I DREAM

 
I dream that one day I will be freed from the shackles of anxiety’s chaos. Freed from the pounding heart, shallow breaths and rattled nerves – the insecurities, fears and chronic doubts. Freed from the desire to tear at my nails, scratch up my hands and carve into my own soft flesh.

I dream that one day my moods will be governed by the ebb and flow of life’s sweet mysteries. The fluctuations of health, wealth and a good night’s sleep, or the random roll of Lady Luck’s dice. Not the vagaries of depression’s dark grip upon my spirit and strength, sapping emotional fortitude and the will to participate in life.

I dream that one day I can care for my body by nourishing it with wholesome foods, strengthening it with regular exercise and loving it for all the gifts it has bequeathed me. Freed from the powerful grip of an intense eating disorder that thwarts my every effort to seek recovery. Freed from the endless internal dialogue of eating disorder voices. Freed from the need to punish myself by binging until bursting, purging until my throat’s red raw, starving until a misty veil is drawn across my reality.

I dream that one day I look in the mirror and see a body that has nurtured and nourished three fat little babies. Indulged in the sensuous intimacies of carnal love. Experienced pleasure and pain, and carried me tirelessly across the globe and back again. A reflection that no longer distorts my image and highlights every flaw – real or imagined – and represents a lifetime of failure and lost hope.

I dream that one day I can remove the mask I so carefully constructed at a tender young age. A mask that hides insecurities, sadness and fear. Hides depression, anxiety and bulimia. A mask that portrays confidence, wisdom and hope to an audience always willing to accept at first glance, the visage they are presented with.

I dream that one day I will yearn for more days to come – not less. That the anticipation of working, writing and travel – grandchildren, love and friendship – will offer comfort, joy and an extended sense of purpose in the future.

I dream that one day, I become whole.

CONFESSIONS OF A DISORDERED MIND

Sometimes I worry that the reason I struggle with recovery, is I don’t want to recover. And sometimes I worry that the reason I don’t want to recover, is people will stop being nice to me.

When you grow in an emotionally sterile environment, you grow craving love, affection and nurturing. You can then find these things in so many other unhealthy ways… Food became my biggest means of nurturing myself. It might be highly maladaptive, illogical and do more harm than good in the long run – but that is the origin of my eating disorder. Other people might nurture and numb themselves with illicit drugs, alcohol, sex addiction, promiscuity – there are as many different ways to damage yourself as there are damaged people. But there are a great many of us that fell into food at a young age, and have taken decades to figure it all out.

What I discovered when my mental health deteriorated so badly that my physical health became significantly impacted, was I received a lot of love, affection and nurturing I had not previously been privy to. I am starting to become concerned however, that I’m hanging on to my illnesses just so people will look after me. That they’ll keep checking on me and asking after me and listening to my stories and making sure I’m okay. I can’t think of anything more lovely at the moment, than to go to hospital where nice people pop in every now and then to ask me if I feel okay and would I like a cup of tea…

It is very comforting to be comforted…

The sensible voice inside me is saying that is ridiculous. And selfish. The people who care for me now, have always cared, and will always care. Staying unwell is absurd and will piss people off. I need to help myself, not hang out at a never ending pity party with one attendee.

The sensible voice inside me is saying there is almost certainly a rich, fulfilling life on the other side of recovery that is going to offer me so much more than the self-inflicted misery I currently live in.

The sensible voice inside me is never quite loud enough.

The obnoxious, confident, endlessly chattering voice of my eating disorder, natters away telling me how safe I am to stick with what I’m doing. I can control my weight this way and people check on me and I can ignore all the stresses in my life – just bury my head in a bowl of ice-cream. Perfect!

I keep making a valiant effort to quell the obnoxious voice, and amplify the quiet one. It is time.

This disordered mind might tell me foolish things about myself – day in and day out – but it will never totally quash that other little voice that wants to see how life looks in the land of rainbows and unicorns.

With a little bit of luck, a shitload of hard work, and a tiny sprinkle of pixie dust, I just might overturn the disordered thoughts and find recovery.

UNEXPECTED IDEATION

Some days I want to live. Some days I want to die. I’m not suicidal – not anymore. Or not at the moment at any rate. If I’m careful with self-care and practice what has been preached the past 12 months, I can expect to die from natural causes in the distant future, and not at my own hands.

This does not stop ideation appearing at unexpected moments. I wonder if it’s always been there? Now that I look back upon it, I think it was. I just didn’t recognise it. Since going through a period of making concrete plans, I can notice those suicidal thoughts, out of place like an autumn leaf drifting through the winter snow. When they strike, I find myself having to distinguish between the fantasy dream, Wouldn’t it be lovely!, and the genuine desire for, I can’t do this any more.

It’s an odd thing – and if you’ve never wished to close your eyes and slip forever into a blessed and eternal sleep – then perhaps it is difficult to understand in any capacity.

Suicidal plans must be bred out of depression – surely happy people don’t want to die? But suicidal ideation – the thoughts that flit through your head when you least expect it – they can come at any time.

One day it might just be exhaustion.

Not enough sleep the night before, a long day at work, then while driving home chaotic thoughts are calmed by contemplating the how, why, when, what and where of all the different lethal options there are.

Another day – when everything that can go wrong does go wrong – the thought of never having to go through another day of shit is heavenly. No plans in place. Just a blissful, mesmerising moment, realising the finality of death would bring an end to all of life’s painful moments.

The most disconcerting suicidal thoughts come out of the blue – when there’s no exhaustion, no sadness, no stress. Just a contented day, with hope and dreams for the future, and yet the mind drifts again to the pleasant nostalgia of going to sleep and never waking up. Of never having to deal with life again – the good, the bad, the ugly. The mundane, the exciting, the horrific. All the things that life is – gone.

These nostalgic, dreamy moments are not the same as being suicidal. Not at all. I’ve been there, and there is no comparison.

Being suicidal is an intense darkness in the deepest part of your spirit and soul. Born out of a deep depression that has lasted long enough to leave nothing but numbing blackness and strips away all hope there is any chance of reprieve.

Life is not worth living depression tells you.

Day after endless day it relentlessly marches on and each relentless day is harder to survive than the one before. Suicidal plans are made. The suicidal dream is becoming a reality. An increasingly tempting possibility and the how, why, when, what and where are constructed and put into place. Each day is a trial and survived only by setting small goals and having enough loving family and support around, that the final decision is never reached.

With support and time, the unrelenting desire for eternal rest, diminished. Will it ever go entirely? I suspect not. I have become sensitised to every suicidal thought that passes through my consciousness. But ideation does not involve plans. Ideation does not bring with it spiralling depression and obsessive thought patterns. Ideation does not mean the end of all that is near and dear. Suicidal ideation is simply dreaming of a fantasy that will never be pursued. It is not reality. It is not fact. It is not healthy. It is just a dream. A tangled web of desires. A dark dream that can hit at any time. A dark dream banished by focusing on the light.

DEAR DEPRESSION…

… I thought you’d gone away. I thought we had a little chat and I told you we can’t be friends any more. Why did you come back? And when are you going to leave?

While you were gone, I had the energy to get out of bed and do stuff. You know? Like wash my hair. Plug the vacuum cleaner in. Talk to my husband.

Without you around, I felt motivated to look forward in life. To think about what my future might look like. To make plans. To start to dream.

Without you I have time for other things and for other people.

I’d like you to vacate my spirit so there is room left for laughter, for joy. Contentment, peace, happiness. Space for me to focus on tasks at hand and to take pride in my accomplishments. While you have residence in my soul, none of this is possible.

I don’t want you around quite frankly. I know that sounds dreadfully rude, and I don’t like to be impolite, but there’s no other way to put it.

I’d like my energy back. I want the weight across my shoulders to be lifted.

I’d like my desire back. I want the spark of cheekiness I once possessed to return.

I’d like my faith, hope and love back. I deserve them

You’re taking away belief in myself again. You’re taking away my faith and hope that I can find and walk the recovery road.

With the warmth of your stale breath caressing my neck, I can’t focus on the positives in my life. With the tight grasp you have around my chest, I can’t face the fears I currently have.

I mean this with much love, and much sincerity, but please – I beg you – go away. I didn’t ask for you to be here. I don’t choose for you to stay. I’ve tried to protect myself against you. And now – now I’m asking you to leave.

And this time, when you do go, please take your buddy Anxiety with you. You two get on really well. I’m not sure why you came back but go. Just go… Please.

THE GIFT OF PRAYER

My private convictions do not stretch to organised religion or belief in a deity. I do however, have very strong personal spiritual beliefs.
Religion and spirituality are separate concepts. They may exist concurrently or independently, and are incredibly individual and personal. Imagine what a wonderful world it could be, if universally everyone took comfort in their own beliefs, and offered acceptance to differing viewpoints.
At various times, and through a variety of circumstances, I have had people offer to pray for me. I find this – for the most part – to be a heartwarmingly beautiful gift. When life throws out the inevitable curve balls of grief, worry and uncertainty, more often than not the problems can’t be solved – we just cross our fingers and hope for the best. When there is nothing practical to be done, there remains only the gift of prayer.

What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.
This too shall pass.
Time heals all wounds.

Cliches one and all. Undoubtedly true, but decidedly unhelpful. Prayer offered in my name, or in the names of my nearest and dearest, provides comfort. It is the knowledge I am being thought of and cared about, even when I’m not close at hand. Someone with a deep and abiding belief in the existence of a loving God, reaches out in prayer to ask for wisdom or strength on my behalf, to guide me through some of the trials we all must traverse.
Prayer however, is only a gift when offered on my behalf for something I am in agreeance with.
Please – no matter how profound and meaningful your religious beliefs are – do not pray I find your God. If you must do so, do not tell me. It is – quite frankly – deeply offensive. You are casting aspersions upon my own beliefs. You are saying I am wrong and you are right. Faith does not work like that. I can see believing in God has given you a deep sense of comfort and joy, but I have found comfort and joy too – in my own way.
Please – no matter how profound and meaningful your religious beliefs are – do not tell me to pray.  I don’t believe in your God – and that is okay. You don’t believe in my spiritual truths either. I respect your faith – please respect mine. Telling me to pray is you acknowledging I have a problem but telling me I need to deal with it on my own. No. Don’t do it. It’s rude. Don’t tell me to pray to a God you know I don’t believe in. In fact – even if I did believe in your God, still don’t tell me to pray. Telling me what to do is a burden not a gift.
But when my life takes a turn for the worse – and the shit is flying at frightening speeds in every direction – then please, if you are so inclined, offer a prayer. I am grateful for your love and concern. I am grateful for the time you spend thinking of me when I am not there. I am grateful you share my problems with your loving God, asking for guidance or intervention. I am grateful you care. I am blessed with your gift of prayer. Thank you.

WORST BOYFRIEND EVER

He wants me.
He needs me.
He loves me.
He sounds interested and knowing.
He rejoices when my heart is singing.
His voice is compassionate and caring.
He comforts me in my darkest moments.
He protects, nurtures and encourages me.
He exudes a wisdom and confidence I am in awe of.
He wants only the best for me and reminds me how much he’s done.
He is my constant companion, my closest confidante and eternal lover.
He talks louder and more emphatically than the other voices around me.
He treats me with disdain, disinterest and derision.
He overpowers me and makes me doubt myself.
He makes me feel like I can’t exist without him.
He numbs my emotions and scars my body.
He belittles and berates me.
He smothers me.
He isolates me.
He will eventually kill me.
He is the worst boyfriend ever.
He is my Bulimia.