RealMental

People call me/I call myself Lo.

I see myself as dependent, naive, soft, compassionate, articulate, intelligent, creative, analytical, volatile, short-tempered, flawed, clever, sophisticated, lazy, bored, gifted, artistic, funny, wounded, vulnerable, loving, beautiful, ugly, opinionated, educated, habitual, afraid, strong-willed, tender-hearted, sensitive, precocious, conflicted

If I thought you cared and you were listening, I would tell you i rarely let on the depths to which i am struggling, i am lying when i say i don’t regret the past 6 years because they have made me a better person (though they have), i hate being alone, it really hurts when you tell me that it is my fault that i am in this situation and/or that if i “really wanted to recover” i just would.

I am struggling with anorexia nervosa, which goes back and forth between the two subtypes – purging and non-purging; a body riddled with damage from the eating disorder – including a stomach that barely digests food and a mouth full of veneers to protect the teeth underneath that no longer have any enamel; anxiety; depression; individuating from my family into the 25 year adult i feel pressure to be and guilt for not being; ocd; perfectionism; a dysfunctional family system; limited resources

Something I have been keeping a secret is i have not been gaining weight like i’ve been telling my family; in fact, i am still at 77% of ideal body weight. most likely due to the fact that i drink half of a can of red bull cola during the day and one mixed drink at night. if i eat anything, (which i won’t, at least not before 9 pm) either i purge, or i eat from a very short list of food i feel comfortable consuming – immediately before i go to sleep at night. because it terrifies me to eat at any other time of the day and keep it down.

I am trying to think positive and something I’m good at is i am good at many things. here are some – writing – both original content and copy editing, languages, art, elaborate gift-wrapping, ad copywriting, math, test taking of all varieties – essay, multiple choice, standardized, school in general, articulating myself, helping others with eating disorder recovery, analyzing, instigating, motivating, encouraging, loving

I love my mom, my little sister, my dad, my best friends, laughter, the internet, frozen tropical drinks, new gas stations, staying in hotels, roller coasters, marlboro lights, thrift stores, photo booths and polaroids, catch phrase, scrabble, games in general, receiving emails, text messages, letters and packages, buying random gifts for people i love, wrapping all of the presents at christmas, affirmations, louise hay books… i love so much, i will stop here.

I want people to know more than i can express in this box. let’s pick an easy one – eating disorders are not a choice, a lifestyle, a habit, or a fad. eating disorders are complex, multi-faceted, deep-rooted life-threatening illnesses that arise as a combination of factors – genetic, cultural, experiential, environmental, etc. men and women who suffer from or struggle to recover from eating disorders are not inherently vapid. they are often incredibly intelligent, highly sensitive individuals and many of us want to get better just as much as you tell us to. it’s just hard. really. fucking. hard.

I’ve always skirting on the fringes of mental illness, I think.  My first panic attack was when I was in eighth grade, but no one was talking about panic attacks then; it was just “nervous about public speaking.”  But I kept my over the top reactions to having to do presentation or speeches under wraps well enough that no one realized how nauseated I was, or how swollen my tongue felt as I tried to squeeze the words out, or how the ringing in my ears drowned out every other sound in the room.  And, eventually, I learned how to pretend that my speeches were coming from someone other than myself, as though my real life was the same as what I did with the drama club.

I remember cutting myself in high school, not enough to do any lasting damage, but just enough to see what the blade would feel like.  But only a few times, not as a habit.  The throwing up was the same thing- every once and a while, I’d lose control and eat a pound of Oreos and stick my finger down my throat in response.  But never enough for anyone to notice and never enough for it to be a “real” eating disorder.

There were days when hauling myself out of bed and facing stuff took all of my energy.  But everyone kept telling me how charmed my life was, so I tried to convince myself that I was just being selfish or whiny, and after awhile, I found reasons that I had to fight past the fog.  I did therapy for a couple years, but my therapist was saying the same things that my sister had been telling me, and I decided to save the co-pay and listen to her advice.   Affirmations and cognitive therapy seemed to address the anxiety and depression that was identified, so I should have been fine at that point.

I reacted to problems and stress in my life by drinking too much sometimes (but nothing like the “too much” that I saw from my uncle before he hit AA, or my college roommate who let loose once she was not under her dad’s thumb), or by seeking attention from guys (but not to the point of being considered at all promiscuous), or by binge eating (yeah, I think we may have covered that one already…)

And now my children have…issues.  It’s probably self-centered for me to think all of those issues have to do with me, but every time one of the professionals asks whether there is a family history, my husband’s “Well, no one on my side of the family has been diagnosed with any mental disorders,” feels like a slap in the face and an accusation.  I’m not crazy enough to need help and medication any more, not I’ve never been quite right either.   And I don’t know how to put my own worries about whether I’m OK enough to do the right things to help the children to whom I may have passed on the crazy genes.

This was me last week.  I am really struggling here.  As I have said before, I am not sure people know what to say to me anymore.  Either the people I see day-to-day or my regular blog readers.  So I am re-posting  something from last week, with some changes.  I hope no one minds.

Love,

JenB

———–>

I can’t answer in one word.  Let us try a few:  cautious, scared, worried, i can wear a size 14 jeans from the gap.  I am actually getting anxious writing this post.  I have been avoiding writing this post.  I have been avoiding: seeing the doctor, getting my blood work done, checking my sugar levels, eating as prescribed, working out as much as I should be, doing anything right really.  I have been: eating sweets, not eating enough protein, sleeping a lot, changing my (going off of Effexor) psychiatric medications, hemming my workout pants so I don’t trip on them.

I have been doing good thing in fits and starts.  Protein shake here, no white carbs there, seeing my trainer twice a week, but not doing even remotely enough cardio.  We b ought the Wii fit, for fun mostly, I thought it would energize me to do more serious workouts at the gym and some yoga at the very least.  I had no idea the Wii fit <strong>WEIGHS</strong> YOU.  I have not weighed myself or been weighed since March when I saw the orthopedic surgeon about my knee.  Then it became scarier and scarier and one day I would be convinced I had lost a few pounds over the past month and then I would be certain I was almost back to my heaviest (impossible according to what size of clothing I am wearing).  It is now become my great white whale, which is funny really, i mean you know FUNNY.  Whale = fat, okay, I am over explaining a lame joke.

I am worried this is it, I will either stay where I am, or I will slowly gain it back and be what I was before.  Which I cannot even define other than “fatter”.

I was always worried that when the goals of the weight loss surgery started turning into how I looked and buying new clothes and having people say I look good or I have lost weight or GOOD FOR YOU! We were afraid you were going to be the fat one forever.  I am plateauing or gaining, or fuck if I know, right?  My mom and dad “how is the weight loss thing, you know surgery and diabetes and everything going”.  I am defensive.  “What do you mean?  Do I look fat?  Does it look like I have gained weight?  WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?” Articulating everything in my own head that I wish they wouldn’t ask me about ever. That I wish I could just update people without having to answer to anyone or ever talk about it really.  I want to be the person who got to a reasonable weight after 11-12 month, stay at that weight and then be able to advise and muse about how it was to be so heavy and so reasonable and ok with my weight now.

So many obstacles in my way.  The hugest one is me, lots of parts of me.  The eating disorder, always lurking. Someone, (doctors, books, dietitians, my MIND, the interwebs, the world, THE MAN) is telling me what I should be eating, I almost automatically say FUCK YOU, I will have this donut, bowl of chips, ice cream bar.  Bingeing is decidedly smaller amount, but bingeing when you stomach is wee and you know you shouldn’t but you WANT to HAVE to, is still bingeing.  It is still a fuck you to the rules.  I am 13, 14, 18, 25, all over again.  I had a similar reaction when I found out I was diabetic.  Rebellion via diet.  I am so cool.  I wish I could just pierce my nose, or bungee jump.  Instead I retreat inside myself and eat in secret, hiding it from everyone, pretty much successfully, all the time.  Am I self sabotaging, my therapist asks?  I don’t know.  I am afraid of finally losing the weight?  Maybe, I don’t know.  Is it a control issues?  Fuck yes, I can control what I eat and I can’t control what I eat or don’t eat all a the same time.  I am the mobius strip of food control. Yes, I feel expectations from family and friends.  I do not feel understood because I do not understand myself.

I feel like this will be another thing I will not complete, I will fail at.  I have trouble starting things and even more trouble completing them.  I don’t think I know how to be successful, at anything.

I know the small steps my therapist, husband, friend, tell me I should start at.  Get my blood work done, make sure I am not anemic or my blood sugars aren’t totally fucked, or my liver enzymes are elevated or other things that could go wrong.  Step two would be to actually make a doctor’s appointment, well, the doctor would call mewith my lab results, I feel sure there would be something to discuss there.  Once I go to the doctor, they will weigh me.  Weigh me.  Weigh me.  My worth a 3 digit number.  My success, my progress, who I have been since having the surgery will be those numbers on the scale.  I want to talk myself out of that melodramatic bullshit, it sounds so juvenile, so junior school, so first true love breakup story.

I am so scared I have already fucked this up to a place where I cannot return.  So scared.  Terrified.  My bed is so less scary. My sleep, my books, my solitude.

It has been so long since I have written anything really mental.  My life has been caught with mostly good things.  Good things.  Some travelling, spontaneous purchase of a new house, won a trip to China to go to the Olympics, went to NYC for the first time, stayed with a fabulous hostess and the most terrific time.  I did see a Surgeon who wanted to Surgeonate my knee.  I scheduled and then cancelled.  It didn’t feel right.  All the Good Things were and are overwhelming me.  Change is overwhelming me.  I changed from Paxil for my anxiety, which I didn’t believe was doing anything to Effexor, which I think is doing something, but we are tweaking the dose.  If you read my regular blog, you would also know that I had weight loss surgery in December, just before Christmas.  More change.  Rules.  Rules are meant to be broken and CONTROLLED when people tell you what to eat, even though I am almost 40 years old. How to exacerbate an eating disorder: give someone rigid rules about what to eat and when and how much and then a list of vitamins and activity or your expensive paid for out of pocket operation will be for naught.  I got it done to gain health, and the losing of the weight surprises me a bit.  My clothes fit differently, but I feel the same about myself.  My skin is drooping, sagging, my boobs, oh dear, my boobs. 

I am still on the lamictal for mood stabilization, and the effexor, but still taking a fair amount of klonapin to keep my shit together most days.  Still taking diabetic meds, except have pretty much stopped my injectible insulin altogether.  My sugars were so low after the surgery and I honestly haven’t been monitoring them.  I am 3 months late getting blood work.  Ok, I lie, I am 4 months late.  I am not monitoring my blood glucose levels.  I am shit at self care right now.

I am scattered and paralyzed.  I wish I could add the adderal back into the cocktail of drugs for the ADD.  My memory is sketchy, I miss appointments, I have to write almost everything down.  I am very jumbly and klutzy and trippy and my word aphasia is bad.  It is a good thing I am not working a full-time job right now.  Self imposed deadlines are killing me.  Deadlines like let’s say, packing.  We are moving into the new house on May 15.  I have done nothing.  The spouse has all sorts of boxes, his office is packed.  I just lie in bed or watch tv or flit away time on the computer.  That reminds me I have an eye appointment sometime in May.  As usual I am trying to keep up the ok, functioning façade that only so many people in my life even buy anymore.  Even when I am feeling jitter anxious and tell people so, my affect falls flat and I wonder if they believe me.  I am having a bad day, like a computer reading it. 

I can’t tell hypomanic from feeling less anxious.  Initially the Effexor made me feel a little hypomanic, but I think that has subsided.  Still seeing psychologist and psychiatrist.  The meds are ultimately what is helping me right now.  I don’t even want to talk about coping mechanisms.  They might make me give up my ostrich like behaviour.  Sleeping, shutting doors, television, senseless errands.  I sit here in my home office and the debris is everywhere.  It has been for months.  I don’t even know where to start.  Last week I lost my wallet and became obsessed with finding it.  Looking in the same places over and over and over again.  I felt I could not do anything but take my kid to playschool and back.  I felt lost and annoyed because I knew I has misplaced it IN the house.  My husband found it 5 days later and the relief I felt was disproportionate to the actual event.  I felt freakish.  I feel freakish and crazy.

I have been having little paranoid moments where I keep needing reassurance that people like me and aren’t going to leave me.  Seriously, do you really like me or are you going to change your mind once you find out the mysterious secret thing that is permanently flawed about me that even I am now aware of.  That is why people leave me, or reject me, or ignore me. 

I have been chastising myself for not writing here.  Reneging on commitments that I made.  I hate breaking promises or not following through.  Or not even starting, finishing.  You know, classic ADD.  I do stupid things all because of my mind?  No, I make choices for certain, but sometimes it doesn’t feel that way. 

Yesterday I read this amazing post by Chris at Serendipity Mine, called “The Silly Little Girl and Her Magic Closet.”

It’s a brutally raw piece I could relate to, very much. Chris speaks about her being a people pleaser and a peacemaker and how she has always put ‘stuff’ she needs to deal with into a closet, for later. But later never comes…well, until now.

A snippet:

Part of the problem with this was that over the years I took all the ‘stuff’ others did to me and just shoved it in a closet. Better to be a good girl and sit there and shut up and keep everyone happy than to cause waves of upset, hurt or disappointment. I was strong (with a big dose of stubborn) and I could get over it. I expected that with time it would all just magically disappear and make itself better. My own self cleaning magic closet.

The problem is…it never did. The hurt and the pain grew. It festered. It became infected. I started suffering from depression and then social anxiety.

Tomorrow will be my 2nd meeting with my therapist, where we pick up the story of my life at 19, having glossed over my childhood in an hour last time I was there. She wanted the run-down, then we’re going to go back and take our time over things I need to deal with.

My closet is kind of like Chris’ closet, and because I’m very much a Mental Tupperware sort of person, the things in my closet are put into boxes, all the good stuff in the front, when you first open the door, and all the bad things I don’t want to or can’t remember are in ratty old boxes shoved in the back of the closet. It’s very much like The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, where the closet just keeps going back and back and back and gets very cold once you reach that other world.

The other thing about this closet is that it’s in it’s own Mental Tupperware too, and when I find little snippets of therapy seeping into my life, I shove it back, like it has it’s time and it’s place and I do not want the two worlds to collide.

Therapy (even in theory) is becoming very much like a sandbox for me, a place to visit, to knock down, to build up and sometimes just to plunge my fingers, heart and soul into but only while I’m there. I’ve played the last 5 minutes of my 1st therapy session over and over in my mind and each time I walk out of the therapy building, I take a deep breath of cold winter air and snap the lid shut. I don’t really acknowledge the hour of telling the doctor the details of my life.

Maybe this sounds confusing, that I’m saying my therapy stays at therapy yet I’ve played it in my head over and over, but just like the abuse, the yelling, the endless reels of absolute shit that I lived through as a child, it’s as though it’s someone else living through therapy for me. Some other little girl’s head was pushed down into her step-father’s lap, some other little girl’s mother told her that she was a selfish little bitch, some other little girl saved her brother from being murdered and some other little girl grew up and sits in that office and tells her story.

I wonder when I will own it. Do those of us who pulled a full disconnect ever own our childhoods again or is it a survival tactic?

For the record Chris, your inner little girl is anything but silly.  I hope you find your way.

Since calling back the therapist and booking my first appointment for this coming Friday I have felt lighter, happier, more bright, and motivated to get up and go every morning. As the appointment gets closer I wonder if I’m already pushing myself to heal before I get there — like when someone hires a maid but cleans the house before she arrives.

The want I have to become ‘normal’ is so overwhelming some days. In the last week and a half the husband and I have re-connected so well that I don’t want to let anyone else into the spectrum of my thoughts. It cheapens the experience, to share, even here. I cannot describe the love we have without sounding cheesy or overdone but I will say this man is my best friend and I love him with everything I’ve got.

Jesus, even that sounds silly. Go ahead, laugh. I am.  But sometimes I want to be more ‘normal’ for him.

I’m so appreciative of this rock in my life that I can break down to, that I can trust completely, and that when I am up, as I have been as of late, he continues to inspire me on a daily basis to be myself, which is a happy person for the most part.

The less time I spend thinking about petty things and history, the happier I become. I find if I get my freelance work done in the morning (I work from home) and head off to the gym or go for a walk or even just shower and throw laundry in, I feel as though I’ve accomplished something. It beats sitting on this couch while surfing the net and feeling incredibly guilty about such a waste of time. If I stay on the computer too long, I mope and get so down. But I haven’t sat around on the computer for over a week. Now, by mid-day I’m ready to tackle any project and I’ve even found made time to read a novel again, or knit (I know), or just snuggle with the kids and talk. I used to brush all that stuff off to surf the internet.

It’s gray here – the snow hasn’t come and the sun is scarce, so I’m missing the brightness. I’m really busy with life though, and the kids. I haven’t yelled at them since God knows when, except to call them for dinner. By the end of the day I’ve done so much that 9 p.m. seems late and I crash. I’m making lists of house stuff and errands and getting them done, which is big for me. Hello, meet the Former Mrs. Procrastinator. I’m eating 3-5 small meals/snacks a day, cooking more for winter and sleeping a regular pattern, as opposed to the starving myself of sleep and food.

Like I said, the maid has been hired, and I’m cleaning the mental house.

Well it’s Tuesday morning and I’m supposed to post here but I don’t much feel like it.  Been up all night and I want to sleep but if I go now, getting up in two hours will be hell.

I called the therapist back.  She answered her own phone and I told her right off that I wasn’t sure if our health insurance would cover her.  “Oh!” she exclaimed, “You’re completely covered by the government!”

“Well then,” I replied, “I need fixing.”

We scheduled the appointment for the 23rd.

I have no clue where to begin with this.  So I go in there, full guns of verbal diarrhea and let ’em fire?

Right now I can’t think that far ahead.  Everything is coming at me again as far as life goes, so I am busy dealing with the brushfires of kids, home and work, like everyone else.  There’s not much room for thinking, which really?  Is probably good.

Thank you to everyone that encouraged me to call her back.  I think I’m glad I did.  She sounds nice and comes highly recommended, so we shall see.

In food news, which I know I need to talk about here, I’ve been sort of okay.  The husband, when he is home, notices the not eating sometimes so he makes extra effort to make things I will eat, like fish, salad and cut up fruit.  Part of me wonders if I do this to see if he will notice.  I think there’s a few layers that need to be peeled back there so I can see clearly regarding this.   Especially since I do avoid food even more so when he isn’t around, like I’m testing myself too, seeing how long I can go, which is like 14 hours now.   See?  Even here it’s a sick pride, quickly followed by a shadow of shame.  I know it’s wrong, and I feel stupid for doing it, but at the same time I’m all like 14 hours!  That’s such an accomplishment!  And then right back to shame.

I am really a huge mess of a person, and when I have all these overwhelming, noisy thoughts swirling in my head like leaves in the park, I just want to run like hell.  But where the hell would I go?