I realized tonight that I base my entire self-worth on other people's opinions of me. Do you think I am good enough to do xxx job? Do you think I am the best harpist in this competition? Do you think my life is worth saving? I put myself into situations, not consciously, but time and time again, purely to see how other people perceive me.
My self-esteem is non-existent, and I rely on others to validate me.
Am I a good enough person to be given that award/medal/job/prize? Is my existence valuable enough that you are willing to step in and stop me from killing myself? Then I resent either outcome. I don't get the job/prize/whatever, and it further fuels my destructiveness. "I KNEW I wasn't good enough". If I DO get what I really want, then it just screws with my head. "They made a mistake/they have ulterior motives/they don't see me for what I really am".
Will I ever feel good enough? Not likely. I aim for perfection and discover it's a moving target. I keep moving the target. Okay, I won X competition, but now I need to win Y. I lost Xlbs, now I need to lose XXlbs. I'll never be good enough to meet my own standards.
It's a losing battle. The more I achieve, the more I strive, and the more I strive, the more I set myself up to fail. The more I fail, the more destructive I become and the cycle feeds off itself.
I KNOW this rationally.
What I don't know is how to change it.
How to lower my expectations/standards. How to accept myself for how I am. How to be happy with what I've got. How to value myself enough to not rely on others to determine what I'm worth.
Friday, 4 July 2008
Thursday, 3 July 2008
Going Nowhere (would you like to come too?)
So, after 4 months, I am going "home". Actually, I am going to stay with my mom for a couple weeks, then a friend of hers for a couple weeks and hopefully somewhere along my travels will find a place I can call "home". Really, I don't know where I am going or what I am doing.
I have a flight booked in a month.
Between now and then, things are unclear. I have the option of continuing to temp as required. I have the option of going into hospital. I have the option of bumming around the city. Pros and cons of all three... Hospital isn't appealing for oh-so-many reasons. Mainly the fact that it isn't going to help my mental state, and if the treatment is purely physical, am going to be in a worse state when I leave than when I go in. Bumming around the city isn't as much fun as it sounds. The temptation to just walk and walk in 90 degree heat until my body aches and I am seeing spots is too hard to resist. Temping... At least I'd be kept busy and earn a little money. I just don't want to anymore. I'm tired. I don't feel well mentally or physically. I am in a self-destructive spiral, and I think the temping works fuels that. It confirms that I can't get/keep a "real" job. That all I am good at is answering the phone and stuffing envelopes.
Truth is, I don't want to do anything except get through the next few weeks as painlessly as possible. I am working Monday, will hear early next week about a bed for hospital- everything will be under review, day by day.
If I thought that not working and not going into hospital would be FUN, I'd do it. Summer in new York? 3-4 weeks to enjoy the city? Sounds great. It's really not though when you sleep an average of 3-4 hours a night, are too wired on diet pills to stand still and your brain can only focus on something other than food for a total of about 60 seconds.
I don't want to leave New York. Not like this. Not the way I have the last 2 years. I wanted so badly for things to be different this time.
I have a flight booked in a month.
Between now and then, things are unclear. I have the option of continuing to temp as required. I have the option of going into hospital. I have the option of bumming around the city. Pros and cons of all three... Hospital isn't appealing for oh-so-many reasons. Mainly the fact that it isn't going to help my mental state, and if the treatment is purely physical, am going to be in a worse state when I leave than when I go in. Bumming around the city isn't as much fun as it sounds. The temptation to just walk and walk in 90 degree heat until my body aches and I am seeing spots is too hard to resist. Temping... At least I'd be kept busy and earn a little money. I just don't want to anymore. I'm tired. I don't feel well mentally or physically. I am in a self-destructive spiral, and I think the temping works fuels that. It confirms that I can't get/keep a "real" job. That all I am good at is answering the phone and stuffing envelopes.
Truth is, I don't want to do anything except get through the next few weeks as painlessly as possible. I am working Monday, will hear early next week about a bed for hospital- everything will be under review, day by day.
If I thought that not working and not going into hospital would be FUN, I'd do it. Summer in new York? 3-4 weeks to enjoy the city? Sounds great. It's really not though when you sleep an average of 3-4 hours a night, are too wired on diet pills to stand still and your brain can only focus on something other than food for a total of about 60 seconds.
I don't want to leave New York. Not like this. Not the way I have the last 2 years. I wanted so badly for things to be different this time.
Sunday, 29 June 2008
Memories...
Friday will be exactly eleven years since Jenny died. I rarely talk about her, but not a day goes by when I don't think about her.
Backtrack a little- Jenny was several years older than me, and one of the "cool kids" at synagogue. I hung out with the kids my age, and we all looked up to the slightly older ones (you know how it is when you are 4-5, and there are these oh-so-cool 9-10 year olds!) My family stopped attending synagogue for various reasons, and carried on with our day-to-day lives.
Fast forward to me, aged 14, when I was admitted to the local hospital for treatment. Jenny was also a patient. We grew close again- her attending each day, me returning to the ward after "program" to sleep. We talked a lot about our similarities between our families, our upbringing, the daily battles we faced. Her eyes sparkled at her excitement about recovery, her determination to get well shone through her frail appearance. As time went on, due to Jenny's family circumstances, she hit a bump in the road and started to go downhill. She was admitted to the same ward I slept on, and our bond grew stronger. It was heartbreaking to see her struggle, the twinkling in her eyes start to fade. Still we talked, made grand plans for when we were well and out in the real world.
A couple of weeks later I was transferred to a unit 300 miles away, leaving Jenny behind. She made me promise that I would never stop fighting for recovery, that I was worth it, that I was stronger than this disease. I kept the card and picture she gave me by my bed and thought about her all the time. A week later, I got called into the nurses station to take a phonecall. I took the phone, and it was one of the nurses from the hospital Jenny and I had been in together. She didn't have to tell me. I knew. I remember falling to the floor, and I remember crying for what felt like months. I don't remember much else about the days/weeks that followed.
All I know is that a part of me died that day.
Eleven years later and I am plagued with guilt that I didn't keep my promise. Every time I use some kind of "symptom", I get flashbacks of Jenny and I huddled in the hallway of the hospital- me, promising that I would stay strong, that I would beat this. I hear her voice, hear the excitement about the prospect of being well- it comes in flashes, and I want SO badly to live the life that was taken from Jenny. I feel guilty that I survived and Jenny didn't. That I wasn't there for her during that last week. That I didn't DO something, that eleven years later I still don't know what I could have done.
I am angry with the hospital for letting her die. Angry at the doctors for standing back and watching someone so special just deteriorate without intervention. I am angry at the healthcare system and lack of resources in Scotland that took away the best friend I have ever had, and continues to to take the lives of others. It is so unfair, so cruel, so wrong.
I don't know quite what I believe about the afterlife, but I hope that Jenny is at peace with her demons now.
Jenny... I miss you.
Backtrack a little- Jenny was several years older than me, and one of the "cool kids" at synagogue. I hung out with the kids my age, and we all looked up to the slightly older ones (you know how it is when you are 4-5, and there are these oh-so-cool 9-10 year olds!) My family stopped attending synagogue for various reasons, and carried on with our day-to-day lives.
Fast forward to me, aged 14, when I was admitted to the local hospital for treatment. Jenny was also a patient. We grew close again- her attending each day, me returning to the ward after "program" to sleep. We talked a lot about our similarities between our families, our upbringing, the daily battles we faced. Her eyes sparkled at her excitement about recovery, her determination to get well shone through her frail appearance. As time went on, due to Jenny's family circumstances, she hit a bump in the road and started to go downhill. She was admitted to the same ward I slept on, and our bond grew stronger. It was heartbreaking to see her struggle, the twinkling in her eyes start to fade. Still we talked, made grand plans for when we were well and out in the real world.
A couple of weeks later I was transferred to a unit 300 miles away, leaving Jenny behind. She made me promise that I would never stop fighting for recovery, that I was worth it, that I was stronger than this disease. I kept the card and picture she gave me by my bed and thought about her all the time. A week later, I got called into the nurses station to take a phonecall. I took the phone, and it was one of the nurses from the hospital Jenny and I had been in together. She didn't have to tell me. I knew. I remember falling to the floor, and I remember crying for what felt like months. I don't remember much else about the days/weeks that followed.
All I know is that a part of me died that day.
Eleven years later and I am plagued with guilt that I didn't keep my promise. Every time I use some kind of "symptom", I get flashbacks of Jenny and I huddled in the hallway of the hospital- me, promising that I would stay strong, that I would beat this. I hear her voice, hear the excitement about the prospect of being well- it comes in flashes, and I want SO badly to live the life that was taken from Jenny. I feel guilty that I survived and Jenny didn't. That I wasn't there for her during that last week. That I didn't DO something, that eleven years later I still don't know what I could have done.
I am angry with the hospital for letting her die. Angry at the doctors for standing back and watching someone so special just deteriorate without intervention. I am angry at the healthcare system and lack of resources in Scotland that took away the best friend I have ever had, and continues to to take the lives of others. It is so unfair, so cruel, so wrong.
I don't know quite what I believe about the afterlife, but I hope that Jenny is at peace with her demons now.
Jenny... I miss you.
Saturday, 28 June 2008
Oh! I Love My Life (and all that jazz...)
I don't know what's happened the last couple of weeks, but something is different. I don't know whether it is partly physical, or purely mental, but there is something wrong. I'm not sleeping. I've stopped working. I have a hatred for myself that runs so deep I think of little more than ways to destroy myself. I don't know if it's based on facts- I have been applying for jobs, getting invited to lots of interviews, and getting rejected, time and time again. I feel useless. I feel stupid. I feel lazy for not working/trying harder/being a better person. I wake up each morning, my pillow wet from my tears through the night. I've started isolating- wanting so desperately to reach out to people, yet not willing to inflict myself on people I care about. I am a waste of space. I do nothing but suck the life out of everyone around me.
I hate myself.
I hate that I have screwed up the last 14 years of my life. I hate that I can't just be normal. I hate that all I am good at is losing weight. I hate that I can't get/keep a job. I hate that I can't just comply with treatment that may actually help. I hate that I am so self-obsessed and wrapped up in my eating disorder that I don't notice anyone/anything around me. I hate that I have become so unreliable and unpredictable. I hate that I am lying to everyone around me. I hate that I am doing all this STUFF and hate even more that I don't know how to stop, or if I even want to.
I need a job.
I need a support network.
I need some non-eating disordered friends.
I need an anxiety relieving hobby.
I need to take better care of myself.
I need lots of things. I want lots of things. It hurts to want, because they are things I'll never have- "normality". A real job, an apartment, friends, a life that isn't dictated by doctors or illness. Is there a difference between wants and needs? They feel the same to me. They are all WANTS. I don't "need" anything. Or so I like to keep telling myself.
I hate myself.
I hate that I have screwed up the last 14 years of my life. I hate that I can't just be normal. I hate that all I am good at is losing weight. I hate that I can't get/keep a job. I hate that I can't just comply with treatment that may actually help. I hate that I am so self-obsessed and wrapped up in my eating disorder that I don't notice anyone/anything around me. I hate that I have become so unreliable and unpredictable. I hate that I am lying to everyone around me. I hate that I am doing all this STUFF and hate even more that I don't know how to stop, or if I even want to.
I need a job.
I need a support network.
I need some non-eating disordered friends.
I need an anxiety relieving hobby.
I need to take better care of myself.
I need lots of things. I want lots of things. It hurts to want, because they are things I'll never have- "normality". A real job, an apartment, friends, a life that isn't dictated by doctors or illness. Is there a difference between wants and needs? They feel the same to me. They are all WANTS. I don't "need" anything. Or so I like to keep telling myself.
Saturday, 14 June 2008
Return To Blogosphere- the good, the bad and the ugly
It's been a really long time since I have written. A lot has happened, a lot has changed...and yet despite the drastic changes, so much remains the same.
Since my last entries, I have moved to New York. I've started seeing friends again (and developed an intense phobia of being alone after several long months in complete isolation back in the UK). I've restarted therapy. I've been working. I've been having fun. I've been trying desperately to appear "normal"- happy, carefree, conscientious, hardworking, sociable.
At night, after work, I come home exhausted and broken. I feel broken. Something still feels very wrong, and I'm not sure what. Of course, I am blaming everything else around me- my apartment, my job, the heat, the city itself...anything to avoid looking inside of myself and questioning what it is that makes me feel so empty and desperate.
Don't get me wrong. I am happier in New York. I am happy that I am doing all the things I have been doing. Yet some stuff remains so unchanged. My rituals, routines, my oatmeal-for-dinner habit, the constant weighing/measuring/checking...just to make sure I am not taking up more space than I deserve.
I have flashes of inspiration. Moments where I feel like I have everything now, and it's finally okay to let my eating disorder go...then moments so bleak when I cling to the darkness because it keeps me safe from everything around me.
I am confused.
I am conflicted.
I don't have the time anymore to give either recovery or relapse much thought. My eating disorder is in the background, running it's course, and I am ignoring it because, dammit, I have bills to pay, meetings to go to, work to do. I can't afford the luxury of indulging either the healthy or sick parts that exist within me.. Which of course becomes and excuse to fall further into my disorder. "I'm too busy to eat/I don't have time to cook/I don't have money to eat out/I can't take time off work to see a doctor". All of which is TRUE. To an extent. But I wonder how long the current status quo is sustainable for. Whether it is going to come crashing down around me like the past few years in New York, or if somehow, this is going to fix itself (I am really rather lazy when it comes to putting in effort to more than one thing, and my current focus is on being able to pay my rent!). I also can't afford the luxury of considering whether my current situation is even worth thinking through- because if I realise/decide I am not doing well, then I am obligated to do something about it. And I don't want to. Yes I do. No I don't/
Like I said, I am conflicted.
A few things I have realised since coming back though;-
- I am very easily influenced by what goes on around me
- if I don't make a conscious effort to take care of basic needs like eating/sleeping, I just...don't
- I need to spend more time around healthy people
- I am a really good liar (especially to myself)
- people who stand in line at Starbucks for 15 mins, then STILL haven't decided what they want by the time they get to the register are REALLY ANNOYING
- people who charge $150 to tell you that you should start painting and "all will be well" are also REALLY ANNOYING
Since my last entries, I have moved to New York. I've started seeing friends again (and developed an intense phobia of being alone after several long months in complete isolation back in the UK). I've restarted therapy. I've been working. I've been having fun. I've been trying desperately to appear "normal"- happy, carefree, conscientious, hardworking, sociable.
At night, after work, I come home exhausted and broken. I feel broken. Something still feels very wrong, and I'm not sure what. Of course, I am blaming everything else around me- my apartment, my job, the heat, the city itself...anything to avoid looking inside of myself and questioning what it is that makes me feel so empty and desperate.
Don't get me wrong. I am happier in New York. I am happy that I am doing all the things I have been doing. Yet some stuff remains so unchanged. My rituals, routines, my oatmeal-for-dinner habit, the constant weighing/measuring/checking...just to make sure I am not taking up more space than I deserve.
I have flashes of inspiration. Moments where I feel like I have everything now, and it's finally okay to let my eating disorder go...then moments so bleak when I cling to the darkness because it keeps me safe from everything around me.
I am confused.
I am conflicted.
I don't have the time anymore to give either recovery or relapse much thought. My eating disorder is in the background, running it's course, and I am ignoring it because, dammit, I have bills to pay, meetings to go to, work to do. I can't afford the luxury of indulging either the healthy or sick parts that exist within me.. Which of course becomes and excuse to fall further into my disorder. "I'm too busy to eat/I don't have time to cook/I don't have money to eat out/I can't take time off work to see a doctor". All of which is TRUE. To an extent. But I wonder how long the current status quo is sustainable for. Whether it is going to come crashing down around me like the past few years in New York, or if somehow, this is going to fix itself (I am really rather lazy when it comes to putting in effort to more than one thing, and my current focus is on being able to pay my rent!). I also can't afford the luxury of considering whether my current situation is even worth thinking through- because if I realise/decide I am not doing well, then I am obligated to do something about it. And I don't want to. Yes I do. No I don't/
Like I said, I am conflicted.
A few things I have realised since coming back though;-
- I am very easily influenced by what goes on around me
- if I don't make a conscious effort to take care of basic needs like eating/sleeping, I just...don't
- I need to spend more time around healthy people
- I am a really good liar (especially to myself)
- people who stand in line at Starbucks for 15 mins, then STILL haven't decided what they want by the time they get to the register are REALLY ANNOYING
- people who charge $150 to tell you that you should start painting and "all will be well" are also REALLY ANNOYING
Wednesday, 26 March 2008
The differences between the US and UK health care systems
I have experienced health care on both sides of the pond, so whilst some may disagree with my opinions, I believe them to be valid.
In the UK, it's all about maximising resources, saving money, damage control/harm reduction. I've been shunted from program to program, deemed "unresponsive"/chronic and had several years of "treatment" where the primary focus was on living with my eating disorder. I was taught how to maintain a low weight in as stable a way as possible. I was taught how to minimise the damage I was doing to my body. This, to me, was great. I was tired of living in psychiatric units. I was tired of being held down and force-fed, tired of my body being controlled by others. Once I turned 21, the focus changed and in order to prevent wasting more money on treatment I wasn't making use of*, it was all about helping me to avoid medical crisis after medical crisis, and manage my condition in the community. This is fine and well. Everybody knows that eating disorders can kill people. What people don't know is that if it doesn't kill you straightaway, you live, day in and day out, within a vacuum- nothing is as important as food and weight. You think of nothing else. You have no social life because your malnourished state is causing such obsessive thinking that you cannot hold a conversation, never mind relax over drinks with friends (friends? oh- did nobody tell you that you lose them all? They have lives to live that DON'T revolve around calories/numbers). Anyway. Back to my point. I was being taught how to stay entrenched in my illness without really realising the impact this would have. It wasn't just a case of being a normal functioning human being who happens to be rather thin. It was more a case of being left to my own devices knowing that there would be some intervention only if and when I should happen to collapse in the street and somebody calls an ambulance. Fair enough. The National Health Service has spent a fortune on my treatment- money that maybe could have been better spent elsewhere. Maybe on something other than just refeeding. Or on a program better suited to an anorexic 15 year old than a juvenile detention centre (after one doctor washed his hands of me and nobody knew quite what to do with this child who would just not be normal dammit)
So, yes. I've had my fair share of NHS treatment and quite frankly, would not be alive today without it. But...there's always a but. Maybe I am being a little too 'Pollyanna'-ish about it, but I still believe that there is a better life out there for me. I don't think I have to settle for what I currently have. I don't want the life that the NHS has mapped out for me- several more years of outpatient weigh-ins/check-ins, doped up on psychiatric medications, too stuck in my own world to hold down a job/live independently/have a *gasp* life.
This train of thought was what prompted me to try a different approach. The NHS was (and remains) a closed door in terms of actual help with a true recovery for me. I looked elsewhere and was very fortunate to qualify for a research study in America. I do consider myself VERY lucky to be offered a place on this program. The treatment was free because I participated in research. From the word "go", it was clear that they KNEW recovery was possible. They weren't even going to entertain the idea that living with an eating disorder was an option. No sir-ee. This was a whole-hog "refeed/fix the brain/eat like a normal person/you can do it" program. I got to a healthy weight for the first time in about 6 years. I ate pizza and French toast. I started a part-time job, a part-time class at university, met new people...got a life. Things were starting to take on a new and exciting form for me.
I graduated from the program, and for follow-up, attended a world-renowned treatment centre's day program. Don't let the name fool you kids- you don't always get exactly what it says on the label. This was a "wham bam thank you ma'am" program. You paid a rather disgusting amount of money just to be scrutinised as you cut your sandwich into quarters, and sat in endless hours of silence as the groups were facilitated by robotic clones who seemed brainwashed into saying little more than, "that is inappropriate conversation" should we even dare to utter the slightest reference to food/weight/body image/celebrities/men/media/fashion (hence the silence- you can only talk about the weather for so long!). The first signs of struggling, you were issued a "contract"- break the contract and you go to a higher level of care (oh, and what do you know? they even OFFER a higher level of care, at...what a surprise! An even higher cost!) I didn't technically break my contract, but it came to a point where I had "saturated my time on the program". Their explanation was that I would not get more benefit from the delights they offered. The reality was that I was paying the sliding-scale fee, and after a certain length of time, they wanted to give my space to somebody paying the full cost. Fair play. Business is business.
WAIT! NO!
Business should not be *just* business when it comes to health care. What about the patient? Where do they come in? Isn't their health a priority? Nope. Not if they don't have the money or the potential to sue at some point. You have enough to pay for treatment but not for a lawyer? You're home free. You have semi-decent insurance? They'll take you, all concerned and caring, then 3 days later kick you out when insurance pulls out. All of a sudden you go from being "in desperate need of help/support/observation", to "there's no more money- pack your bags". Seriously. I've seen it happen.
Americans may read this and not bat an eyelid- it's the system they know. I was shocked. The system, in both countries, is fatally flawed. No, I am not being melodramatic here. I don't even want to imagine how many people die each year as a result of the US money-making machine that they (almost laughably) call "Health care", and the British system, whilst free, is almost as bad with the "postcode lottery" and "care in the community at any/all costs" approach they take.
Either way, it's not your illness or symptoms that determine what kind of treatment you get. Whether it's an eating disorder or something completely different (cancer, diabetes, a broken bone), in the UK it's about spending as little money as possible to stop you racking up a huge bill to the Government. In the US it's about what insurance you have and whether that person sitting at the admin desk in the insurance office decides whether or not today is your lucky day (I wonder if they use some kind of magic-8 ball system? Or a spin-the-bottle type game each time a claim comes through?..)
Don't get me wrong. There are huge benefits to both systems too. I have seen some excellent doctors in both the UK and US. I've had some superb treatment both sides of the pond. I've met genuinely caring and compassionate people who really DO want to help patients. But they sadly seem to be few and far between.
Just my $0.02. feel free to disagree.
* quite how you make use of being held down and having someone stick a tube up your nose, I don't know
In the UK, it's all about maximising resources, saving money, damage control/harm reduction. I've been shunted from program to program, deemed "unresponsive"/chronic and had several years of "treatment" where the primary focus was on living with my eating disorder. I was taught how to maintain a low weight in as stable a way as possible. I was taught how to minimise the damage I was doing to my body. This, to me, was great. I was tired of living in psychiatric units. I was tired of being held down and force-fed, tired of my body being controlled by others. Once I turned 21, the focus changed and in order to prevent wasting more money on treatment I wasn't making use of*, it was all about helping me to avoid medical crisis after medical crisis, and manage my condition in the community. This is fine and well. Everybody knows that eating disorders can kill people. What people don't know is that if it doesn't kill you straightaway, you live, day in and day out, within a vacuum- nothing is as important as food and weight. You think of nothing else. You have no social life because your malnourished state is causing such obsessive thinking that you cannot hold a conversation, never mind relax over drinks with friends (friends? oh- did nobody tell you that you lose them all? They have lives to live that DON'T revolve around calories/numbers). Anyway. Back to my point. I was being taught how to stay entrenched in my illness without really realising the impact this would have. It wasn't just a case of being a normal functioning human being who happens to be rather thin. It was more a case of being left to my own devices knowing that there would be some intervention only if and when I should happen to collapse in the street and somebody calls an ambulance. Fair enough. The National Health Service has spent a fortune on my treatment- money that maybe could have been better spent elsewhere. Maybe on something other than just refeeding. Or on a program better suited to an anorexic 15 year old than a juvenile detention centre (after one doctor washed his hands of me and nobody knew quite what to do with this child who would just not be normal dammit)
So, yes. I've had my fair share of NHS treatment and quite frankly, would not be alive today without it. But...there's always a but. Maybe I am being a little too 'Pollyanna'-ish about it, but I still believe that there is a better life out there for me. I don't think I have to settle for what I currently have. I don't want the life that the NHS has mapped out for me- several more years of outpatient weigh-ins/check-ins, doped up on psychiatric medications, too stuck in my own world to hold down a job/live independently/have a *gasp* life.
This train of thought was what prompted me to try a different approach. The NHS was (and remains) a closed door in terms of actual help with a true recovery for me. I looked elsewhere and was very fortunate to qualify for a research study in America. I do consider myself VERY lucky to be offered a place on this program. The treatment was free because I participated in research. From the word "go", it was clear that they KNEW recovery was possible. They weren't even going to entertain the idea that living with an eating disorder was an option. No sir-ee. This was a whole-hog "refeed/fix the brain/eat like a normal person/you can do it" program. I got to a healthy weight for the first time in about 6 years. I ate pizza and French toast. I started a part-time job, a part-time class at university, met new people...got a life. Things were starting to take on a new and exciting form for me.
I graduated from the program, and for follow-up, attended a world-renowned treatment centre's day program. Don't let the name fool you kids- you don't always get exactly what it says on the label. This was a "wham bam thank you ma'am" program. You paid a rather disgusting amount of money just to be scrutinised as you cut your sandwich into quarters, and sat in endless hours of silence as the groups were facilitated by robotic clones who seemed brainwashed into saying little more than, "that is inappropriate conversation" should we even dare to utter the slightest reference to food/weight/body image/celebrities/men/media/fashion (hence the silence- you can only talk about the weather for so long!). The first signs of struggling, you were issued a "contract"- break the contract and you go to a higher level of care (oh, and what do you know? they even OFFER a higher level of care, at...what a surprise! An even higher cost!) I didn't technically break my contract, but it came to a point where I had "saturated my time on the program". Their explanation was that I would not get more benefit from the delights they offered. The reality was that I was paying the sliding-scale fee, and after a certain length of time, they wanted to give my space to somebody paying the full cost. Fair play. Business is business.
WAIT! NO!
Business should not be *just* business when it comes to health care. What about the patient? Where do they come in? Isn't their health a priority? Nope. Not if they don't have the money or the potential to sue at some point. You have enough to pay for treatment but not for a lawyer? You're home free. You have semi-decent insurance? They'll take you, all concerned and caring, then 3 days later kick you out when insurance pulls out. All of a sudden you go from being "in desperate need of help/support/observation", to "there's no more money- pack your bags". Seriously. I've seen it happen.
Americans may read this and not bat an eyelid- it's the system they know. I was shocked. The system, in both countries, is fatally flawed. No, I am not being melodramatic here. I don't even want to imagine how many people die each year as a result of the US money-making machine that they (almost laughably) call "Health care", and the British system, whilst free, is almost as bad with the "postcode lottery" and "care in the community at any/all costs" approach they take.
Either way, it's not your illness or symptoms that determine what kind of treatment you get. Whether it's an eating disorder or something completely different (cancer, diabetes, a broken bone), in the UK it's about spending as little money as possible to stop you racking up a huge bill to the Government. In the US it's about what insurance you have and whether that person sitting at the admin desk in the insurance office decides whether or not today is your lucky day (I wonder if they use some kind of magic-8 ball system? Or a spin-the-bottle type game each time a claim comes through?..)
Don't get me wrong. There are huge benefits to both systems too. I have seen some excellent doctors in both the UK and US. I've had some superb treatment both sides of the pond. I've met genuinely caring and compassionate people who really DO want to help patients. But they sadly seem to be few and far between.
Just my $0.02. feel free to disagree.
* quite how you make use of being held down and having someone stick a tube up your nose, I don't know
Wednesday, 12 March 2008
"Live like you were dying..."
Recent events have got me thinking. The topic of death has come up in my life more than I care to think about over the last few months- kind of put things in perspective a little. Most of these people had no warning, no time to say goodbye, to prepare. I've been left feeling kind of numb an analytical over the whole situation (it's complicated and I won't go into it right now).
Death is a rather taboo topic. Something people seem scared of discussing. I don't know where the fear stems from- death is the only thing certain in life. Time is the only variable, and there isn't crystal ball you can look in and know exactly when/where/how. Perhaps that's what is so scary- how unpredictable it is.
It's made me think about how I spend my days, and how any given day could be my last. There's no way of knowing what will happen tomorrow, next week, in a month's time. I don't know how I would feel or react if I was told I was going to die- I don't think there's anything that can prepare you for that kind of news. I don't know... I know that if I died tomorrow, there are countless things that I would have liked to do, thing I have wanted to say, people I have wanted to spend more time with. I want to say that starting now it's going to be different, that I'll live each day as if it's my last- and as cliche as that sounds, I would want it to be true. The reality is that I'll probably never get around to saying those words out loud, making the time I should for the people I want to be with, following through with the plans/goals I have for my life.
I'll go back to burying my head in the sand, pretending I'm immortal and spend the rest of my days building up a mental list of "things to do before I die".
This all sounds rather morbid. I have no intention of dying anytime soon. But at the same time, neither do I see myself living forevermore. Life is really rather daunting. I like to take things as they come and focus on small, rather irrelevant, things rather than the panic about the potentially long and arduous future ahead of me.
It doesn't have to be arduous. It doesn't have to be daunting. In some ways, knowing I could die at any given time is a rather freeing train of thought to follow... But still, whilst I am alive and kicking, I feel I should be making more of my time here.
Death is a rather taboo topic. Something people seem scared of discussing. I don't know where the fear stems from- death is the only thing certain in life. Time is the only variable, and there isn't crystal ball you can look in and know exactly when/where/how. Perhaps that's what is so scary- how unpredictable it is.
It's made me think about how I spend my days, and how any given day could be my last. There's no way of knowing what will happen tomorrow, next week, in a month's time. I don't know how I would feel or react if I was told I was going to die- I don't think there's anything that can prepare you for that kind of news. I don't know... I know that if I died tomorrow, there are countless things that I would have liked to do, thing I have wanted to say, people I have wanted to spend more time with. I want to say that starting now it's going to be different, that I'll live each day as if it's my last- and as cliche as that sounds, I would want it to be true. The reality is that I'll probably never get around to saying those words out loud, making the time I should for the people I want to be with, following through with the plans/goals I have for my life.
I'll go back to burying my head in the sand, pretending I'm immortal and spend the rest of my days building up a mental list of "things to do before I die".
This all sounds rather morbid. I have no intention of dying anytime soon. But at the same time, neither do I see myself living forevermore. Life is really rather daunting. I like to take things as they come and focus on small, rather irrelevant, things rather than the panic about the potentially long and arduous future ahead of me.
It doesn't have to be arduous. It doesn't have to be daunting. In some ways, knowing I could die at any given time is a rather freeing train of thought to follow... But still, whilst I am alive and kicking, I feel I should be making more of my time here.
"Like tomorrow was a gift and you got eternity to think about
what�d you do with it what did you do with it
what did I do with it
what would I do with it?
Sky diving
I went Rocky Mountain climbing
I went 2.7 seconds on a bull named fumanchu
and then I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter
and I watched an eagle as it was flying
and he said someday I hope you get the chance
what�d you do with it what did you do with it
what did I do with it
what would I do with it?
Sky diving
I went Rocky Mountain climbing
I went 2.7 seconds on a bull named fumanchu
and then I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter
and I watched an eagle as it was flying
and he said someday I hope you get the chance
to live like you were dying"
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