We all know that the conventional way of dealing with stressful situations is to fight it out; to put on our Big Girl knickers, muster up our so called inner strength, and battle it head on. Unfortunately (and I think I speak for other eating disorder sufferers here), there are recurrent times when the disorder seems to hoover up your fortitude, and then cunningly start sucking your reserve tank as well.
And so I find myself, in contrast to the expected Fight Club way of operating, admitting that I need help to combat my demons, that I do not possess the tenacity and vigor of Brad, and that sometimes I just need somebody to hold my hand and help me take the baby steps.
I frequently feel that I have let myself down by not conquering this myself, but then I realise it takes more than well formed muscles to fight this out, that the ‘flight’ modus operandi of coming back to South Africa for help will give me the support I need to slowly pull those Big Girl knickers on tightly. I hope that they fit.
Thursday, 16 October 2008
Friday, 10 October 2008
It's Sham(e) Really
It is an arduous task keeping up pretences; the deceit, the lies, and cunning plans involved are no easy feat. I felt ashamed and scared that somebody would find out that I had relapsed into my old bad behaviours, and so I disguised all of this with a duplicity that was as disturbingly well planned as the operations of a sniper rifleman.
With a wealth of knowledge behind me from ten years of anorexia and bulimia, I familiarised myself with the little tricks of the trade – I became, and am still, an eating disorder connoisseur.
This inside knowledge is categorised in my head (by my OCD personality) into many complex groups and volumes; it is no wonder I feel that there is no room left for real information, or for - God willing - wisdom. And so the knowledge is practiced and manufactured into a secret ritual that I think will never be revealed. Unfortunately, as is often the case, this ‘secret’ is as visible to my family and friends as Paris’s underwear. In the case of being anorexic, my deflated and skeletal body is usually a dead giveaway that I have not, as claimed, been eating toasted cheese and mayonnaise sandwiches every day. Similarly, they will know when I am bingeing and purging, by the taxidermal glaze my eyes get, and yes – the fact that I will have polished off three helpings of dinner, 'have a very weak bladder', and tend to get red faced from my 'smoker's cough.'
The lying and betrayal is one of the hardest parts of this disorder to come to terms with. I value all my relationships - with my boyfriend, friends, colleagues and dysfunctional family members - so dearly that it destroys me when I think how many times I lied about food, and pretended to be well, when in fact I had long since missed the Well Adjusted Express.
With a wealth of knowledge behind me from ten years of anorexia and bulimia, I familiarised myself with the little tricks of the trade – I became, and am still, an eating disorder connoisseur.
This inside knowledge is categorised in my head (by my OCD personality) into many complex groups and volumes; it is no wonder I feel that there is no room left for real information, or for - God willing - wisdom. And so the knowledge is practiced and manufactured into a secret ritual that I think will never be revealed. Unfortunately, as is often the case, this ‘secret’ is as visible to my family and friends as Paris’s underwear. In the case of being anorexic, my deflated and skeletal body is usually a dead giveaway that I have not, as claimed, been eating toasted cheese and mayonnaise sandwiches every day. Similarly, they will know when I am bingeing and purging, by the taxidermal glaze my eyes get, and yes – the fact that I will have polished off three helpings of dinner, 'have a very weak bladder', and tend to get red faced from my 'smoker's cough.'
The lying and betrayal is one of the hardest parts of this disorder to come to terms with. I value all my relationships - with my boyfriend, friends, colleagues and dysfunctional family members - so dearly that it destroys me when I think how many times I lied about food, and pretended to be well, when in fact I had long since missed the Well Adjusted Express.
Keep you chin up and your food down
I read somewhere that you can only conquer the voices by knowing how to get them out of the subconscious part of your mind, and that willpower alone will not do it. There a lot of things like this that I read about eating disorders, most of which sound like a bad Celine Dion song - lyrics that attempt to elicit feelings of deep emotion and poignancy, but which more often than not end up eliciting a gagging reflex.
However, ten years of living in this Dawson’s Creek reality of being expected to talk incessantly about your feelings and anxieties, my cynicism has evolved into an acceptance that there is in fact, no way to live with an eating disorder without embracing your serious side and learning how to have that elusive ‘deep and meaningful conversation.’
I takes a lot of time and work before you can truly open up to people and talk about the real distress of living with these disorders, largely due to the fear of it sounding like an acceptance speech. Once you learn how to talk to your family and friends openly and in a matter of fact way about your problems, you tend to find that they are actually listening, that they actually care, and that they will not – as dreaded – remark with a comment about you being a cheeseball.
Living by my slogan of ‘keep your chin up and your food down’, just does not seem acute enough anymore. While it is possible - and at times very necessary - to make light of the problem, there reaches a point (probably somewhere after the fifth year, or 500th purge) where the immensity of the disorder becomes very real.
Real enough that the thought of living with this for the rest of my life violently shakes my core, terrorises me, frightens me, controls me and overwhelms me in ways that Celine Dion lyrics cannot.
However, ten years of living in this Dawson’s Creek reality of being expected to talk incessantly about your feelings and anxieties, my cynicism has evolved into an acceptance that there is in fact, no way to live with an eating disorder without embracing your serious side and learning how to have that elusive ‘deep and meaningful conversation.’
I takes a lot of time and work before you can truly open up to people and talk about the real distress of living with these disorders, largely due to the fear of it sounding like an acceptance speech. Once you learn how to talk to your family and friends openly and in a matter of fact way about your problems, you tend to find that they are actually listening, that they actually care, and that they will not – as dreaded – remark with a comment about you being a cheeseball.
Living by my slogan of ‘keep your chin up and your food down’, just does not seem acute enough anymore. While it is possible - and at times very necessary - to make light of the problem, there reaches a point (probably somewhere after the fifth year, or 500th purge) where the immensity of the disorder becomes very real.
Real enough that the thought of living with this for the rest of my life violently shakes my core, terrorises me, frightens me, controls me and overwhelms me in ways that Celine Dion lyrics cannot.
Control Pants/Control Issues
I know that the common misconception of an eating disorder is that one begins with weight issues, and then these begin to manifest into an obsession and subsequently an obsession with food, or the lack thereof. I think in my case there is about as much truth in this as there is in a bulimic eating an entire chocolate cake (followed by lemon cheesecake) because she is just rather hungry.
I was, in fact, an emaciated ‘alien’ when my problems came knocking on my boarding school dorm door. And so, despite the fact that I did not worry about being too fat to fit into my 24” Levi’s, I still developed the same problem that those ‘chubby’ girls did. It was a case of craving control, not control pants.
However it is true to say as well, that even though it was not the start of my problem, I have still succumbed to being one of those clichéd anorexic/bulimic girls who obsess about weight and dress size, and inches and BMI, and grams and cellulite rolls. I am a rational, independent – and sometimes I like to think smart – woman, yet think the most irrational thoughts about how disgustingly huge I am, that I am revolting in every way, and not far off from looking like Pavarotti sans the moustache and beard. Victoria Beckham is on the front page of nearly every ‘reputable’ (for UK girls) newspaper and when I see a picture of her bony frame, I still think how easy it would be if I could get back to that weight. I can see and understand that this is crazy - that the woman looks like she could hardly give birth to a hamster, let alone 3 decent sized human beings – and yet in the boxing match between rational Roberta, and Eating ‘Tyson’ Disorder, the latter always has the punch.
I was, in fact, an emaciated ‘alien’ when my problems came knocking on my boarding school dorm door. And so, despite the fact that I did not worry about being too fat to fit into my 24” Levi’s, I still developed the same problem that those ‘chubby’ girls did. It was a case of craving control, not control pants.
However it is true to say as well, that even though it was not the start of my problem, I have still succumbed to being one of those clichéd anorexic/bulimic girls who obsess about weight and dress size, and inches and BMI, and grams and cellulite rolls. I am a rational, independent – and sometimes I like to think smart – woman, yet think the most irrational thoughts about how disgustingly huge I am, that I am revolting in every way, and not far off from looking like Pavarotti sans the moustache and beard. Victoria Beckham is on the front page of nearly every ‘reputable’ (for UK girls) newspaper and when I see a picture of her bony frame, I still think how easy it would be if I could get back to that weight. I can see and understand that this is crazy - that the woman looks like she could hardly give birth to a hamster, let alone 3 decent sized human beings – and yet in the boxing match between rational Roberta, and Eating ‘Tyson’ Disorder, the latter always has the punch.
The Expert
With my xenophobic tendencies, taking advice from a Spanish therapist called Juan Carlos did not seem like the brightest idea. However he told me in our session that he is the expert on psychology and therapy, and I am the expert on me. These were wise words from a foreigner, and to my surprise, behind the annoyance of bad English, lay more interesting and - more importantly - thought provoking knowledge.
This took me by surprise. As much as I would like to think that I know myself very well, I do not, in fact, have a clue about the millions of different facets of my personality. It is true that I know more than most about Roberta Kate King, but this is far from a comfort, knowing that when I screw up, I only have only myself to turn to for answers.
And so, this is the proverbial journey to get to know myself a little. This is something that is about as exciting to me as getting to know George Bush, but I am hoping by the end of it I might even think of taking myself out for coffee, if not for the full fat cappuccino, then hopefully for the stimulating conversation.
This took me by surprise. As much as I would like to think that I know myself very well, I do not, in fact, have a clue about the millions of different facets of my personality. It is true that I know more than most about Roberta Kate King, but this is far from a comfort, knowing that when I screw up, I only have only myself to turn to for answers.
And so, this is the proverbial journey to get to know myself a little. This is something that is about as exciting to me as getting to know George Bush, but I am hoping by the end of it I might even think of taking myself out for coffee, if not for the full fat cappuccino, then hopefully for the stimulating conversation.
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