LOVE IS A SPLENDID THING

How easy it is to love. How hard it is to be loved…
At the risk of repeating myself too many times, I have beautiful friends. I really do. Amazing, kind, intelligent, supportive, thoughtful, empathetic, giving, honest, creative, awesome people. I don’t have a huge circle of friends – nor do I want a huge circle of friends. Quality over quantity is a great philosophy.
When I was a wee thing, I didn’t really have friends. I’m sure this probably bothered me. I don’t know – I can’t remember. We were always moving – a new school here and a new school there. It isn’t easy always being the new kid. I may appear confident at times, but that’s a protective shell I cast around myself at a very young age. Underneath is a really fragile little girl, who second guesses everything she ever sees, hears, says, thinks and does.
When I went to university I found amazing friends and kept them all these years. They are like my sisters. They have taught me what my family could not – love, compassion, acceptance and belonging. They taught me the value of a hug and how to say, I love you. They taught me how to be forgiven for making a mistake. They taught me how freeing it is to be honest and open. I am here today, because of my friends.
As I become more open, and public, with my mental health issues, they have reached out and become more supportive. As I share my attempts to seek and walk the path of recovery, their support has strengthened and increased in intensity. My friends believe in me. Why can’t I?
Travelling a recovery road is like being in the cross country race at school. You’re doing your best, trudging along and sweating across the fields. All your loved ones are standing on the sidelines cheering their little hearts out, offering words of encouragement and just being there. But none of them can run the race for you – not one step. I am the only one that can do it. All the sideline cheering feels amazing, but I still have to do the work. I have to go through the sweat and the agony and the pounding heartbeats of running a marathon. And I have to believe I’m going to make it.
When you first start a race, the fan club are there, but they’re fairly quiet – there’s a long way to go. Maybe they’re busy buying beer and pies and haven’t noticed it’s started. The further you get, the more attention they pay, and the louder the cheers become. My fan club have started cheering really loudly. I don’t know what to make of this. I don’t know how to find the belief they all have.
One of my oldest friends sent me an unexpected message after I signed up to my recent course.

Hey there. Just caught the post on your blog 💓🤗🤗🤗🤗Love and hugs to you. I’m excited! I know you aren’t but I hope you remember the start of the actual process is like ripping open a terrible wound. What you describe sounds very hopeful, you have to be totally vulnerable before you can accept and deal. I love you however, whatever, but I know you’ll be so much happier with yourself if you can resolve this bulimia, that’s the only reason I want it for you. xxx

Unusual for me to say this, but I’m lost for words…
Another beautiful friend sent a video tonight, reminding me of all the qualities she sees. She wants to encourage and remind me I need to keep believing in myself. I’m worth it apparently. It was so touching. I was left in tears.
Again – lost for words.
People I barely know tell me I’m inspiring. Strangers I’ve never met email me out of the blue – to say they’ve read my blog. Or they’ve walked the road I’m travelling, and think my work so far is amazing. Amazing?
Lost for words…
People really believe in me. I don’t know how to believe in myself. I want to. It is my buzzword for this week – belief.
Many moons ago, my husband and I read the story of SHMILY. It’s so sweet… And at the time, we were young and madly in love so we would leave little shmily messages for each other in the strangest places – the dust on the window sill, the tomato sauce spread on a pie, the steam on the mirror. As years went by, the messages became less frequent. Over the past year, I have been finding more and more of them. He is always reminding me in his own quiet way, that I am loved, I am adored, I am worthy, I am enough.
My husband believes in me. All these people believe I have the capacity to heal and grow, to lead a life where my dreams and aspirations are only limited by how far I want to push myself. The sky is apparently not even a limit.
In my formative years, there were no words of love and encouragement. Those things had to be worked out on my own. I was loved – I was encouraged – just not in ways that were easy to see. Now – now I am being showered with encouragement and told repeatedly that I am many wonderful things. I am being told that I am all the things I have always wanted to be. I just need to believe in myself.
I have undying gratitude to all my friends – near and far – for the faith they have placed in me. I can hear you cheering from the sidelines and I may look like my shoulders are drooping and my gait is slowing, that my resolve is starting to waver, but every cheer lifts my spirit and spurs me a little further along the path. So thank you. The gift of your love has not gone unnoticed. Lasting change is not done quickly. It is done by ever so slowly absorbing a new way of being, one painful step at a time.
To my circle of beautiful friends, and to my patient and devoted husband, SHMILY – See How Much I Love You.
 
 

THE STARVING CHILD

Today I awoke to the sight of little brown furry ears resting on my pillow, peering out the window at the rising sun and the clear blue autumn skies. The day held so much hope.

HOPE CAN BE DECEIVING

It matters not how, or why, I ended up in a cycle of soul-destroying binging and purging – the reasons are much the same as all the other times. I lack the emotional skills to deal with life. What matters is what I do now, because that will determine how genuine I am when I say I want recovery.

My first action was to reach out. To reach out to a small online group of women who understand binge eating and bulimia. They reminded me of a guided visualisation for self-compassion. It was exactly what I needed to hear. I’ve listened to it twice and it brought up a lot of thoughts, a lot of grief and a lot of ancient history. It left me with really powerful memories – so clear I could almost reach out and touch them. So real I am still processing and grieving.

Immediately post-binge, my thoughts turn inward and become hateful – spiteful. They speak to me in a manner I would never even contemplate speaking to anybody else. The hypercritical voice speaks in a tone that is degrading and humiliating. It reminds me I feel like a failure or a moron. It says I am not good enough and my intrinsic value is in superficial appearances. It believes I will never get off this roller-coaster ride – I’m here to stay. I am beyond redemption.

That voice is my protector. And it is afraid. It is afraid I will get fat – so it motivates me to keep doing what I’m doing. It is afraid I will never recover, so it discourages me from going through the heartache of trying. That voice has always loved me but never helped me. It has never served me but has always meant well.

THAT VOICE IS MY MOTHER

I can see and hear her as if she were standing in front of me now. With loving concern, she says I need to lose weight, just a few pounds so I might start to look attractive. She means well. I know she does. She always did. She worries I’m not slim enough or attractive enough to be happy in life because that is what she learned somewhere along the way.

But today I said goodbye to her. I thanked her and watched her turn around and walk away. I told her I love her and I’ll miss her, but I’ll never see her again. I don’t need her voice or her concern  – I never did. It hasn’t helped me one little bit. My mother died eight years ago – but I have been seeking the love and approval I so desperately wanted from her all my life. I will never receive it. Today I said goodbye to her and accepted that truth.

I have always had a little timid voice of reason that has quietly argued in the background. Today I welcomed that voice and gave it a face. That face is me. A little girl craving love and attention. So desperate to be good, to be noticed, to be wanted, to be nurtured. That little girl was starved of affection. That little girl is the only one now that knows how to love me. She can hand out the hugs she so desperately wanted – she knows what’s needed. She knows how to forgive. She knows how to accept. She knows how to move on. She knows how to survive. That little girl is the face of compassion – she has spent her entire life caring for people. She knows how to do it.

Today I farewelled my mother – eight years after she died. Fifty years after she instilled the critical voice of judgment in my heart. Today I welcomed the little girl that has waited all these years for the love she was always worthy of – simply because she exists. Today I grieved. Tomorrow I can start to become whole.

BODY BEAUTIFUL

I have a body. As I said once before, it has served me faithfully all my years. I have been blessed with strong bones, good teeth, a great immune system and most excellent health. Fortune smiles upon me.

I was not however, blessed with any confidence in this body. Nature, nurture and the environments in which I grew, destroyed my perception of this body as being aesthetically tolerable. I’ve never been able to look in the mirror with anything other than disdain and self-loathing.

I NO LONGER EVEN HAVE THE ABILITY TO SEE MY BODY AS IT ACTUALLY IS

I’ve developed a distorted perception of my body shape and size and I can’t logic my way out of seeing any different. Size 8 or 18, it’s all the same to me.

I’ve gained and lost a lot of weight over the years, but for the most part, the image I see in the mirror is always similar. I avoid looking when possible. I feel ashamed. Ashamed of having a visual reminder of my failings and my weakness. A visual reminder of my gluttony and sloth. The shame of my body makes me want to hide it not just from myself, but from everyone. Including my husband.

Never once in our 25 years together has he ever passed judgment upon my size, shape or appearance. He has demonstrated nothing but the most loving acceptance of me at any and every weight. Scars, cellulite, saggy and baggy boobs and butt mean nothing to him. He loves me just as I am. I know this.

He is also painfully aware of how I feel about my body, and how I feel about being seen naked.

This morning he dragged me out of bed to stand in front of the mirror – naked. He stood there holding me, looking at the reflection that I was forced to gaze upon, and he said, “Beautiful. Just beautiful.”

I’M STILL STUCK FOR WORDS

I’ve been trying to process this all day. I can’t see what he sees. I see regret and disappointment – a body that betrays the passage of time and the toll that pregnancies, surgeries and weight gain have taken. Something completely unlikable – utterly unlovable. I cannot reconcile his declaration of beauty with the sordid image reflected back at me. I don’t know how.

Part of the recovery process is self-compassion, self-acceptance, self-love. I expect these will be the most difficult – and no doubt crucial – parts of the journey for me. And that compassion will need to extend to every part of me – inside and out.

I DON’T BELIEVE I NEED TO LOVE MY BODY, BUT I WILL NEED TO ACCEPT IT

To be grateful this body nourished and nurtured three children through pregnancy and breastfeeding. This body has carried me to faraway places, climbed mountains, and surfed through salty seas. It has known great pleasure and pain. It has been good to me. Now it is my turn to return the favour.

One day, I’ll gaze upon my reflection and say, “Enough. You are enough.”

FINDING STRENGTH FOR RECOVERY THROUGH FATIGUE

My fatigue is back. It went away for a while. I didn’t miss it. Good riddance, I thought. Then it came back. For fuck’s sake, I thought…
Now I can barely struggle out of bed to go to the bathroom. I still have to do all the things everyone else does – get dressed, go to work, care for people, stare at the vacuum cleaner – but I don’t have the energy left for anything else.
Recovery is my primary mental goal at the moment. I must recover. I must believe it is possible. I must believe I am worthy. I will recover. I do believe it is possible. I’m working on the worthiness thing…
But when the fatigue comes back it’s all too hard. The anxiety escalates – it’s so much harder to reframe negative thoughts into a more optimistic or realistic outcome. The depression starts dragging me down – it’s too exhausting to do anything productive and what is the point? The suicidal ideation starts rearing it’s very ugly head and I just cease wanting to be. It’s all so hard and I am just so damn tired again.
But I think the hardest is the disordered eating. It taints every aspect of my day. I desperately want this recovery but fatigue sabotages my efforts. Not only am I pointlessly trying to fill the hole in my starving soul with food, but now I’m also mindlessly feeding a tiredness that won’t go away with a few fast carbs. No matter what my sleep deprived, addled thoughts are trying to tell me.
I need to keep shoring up my distress tolerance tools when my energy levels are higher, because once they plummet, logic flies out the window and bad habits fly right back in.
I recently commenced an online group course for bulimia recovery and I am currently relying on the support of the group members to see me through. Today I would have chosen to binge until the cows came home. Then eat the cows as well. Instead, I haven’t eaten well, but I haven’t binged too badly. And – miracle of miracles – I haven’t purged.
Fatigue is a right bastard of a thing. It really is. I know that loads of carbs won’t fix it, but all that food is jolly comforting, and when you’re too tired to watch television, it feels like a great idea and the problems of guilt and self-loathing that you know are going to hit the moment you stop, is a problem you are happy to defer. Until next time. Again. And again.
There is no easy way to fight fatigue. There is no easy way to find recovery. There is no easy way to be in recovery when you’re fatigued. There is just no easy way – full stop.
I am grateful for the support of those who understand recovery.
I am grateful for learning about the tools of reframing and visualisation.
I am grateful for – even a brief window in time – having hope and belief.
I am grateful that despite feeling incredibly weak and despondent at the moment, I found the strength to reach out to just one person. Because that one person can make all the difference in the world. I may be fatigued, but I still have strength.

EXERCISING MY WAY TO GOOD MENTAL HEALTH

Exercising regularly changed my life. It toned my body, turned fat to muscle, allowed me to enjoy the great outdoors, gave me a safe place to socialise daily, and saved my sanity in more ways than I can possibly count. I honestly don’t know where I would be anymore without regular exercise.

Five years ago I arrived at the door of a women’s only gym that had recently opened. Within minutes of telling my sorry tale to the gym owner, we were both in tears. I’d tried everything. Strength training is what I needed she said. Get strong – in body, mind and spirit.

Two decades earlier I had sworn NEVER – never, ever, ever – to return to a gym. They were isolationist, judgmental, sweaty places, where no normal human could ever find pleasure. Full of competitive Lycra-clad skinny girls, and leering, bicep flexing muscle boys, it was more about narcissism than nurture. That had been my experience of many gyms. And I was never going back.

Fast forward to February 2012 and I was desperate. I desperately wanted to lose weight and despite eating less and  walking more, my weight was going UP! How insulting!! So with tear-stained reluctance, I signed up for a membership. And I turned up. And I fell in love. Not with the exercise – that would come later – but with the people. It was a small local gym, where the primary clientele were middle-aged women – of every shape, size, athletic ability and socioeconomic status. They were just like me. They were wearing normal clothes – no Lycra in sight – and they were kind, empathetic and understanding. The instructors took time to know every member and adjusted exercises accordingly. The focus was on building strength, health, flexibility and longevity – not worrying about who was the thinnest, prettiest, strongest or fittest. No competition – just loving support of one another. It takes a village to raise a child and it takes a community to continue to support the inner child we all have. I felt nurtured.

Over the course of a year – with the help of a lap band and regular exercise – I lost weight. And I felt good about myself. I started to really love exercising – it was the highlight of my day.

Fast forward to January 2016 and I was reasonably fit, strong and healthy – for a 50 year old woman! But my mental health was plummeting at dizzying speeds. Again, the kindness and support of staff and clientele at the gym, helped me keep my head above water while I was drowning. By March I was restricting my food intake significantly, and by May I’d stopped eating altogether. I lost 13kg in five weeks. I was increasingly happy with the number on the scales – but it was the only spark of happiness in my entire life. I was experiencing severe depression, anxiety, panic attacks, and frequent daily episodes of self-harm. Suicidal ideation was turning into concrete plans and by early May I was hospitalised for a month.

At no point during the lead up to my hospitalisation, did I consider stopping gym classes. I gently exercised an hour a day despite starvation and the inability to function in any other capacity. My trainer – also a nurse and now a good friend – knew of my physical and mental health limitations, and adjusted my program accordingly. Weights were reduced, rest periods increased, cardio lessened. A close eye was kept on me. I could keep going, but stay safe. The one hour a day I spent at the gym, was the highlight of my day and the closest thing I felt to happiness during that entire period of time. It was one hour of the day when the chaos in my head was stilled – I could just be. The continued connection to humanity – to people who genuinely showed love and concern – kept me grounded. I still felt purposeful – going to the gym was often the only reason I would get out of bed for the day.

Fast forward another 12 months and I am fit, strong and healthy. I still go to gym and treasure the support and love of my trainer and the other women. I feel a sense of community and know that no matter what happens in my day, or my life, I will always make the time to get to gym – to connect with people and keep my body strong and functional as I travel through middle age and venture into old age. I see 70+ year old women lifting weights, rolling on fit balls, boxing, throwing medicine balls and swinging kettle bells. They are amazing. Their lives have changed too.

My husband and I enjoy the opportunity to spend more time together, hiking in the wilderness, enjoying the serenity and beauty of the natural world. I’ve climbed mountains, kayaked and hiked for miles with family and friends. Nature is fantastic preventative medicine.

Strength and fitness are integral to my health and longevity – not for the sake of competition, getting skinny or looking fab in Lycra, but for maintaining and improving my physical and cognitive functions and, more important than anything, finding a community of women who support each other through anything. Women who strive to build each other up, not tear each other down.

I don’t believe I would have survived the depths of my depression without that wider support. I wouldn’t have had the strength to keep going without the watchful eye and expertise of my trainer and friend. Those few moments of light on such dark days, blessed my spirit with just enough spark to keep going.

VIRTUES & VICES

The compassionate concepts I am encouraged to apply, were considered heinous insults throughout my formative years.

You’re such a try-hard

Goodness me – are you letting people see you try hard to be your best self? Don’t let people know the lengths you are prepared to go to for achieving your ridiculous dreams.

You think you’re so good

Why aren’t you putting yourself down? Like everyone else does? That kind of inflated ego is not for you. Let it go.

You’re so up yourself

Spat out with disdain. Suggesting the ‘up yourself’ person is a snob. A social climbing twat that considers status more important than moral values. Being up myself would be tantamount to being a deeply unpleasant person.

You must really love yourself

Oh my goodness – worst insult ever! Said with such venom and hatred. Said to indicate the recipient of the spiteful phrase has a sense of superiority. That they consider themselves better than other people. The ultimate narcissist. To love myself would be the worst thing ever.

Then of course there are the seven vices and virtues society dictated we must live by in order to be considered a good and moral person.

Vice

1. Lust (god forbid I display, or feel, desire for someone)
2. Gluttony (eating anything fancier than a small salad is shameful)
3. Greed (desire nothing – wanting material possessions is greedy)
4. Sloth (don’t be lazy – keep busy, do stuff, don’t relax)
5. Wrath (don’t EVER display unruly emotions – especially anger)
6. Envy (be grateful for what you have – coveting things is selfish)
7. Pride (don’t show off your talents – it’s distasteful)

Obviously all these vices can also be unpleasant behaviours, but without good role models and guidance, it is easy to learn that sitting down for a cup of tea is “slothful”, or noticing a good looking boy is “lustful”. It’s all in the context and the degree.

Virtue

1. Chastity (be demure and ladylike – not desirous)
2. Temperance (all things in moderation is far too decadent)
3. Charity (give to others – never take)
4. Diligence (workin’ hard or hardly workin’? relaxation is evil)
5. Patience (wait, wait, wait – upon others, for others, with others)
6. Kindness (offer yourself to others at all times – regardless of the cost)
7. Humility (your own needs are of no consequence)

Again. These virtues are beautiful virtues – when taken in the right context, and one’s own needs are not subjugated to the virtue.

I would like to suggest we are all two-sided coins. We all need a little lust and a little charity. Some wrath and some patience. We all need a balance of the vices and virtues – for all the virtues can be vices, and all the vices can be virtues. It’s all about the context.