Hard Travellin'

I woke up at 5 am this morning, and proceeded with my routine:

1. take vitamins
2. turn computer on
3. weigh myself
4. boil kettle
5. smoke cigarette
6. make coffee and drink whilst reading 3 specific blogs
7. eat breakfast
8. prepare food for dinner
9. smoke another cigarette

All of that went the same as it does pretty much any other day. 15 minutes later, I was huddled up against the wall, the floor around me scattered with paper, clutching my knees, rocking back and forth with tears pouring down my face. I felt like my brain was literally being hacked into a thousand little pieces. I kind of lost track of time amidst crying/writing/calculating/smoking. Needless to say, by 7am I had worked myself up into quite a state. I threw on the clothes I wore yesterday, grabbed my bag and left my apartment.

More time was lost.

Somewhere along my walk I decided I should buy pasta sauce. Not just ANY pasta sauce, but a single serving of plain tomato pasta sauce. I had remembered that I had 1 portion of tortellini in the freezer and suddenly decided that it would make a perfect dinner for tomorrow. I went into about 4 different supermarkets- in each one, I found the sauce and waited in line to pay. When it was my turn, I left the queue, put the sauce back on the shelf and darted out the store with thoughts literally crashing around in my head. I cranked the volume up on my iPod and carried on walking. With hundreds of reasons to BUY the sauce and eat pasta tomorrow, and hundreds of reasons NOT to.

I don't know why this is such a bug deal. It's one meal- my dinner is the exact same thing every night at the moment and ONE night of something different is not going to have any dramatic effect on my weight, my life, the world. Yet it felt like a HUGE deal to even be contemplating eating something different. Even if the "different" thing was a regular feature in my diet 6 weeks ago.

I went back and forth in my head about last night's post- old plan, new plan, scrap the plan...fruitarian? vegan? high protein? sodium? fibre? money? I couldn't step back and see the wood for the trees. I vaguely remember sending panicky texts to my mom, then ignoring my phone when she tried to call. I remember listening to Pete Seeger singing "Hard Travelling" at full blast. I eventually answered my phone, but when my mom started to get frustrated and yelling, the noise was too much combined with the noise in my head and I hung up.

Walking, smoking, walking, smoking.

Then it hit me. I don't NEED to give up my old plan, and I don't need to leap straight into the new plan. I can gradually work towards the new plan over the coming weeks- slowly phase out my "safe" foods whilst reintroducing new ones. It seems so damn obvious now. It's only taken me 4 days to realise that it doesn't HAVE to be so black and white/all or nothing.

I feel really stupid now.

I bought the pasta sauce, came home, tidied up the masses of paper around my apartment- pulled out a new notebook and planned the next couple of weeks out. They make sense. Suddenly my world stopped spinning wildly, my heart stopped pounding and I sat on the sofa staring out the window for over an hour. Just silent, sitting, breathing.

I started having thoughts of why I need to change the plan I have right now- why it even MATTERS even more. I feel like for years I had all these great motivating goals- as time has gone by and my recovery has been up and down, I've tried out all these goals. None of them worked out or felt as good as I hoped they would. I don't really have any concrete reason to change things, to keep working towards recovery, to keep fighting the anorexic voice in my head.

Nothing 'concrete' like a specific thing I want to be able to do (move to New York, dance, etc).

I do however have this: if the sheer hell of the past few days has been caused by anorexia, then that is reason enough for me to want to break free from this once and for all.

Let's Do the Time-Warp

"I'll have a double decaf skim grande latte with a splash of caramel syrup, no
whip, shaken not stirred, rebuked, and then served in a stack of three cups, no
cup sleeve, light on vanilla, a dash of nutmeg, sprinkling of cinnamon and then
punch me in the stomach"

No, that wasn't today's order :P

Yesterday was exactly 2 years since I quit my job at Starbucks. How do I remember the exact day? Because it was the same day I started seeing the therapist I grew to rely on over the next few months (and who probably saved my life, on more than a few occasions).

Back track.

New Year's Eve, 2006, I was inpatient in a research hospital in New York. It was not my first inpatient admission, but it was the first time that I sought it out, determined to recover once and for all. I flew from Scotland to what I thought would be a 4-6 week admission at the end of November 2006. Fast forward to March 2007 and I was finally discharged. It was the first time in my adult life that I had reached a healthy weight, the first time I had completed a treatment program voluntarily and the first time I had ever really believed that recovery was a very real possibility.

By the time I was discharged, fully weight-restored, I was working part-time in Starbucks a few afternoons a week, was taking an evening class at NYU and things were nothing short of amazing. I remember one of the first days after I was discharged- I was walking along the street and saw this adorable puppy. Those that know me know that I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, an animal lover (they scare me!). Neither am I one for mushiness and gushing over "cute" stuff. But the sun was shining and the puppy was jumping around, and I remember laughing. Really laughing. And really meaning it.

I had lived in such a state of numbness and malnourishment, that words like "happy" and "relaxed" really had no meaning to them. Until I was healthy. I sure as hell had MAJOR ups and downs at that point. I sunk to points of depression I never thought possible- but I also LAUGHED. I joked around, I joined in conversations, I slept until reasonable hours in the morning. My mind came alive as my body did and it seemed nothing short of a miracle to me that all of a sudden, the world was full of colours I had never seen before.

The world didn't stop turning when I stopped eating- I just hadn't been paying attention.

I commented on another blog yesterday when they mentioned the "freedom" they felt at a healthier point in their recovery and it really resonated with me. I still had hang-ups about food- I distinctly remember day treatment, when one lunchtime my salad was slightly bigger than usual. My "old" reaction would be to panic and pick out some lettuce/tomatoes- but no. I asked for extra salad dressing! I still weighed myself every day, walked a little more than most people would in the same circumstances, was struggling a lot to accept my new healthy body. But it was as if by gaining weight, a weight was lifted off of my shoulders and for the first time that I could remember, I experienced true happiness amongst the lows. Everything was so bright and intense because I wasn't hiding from the world behind my body- I was THERE, taking up the space I deserve, as if to say, "I'm here world- bring it on".

The months that followed were a struggle. I'm not sure at what point things started to unravel. I look back and it's all a bit of a haze. I did have some genuine physical issues going on which led to unintentional weight loss, resulting in the numbness I had craved during some of the dips amidst my happy/free moments. Piece by piece, everything started to fall apart and I really WAS oblivious. I kept brushing things off as "no big deal" because I didn't see the life I had built for myself starting to crumble.

First I cracked a bone in my ankle and had to leave my Starbucks job. Then my class ended (98% on my final exam- woot! A nourished brain = functioning brain, fo shizzle!), then the stomach issue...then before I knew it, I'd lost a pretty significant chunk of weight, was obsessing over the size of apples and people were making noises about inpatient/residential again.

Maybe I've just blocked it out. There is a huge part of me that is SO angry at myself for letting anorexia take hold of me again, for not trying harder/doing things differently. For taking for granted that I was doing better, and forgetting that there was a hell of lot of work to be done to STAY "better. For making the same mistake of going down the 'quick-fix' route when things got hard, instead of using some of the distress tolerance skills I'd been given in treatment.

There is also this incredible sense of guilt. My family in the US had never really gotten involved with my disorder/treatment when I was in the UK. When I came to New York and they SAW me get healthier, SAW the progress and improvements, they pulled out all stops to ensure that a relapse would not happen. A lot of people invested time, energy and money in my recovery and I don't think I will ever forgive myself for "throwing it back in their faces" (it wasn't intentional, but that is how it has been perceived).

This has been one long-ass post after a long-ass day so I'm leaving it there!

But, I need to keep reminding myself of the freedom that came with health, the happiness that accompanied the lows. Coming alive again hurt like hell, but the pain had a flip-side I don't experience now. I don't know if it's worth it- to have the highs but the deepest of lows? Or to stay in this steady "not quite despair but hurting like hell" state I exist in now. But the freedom to laugh and smile and sparkle and shine...that's got to be worth it.

Today's snack- looks like a repeat (pumpkin spice trail mix w/ yogurt), but I added vanilla extract to my plain yoghurt. Wowsers. That WILL be repeated!

Edit: apologies for weird formatting. No end of trouble with blogspot this evening...