I noticed, this morning, as my sleepy eyes slowly sharpened on the drizzling rain, that I hadn’t checked the forecast for a while.
This is progress.
The need to know – or control – or anticipate the future seems to have loosened; and, instead of checking in to BBC weather at hourly intervals, I have obviously found more interesting things to do, or just realised that I can manage, come rain or shine.
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The 22nd-28th of February is Eating Disorder Awareness week.
This is an important focus for anyone who’s been directly – or indirectly – touched by an eating disorder; and, for those who spend the remainder of the year campaigning, tirelessly, to change the misconceptions and put a few constraints on the terrifying spread.
There have been, therefore, some stories on the news; and some articles in magazines; and a scurry of activity, online, amongst the organisations and individuals out there who want to make a difference.
There are conferences going on; and new campaigns being started; and I have selected my five favourite recovery posts to highlight that it is possible –
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“Do you actually want to get better?” was the question she asked me, when I had been caught, yet again, “bucking the system”. “And did I know”, she continued, “that the prognosis wasn’t good, for people like me?”
Well, no, actually, at fourteen I hadn’t stumbled over those particular statistics; and, no, since you’ve asked, I didn’t want to get better, if 5000 Kcal diet; pure terror; and you getting your way, were part of the plan.
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Now that the worst is over, it feels, sometimes, like I’m left to pick up the pieces of a life or clearing up after a party that has gone horribly wrong.
In the moments of quiet, when I’m trudging up the stairs to my lonely flat or clutching my stomach in the middle of the night whilst it spasms, backwards and forwards, then I wish that I could reclaim a little of what I have lost –
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I have been prescribed some Temazepam, to help me sleep.
It sits, alongside all the other well-intended treatment, in my kitchen cupboard, whilst I toss, and turn, and wait for the panic to wear itself out–
I have never been very good with medication.
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If they ever develop a way to clone humans, I’ll be recommending my brother. I’m not sure I would have got through my first binge-free night without him, and I’m certain I wouldn’t have made it through my first binge-free month.
Whilst he probably doesn’t want to repeat the experience and I don’t think he’s available on loan, I’ve been trying to identify what really made the difference – because, whether he admits it or not, he helped me turn my life around.
So, in the absence of cloning and a sibling loan provision, I’ve tried to break-down my brother and pinpoint the things that helped; because, there might be some other guardian angels flying around out there, or you might have wings yourself….
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After going to hell – and back, a strange thing seems to have happened; and, like a lens that has been unexpectedly clicked into focus, things suddenly look a lot brighter.
You don’t take anything for granted when you have come so close to losing it all.
As the shadows shift and the clouds begin to drift away, even the ordinary seems tinged with gold; and the mundane, something to be treasured.
They said that this would happen when I got better. That it would be like soaring above a shiny new world; like the clearing of the clouds. They predicted that, one day, things would be different, and I’d look back and wonder how I could have turned my back on life so completely –
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Sometimes, when I’ve had a bad day or I’m tired of fighting, then the temptation to go back is hard to resist and I can feel myself digging my heels in, childlike, and throwing a bit of a mental tantrum, because it’s not fair that I can’t have the thing that will make me feel better and it’s so much easier for everyone else –
And, when this happens, I have to take myself in hand, like you would with a petulant teenager, and explain that life isn’t always fair, and that the things that we want are not always the things that are good for us.
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When I was walking back through Kings Cross station with the world on my shoulders and my eyes on the floor, I suddenly remembered a good idea that I’d almost forgotten; and, all at once, the weight was lifted and the bounce in my step returned –
There is nothing more important than a little hope.
It is that small glimmer of possibility, that makes the unbearable, bearable; and, changes the frustration of ‘can’t’ to ‘might’.
Without possibility, there is no hope; and, without hope – well, what’s the point?
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Now that I’ve made some space for a life, I am enjoying the Saturday night experience.
After the loneliness of an eating disorder, you don’t take anything for granted: a night in with friends may be commonplace – but after years of me and my food, even the mundane is strangely precious; even the smallest of pleasures is noted as an achievement –
Because Saturday nights still feel like a novelty – and friends are proving far better company than food.
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Today, I was discharged from mental health services.
It is a little scary. They have been looking after me for rather a long time.
This is the first time we’ve done it properly. No fizzling out or abrupt terminations or running from the radar. We have, instead, reached a nice ending and said goodbye as people.
I will be looking after myself from this point on -
Which is a little scary (after being looked after for so long) and feels a little vulnerable (although it’s cause for celebration) and has been a tad unsettling (even though I’ve been on track for a while now) –
- and strangely quiet because I am on my own again –
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I seem to have stopped being invisible now that I’ve put on a little weight.
People are no longer looking through me or averting their eyes.
I didn’t realise that they were doing this until I had a comparison – but now that there’s a little more skin on my bones, the reaction is a whole lot more positive…
I actually feel quite good.
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I am currently in the self management phase: I am managing myself, by my self.
It’s a good place to be, although it sounds quite serious.
It means that I am keeping a vigilant eye out for potential pitfalls and I am avoiding any routes that will end up leading backwards. That I am being a little cautious with myself and am on the alert while I make sure that I’ve regained my balance –
I don’t know whether an eating disorder ever disappears totally – but I’m making damn sure that it doesn’t come back.
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Sometimes, getting better is far scarier than staying ill.
Sometimes, the apprehension and the expectation and the uncertainty can stop you from changing your life. We’re far more comfortable with what we know –
It will be okay.
It might feel scary, but you’ll be okay.
There are no certainties – but it will not be as bad as you expect.
It just takes a little courage and a few deep breaths; and, when you’ve got through the first challenges, you’ll be looking back and wondering what took you so long –
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Getting better is not always the easiest option – so you’ve got to have a reason to break through the pain barrier. A little personal pep talk to keep you going when the going gets tough.
I’d love to write the script, to provide a nice neat comprehensive list of reasons that will keep you on the straight and narrow -
- but my reasons belongs to me and your reasons have to belong to you.
My personal pep talk will never sound like your personal pep talk – because, the key to getting through recovery is working out what makes the difference for you. It’s identifying that elusive – and all important – touchstone that gives recovery a context for you.
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I am learning how to exercise – in moderation.
I am exploring whether it’s down to genes – or open to all.
Whether it is possible to enjoy the experience – without feeling obliged.
The gym is therefore out, although I’ve given it a shot. As is anything that results in injury; involves excessive dirt or does not consider the unstable state of the UK’s climate.
After veering from one extreme to the other, I’m now playing it safe and taking it slow; and, I’m learning from the experience.
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I thought that I’d have to be absolutely certain that I wanted to get better before I could make the leap.
I waited, and waited … and waited, to reach a head space where all the big changes felt better; where recovery felt easy and exciting and a little less daunting.
It didn’t happen.
I thought that someone or something could make it easier. That this EDU or that psychiatrist or that day and this outfit would change everything, it was just a case of finding the right someone something….
No.
Because only I had the answer.
And the realisation hit me like a sledge-hammer.
People often say that acknowledgement is the first step to recovery. It means you’re half way there.
I beg to disagree.
Admitting that you’ve got an eating disorder is a step on the way to recovery. Admitting that you’re ill is a turning point. And there’s a difference.
I owned up to my eating disorder pretty early on. I didn’t get the illness bit quite so quickly. For a while, the eating disorder was a big character flaw; then, a badge of pride; for many years, my identity – but rarely an illness.
You don’t catch an eating disorder like you catch the flu. There’s an element of choice, however subconscious, that complicates everything. That makes it harder to consider an eating disorder as an illness – and not a lifestyle choice or a fad or a prolonged and painful suicide.
You could argue any of the latter quite easily – but they’re irrelevant. If you want to get better, you’ve got to realise that you’re ill.
You’ve got to move beyond the blame and the embarrassment and the guilt – and realise that, when you’re ill, you need to get better.
The transition between illness and recovery can be a little uncomfortable.
There’s a particularly awkward stage when your head is still on auto-repeat – but you’re trying to ignore the programme.
Where you’re so consumed by the process that you don’t have the headspace – or the inclination – to do any of the things that you’re looking forward to doing a little further down the line.
Where the agenda is simple: get through the day.
It doesn’t last – although it can feel like a lifetime – but it helps when you can escape into other things for a little while.
Welcome to the wonderful world of ‘distractions’ – the things you do to keep yourself busy when you’re thinking about things that you shouldn’t be thinking about.
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I had been hoping for the white dove letting go elation. The release of a balloon. A ceremonial burning.
I was expecting the worst. A painful wrenching. A terrifying step in the dark.
It has been like a tick that I have been trying to shrug off.
A recurring theme.
It has been a whole mishmash of emotions. A turbulent and unpredictable journey. A snail’s pace edging towards recovery.
Weight.
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