Could someone please define recovery?
What does it mean to be “in recovery”? I was feeling quite proud, even cocky of myself over the past year for so quickly rectifying such an embarrassing little problem as an eating disorder. I even told J early in our relationship that I just stopped it… just made a rule that I wouldn’t do it anymore. Just as easily as I cut out foods and decided to purge anything of substance, I flipped the rules and decided to be healthy. The weight came back on (to a “healthy” weight – grrrrr. no word sounds more revolting to me right now). I made it all seem so easy, such an act of will power. So can I still pride myself on my self-will and perfectionism when I’ve purged at least once a day for about 12 of the last 14? Am I still recovered? Okay, maybe I don’t want an answer to that question. Or, to clarify…I do:
-The self-righteous recovery part wants to hear that this is merely a “setback” due to the enormity of progress currently made in therapy. Uncovering my past, feeling my feelings, expressing my true Self…
-The disordered part of me says that clearly I’m coming back on-board although this hardly counts as “real” eating disordered behavior and I better get my shit in gear and start losing all this disgusting “health” that I carry around and pack into clothes that used to hang on me.
-The dissociative, analytical and altogether curious part of me says, “No, really…am I sick or well? Disordered or recovered?”
I received email #2 of the week from my dad complete with graphic details of my grandfather’s last dying days. This, from the father who I have told for greater than one year NOT to contact me. The one who does not have my address since I moved to Vermont. With whom I have neither initiated contact with nor responded to in almost exactly one year. Who sent his “final” email (translation: more dramatic and manipulative than all the rest) in July and promised not to contact me any more if I did not respond. And who lives about 7 states away from said dying grandfather but somehow can describe in great detail his facial pallor and thready pulse (he is a novelist, afterall). My father has borderline personality disorder and narcissistic personality disorder and I have, for the past 27 years, held the priveledged position of the primary focus of his toxic sickness and manipulation.
So, um, that may have been a little triggery to receive an email from him. That and hunger. And fatigue. I swear sometimes I purge because I’m tired and it gives me a little “pick me up”. I’m too tired to eat but I do it so I can get all buzzy after I kick the digestive system into reverse.
So since I’m on the daddy issues, which I never really discussed on my previous blog because of familiarity with readership, I’ll continue. There are 2 people outside of professional therapists who I have told about this and one of them is NOT my brother. When I attempted to “pause” my relationship with my dad because thinking about him made me purge and talking to him made me have panic attacks, he began a campaign of deception, guilt and general cruelty to elicit contact from me. With each successive attempt, he got more bold and more hurtful. Fuck, when I heard that he was diagnosed with cancer I was absolutely certain that it was a lie to get me to call him (okay, so maybe this one detail was true – he did, apparently have cancer – colorectal…hah…ironic for him to have asshole cancer. admittedly cruel to joke about someones cancer. guilty as charged). But even that diagnosis didn’t suck me back in…. so about 4 months into this attempt to differentiate myself and salvage some level of mental and physical health my dad wrote me a 4 page handwritten letter – addressed to my work address (which he googled because no one would tell him my new address post-move because they respected my need for space). In this letter, in addition to describing in gory detail a near-death experience of rectal “bleed-out” (yum) and saccarine admonitions of love “maybe too much”, he admitted to watching me shower as an adolescent and being caught by me one day. I have absolutely no recollection of this incident, nor of much of my childhood.
So, how is this little venting session relavent to my current situation? I think I’m sabatoging myself. I think that recovery and therapy and progress is all hunky dory until shit starts hitting the fan. We can talk about my mother’s emotional constipation, about my needs not being met emotionally, about my perfectionism and disorganized sense of self. But we canNOT, as far as I’m concerned start dabbling in issues of my father and why at such a young age I started feeling really fucked up inside (gratuitous use of the word fuck in this post. please accept my aplogies.). And I am absolutely paralyzed with fear that as I make “progress” in therapy and re-connect to the really fucked up hurt child inside of me, I will either (a) have a flood of disturbing memories of sexual abuse, or (b) come to the conclusion that my dad is lying about being sexually inappropriate with me -which is a relief in some ways and in others is completely fucked up in its own right. And I have a really amazing therapist who I know wants to “go there”. No way. Let’s go back to dealing with how to cope with urges to restrict and purge. Let’s bullshit some more about my mom. I didn’t sign on for this and I’d like to keep all this tucked away neatly inside. But I can’t tell my therapist all this shit because I’m a perfectionist in therapy, too. I’m the perfect patient. Really, she mentions a book – it arrives on my doorstep care of Amazon and is filled with highlighter marks by the next session. And she’s too good to continue to fake it with. I would like to be, in no specific order, perfectly recovered, perfectly disordered, perfectly compliant in therapy, perfectly safe from any yucky feelings whatsover (save the yucky feelings inherint in eating disorders). So it’s really a conundrum I’m in.
And I had intended to keep this post both short and superficial. FUCK.
Gettin’ it done
I have set the stage for a very productive day – car to the shop for a tune-up (estimated at $600) and state inspection (thereby ending the year of fraud with Virginia plates and insurance). I only have two clients at work (half-day Fridays are glorious) but plan to spend several extra hours working on this evaluation report that has become something of a beast. I feel like I’m working on a thesis.
Coffee is coursing through my veins – I’ve tried to decrease my intake this week but today might just be the exception.
I avoided a call from my brother last night. Not sure why our relationship has felt more difficult. I speculate that it might be partially due to shame. He’s always saying how proud of me he is, how I’m doing so much better and it’s been nearly a year of health. There is a voice inside that wants to scream, “I just purged dinner, you asshole!” But I don’t. I just listen – both to him and all the internal condemning voices.
J is singing in the kitchen – at 8:00 in the morning – apparently he is not restricting caffeine. I have to cut this short – more later.
So this is the real me, huh?
I love my therapist. Probably too much. Readers should know this. And any readers with ED issues just need to move to Vermont in order to be treated by her. I wish I could invite her to my wedding. Crossing professional boundaries, I’m sure.
We’ve been working very intensely over the past month on the internal family systems therapy and trying to figure out what fucked-up-edness occurred or was perceived by the very very young me that started all these really effective defenses – dissociation, denial of a self with any worth, self-punishment, refusal to feel any painful emotions, anxiety, obsessions and compulsions and on and on in what feels like a hopeless string of psychological symptomology. But the biggest goal of this work is to find the real me. The self that I can return to each time the disordered thoughts creep in. The self that is not merely a reaction to the world and other’s perception of me, but is a separate entity. The self that is grounded and can calmly observe life unfolding. One month ago I was vocally skeptical that this so-called self existed in me.
And then today she smiled at an anecdote from my week and, “There you are. That voice that you describe is the real you.” Really? I’ll relate the story:
I’ve been having very under-the-surface conflict with my two best friends from college for about a year. So I finally confronted the issue in the most open and loving way that I could by sending one of them a letter several weeks ago basically inviting us to talk openly and hopefully grow and develop more trust in our relationship, abandoning some of the harmful patterns established when we were younger. We spoke on the phone for the first time in several months on Sunday and she seemed driven to nit-pick through past conflicts in a you-said, then I-said fashion (groan. I specifically avoided such specifics in my letter, internally deeming them counterproductive attempts to re-irritate old wounds). In discussing a conflict we had last summer when I was acutely ill and hopelessly miseerable she accused me of being dishonest…the basis of her accusation being that I insisted that “everything was fine” in my life and that “I was happy”. Sigh. It’s sad to even realize that I would insist those things when I was actively trying to kill myself (albeit slowly). But when I calmly explained (to my friend who KNOWS that I have an eating disorder and ceased all contact with my father last summer) that I had a lot going on at that time she responded, “Yeah, well we all have a lot going on in our lives. My family is crazy, our friend’s brother died. I mean, come on, life is tough for all of us.”
My cheeks warmed, my eyes stung and I took a deep breath.
“I’m going to stop you there to let you know that the tone of your response is really not sitting well with me. I’d like you not to talk like that about my struggles.” (and then she backpeddaled and went down another road to criticismtown).
So Bree today says, “She was belittling you and you spoke up for yourself.” I didn’t silently weep on the phone, I didn’t attack back in defense. I just opened my mouth and let the truth flow out.
And it felt strange. And good.
Weight Watchers haters, unite.
The weekend turned out to be pretty refreshing – lots of driving around the Vermont countryside in search of a venue for our wedding. The reality of having found the man who I know heart and soul is the one to commit my lifelong love to sinking in and leaving me swimming in bliss. The positive vibes from Friday’s craniosacral appointment carried through the weekend. I spent last night at Restorative Yoga, potentially fending off a threatening cold. So as you can sense, lots of positive energy flowing right now.
With all that positivity, I think it’s a perfect time for a bit of a rant. Just for the sake of balance. I was discussing with J tonight the challenges of a female-dominated workplace for someone with ED voices loud in their consciousness. I had had such a great weekend and then got smacked in the face this morning by two co-workers’ conversation about dieting and restricting food. Then around lunchtime a different coworker came right into my office to have a (pointless) conversation about this great new website she’s using to log all her food and track her intake so as to attempt to lose weight. Ahem. A very loud internal voice wanted to retort, “Dude, losing weight is so fucking easy…just don’t eat meals, exercise and purge anything you eat over and above three bites.” Of course, I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. I kept my head down, writing away on my clipboard and then changed the subject without any segue. I guess that’s rude as well – perhaps just as rude. Sometimes I feel like I have a target on my forehead that reads “I’d love to hear about your battle to lose weight”. I don’t appear to be someone who has ever struggled with weight in the conventional sense. Do fat people (SO offensive of me, I know, I know, I’m just pissy right now and will feel terrible for saying that later, I promise.) think I’m the keeper of the Weight Watchers points or the judge for the Jenny Craig prize of the week? Perhaps no one seeks me out for these discussions any more than anyone else. It’s just such a prevalent topic in the media as well as irritatingly so in people’s personal and professional lives. My old workplace actually had a Weight Watchers club going on within the staff. I know it is so ED-minded of me to say this but I just don’t think something as personal as weight has any place in the workplace. Part of me wishes I just had a sign I could whip out that said “Please remember that not everyone who struggles with issues of food and weight are overweight.” Or, more accurately, “The person in the office who obsesses most about the size of their thighs may just be the one with the smallest thighs of all.”
I could go on and on. I already have. Now that it’s out of my system I can sip some tea and settle in with a good book and some peaceful vibes again.
Diversifying my therapeutic portfolio
Several weeks ago a young couple came to our weekly staff meeting to introduce themselves and give a very short informative talk on craniosacral therapy. As a holistic occupational therapist for kids, I have heard of this practice and can honestly say I thought it to be a load of steamy poop (I’ll keep this blog PG for the time being). It was explained to me while I was in graduate school studying neuroanatomy and the idea that someone’s gentle touch could manipulate cerebrospinal fluid in a therapeutically meaningful way reeked of horse manure to me. I had my nose in a book and was constantly in search of “the right answer” to hypothetical clinical challenges. Challenges, which – as a sidenote – bear very little resemblence to the challenges I actually face in my days as a practitioner. I digress – so back to the couple at the staff meeting. They had just returned to Vermont after a year studying craniosacral therapy at the Upledger Institute in Florida and wanted to drum up business from our client-base. And they offered us each a free session to get a taste for the treatment. Several days later in response to my complaints of feeling “stuck in yuckiness”, my therapist recommended that I “get out of your head and into your body”. “Go get some body work,” she encouraged. When I told her I had access to a free craniosacral session she said forcefully, “GO!”
Fast forward two weeks to me lying face-up on a table in small room in a colorfully updated family home. Initially struck offguard by the invasiveness of the questioning of Dave, my craniosacral professional, I decided to throw caution into the wind and answer as honestly as I could. What brings me here today? An eating disorder. My fabulous therapist. Tightness in my upper back and chest. Repressed emotions. A father with mental illness. Not being held enough as a child. Poor self-soothing skills. Each comment hung in the air like the smell of sickness in a bedroom when someone in your household has the flu. And so began the work.
His left hand slid under my back and his right rested on my chest as he cradled my trunk and very slowly and very subtely began to move, to apply different pressures to different areas. His questions continued but I began to sense some warmth from this man. He seemed at ease, like perhaps he’d done this before. It probably took twenty-five minutes of that hour to begin to relax, to close my eyes and let some defenses down. To tap into my therapeutic work. And he facilitated this nicely, asking questions and encouraging me to tune into my body’s answers on a cellular, tissue level rather than an intellectual or verbal one. His voice seemed to praise me when he felt my body respond, “that’s it”, “breath into this part right here”. I began to speak internally to some of the young, hopeless, hurt parts that Bree and I have worked with in therapy. I invited them to join me on the table and feel held, comforted. I released more and more and then a tear, just one, pooled in my right eye. Nothing momentous. No cathartic moment of sobbing. When the hour came to a close, I sat up and made eye contact with the owner of the hands and voice that had led me down into my body. In the five hours since I left that table, I have been marvelling at the difference I feel – in my body, in my mood, in my awareness. I cannot recommend it enough. Not even specifically craniosacral therapy. But any alternative body work that gets you out of the classic therapy mode, out of your thoughts, out of your story and into your body. Apparently craniosacral work is founded on the belief that the body already knows the way and has the tools to heal itself. This is a powerful message to anyone who feels at the mercy of a power within them – illness, mood, negative thoughts, habits, compulsions.
While I cannot afford to do craniosacral therapy very frequently, I am hoping to set up a day where I have an hour of that work either in combination with or just before my session with my therapist. I can imagine that it would be incredibly powerful.
So says the Buddha
The aforementioned podcast by Wes Nisker somehow did not transfer to my iPod as planned (serendipitously I might add) so I listened to one by Sharon Salzberg entitled “Having Faith in Yourself”. It very briefly took me to such a comforting and positive mental place that I listened to it again last night before bed. One basic premise was that your life is not your experiences, nor is it the thoughts that arise in your busy head…it’s your reactions and responses to each. And that somewhere in each moment is the opportunity to be mindful and to open yourself up, rather than constrict, against “irritants” and difficulties. She recommended that you take hopelessness and depression and tear them up into little pieces, just moments, to cut through. Which felt like a momentous perspective to have because I view my negative states right now like a tidal wave bearing down on me. A solid wall of brute force against which I am puny. But if I shift that view to one of individual drops of water coming at me….it loses some of its intimidating might and I feel an emerging sense of power, or at least the possibility of power, over it.
I feel so very lucky to have a therapist that includes Buddhist philosophy and teachings into her psychotherapy practice because truly this has been one of the most powerful influences on my well being and emotional state over the past year. (As a sidenote, anyone else dealing with mental health issues should check out the podcasts on her website – really great meditations and guided relaxation techniques). Growing up in the south, I had limited exposure to Buddhism and had a sense that it was cultish and scary. The more immersed in it I’ve become over the past year, the more I realize that the truths it highlights are already in me. In many ways I feel that yoga and Buddhist philosophy together created the cornerstone of my recovery. And yesterday I was reminded that what worked a year ago has the power to work again. In a conversation with my brother recently, he said that he knew I would get through this period of hardship but that I just had to stick with my practice. He then admitted that he didn’t exactly know what my practice is, just that it is essential to my well-being. So perhaps now is a good time to review my practice. My daily practices for emotional well-being include: yoga, meditation, listening to dharma talk podcasts, reading books steeped in Buddhist philosopy, walking Sam, drinking tea, crafting, reading blogs, playing my banjo, and screaming along with the Avett Brothers. I think that’s a pretty thorough, albeit ecclectic, list of things that I know are good for me and that leave me feeling grounded at their completion. Also which I tend to gravitate away from when I need them most. So here is my request to myself that I use these tools in the coming moments to cut through the thoughts and experiences to the calm, abiding awareness (as Adyashanti would say).
Namaste.
Quick check-in
More numb than sad now. That quiet part that objects to my recent behaviors is getting a little louder after J and I went to our couples therapy session and spent the whole of it digging through what ed feels like for him. Ugh. This relationship, our upcoming marriage…it means everything to me. In combination with my love for my dog, Sam, it is what gives me strength, energy, spunk, sass, and everything that makes me enjoyable to be around. Without those two, whew, book me a reservation at the nearest secluded cabin in the woods and let me waste away in privacy. We call ourselves a family and having a healthy family is my number one goal in life. My career could bomb, my bank account could dwindle even smaller than it is now, and I could lose my right hand in a tragic machinery accident (conceivably) and I would feel okay if our little clan was still together. So yesterday’s session was a good reminder of how important they are and of the lovely cliche (so inappropriate when discussing ed matters but included primarily for comedic purposes) that I can’t “have my cake and eat it too”. This affects them and us as a whole.
In other news, we’re going this weekend to look at wedding venues and I have no idea what to expect. Both on a concrete level and an emotional level. Thinking about the wedding reminds me that my dad won’t be there, nor will he hear about it from me … and that triggers some monstrous emotions. I’ve been avoiding it up until this point but we really DO have to get crackin’ on the planning front.
Sam and off for a pre-work walk in the brisk September morning air. Listening to a podcast from Wes Nisker from Dharma Seed. Haven’t heard anything by him yet but he comes highly recommended by a buddy I met at my recent retreat. Maybe he’ll provide some perspective and give me some mental peace for the day.
oh hello, ed
My eating disorder seems to have capitalized on this period of sadness and weakness and has reared its ugly head. For the past year I have been in what I would call recovery. Normal eating habits, reasonable exercise and a healthy weight. It’s been an uphill battle but the motivation was definitely there. Lately I’ve felt that momentum slow, the motivation wane and suddenly the thought of drastic weight loss sounds appealing again. A very small, quiet part of me feels frustrated by this. A larger, darker and louder part of me feels enthusiasm at this new “project”. That part has been in complete control today – restricting my food at breakfast, purging my lunch (which, admittedly, was a pint of Ben and Jerry’s) and spending hours watching anorexia videos on Youtube. This feels like a drastic turn-around for me. It feels so strong that I feel at its complete mercy, relinquishing all control to it. But things fluctuate so quickly that I don’t know how I’ll feel tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll go back to meditating, journaling, yoga and my quest for inner peace with a renewed sense of hope. The uncertainty is terrifying. Who will wake up inhabiting my body tomorrow?
My therapy has recently consisted of something called “Internal Family Systems” therapy and I’ve been drifting away from it in the past week. Now might be a good time to journal a bit about my this “bulimic part”’s overthrow of all other parts and total domination of my being. How can I find the real ME that’s hiding beneath all of this? Some days I see it a bit more clearly, still very small and quiet, but present nonetheless. Today is not one of those days. I’m going to have to dig a bit to give it a voice. And I’m going to have to put the Bulimic part in a cage if I’m ever to regain a moment of sanity and clarity.
Skip the title for now. I just spent more than a few minutes thinking about it which means it’s lost all potential for being spontaneously witting and ingenious. New blog. Old blogger. I ran away from my other blog. I’m hiding from that audience. Seeking anonymity here in this world of November Blue. That old audience was heavily weighted toward those who knew me in the three-dimensional world long before I entered cyberspace. And, given the general candor I crave in being a participant in the blogsphere…this was clearly a recipe for disaster. So I’m off the grid.
Which is liberating. It feels very alone for now, which is strangely comforting. It’s as if my other blog had gotten noisy and this new place feels quiet. This blog will be many things which I cannot at this point forecast. The unifying theme will be that it’s my life – my ramblings about my existence in this world. A Whitmen’s sampler of self-discovery, ranting, optimism, sarcasm, depression, glimpses of my battle with bulimia, experiences as a transplant to the great state of Vermont, joys of dog ownership, wedding planning, commentary on popular culture, political musings. I make no promises and no apologies. Just an admission of guilt as the person that always sticks my germy fingers in the bottom of those damn chocolates to ensure that I’m not disappointed by a mouthful of coconut.
Today I feel extremely sad. When faced with strong and complex emotions my language becomes that of a three year old. I speak in abbreviated simplicities. What I feel as a loss of optimism that life is worth living came out as “I feel sad”. The sadness rose up in my throat as I talked to my mom on the phone, squeezing my voice and making it a bit higher than usual. She noticed. I could almost hear her brain searching for the right advice to give, the verbal solution that would alter my mood to a more comfortable place for her. The irony is that the only thing she could have said that would have made me feel better would have been an admission of her inability to fix my sadness despite every hope that she could do so. A statement that it’s okay for me to be sad and the confession that it worries her greatly. And I know these things to be true. So why does some part of me need so badly to hear them put into words. What hypocrisy from the girl who can’t string together more than three monosyllabic words to describe hopelessness. I wish there was a way to transcend language in my relationships. To just sit with another person and feel what they’re feeling. I know on a cognitive level that my mother feels pain for my pain, angst over my struggles, worry for my physical and emotional well-being. Why then can I not truly feel it – why do I imagine that feeling it is dependent on hearing it spoken?
