oman' is not something I can forget easily. Remembering her telling me she adored Rosemary as if she were her own daughter, seeing the presentation of very expensive diamond earrings to Rosemary for birthdays, and the oppositional attitude of attending to every cut, bruise, fall by fussing and falling over them makes me quail. Although I am a firm believer in unconditional love and affection, I do not believe that a paper cut on the finger requires Calpol, a hot water bottle and a Band Aid. She did...And the girls revelled in that at one time...
• I worry that I have lost my way. I was once such an ambitious woman. I was the only person in the organisation who understood my job. Everyone else listened to me and heard what I was saying. I was both self-taught, on-the-job-taught, and passed exams with high 80 percentages. I knew what I was delivering and in my first month of taking over the role, I turned over more stock from my online nicotine replacement sales than the whole of the 500 branches across the UK. That is vanity more than anything. I increased turnover by 1500% in three months but I don't ever feel I can go back to it as I am terrified of my colleagues. A former worker, K, suffered with bulimia (I never met her). She had been gone for a good 12 months by the time I started work. They still tore her to pieces for it. Anybody, with any 'mental health' problem, was annihilated. Considering it is a health industry, they ought to hang their heads in shame...
• I worry about my position in this family. Reputedly, I am the 'Figure Head': the one who holds us together, mediates, softens, delegates, and acts as diplomat. I don't want to do it any more in some ways. I am weary of having to flit between one set of hurt to another. I want hurt people to talk to each other openly, which is what I would do, on the whole. Being a mediator is a hard task. But, at the same time, I know that it is hard for the other three and they DO need a mediator. We had a social worker at one point who said that being a step-parent was the hardest job in the world. I agree, implicitly. But I also think that being the natural parent on a new marriage is pretty tough, too, due to divided loyalties and attempting to maintain some form of equilibrium

So, don't get me wrong. Things 'chez Annie' are not awful - far from it. There has just passed a lovely, gentle, interesting weekend. Nary a cross word passed (apart from the general bickering between Rosemary and Bethan, to which I have selective deafness!) between any of us, and it has been notable in its unremarkability. I give thanks for that. 

I just wish I could escape from my thoughts. My dreams last night were full of angst. They were actually filled with 'missiles'. I awoke at 4.30am with severe heartburn, got up for ten minutes, swilled down a load of water and some peppermint, and then returned to bed where I fell into a deep sleep. My final dream was that all my eyebrow hairs had fallen out due to the anorexia. I checked them out this morning, after my husband had complained that his face was a mess due to me picking a spot on his cheek. 

Such is life, eh?!

Part #25

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rosemary's tone this evening was exactly the same.

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

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

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

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

So I have agreed as that is sensible.

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

Part #24

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part #23

Well, I haven't posted for a wee while as I've wanted the light relief writing of HexMyEx. But thank you to Bob and Cassie for your comments of concern. All is relatively OK here, but thank you very much - your messages really made me feel good.

Last Thursday, Melissa S and I decided to have an 'International No-Scales Day' (she lives in the States, and I live in the UK, so if that isn't International, I don't know what is!). To be perfectly frank, the scales don't control my life like they used to, since Ian got rid of the last set. They are hidden under our bed and it really is a case of 'out of sight, out of mind'. So, it wasn't as tough for me as it may have been for her, and although she struggled, she got through it and I am really chuffed for us both but especially her.

I have also been attempting to eat more and more. And a lot of it has stayed down and in. The laxatives are still playing a major part in my life, but again, I am attempting to cut down on a gradual basis.

I saw my counsellor on Friday and had a very good session with her. We talked very deeply about things, I felt. She described me, from what she had heard and read so far on this blog, as behaving like an apologetic little girl - constantly wanting to please; terrified of offending; punishing myself in my head, with my mother's intonation when I was being 'silly'; and trying to perfect myself. Listening to her slant, and understanding her rationale of it all, I was able to see that the way I speak to myself is very, very harsh: I never stop telling myself I am 'stupid', 'pathetic', 'childish', 'rubbish', 'a whingeing faggot' ('faggot' doesn't mean the same in the UK as it does in the States, by the way!); 'a waste of space'...the list goes ever on...

I divulged a few things to my counsellor about my Mother's control of me last Friday. These things are still exceptionally painful to me and it never ceases to amaze me that a parent could do this to their adult child, with full compos mentis.

Last May, I was working as an account director for a website design company. My job involved 'schmoozing' with potential clients; drumming up business at British Businessmen's Meetings (even though I am a woman!); quoting for work; running the e-marketing side of the business and making the coffee! (I was the only female in the company and it sort of always fell to me...). At the time, I was recovering from my last 'episode'. I was eating healthily, keeping it all in, not taking any laxatives, not touching alcohol, socialising and also working very long hours to get stuck in and leave a good impression. I was also fighting my ex, tooth and nail through the courts to get access to my children, which he had denied me after I fell to pieces when Ian and I split up in November 2006. I was a very driven woman, with high ambitions, going out on dates 3-4 times each week, looking healthy, slim and smart.

One day, out of the blue, my mother called me at work. My initial thought was one of panic, as neither of my parents ever disturbed me at work unless it was important. So when she asked me if, when I got home that night, I would call her and help her to write a medical letter, I was relieved and more than happy to assist. She had, four months ago, been taken into hospital with pericarditis, and I knew it was still troubling her, so my first assumption was that she was demanding better care and medication.

When I returned home, quite late, I called her and asked her to read the letter to me.

She started off:

Dear Dr R****.

I am writing to inform you that I am greatly concerned about my daughter, Alison, who, as you know, has suffered with an eating disorder and depression for many years. She is still struggling greatly and I feel, it is now time, for her to receive inpatient care and I am wondering how you would feel about sectioning her for some time...

At this point, I stopped her. I was utterly speechless that she could do this to me when I had put on weight, I was eating, I was very, very happy (apart from the legal wranglings), doing exceptionally well, career-wise, and earning a hell of a lot more than her darling son who had two Bachelor's Degrees and a Master's under his belt and was little more than an Office Junior, according to her. So what was her problem? Why, at this juncture in my life, did she decide she had to step in and cause trouble? I have my own suspicions and I am fairly sure that she could see me slipping away from her dictat and was attempting to reel me back in.

It didn't work. In November 2007, when Ian and I reunited and I informed her that I was engaged to be married (we weren't on best of terms at the time, anyway, as I had just started a new job, and again, was doing rather well so she had decided to give me grief at every turn) she slammed the phone down on me and has only spoken to me twice since; both times, I have had to call her about the way she has been manipulating my daughters.

Five weeks ago, she telephoned my GP. He was unable to take her call at the time but told me the next day when I attended a medical appointment that he found it odd for a Mother not to know her daughter's new married name. I begged him not to return her call and he readily acquiesced, advising me that there would be nothing he could or would divulge to her, being bound by the Hippocratic Oath. She is aware that I am struggling with anorexia at the moment. She knows nothing else about my life, though and that's the way I intend to keep it.

Today, I have undergone an operation and am a bit groggy from the GA - most of this post was written yesterday, actually. Beth and Ian accompanied me to the hospital - two of the three people I love most in this world. I was 'nil by mouth' from midnight. And for the first time, this morning, I utterly craved a slice of toast! How ironic is that?

I'm in a heck of a lot of pain to be honest - but writing is a distraction from it. And I'm not looking forward to going to the toilet tomorrow! I'm on 'legal' laxatives - prescribed by the surgeon. I am apprehensive about it all - I have had this type of operation before and was in agony for about three weeks. However, I did succumb to a bacterial infection that time, which exacerbated the wounds 100-fold.

My oldest daughter isn't talking to me at the moment as we had a furious row yesterday. She went to stay with her father to calm down and hasn't made contact at all. This hurts, too. I am too weary to fight with her tonight if she is still angry. I shall call her tomorrow and see how she is, but for today, it's just time for quiet, I guess.

I feel as though there is a small shift in things. Despite feeling like crap, and having worried myself sick about this op, I have achieved a good number of defeats of that gremlin over the last week. Certainly, I have won more times than he has. And although I'll still be taking the laxatives, there will be no other form of purging going on. So things are looking up. Two steps forward, one step back is far superior to two steps forward, three steps back...

Part #22

Is anorexia a choice? 

There are two camps on this, aren't there? Some people refer to it as a 'selfish' disorder and that sufferers have a choice - "to be or not to be, that is the question..." (with apologies to Shakespeare). 

So, if I am totally wrong, then why is Thomas R. Insel MD and Director of the National Institute for Mental Health stating, in a public letter, that eating disorders are, from research they have discovered, a 'brain disease with severe metabolic effects on the entire body. While the symptoms are behavioural, the illness has a biological core, with genetic components, changes in brain activity and neural pathways, which are currently under study...'

Why does one of the directors of FEAST write in response to my comments and tell me:

"Annie,

The information is out there, but not making its way into practice as quickly as it should. Most clinicians were trained in an earlier era, and because treatment requires multi-disciplinary teams there are a lot of non-scientists having to cope with a paradigm change that isn't easy for laypeople to get a handle on.

Our best bet is to find and work with teams who do have that interest and training - few and far between. But there was a time when people scoffed at the idea of bacteria and viruses, too.

You are not fooling yourself. Your illness is NOT a choice you are making, and there is ZERO selfishness involved. You have a brain condition that distorts reality and holds you back from progress. But it is TREATABLE. You can fully recover! You need skilled clinicians who can bring your brain function back to normal: with nutrition, normalizing behaviors, time, support, skills, and a safe environment. Put yourself in the hands of a team that believes you can recover, and will help you get the tools to do it. YOU CAN RECOVER, but YOU DON'T NEED TO DO IT ALONE."

So, where are these skilled clinicians for us UK-based people? The States seem to be a hell of a lot more switched on than us Brits with our stiff-upper lips who still believe that mental illness is to be ignored, euphemised and locked away. The amount of 'lunatic asylums' which have now been turned into Executive Housing here is astonishing. Obviously your Local Yuppy needs a home more than your Local Loony. The Health Service have advocated 'Care in the Community' and consequently, "hidden homelessness" is now estimated at 400,000 people in England, Scotland and Wales - those who have slipped through the net and aren't counted on the census. And they are estimated to be there due to:

• Physical and/or mental health problems
  
• Substance misuse
  
• Unemployment
  
• Basic skills needs
  
• Dyslexia and other learning difficulties
  
• Experience of sexual or physical abuse
  
• Have spent time in care
  
• Have spent time in the armed forces
  
• Experience of the criminal justice system
  
• Relationship breakdown
  
• Problems accessing welfare benefits
  

Doesn't make our welfare system look particularly good, does it?

Trying to get help for any form of mental health issue in this country is like trying to get blood out of a stone. Referrals take forever and are generally knocked back. Private medical insurance won't cover you over £500 p.a. in my experience, and with therapy costing approximately £100 per session at specialist clinics such as The Priory, we are allowed five sessions to 'get better'. I am on a waiting list for NHS ED help. And I know for sure, from past experience, I will not get that help. I wait the six months and then they tell me I do not 'fit the bill'. There are no self-help groups in the locale; there are no help-lines running at certain times of the day and night; and GPs are, as described, General Practitioners, with ten minutes allocated per patient.

I can't even get to see a dietician! Can you believe that? So, I do my own research, constantly. I read, I try, I attempt to re-programme myself, I deny myself 'comforting behaviours' and end up wound up to high heaven because I, as yet, don't know how to handle these massive conflicting thoughts whizzing around in my head. Because my only lifeline is seeing a private counsellor for one hour each week.

Today has been a sh*t day for me. I discovered, much to my chagrin and horror, just how much self-confidence I have now lost, when I was put in a situation which I wasn't expecting and to my embarrassment, didn't have the tools to cope with it. Something which used to come second nature to me filled me with nausea, fear and an urgent desire to leg-it as fast as I could. And it knocked me off kilter for the rest of the day as I was so shaken by how this situation had affected me so profoundly.

Tomorrow may be a sh*t day for me. I anticipate some anxiety surrounding it - and that is not meant as a self-fulfilling prophesy, as I can feel the agitation there already.

Tomorrow, I go to see a specialist for a possible sigmoidoscopy/colonoscopy due to the rectal bleeding.

And it's my mother's 73rd birthday. And it is the first birthday of hers which I have chosen to ignore. No card, no acknowledgement, no phone call. I haven't even reminded my daughters to 'send Nanna a birthday card' as they aren't with me this weekend. 

Karen coined the whole 'Mother/Daughter' debate up very well in her last post, A Mother's Love . This post resonated with me. It's times like this when we want 'A Mum'. There have always been times when I've wanted 'A Mum' but she's rarely been there. Not at my last wedding; not through either of my pregnancies (once due to distance; the other due to her not talking to me); not through the rough-housing I received from my ex; not through the breakdown of my relationship with 'the ex-partner' which blew me sideways.

So. I made the decision not to acknowledge her birthday some time ago. It's not just a 'tit-for-tat' thing, it's a weariness and an inability to be a hypocrite. But it has affected me deeply today and the few days where things have been good have gone to rat-sh*t today as I am struggling to both cope with and vocalise my turbulent thoughts.

But, tomorrow IS another day. And perhaps it won't be as rubbish as I am expecting?

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...