VALUABLE

“We belong to what we value, not what we desire.”

A cool guy I know

I love that statement – it really resonates with me. I spend time and energy, make commitments and secret pacts, with the things I value. Not with the things I desire.

Sometimes what I value and desire are in alignment. I value spending time with my children and I desire they all come to family dinner on Sundays. Too easy. I invest the time and energy into making it happen, whether or not they want to come – and I believe one day they’ll value it too.

Sometimes what I value and desire are at odds with each other. I value my appearance but eating disorder desires outbid healthy self – every day of the week. The value is trumped by a far more primal value – to feel safe. To feel secure. Numb. So my value on physical appearance becomes a desire and my resulting behaviours sabotage any chance of meeting that need.

I’m incredibly ashamed of my obsession with appearance. It’s so shallow and not a quality I apply to anyone else. I couldn’t care less if you’re tall, short, fat, thin, freckly, pale, old, young, dark, spotty. It doesn’t matter – what I value in other people is integrity, honesty, vulnerability, kindness, intelligence, creativity. A crooked nose, wrinkles, stumpy legs or saggy boobs is of no consequence. Yet my personal appearance remains something I cannot accept.

Too fat, too tall, too freckly, too pale, too grey, too old, too ugly.

My eating disorder desires are so embedded they have become a part of my identity.

• Eat everything you see – you never know when food will be available again
• Don’t eat anything at all – if you start you can’t stop
• Don’t let people see you eat – eating is shameful
• Food = fat
• All food is delicious – don’t stop
• All food is delicious – don’t start
• I can’t deal with this emotion – eat until I’m numb
• I can’t deal with this emotion – starve

There are aspects of my life where values are really clear – I know how to nurture those values and desires. Relationships, creativity, travel. But when it comes to food and eating, weight and appearance, I have a deeply rooted obsession that kills the desire to value things most of you take for granted.

• self-worth
• self-care
• mental health
• physical health
• my life

I can’t really adequately express how little I care about these things – these fundamental human needs that motivate most people to make a change if one of them becomes threatened. But for those of us with little or no care for our health and wellbeing, it is difficult to become motivated to change. I desire mental peace, a strong body and healthy self-esteem – but I don’t value them enough to make the necessary changes.

I belong to the Eating Disorder’s values.

The photo above was taken about six years ago. I was 47 at the time. My desire was to have images of myself where I wasn’t fat and ugly – which aligned with my value of personal appearance. I wanted to be glamorous for a day so trotted off for a glamour photography shoot where I was pampered and made to feel special. They slathered me in three tons of makeup, straightened my hair (which I hate) and had me stand at flattering angles under flattering lights. The photos look nothing like me. I don’t really like them. When I looked at the photos I realised what I really wanted, was to actually be glamorous and beautiful – not just dolled up and delicately photographed in order to capture an image that isn’t my likeness.

Sometimes I desire things I don’t need – and shouldn’t get. A lovely new pair of shoes. Pink bluetooth headphones. New gym gear from Lululemon (it was on sale!) Clearly these desires align with a value that isn’t necessarily good for me – or our bank balance. They meet an emotional need in a way that caring for my body does not.

I have studied ACT courses, I do DBT classes and I’m always in search of new psychological and spiritual pathways to heal me. But nothing can heal me – I have to heal myself. And the simple quote above made me realise I’m unlikely to consistently pour energies into something I desire, but don’t value.

• I desire dance lessons – I don’t value them.
• I desire to play the piano – I don’t value it.
• I desire a spotlessly clean house – I quite clearly don’t value it…

I see other people desire things they don’t value.

• They turn up to the gym twice then never come back.
• They start a savings account but never put money in it.
• They say they’ll meet me for coffee but they never turn up.

My next task, it would appear, is to take a long hard look at what I truly value and see what needs a new perspective. I can’t fully recover from mental health issues for the sake of other people – that’s their value and desire, not mine. I have to do it for myself because I’m the one doing the hard yards.

What’s valuable to you? What do you desire but don’t value enough to follow through? Am I truly unique, or do you also have values and desires that don’t always align?

I desire to lead a valuable life. Now I just need to value this desire.

I AM A CHILD OF GOD

An incongruous blog post title for someone who spent the first 52 years of their life carrying on a proud tradition of vacillating between agnosticism and atheism.

Perhaps desperate times call for desperate measures. Or the humbling experience of being utterly defeated by life creates a willingness to look beyond that which makes sense. Or perhaps true peace can only be found by seeking comfort in the mystical and spiritual.

Maybe it’s all of these things and maybe it’s none.

Whatever the case may be, over the past 18 months I’ve had a growing awareness of, and comfort in, the presence of God, which culminated in the decision to become water baptised on Sunday 08 December.

While my relationship with God feels intensely personal – and quite frankly, nobody else’s business – my spiritual journey is an integral part of recovery from my much-publicised mental health decline. I’ve taken steps in a positive direction without a connection or concept of a higher power but was eternally caught in a maelstrom of recovery and relapse. Constantly residing in the past (depression) or future (anxiety) – the present moment never fully appreciated or accepted. My identity was bound to external phenomena – wife, mother, daughter, teacher, friend, colleague – and when these roles became complicated or ended, my identity shattered. Who am I when my children are grown? My career gone? Am I still a daughter when my mother is dead? A sister when my sister is dead? It turns out, everything in life is transitory and I’d hitched my wagon to stilts in the sand.

My family don’t understand my faith. The more cynical among them don’t even believe I have a faith. But I do. And while it’s tied to a mainstream ideology, my personal beliefs are as unique as everyone else – from militant atheist to religious fundamentalist. Becoming a Christian hasn’t altered long-held views on science, politics and cultural issues. Or overwhelmed me with the urge to give away every hard-earned penny. I haven’t joined a cult – despite what some say about mainstream religions. Becoming a Christian has brought me home and given me a sense of being worthy when I’m unworthy, accepted when I’m unacceptable, and loved when I’m unlovable. It’s become a safe place to fall – to give thanks and gratitude, and to beg for forgiveness and salvation.

Is it logical? No.

Do I understand everything about Christianity? Of course not. People way smarter than me have spent decades studying theology and still don’t understand everything. I don’t understand how electricity works – let alone God. Some things I must accept without understanding. I don’t need intimate knowledge on the physics of flying to accept and trust in the pilot and engineers. Life’s full of things I don’t understand. Why are people unkind? Where does self-worth come from? What’s not to love about cheesecake?

My mental health recovery has stagnated and stalled more times than I can count – and I’m very good at counting. I make all-important strides in the (apparently) right direction, then something drags me back into the cavernous depths. Seeking strength in the divine is like trusting a field full of strangers to levitate me overhead. I’ve never done it – because I don’t trust people. And I feel too fat. But if I did, I’d have to let my guard down and trust the group to support me. I couldn’t know for sure they would – I’d just have to believe. So it is with God. I believe that when I’m most in need, He will be there. That when all around me erupts into chaos, He’s quietly waiting to be my strength. Prayer is my mindfulness exercise – when I find myself living in the past or the future, prayer brings me back to the present. I can let go of the past (which cannot be changed) and trust in the future (which cannot be known).

I’m uncomfortable with various theological constructs – unhealthily close affiliations to politics, an obsession with the bedroom antics of consenting adults, a desperate need to recruit. Religions – old and new – don’t get everything right and don’t always keep up with the times. But at church I’ve seen so many more positives, with compassion and a shared sense of understanding. I’ve found a community of people who behave like family – the best bits. Sermons birthing unity and self-acceptance. And altar calls for prayer. Whether you’re a militant atheist, a religious fundamentalist, or somewhere in between (as the vast majority of us are), prayer feels healing. While science shares mixed reports, the simple matter is that when someone – or a group of someones – offers you prayer (distinctly different to unsolicited prayer), you feel validated and loved. Will that cure cancer? Who knows? God works in mysterious ways. But a few minutes of prayer can bring calm to a thumping heart and a belief in future possibilities.

Prayer is the mindfulness tool I’ve always talked about but never utilised.

The day before my baptism, Kiki gave me a gold cross. While she no longer practices any faith, tradition in her family dictates a cross is given on the day of baptism – so she sneakily popped into town right before Christmas and purchased one for me. It now hangs around my neck, snug against the amethyst necklace I inherited from my mother. When I feel afraid and uncertain, I unconsciously reach for them both.

After a year of curiosity and a willingness to be open to possibility, I was water baptised. I tentatively stepped into the big bath on my broken ankle and slid fully clothed into the comfortingly warm waters. I said “I do”, to the following three questions:

• Do you believe Jesus is the son of God?
• Do you believe Jesus died and was raised to life?
• Do you accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior? 

Then I listened as prayer was spoken over me and the congregation watched on, willing the prayer to be heard by God. I confess, I didn’t rise out of those waters feeling one ounce different. The sheer publicness of the baptism detracts from the intensely personal relationship I have with God. But in my own way, I have cemented my relationship with God.

I know many people can’t understand my belief in God and Jesus and Christianity – just as I never understood in the past. I’m the same person except now I have a name to call upon for strength, courage and wisdom when mine fails me. Perhaps to you, God is an invisible friend or the flying spaghetti monster. I don’t know – and that’s okay. You do what works for you and I’ll do what works for me. Perhaps to you, God is profoundly important and intimate. Me too.

My spiritual quest is inextricably linked to my mental health recovery.

I’ve had encounters with God I don’t understand and developed a sense of purpose I never had. I have a huge amount of questions that cannot be answered and I’m developing my own way of reconciling Christian doctrine with a personal belief system. I’m as I’ve always been and completely changed.

I’m no longer a slave to fear. I am a child of God.

PINKY PROMISE

On 29 July 2018, I met a girl. A real girl. Due to the vagaries of distance and finance, we couldn’t meet in person – until 44 days ago. That girl has changed my life.

While journalists reported on a whale pushing her dead calf around, I was busy getting to know a girl starving herself to death. After sharing my story in a writing community, a fellow writer reached out to say she was afraid for her friend’s life and would I contact her. Of course I said yes. That’s what women do – we look after each other. Just as females throughout so much of the natural world have done for millennia.

Up to half a dozen female orcas gathered in a cove in a close, tight-knit circle, staying at the surface in a harmonious circular motion for nearly two hours, in the hours after the calf died.

When I first contacted Kiki, all I knew was she’d stopped eating and lost a dangerous amount of weight in a short space of time. I popped my teacher hat on and started dishing out all the advice I’ve collected. It’s jolly good advice. I discovered a profoundly intelligent and funny young woman – highly sensitive, compassionate, amazingly talented, and very, very broken.

Over the past 530 days, we’ve shared everything – no topic off bounds. I’ve witnessed her mental health improve. Plummet. Improve again – a little wiser and smarter. I’ve felt intensely frustrated at the thousands of kilometres separating us and the absence of psychiatric support she’s received in the UK. I’ve been consumed with sadness at the trauma she’s been subjected to, and overcome with awe at the fruits of her creative talents.

Above and beyond all else, I’ve found someone who truly understands me.

Throughout my years of mental health ignorance, collapse, recovery, relapse and recovery, I’ve been blessed with a support network of beautiful people – with no lived experience. They’ve saved my life with their love and care, but they don’t fully understand why.

Kiki understands.

She understands the contradiction of knowing exactly how and why to eat in a healthy and sustained manner, while simultaneously starving for weeks on end, then binging on cake until you spew.

And she understands how destructive eating disorder behaviours are to mind, body and spirit, while fear and anxiety overcome all reason and suck us back into the gnarly depths of self-induced misery, swinging wildly on the eating disorder pendulum.

She understands why we run a blade across soft white flesh, in search of release from the emotional turmoil that threatens to overwhelm. Or spend months fantasising how to plan a permanent exit from life, while striving to inflict minimal pain on those we love.

Over 17 months, every morsel of truly outstanding advice I’ve relentlessly bombarded her with has bounced back and taught me the same lessons I’ve valiantly endeavoured to ignore.

• Emotions come and go – ride the wave
• Reach out, because silence = shame
• Journal, blog, paint, draw – whatever’s needed to let the pain out
• Eat well. Move well. Sleep well. Be well.
• If you fail to plan, you plan to fail
• Feelings aren’t facts
• Blah blah blah

On 28 November 2019 I flew to Sydney and met Kiki’s flight from the UK – she came to stay for six weeks. That’s a long time for any house guest – let alone one you’ve never met. But I was confident we’d get on like a house on fire.

What could possibly go wrong?!

My motivation for inviting Kiki was to help her. I knew reprieve from a Welsh winter and the monotony of day-to-day life would do her mental health the world of good. Plus I wanted to wrap my arms around her, hug her tight, and tell her how amazing she is.

It was the beginning of one of the most life-changing six weeks of my life. Kiki brought love and laughter, acceptance and understanding. Meeting Kiki has given me a daughter I never knew I’d lost.

We spent the Christmas season playing tourist. We’ve holidayed up and down the east coast of Tasmania immersed in nature, meeting and greeting pademelons, wombats, quolls, wallabies, kookaburras, cape barren geese, echidnas, penguins, huntsmen, Tasmanian devils – and my chocolate brown Burmese cat, Coco.

I’ve learned to navigate the confronting reality of mental health issues far more complex than my own. I experienced the fear and frustration of watching someone you love inflict pain and misery upon themselves. I’ve listened to my own words reflected back with unflinching determination and insistence.

And we’ve made promises to each other.

A pinky promise is a binding, non-negotiable contract – forged in the same spirit as the wizarding world’s unbreakable vow. When we make a promise to each other it’s not just a commitment to ourselves, it’s a commitment to another person. If I break my promise to stop any of the myriad ways I’ve artfully developed to dodge emotional pain, I’m giving permission for Kiki to break hers. Which I will never intentionally do. Now I have to jolly well sit with my emotions because caring for Kiki has become inextricably linked to caring for myself. Something I don’t understand. So now we’ve pledged to:

• Never self-harm
• Never compensate for eating by vomiting, restricting, using laxatives, exercising etc
• No excessive doses of prescribed medications
• Follow a food plan

It’s terrifying. I do it for her and she does it for me. I’ve come to really love this new daughter of mine and I want to care for her in the ways she can’t care for herself – and now it affects my behaviour as well. I can’t just dish it out – I have to take it. I have to walk the talk.

Kiki returned to Wales on Tuesday. We cried a lot. This highly empathic, beautiful girl with the curly red hair and limbs full of tattoos, has burrowed her way into my heart and changed me from the inside out. I’m not the person I was before. Now someone knows and accepts me.

Now I have a daughter.

DESERVED

This is my cat. Isn’t he lovely? He spends most of his days soaking up the suns’ rays, looking content, waiting to be adored. He deserves it.

This is my cat standing at the catflap waiting to go outside. At 3:30am. He is of the misguided opinion he deserves to be outside at 3:30am. The expectancy displayed and the whining that can be heard are all testament to this erroneous belief.

The amount of pride and satisfaction displayed in the courageous act of killing (and consuming) a fly trapped behind window furnishings is a testament to the fact that great hunting prowess has long been bred out of his inbred furry butt. Still, I refuse to let him roam the streets before the sun gets up – just in case his primal instinct accidentally coincides with a small living thing being too inept to get out of the way of a very bad hunter.

This is a photo of a bowl of cereal. I am of the erroneous belief I deserve it. It’s 3:30am. What I actually deserve is a good night’s sleep.

My cereal is difficult to see in this light – because I am ashamed of it. Who eats cereal at 3:30am? (Shift workers I guess… but I’m not a shift worker.) When sleep eludes me I feel like I deserve a bowl of cereal. Sometimes I think I wake up purely because being awake means I deserve this bowl of cereal. The voice in my head convinces me that not only do I deserve this cereal but calories don’t count during the hours of midnight and 5am.

I do actually know that isn’t true. I still made the bowl of cereal. And ate it. The pattern of eating for today is now set – I ate the wrong food at the wrong time therefore I shouldn’t eat for the rest of the day as punishment for believing I deserved such a stupid thing.

There are so many things we all deserve in life – freedom, clean water, safety, free speech, education. A good night’s sleep. The United Nations considers these things so important they wrote a whole article about it. (Side note – I added the bit about the good night’s sleep…) But I don’t feel deserving of basic rights – I haven’t earned them.

Disordered thinking has created a whole new charter of Simone Rights that a subconscious part of me thinks is deserving and my conscious mind thinks are absurd. I deserve to eat whatever I want, whenever I want. I deserve to live in a house that is magically cleaned by house-elves. I deserve to be slim and pretty regardless of what I eat and how much I move. I deserve to go on holidays and buy nice things even when we have no money. I deserve to be treated like a princess at all times. I deserve miraculous healing of my broken leg, regardless of how I treat it.

All of these things make me feel awful. When the house-elves (aka my husband and/or children) clean the house, I feel guilt. When I buy nice things or go on a holiday, I feel guilt. When people treat me with kindness, I feel guilt. When I eat, I feel guilt.

I am deserving of guilt. Bowls of cereal and guilt.

I spend my whole life working. Working, working, working. I don’t earn any money – which is a bit unfortunate for a whole pile of reasons – but I spend 15 hours a day typing away on my computer working on one project or another. It keeps me busy. Busy is important because it distracts from the guilt. Busy is important because it is my excuse for not doing all the other things I should be doing.

I spent the past two days working on my memoir. It is so close to being finished – so close to sending off to a publisher to lay bare my very essence for the entire world to see and judge. My memoir is in five parts – I completely completed 3.5 parts in the past two days before deciding I deserved a five-minute break. Four hours later I finished watching all the Michael McIntyre clips on YouTube and had a refresher dose of Tim Urban’s TED talk on procrastination – just in case seventh time around gleaned new insights into how to avoid procrastinating.

There’s something about nearing the end of a project that brings about procrastination, avoidance, perfectionism and a fear of finishing. The same can be said of recovery. I start eating well, thinking well, behaving well and then just as I glimpse the magical land of recovered, I relapse. It’s kinda tiring. I’d like to be deserving of escaping the hamster wheel.

This is a photo of my dark brown cat, sitting on dark brown carpet in the middle of the night, expecting me not to trip over him.

This is the same logic I am applying to finishing and publishing my book – just plonk it down and people will either see it or they won’t. I just hope nobody trips over and breaks their neck.

During my extensive fall from grace I lost sight of who I am, why I’m here and what I need to do. The little voice of reason that chips quietly away at the obnoxious voice of insanity knows my book is an important part of my story. And my story is an important part of my book.

Unlike my cat, I feel genuinely deserving of very little. But I do deserve to finish my book. I have one more day dedicated solely to writing for me. Watch this space.

WELL THIS WAS UNEXPECTED

I went for a most delightful walk yesterday – up to Fluted Cape on Bruny Island. I’ve done the walk several times and absolutely love it. The descent along the cliff tops is truly spectacular.

As we commenced the downhill, cliff edge, unbelievably beautiful descent, my friend commented on my boots – saying how great it is to have non-slip shoes. Then I slipped. I really have no idea of the exact details. But you know how when you fall down everything goes into slow motion? That was what happened. I knew I was going to land on my butt and there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I went down and I turned my ankle.

It really fucking hurt.

Now we were faced with the big question – how to get back to the car. I was adamant I could walk on it, so with the help of my friend’s arm, a rustic stick, and the onboard remnants of a small cocktail of drugs I’d taken the day before, I started the painful descent down. The 30 minute walk took two hours.

I took off my sports top and my friend used it to create a makeshift pressure bandage. I wore my jacket instead. I used whatever was at hand to steady me – stick, rock, tree trunk, an outreached arm. Made it to the bottom in one piece without passing out.

When we got to the bottom I dangled my foot in the icy cold Tasmanian waters while my friend went in search of whatever we needed to do next – which began with a 25-minute run back to the car. I’m very grateful for her strength, stamina and fitness levels.

Half an hour or so later, the exact thing I did not want appeared – police officer, nurses, paramedics, SES workers. We were now a party of eight. And not a single glass of champagne in site. The only absent service was the fire brigade – they offered to call them in if I wanted the full compliment of emergency services.

If they weren’t bringing me a gin and tonic, I wasn’t interested in more onlookers.

Everyone conferred and chatted about this and that, took some obs, wrapped me in a hundred blankets, and gave me some morphine. Then they called a helicopter. I would rather they ordered fish and chips but alas, my opinion didn’t seem particularly valid.

I zimmer-framed my way to the helicopter landing then plopped myself into a seat where the nice police officer strapped me in like a toddler. We took off, I waved farewell to my new friends, flew over the top of my house, and fifteen minutes later we were back in the city. I elected to go to the private hospital as sitting in the waiting room at the public hospital for the rest of my natural life didn’t seem like much fun. Turns out I was the only patient in the emergency department at the private hospital.

X-ray shows a fractured something or other in my foot – bottom of my fibula.

When they started talking about an orthopedic consultant, I thought, No. No. No! Please God! No orthopedic intervention required! And then they came back to say the orthopedic surgeon said let’s give the moonboot a go for a week and see if that helps. I visit the surgeon in a week’s time.

I refused the moonboot. Well – not entirely refused. I just refuse to get it Friday – I have better things to do (like go back to Bruny Island for my four three nights of rest and recreation, and writing, writing, writing. My goal is to finish the final draft of the memoir while I’m there. I’ll pop in for the moonboot on Monday once I’m back.) They’ve put a back slab on until I get the moonboot. To get a back slab on I was told I could either remove my gym tights first, or cut them off later on – as they weren’t going to fit over the cast. I assured them Lululemon tights do not get cut off, so I removed them before they put the cast on. Removing pants in the emergency department means walking to the car in a jacket and undies. I used my friend’s rain jacket as a makeshift skirt. I looked ultra sexy.

So now I have my first broken bone. I declare it heals before 01 December, because I then have a seven-day hike on the overland track and I don’t want to miss out. Everyone keeps laughing at me – apparently doing the overland track five weeks after breaking a bone in my foot is not practical. We’ll see…

BACK ON TRACK

Life is a topsy turvy affair.

Just as I was knee-deep, wallowing around in my little starving pity party, I received feedback from my manuscript assessor regarding the first draft of my memoir – temporarily titled Stalked by Demons. Guarded by Angels | The Girl with the Eating Disorder. I figure the title should be as verbacious as all my other written work.

In short, the feedback has been inspiring. It’s peppered with phrases like, I was floored, glued to this book, something very rare, a devastating read, writing is superlative.

I started eating again the next morning.

It is in fact, a little overwhelming to receive and respond to that type of feedback. There are obviously issues I need to attend to as it’s the first draft and to be perfectly honest, I was tired towards the end and didn’t bother proofreading or including bits of information I know are extremely relevant. But the amount of work required for me to transform the book from first draft to presentable manuscript is now negligible. If I had the time, I could do it in a weekend. Assuming of course, that weekend was spent secluded in a writing haven.

It is interesting how quick the flip is in mindset. A few misplaced words can call forth the eating disorder voice that starts screaming, See! You’ll never amount to anything – you’re too fat to succeed. And a few more words can tip the balance back and let reason start advocating, See! There is a future for you after all.

I’m still a bit of a splattered mess – eating erratically and going through the exhaustive internal dialogues of should I/shouldn’t I, will I/won’t I until my brain explodes and I think, Just fuck it. I’ll have a pie. But I feel the ground steadying under my feet and physically I’m reaping the rewards of more regular sustenance.

Instead of being overwhelmed by food I’m now overwhelmed by words. I have so much work to do in so many capacities, and figuring out which one to prioritise is my new mental challenge. I even re-downloaded the ‘reminders’ app on my iPhone so I could get all 57 tasks out of my head and onto virtual paper before establishing a priority list.

my OCD head does love to tick boxes on to-do lists.

In preparation for the publication of my book, I merged my two websites. During the process, I lost both of them for about four days but they’re back now. I spent many an hour redesigning all the pages and forgot about the blog altogether. Once I got in here to look I discovered I really don’t like the layout but I’m not redesigning everything again now. That can be next week’s job – this week I need to write. Lots and lots of writing.

The other downside to merging and moving my websites is losing all my followers. There looks to be a way of transferring them across but I can’t seem to make it work. So if you’re here reading, I’m glad you made it!

In the scheme of world problems however, these are very small. So this update is just to say I’m back, things are changing, my book has made progress, and I’m glad you’re here.