When All Is Said And Done

It hit me after writing yesterday's letter and reading your responses quite how much contempt I have for myself. I don't know if it's been festering beneath the surface for a while, or if this is a new feeling, but I am so full of rage towards myself right now. I feel like a parasite, a toxic pathetic excuse for a "human being". All evening yesterday and all day today, I keep replaying 'videos' in my mind of the last few years- the things I've done, the things I've said, the people I've hurt. I look back and take no pride in any accomplishments or achievements- I see failure after failure, loss after loss, screw-up after screw-up.

There is definitely something to be said for looking backwards and learning from past mistakes- there also comes a time when you need to stop dwelling on what's BEEN done, forgive yourself on some level, and move on. Punishing myself isn't getting me anywhere- if anything, it's adding fuel to the fire and adding to the list of 'reasons why I suck'. It's hard to know where to draw that line between tough love and self-compassion.

I am human. I've messed up. On a lot of levels. I've hurt a lot of people and caused a lot of harm and damage to myself and those around me. I can't go back and change things- I don't know if I'll ever let go completely of the regret for everything that's gone on over the last years. The time and money wasted, the people I have rejected, the pain I have inflicted. I don't think I will ever be completely at peace with myself knowing what I've done.

Forgiveness does not come easily to me. I store things away in the back of my mind, forgetting the events themselves and am left with feelings/urges that 'feel' like they come from out of nowhere, when the reality is they are my way of channeling the rage and self-hatred I have for myself.

How do you move beyond regret and start living for the present and the future? How do you forgive yourself for doing, what in your own eyes, is unforgiveable?

I NEED to figure this out- what I wrote yesterday still stands. Maybe my anger is not quite at myself and more at what my eating disorder has done, but I have to find a way to move past this and be more compassionate and caring towards myself. Dying of anorexia does not scare me- what scares me is the thought of living with anorexia for the next 10/20/30 years, repeating the same mistakes, stuck in the same cycles. As long as I dwell on what I can't go back and change, I'm never going to break free...

Baby Steps... Oh, Baby- Rip Off The Band-Aid and Start Striding

Tonight was the long-awaited phone call with my therapist in New York. I had emailed him a couple of weeks ago, before I had been offered a place at the supported housing project, to inquire about reapplying to do the dialectical behavioural therapy program I left prematurely in 07. The program is pretty demanding emotionally, and requires a certain level of stability with symptoms- I was starting to spiral downwards and had to leave- the recommendation was that I entered an eating disorder specific residential program, but I didn't have insurance coverage for that so was left with no option but to return to the UK.

I don't know why I have such high hopes for this program, or why I so desperately want to return to New York and complete the 6 months. I think that I am becoming increasingly frustrated with how slow my progress has been and want something more intensive to really propel me forward.

I've written about the difference between the two health care systems before- the high hopes of my team in the US for a full recovery (like ripping off a band-aid) and the s...l...o...w... way of working here. I am under the eating disorders team and I am giving my therapy sessions my all, but I find it really hard to hold onto much hope when the expectations seem so low. I want to be FREE from this completely- to suddenly be "okay" with food, health, life. To have a job, be living independently, to not be controlled by rules and rituals and compulsions. When I was receiving treatment in the US, I was really thrown in at the deep end. Quite a challenge for someone who hasn't been in full-time education since the age of 12 and pretty much grew up in hospital. I suddenly found myself being discharged from inpatient at a healthy weight, working at Starbucks, living by myself and taking college classes. It was weird. In a GOOD way. It gave me a taste of what life COULD be like. But in a lot of ways, it's made things so much harder for me- to have that all, and lose it all.

My team now want me to take this one class for 2 hours a week and not take on anything else (work, study, etc). We set small goals each week around socialising, food, etc. It's working for me- as in, it's sustainable. I'm not rushing into things, taking on too much only to have it crashing down around me. My team seem to have learned from my past history- so why is it so hard for me to do the same?

I guess I am just angry with myself for still being so stuck in this dysfunctional state when I know there is so much more out there, and having tasted it, want it more than ever.

I can't figure out why New York represents "health" so much for me. Or why I cling to the idea that I can only truly recover if I am in America. It doesn't make sense, certainly isn't based on evidence and is only further fueling my frustration. I have been working really hard at just accepting where I am right now- both with my recovery, and the more concrete facts of where I am living, the treatment I have available to me here and what that involves.

It's really hard for me to NOT compare myself to other people. I know I am not alone in my struggles with food and weight, but I feel so inadequate to others who somehow manage to go to school, work, etc. I don't know if I am just lazy? I don't know if I need to just somehow Nike-style "DO IT" or if for me, baby-steps are the only way. I should know by now that for whatever reason, just "doing it" doesn't quite work out. It's just painfully difficult for me to accept that *this* is how things are. Not that I won't keep working towards my goals, I'm just frustrated with how long and drawn out this all seems, and whether I am making things worse for myself. I feel like I can DO all these things- I can work, go to school, eat in a restaurant, deal with whatever stress life throws my way. But only for a very short space of time. Days, weeks, months- it doesn't matter. I just haven't been able to sustain things for any significant period of time without falling to pieces. Again and again.

Anyway... Back on topic. The outcome of the phone call was that the program doesn't think I am stable enough to return at this point for various reasons. This is just bizarre to me because my team here are perfectly happy with how I am doing/the way things are going. I WANT to try things here with moving into my apartment, carrying on with the small goals, and if TIME wasn't an issue, I'd be happy to do this and reapply for the program when I can stand up and say, "that was where I WAS, this is where I AM and I am ready to take it to the next level". BUT, I only have insurance in the US until October so it DOES feel like a "now or never" thing. Because it IS. I know that I am working towards that place where I can proudly say, "this is where I am NOW" but it doesn't feel like progress because I'm not there yet.

Digging For A Cause

I really have nothing to say right now. I still have the feeling that I have been run over by a bus, still feeling like curling up in bed for the next 6 months, still having no desire to do anything/see anyone. Hell, I haven't switched on my phone for 3 days, never mind actually called anyone.

I don't know where this came from. A week ago things were really starting to look up, then all of a sudden, "BAM". A couple of things did contribute, looking back...

I was living in London with a friend's family a few years ago. I was working with a treatment team, had my friends nearby. I wasn't doing "well", but there were concrete plans in place to help me move forward. My dad (who has always been opposed to "treatment" and thinks I should just sit in a garden and be healed by nature) persuaded me to move to Scotland and live with him. I knew that there were/are VERY limited treatment resources in Scotland but he assured me that *he* would take care of me, that his wife was a dietitian who would stay at home with me, that we would eat together, do things together- set up our own "care plan" to avoid another inpatient admission. I stupidly agreed. Packed my bags and left. It became obvious pretty early on that things weren't going to work out for lots of reasons. My dad worked long hours so was never home, his wife and I didn't get on so the atmosphere in the apartment was horrible, never mind "healing". I didn't know anybody, didn't connect with the therapist I was assigned to and regretted moving, but going back to London at that point wasn't an option. So I stayed. Within a few months, I NEEDED to get away and focus on my recovery which was when I went to New York for treatment. Whilst I was there, it became apparent that I would be there longer than the anticipated 3-4 weeks. I couldn't give a date for WHEN I would be back, and my dad, out of the blue, called me in the hospital to say he was selling his apartment, moving abroad and putting all my stuff in storage. His reasoning was that he was retiring and needed the money from the sale of the apartment to live off. I understood this. I wasn't happy about it, knowing that if/when I returned, I had nowhere to GO, but it was his apartment/his money/his choice.

Fast forward to now. I am staying with my mom, in the storage room of her apartment. It's also my brother's room. He is away at college so doesn't need a big space since he's never here, but the room is filled with his and my mom's stuff (I have 2 small suitcases in the sitting room behind the sofa and have gotten rid of most of my things because there was nowhere to put it). I am in the process of registering as "homeless" and applying for "supported housing" (ie, a shared house with 7-8 people who struggle with mental health problems, mainly psychotic illnesses- been in one before and they are SCARY places to live). On Friday night, my older brother came for dinner and just happened to mention that my dad is coming at Christmas, having bought an apartment in the city. The plan is for my older brother and his girlfriend to live there and pay rent to cover the mortgage until my dad moves back.

I am so angry and hurt about this. I don't understand why my dad sold his place with such urgency, making out like he desperately needed the money, and now less than 2 years later has bought another property (which I am 99% sure was more expensive). I am angry that I gave up EVERYTHING I had in London to live with him and believed his lies. I'm angry that he has put me in this situation of being "homeless" without accepting any responsibility for that.

Most of all, I'm angry with myself. I'm 26. I should be working full-time, living with friends/by myself and not relying on my parents at this point. But I am. I'm just angry and hurt by the situation, and there are so many unanswered questions. None which I feel I have the right to even ask, never mind get answers to.

Wow, that was long.

So yeah, that was on Friday. Saturday morning was when I woke up and things had "changed".

Coincidence?..

Lost

I have been sitting in my room all evening, thinking, planning, reminiscing. Out of nowhere, it all seemed to make sense. I've been avoiding thinking about the last few months. The last 2 years. Ever since I went to New York for treatment...all the time that has passed between now and then. The amazing people I met, the amazing taste of a life without anorexia I had briefly, the amazing opportunities that were handed to me, and how fucked up. Time, after time, after time.

I miss New York more than I can say. Not a day goes by when I don't think about it, dream about it, ache for it. I miss what I had- my friends, my family, therapy, goals, and most importantly, hope.

I've avoided thinking about it in depth because at this point, it's dangerous. I tried, and almost succeeded, to kill myself 3 weeks ago. I genuinely did want to die, and I still do. I don't see a way out of this. There is too much reality tied in with my emotions now. This isn't a chemical depression- this is the cold, hard reality of the choices I made, the mistakes I made, the trail of destruction/pain/heartache/anger I have left behind me.

I don't think I have the strength to make another attempt. And that is almost worse. It wasn't a decision I came to easily, or a path that I wanted to walk down. I simply saw no alternative out of this hellish existence I created for myself.

I want so much, and it hurts. It hurts because I can't HAVE it. There is no tangible reason for WHY I can't have it- it's not overly ambitious, not extravagant in any way/shape/form. I have tried, and tried, and tried again to make it work, make it happen, make my dreams come true.

Accepting that it may never become a reality for me is not sitting well.

I feel shaken, agitated, angry, hopeless. I sit and I drift off into the fantasy of what life could be like. I feel powerful, happy, excited. I think about the past and tears run down my face, my body cold and limp. I stare at the ceiling and count. One, two, three, four. Anything to make the memories stop. I count calories, protein grams, fat grams, sodium, sugar, fibre. I calculate weight in kilos, pounds. BMI, RMR. Numbers, numbers, numbers. Anything to block out the relentless stream of questions in my head: "why did I do...", "why did that...", "how can I...".

I want so much and yet so little at the same time. My brain is split by conflict that I need to resolve. Somehow, somewhere, someday.

(not so) creative writing

Slowly, she starts to eat. She tastes nothing but bitterness as she forces her food downwards, fighting the waves of anger that ripple upwards from her solar plexus. The food threatens to choke her as she struggles to swallow, her throat constricted, crying out in rage. It sits in her stomach like a brick. She feels nauseaus, dizzy, afraid. It is not just the food, but the swallowed emotions that seem to brew within her, bubbling up as if they might errupt.