My Mighty Month: March Week One

The Mighty are running monthly self-confidence challenges all year. I religiously did the daily writing in January. Was too exhausted to do whatever the February challenge was! But I’m going to drop in late and start the March Challenge. The week one task is:

Make a list of your top five strengths. If you aren’t sure what your strengths are, ask a friend or family member. You can also take the VIA (Values in Action) Survey of Character Strengths.

So I took the survey. My top five strengths are:
1. Kindness and generosity
2. Honesty, authenticity, and genuineness
3. Judgment, critical thinking, and open-mindedness
4. Leadership
5. Modesty and humility
The whole 24 strengths are listed here – ordered from my most to least dominant trait 🙂

Next, for each of your five strengths, write down a time where you felt confident while exhibiting that strength.

1. Kindness & Generosity: I sat with my 98-year-old grandmother, held her hand to reassure her we had not whispered behind her back about wanting her to die. That we loved her and wished the best for her and that is why I spent hours with her every day, and organised her transfer to the nursing home so she could get better care. She would be fed regularly and checked on all the time. As a family that never expresses emotions or feelings, never says “I love you”, never holds hands or hugs, this was really hard for me. But it was important for grandma to hear and it made a huge difference. She hung her head low, listened and moved on.
2. Honesty, authenticity, and genuineness: I am always honest. Always always. I don’t lie. I will from time to time omit a fact… So I guess I will lie by omission. But I never outright say something untrue. Example? Hmm… When teaching, rather than tell my students they had done something wrong or what they were doing sounded god awful, I would ask them to play it again, and listen carefully to a particular aspect. Then I’d ask them what they thought and we would discuss that at length. Then ask how they might make it better. Try it again. Compare the two. Try to apply the differences not just to music but to life in general. They would walk away knowing they had changed something that wasn’t quite right, to something that was better. And that no matter how bad you might think something is, it can improve if you just focus on how to change rather than focus on how bad you are.
3. Judgment, critical thinking, and open-mindedness: I once had a friend scream at me about what a terrible person I was. How awfully my children had behaved. What a dreadful time she had experienced at a social event at my house. It was a ten-minute rant and it was so hard to take. I was frozen to the spot unable to respond. I left when I could, went home and cried for hours. I then messaged her to say I could see how much emotional pain she was in. How much stress she was under. And would she like to go for a walk and talk things through. We did that. I asked her a question I don’t think she’d ever had before – had other people spoken to her like that in her life. She was defensive at first, but then said yes – she had often been yelled at and abused. I said I hadn’t ever experienced it so it was hard to take. I also said I understood how exhausted she was and how much emotional stress she was under and we had a big hug and we’re still close friends.
4. Leadership: I don’t know if I’m a natural leader? Others tell me I am… I have often found myself in situations where nobody does anything, so I just take charge. I worry it’s because I’m bossy and controlling. But perhaps that’s what leadership is? When I was about 23, I was on a bus from Canberra to Melbourne. We were near Yass when a girl started having a grand mal seizure. Nobody did anything – she was two or three seats behind me on the opposite side so I could see her. I mean – absolutely NOBODY moved or did anything. They sat there like stunned mullets. I got up and tried to get her onto the floor (so she didn’t break an arm flailing around in the seat) then asked if anyone had a cushion to put under her head (a dozen arms went up). She lay on the floor asleep with the cushion for about 15 minutes before she woke up. Once she was on the floor the bus driver started up and kept driving to Melbourne. When she woke up nobody said anything to her – she just looked confused and had no idea why she was there. I deeply regret not saying anything – I don’t think she’d ever had a seizure before. I had no first aid training and didn’t know what to do (now I know, just keep them safe, time the seizure and call an ambulance). Aside from the girl having the seizure, I was the youngest person on the bus – by at least 20 years. I am still shocked nobody did anything. Still shocked the driver sat there waiting for me to tell him what to do and nobody said anything or organised for medical care.
5. Modesty and humility: I hope I am modest and humble. These are virtues I consider very important. I can’t really think of situations to demonstrate? I know as a musician, after performing people always come up and say thanks and wasn’t that amazing and you’re so clever etc. In my head I’m always denying every compliment, but out loud I accept the gift of their words and say, “Thank you so much. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” I would never agree with them out loud because firstly, I don’t believe it, but secondly I want to focus on them and the kindness it takes to make the effort to say something nice to someone. Many people walk away from performances and say nothing at all. So taking the time to offer a compliment is a gift that should always be accepted and acknowledged.

GROGGY

I have Restless Legs Syndrome.

I rarely talk about it. It sounds like a benign and trivial condition everyone experiences at some stage. To some extent that is true, but my restless legs are severe and chronic. And normally extremely well managed.

Like most problems, there are people who have it much worse. While I have a lot of associated nerve pain, if I take regular medication it’s fine. I rarely notice it and when I do it’s not too bad. In that aspect of my life, I found a little pocket of normality.

Then the last two days I ran out of one of my RLS meds. The first night wasn’t too bad – a bit restless but I’d taken pain killers so they’d help make me dopey. Last night however… Well that was a different story! I am now painfully reminded of why I religiously take my medications.

First, I was really late taking the rest of my meds. I normally take them at 8pm but was late home, so I was already behind the eight ball. I also had a glass of red wine and a cup of tea early in the evening. Alcohol and caffeine exacerbate RLS – I really wasn’t thinking things through. I took my other meds around 10pm and added in a couple of extra pain killers for good measure – thinking that would be sufficient to help me sleep. It wasn’t.

It. Was. Not.

I had the night from hell. Aside from having no sleep whatsoever (something I have experienced more times than I care to reflect upon), I was physically exhausted but utterly incapable of keeping still – like the top half of me was sedated but the bottom half was determined to have a grand mal seizure. My lower back had a persistent deep ache, with intermittent nerve shocks running down my legs. Endlessly. Perpetually. Interminably. After a few hours, I was completely insane. I could not keep my eyes open. I could not go to sleep. My legs were running a marathon, dancing the tarantella, and shaking their sillies out.

I stretched and stretched and stretched. I thumped my back and legs as hard as I could. I rolled around trying to get relief and massaged my butt and legs until my hands cramped. For hours and hours and relentless hours. It was very un-fun. I wanted to run. At 3am. In the dark. Up the street. On my own. In the rain. I thought better of it.

RLS is often described as a creepy crawly feeling, only relieved by movement of the limb. That is true. But the creepy crawly feeling was like Aragog and his horde of starving acromantula had taken up residence in my lower back and were doing a merry dance while gnawing their way through my skeleton. The ache in my back went through to my core. I needed a deep tissue massage but it wouldn’t be enough. No amount of massage alleviates the restlessness. I wanted to bend backwards and snap in half. Nerve shocks ran up and down my legs and all the while, I was exhausted.

So tired. So very, very tired.

I had a little brain snap about 3am, succumbing to binging and self-harm – go-to soothing mechanisms. Five bowls of cereal anyone? It didn’t help the RLS but it gave me something to do and focus on, and fed my energy levels. Self-harm is incredibly soothing. It’s been months since I harmed – I am genuinely trying to stop. Like really genuinely! But I was outside myself last night. I now have five long cuts on my forearm. Not deep. Not dangerous. But just like a hippogriff lashed out with its talons to remind me I am fallible.

I have had two prescription meds that help my RLS for about eight years. One is an anti-parkinson drug that assists with the overwhelming urge to move. The other is an anti-epileptic for the nerve pain. Together they have saved my life. Prior to being prescribed these meds, I had nothing that helped. I was managing perhaps 20 minutes’ sleep at a time, maybe three of four times a night. I had people telling me I wasn’t tired enough. I wanted to slap them in the face with a wet fish. I felt like I was becoming psychotic. Every time I got in the car I fought an overwhelming desire to drive as far as I could and smash into a tree. I would morph between too tired to function and so manic I could move mountains. The relentless urge to move my body, stamp my feet and fidget like a toddler desperately needing a toilet, annoyed not only me, but everyone around me. Discovering those two meds changed my life. Really, really changed my life!

Forgetting to check I had some at home was a lapse in judgment I will not do again any time soon! As soon as the pharmacy opened this morning, I flew down, filled the scripts, and took a double dose of both meds. It took two hours for them to work, but eventually I slept then spent the day in bed. I awoke feeling floppy and groggy as the meds wore off. The ache is back, the twitching is starting and I’ve just taken my night-time dose hoping it kicks in soon. Floppy and groggy trumps psychotic any day of the week.

NURTURED

We’re born to be nurtured.
Unlike most of the animal kingdom, little humans begin life utterly dependent on their caregivers. In a perfect world, we’re raised by loving and caring parents supported by their whole community – it takes a village to raise a child. Perfection is a rare commodity.
As a child, my basic needs were met. Routinely. Always. More than adequately. We were fed and clothed and housed and educated. I grew up in a white middle class family, in a wealthy democratic country, and was afforded all the privileges that come with these opportunities. I grew up with free health care and education, and lived a life free from physical abuse and significant grief. Fortunate indeed compared to millions of people the world over.
I have never felt nurtured though. Cared for as a child – yes. Loved as an adult – yes. Privileged and wanted, desired and needed – yes. But nurtured – no. I have no recollection whatsoever, of being hugged by my parents as a child. Nobody ever said, “I love you”. Not once. It just wasn’t done. My grandmother says we weren’t a demonstrative family. We most certainly were not.
When my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2000, I asked her why I was never hugged. She said it was because I didn’t want to be hugged. I am still mystified by that statement… Sure I was a feisty, difficult, argumentative, hyperactive and highly inquisitive child. But I was a child. I also wanted to be loved and nurtured and cared for and noticed. For someone to accept the way I looked and spoke and acted – just once. For someone to express pride at my successes and strengths – just once. For someone to gently and lovingly guide me when I got things wrong, without berating me and making me feel inept, inadequate and stupid – just once. It never happened. My job as a child was to grow up independently and be responsible. To look out for my younger brother and sister and to look after my mother. To be her little helper. To be a grown up at ten. I was raised as a mini adult and never afforded the spontaneity and freedoms that come with being a child free from adult expectations.
To me, there is a fine line between feeling cared for (I did) and nurtured (I didn’t). Perhaps it is semantics – I don’t know. Perhaps I have the terminology incorrect. Possibly. I’ll try to enunciate how they feel different to me.
When I feel cared for I know I am needed – that I would be missed if I were gone, or that my welfare is of importance to others. As a child, I know I was cared for because my family fed me and housed me and didn’t complain about my existence. They cared enough to raise me with strong morals and ethics, and to allow me certain privileges and freedoms. I was fed nutritious foods, had educational opportunities, and given holidays and gifts.
As an adult, I feel cared for when a friend sends a message to say, let’s go for a walk. Or my husband brings me a cup of tea in bed. Or my kids bring me a birthday present. They care enough to remember me. They care about me.
Feeling nurtured is so much more. To feel nurtured, I need someone to put my needs ahead of their own. To make a decision when I don’t know what to do. To care for me when I can’t care for myself or love me when I can’t love myself. To let me know I really matter and that I’m okay just the way I am – I don’t need to change or be thinner, stronger, prettier, sexier, wealthier, smarter, more capable. More of anything else at all. That I am lovable right now, as is. It’s not about cups of tea – it’s about knowing I’m thought of when I’m not in sight. It’s surprising me with a visit to the movies, a night out, or a trip away. Talking despite being too tired to talk. Walking despite being too tired to walk. It’s seeing I’m too sick to care for myself and making decisions for me. Staying up all night when I’m throwing up or in pain. Buying flowers despite running late for an appointment. Getting me a birthday present I’ve always wanted. Prioritising me over absolutely everybody else’s needs – just for a moment. Not forever. Not most of the time. Not regularly. Just very, very occasionally. When I’m in emotional, psychological or physical distress. When I’m tired and worn out from caring for everyone else. Just very, very occasionally, I need to feel nurtured.
I have spent all my adult years caring for others – my siblings, my parents, my grandmother. My husband, my children, my cat. My students. My colleagues. Friends and acquaintances. I always feel it’s the right thing to do – whatever you need, I will do it for you. I’ll be a listening ear, the shoulder to cry on, the voice of reason. I’ll drive you to the hospital or airport. I’ll hang with you when you need company. I’ll give you space when you don’t. Above and beyond the call of duty is my ever-present motto. Not because I have to, but because I want to. It feels good to do what feels right. But there came a time last year when I’d relentlessly cared for everyone for so long, that I lost sight of myself. I wore myself out and couldn’t care for myself any more.
What I realised as I fell apart, and those who really care for me started pulling together and supporting me, was that I enjoyed feeling cared for. I enjoyed feeling supported. And wanted. And loved. I enjoyed having people try to help me and meet my needs. My family and friends. The doctors and mental health professionals. The nurses at the clinic who listened with all the time in the world as I grieved for my mother and sister, and checked to see if I’d eaten, slept well, been for a walk or gone to a class.
Recently it occurred to me that enjoying this support is keeping me stuck and hindering my recovery, because I fear that if I get well I’ll be left to be the strong one again. That nobody will demonstrably care for me anymore. If I’m well, I’ll be needed to support everyone else and they won’t need to support me anymore. And I will miss it – I’ll miss feeling loved and nurtured and cared for. When I’m unwell, people show they care and they want to help me and they’ll do whatever it takes. And when I’m well they’ll go on their merry way and the sense of nourishment to the soul will go away.
That is what I fear. I will return to knowing intellectually I’m loved and cared for, but there will be precious little evidence. The expectation I can look after everyone will return. And I will do it because it’s the right thing to do. I don’t resent it – I do in fact enjoy caring for others. But we all have limits. Sometimes I need to care. Sometimes I need to be cared for. Sometimes I nurture. Sometimes I need nurturing.
My recovery is important – I’m still in the very early stages. But this realisation, feels like an important aspect of my recovery. I will always care for others. But I also need a little bit of nurturing occasionally.

FAILURE ISN’T A FEELING & FEELINGS AREN’T FACTS

Food tastes like failure.
I don’t savour beautiful textures and flavours. I never mindfully and sensuously nibble delicacies, inhaling aromas and luxuriating in the tantalising sensations on my tastebuds. When I eat, I scoff food down like a starving woman fighting a horde of ravenous dogs, scratching around for the last morsel on a carcass. Washed down with guilt and loathing and fear, and an overwhelming sense of failure – I’ve done it again. I’ve eaten food I didn’t want, in a manner I didn’t like. I’ve failed myself. Food tastes like failure. Day in and day out – I eat failure or I don’t eat at all.
And that failure is an emotion so powerful it’s almost tangible – I could reach out and touch it. Food tastes like failure and failure is a feeling.
But that’s a lie.
Failure is not a feeling – it’s a perception. Eating food is not failure. My reaction is a learned response to what for most people is a normal, healthy and essential part of life. Like walking and talking and breathing. People eat food. Those who don’t, die. Some eat well and some don’t, but eating in and of itself is not failure. That is a lie I was accidentally taught and have since ingrained into my heart and soul.
That lie has turned failure into a feeling. But those feelings are more accurately categorised as shame and anger and being overwhelmed. Which according to the feelings wheel, translates to sad, mad and scared. I live my life sad, mad and scared. Or in clinical terms – anxious and depressed.
There is a second lie deeply rooted into my soul. I believe feelings are facts. That when I feel like a failure – when I’m ashamed and angry at myself, and overwhelmed with the sense of inevitability of my own stupidity – that these are facts. That not only do I feel stupid, I AM stupid. Not only do I feel fat, I AM fat. I am not worthy or capable of recovery. I am not strong enough to make changes. I am fat and old and ugly, and despised by others for my weakness and self-absorption. When I eat, I feel these things and they feel like facts.
Another lie. They are feelings – that is true. But they aren’t necessarily facts. They can be challenged. The very loud voice inside me – the voice that says I’m not good enough and I’m going to fail – the voice that speaks with confidence and certainty and has drowned out the timid voice of reason for so long I can no longer recognise fact from fiction – that voice needs to be silenced. It is telling me lies and the lies will destroy me.
This week I’m practising to eat food that isn’t failure. I can’t manage it all day long – but I’m getting there at breakfast. I’m learning to eat breakfast and not feel like a failure. To not feel ashamed and angry and overwhelmed. The voice of reason is strongest in the mornings – when the day is fresh and full of hope. And from this baby step, I hope to slowly learn that failure is not a feeling, and feelings aren’t facts.

STRATEGIES

Despondency.

It’s an unpleasant feeling.

I’m currently wallowing around in misery, feeling sorry for myself but struggling to find the willingness to be willing to make the required changes to my behaviours. I’ve acquired all the necessary knowledge, tools and support networks. Still I wallow. Still I perpetuate the lifetime habits that I both loathe and cling to like a drowning woman.

It has been pointed out to me that I’ve made progress – not with my eating disorder, that has gone backwards – but with suicidal ideation and self-harm in particular.

It was my birthday last weekend.

A birthday that for most of last year I had no intention of reaching. I had plans in place but each time I was ready I reminded myself to hang on for another milestone – someone’s birthday, my son’s exams, my wedding anniversary, Christmas. And then after a while, all those delayed intentions became more normal and before I knew it, the birthday I had no intention of being here for had arrived. I decided then my plans to exit had been foiled on so many levels that I need to accept living rather than embracing death. And that makes me sad. And fearful. Suicidal ideation is a safety net. It’s comforting to know there is an option to take away all the pain and stress and hateful feelings. And when that safety net is gone, I’m left with the knowledge I have decades ahead of me and what will I do with them? How will I deal with them? To reinforce my decision, I have decided to get a tattoo – one of the semicolons from the semicolon project, with some text (maybe “my story goes on” or something similar). The other positive step I’ve taken is that instead of increasing my stash of pills, I’ve started dipping into them when I have a headache. It will take a long time to get through them all… But at least it’s now getting smaller not larger. This is considered progress.

As for self-harm? It’s been a two-year journey. One that started small and escalated. I have scars that will never disappear. But they will fade – in fact most of them almost have. I heal extremely well so over time, they will disappear to all but the most inquiring eye. The days where I would cut and scratch four to five times a day are now long gone. I now only succumb under the most intensely stressful situations and they are becoming fewer and farther between. The tattoo will also help cover the scars, and remind me not to resort to that particularly destructive soothing technique.

I’ve also made positive strides in my relationship with my husband. The home that has been a noose around my neck for so long, is growing into a home that I am starting to feel happy in. My children are happy and well. My friends are awesome. My new job is fantastic. And all in all, I have a lot of positives in my life.

• My eating disorder still goes backwards. Food means fear and failure and fat.
• I have been asked today do I want to recover. Yes I do.
• Am I willing to recover. Yes I am.
• Am I willing to make the necessary changes? There is the sticking point.

So – to hark back to the title of this post, I am going to have one last ditch attempt at making healthy changes and I want to put some strategies in place. Not rules. Not strict guidelines or specifics or diet plans. Just strategies.

Here they are – my list of things to focus on each day.

• Mindfulness. Dust off my Headspace app and reconnect with my best friend Andy.
• Breakfast. Indulge in it every day. And try not to wash it down with guilt and loathing. No promises on that bit though.
• Hydration. I tend not to drink enough any more. I don’t think this helps. Stay hydrated.
• Writing. I stopped when I got my new job – too busy and tired etc. But it’s important.
• Resources. Go back to my Instagram and pinterest searches. Read my 8 Keys book. Revisit all those resources that I feel I’ve exhausted.
• Scales. I can’t honestly say that I’ll throw them away. But I’m prepared to say I’ll only weigh myself every second day. For now. That’s as much as I can commit to at the moment.
• Support. I have a loving and dedicated husband. Spend time with him. Talk to him. Connect.
• Candy Crush. Stop playing it all the time. I use it to avoid doing the previous seven things…

There – they are my strategies. For better or for worse. I feel this is do-or-die time. Wish me luck…

WHO ME?

I don’t know who I am…

I know the core values I embrace. I know the person I’d like to be. But I don’t know who I really am.

Does that sound absurd? It does to me…

A friend once said she was proud of me for an achievement I had accomplished. And I wondered – do I feel proud of myself? No. I don’t. I feel proud of events I’ve been associated with. My children are my pride and joy. I even have a handful of successes I can acknowledge I have played an integral part. But no – I don’t feel proud of me.

I’ve heard friends say that while they might bemoan an aspect of themselves, they wouldn’t be anyone else for all the tea in China. Do I feel that way? No. Absolutely not. I’d like to be anybody else but me (well – almost anybody… there are a few exceptions).

We are bombarded endlessly with the importance of self-care and self-love. I find that extremely difficult to separate from self-absorbed and selfish. Because self-love was not something modelled or taught in my formative years. In fact, “You must really love yourself” was considered a heinous insult.

I can describe myself to some extent – my height and weight, skin and hair colour, a few distinctive physical features. A few personality traits. A few things I hold dear to my heart. Is that who I am? Am I just a physical description? Is my personality me? It changes all the time. More and more so as I become older. I’ve been perceived as confident – I have never in my life felt anything but nervous and unsure of myself. How have I come to portray myself in a manner, that is the polar opposite of my true feelings? I am friendly and welcoming at times. And terrified and shy at other times. I’ve been an extrovert in situations. I’ve been an introvert in other situations. I’m fluid. I change. I don’t know who I am.

Throughout most of my adult life, I never considered myself to be depressed. Or anxious. I didn’t recognise I numbed every feeling and emotion out of my very core with disordered eating and obsessive behaviours. Now I can recognise these things – but I don’t know what’s underneath. I don’t even know if I’m afraid of what’s underneath. I just feel like there’s nothing there. That instead of covering up emotions, I’m actually just an empty husk. Pretending to express. Pretending to feel.

I feel lost and adrift and I’m searching for myself.

I have a lot of words. I can express things I think others want to hear. I don’t know for sure they are the things I feel – because I don’t seem to feel. I don’t lie. I just don’t know what the truth is. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know how to find me. And most significantly, I don’t know if I want to. What if I find a person I don’t like? What if I find a person I do like? What then? How do I know who I am?

Who are you? How do you know?