depression

The Struggle Is Real

rubberbandsandchewinggum20 Comments

*not my finest hour of writing!

I think I might be having a breakdown guys…honestly, I am just so fucking sick of living in my head right now. (Tell it like it is, eh, RB?!). I actually don’t really even know where to begin because it’s just fucking whining, really – another big heap of ‘woe is me’. And frankly, who cares? No one wants to listen to this crap AGAIN. I certainly don’t!

The place I am in right now is driving me mad so why burden anyone else with this endless bullshit? I am so bored of feeling this way – bored of myself – bored of ending up stuck in this shitty emotional place time and again – I’m just so fucking bored of the perpetual fucking struggle to be alive. Like what’s the point?! Ooffff. It’s tough. And, it seems, exceptionally sweary today!

Deep breaths… count to…eleventy billion… think of the sea… imagine your feet on the sand…distract with music…take a bath…light a candle and try not to burn the house down!

Nope. That’s not working today. Fucking useless bullshit grounding exercises. Lol! I don’t need that. What I need someone to take hold of my hand, breathe with me, BE WITH ME, and help me regulate.

Actually, really, what I really want is Anita (the old one not the new faulty Shein version). I want to be safe in her arms, to listen to her regular rhythmic heartbeat, to feel her steady breathing, breathe in her familiar safe smell, and to be able to properly rest. I want for her to read me some of our stories, and to look at the pictures together…and not feel like any of that is weird or too much. I miss it, and her, such a lot.

Being endlessly hypervigilant is exhausting. To think I used to see Anita twice and week and get that consistent co-regulation, it’s not surprising that after fourteen months without her/it I am at breaking point. I so want a safe place to put down all the shit and be…seen and held…as I am…and right now – ‘as I am’ is in a right state. The littles are not ok but to be fair, none of me is ok. Adult has been through the wringer recently and there’s just nothing left to hold me together. My rubber bands have perished and snapped, and the chewing gum is dried out, rock hard, and now crumbling.

I’m done.

It’s hard not to keep spiralling downwards when you feel completely hopeless. I feel like perhaps this is bottom – again. But as I have said many times before, there always seems to be a few extra trapdoors ready to fall down through!

I think this blog is something like seven years old now – and what’s different from back at the start, really? Some of you have been here since the very beginning and have been alongside me for what?…three failed therapies…some growth (perhaps)… but essentially it’s the same old me tapping away at the keys struggling with the same old shit. Here I am, once again, circling the emotional drain and on the limits of what I can reasonably manage. And you know what? – it’s really depressing. I’ve tried so hard to get myself into a better place over the years but look where we are…

Slow clap RB. ‘A’ for effort ‘E’ for execution.

In some ways, this, this…’bonkers rage depression crap spew’ today… is probably really needed – and yet writing has been out of reach for a while now. I just can’t even bring myself to turn on the laptop…even if writing is helpful a lot of the time. There have been no words.

This last week or so I’ve been almost paralysed with depression and that awful attachment panic and disconnect that the young parts struggle with so much. It’s been pretty rough for the last few weeks but reached its peak on Thursday and that upset of – what? – abandonment, rejection, all that horrific stuff – has been visceral. When it’s like that I’m instantly thrown into the cold, grey wasteland and my three-year-old self is terrified. It completely overtakes me. There is no adult self to help, and it feels incredibly isolating.

I stupidly looked back over some messages from Anita and the instant physical pain in my chest and stomach was immense and I just fell apart crying. Everything caught up with me. There’s such a lot of grief still to process…and probably, new grief coming if we can ever find a time to meet and end but I’ll save that stuff for another, more together post! But suffice to say, the moment I get anywhere close to that stuff I’m done for. It’s been too much to hold for too long now and I guess life throwing in a whole lot of stress has meant that my capacity to hold this stuff just isn’t there.

Alongside all this, the desire to reach out and connect with Elle has been huge but there’s another part of me that wants to run for the hills and never see her again at the moment. I get this is because actually my need for connection is sooooo BIG and so the fear of not being met where I need her to meet me, or worse being completely ignored, or in some way rejected feels too much. It’s a mess. I’m so sensitive to even the slightest hint of rejection … or no… just subtle shifts in energy…that it’s a disaster. Any normal person wouldn’t even notice this stuff…because it’s probably not even there – but… ugh…complex trauma is just the gift that keeps on giving isn’t it?

It’s embarrassing to even have to try and explain why I feel like this because from the outside there would seem to be nothing wrong at all between Elle and I…because there really isn’t anything wrong! In fact, so much is really right – and this is where I begin to despise my wonky brain and the attachment trauma and the legacy that Em and Anita and Hannah have left for me in terms of therapy, and trust, and *all the things*.

Honestly, when I look back over the last few months with Elle it has been so good on so many levels…and then…my system has to go and complicate it all.

You know what it’s like – when you feel really close to someone for a moment, that’s how you want it to feel *always*, and any perceived slight difference in the room feels rejecting. (EVEN if there IS NO DIFFERENCE other than sitting in a fucking chair that she’s sat in ALL YEAR!)

I imagine you’re all thinking, ‘What the fuck are you talking about RB??!’

Ok, so here we are again…been here before…no change there, then! Ugh.

Some of you might remember how after about nine months when I was working with Anita, we’d reached a place where the walls came down and there were those mammoth sessions where the young parts finally made it into the room and Anita held me and told me she loved me? It was incredible and did amazing things for my nervous system.

But then one day she started a session back in her chair rather than beside me on the couch and I immediately felt far away and disconnected from her. I was thoroughly dysregulated and then dissociated because all the parts that so desperately needed proximity and physical reassurance saw the distance between us in our chairs as a signal that something was now wrong, that the young parts weren’t palatable, and I must be too much. I think she had a cold or something and didn’t want to pass it on, but I saw it as a rejection. It felt horrid.

And of course, none of it was about rejection or abandonment but my system is hard-wired to view things in this way. Fortunately, I was able to bring that to Anita and from then on, we had it that she’d sit beside me on the couch this is how it was for the next three years.

Yep… so I’m in the same fucking mire again… only this time with a couple more episodes of being abandoned and rejected under my belt and so the sensitivity levels are massively high and so it feels really difficult addressing this with Elle.

A few weeks ago, around the anniversary of my dad dying, I left my session and literally within seconds had that crushing feeling of separation anxiety and panic. I had wanted to ask Elle for a hug in the session because my system was going mental but instead False Adulted my way through the session and I left with a hug – but we all know a goodbye hug is not the same…in fact sometimes it feels really hard because that closeness is so short-lived and then you’re out in the world again.

Anyway, July is always a shitty month but that day I really couldn’t see how I was going to get through the next week in one piece and less than an hour later sent Elle a message telling her that I was in a mess and asking if she had any space to see her again that week. I have really noticed lately that one session a week is just a little bit of a bridge too far. By Friday I am on my knees and it’s a real struggle – it’s the object constancy stuff and it really fucking causes me difficulties. Elle works online and face to face, but she didn’t have an f2f that week. She offered a zoom call as stop gap or if I’d prefer, said I could write to her, and she’d reply.

I decided that a zoom call probably wouldn’t help because actually what I really wanted in that moment is to be in the same physical space as her. So often I’ve found online triggers my system when I am like that…it almost makes it worse. I guess maybe it would be good to try again at some point as it might feel different with Elle and be helpful -but it didn’t feel right then.

My brain has been so frazzled lately that writing has been almost impossible – but I did manage to send something late that night explaining how lost I felt and how the minibus is out of control. It was ok but the next morning I realised that the bit I really needed to say was missing and so sent it:

Oh and I think the bit that’s missing is that actually because it feels so bad internally right now there’s huge anxiety about being too much. Because actually when I see you, I feel really far away and feel like I just want to be next to you and hold your hand so I don’t drift away.

It’s weird. It can feel so risky sending this sort of vulnerable message in the moment because I completely forget ALL the lovely messages and things that Elle has said in the time we’ve been working together and how accepting of me and whatever I bring she is. Like how can I not remember that she replied to my message telling her that I love her with ‘I love you too’? and all the other incredibly holding attuned messages over the last year?

I know it’s my brain trying to keep me safe but it’s actually a hindrance – especially when I feel like I do now- because I really struggle to dredge any of this up to the surface and just see her as someone who doesn’t care – and barely exists. As much as this blog today has been a sweary rant so far, it’s actually done me some good because I have remembered this and some other things…and that actually has settled something a tiny bit.

Phew.

That day she responded with the most perfect holding message. I hope she wouldn’t mind me putting this here – but it feels important – to remind me that there is good. I actually feel like I should make a scrapbook of our emails and text for when I am having a meltdown!:

Sitting next to each other and holding hands seems like a really good place to start. Maybe we could do that when I see you next?

When I was reading your description I remembered how my mum used to always tell me that – if I ever got lost – that I should go back to the last place I saw her and wait there, and that she would find me. Maybe we can work out a safe place where we can always return to to find each other, and then breathe together for a good long while as well. It’s incredible to me how learning to breathe in using my whole lungs and then breathe out super slowly like I’m trying to move an invisible toy sailboat has an almost immediate effect on my nervous system. It’s like having a release valve on all the internal pressure.

I like your (horrible) mini-bus analogy, even though driving the bus and being responsible for the safety of all those passengers feels like a lot, especially when you’re well into overtime having already driven a full day’s shift. 

I know these are just words and that you’re reading them not hearing them, so it’s that much harder to feel them, but you are safe with me. I am a safe person, because I know very well how to keep myself safe and I work really hard at it all the time.

Not everyone is good at keeping themselves safe, because from the outside it can sometimes look like the opposite of ‘really caring deeply’ which invites judgment (both internal and external), but it’s an essential skill in order to show up again and again and to be able to tell you with authority and total honesty that I’m here and will continue to be here for you. 

Waiting in the safe place. 

With a Chupa-Chup.

Elle x

There has been such a lot of this over the last few months that…I suddenly feel a bit of a wally for wobbling like I am now. To feel so much upset and disconnect when there is so much evidence that there is no disconnect is really hard. But this is the problem with parts when they take over and adult loses the capacity to hold them and be alongside.

I get that some of this horrible feeling of panic and fear of being abandoned will be complicated by the fact that Elle and I have a break coming up soon. Adult me has no problems with this – of course – but the young parts are just not ok at all…because it opens up space for more of *this*.

I really don’t want the young parts to be in long-term distress so that the protectors feel the need to step in and go on bouncer duty. The young parts have experienced too much pain for too long now and the protectors have come online to do what they think they do best…but it isn’t best. It’s not helpful. Attacking myself and unpicking anything good with Elle isn’t protective. It’s damaging.

I hate this!

It’s insane to see notice how different I feel writing now, to when I started an hour ago…yikes…but I have had weeks of really vocal young and protector parts and seemingly have lost my grip on adult and that’s what comes out. Frustration, upset, despondency, hopelessness… and I get it. Adult feels it all too – but just not quite to the point of feeling like self-harm might be a good idea… ugh.

Anyway, back to the stuff about seats putting the heebie-jeebies into the system.  After my reaching out to Elle that week I just about made it through to Tuesday and by that point realised that I really needed to do something to help the young parts – alongside holding hands. I sent Elle a text on the morning of our session and asked if maybe we could look at doing something with a transitional object. She responded that she loved the idea and would bring in some things unless I had any particular ideas of what I wanted.

After all the hell with the pebbles with Em and the months of shit round that, it felt really nice that Elle had responded so positively and as though it wasn’t a weird thing to request. I know Anita had always been amazing with this kind of thing but it’s hard to know how people will respond and it’s easy to hold on to the worst-case scenarios and panic.

That week between sessions seemed quite massive in lots of ways. There’d been between session contact that felt like it really moved things along. I had taken more steps towards Elle and opened up more about the struggles I was having and now we were going to do a transitional object… and we all know transitional objects are really for the littles so I guess this was my way of showing Elle that there are parts in the mix now that require attention.

When I arrived, Elle sat straight down beside me on the couch and pulled me in for a cuddle. It was exactly what I needed. Only, typically, it was a warm day and I felt too hot! So, as much as I would have loved to have stayed snuggled in close I couldn’t. Instead, we sat together, I leant up against her, and she got out some items that she had brought that she thought might be good transitional objects. She told me the stories behind each of them and then put them on the table and I reached for her hand and held it. It felt really lovely, and my system settled right down.

Of course, when it came time to leave, I picked the soft toy option. A little mouse called Monty.

I think Elle had sprayed him with her perfume because he smelled really nice- it’s fading a bit now so I think I may have to be brave RB and ask her if that is what she’d done and if she might do it again before her holiday…and if I am wrong, I can just die in a pit of shame can’t I?!

I decided to make Monty his own Instagram account and take pictures of him out and about…because I am completely fucking unhinged! After the first week I shared the link with Elle. She responded really positively to it and actually it felt really connecting. Like maybe I am not a complete weirdo and she gets it? Or maybe she’s just kind! Lol.

If any of you want to see what Monty is up to then this is the link:

https://www.instagram.com/montys_awesome_adventures?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet&igsh=ZDNlZDc0MzIxNw==

hmmm not sure that’s working but the handle is montys_awesome_adventures

As I said, off the back of all that it’s opened up a lot of the young stuff inside again. So, imagine the bloody horror of walking into the last two sessions and Elle sitting in her seat across from me and the table being there between us. The table isn’t a new thing, but it does always feel like a barrier between Elle and I.

So, yeah, the distance thing has triggered my system into this fucking mess…well, not just that, but it certainly hasn’t helped. It’s ironic really – I’m probably closer to Elle than I have ever been but because of that, my vulnerability is off the charts. The moment the hurt parts and needy parts have been properly exposed the whole thing has blown up… but it’s not surprising that my system would want to protect me – I don’t want to be hurt again. More than ever, I need proximity and reassurance until the littles and the rest of my system understand that they are not imminently going to be dumped. I don’t think Elle would have even the slightest clue that this is what’s going on behind the scenes.

Although, maybe she does… the other day she referred to something in session that I hadn’t told her that she could only have found out from Monty’s page. I have absolutely no problem with that at all – in fact I think that it might be a really useful tool for Elle to see what I am posting via Monty…as it gives an insight into what’s really going on. But then this made me think about this blog.

Does Elle ever read it? She has the link to it, and I’ve sent her specific posts before to read. But I wondered the other day if she’s ever gone off and read any other the other stuff here. It’s in the public domain after all.

When I first approached her with the idea of maybe working with her, I obviously mentioned the blog straightaway and what had happened with Hannah because I needed to be sure that whomever I chose as my next therapist would be ok with me writing about my experiences of therapy. I didn’t want to get two months in to work again and then be told it wasn’t ok.  Elle said she was completely fine with my writing and also asked if she might have the link just because she’s interested in MH regardless of whether we ended up working together.

Thinking about this the other day I realised that there are probably quite a few posts that I have written that I would really like Elle to read because I think it would give her a good insight into what it’s been like for me –  you know, the uncurated mess of it all!…and then there are others where I would probably want to the ground to open up and swallow me whole if she were to read them…which probably means they would also be useful for her to read! It would be nice for her to see some actual writing rather than ranting…which is really what this blog has descended into this last year or so!!

Tbh I can’t imagine she has the time or energy to read any of this, but I know I would find it really hard to know that someone might be writing about me and no want to see what was being said!! Lol.

Anyway, this is long… and… bumpy! If you made it to the end – kudos to you.

Next week will be a year since Elle and I started working together and I think it’s safe to say the work has well and truly begun!

Endless Trapdoors.

rubberbandsandchewinggum18 Comments

I wish I could say that things were on the up and that I am feeling much better than I did in my last post but, if anything, things are feeling worse. Worse? How can it be worse than that?! I have no idea, but it is how it is. Believe me when I say I am sick of this shit now. Like I am so fucking over it – and yet I have no idea how to get out of it. I mean I am doing the ‘things’: self-care galore (who knew that was a thing for me?!), therapy, (trying to) sleep, doing only the bare essentials in order to keep things running and yet it is still TOO MUCH. Like it’s all TOO HARD now. I just can’t seem to catch my breath at all and am running on fumes.

I told Elle, this week, that my current ‘life’ is easy in comparison to how things were last (academic) year. She assured me that it didn’t sound easy. But then I guess the difference back then was that I wasn’t in this emotional state. My day-to-day life was insanely busy and challenging but I could pull it out the bag because I felt ok in myself – or as close to ok as I have ever felt. The reason things feel so impossible, and exhausting now, is because the floor has fallen out from beneath me. I mistakenly thought I was standing on solid ground with Anita, yet I couldn’t have been more wrong.

It feels like she’d collected all the parts of me together, the ones that had just endured an earthquake when we met #tickgate, wrapped her arms around them (literally), made them believe they were safe enough to rest, that it was possible to rely on someone and trust them, and then suddenly she pushed me headlong into the basement of a haunted house and slammed the door, turned the key in the lock, set fire to the building, and walked away. It’s so jarring it’s not even funny.

I have to give myself some credit – I seem to have a tremendous skill for scrabbling round in the dark looking for the light and a way up and out, and instead alighting on unexpected/concealed trapdoors, falling through them, and landing face first in yet another pitch-black room with no ladder or way out. I honestly thought I had hit ‘bottom’ in June when everything ended with Anita. Like I surely must’ve been in the core of the fucking earth at that point…or hell… but, apparently not!

When I said goodbye to Anita, I knew immediately that I needed to get out of that dark place before I either burnt alive or starved to death which is why I quickly sought out Hannah. I did this despite every fibre of my body telling me it was probably better to perish in the basement rather than try and escape…and perhaps I was right, the basement level one would have been the better option because look how that worked out – another fucking trapdoor! Eek.

I keep unlocking new depths of shit and I honestly feel like some poor character in a glitching video game. I keep respawning, although I feel like I am missing the key bits of kit I need each time – like my armour – or at least a bloody torch! I know I need to find a way out and I’m trying so fucking hard and yet, over and over I find myself further down in the deep dark depths. I do wonder how long this can go on for? There’s only so long you can run on empty before everything grinds to a halt. Characters only have so many hearts to lose before it’s GAME OVER.  

Video Games Love GIF by Animation Domination High-Def - Find & Share on GIPHY

I am not a gamer so that feels like a really random analogy to have made. Anyway, what I am really trying to say is there has to be another way right? Like maybe rather than trying to climb the walls hoping to find the hole to get back up and out a million times perhaps there needs to be a different strategy. And I think I know what the strategy is but it’s fucking scary option which is why I keep trying to do this all by myself. Like there is a bit of safety in the narrative, ‘Noone can help me but me’…only I am not doing an especially wonderful job of helping me right now.

Elle asked me what the major sources of stress in my life are this week. Ummm. So…what did I answer, do you think? Like what is the one thing that is really making EVERYTHING else feel totally impossible right now?…You’d be seriously out of pocket if you’d placed your bet on ‘the ending with Anita and the fallout of all that it’s dredged up from the trauma vault #motherwound’

Nope. I didn’t say that because, you know, that would be far too fucking straightforward wouldn’t it?

In a stroke of avoidant genius I said, ‘myself’.

Which is true isn’t it? I am the major source of stress in my life. Because all the things that are stressing me out are, in part, down to me. It’s my wonky brain that holds onto shit like my life depends on it. I allow these things to stress me out. I put myself in situations that cause me stress. And even this ‘stuck in the bowels of hell drowning in the depths of depression’ situation isn’t being helped by me, really… like I know I am falling down the fucking holes over and over and when someone is seemingly offering me their hand to try and find a way through it, I don’t take it. I don’t trust it.

Awesome work RB.

Good job.

Slow fucking clap.

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To be fair, though, I’m not surprised there are parts of me working really hard to keep me safe from ‘help’ after what ‘help’ has looked like over the years. I sometimes wonder if Elle knows that I am taking us both as far away from the path that we need to be on as is humanly possible in our sessions because there are so many paths that appear to be ‘the path’. Everywhere we go there’s uneven ground, deep bog (oh my god I love the word bog!) brambles, and probably a troll hiding under a bridge ready to jump out, so it looks about right for the therapy room.

I guess you could argue that eventually all the paths will lead to the same place in the end, but these random detours, whilst not completely irrelevant, aren’t doing a lot for my ability to cope with the week or my feelings of isolation and disconnection. Being in hiding means I can control what is going on to an extent – like I am not going to suddenly burst into tears and embarrass myself because I have everything sewn up so tight…or should I say, the parts that need to be in that room are gagged and bound behind the couch.

I read over my last post before starting this one and I was struck by this bit:

I feel absolutely broken by this…and it feels like there is nowhere to put it down to breathe. And the longer I don’t get ‘help’ with it the more shame and embarrassment I attach to what’s happened. Like the longer the topic is avoided the more I feel like it’s something that makes me seem weird or too much. Basically, the Inner Critic is starting to get vocal, and I really don’t need that.

Ouch.

Fucking true, though.

That critical voice has got louder and louder these last few weeks and as much as I know it’s trying to keep me safe – my dysfunctional protector in rusty armour – I could seriously do without it. I know I am on dodgy ground…bog… ha!… when the Critic is running free.

And then my absolute favourite thing started happening. The dreams. Fucking loads of them again. Now we really are in the shit…bog. Honestly, it’s exhausting being so tired, trying to sleep, and then finally getting to sleep and being pummelled repeatedly every night. The icing on the cake was last Friday night, though. It began with a fairly run of the mill anxiety dream involving Elle…this is the first time she’s come into my sleep but it’s not like ‘therapy’ dreams haven’t been a thing over the years and tbh this one was nothing like some of the horrors I have had! Excuse the condensed style, I shoved it all on the notes page on my phone as I woke up so I wouldn’t forget:

Running with no shoes in woods in pants and a vest- it’s raining – I’m cold but have to keep going-I run past a group of people well-dressed in expensive wet weather gear and good boots -as I run past I hear Elle’s voice coming from the group, “Oh my god, that’s one of my clients- what a fucking state!”

I mean, it’s not that big a deal. I can see that it’s all about being exposed and about how others who seem to have their shit together (dressed for the weather) perceive me. The painful bit was hearing Elle’s mockery when I had run past. Like I hadn’t seen her at all, but when she thought I couldn’t hear her she was mean, and not only that, clearly didn’t think that maybe there was something wrong and instead chose to be horrid based on her perception of what she saw – I wasn’t wanting to be running with no shoes and in next to nothing! This dream reminds me a bit of a dream I had years ago with Em in and her wearing a raincoat in the therapy room as if it would protect her from my storm.

There’s a part of me wondering ‘why do I care what she thinks anyway?’ I thought I had got to a point in my life where I really couldn’t care less about other people’s opinion of me – or perhaps not quite that, but I certainly give much less of a shit about this kind of thing than I used to (and that’s been hard won, I can tell you).

So why is this different? I guess in the wider world people might form an opinion but not really know ‘me’, so I just let them get on with that…but therapy – well it’s a bit different, isn’t it? We expose all of ourselves: the most vulnerable bits, the most shame-filled bits, the weird bits, and the whole point of it is about being seen, known, and accepted by someone else so that we can see, know, and accept ourselves. So, when the vulnerable parts are ‘rejected’ by that person we have trusted with the most delicate and fragile bits of ourselves stuff – it feels massive. Being wholly known and then to be thrown into the basement on repeat is fucking shit…and so I understand why this feels such a massive issue right now. I am sick of the fucking basement.

I am utterly crap a navigating my way through the dark.

Anyway, I didn’t think much on this dream because when I went back to sleep another one happened and OH MY FUCKING GOD!:

I give birth to a massively premature baby in the toilets of an airport terminal. It’s absolutely tiny – size of my hand. 

The airport is huge, white, light, reasonably quiet but also completely useless as there’s no facilities or shops- I guess it’s like a vacuum. The plane I have to get is cancelled but I can’t not go to wherever it was (even though I wanted to stay behind) so am offered a reroute on another flight. I am concerned if I fly out on the reroute I won’t be able to get home on my original flight…I don’t feel like I have a choice, though. 

Whilst I’m trying to sort this my dad shows up (?) and has taken my baby but I don’t know where. I start panicking and trying to find it like a crazed lunatic. 

My plane is about to leave and I discover there are only two seats booked-what would I do with the baby who doesn’t have a passport? 

I finally find my dad and ask where the baby is and he says he’s put in daycare because it can’t come with us. I am furious. I need to feed it or it’ll die. I can’t go away for a week on holiday! 

He’s taken it to somewhere next to a run down shopping centre. I open the door and have to go down loads of winding corridors, dark, narrow, crap carpet- like not been touched since the 80s. I eventually arrive at what looks like a busy doctors waiting room- not day care. It’s really gloomy and no staff. It’s packed with people everywhere looking totally depressed. 

I’m really aware of being massively under pressure and feeling panicked and overwhelmed. I scream “Where’s my baby?!” at the empty reception desk and someone pops out from under the desk and says it’s in a room behind her unattended. 

I find it and it’s dirty and hungry. I ask if my dad left it a change bag, nappies, clothes etc – nope. I am so angry that he’d think this was an ok place to leave a newborn and do absolutely nothing to make sure it was safe or provided for. I realise I have no money, am bleeding heavily from giving birth, and am totally panicked now and feel like I’m going to cry. 

The woman at the desk says she’ll look after the baby whilst I go find supplies in the playroom. Like everywhere else it’s grim, dirty, broken toys, torn books, totally neglected, and strangely, there’s noone in there (probably because is so crap).  I find a box meant for nappy changes under a chair and it’s empty. Get back to the reception and ask where my baby is and the woman says she has wrapped it up safely and put it in a box. 

I get to it and can’t find it because it’s been completely smothered, face covered etc. I desperately peel away the layers round its face and it’s dead. Try to do CPR but there’s no chance. “You’ve killed my baby” I cry. 

I mean wow – right? That’s a big one. There’s such a lot I can pick out from that. But to go really simple with it -it’s all about my inner child and what’s happened with Anita and what’s happening with the therapy now.

I felt absolutely distraught when I woke up from this one and it’s stayed with me. The baby was so tiny and vulnerable – it wasn’t ready to be born, or in a safe environment for that to happen, then no one in the dream cares for it properly (story of my fucking life!) – even the person I trusted most in the world (my dad)- and in trying to sort things out and being so consumed with figuring out what to do and how to fly, Adult me let go of caring for it and then it’s too late. It’s dead. Mind you I am not in a particularly great state – bleeding out. I think we both could have done with a hospital and some professional help. But this is kind of what’s happening… really? Yeah… bear with me!

I think the cancelled plane symbolises what’s happened with Anita. The journey I thought I was going on just isn’t going to happen now and the reroute isn’t going to be easy or how I thought it would be either, even if I end up at the same destination eventually.

There’s certainly a part of me that is reluctant to get on Elle’s plane because I know that means I’ll never get back to Anita…but Anita’s plane is gone, it’s cancelled, and I cannot stay in that airport that’s completely barren and unhelpful because I have to go somewhere because I have some serious problems, and I have a really vulnerable self to keep alive… but then that part doesn’t seem to have a place on the plane so that’s a nightmare.

I think the biggest worry I must have, then, is that getting on Elle’s plane means I need to leave the most vulnerable part of me behind. It must feel on some level somewhere in my brain that the child parts of me can’t go on this flight or into this therapy and instead that part of me will end up stuck back where it originally came from in the 80s and die there in a place that is completely unsuitable for a child and where there is nothing but neglect. I don’t like the sound of that much.

But there just doesn’t seem to be any place for that baby, or by extension any of those really vulnerable child parts I’ve been working with in the therapy with Anita. And I am really conscious of this – I can feel how fucking distraught that young part of me is, and how much need there is. Like I am really aware of how much care that little one needs and yet no matter how I try I can’t seem to find the resources I need to keep it safe or alive.

And then there’s the part about feeling like I can’t go away for a week in the state I am in. Well, it’s not me going away, actually, it’s Elle. She’s got a break coming up and I thought that was ok…but obviously on a level it’s not. We all know how much I love therapy breaks!

So I guess this is why I am so fucking exhausted. I am perpetually searching for safety and help in what feels like a life-or-death situation… at least that’s the reality for my internal world. And all the while I am trying to keep up the act of being a capable and coping adult in my day-to-day life. That’s getting increasingly difficult to do and I can see my spinning plates are starting to fall off the poles and are smashing on the floor. I can’t do anything about it – there’s too many fucking plates. How on earth have I got so many fucking plates anyway?! Maybe I just need to lean into it and reframe it as a Greek wedding and celebrate the shattering of all that I thought I had to hold up. You know what I am like though, I’ll cut my feet on the shards as I try and walk away.

Anyway, back to the point…

I know that the therapy with Elle will never be anything like what I had with Anita – I wouldn’t want it to be, and I can’t replicate how it was. However, I really do need to grieve what I have lost because what I have lost is massive. It’s not just a person, it’s the sense of feeling safe and held and like my nervous system wasn’t completely fucked. It’s the also coming to terms with the fact that the person I trusted above all others has discarded me. That dead baby in the box feels really relatable.

I hate it. I hate how this feels. I hate that I seem to be unable to make any of this any better for myself and probably most of all I hate that despite what she’s done and how badly this has all been left, I just really wish that I could see Anita, sink into one of her long cuddles, listen to some stories and hear her steady heartbeat, and fall asleep for an hour.

My whole system is so dysregulated that I can’t find any sense of peace, or relaxation, or safety anywhere now, because it was with Anita that I found all that. The saddest thing is I was starting to be able to internalise that felt sense of safety and take it out into the wider world…but then the basement happened and here I am and I can’t tap into it at all because every time I bring that space with A to mind my stomach goes tight, I feel sick, and tears prick in my eyes. I can’t even begin to explain how massive a loss this has been but I feel it in my soul.

Fuck. Will someone please just hold my hand?

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This song… man… I came across KT Tunstall almost twenty years ago, now, and Through The Dark couldn’t be more relevant. Tbh I should have just posted this and the lyrics. It says it all.

Dear A, this is hard and I am struggling…

rubberbandsandchewinggum27 Comments

Dear A.

This is hard and I am struggling. It happens, without fail, every year. The period from the 27th December to the start of the new school term is a complete emotional disaster zone. I can trace this feeling back over at least the last twenty years, if not longer. It’s become part of the season just as much as Santa and Christmas films. I think a lot of people feel this way (do they?) – but even if there’s a lot of people in the same boat, it doesn’t help because what I feel right now is so incredibly isolating.

I desperately need time to recharge and given how hectic my day-to-day life is surely now, of all the times in the calendar, this should be the time I kick back and relax and have pj days. Nobody is expected to do much – I mean there’s the joke about not knowing what day it is and feeling like there’s no purpose – only it’s absolutely no joke feeling the way I do now. This isn’t relaxing. It’s harrowing. Yes, I am in my pjs but it’s because I have no energy or will to get dressed.

I feel so depressed. Everything feels a huge effort and I feel overwhelmed by the smallest of tasks. I should go and empty and reload the dishwasher, or at least get in the shower, but I can’t. I will do it at the very last minute before my wife gets home from work so as not to arouse suspicion of the fact that I am not functioning.

I feel so lonely and unsafe… I don’t mean that I am going to self-harm (although that has been a feature of this time of year before) I just mean I feel scared and not ok, not safe in my body. My nervous system is in tatters. I feel incapacitated. Frozen. Paralysed.

It’s at this time, every year, when all my fears rise up and I just feel desperately sad but also worthless and useless and all of those other horrible things that I struggle with so much. I can’t escape it and I can’t shift it – in fact, thinking about it, a decade ago it was this time that signalled my complete emotional breakdown which saw me off work for 17 months. It’s not a good time!!

As much as I want to ‘cheer up’ and find some energy and joy I just feel emotionally and physically wiped out. I know, now, that this is the very young stuff – pre-verbal- activating. It’s the feeling of that endless painful black hole in my chest that I wake up with, the panic, the emptiness, the tears that won’t come, the overwhelm and the detailed relentless bad dreams night after night.

And I can’t soothe it, that part of me. I just feel like I am in my own emotional prison and I don’t have the key to unlock the door and get out.

It’s bad.

Thinking about it, I am not surprised that over the years it’s been this time that has signalled the start of a rupture with Em. Things feel so desperate. I mean it’s as bad as it gets for me, and I’d reach out when I shouldn’t and then get radio silence which obviously triggered more pain, more shame, more of the ‘I am not worthy of care or love’. And this is where I am at again – now. Only I am writing this in a blog post in order not to create a rupture or to push you away. I don’t want to be ‘too much’ but this stuff, these feelings are too much for me and it’s hurting…and we’re only at the midway point.

It’s a negative downward spiral.

I know you’d probably say something like ‘try and do something nice for yourself’ but I don’t even feel like I have the capacity to exist right now. I know that’s dramatic. But ‘self-care’ feels like asking me to start speaking Chinese. I simply can’t do it.

I feel so stupid. In my last post here I wrote about how I genuinely thought this break would be ok because things are so much more secure and settled in my relationship with you. What I failed to recognise was the part that was around then is settled but this part, here, now is not. This part is the one that cannot take anything positive in. It’s the one who has no sense of object constancy. It’s the one who feels desperately alone and scared and has no words – it feels like a matter of life and death. I guess, given how bad it feels in my body it has to be the baby. It is the distress of a child who needs holding and is left out in the cold.

I don’t think how I feel is triggered by the break alone. It doesn’t feel like that…but when this stuff becomes live, it’s the break – the lack of contact – that makes it so much worse. My mental health maintenance plan is on ice – you and K aren’t there. In the usual run of things if I felt this way, the longest I would have to wait to see you is three days. I could text you and ask for a check-in and we’d probably be able to speak within 24 hours, and you’d respond with something holding in the meantime. But it’s different now. This is your holiday and I don’t want to burden you with my mess. It’s only been 9 days since I saw you but to these little ones that are panicked that feels like a lifetime ago.

Adult me is trying hard to just count it down and get through the days until we meet again. The thing is, this year I don’t even feel like I can take comfort in the fact that I am seeing you on Monday, 5 days from now. I really need to see you. I need to hug you and to cry and let some of this stuff out…but there is no guarantee that will actually happen. I am usually panicked enough on a break that my therapist won’t come back or that something bad has happened or things will go wrong (and they did last year!) but whilst I think you will come back because you care, we still might not get to see each other.

The COVID numbers are going mad here in the UK and I genuinely think we will be put in a strict lockdown again. It’s only a matter of time. And whilst there have been more provisions made for supporting mental health face-to-face in recent lockdowns, even if you don’t choose to go away and bubble with your partner, if schools revert to online learning as of next week, I will be home, here, looking after my kids and still won’t be able to see you face-to-face because I’ll be unable to get out in the daytime. As daft as it sounds there is a part of me that hopes you do go away because the idea of you staying here and my being unable to see you during the week when you are just down the road feels utterly unbearable. I could cry.

And so there it is. All my usual annual Christmas stuff playing out, the attachment pain, break struggles, and the extra cherry on top of the doom of potential lockdown just to add insult to injury. 2020 has been so hard and yet I fear there’s not a great deal to look forward to going forward.

I am so sick of hanging on by my fingertips. Survival mode is … overrated.

I miss you.

x

Old Patterns: Part 2

rubberbandsandchewinggum4 Comments

Here’s the next instalment of ‘writing from the breakdown 2009’ you can read the earlier post here . This jumps all over the place, but reflects how hard everything was back then. Reading this back I feel so desperately sad for myself. I was in such an almighty mess and yet desperately clinging on to the belief that if I appeared ‘normal’ enough I would be ok and not end up being sectioned. My fear of mental health services prevented me getting the help that I so desperately needed. I wish I could go back in time and advocate for myself properly rather than being dictated by the fear of losing all control:

Here I am again, another appointment, sitting across from my doctor inwardly crying out for help but outwardly showing that I am totally pissed off at another intrusion into my life. I am reacting badly to having been referred unexpectedly and without consultation to the Crisis Team or as I fondly renamed them ‘The Nut Squad’.

The Nut Squad is quite a step up the crazy tree in mental health terms where I live. This time I had bypassed the ‘Access and Wellbeing Team’ which is where you go when you are maybe only partly crackers: I’d been there before, but this time, whatever I had said to my doctor, or maybe not said,  had been a real cause for concern and I had ended up with a psychiatrist and mental health nurse sitting in my living room asking me a series questions. Things have been really bad, but knowing how stretched mental health services are to have  the NHS send people to see me in my own home feels unnecessary.

Questions I can cope with, though. In recent months I’ve answered the same set of questions on multiple occasions and my answers never deviate:

“On a scale of one to ten, one being the least and ten being the most, tell me where you feel in terms of happiness at the moment” (or something along those lines).

“Three” I respond mechanically.

“Still three?” they exchange concerned looks. I had just reported feeling ‘better’ whilst talking in a measured fashion so as not to look manic. How could it possibly be three? My definition of ‘better’ was that I had started to notice the spring buds and had read a book, which were markers in my mind that things were improving for me. It had been months since I had been able to direct my attention towards anything or look outside myself. I thought this would be ample deflection for the fact that I’d been out and blown almost £45,000 in two weeks and pretty much decimated my entire inheritance in less than a year since my dad died.

I think it was probably this insane spending that had led my GP to refer me to the Crisis Team. It had all followed an appointment where I had splurged at the GP that what I was doing wasn’t normal. I left feeling like I had been honest for the first time, and then shat myself with ‘what ifs?’ and devised my plan of action. How I thought I was helping myself, I have no idea. I think in hindsight it was something about being absolutely terrified of being carted off in a straight jacket and being sectioned so I told them what I think they needed to hear and it seemed to work.

To an outsider that would seem like an incredible leap of the imagination that feeling wobbly could result in incarceration. A person exhibits slightly unusual behaviour and so steps are taken to help them, right? Doesn’t mean they’ll end up locked up on a psych ward. I’m sure this is the case, but I have a fear of mental health services. They terrify me. Why? Let’s just put it this way, growing up with a close family member being perpetually in and out of mental health institutions doesn’t do wonders for your confidence in the system.

I would sooner die than end up in a mental hospital. Although looking back on this, perhaps it’s where I belong? I’m sure if I had have been completely honest with all the professionals from the start I would be in much better place now – but it’s hard going from being someone who on the outside appears successful, confident, and independent, to admitting to someone that all of a sudden you feel a failure, have no self belief and feel unable to participate in life. That is the truth of my situation. When I got ill at Christmas the wheels fell off in a big way. I could not cope and yet, instinctively I felt like I had to, to pretend that I was at least managing on some level.

I know, now, that I came across as resistant and inconsistent bouncing from uncommunicative, to dismissive, to out of control, to needy and back again – often all in one appointment. Hats off to my doctor, if the roles had have been reversed I would have given up long ago.

So, back to the psychiatrist and nurse house visit. They looked around the room and commented on how immaculately tidy it was, asked me about all the books on my shelves and noted that they were all placed in alphabetical order (surely this is normal for most English graduates?!) Of course the out of control spending came up in the conversation and I tried to justify the totally abnormal behaviour as if it was normal – cue ‘telling a lie like it’s the truth’ again. Bingo. It seemed to be working:

“If you had the money wouldn’t you go and buy things you’ve always wanted?” I asked, looking at them both imploringly. It’s sort of like the question which you mull over time and again. ‘What would you do if you won the lottery?’ The thing is, I haven’t won the lottery and this money I have doesn’t make me happy. Money can’t make you happy and it can’t fill the void left by a human being. No amount of spending eased the depression or the feelings of helplessness and hopelessness but god, I was willing to try anything to take me out of that dark dark place.

The camper van I had just purchased I did want, but the £8000 diamond ring, first class airline tickets to New York, mountain bikes and snowboards for me and my partner, new windows and guttering, laptop, multiple pairs of shoes, a surfboard, and enough clothes to open my own shop were more what you might call ‘impulse buys’ – funnily enough I didn’t think now was a good time to mention any of that.

I thought I had managed the Crisis Team fairly well.  As my consultation came to a close there was a shock. I was told that I couldn’t drive. Not that I can’t drive, I am a competent driver; no, I had been advised not to drive. In that moment I stared at the psychiatrist in disbelief now stripped of my independence and my wheels. The Nut Squad had clearly taken one look at the Jaguar supercar (another part of my inheritance) outside and thought ‘no way– this one is a liability’.

As the psychiatrist left my house she told me to keep my life “boring”. “Not a problem” I replied with a wry smile. In recent months my life had become mundane and really fucking boring. At least this was one promise I could keep.

It was eventually agreed with my GP that neither of the antidepressants that I had tried had worked for me, if anything they had been to my detriment, the first killed my appetite and my will to live, the second sent me on a hyperdrive where I was like a bee in a jar buzzing around out of control and spending like I had a shopping addiction. It was decided that I should not take these pills and I was given a prescription for a different type of drug, from a different family of medications.

I was to be given a mood stabiliser or anti-psychotic. Yes, when I heard the phrase ‘anti-psychotic’ I did panic a little, which I am sure anyone would. It sounded way more intense than ‘anti-depressant’. I dutifully took the pills and slept soundly for the first time in months. As well as this, there was a further but less desirable side effect: the munchies.

It is a well documented side effect of this particular drug that you feel like you are starving all of the time. It’s like stoned munchies without the relaxation of a joint. For two weeks I swear I did nothing but eat. It was totally uncontrollable which did not make my anorexic self feel at all happy and so, I took to cutting myself to regain some of my control and exorcise my self-loathing. In that two week period I gained a stone and hated myself for it.

My body image is completely screwed anyway and this rapid weight gain really sent me into free-fall emotionally. That is the only sensible way of describing it. I have never in my life been overweight, but the moment I hit the region of 7 stone I start to feel bloated and fat. I am having a battle with my 15 year old self right now. I am determined to hold onto my body mass. I am determined to prove my GP wrong and keep myself away from the anorexic label.

Part of my new ritual is each day looking in the mirror at my naked self and telling my reflection that I am not fat. I then go to the fridge and eat my way through something highly calorific to spite my teenage self and then continue with my day. It may seem like a totally insane approach to healthy living, but right now I have exhausted ‘sane’ and this, although not healthy in the long run it works for me and it has stopped the doctors asking me about my eating! Thank god!

Awareness of physical self is something I have always tried to avoid because the moment I become aware of my body I fixate on all that is wrong with it. I know that anyone reading this will still see that I am in denial. Just because the weight is back on does not change the ideas that swirl inside my mind. I have an eating disorder, only right now it is in the stage where I have it hidden again and that is a relief. I am not a skeleton anymore but I hate myself now more than ever.

Some time elapsed after the Crisis Team’s intervention and I eventually received an appointment with another psychiatrist in the mental health hospital. The building which houses mental health services is a gothic style grey stone Victorian affair with a central staircase leading up to the entrance. It has a certain grandeur which is imposing and more than a little intimidating. It is a beautiful piece of architecture, the sort of place that a developer would have a field day with and could turn into some great apartments. But today, for me, it is still a mental health hospital and walking up the steps and into the jaws of the building saw another panic set in.

The interior of the building was dark and depressing and was exactly as I had imagined – ‘Girl Interrupted’ has a lot to answer for! It was as if something had sucked the life and light out of the place. It was eerily quiet and seemingly unoccupied except for the few staff that walked with purpose along the echoing corridors. There was a clinical, hospital smell, cold metal on metal, disinfectant, and I hated it. I have always hated hospitals. The moment I walk inside one I always feel sick to my stomach and as though I could pass out at any second, this is not because I am actually ill, I just cannot stand them and what they signify to me: illness and death.

I was directed by the receptionist on the desk to take a seat in the waiting room a little further down the corridor. It was a tiny, claustrophobic room with four chairs on each side of the door. I took in the sunny, yellow wood-chipped walls and fading green carpet and felt the tendrils of anxiety creeping over me; like a smog it saturated my being and I felt suffocated.

Someone had clearly thought that a bright colour would make depressed people feel optimistic and ‘light’ inside. The colour made me feel chaotic and overstimulated and I wanted to get out of the room as soon as was humanly possible.

As I sat there, watching the clock ticking down to my appointment I wondered what I should do?: Tell the truth about how I felt: flat, sad, depressed, anxious, sometimes suicidal or to rationalise my feelings and make light of the situation. Perhaps I should  tell them that I’m sad but I am managing it and I don’t need pills to grieve.

I was eventually called into the psychiatrist’s office and the nice male doctor sitting opposite me began asking me questions. It was those same questions that I had become so used to over the last few months. A few days before this meeting I had had a particularly dark day which saw me sitting in my doctor’s surgery bereft with depression and as close to suicide I have ever felt. For the first time I felt as though we had made progress, I showed her the depth of my pain and she seemed to get it. She insisted I kept my appointment with at the hospital and made a further time to see her to discuss the outcome. She commented on what she perceived as my lack of self esteem and I thought ‘finally, she sees me for me, minus my front’ .

I alluded to this dark day and my lack of confidence with my consultant when he asked me if I felt gifted. ‘Gifted?! Me?! Are you serious?’ I shouted inside my brain. I told him of my feeling like a fraud, like someone who by fluke had got where I had got to, and someone who was on the verge of being found out all the time. My truth.

He then proceeded to read through the notes of the psychiatrist who had visited my home and who suggested I was, in her opinion, very confident and had good self-esteem. In that moment I felt abject disappointment. I guess I should have felt pleased that my acting skills are so good that I can even fool a mental health professional into believing I am in control and happy with myself; but that wasn’t the case at all. I felt like at a time when I needed someone to see through my defences, all that they had seen was the persona.

I have become so skilled at presenting a confident, together version of myself that no one can see through it. I know it’s my own fault.

The next shocker came a little while after this bombshell I was still reeling from the notion that I was a confident person when the doctor suggested that because I was ‘a lesbian and wouldn’t be having children’ that he recommended putting me on lithium. Suddenly alarm bells started ringing in my head. I recognised this drug – my aunt having been on it for years and years. I also was shocked that a doctor would make a judgement that I would not have children because of my sexuality. Most of all though, I was staggered that I had clearly had a breakdown and rather than refer me to psychotherapy it seemed more appropriate to offer me a cocktail of pills. How can that ever be right?

I left the appointment feeling stunned and proceeded to write a letter to my GP. I outlined exactly what had happened when my dad died because no one had ever asked. I explained all the complications: dying abroad, the body being in heat of 40 degrees for a week on a remote island because there was no hospital or morgue, battling with insurance company to move him to the mainland and start a process of repatriation, the unexpected post-mortem, finding out that it could take up to six months to get cremation rights in the UK even if we flew the body home, opting for a cremation abroad and the time being moved, the ashes being flown home and then left outside on a driveway for me to collect along with my dad’s backpack, my family refusing to attend the celebration of life….and so the story poured out of me including the stuff about not eating and self-harm…in the end there 14 pages of it!

I received a letter in the post shortly after this from the GP inviting my in for an extended appointment before the surgery opened. As I sat down, she thanked me for my letter, and said how sorry she was to hear what I had had to go through and that actually she now believed that I was experiencing PTSD. She said, “Let’s remove the psychiatric label shall we?” and then  “You are just really unhappy – aren’t you – and I am not surprised. I think we should refer you into psychotherapy because it sounds like you need to talk and there’s a lot to process. You can stop taking the medication because it hasn’t helped and I agree, lithium is not the way forward especially as you want babies.”

So, that’s what’s happened. I’ve had 7 months of bouncing around and now they think I need time to heal and someone to talk to. And this is all I ever wanted, really. I just wish I could have expressed this sooner rather than behaving like a deer in the headlights. I know waiting lists are long for psychotherapy and I plan to find a therapist in the meantime and see what I can do.

x

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To Anyone That Is Struggling.

rubberbandsandchewinggum13 Comments

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It probably won’t come as a big surprise to anyone that my social media basically is one big Mental Health zone. My WordPress, Instagram, Twitter, and Pinterest follows are basically all related to mental health – and I post and save a lot on my Facebook (which is personal and not related to ‘Rubber Bands And Chewing Gum’ too. Because of this, I have a steady stream of Mental Health content: new research in the world of psychology; book recommendations; new blog posts; affirming messages/memes; invitations to do a bit better with my self care whether it be diet/exercise/meditation; organisations posting strategies to feel a little bit less alone in the world- and it’s great…most of the time…

Sometimes, though, the picture I have just posted will feel a bit, I dunno, saccharine?? Of course, those times tend to be the times when I am armoured up and impenetrable or when I am doing fine (Tbh there aren’t all that many times like that in the month!) or when the Inner Critic is in situ and making me feel unworthy of care. Most of the time, these kind of messages are EXACTLY what I need to be seeing when I am indulging in some screen time. They make me feel connected and less – – fucking useless and failing at life!

It’s so refreshing to have something uplifting, motivational or meaningful on my feeds when frankly, so much of my screen seems to be filled with either what a knobhead Trump is or what a complete balls-up Brexit is! Twitter is particularly bad for this right?! I mean you can’t ignore what a shambles everything is but when you spend as much time scrolling as I do (my phone told me I was down by 21% on my screen time last week…but still averaging 3h 19 mins a day!!!!!)  it’s hard not to become overwhelmed by the state of things.

Anyway, this last week or so I have massively needed these little ‘you’re not a completely useless sack of shite’ pick me ups. I am so glad that I have structured my social media in such a way that it is constantly giving me both helpful reminders that things are going to be ok and also, importantly, that I am not alone in feeling wobbly some (a lot) of the time.

I got sucked into the sink hole of attachment misery this last week. I’ve been ill but not so ill that I should’ve fallen so spectacularly headfirst into the ‘My Mummy Doesn’t Love Me AND I Want My Therapist (Who Also Doesn’t Love Me)’ pit. I mean, it was an epic week so far as my starting point and end point went: polar opposites.

As you may have noticed, I’ve had a pretty amazing month so far as being adult and coping and being fine goes. Christmas break was — nothing —- just completely ok – enjoyable even – last week things still felt manageable. The BANG, the hint of a sniffle and a temperature and off I went careering into the abyss. The ground opened up beneath me and I was nose deep in trauma and attachment shit. I had to close my mouth because the shit line was so high.

Nightmare.

I basically went from: my life is busy but I am coping and I feel safely attached and contained in therapy TO Waaaaahhhhh my life is falling apart! Em has left me! I hate myself! I can’t do this! I need to hide…. My session on Friday was hard work we faced down that motherwound again and crikey is bloody painful.

Once I was drowning in my own special pit of emotional shit I found that I was plagued with really vivid dreams…most of which involve Em (what a shocker!) Oh how I love a #therapydream! 

Unfortunately, by Sunday (yesterday), I felt so utterly depleted and exhausted that I didn’t even have the energy to write about how shit it was feeling and ended up re-blogging a post from 2017. That was crap! But what was also crap was rereading it and seeing that despite being aware that I am a useless, needy baby when I get ill, there doesn’t seem much I can do about it even 15 months down the line.

Ah well. I guess it’s lucky I haven’t been ill for a while. I spent most of Autumn/Winter 2017 sick and so, looking back it’s little wonder I was such a mess with the attachment stuff.

So where does that leave things now? Well, it’s Monday morning now. I still feel yucky and attachmenty and frankly piss poor but I have written down my horrible dreams and alongside them the feelings I felt when I woke up. I am taking that all in with me to session as well as my blanket and hopefully I can just be how it is, explain how badly the wheels have fallen off, and try and get myself back on track.

I have way too much on this week to be stuck in with the upset primary school inside….this is also very true because if things follow the usual trend then it’s not going to be long until the secondary school bunch drop in….and I don’t want their self-loathing and anger to take root.

So, to anyone that is struggling….just to say – you are not alone…AT ALL.

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And for anyone that wants a laugh, my best friend sent me this last time I was having a similar meltdown….which actually I find equally as uplifting as the motivational things on my social media. Humour and sarcasm are my favourites!! ha x

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I Thought I Was Coping…

rubberbandsandchewinggum27 Comments

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Most of the time I think I manage ‘life’ pretty well; I somehow function in the outside world and do a reasonably good job at appearing like a competent parent and professional adult (although I get a big whack of that imposter syndrome in doing so – surely someone will notice that I am winging it soon and everything will come crashing down!).

Anyone who reads this blog will know that things aren’t perfect…not by a long shot…but generally the issues that I face (thinking about both physical and mental health here – i.e HEALTH) don’t completely incapacitate me on a day-to-day basis…they just tie both my legs together and blindfold me 😉

I have to pinch myself when I remember that I have come out the other side of a gruelling cancer treatment more-or-less in one piece. The heavy emotional weight I seem to carry or, as my therapist put it on Monday, am ‘tortured by’ (jeezzz tell it like it is why don’t you?!) is managed just about well enough these days, in a large part thanks to the therapy.

I know it doesn’t always look like it but know that I would be way worse of a mess if it weren’t for the therapy. I don’t really talk here about the massive mental breakdown I had in 2009 which saw me in a right state, off work for 17 months and dangerously underweight, but I know having been to in that place where things can spiral down if left unchecked. If I take my eye off the ball for too long so far as self-care goes things start to slip really quickly (and I am utterly shite at self-care!)

I’d like to say that I am past that really harrowing knock-out stuff, that I’ve moved beyond it, that I have learnt enough strategies to live well, and that the breakdown was just an unfortunate incident triggered by a terrible bereavement; but the reality is actually doing life (living) thoroughly exhausts me. It always has. I do my best but sometimes I just can’t manage as well as I might like.

For as long as I can remember I have felt like it takes a lot of effort to maintain the persona of whoever it is I am meant to be – who I am…who am I?! To a greater or lesser extent I struggle with these things:

  • I feel on guard all the time;
  • I feel like things are going to go wrong at any minute;
  • I spend time overthinking/brooding on things;
  • I worry that I am going to fall apart;
  • I find it hard to let stuff go;
  • I worry about people’s perceptions of me;
  • I have unrealistic expectations of myself;
  • I don’t like to let people down and so often take on more than I can manage. (I wouldn’t say I am especially a ‘people pleaser’ but I certainly am not very good at putting my needs before anyone else’s – or even alongside them for that matter.)
  • List goes on and on…

Annoyingly, when I am stuck in mental/emotional hell I still don’t really talk about it despite all the therapy. I think this is quite common for those of us who have had difficult childhoods, actually; we’ve learnt that our needs invariably don’t get me and so we almost learn not to have them or talk about them.

Of course, I am getting better at talking and opening up (to some people) but it’s incredibly hard to build trust and so those ‘lucky’ (ha!) few that get to see my struggles and vulnerable side can be counted one hand. My wife said last night that she feels like I keep the vulnerable parts secret and she feels pushed away. I told her I was only trying to protect her from me and that the reality of what goes on in my head is not something anyone else would want a part of.

She said all the right things but I still feel like if I really and truly showed just how broken I am she would head for the hills. After 13 years together I should know that she stays….but it’s going to take some time to be brave. When she asks how my day has been how do I reply ‘it was fine, uneventful, but part of me is struggling really hard and wants to cut myself’? I mean who needs to walk into that?

It’s just like how it is in therapy. What happens if I truly let it all out, become so vulnerable and open, and then it goes wrong? The fear of rejection and abandonment is horrendous – I think it’d annihilate me.

As a result of all this perpetual ‘keeping up appearances’ and ‘biting off more than I can chew’ (ha, that’s so funny given my anorexic history!), I quite literally feel tired all the time (physically and emotionally)… but, as I say, this is not a new thing. I wake up tired; stumble through the day (well that’s how it feels but no one would know); burn the candle at both ends but never benefit from the light – just burnout; then crash into a pit of exhaustion at night.

Every now and then, when things feel bad (like they do today), I sit and wonder if what I am experiencing at the moment is just a bout of depression that’s crept up on me and taken root without me noticing. It is Autumn after all. Maybe I am pushing myself too hard. I don’t always find it easy to say no or put my needs first. No matter what I do there never seems to be quite enough hours in the day to get done what needs to be done and still leave time for whatever it is that I need and naturally this is going to take its toll isn’t it?

Today I have a list longer than both my arms put together of things that I need to achieve. I have completed some tasks, been reasonably productive in fact, but am nowhere near where I need to be and time is ticking away. I just looked at the clock and realised I have less than an hour before I need to collect the children from school and then it’s all go until 8pm when I get home from tutoring.

What have I done for myself today?

Nothing.

Not even had breakfast, lunch, a drink….and that’s not me bigging myself up on some eating disordered headspace thing. Really don’t need to be heading into that area again.

I just haven’t stopped again.

Time goes so quickly.

You might be wondering, then, what on earth I am doing here?! Well, knowing there is absolutely no chance of finishing what I need to do I have stopped and downed tools, briefly. I’ve made a coffee and wanted to write something. I keep telling myself I need to make time for this. Writing has always proved a really useful outlet and so writing here, as I have said before, is a bit of a lifeline at times. Putting the scary stuff out into the world knowing that there are merry bunch of mental health bloggers out there cheerleading me on is really really helpful to me…. ESPECIALLY when I am on a therapy break!

Ugh!

Yes…that horror has begun now! How long til 29thOctober????????????????????????????

There is so much bubbling inside that I want to say, that I need to process, that I want to document and if I don’t make time for it and let it out then it’ll just keep causing me trouble. I have run out of time for today and have not mentioned anything about what has actually been going on either inside or outside therapy! Awesome post!

I just needed to get it out there:

I am stuggling… and the coping is not going especially well.

It’s taking a great deal of effort to hold all my pieces together right now so any contributions of rubber bands and chewing gum will be gladly received!

A Return To Therapy: A Tale Of Two Sessions

rubberbandsandchewinggum13 Comments

So, somehow or other I got through five weeks of no face-to-face therapy (man I still hate summer therapy break with a passion!) and last Monday saw the long-awaited return to the room and, more importantly, my therapist…not that I had missed her or anything!

As the day approached I started feeling conflicted about going to my session (no change there, then!) What is that about?- The absolutely overwhelming desire to see someone gets replaced with an ‘I don’t want to go’ a couple of days before and ramps up steadily until on the day, on my way to the session, I text my friend saying that I wanted to turn around and go home because I felt sick amongst other things.

I recognise, these days, that this resistance that happens when I’m within touching distance of my therapist is the time where some of the parts start speaking up. The young parts finally settle when therapy is in sight and that allows the teen part some additional space to express how she’s feeling. (She’s pissed off!) She can’t bear the thought of therapy being awful, feeling disconnected, and the young parts getting irate again when they’ve only just stopped screaming. The teen harbours a fair amount of anger about being left (rejected/abandoned) in the first place, and then to be ignored on top (texts) doesn’t make the reunion any easier.

Despite all the misgivings I have never yet not turned up to a session. Sometimes I feel like I am dragging myself there but the need of the youngest parts always gets me into the room … even if all I do is sit there and say nothing!

I felt nervous as I rang the doorbell to my therapist’s house but as she came to the door adult went online (thank god!) and walked in, sat down, and just started talking…about life stuff. The small talk was comfortable; catching up on day-to-day stuff that’s been going was fine. I don’t remember trying to gauge where my therapist was at or whether she was safe. I think I had maybe subconsciously decided to keep the session adult. I don’t know. I can’t remember now what we talked about but basically for twenty minutes it was absolutely ok and then bam – I was gone- instant dissociation the moment she asked if I wanted to talk about the picture I’d sent her via text during the break.

You’d think that opening up that discussion might’ve been a good thing (and ironically most of the time it would be – I want her to help open up difficult conversations) but on Monday, even after twenty settled minutes, it spooked me. ‘Agh I’m exposed. This is scary!’ and off I went deep into myself.

My therapist noticed that I was barely breathing and suggested that I was doing everything I could to hide. Yep! My body was killing me. My legs were heavy/achy. I was able to tell her how I felt in my body. And the moment I told her all that physical pain in my legs evaporated and I thought I was going to throw up. The nausea was incredible. I could hardly speak for fear of vomiting. It was horrendous.

She valiantly attempted to bring me back to her but all I could do was listen to what she was saying. I couldn’t even look at her, let alone make eye contact. Does that happen to anyone else? You want to connect but can’t- the fear is too great- and so instead just listen very very carefully to what they say trying to see if they ‘get it’ and whether or not you might be able to connect eventually?

This is a bit of a strange analogy but sometimes it feels to me when I dissociate badly that I have an internal power cut – mains power is lost. I lose my ability to be present. It’s far from ideal. My therapist has to scrabble around to try find an alternative power source. Most of the time she finds some rechargeable batteries but, unfortunately, they’re dead. She doesn’t give up though. She slowly starts charging the batteries up with her insights, validation, and care. If we are lucky she might do enough to give me enough power to work again before the end of the session. Sometimes the charge happens really quickly and other times it take nearly all session.

That’s what happened on Monday. She was really insightful and understanding and validating. She spoke about the really strong emotions that I was feeling: the anger that she felt in the text that I had sent her ‘file under unread’; the horrible feelings of rejection and abandonment I experience when she doesn’t reply to me; the belief that she doesn’t care about me. She talked to me about it all but I could only nod here and there. The batteries we soooooooooooo dead after the break that it took a long time to power them up.

With about five minutes to go I could feel myself starting to connect to her. The vulnerable parts wanted to talk to her and the teen had felt like she got it and cared. She asked me how I felt and I said ‘sad’. She asked if it was because we were coming to the end of the session and there were things I needed to say that I hadn’t been able to. I nodded. She told me we still had a bit of time left and maybe I could make a start now and we could pick it up on our first Friday session. So, once again I took a running jump and said perhaps the most expensive sentence I have said in a while:

‘I really missed you; five weeks is really a long time.’

It mightn’t seem like much but it really was after such a difficult session. Saying something that feels so exposing after a break feels really hard. I always struggle to tell my therapist how I feel about her. I feel like she’ll think I am weird. I don’t want to embarrass her. Of course, any time I let her know how I feel she is really kind and non-shaming. It’s just so hard to reverse the automatic pilot that tells me feelings are bad and dangerous, that showing someone that you care for them and need them will result in something negative.

I guess I just need to keep saying how I feel, keep getting met well, and maybe eventually I might feel differently.

Anyway, that was Monday! I don’t think it’ll come as a surprise to anyone that I was left with an almighty therapy hangover! I’ve come to expect it now after a long break. I’m starting to recognise it as part of the process and just see it for what it is rather than feeling bad about how things are. I think all the stuff I had kept at bay over the break came flooding out and had me flailing about on my arse for most of the week. It was initially quite hard to work out whether I was heading into a depressive state or whether it was what was left from the break and the session. I tend to fear the worst when I am stuck on the couch for hours at a time unable to complete the tiniest of tasks.

I felt totally incapacitated. I felt ugh. I wanted Friday to get here so I could have another stab at connecting and feeling better. The great thing about this week was that I knew Friday (yay for two sessions a week) was coming and so even though the young parts were feeling separation anxiety and attachment pain it was nowhere near as bad as it has been previously. Wednesdays have been notoriously bad when I have had one session a week. I have felt stranded and uncontained. It’s been god awful! So, even though things were pretty bad they were WAY better than I am used to.

My Friday session isn’t a face-to-face session at the moment. The session time is too early for me to be able to make it in person and be able to get my kids to school and so we are Skyping. I’d had mixed feelings about this. The irony is not lost on me that only a few months ago I would have been ripping my therapist’s arm off for any extra contact – even a midweek text and now I am whinging about an extra session via Skype. *eye roll* I guess there’s just a part that wants to be with her in person. I’ve asked that when a later session becomes available that she lets me know so I can swap into it, but it’s likely to be several months.

When it came to it it was actually nice to do the session at home. I was snuggled up on my sofa with a coffee and it was nice and quiet. There’d been no rushing in the car to get to my session and I felt pretty relaxed. I think this feeling relaxed made a difference to how I was. Usually I only Skype when I can’t get to session because I have my kids at home (holidays or sick) and it certainly changes how I am. I am on ‘mum duty’ and don’t open up in the same way. Anyway, this session felt really nice. I remembered how much I like seeing my therapist’s face close up. Ha! And even better I DID NOT DISSOCIATE AT ALL!

Bonus!

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t dive headlong into how the break felt or how difficult I have found being in therapy the last few months but we did lots of connecting work that I feel is paving the way for me to be able to have those conversations. I was able to tell my T how bad I had felt during the week and how just the day before I had burst into convulsive tears whilst running on my treadmill.

I don’t really ever cry and I certainly don’t cry in front of people. My therapist mentioned that I don’t cry when I am with her but that she feels I am fighting back tears sometimes and that occasionally a single tear will escape. She said that the idea of someone seeing me crying is hard for me. She talked about the huge expectations my parents placed on me to be a certain way as a child and that I had had to grow up too quickly and be what they wanted rather than who I am. It’s true. I never expressed how upset I was when my mum wasn’t there when I was a kid. It was just how it was and something I had to get used to.

I am realising now just how sad that little girl was to not have mum there from Sunday to Friday- from the age of 5 even if mum wasn’t perfect or especially nurturing. I look at my daughter who is now six and my son who is four and know how they hate it if I am not there for bedtime. I have to leave home at 6pm a couple of nights per week if I am going out to tutor and they moan (fair enough! I am glad they can!). I always give them a kiss and cuddle before I leave and come and kiss them goodnight (even if they are asleep) when I am back –they have never had to not have their mum/mums there for protracted periods. I am there for breakfast; I am there to take them to school and pick them up; I am there for dinner; I am there for parents’ evenings; I go to sports day; I drop everything when they are sick; I ask them how they are EVERYDAY. I hold them and tell them I love them EVERYDAY.

I had none of that.

I was a good girl who got on with it quietly. Accepted that I didn’t have a say in how things were.

That little girl doesn’t want to be quiet and accept it anymore.

She wants to cry about it.

And maybe she might start crying about it in therapy.

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Limbo

rubberbandsandchewinggum14 Comments

I’m feeling a bit bleurgh at the moment (a technical term I’ll have you know!). It’s not a full-on depressive episode yet (I don’t think) but it’s feeling like a huge struggle just to remain in a relative coping place…but then when is mental health ever a walk in the park, really? It pretty much always feels like I am struggling in one way or other.

For now, at least, I feel like I have done with sliding down the hill towards rock bottom, which was what happened at the start of the therapy break, and have finally got a fingertip hold on something semi-solid that has allowed me to stop and take stock. I daren’t move though, rock bottom is still a long way off, thank god, but I feel like adjusting my position may result in me losing my precarious grip and careering at speed downwards again. I can’t risk that so I am staying here stuck in a kind of uncomfortable limbo.

Put it this way, I am not where I would like to be at this point in the holidays!

I don’t feel especially solid.

I’m certainly not grounded.

I can feel anxiety creeping around the edges.

I’ve woken up feeling queasy for the last four days.

The attachment pain is really there just before bed and any time I let my mind drift towards therapy.

It’s all a bit shit really.

Moan. Moan. Moan!

I daren’t look too far ahead because 3rd September feels like a very long time in the future and it makes me even more aware that I’m not even half way through the break yet – it’s still three weeks until I see my therapist in person – nooooooooooo! Having said that, I am meant to have a Skype on the 20th so I shouldn’t complain. I am just massively aware that it could go belly up next week.

I am experiencing the usual conflicting feelings:

I love you/I hate you

Please come back/Fuck off I never want to see you again

and what I really don’t want to happen is to have a Skype session that semi opens up stuff, doesn’t really do the job, isn’t especially connecting, and then be left for a further two weeks for phase two of the therapy break.

I think I just about have a handle on things right now but I’m not stupid, I’ve been here enough times to know that there is a real possibility of me trying to sabotage my therapy before September is here. The teen part of me that wants to give up is never far from the surface and on breaks, especially long ones, she gets quite vocal. She’s still angry about the last session before the break. Seriously, ‘imagine something you like doing’….FFS!

Feeling stuck in this limbo state/place is pants. My last session seems a long time ago (eve though it was actually only two weeks ago) and all the good things I feel about my therapy/therapist seem to have evaporated now…. and yet the crap parts haven’t, they remain there! It’s not ideal. I’m beginning to put my therapist in the bracket of people that reject and abandon me rather than who do their best to help me. (I do know how crazy it is – but it is how it is!).

You can probably tell from this post that my mind is all over the shop. In addition to this, I seem to have no energy at all. My motivation has gone on holiday (along with my therapist – grr!), and all I really want to do is lie in bed and sleep for hours on end or, failing that, sprawl out on the sofa and eat biscuits and chocolate. Essentially once the kids get to bed at 6pm that is exactly what I have been doing- filling my face with sugary things in some mindless stupor state in front of the TV and then crawling into bed and sleeping for as long as I can reasonably get away with (which, to be fair, with two young kids never extends much beyond 6:45am).

Put it this way, I’m not scoring big on the mindfulness and self-care scales right now! Although I am not over-exercising or under-eating (clearly!) so I suppose generally vegetating and resting shouldn’t be seen as a criminal activity. The critical voice in my head is starting to give me a hard time, though:

Lazy.

Fat.

Sloth-like creature.

I am just not particularly good at stopping and doing nothing. I always feel like I ought to be doing something, keeping busy, achieving things. I’m not working again for a couple more weeks as it’s the school holidays. I need to keep reminding myself that it’s A HOLIDAY – not just other people’s (my T, the kids I teach, my own children) mine too and that means a break from the usual drudgery of school runs, work, having to be in a specific place at a particular time etc.

As much as I moan about it when I am in it, I think routine does me good to an extent. I’m not great at this long drawn out time off. I do wonder, though, how much of this is because in the back of my mind (ok quite close to the front!) is the fact that I am on a therapy break and frankly I am not someone who does especially well without regular therapy. Ha! I mean I am not exactly willing the clock forward to September to re-enter the world of ‘Please put your shoes on! I’ve asked you four times already. We are going to be late.’

Having said that, I think with young kids, time off is rarely ‘time off’. Since my son’s birthday last Monday we’ve been busyish: swimming lessons, cinema, ice cream parlour, farm park, a couple of playdates, baking, making pizzas from scratch, a visit to a soft play centre as well as a fair bit of playing in the garden, oh, and we/the dog delivered a litter of puppies yesterday. It’s not exactly been a dull existence!

I don’t know what’s wrong with me really. I just feel a bit stuck. Whilst, clearly, elements of my life are carrying on as normal and I would say I’m doing a good enough job at parenting at the minute- the kids are happy- underneath the exterior of ‘with it and together mum’ the other stuff is bubbling away. I guess that’s the problem. Usually I have somewhere to let ‘the other stuff’ out and right now I don’t. I’m very much aware of operating of multiple levels. I find it tiring at the best of times and perhaps without my release valve I’m finding it all a bit more exhausting?

Who knows?

Maybe I am just getting depressed. Or maybe I am about to get sick. Or perhaps it’s just that my period is on its way… whatever it is I want to feel a bit more energised and less like I am going through the motions. I want to feel present in my life rather than as though I am spectating from the sidelines. The only saving grace is that no one would know I feel this way. It is not evident that I am struggling. I would hate for my kids to feel like ‘mummy is checked out’….and I guess they don’t know because it’s only parts of me that are. I guess maybe it’s part of the beauty of being fragmented – the bits that can’t cope aren’t really seen and the ‘carrying on with everyday life self’ is a damn good autopilot.

Errr what else? I’m scraping the barrel a bit with this post – no therapy to talk about!! haha.

I’ve been without internet for the last few days due to a cock up with changing provider. Seamless transition it was not! And so the one positive was that I haven’t been in this ‘bleurgh’ state and additionally whiling away the hours mindlessly on my phone flicking between WhatsApp, Facebook, WordPress, Instagram. Even NetFlix hasn’t been a possibility!

A social media blackout is not necessarily a bad thing every now and again. I do it at Christmas and always feel quite good having gone screen-free for a bit. You might be thinking, why not use your phone for the internet…well, I live in a signal/data blackspot and so have to go in the garden and stand in a specific place to get anything at all and it’s so intermittent that it’s not even worth it. It’s so circa 1995!

Everything went live again yesterday evening and actually it felt like a bit of an attack to the system. I have been off radar with a few friends this last week due to feeling so crappy and so I’ve been trying to be a bit present again. I just find it really hard.

I really have nothing at all to say today!… but having already gone more than a week between posts I wanted to write something. This, post, shall hereby be filed under ‘bleurgh’ and sink to the depths of unread trash!

Actually. I posted this on my Twitter feed the other day…and it says it all x

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Recovery from self-injurious behaviours (self-harm and anorexia): Can it ever really happen?

rubberbandsandchewinggum5 Comments

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I apologise if this is difficult to read or triggering for anyone. Just to be clear, I am going to be talking about eating disorders and physical self-harm here. If you think that this might upset you or compromise your recovery, please don’t read it.

From personal experience, I know that if I am feeling on shaky ground with regard to looking after myself often reading someone else’s story can get right inside my head. Rather than encouraging me to keep eating or avoid harming because I see the damage it causes for others it somehow does the exact opposite. When I am in a good place, however, I am not impacted in that way. I’m trusting that you’ll make the right decision for you. (Hmmm, looks like my teacher persona wrote that last bit doesn’t it?!)

I have been wondering about something a lot this week in amongst all the other crap that takes up space in my brain and that is: is it possible to make a full recovery from an eating disorder and to stop wanting to use physical self-harm to cope long-term? Do the attacking thoughts and drives to harm oneself ever truly disappear or is the best you can hope for the strength to be able to ignore the voice that tries to persuade you to starve yourself or harm yourself? Can you really silence the Inner Critic for good?

I haven’t really got my thoughts together on it so this is really just thinking out loud.

To be honest, I am not in a great place emotionally/mentally at the moment and so I guess this is why this question has been circling in my head this week especially. The last few months have been hard for me. I have been opening up more and more in my therapy sessions and getting closer and closer to the core wound. Sometimes I have been staring it right in the face and it is total agony. At the same time, it has felt, week on week, as though I have been gradually edging my way closer and closer to a precipice.

This week I feel like I’ve finally reached the drop off and am peering down into the deep, dark, watery abyss where my old companions anorexia and physical self-harm reside. I’ve banished the pair of them to this place many times over the years at those times when I’ve managed to free myself from their shackle-like grips. There have been so many occasions over the years when I have found the inner strength to run screaming as far away from that place as my legs and mind will carry me. I’ve sought solace in activity, distraction, and the thought of ‘please let me make a proper recovery this time. I am going to change’ and managed a period of time where I function almost normally… BUT there is always something that draws me back to them and to this place. No matter how resolved I am to move away from this hellish spot I always seem to find my way here, as though on autopilot.

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As I said, this week it’s felt as though I’ve been metaphorically standing on the edge of the precipice and have seriously been contemplating diving down into the darkness again to join my terrible friends because frankly, what I am running from in my head feels too painful, too hard, too devastating. I need to escape from it all. I can’t cope with how bad things feel. I can’t just ‘sit with it’ and wait for these feelings to pass because it is all-consuming and it’s been going on for months and months now. My sense of inner strength and desire to keep fighting has been totally eroded. I just can’t do it anymore.

I am stuck, frozen, between two terrible choices – which damaging, crap friends do I hang out with now? Ahead lie Anorexia and Self-Harm. They’re more than ready to welcome me into their shitty mind games. Behind me lies Attachment Trauma. The question now, is which option hurts less? Attachment trauma is steadily destroying me. Right now I feel like I have been left. I feel so sad and little and lost. I am screaming out for holding and containment and yet no matter how loudly I yell or how many different ways I say it there is no one coming. No one cares about that little girl. There is no one who cares enough to scoop her up and tell her that it’s all going to be ok, that she is safe and loved and that it’s all over now, that she doesn’t have to hurt herself anymore.

I have tried to do that for myself time and time again over the years, but my adult is so overwhelmed by the intensity of these feelings that are coming up again that l am scared stiff and not sure I can keep going down this path, facing that demon, and essentially feeling increasingly anxious and traumatised. I just cannot continue feeling like this and so what lives in the depths of that black void is familiar and, in some sick way, comforting. Given the choice right now, I’d rather spend time sitting with anorexia or self-harm than be caught in the grips of abandonment trauma.

I developed an eating disorder when I was 16 and began physically self-harming (cutting and burning myself) at 17 and so, tragically, it appears that I have spent more than half my life (on and off) attacking my body in one way or another. I’ve never got my BMI up over 17 apart from when I was pregnant and feel very uncomfortable weighing any more than 46kg. In my head the magic sustainable in control place is 45kg and a BMI of 16.1. Yep. Fucking insane. But it’s the borderline weight where I feel ok and yet still able to conceal how unwell I really am. I don’t draw too much unwanted attention or concern as I can hide at this weight – or at least that’s what I have convinced myself. I’m not sure it’s really the case.

The one thing I know and hate about eating disorders is how skewed your mind gets. I hate the secretive, weird place I inhabit when I start focusing on my body in an extreme way. Everyone who ever tries to demonstrate care or concern becomes the enemy and I resent them commenting on my body or what I am or am not eating. I think it’s probably because so few people truly understand that it’s not really about food – eating cake won’t fix things. The eating disorder is a really shit coping strategy. For me it always starts off as trying to control something at a time where I feel like I have no control/am out of control.

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And yes, in some ways for me it is about my body image too. I am critical of my body and when I am really unwell I just cannot see how skeletal I get – how grey, tired, and just poorly I really am. The thing is, when I am caught up in full-blown starvation mode it’s a focus, a distraction from other terrible painful issues.

I know that starving myself or cutting/burning my skin doesn’t take away what is tormenting me and that’s why I know that jumping off the edge and into anorexia or self-harm isn’t a good option (really, I do know that!) because whatever I choose to do attachment trauma will only jump in after me.

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This, then, is not a good proposition because then the three of them will gang up on me and I will end up drowning again. I know I am literally only a few steps away from a complete breakdown and I need to try hard to back away from all this. I need to find a better way to cope. I just don’t know what that is. Therapy doesn’t seem to be helping much right now, in fact it’s just created the melting pot for all this stuff to truly emerge.

Recently, I threw out the scales in a bid to stop that part of me that gets obsessed with numbers. It was just starting to get bonkers inside my head. So, I have no idea what I weigh right now but I think it must be about 47kg because I feel fat and people tell me I ‘look healthy’ … yeah, that one! It’s insane that being told you look well is a frigging trigger isn’t it? Ugh.IMG_1474

I should be pleased with myself really as I have actually been working hard to pull myself back into a better place lately – this is largely through eating large tubs of Hagen Dazs each night and sharing bags of Galaxy Counters. Which, I suppose isn’t especially normal! But it has resulted in a stable body weight for a good few months. It’s not binge eating. It is systematic feeding of high calorie foods whilst being distracted by TV. I hate it.

My brain has the most brilliant inbuilt mental calorie counter. Several of my newish friends (those that have no idea of my history) are doing weight loss programmes at the moment and when they talk about it to me and I am able to launch into some detailed conversation about the nutritional value of something or the calorific content I think they must think I am strange. I often get the ‘you’re so lucky to have that kind of body that doesn’t put on weight. I only have to look at a cake and put on a stone. You eat whatever you like and you’re so slim’. Little do they know that I am fighting my own body battle, telling myself ‘I must eat the cake, the ice-cream, the fattening stuff so that I don’t fall into the place where I eat pretty much nothing and spiral downwards’.

Another reason that I have had to try and maintain a reasonably sensible weight is because (and here’s where I should be writing that I value my health, care about myself enough to look after myself, and that I am not plagued by negative voices) part of my follow up cancer care is that I see the consultant every three months and part of that check is getting weighed (rapid weight loss is a marker of active Lymphoma).

Last October I went in for my check and there was a flurry of concerned questions from the nurses as I stood on the scales because I had lost 6kg in the three months between appointments. I knew that the weight loss wasn’t down cancer but I also couldn’t tell them what mess I had got myself into with not eating and over-exercising. So since then I have tried to get myself off their radar and creep back to a more acceptable, if still too low, weight.

Over the years I have crawled back up out of the abyss more times than I can remember. I’ve sort of joined the rest of the world masquerading as someone who is ‘fine’ and has it all together. But I won’t lie, even when I am ‘well’ or as well as I ever get, the voice inside my head that tells me I am not good enough, that my body is disgusting, and that the only way to feel better about myself is to not eat and self-harm myself is always there. The only thing that changes is my response to that voice. Sometimes I have the strength of mind to say, ‘fuck you! Leave me alone. I am not listening to your shit anymore’ but then other times it just doesn’t happen and that’s where I am at today.

I have to be especially careful with exercise when I am in this head space. For me exercise is a double-edged sword. I have always been fit and active, sporty, and competitive. I really like to get out and run or cycle. It gives me an escape from being my head. I zone out. It feels good. When I am ‘well’ exercise is fine but it can quickly turn into something negative and self-destructive, like it did in the summer: I got back into my running in the Spring having not really done any since finishing my cancer treatment. I was determined that I was going to get my fitness back (despite the consultant telling me that I would struggle because of the radiation to my chest and weakness in my lungs).

My exercise plan started off as a healthy twice weekly thing: a quick 5km run. But it wasn’t long before I threw in a 40km bike ride, then upped my running distance to 15km each time. By the middle of the summer I was up to running 15km on alternate days of the week, cycling 40km on the other days, and walking my dogs 8km most days. Oh, and let’s not forget to mention the 30 day arms, abs, and plank challenge app that I would do in the evening. It’s literally all or nothing with me.

I liked getting out. I liked feeling super fit again. I enjoyed knowing that my speed and stamina were improving and that my friends, who have always been healthy and active, were posting significantly slower times than me. It’s so addictive watching your times on the Strava app…but then it soon became something to beat myself with, always needing to go faster. The only positive at this point, was that despite the ridiculous amount of exertion I was sensible enough to keep eating properly. I was attacking myself with exercise but I wasn’t attacking my body by not eating which is what I would have done in the past.

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Then one day it changed, just as it always does. Big sigh. I had started skipping meals again. I rarely have breakfast anyway, but on this day I hadn’t eaten at all. I decided to go on my 15km hill run. It was a hot, humid evening – 23 degrees according to the car thermometer – and I pushed myself hard. It had been a stressful day and I need to run away. I posted my quickest time by miles. I felt pleased with myself. The voice inside my head that berates me incessantly was silenced briefly. But by the time I got home and walked in the door I was dizzy and sick. I blacked out in the hallway. I had a bath and the room began spinning in the way it used to after drinking too much alcohol at Uni. I was so unwell that I had to ask my wife to help me up the stairs and put me to bed. I felt awful.

I really scared myself and since that day in May I have only done one short 8km run. Part of me wants to go out and run hard and fast and push myself but there is another protective part that is telling me ‘NOOOOOOOOOO’. I feel stir crazy and lethargic not moving and I have too much time to think but it’s the only way I can think of to keep myself relatively safe and right now that’s the best I can do.

So that’s the anorexia covered, what about self-harm, then? At Easter things were feeling particularly precarious with regard to wanting to self-harm again. I had self-harmed straight after the Christmas therapy break having not done so in several months. The break had stirred up a lot stuff: it’s when I started to become more aware of the different parts of me and how much the little ones were impacted by the separation from my therapist. I didn’t feel able to tell her about any of it at that point and so took to hurting myself instead.

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As the Easter break approached I could feel myself getting stressed and anxious about not seeing my therapist and I that’s when I decided that I would make a commitment to myself that I wouldn’t cut or burn myself again no matter how bad things felt. Tall order, I know! I decided to book in for some tattoos on my wrist, forearm, and ribs – the places I would generally hurt myself. I was going to get something symbolic in place of scars. There was three month wait for the artist I wanted and so in this time I knew I couldn’t damage my skin because it would affect the tattoo and tbh I didn’t want the artist seeing new cuts or scars either.

So for three months I didn’t hurt myself at all (even though I wanted to at times) and since having the tattoos I haven’t cut or burned myself either. Instead I have meaningful reminders that I can survive and that this is not the end: Lotus flowers, unalome, semi colon, root chakra etc. So, these tattoos have worked as a symbolic protector. I haven’t self-harmed but it hasn’t meant I haven’t wanted to. And that’s what I am pondering in the title of this post; will that desire, need, whatever it is, to harm ever disappear fully? Will there be a time where I feel anxious or depressed and my brain won’t take me to this place? It won’t cross my mind to cope in a negative way? I don’t know. I hope so.

So for now, today, at least, I am digging my heels in as much as I can and leaning away from the edge.

At the start of this I wondered if it was possible to ever really recover from an eating disorder and the desire to self-harm?

Perhaps the real question is: will I ever feel good enough? – because I guess underneath it all, that’s what it’s all about.

I guess maybe it’s time to bring this to therapy…again.

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Alanis Morrisette’s, ‘That I would be good’ has been stuck on an almost constant loop in my head since Wednesday. It’s another of those songs that I haven’t heard in years but I guess is a reminder of having been in this place before, in my teens, and so it’s come up again now.