Tag: emotions

My Past Experience of Anorexia


TRIGGER WARNING – THIS IS ABOUT EATING DISORDERS (ANOREXIA)

This account is purely about my own experience of anorexia. This disease affects all sexes, not just women. It can also affect people of any age group. In my case, I was in my forties when it began. Treatment these days may well be different; I don’t know. If you are struggling with an eating disorder or suspect you may be, please seek help from your doctor or any of the helpline numbers given at the end of this post.

Anorexia isn’t about the food; it’s about control. I wanted to control my life but thought if I could control my body and weight, I’d start to feel better. How wrong I was.

It started with me cutting out fats and carbs like many people on diets. I began to lose weight and felt like I was achieving something. As I lost weight, I still wasn’t satisfied, though, convincing myself I was overweight and needed to lose just a few more pounds. I lost more weight, but I still wasn’t content. I began to develop rituals around food, such as cutting food up into tiny pieces to make them last longer or seem more and, weighing everything I ate, then totting up the calories. I stopped drinking coffee with milk and drank only black coffee and Diet Coke. Still not satisfied; eating salad wasn’t enough to control my habit. I began to weigh the lettuce, water well shaken out of it, and work out the calories in three thin slices of cucumber. The weight started to drop off me, but I couldn’t see how ill I was.

I need to make it clear that anorexia is not a choice, a fad, or a diet; it’s an extremely serious and dangerous illness, which is nearly always caused by significant trauma in childhood, as was the case with me.

More rituals developed, and the weight loss continued. I’m not going to go on to describe all those habits and routines because I DO NOT want this to read like an ‘instruction manual’ for anorexia. Suffice it to say; I ended up in the local psychiatric hospital on the eating disorders ward at a very dangerously thin weight of five and a half stone! I was confined to bed and only allowed to use the bathroom with a staff member present. It was so embarrassing.

My first meal there was presented to me two hours after I’d arrived. It was, to my horror, vegetable curry and rice followed by bread-and-butter pudding and two scoops of ice cream. It wasn’t a small portion, either. I don’t think I’d ever felt that sense of panic before. A nurse sat with me and insisted I ate every stone-cold mouthful. I cried, I sobbed, and I begged, all to no avail. I was made to eat all that food despite having terrible pain in my stomach. It seemed barbaric to me. It took me nearly three hours to force the food down. Other than that, they threatened to tube-feed me, and with my phobia of choking, I couldn’t bear the thought of that.

The eating disorders ward had strict rules. Everything was done on a reward and punishment basis. To begin with, I wasn’t allowed phone calls or visitors, not even my family, and I wasn’t allowed out of my room. Weeks passed, and as I gained weight, albeit reluctantly, I was ‘rewarded’ with a phone call to my daughter, then my son and my Mum. They were all worried sick about me and dreadfully upset that I was going through all of this at the same time, realising I was very ill and needed help. There was no way of ‘cheating,’ although some of the people there tried. We would have lost a reward if we lost weight, which was impossible with every mouthful being supervised. It was such a thoroughly miserable time. At the time, I thought it was tortuous; it certainly felt like it.

However, there are only three ways out of anorexia in my mind. One is to get better despite it being painfully hard work (but well worth it); the other is that you spend your life battling with your illness for, possibly, the rest of your years (and believe me, that’s pretty awful), or you die!! It’s as simple as that!

I began to make good progress and started to feel better physically. I was allowed to eat in the dining room with the other inpatients on our ward; I could go to activities and learn about the basic psychology of eating disorders. We were taught about CBT therapy and offered other forms of treatment once our minds had started to recover from the starvation. We were basically given another chance at life, and I was grateful for that.

Finally, after being in hospital for six whole months, I was allowed day leave, and then weekend leave etc. Eventually, I was allowed home but had to attend the day hospital every day.

I don’t think you are ever really ‘cured’ from an eating disorder, but for me, it’s like being in remission, and I never take my life or health for granted. Anorexia is an addiction as well as an illness. Like any addiction, you have to consider yourself in permanent recovery. Now, at the age of 65, I’m making the most of my time and intend to live the rest of my life without harming myself in this way. I’m happy in my life with two adult children and four gorgeous grandchildren. If anyone is reading this and recognises themselves in what I have written, please, please, seek help.


UK HELP: https://www.beateatingdisorders.org.uk/

US HELP: https://www.helpguide.org/home-pages/eating-disorders.htm

AU HELP: https://au.reachout.com/articles/support-services-for-eating-disorders

(Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash)

The Home (True Life Experience)

Firstly, I want to say that I know this post is a long one because I wanted to share my experience in full. I hope you can manage to find the time to read it. It would be much appreciated.

Over the last six years, I’ve shared several posts about my dearly-loved late Mum. I wrote at the time she had her stroke, and then, a couple of years later, I wrote a post called THE MISSING MUM YEARS. It explained how, because of my disability, I could not access my Mum’s house, and Mum couldn’t leave there because of her severe agoraphobia, so we didn’t see each other for several years. It was heartbreaking.

It was only a few weeks after Mum’s stroke that she finally left the hospital and went to stay in a stroke rehabilitation unit, where she had her own room, daily physiotherapy and a television. There was wheelchair access to the unit, so I could finally see her regularly. She was, understandably, becoming depressed there because she’d always been so active and was mowing the lawn two weeks before her stroke. Now, she had no movement down her left side and became increasingly frustrated. It was awful to see my Mum like that. She spent three months there before my sisters and I had to decide whether Mum could return to her house as she wished.  It was impossible. Mum had lived in a big Victorian terraced house with many stairs, which she just would have been able to manage.

We had many meetings with the hospital staff and the social workers there and finally concluded that Mum would need to go into a care home. It was decided that she would come to a home near me, given that my sisters all worked and lived too far away. I went on the search to find a suitable place, all the time knowing that Mum wasn’t happy about leaving her home after being there for decades. I spent several weeks visiting care homes, but none were suitable.

Finally, I found one called The Lodge. The lovely manager showed me around. I noticed many elderly and disabled residents, some asleep in chairs, some watching TV, and some happily participating in craft activities and bingo. The manager took me to the room that would be Mum’s. I really wanted her room to overlook the garden at the back, but because of the urgency of the situation, the only room they had had a view of the neighbouring house’s roof and a few weeds growing out of the paving down the side of the house.

Her room was almost bare, apart from a bed and a wardrobe. Some faded pictures hung on the walls, and some artificial flowers in a jug on the dressing table. The manager explained that Mum could bring any of her belongings, like pictures, photos, ornaments etc., to make the room more homely. I tried to imagine Mum there, knowing she would hate anywhere I could have found her. She wanted her independence back, but that couldn’t happen.

I felt so guilty because my disability and having no car meant that I was limited in choices of care homes. I would be the only member of my family who would be able to visit Mum regularly. This home had, at least, very kind and caring staff. I went back a couple more times to make sure I thought it would be suitable, knowing full well that Mum would hate being in any home. It was heartbreaking to have to make that choice on my own. A moving-in date was set for the 10th of January, 2017, one day after Mum’s birthday.

When I next visited the stroke unit, I told Mum all about it, ensuring I pointed out all the positive aspects and tried to help her come to terms with her upcoming move. She wasn’t happy, but I felt I had no choice. I would have loved her to come to live with me, but the practicalities made this impossible. She was so unhappy, and it broke my heart to see her this way. A couple of days later, she caught a cold that went to her chest and caused an infection. Then, it developed into pneumonia, meaning she had to return to the city’s main hospital. I saw her frequently, but she wasn’t at all well. My sisters and other family visited her; one sister flew over from Australia. She wasn’t really aware of what was going on, but now I imagine this is such a common scenario; families all flocking around their loved ones’ beds. I can’t help but wonder if she knew why we were there.

By the evening, the family had gone home, leaving just Mum and me. The ward sister allowed me to stay late, so I sat at Mum’s bedside, talking quietly and holding her hand. I sat with her for hours, talking to her and wondering if she could hear me as it wasn’t evident. A nurse came along to check Mum’s sats and said Mum’s oxygen levels were up a bit, and she seemed more alert. I was so relieved at the thought of Mum pulling through this horrible illness.

When I finally got home, feeling a bit more positive, I thought I would be able to see a lot of Mum now that she would live within my wheelchair-driving distance. I felt a little more reassured about the future.

And then, came the next morning and the phone rang very early. I hesitated before picking it up. As soon as I heard the sister’s voice, I knew it would be bad news. She spoke softly as she said my Mum had passed away about half an hour ago. I was devastated and put the phone down with tears streaming down my face. As the oldest daughter, I had the job of informing the rest of the family.

Looking back now, I’m almost sure that Mum had lost the will to live because of not being able to go back to her beloved home and having to go into a care facility. It was the 30th of December 2016, and only a few days before she was due to move to the home. I truly believe now that it was a blessing that she left us then rather than go into this care facility. She’d always been such a positive, independent woman, and this was her way of escaping the reality of her future.

My biggest regret that haunts me to this day is that Mum died alone in hospital with no one to hold her hand as she slipped away. I just can’t come to terms with this. Perhaps, I will do in time.

RIP, My precious and so much-loved Mum, 30/12/16


(I was prompted to write this piece after reading a post from Cindy Georgakas. Thanks, Cindy xx)

Image source Google Images.




Back In The Days (Poem and Introduction)

TRIGGER WARNING – mentions alcohol and drug abuse, suicide, eating disorder, self-harm, and emotional abuse.

My kind and excellent blogging friend and reader, Brian, published a post yesterday called ‘A Good Question‘ – it was about how other people cope with their feelings if they’re unable to write them on paper or screen. I’ve not always been able to write; I started after an awful experience working with an emotionally abusive therapist who had no boundaries. I became a wreck while I was with her, and she walked out on me the day my father died in April 2012. I thought I would never recover. From that moment, I began to write and wrote about that experience of what happened to me while I was, supposedly, having therapy with her. I wrote a poem at that time (one of my first posts on my new blog) called, ‘Killing Me Softly.‘ Please, could you take the time to read this, as it will help you make more sense of today’s poem? It’s only short (thank you).

This poem is the story of those years. I’ve never shared this part of my life, so it’s an extremely scary thing to do. I wanted to speak my truth, as I always do. I’m aware that I might be opening myself up for criticism and disgust here, but I now take responsibility and deeply regret my actions at that time and everything I put my family and friends through. Please, know that I’m not in this place anymore.

BACK IN THE DAYS

Back in the days when I couldn’t write
and the pain lived deep down in my soul
I had other methods to help me cope
to fill up that vast, gaping hole

It was when I was seeing that counsellor
when they all told me not to go
I came out of there tearful and broken
I’d never been so depressed and low

Back in the days when seeing her
I found myself drowning in sorrow
I got into debt with the landlord and more
and I needed some money to borrow

I started each day with a bottle of gin
kept it down by the side of my bed
I couldn’t face coffee or breakfast
just lay wanting death instead

Back in the days when I got into drugs
and was out of my head every day
I was literally living on benzos and weed
and had totally lost my way

I stopped eating food; became so unwell
I had anorexia; was all skin and bone
I hated everything about myself
I was down to under five stone

Back in the days, I’d knock back the pills
I’d bought from the chemist as well
and swallowed all my prescription drugs
I thought I was living in hell

I woke up one day in intensive care
all hooked up to tubes and wires
It hadn’t occurred to me before
that I was literally playing with fire

Back in the days when I started to cut
I was trying to bleed out my pain
I got treated like a timewaster
and I tried to jump under a train

Today, I’ve totally moved on from that
I’m grateful that I’m here at all
I confess I caused so much trouble
but now, I can stand straight and tall

Now, these days, I’m fit, happy and well
Have been clean and sober ten years
I’ve made my amends and changed my ways
And I’ll continue to persevere.

Thank you so much for reading. Love Ellie Xx 💓




Image by günter from Pixabay





Measles

I never remember my dreams, but last night, I woke up at 2.30am in a state of panic and fear. I’d had a nightmare, only this time, I remembered it vividly. I have no idea where it came from; I hadn’t been talking to anyone about my experience, and it wasn’t in my mind yesterday. I’m left wondering why I would remember this now. As I wrote this, I was shaking, recalling every detail as if it were yesterday. These are my memories of that time.

I remember when I was five.
and only very small
I got measles and constant nosebleeds
and had to go into hospital

It was called ‘The German Hospital’
It treated contagious infections
I was scared and wanted my teddy bear
At five, I needed affection

But it turned out to be a prison
and I was shut up all day in a cot
and when Mummy and Daddy left me there
I was only a little tot

Hardly anyone came to see me
I was in total isolation
Even the nurses who came every few hours
just gave me nasty medication

I couldn’t get out of the cot
though I’d stand there and call and cried
Surrounded by four solid walls
and trapped in there, inside

And I added my own tooth marks
to those that were there before
on the cot rail, in utter despair
hoping someone would walk through the door

Not another child did I see
the whole time I was in there
Mummy and Daddy didn’t visit much
and nobody seemed to care

Not even an ounce of kindness
did I get in that awful place
and I stood for  hours, rocking my cot
with tears streaming down my face.


Filling Holes

I feel lost without the space where I once sat
And the easy way I used to be able to chat
About so much that was bothering me
Dealing with it all in my now absent therapy

I’m now on a waiting list; I hope a place comes soon
Feelings and sentiments are confusingly strewn
What to do with all this time that goes so slowly by
Waiting for a new assessment; I hope I qualify

I miss the reassurance that I could cope
I like to think I can, and I still have that hope
I must find other means with which to fill my days
Emotion, when choked back, finds other ways

I’ve found myself with lots of empty holes to fill
I somehow have the energy; I need to find the will
Thought I’d visit a workshop to try my hand at art
A brand new shiny hobby I could possibly start

Wednesday night, I’m going to circle drumming
Listen to guitars in the next room gently strumming
Beating the drums will get pent-up feelings out
Dispelling anxious tension, I have no doubt

I don’t need to be perfect; just try to keep the beat
It’s easy to catch on to; no need to be discreet
It’s about celebrating life and having lots of fun
I’m passionate about it, and I’m not the only one

Thursday afternoons, I’ll go out picking litter
Even when the weather is absolutely bitter
I’m with a group of people; wouldn’t dare to go alone
Filling council bags with rubbish that’s been thrown

Papers, tickets, fag ends scattered in the park
It keeps us very busy until it’s almost dark
Doing something positive to while away the time
As out of my despair, I’m slowly learning to climb.


Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

Please Don’t Label Me

Please don’t label me

Let me grow up tall

Let me choose for myself

Who I want to be

I was labelled a difficult baby

Subsequently so, a child

Then an awkward teenager

An adult with disorders of the mind

I don’t like labels

If I am labelled

It adds to my load

Emotional baggage

Which goes charging

Through my life

Like a buffalo

In the Wild West

Or like a stranger entering

The Last Chance Saloon

To encounter a low-life

A corrupt villain with a blade

Who stares me out

As the midday sun gleams

And catches my eye

Through semi-closed shutters

Let me choose

Whether I live or die

If I choose to live

Let it be my decision

Don’t pin me down

Or tie me to a post

With shackles and chains

And take my options away

Don’t take my choice away

Don’t take my voice away

Let me shout out loud

My opinion counts

Let me run free

Across the dusty plains

Let me choose who I am

Don’t label me.

(Photo by Erwan Hesry on Unsplash)

An Alternate New Year’s Day

I know it’s New Year, and much joy abounds
but I’m full of despair, and it’s really profound
I’m trying to enter into the spirit of things
but I know this week is carrying the sting

Last night, bells rang, and glasses were clinked
I sat here alone, and all I could think
was the fear inside of me is here to stay
It filled me with utter and complete dismay

At Christmas time, I had my family here
and just for a while, it allayed all my fears
The children were great; I was thankful to see
Then, darkness descended, crippling me

I’m trying to hang on to a morsel of hope
when the whole of me is fighting to cope
I feel like my world will collapse forever
as my therapy ends; our relationship severed

I’ve written a letter to say thank you so much
I’m longing for a hug or a gentle touch
I know it’s unlikely; it’s not meant to be
Boundaries are there for Chris* and for me

I’m dreading Wednesday coming this week
I can’t see a future, not even a peek
My body is shaking; my head full of fear
The feeling of grief rises up to appear.


* Chris is my therapist/counsellor (until Wednesday)




NOTE: Forgive me a while if I can’t read your writing
I love you all, but I’m tired of the fighting.

(Photo by Danil Aksenov on Unsplash)

Lonely This Christmas

‘Lonely this Christmas’, the song sung originally by Elvis Presley. Here, sung by MUD. Lyrics shown below text.

It’s Christmas Day, and here I am, sitting all alone
while my son plays happy families at his ex-girlfriend’s home*
I woke this morning – early – as I very often do
feeling pessimistic, low in mood and deeply blue

No cards on the table or presents on the chair
No tree in the corner, no tinsel; do I care?
I speak sternly to myself, for does it really matter
I’ve eaten all the mince pies and am only getting fatter

I miss talking to my Mum so frequently today
She passed away six years ago, almost to the day
I miss our laughs, shared over long-distance cups of tea
My heart hurts without her, my darling bonne amie

I cooked a Christmas dinner; I ate enough for two
I really should have guessed it; that’s what I always do
I haven’t had my pudding yet, served with vegan cream
I’m bursting at the seams because I go to the extreme

My friend was going to phone me, but she hasn’t got the time
so I replied, ‘don’t worry – I’ll be absolutely fine’
I’m sure that she believed me, my every single word
But I knew that my sentiments had gone totally unheard

Pull yourself together, girl; it’s really not that bad
I’ve plenty to be grateful for; I ought not to be sad
I wonder if the future holds any more of the same
I honestly don’t want to play this lonely, tired game

Peanut [cat] isn’t well; she’s completely off her food
Or perhaps, she is only picking up on my sombre mood
I’m longing for my bedtime to finish this long day
Tomorrow will be better when the children come to play.


* Explanation for this line …

I really don’t know what I’ve done wrong this year. I feel very excluded and ignored this Christmas. My son, Tom, is separating from his girlfriend (now ex-girlfriend). He’s found a new partner whom he loves very much, and they are buying a new house together. Tom and his ex. have been trying to sell their house, but it’s proving difficult in this present economic climate.

For no apparent reason, Tom decided to spend Christmas with his ex., his ex’s three adult girls and his ex’s parents. I met them all before on a previous Christmas Day about four years ago. We all got on okay. I don’t understand why I wasn’t included this year – I just know that it hurts – it hurts very much. Tom only has the children every other year, so the next Christmas I can spend with them will be in two years’ time. By then, my granddaughter will be at secondary school! Children grow up so quickly.

LYRICS

Try to imagine a house that’s not a home
Try to imagine a Christmas all alone
That’s where I’ll be
Since you left me
My tears could melt the snow
What can I do
Without you
I’ve got no place, no place to go

It’ll be lonely this Christmas
Without you to hold
It’ll be lonely this Christmas
Lonely and cold
It’ll be cold so cold
Without you to hold
This Christmas

Each time I remember the day you went away
And how I would listen to the things you had to say
I just break down, as I look around
And the only things I see
Are emptiness and loneliness
And an unlit Christmas Tree

It’ll be lonely this Christmas
Without you to hold
It’ll be lonely this Christmas
Lonely and cold
It’ll be cold so cold
Without you to hold
This Christmas

You remember last year, when you and I were together
We never thought there’d be an end
And I remember looking at you then
And I remember thinking that Christmas must have been made for us
‘Cause darlin’, this is the time that you really need love
When it means so very very much

So it’ll be lonely this Christmas
Without you to hold
It’ll be so very lonely
Lonely and cold

It’ll be lonely this Christmas
Without you to hold
It’ll be lonely this Christmas
Lonely and cold
It’ll be cold so cold
Without you to hold
This Christmas

Merry Christmas darlin’, wherever you are

Dear Unknown Counsellor

Many of you will know that my counselling with Chris is ending on the 4th of January, which I’m terrified about. I would normally be there this afternoon and again next week, but the counselling agency is, understandably, closed for two weeks for the Christmas holidays and New Year. The best way I can cope with the absence of my session today is to write, so I thought I’d write a simple poem for my new, as yet unknown counsellor.


Dear Unknown Counsellor,

I’m devastated and so upset
to be away from Chris
I’ve fallen into the darkness
and straight into the abyss

I’ve no idea when I’ll meet you
Apparently, there’s a queue
Otherwise known as a waiting list
How long? I wish I knew

I do hope that we’ll get on
and in you, I’ll learn to trust
I hope you’ll understand my truths
and not view me with disgust

I write a lot of poetry
and dabble with some ‘art’
It’s just how I express myself
pouring out the whole of my heart

I have a problem with anger
I can’t get it off my chest
I can’t scream into a pillow
although I’ve tried my best

I hope I get to meet you soon
I’m scared out here all alone
I’ve been so lucky to have Chris
and the care that she has shown

*Please take away the ticking
of the therapy room’s clock
It reminds me of the horror room
and the door with the bolted lock

My heart is already broken in two
I have one more week; then, the end
I hope my words are acceptable
and these thoughts that I have penned

Where do I begin with you?
Do I have to start over again?
I think I could talk forever
dispelling this huge weight of pain.

* See previous poem The Passage of Time

(Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash)

A Formidable Man

Yesterday would have been my father’s 93rd birthday. He has been gone for ten years now, and although it doesn’t sound very kind, I really don’t miss him. He was a cruel, mean and bitter man, who made our family life a misery for as long as I can remember. There was nothing charming about him at all ……

My Father was a formidable man; Mum called him difficult
She was right; love was never on his radar, and we knew it
He made sure we knew it, day in, day out, speaking cruel words
Any self-esteem I may have had was smashed to smithereens

He earned very good money; yet kept us all short
Our food was scarce while he dined like a king
Our clothes from jumble sales; his, only the finest
Holidays were non-existent; he jetted around the world

Meals were taken separately; us in the cold kitchen like servants
Him in the comfort of the warm living room, waiting to be served
“Are you coming down for dinner today, daddy”, I was sent to ask?
“NO!! Go down in the kitchen with your mother,” he yelled

It was like we didn’t exist in his world; our company was not required
He preferred the cricket while puffing on his stinking pipe
Balkan Sobranie (only the best), drinking scotch and eating peanuts
He stank of pipe ash and alcohol as he demanded I kiss him goodnight

I lay in bed alone in the room above the kitchen – filled with dread
Waiting for the screaming and shouting to start, the bangs and thumps
I clung on to my teddy, called Peter, and cried with fear, face in the pillow
I knew Mum would make excuses for her bruises and cuts in the morning

She wanted to protect us from the worry, fear and distress
It might have worked for the little ones – I knew better
She told me she’d fallen off a chair changing a light bulb
She had a cauliflower ear – lost her hearing in that ear

He died in 2012 – a grand funeral; kind words abounded
His friends in high places said, “so sad, such a lovely man.”
“His family will miss him greatly.” Feeling guilty, I felt nothing
Who was this man these people spoke of?




(Photo by Ron Lach : https://www.pexels.com)