“I don't think people realize, when they're just getting started on an eating disorder or even when they're in the grip of one, that it is not something that you just "get over." For the vast majority of eating-disordered people, it is something that will haunt you for the rest of your life. You may change your behavior, change your beliefs about yourself and your body, give up that particular way of coping in the world. You may learn, as I have, that you would rather be a human than a human's thin shell. You may get well. But you never forget.”
Another Marya Hornbacher quote. I remember reading 'Wasted' for the first time. I couldn't put it down. I devoured it. Here was, in words, exactly how I was feeling. I wasn't alone in my thoughts. For the first time I had proof that, no matter how crazy I sounded, no matter how fucked up I felt, there were others out there who felt like me. I still go back to that book now. It makes sense of things to me.
I digress.
I'm struggling at the moment with the notion that this is going to be my life now. I think that's one of the reasons I've put off recovery for so long. I don't want to be fighting against this for the rest of my life. As tiring and as soul destroying as Bulimia is, it is so much easier to just let her be. To give in. To allow her to carry on. There's a certain safety to it, I suppose. The thought of fighting against this part of myself, every day, for the rest of my life. . . . It's beyond exhausting. I just don't know if I have it in me. If I even know where to begin.
So often I hear the words 'It's something that will be with you forever, you'll learn to deal with it. It will get easier.' - True as those words are, they are a terrible blow. I don't believe the last part.
Now that I have my girls, I have a reason to keep going. Were it not for them, I am certain that by now I would be ready to give up. I've had enough.
It's the face that lights up when I collect her from preschool. The eyes that gaze at me with love as I nurse her to sleep. The 'I really do love you, Mummy' while we're cuddling, or just because. The learning to stand, then throwing herself into my arms when she loses her balance. Without these moments, I'd be nothing at all.
Recovery to me, then - It's watching them grow up. Holding their hands along the way. Cuddling them close. Letting them discover who they are. Feeling as if I will burst with pride. Taking them to their first days at school. Teaching them. Guiding them. Encouraging them. Loving them.
Recovery is for them. For S and for E. Recovery is being their mother. Continuing to be their mother. Fighting against Bulimia rather than allowing her to cut our time short.
I'm exhausted. I'm drained. I'm in despair. But I'll carry on, find the strength from somewhere. After all, I am a mother.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Thursday, March 28, 2013
The first time
I still remember 'the first time' so vividly it could have been yesterday. The way I felt before, during, after. What I'd eaten. What I weighed. . . .
It was coming up to Easter. It was a school night, I'd been out in the evening with friends. We'd popped into a supermarket. We'd all bought cream eggs. I'd also bought snack-a-jacks (fooled myself into thinking I'd just have this 'healthy' snack). Back home I'd eaten the dinner Mum had saved me, then gone into the shower. I remember sitting in the bath, the shower running, with a large cup in front of me. I stuck 2 fingers down my throat.
This wasn't the first time I'd tried to make myself sick. In fact, I'd been trying for some time. In the months leading up to 'the first time' I'd felt such disgust towards myself. Not only was I failing every diet I tried, but I couldn't even purge successfully. I'd even tried weight loss tablets, to no avail. (I remember my mother discovering these herbal weight loss pills in my bedroom. I'd hidden them in a sandwich bag in a drawer. She'd thought I was taking drugs. I remember the look of relief when she learned they were 'only' weight loss pills. She left them in my bedroom and said no more about it.)
This time was different. I needed it more, somehow. I was more determined. I didn't give up. I urged, I retched, I continued until I was sick. Then I was sick again, and again.
As someone who suffers Emetophobia (yes, that's right, I have a phobia of vomit. Spot the irony there?! I still have panic attacks now if I think someone around me is going to be sick, or if I come down with a sickness bug myself, and yet have no trouble inducing vomit episodes countless times every day?!), my desire to purge myself in this manner sounds completely insane, but the feeling I was left with following my first ever purge was one of utter euphoria. I kept a diary at the time and still remember the entry. 'This is the best feeling ever - I feel amazing!'
I suppose it's like drugs - the first time is amazing, it sucks you in, makes you want more. I thought I'd found the answer to all my problems. I could eat what I liked, not worry about starving myself any more, and yet still achieve the 'perfect' body.
For the first few months I floated along on this high. I felt like I was keeping this wonderful secret from everyone. It made me feel good. It made me feel like I was worth something. I was looking great! I watched with delight as my weight fell on the scales. Enjoyed shopping with mum as a treat when I'd dropped a dress size. Lapped up the compliments from friends. I was so sure I could stop when I reached my target weight.
That's the trouble with addiction. It creeps up on you, sucks you in without you noticing. Then one day you realise - you're not the one in control any more. The addiction has become who you are. It's taken over every last corner of your life. It's everywhere you turn. It's every decision you make. It becomes more important than anything else in your life.
In recovery, alcoholics give up alcohol. Drug addicts come off drugs. Smokers give up smoking. What do you do when your addiction is food?
It was coming up to Easter. It was a school night, I'd been out in the evening with friends. We'd popped into a supermarket. We'd all bought cream eggs. I'd also bought snack-a-jacks (fooled myself into thinking I'd just have this 'healthy' snack). Back home I'd eaten the dinner Mum had saved me, then gone into the shower. I remember sitting in the bath, the shower running, with a large cup in front of me. I stuck 2 fingers down my throat.
This wasn't the first time I'd tried to make myself sick. In fact, I'd been trying for some time. In the months leading up to 'the first time' I'd felt such disgust towards myself. Not only was I failing every diet I tried, but I couldn't even purge successfully. I'd even tried weight loss tablets, to no avail. (I remember my mother discovering these herbal weight loss pills in my bedroom. I'd hidden them in a sandwich bag in a drawer. She'd thought I was taking drugs. I remember the look of relief when she learned they were 'only' weight loss pills. She left them in my bedroom and said no more about it.)
This time was different. I needed it more, somehow. I was more determined. I didn't give up. I urged, I retched, I continued until I was sick. Then I was sick again, and again.
As someone who suffers Emetophobia (yes, that's right, I have a phobia of vomit. Spot the irony there?! I still have panic attacks now if I think someone around me is going to be sick, or if I come down with a sickness bug myself, and yet have no trouble inducing vomit episodes countless times every day?!), my desire to purge myself in this manner sounds completely insane, but the feeling I was left with following my first ever purge was one of utter euphoria. I kept a diary at the time and still remember the entry. 'This is the best feeling ever - I feel amazing!'
I suppose it's like drugs - the first time is amazing, it sucks you in, makes you want more. I thought I'd found the answer to all my problems. I could eat what I liked, not worry about starving myself any more, and yet still achieve the 'perfect' body.
For the first few months I floated along on this high. I felt like I was keeping this wonderful secret from everyone. It made me feel good. It made me feel like I was worth something. I was looking great! I watched with delight as my weight fell on the scales. Enjoyed shopping with mum as a treat when I'd dropped a dress size. Lapped up the compliments from friends. I was so sure I could stop when I reached my target weight.
That's the trouble with addiction. It creeps up on you, sucks you in without you noticing. Then one day you realise - you're not the one in control any more. The addiction has become who you are. It's taken over every last corner of your life. It's everywhere you turn. It's every decision you make. It becomes more important than anything else in your life.
In recovery, alcoholics give up alcohol. Drug addicts come off drugs. Smokers give up smoking. What do you do when your addiction is food?
Goodbye to Mia - the beginning of Goodbye
I have thought about starting a blog for some time now. Truth is, there is so much I want to say that I'm having trouble knowing where to begin. So, I'll just jump straight in and start with now.
I am a 26 year old mother of two wonderful girls aged 3 (and a half!) and 1. I live with my husband and I'm currently a full time mum, although I'm supposed to be seeking work. I am 5'7". Today, I weigh 7 stone 1lb, or 99lbs, or 45 kilos. Which is near enough the lowest I've ever weighed. For the last 10 years I have been living with bulimia. I'm ready to say goodbye, but have no idea how to start.
I can't ever remember a time when I had a 'normal' relationship with food. I went from disordered eating - faddy dieting, days of starving vs days of binging, mad exercising, binge eating to full fledged bulimia. One day, I made myself sick for the first time and since then not a day has gone by when I've vomited less than 5 times. One day I kept food down, the next, I didn't. Bulimia happened and she embraced me and she became my life. I am disgusted with myself, with her, what she makes me do. I hate her for taking away who I once was (even though I never much liked myself then, either). She's come in the way of friendships, family, happiness, sanity but worse of all, my girls.
My girls deserve a mother. Not a stand in. Not a fraud. A mother. I want to be that mother. Bulimia is standing in my way.
And yet, here I am. Having started out with a small salad for lunch I suddenly find myself, fresh from purging, after consuming the salad, then some toast, then 2 of the easter eggs I'd bought ready for Sunday. I can't even remember how or why the binge started, but it did, same as always. I am disgusted, embarrassed and once again full of self hatred.
So I'm hoping, maybe naively, that keeping this blog may help. The above is probably the closest I've come to admitting what goes on during a binge/purge cycle in the past 10 years of living with it. Eating disorders are not glamorous. They're not fashionable. They're not enviable. Eating disorders are ugly. They are exhausting. They are mind consuming. They are addictions. Bulimia has made me do things that I will never admit to anyone. It has to stop. I have to stop it.
Mia needs to go now. I'm done. I'm doing this for my girls.
I am a 26 year old mother of two wonderful girls aged 3 (and a half!) and 1. I live with my husband and I'm currently a full time mum, although I'm supposed to be seeking work. I am 5'7". Today, I weigh 7 stone 1lb, or 99lbs, or 45 kilos. Which is near enough the lowest I've ever weighed. For the last 10 years I have been living with bulimia. I'm ready to say goodbye, but have no idea how to start.
I can't ever remember a time when I had a 'normal' relationship with food. I went from disordered eating - faddy dieting, days of starving vs days of binging, mad exercising, binge eating to full fledged bulimia. One day, I made myself sick for the first time and since then not a day has gone by when I've vomited less than 5 times. One day I kept food down, the next, I didn't. Bulimia happened and she embraced me and she became my life. I am disgusted with myself, with her, what she makes me do. I hate her for taking away who I once was (even though I never much liked myself then, either). She's come in the way of friendships, family, happiness, sanity but worse of all, my girls.
My girls deserve a mother. Not a stand in. Not a fraud. A mother. I want to be that mother. Bulimia is standing in my way.
And yet, here I am. Having started out with a small salad for lunch I suddenly find myself, fresh from purging, after consuming the salad, then some toast, then 2 of the easter eggs I'd bought ready for Sunday. I can't even remember how or why the binge started, but it did, same as always. I am disgusted, embarrassed and once again full of self hatred.
So I'm hoping, maybe naively, that keeping this blog may help. The above is probably the closest I've come to admitting what goes on during a binge/purge cycle in the past 10 years of living with it. Eating disorders are not glamorous. They're not fashionable. They're not enviable. Eating disorders are ugly. They are exhausting. They are mind consuming. They are addictions. Bulimia has made me do things that I will never admit to anyone. It has to stop. I have to stop it.
Mia needs to go now. I'm done. I'm doing this for my girls.
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