CRUISING ALONG

Well it’s been 25 days since last I wrote – that is a long time for verbacious me! I haven’t been slacking off – I’ve been on holiday. So sort of slacking off, but in a busy way. I have had a lot of firsts in the past few weeks and thought I might share some with you.

Most significantly, I’ve been on a cruise.

Ten nights sailing around the South Pacific. What bliss! For two decades I tried to convince my husband to do a cruise and finally as our 25th wedding anniversary rocked around, he agreed. Neither of us are drinkers or party goers so we were nervous about crowds of people getting trashed every night, but despite there being nearly 3000 people on board, there was plenty of space and places to go for quiet and alone time together. The nightly shows were amazing. Swimming in breathtaking tropical waters was stunning. And the absolute highlight was the two of us doing the “Titanic” experience on a glorious sunset evening.

One of the reasons the cruise was so amazing, is we splashed out for a suite. Then we were upgraded to the penthouse so were treated like the most important people on the ship. That is definitely a new experience for me! And somewhat uncomfortable. I am not used to having two lovely young men clean my room twice a day and line all my shoes up in neat little rows, or bring my freshly laundered underwear back to my room – neatly pressed. While one part of me would love to get used to the idea, the other part is horrified. I believe however, the penthouse experience is what made the cruise so memorable for us both. We had a wonderful suite with a huge balcony and two bathrooms to retire to at any time, and we had priority service at restaurants and disembarkation. We felt so relaxed and cruisey the whole time!

I must confess, I considered the trip itself to be our gift to each other, so aside from a nice box of chocolates, hadn’t purchased anything else. However, when we arrived in our penthouse suite, there was a lovely bottle of cold champagne. My husband doesn’t drink, so I did my best and drank two glasses all by myself (that’s a lot for me!) I then wandered around and discovered the beauty salon.

While under the influence of a few bubbles, I made an appointment for a Brazilian wax. 

You’ll never look back! the girls’ said. Yeah right… I rocked up the next day – completely sober – wondering what the fuck I had signed myself up for. Let’s just remember for a moment, I am a lass with fairly significant body image issues, so baring my lily-white ass to a complete stranger is an anxiety-inducing event of epic proportions. None-the-less, I wanted to surprise my husband.

So I stepped out of my shorts and knickers while a lovely young woman was asking me how thick my forest was. Umm… Not too bad? I have no idea really – having nothing to compare it with. Here’s how my first Brazilian wax experience went. I lie on my back naked from the waist down. The nice young girl gets wax strips, pressing them into my apparently sparse forest. Then she rips them out in one swift motion. We chat about all sorts of stuff that has nothing to do with pain and indignity so both of us can pretend we’re catching up over a nice latte.

Then I bend one knee right out to the side – so she can get a good close look at my lady parts. Now that we’re getting to sensitive areas, she applies hot melted wax rather than strips. She periodically tests the wax to see if it’s cooled then rips those bits out too. Once the forest is denuded on that side, it’s the other knee out. All good so far. Now comes the fun bit. I lift my legs into the air, hug my knees and pull them back as tight as I can. I make a mental note not to ask if she can see my hemorrhoids (eating disorders play havoc with bowel regulation – there’s a lovely topic for another day), but I am also somewhat grateful for my hypermobility.

She rips out the last of the hairy patches then finishes the job by finding a pair of tweezers to pluck out errant pubes that refuse to be evicted with the rest of their friends. Twenty minutes after we began, I’m having talcum powder gently patted onto my now completely bare privates. I have no recollection of the last time talcum powder was applied down there, but let’s just assume it’s been over 50 years. It wasn’t until late that evening my husband discovered what I’d been doing while he was napping, and he remains very grateful for his anniversary gift.

Now, in all the 25 years we have been married, he has never purchased me a single piece of jewellery.

He has many amazing and redeeming qualities, but nobody has ever accused him of being a hopeless romantic. Imagine my surprise after our sunset “Titanic” experience, when he arrived at dinner with tears in his eyes and a little box in hand. You have no idea how much I love you, and he hands me the box. Inside is a gorgeous amethyst ring with eight little diamonds.

Amethyst is my birthstone and matches the amethyst necklace I absolutely adore, inherited from my mother. So not only has he purchased me a piece of jewellery, but organised it weeks in advance of our actual anniversary, worked out what I like, and managed to find a ring that fits like a glove. I was absolutely speechless. Then our waitress realised what was happening so arranged for the chef to send us a little cake with happy anniversary written on it, and have the whole restaurant sing to us. One very memorable evening, and one very memorable cruise!

THE ESSENCE OF LIFE

I recently read a little about Maslow’s Heirarchy of Needs. It’s interesting – have a bit of a look if you have the time. And the inclination. The essence of our lives can be broken down into five fundamental human needs, and the most basic are of course physiological. We all know that.

air, food, drink, shelter, warmth, sex, sleep

(Although to be honest, as a middle-aged woman with a quarter of a century of marriage beneath her belt, I no longer consider sex a basic physiological need.)

I am fortunate to live in a place where air quality is sublime, access to safe, fresh water is in abundance, and I have the material means to meet my basic requirements (and more) for shelter and warmth. Sleep is problematic – I have a sleep disorder – but for the most part I manage it quite well. I get at least some shut eye almost every night.

Food? Well – it may be a primal need, but I fight it with every ounce of my being. And the trouble with fighting a fundamental human need, is the body’s natural desire to stay alive.

For a couple of weeks I haven’t eaten. I go three or four days with nothing but cups of tea, then the desire to binge becomes utterly overwhelming (usually right about the time I worry about fainting) and I eat-purge-eat-purge for a few hours. I’m overwhelmed with a need to eat then hate myself for eating. I swear to stop and the cycle starts again.

This is my long-winded way of confessing to relapse.

I’m going on a cruise in soon – to celebrate my 25th wedding anniversary (and aforementioned absent libido). The thought of being cloistered with 2000 people, and having ready access to restaurants full of free help-yourself-buffets where every food imaginable is laid out in all its splendid glory – is quite frankly, horrifying. I simultaneously want to eat every single morsel of food on the ship, and never eat again for the rest of my life. People will see me eating and I will feel judged. Will they be judging me? Highly unlikely. Will I feel judged anyway? Yes.

Now apparently cruise ships have lots of swimming pools. I absolutely adore swimming – so much so I’ve purchased new swimwear. But wearing swimwear is highly confronting for most women and doubly so for those of us with body image issues. I don’t know what I actually look like, but I feel like a beached whale. Unfortunately perception trumps reality. There is nothing to hide behind in swimwear – I’ll pretty much be parading around in front of a pile of strangers in nylon underwear. Of course the other 1999 people will also parade around in their nylon underwear, but I’ll still feel judged. I always do. Who’s judging me? Why, me of course. I always have.

Coupled with my run-of-the mill anxieties, the cruise tipped me over the edge again.

This too shall pass no doubt. We aren’t moving permanently into the penthouse suite on the cruise ship (yes – the penthouse suite 😀 We were offered an upgrade at a too-good-to-pass-up price) so I can confidently say within three weeks it will definitely be past history and I’ll look back going, “What the fuck were you thinking?!” And of course the answer to that question is, I wasn’t.

When I look at that heirarchy of needs, I see so many things I am blessed to have. But also core needs I struggle with. Food obviously, but also esteem and self-actualisation. I also look at that heirarchy and wonder if it’s possible to work on the top of the pyramid, when foundations are crumbly. I don’t know the answer – but I do know disordered eating messes with cognitive function and it borders on impossible to work on higher order needs when you can’t think straight.

Life is an interesting ride, and figuring out why I’m here and what I’m doing is kind of tricky. Fighting the body’s intrinsic survival instinct is utterly exhausting, but nowhere near as exhausting as fighting an eating disorder.

If the essence of life is five basic needs, my essence is somewhat lacking. I continue to search for the missing drops.

WORDS FAIL ME

I have a confession… I am feeling a teensy bit of pride. Pride is something I feel very uncomfortable with – it was considered a lowly, dishonourable trait by most of my family. But I’ve heard on the grapevine, feeling a sense of pride in yourself can be a good thing – just don’t let it go to your head and spill over into a cascade of arrogance.

I have been writing in this blog for a year or so now, and every now and then I get asked to share something with another website. Mostly I send off posts I’ve written here and they edit them (generating a whole pile of typos in the process) then publish. But a couple of times I’ve been asked to write original things that aren’t in my blog – and so I do. And it makes me feel happy. And a little bit proud.
So I thought I would share links to the original pieces I was asked to write 🙂

National Eating Disorders Information Center

Never give up on recovery

Recovery Warriors

Can you recover after a lifetime of struggle?
I’ve become a true recovery warrior: here’s how
And then sometimes my blog posts get edited and published like these 🙂

MamaMia

What this picture says about my eating disorder recovery

The Mighty

Too many to list… but you can visit my author page
And of course sometimes other bloggers stumble upon me and for whatever reason, they reblog my posts – without editing 🙂

A Writer & Her Adolescent Muse

Heart open please enter

Knight of Steel

The household guide to not being a judgmental twat

Perfectly Faded Delusions

Who am I?
Tick tock
Heart open please enter
Things I’m getting right

Ashton Speaks

The household guide to not being a judgmental twat

I know I mentioned the editing thing a few times… But it really bugs me when I send something off with no typing errors and they modify the content to suit their website (absolutely fine and totally expected!) then add in a pile of errors. I wish there was an option to let me read the copy before print. The little OCD perfectionist that resides inside my heart is not happy with its/it’s/its’ errors appearing under my name.

Aside from these little technicalities… I am very chuffed my words have meaning to others 🙂

SUICIDALITY

Cheerful little topic huh?! But something I believe needs to be discussed in the wider community from time to time. So here I am – casting my two cents worth out into the world for all to ponder upon.

Before I say more, a small disclaimer. I’m not a counselor or medical professional. I’m merely an ordinary woman with a little personal experience in this area. If you are reading, and have ANY concerns whatsoever for your safety – or the safety of a loved one – do something NOW. I’ve listed a pile of resources here if that’s helpful. Or have a look on suicide.org 

In my humble – inexpert – opinion, I’ve noticed four levels of suicidality.

1. Suicidal thoughts
2. Suicidal ideation
3. Passively suicidal
4. Actively suicidal

Suicidal thoughts start for me when depression creeps back. And they are just that – thoughts. Thinking how much I don’t want to be here anymore. Wondering if I’m going to have to live another 50 years. Feeling life is a big, heavy burden, and not being alive would be a great release. During this phase, my thought processes are attached to the depression and focus almost solely on not wanting to be here, not on plans. They don’t fill all my waking hours. Thoughts of death pop in and out of my mind from time to time, but aren’t incessant. I have to say, the first time I had these kinds of thoughts I was nine years old – so it’s something I’ve experienced on and off for over 40 years. I can say – with absolutely certainty – I am always completely safe with these types of suicidal thoughts. Which can be in and of itself a tad depressing, but I usually get over it and move on.

If things aren’t absolutely chipper in my life at this point, and moving on becomes burdensome, the depression may worsen and ideation creeps in. For me, this is just constant suicidal thoughts – day in and day out. Wishing I wasn’t here and wondering how I might get out of being on this earthly plane. While I don’t make active plans, I do start ruminating on “options”. Thinking about different ways to die, and more often than not, desperately hoping to develop a terminal illness – asap. I start to work through the realities of my death and the impact it would have on my nearest and dearest, then start justifying how they’ll learn to live without me – how they’ll “get over it”. This stage is all thoughts and there’s a part of me that knows I’m not going to follow through – it’s all just wishful thinking.

I have been in this head space more times than I care to think about over the past few years.

Now, if for whatever reason – be it valid or invalid – I slip even further, I become passively suicidal. I don’t know if this is a genuine term? But it’s genuine to me. By passively suicidal, I mean I wouldn’t get out of the way if a bus was heading towards me. I really want to die, but can’t quite bring myself to inflict the trauma on family and friends, so I start behaving in a risky manner. Somehow death by accident is so much more acceptable than death by suicide. I might stockpile medications and research ways to die. To be honest, I am in a fairly precarious head space at this time and it would take very little to tip me over into the last stage. My one saving grace has been my mother’s words from many moons ago – never make a permanent decision based on temporary feelings.

The last stage is actively suicidal. Which means a plan is in place and I await the timing – which gets closer and closer. I am of course, severely depressed by now and not thinking clearly at all. I’m usually starting to finish things up or write letters to family. I’ve even started decluttering my house during this phase. I border on obsessive compulsive when it comes to being organised, so I’ll cling to a series of things I have to see through – a wedding anniversary or my son’s birthday. I’ll feel like I’m nearing the end of a marathon. Each arbitrary event is another few steps I’ve forced myself to traverse and I will my exhausted body to keep going a tiny bit longer. I have not been actively suicidal on a huge number of occasions – but I have been there. My greatest blessing is beautiful friends and a loving husband and children, and my desire for death has never been accompanied by the thoughts they would be better off without me. I simply try to convince myself they will grieve, then be okay. But I do believe their love has been the tenuous thread that kept me here when plans were in place.

Over the past few years I have worked with a most wonderful psychologist and had the opportunity to discuss all these thoughts and feelings. If you had told me a few years ago I would discuss suicidal feelings with another living being I would have laughed out loud. But I am here to say, I did it. It was scary – but I did it. And the sharing is cathartic.

I have come to believe I will always struggle with some level of suicidality.

Not every minute of every day – perhaps I’ll go months without a thought (maybe one day) but it seems a bit like the herpes virus – once it’s in your system, it never completely goes away.

This is my personal experience of depression and death wishes. I realise some people go through incredibly severe depression and experience no suicidal thoughts whatsoever, but many others do. One thing I am sure of – we need to be talking about suicide. We need to look out for warning signs. And we must always care for each other. Connections have kept me here. I am loved. This I know. Everyone needs connections. Reach out. Stay safe. I did.

LOCK ME UP

My psychologist (I love her to bits!) has suggested I consider a specialised Eating Disorder inpatient treatment program.
I once again had a session where I talked about the tumultuous highs and lows of the past month – there were some lovely positives and some not so lovely sunken depths. Just a standard session really. But she did discuss – for the first time – the possibility of me going to an ED clinic. It’s something I’ve vaguely thought about, but never seriously considered. I didn’t really think I was a suitable candidate. There are also a few problems with going to a clinic.

1. As there are no ED clinics where I live, I have to go interstate.
2. Most programs are a minimum of 40 days – so yet another block of time I can’t work. Meaning loss of income, but I also wonder at what point my employers will consider me completely useless if I’m never there.
3. I’m concerned everything will be fantastic while I’m incarcerated inpatient, then when I’m back in the real world, the bubble bursts and it’s back to square one.
4. I’m afraid I’ll be the only “old” person in a sea of teenagers.
5. I’m afraid I’ll be the only “fat” person in a sea of anorexics.

I’m also cognizant of some fairly guaranteed positives.

1. I can surrender all responsibility for my eating to trusted professionals.
2. My weight should stabilise (as should my bowel and any other parts of my body not enjoying this wild ride).
3. My friends and family will get a rest from my insanity.
4. I feel hopeful just at the thought of inpatient – something I had none of yesterday.
5. At least if I “fail” as an inpatient, I’ll know I tried everything.

So now I have some research to do and decisions to make. I’ve been in touch with the Butterfly Foundation, asking for recommendations to dedicated ED clinics (as opposed to a bed in a psych ward at the hospital) and narrowed it down to four options – which is not too overwhelming at all. I’ve also sent a message to each of the four clinics asking for more info and I’m sure I’ll be chatting on the phone to them tomorrow.

I’m still in two minds about the inpatient thing.

If anyone reading has inpatient experience at an Eating Disorder clinic I’d love to know more. I don’t know any real life persons who’ve been down this path, but I certainly feel very open to the concept.

Of course, the final trick will be to get the referral and find a vacant bed – I hear they’re like hen’s teeth – pretty jolly hard to find. Step by step I’ll get there.

SAD SACK OF SORRY

I’m feeling a little sore, sad and sorry for myself.

Sore, because I fell off a fit ball a few weeks back and undid all the good work from my previous cortisone injection into the facet joints of my lower vertebrae – so today I had a repeat injection. Fingers crossed it works just as well as the first one, and this time I pay more attention to the capricious whims of  wayward fitness equipment.

Sad, because I have to finally admit I’m fat again. Not obese – I realise that – but I’m definitely fat. I’ve outgrown virtually all my clothes and I have nobody to blame but myself (and the stupid fit ball). Knowing that makes it not one iota easier. Can I do something about it? Of course I can. I could have done something about it much earlier. Will I do something? Most certainly – whether that something is sensible and sustainable is a whole other question.

Sorry for myself, because I’m struggling with depression. I’ve no idea about the chicken-egg thing and whether I’m depressed because I’m sore and sad, or sore and sad because I’m depressed. It’s tricky to tell what begins where to be honest. When my head space is not fantastic, I’m not the best person to make insightful inroads into the how/why/what/when/where of depression. My self awareness and insight is outstanding when I’m feeling great (when I need it the least), and pretty dismal when I’m feeling shit (which is obviously when I need it the most).

So, where to from here?

I’m a wildly swinging pendulum. For a moment there, I slowed the arc of the swing right down – and that was quite pleasant. It certainly made my psychologist happy and I live to please. But now I’m back on the wild ride of excessive bingeing, purging and restricting, wanting to self-harm (have resisted so far), suicidal ideation and messing with risky behaviours, and just generally digging a big pit of misery to hang out in – for no other reason than it feels wildly familiar and comforting. (Go figure – misery = comfort. Don’t worry – makes no sense to me either.)

My swinging pendulum whooshes from bingeing and purging, to eating nothing whatsoever (I exhaust so quickly at both ends of the spectrum now). From feeling hopeful to hopeless, purposeful to purposeless, happy to miserable, and all sorts of other things I can’t remember (I may have ingested painkillers to help post-injection, and they may be interfering with my thought processes…)

I’m still caught up in a lot of fears that hold me back from jumping into long-lasting recovery. I dabble in the warm, shallow waters of recovery, but never plunge headlong and swim out into the cold, deep, wild seas.

My apologies for mixing all the metaphors. I blame the drugs.

• I’m fearful everyone I love and care for is going to die and leave me here alone
• I’m fearful my husband will get sick to death of dealing with this shit and leave me (I’d leave me if I had an option)
• I’m fearful my friends will get sick to death of watching me on the merry-go-round of getting better-worse, and just give up and go away
• I’m fearful my working days are fast coming to an end and I’ll cease to contribute in any meaningful way to our little household, or society as a whole
• I’m fearful my children will not become all they desire, and perhaps I’ll contribute to their failings
• I’m fearful I’ll stay fat, get fatter, and never be as fit and healthy as I so desperately want
• I’m fearful of living another 50 years and never being happy again

I’m acutely aware many people have real fears – physical dangers, trauma, health crises, financial crises, abject poverty, acute loss, chronic pain. My fears are first-world and petty, but for all that, they’re still there. I can’t logic them away. If I could – I would.

My emotional frailty is something I detest. People I know deal with every day stuff in healthy, practical, constructive ways, and I want to be just like them. I’m a keen observer – I watch and learn – but so far I’ve learned the theory, not the practice. There is always – always, always, always – a roadblock stopping me from putting theory into practice. And for many moons now, I’ve been in search of this roadblock.

I’ve gathered enough theory to write theory books (and perhaps one day I will), but knowing is not enough. It is never enough. I can read a book on how to swim, but unless I get in the water and flail about, I’m pretty much a well-read potential drownee. I most certainly would not have trusted today’s injection into my spine, to a doctor who knew all the theory of injections, but never put it into practice.

Practice is everything.

Tomorrow I see my psychologist (the poor, long-suffering woman – I should take her a bunch of flowers…) I don’t even know what to talk about with her. I’ve had a massive month of moving far, far, forward, then plummeting down, down, down. What’s more useful? Focusing on the moving forward? Or going over how I managed to dig myself down? I have no idea. But a more important question is, what do I hope to gain? For 2.5 years I’ve been gracing her couch with my sad and sorry butt – taking away promises I faithfully keep for short periods of time, then falling down and leaving those promises by the wayside. At what point do I just say, Enough? Leave the poor woman alone? I don’t know. I really don’t.