Mugshot

While my anticipatory wait for my trophy mug – the one defining me as ‘Well Adjusted Woman of the Year’ in a gold banner below a gimpy picture of a toothy grinned me – continues, I have had plenty of time to ponder on the specifications of the person in the picture. As with everything that I write – it will in all probability come out as a contradictory babble of words – but I will stick with it, and maybe this will make sense one day when I look back at it. Then again, it could be another tragic case of 80’s fashion syndrome … where time, place and contextual reasoning counts as no reasoning at all.

It is easy to invent the physical picture of your ‘happy’ self in your head. Most of my life, the picture of a content and adjusted me that I dreamt up was actually just me having reached a certain goal weight or a certain control over food (adding in a few wrinkles, some sag and my ever changing hair colour for realistic adaptability.) Only from age and of course my incredible wisdom (!), did I come around to the fact that instead I had personified the age old proverb that no fat on Berty makes for cold and miserable person. Indeed, Buddha looked like a very chirpy fellow; the Fat Controller always had a smile to share with Thomas – even if it was a little suspect; and those colourful Teletubby creatures wouldn’t stop smiling even if you smashed their fingers in one by one with a hammer. Whilst I am sure it can be anticipated that these profound words are leading to a cliché about how weight does not determine happiness, but it is what is underneath that matters – I will resist but tacitly agree to the fact.

It is difficult to form a mental image of feelings and emotions we want to feel, and personality traits we aspire to have in the future as we cannot put a visual image to it. However, it is vital that we do all think of these things, as no amount of gazing at a picture of a thin you with a Ferrari will help you to become the person you want to be, unless that person is actually just a thin you with a Ferrari … in which case, fair enough.

Whilst I have realised that I have still not managed to write down any of the attributes I wish to see in myself in the future, I do have a few in mind, and I am a lot closer to figuring them all out since embarking on this journey of bed blogging, babbling, deliberating, meditating, whining, smoking and coffee drinking (from interim ‘World’s Best Dad’ mugs and the like).

Over Analyse This

There is an inherent psychologist in most people, one that analyses our actions and feelings in an attempt to try and define more clearly who we are as a person. The stark reality is that my self-analysis is clearly not all that efficacious; otherwise I would not be paying someone else to aid the mental spring cleaning process.

Mine is a weary and nonplussed mind, one where over-analysis has been forged into a habit of trying to attach a concept to everything, to name it, define it, judge it, value it and categorize it. This makes simple daily experiences a mentally tiring affair, and – with regards to my eating disorder – a meal into the beginning or the end of the world.

This was the vestige that I needed for me to wave my proverbial white flag, and to surrender to someone who may just have more knowledge on the subject – however threatening this was for my narcissistic side to accept. The challenge of this relinquishment began with me having to put faith in this individual to help me filter through my thoughts and feelings; to believe that she would be the rational voice I needed to assist me in rejecting the negative, growth hindering thoughts … my own personal Simon Cowell for reasoning if you will. It seemed too mammoth a task to unscramble the confusion in my head alone, the multi-faceted thought processes and some of the never ending contradictions: thinking about everything, thinking of nothing; of being torn between wanting so desperately to feel something, and wanting to numb myself and be disengaged from all emotion.

By apportioning some of the analysis, a hope emerged in me that it would alleviate some of the pressure my own mind feels to dissect everything on a massive 'teenager text message' level. I am learning now that unfortunately the process is slow, that my obsessive mind will take time to adjust, and that this hope should actually be seen as a combination of belief and hard work on my part ... there are no miracles in the world of eating disorders, I am disappointed to report.

My objective is to experience life and what it is I am seeing, without delving too deeply into my thoughts on it, or reasoning behind it; to give my mind the much needed liberation it deserves from the world of complexity I have created in my head. I want to see a sky - to see it as such, and nothing more.

Medication vs Meditation

The issue of using medication in the treatment of depression and eating disorders has invariably caused much debate and discussion. Each person dealing with either of these illnesses will have their own stories to tell on the matter, and it remains – as with most things that are vitally important to our mental health – rather frustratingly ambiguous.

My thoughts on the use of medication, and indeed the repercussions of it, are nothing short of a disarray of contradictions. There are times when I feel that the Fluoxetine medication I am on may be stabilising me somewhat, while at other times I feel it is about as useful as popping Smarties. My main gripe is that I feel that dissociation goes hand in hand with my illness – especially bulimia. Bingeing and purging is my way of connecting to something, when I feel most dissociated from life and the world around me. From past observations of being on Fluoxetine, I came to realise that the drug ultimately has the same outcome; making you feel less affiliated and in touch with the outside world. This time around I am on 60mg a day, which is three times the basic dose – and enough to leave you feeling like a walking zombie at times. So it does make me question why doctors are so eager to prescribe me (and millions of others) this medication, when dissociation is something that only exacerbates the binge triggers? Surely this is like giving Red Bull to an Insomniac?

When I first received treatment in 2003/2004, I think it was imperative for me to get the chemical balance that medication provides, but this time around I am inclined to think that I must look past merely getting my eating patterns stable and the chemicals in my brain correct, and work hard at the underlying issues of the dissociation, and why I find the world so frightening that I need to cut off from it in the first place.

This is where attempting new methods of recovery has become a part of my daily life. By finding ways to connect with myself, and to subsequently feel part of the bigger picture – I feel less urge to escape reality and immerse myself in the private little hideaway in my head. For fear of sounding like a hippy (I was a little dubious of these methods) – meditation, relaxation techniques, positive affirmations, and self hypnosis are all helping me to connect. Time spent with myself and in the environment is also assisting with correlating my body to everything – for as long as my body remains a separate empty vessel, I will continue to abuse it.

For now, medication and meditation seem to be working in conjunction well, and I am in a much better space than when I arrived home 3 weeks ago. However, I am not sold that 'walking zombies that meditate' are functional in the long run. The proof will have to be in the pudding ...