I live in a house, surrounded by nature. I sit in bed of a morning, watching native birds sing in the tree outside my bedroom window. I can see the water. I can hear the waves. I can watch the sunrise. These things are always here. They always have been. I’ve lived in this house for 16 years.
I am a prisoner in a cell of my own making. Each morning, I stand upon the Scales of Justice to determine […]
Today I cried. I cried because I could feel the hard, solid, shell I have spent decades plastering around every inch of me cracking, leaving me soft and vulnerable, and revealing a very broken pair of wings.
When I have a cold, it’s obvious I’m sick. And when it goes away, it’s obvious it’s gone. When I have depression, […]
I’ve been triggered. My bulimic behaviours are regressing. THIS IS BOTH GOOD AND BAD Bad, because I’ve fallen deep into the well […]
I feel like I’m perched on a metaphorical fence – staring down at recovery, staring down at illness, and trying to decide […]
A year ago I was a mess. A great big psychological mess. I was heading towards a breakdown and a stay in […]
I still live in fear the shit will hit the fan again. I’m finding it hard to let go of the fear someone will die, or my kids will get into trouble, or someone will become really ill, or I’ll lose my job, or I’ll be in a high-conflict situation, or we’ll have a financial disaster, or my marriage will fail, or any one of the other major stresses I’ve been struck with will knock me down again. And again. Despite the fact that so far in 2017, I have had nothing but positive news, I’m still fearful.
The quirky and delightful Mindfump has requested stories about supportive and inspirational individuals in the world of mental health recovery. I have been blessed […]
I have a habit of setting arbitrary rules for myself. It comes from a place of good intent – I decide I […]
I am trying to figure out why I indulge in actions that disgust me, but I do anyway. Sure – most of them are inherent behaviours. But I’m not as silly as I look – I do have the capacity to learn and change. My mental health stuff has become appallingly resistant to change. There is nothing we do that is without benefit to us. Nothing. Even all those things we do “for other people”, it turns out, there is also something in it for us.
I grew up in a pretty normal, conservative, middle-class household. My parents weren’t super strict. Or super lenient. They were just sort of – […]
There’s a little glimmer of warmth, burrowing into my chest. And a chink of light, peeking into my spirit. If I listen carefully I can almost hear a heart-warming song. It has taken me awhile to recognise it – the song of hope. Unfamiliar. Really scary. Really positive. Hope.
It’s so easy to focus on everything that goes wrong, everything that still needs to be fixed, and how big the fricking recovery mountain is!
It’s so easy to regret the decades where I didn’t seek recovery or acknowledge the severity of my problems. And to bemoan my many failed attempts at change, the misunderstandings of my own behaviours and those of others. To look back in frustration at not having the wisdom or strength to question my thoughts and feelings and actions.
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.
