Social Isolation
A glass – okay maybe one and three-quarters glasses – of wine has brought out the Sunday night blues and acute awareness of social isolation.
Girls in my ED treatment group frequently talk about their social anxiety and intentional – or perhaps habitual – social isolation. I must be honest, I cannot relate. I would give anything for social connection – for good girlfriends. A whole flock of them. Phone ringing off the hook and always someone to meet for coffee, tea, lunch, shopping, dog walking.
It is SuperBowl Sunday night – probably every third or fourth household is having some sort of gathering over chips and beer, shouting in unison at helmeted men on their flat-screens. I wasn’t invited to anything by anybody. It really stings that at this point in my life, my dearest friends are the ones from years past who live in other cities. How do I break through the social wall? Sure, I went to a sewing class and spent the afternoon hunched over scraps of fabric making small-talk with three other ladies. And I chit-chatted with a middle-aged couple and their college-aged son during the coffee hour after church (I think they thought I was, well, younger and initiated conversation on behalf of their son – who was adorable in that “you’re eight years younger than me” way). But these are (a) very forced and intentional efforts not to become a hermit, and (b) social interactions with acquaintances – not friends. Watching Sex and the City last night made me realize how amazing and comforting and supportive and fun and silly and grounding girlfriends are. And in my distant past, I had them.
So where did I go wrong? Have I just spent the past 5 years of my life wedged so far up the collective asses of the men I’ve dated that I failed to make girlfriends? Have I spent far too much of my middle twenties wedded to an eating disorder? Have I relocated so frequently that I haven’t had the chance to develop lasting friendships? If I asked the Magic 8 Ball, I’m pretty sure the answer to all these questions would be “all signs point to yes”.
Groan. Magic 8 Ball, why do you have to be so right all the time?
Whoa!
That little motherfucker called bulimia tried to hijack my dinner. Whoa. Where did that come from? I’ve been doing so well lately and haven’t even really had the urge. Maybe a few thoughts here or there but nothing of significance. And then, wham! I get bodyslammed and jackhammered by the urge while I’m eating. I fought it off (am quite proud of that as fighting the urge once it arises is not a well-developed skill) but it was about a 45 minute wrestling match on this brown sofa. And then the restricting negotiator part jumped in to mediate a truce – “okay, you can keep dinner as long as you skip breakfast and lunch tomorrow.” Well, Howie Mandele, I say NO DEAL! I will keep this dinner and eat again tomorrow morning.
Here’s the thing: I’m very anxious. All this time on my hands and emptiness in my home and my heart feels unbearable. Like being a passenger on a hijacked 19 hour flight to who-knows-where-but-you-fear-it’s-not-gonna-be-a-tropical-paradise and you thoughtlessly wore an itchy wool sweater for the journey. Like my brain is thrashing around in my brain like an rhinoscerous with insomnia. Like my fingers took speed and just need to type and fidget and flip and pick and move and destroy and shake. OCD is back (thankfully it appears to be situational and thereby easier to understand and face than a full-blown personality disorder). The checking, the endless 837 mile per hour thoughts, the hooking repetitive impulses, the restlessness, the cleaning, the order, the feeling overtaken in my own body. It hasn’t been this noticable since summer of 2007, also the summer of bulimic dispair. First and foremost, the two do NOT have to go hand in hand. Sure, the OCD sets the stage but I cannot let the behaviors start again. I’d rather have Gmail take away my account for obsessive checking that hinders other traffic from accessing their site than be sick. So I can’t let it go down that road.
I know that these feelings deserve some therapeutic attention and some understanding on my part of where they come from and what they need. But individual therapy is cancelled the next two weeks (thank God for group) and I’m not sure how effective I am on my own with this stuff when I’m so blended with it.
So in the meantime, here’s what I know:
things that make it worse: endless several consecutive hours at home alone, the computer, the TV, big chunks of unscheduled time at work, social isolation
things that make it better: moving my body, time with my dog, reading (picked up a good novel at the recommendation of a good friend), talking on the phone, going out for coffee/tea, podcasts, music, sewing/crafting, blogging (which, unfortunately opens the laptop to other repetitive wastes of time)
I think I’ll leave early for group – there’s usually a couple of very good people early to chat with. Then home to read. Turning off the computer now. Like actually powering down for the night (my poor computer never gets time OFF, only SLEEP – frequently interrupted sleep). I think I can I think I can…right after I check my…NO I think I can I think I can.
Sanity Lifesavers
1 – chili dinner at a former co-worker’s house last night. hours of wine and good conversation. connection. support.
2 – sewing new dishtowels for the kitchen yesterday. i’m feeling a resurgence of my crafty nature.
3- along those lines, a trip this morning to my favorite restaurant (courtesy of a gift certificate from my mom) for a crepe breakfast with a friend and then a trip to a fabulous fabric store (also gift certificate territory).
4- writing my holiday thank-you notes this morning over coffee. also a little address book my mom sent this week already filled out with all the extended and blended family’s addresses. very sweet (and useful). probably intended as a mondo hint to write them thank-you’s but it also just felt like a nice “remember that all these people love and support you”.
5 – my 1 month moratorium on anticipating/planning for/obsessing about the future. it’s really actually working and very helpful.
6 – The Power of Now by Eckart Tolle. Read it during my last break-up/recovery effort and it’s a lifechanger. revisiting it now.
7 – Sam the dog. this “little” guy (80 pounds little) is the love of my life. No matter who comes and goes from my life, where I live, where I work, how much I weigh or what I ate today he will always be ready to offer way too many kisses, two-paws (‘mama hold my hands’), a fart and a whiney request to get on the bed. gotta love him. my favorite? when we sit on the floor together he’s a good 4 inches taller than me and I can rest my cheek against his chest and he rests his chin on my head. sigh. that’s love.
8- sunshine. it may be -1 degree outside (yep, that’s a negative, folks) but at least the sun is glinting off the snow. wednesday night, if it sticks with the forecasted 10 below zero, will be the coldest temperature I’ve ever felt.
I know better
I know that restricting does the following:
-fogs my thinking
-makes me anxious and irritable
-depresses me
-sets the stage for a perceived binge (chocolate covered almonds after dinner, for example)
-sets the stage for a purge (grrr)
-makes ANY morsel of food that enters my belly elicit bloating and discomfort
So why do I do it??!! Partly I’ve been restricting all week as an effort to stave off any purging (which it hasn’t entirely but has certainly decreased it). Partly it’s because of the emotional demands on me right now and the side effect of needing some sense of control (so ED cliche’ed but true). Partly the pain feels good. But I got some “bars” at the grocery today that feel like an acceptable breakfast/lunch or snack to give a whirl tomorrow. I know I can do it – it just requires talking myself down from that disordered place. Compromising with my parts.
I’m starting to visit friends here at home and to accept the phone calls that are incoming. My mom and I saw “Marley and Me” today and I got a perfect excuse to let some tears out in a safe space (no one but me had to know that it wasn’t because of the plot-line).
And, brace yourselves for a shocker, I got some good advice today from my mom. I fully expected her advice to be just to end my relationship. To give up and move on. As if it’s that easy. But she just told me that she thinks I should go back to Vermont and start living the life I want. If it fits with J’s, great. If he resents me taking time and energy for my own self-care, to make a social network, to seek out some sort of meaningful spiritual community or any host of other things I know I need in order to be healthy….then the relationship will naturally end. She thinks that I’m putting too much energy into talking about my needs rather than just living my life according to them. I know that this approach may sound totally negligent of my partner’s needs. But he has, to date, been unable to (1) understand the concept of needs – he even says that he doesn’t understand, (2) articulate any needs himself, (3) demonstrate any needs other than for me to have no needs of my own. I have to tend to agree with my mom’s advice – if only because the talking doesn’t seem to be getting me anywhere. Maybe this will be a more effective way of eliciting change in J than talking about it.
A huge loud part of me says that you shouldn’t want or need your partner to change. That love is about acceptance and compromise. But I’m being completely honest with myself that there are other parts that are speaking up that there are several things within our relationship that simply cannot continue. I’m trying to remember myself when I was healthy (including when I met J) and to begin a path back towards those values.
In my ongoing reading of the IFS relationship book, I was jolted into an upright and alert state by the following excerpt related to abandonment anxiety:
“Whenever we fall in love, the other person always appears rich with a superabundant life…extraordinarily beautiful and extraordinarily alive, an animal whose nature is not to be docile but rebellious, not weak but strong…which is free and liberating, but also unforeseeable and frightening. That is why the person who is more frightened imposes on the other a great many restrictions, a great many small sacrifices, all of which are basically intended to make her gentle, safe and innocuous. And the other person gradually accepts them. To avoid upsetting her lover, she imperceptibly eradicates everything that may have that effect. She makes many small renunciations , none of which is serious…gladly makes them because she wants her lover to be happy, and she tries to become what he wants her to be. Gradually, she becomes domestic, available, always ready, always grateful. In this way, the marvelous wild beast is reduced to a domestic pet; the tropical flower, plucked from its environment, droops in a little vase by the window. And the lover who asked her to become like this because he wanted to be reassured, because he was frightened by the new experience, winds up misisng in her what he had previously sought and found. The person who stands before him is not the same one he had fallen in love with….he asked her to moderl herself on his fears, and now he faces the result of those fears – her nothingness.”
-quoted in the IFS book from sociologist Francisco Alberoni
I want so fucking desperately to be rich with superabundant life. Not in a false way to make others feel good. I genuinely want to feel extraordinarily alive and strong. It doesn’t fit nicely into a measurable outcome but THAT is my supreme goal for 2009. Without descriptors of whether that is in a relationship with J or on my own.
quiet night at the Moseberg’s
J has been sleeping since I got home from work at 5:30. It is now nearly 10 p.m. and I’m wrapping up my day and about to go to bed for the night. I can’t help but think that his slumber is fueled by avoidance and passive aggressiveness. It’s making me feel really really pissed off.
I purged my dinner. Fuck. I have grandiose schemes in my head of serious restricting over the holidays. Double fuck. Yesterday may have been a bit much for my system to handle without flaring up my ED/protector parts. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. Dinner wasn’t anything more than I’ve eaten over the past few days without purging so I feel like that is a nice bit of empirical data that tells me so much of it has to do with emotions (wait, but I already knew that). Days like these I just want to run away from my life. Parts of me don’t want to marry this man. Parts of me don’t want to join his name and mine on a mortgage. Parts of me get hopeless and start thinking suicidal thoughts. Parts of me imagine planning a trip to NC to see my mom and just not returning. But those are just parts. They have their reasons.
Where did my Self go?
oh the demons
they raise their voices in harmony. they drown out all the individual whispers of motivation. each tiny success, each step toward health and recovery raises the volume of the self-destructors. i think there may just be enough of the positive voices. why can’t they unify? they need a leader to orchestrate their efforts.
oh, don’t look at me. i know it’s the obvious answer to the division dilemma. i know my dear therapist would use the IFS framework to remind me that my self-energy can fill that role. but somehow that energy is drained. where did my self go?
An 80% victory
I did it this morning – I actually picked up the phone and called someone for support. And that person, fabulous as she is, knows what it feels like to be where I am right now. She gave some good support, positive energy, solid suggestions and just general “being there” solidity. Thanks, K.
So today wasn’t perfect. I made it through the meal plan until about 4:00 (plan ended at that point because I wasn’t sure what we were doing for dinner). So with all that blank paper after 4:00, ED had some room to play. So I purged a “relative binge” snack (is that what it’s called when it’s not a textbook binge but feels yucky and out of control??). Grrr. Fuckin’ eh. But here’s a new perspective — 80% of my food today was a success. So I raise this glass of Cabernet Savignon to that. Better than yesterday. Movin’ in the right direction. (I’m digging deep for some positive thoughts, here, folks). I can’t lie and say I’m not both (1) feeling like a failure for eating so much AND not making it to the gym before it closed and (2) feeling like a failure for not having a “perfect” day. But I can readjust my lens and find some positives. Tomorrow’s meal plan will go all the way to bedtime. Lesson learned. And reaching out for some support was HUGE and turned out to be really helpful. I will repeat that for emphasis – REACHING OUT FOR SUPPORT TURNED OUT TO BE REALLY HELPFUL. Dear self, please refer back to this post when you’re feeling alone.
I wish I could do it without rules
Yesterday was.start.to.finish.horrible. I had such grand plans for a great Snow Day. Turned out in addition to being a s’no work day, it was also a s’no food staying in my belly day, s’no way I can stand up without being dizzy day, s’no way I should be on this treadmill right now day. And honestly, the first day I worried about acute health repercussions to my purging and restricting.
Thursday I ingested some gluten and my sensitive Celiac gut reacted, well, with some GI distress (I’ll spare you the details). But this always means that I stop absorbing the food in my gut, make many trips to the el bano, and wind up very hungry and thirsty. And in the lovely land of Bulimia very hungry leads down a destructive road. Yesterday was another one of my purging lows, in frequency, in intensity, in wobbly after effects. And because I was snowed in, there wasn’t much I could do to distract (this is an exaggeration, there were things I could do but felt so much at the mercy of my disorder that I forgot about them). At some point in the afternoon I crawled into bed and vowed not to get out until J got home from work (4:00, usually). By 5:15 I was panicking and hungry again and praying that he would show up soon so we could go to my favorite restaurant and get a crepe for dinner and keep it down. I could NOT eat another meal alone in this god-forsaken apartment. Phone rings. J is working late – until 7:30. Groan. You can imagine how dinner went (other than alone and in this god-forsaken apartment).
But hang in there, it’s not all doom and gloom. The road may be curving a bit, mainly because I felt so fucking scared and sick yesterday. Possessed, in fact, by this disorder. I know on so many levels it feels like it gives control, but this is a myth (at least for me) and there are those rock-bottom moments when you realize you are completely controlled by IT. Yesterday I felt like the only way I am going to have control of my life is to not have my disorder in my life. If I allow it to be there, even in small doses (what I like to call “dabbling” in my behaviors) – I guarantee myself that I will have these days, weeks, (hopefully not but possibly) months where it is my master and I its slave. Days where the moment I see J’s face I am a puddle of blubbering tears. Days where all there is to do is take a valium and go to bed at 8:00.
That Valium induced sleep lasted until about 3 a.m. at which point I began hatching a plan. Just for today. I’m not going to worry about a week from now or a month from now. Today, Saturday December 13, I have a meal plan in writing and stuck on the fridge. At the bottom of the meals and snacks listed are some rules.
-No eating on the couch. Sit at the table.
-Only eating off plates, not out of packaging.
-No multi-tasking. Pay attention to eating and how you feel (emotionally and physically).
I’ve tried meal plans before – a few weeks ago I had a few good days as a result of planning what I’d eat and sticking to it. My major concern is that it is ME that created the plan. So I’m just trusting that it’s coming from the healthy/recovery me and not the restricting/want-to-lose-weight me. At my absolute lowest in ED behaviors I kept very rigid (and unhealthy) meal plans and obsessed about them. I went to a dietician post-diagnosis with Celiac (in her defense she had no idea that I had an eating disorder) and holy shit – it fueled the fire BIG time. Part of me is wondering, though, if it would help to have my diet planned by someone without an eating disorder. Probably. But I’m terrified of that. Maybe should talk to Bree about it.
Next to the meal plan on the refrigerator is a big sheet filled with “Things to Do Instead”. Including specific tasks related to housework, being outside, playing with my dog, connecting with others (email, christmas cards, phone calls and a list of all the people who ARE in my life and WOULD at least chat with me about bullshit and Christmas and anything besides purging), relaxing.
My goal: To have a “good day”. Translation: To eat what my body needs, not purge, exercise a reasonable amount. Bonus (but this may be setting the bar WAY too high): Not be excruciatingly anxious and difficult to be around.
I really wish I could do it without rules. I wish I could just wake up, smile at the sunshine glinting off the snow and go along my merry way of normalcy today. Just set the intention and have it all pan out. But I just know that, right now, that doesn’t work. It did when I was 4 months into recovery. But not the day after one of my worst days ever. I need the structure. I think about the stories I’ve heard of residential treatment. It’s not like you walk in, they pat you on the back and congratulate you for making the commitment to recover and then send on your way to figure out what to do all day. They schedule your day and plan your food and keep you busy and take a lot of the choices and decision-making off your back (at least in the beginning, from what I hear). So I guess what I’m doing is somewhat aligned with that. I have the best intentions for today and it feels like it is ME and not my disorder choosing this path.
Off to shovel snow with a slice of toast with PB and a little smoothie in my belly. Off to shovel snow with a little bit of pride that I did it – one meal of the day. Off to shovel snow with the fear of disappointment if this day takes a turn for the worse.
*one last observation. That last line about fear of disappointment – it makes me want to beg, plead, bargain, pray with some power in the universe (not necessarily spiritual) not to let the disorder take over today. But acknowledging that feels like it’s taking the power away from ME to keep today on track. So is it better to rely on myself (thereby putting pressure on myself) to battle this today or to turn it over to the universe to keep the disorder at bay. Or maybe a bit of both – I’ll do my part today and hope the universe can give me a break?!
Vulnerability to the third power
I think I’m ready to post my creepy daydream of my dad doing surgery on me. It’s scary to put this out there but the blog feels like the only safe place for it. In thinking more about it and talking to Bree about it I have gained awareness that for the first time in my life, I’m seeing my dad as sadistic, cold, calculated. I’ve always made excuses for him “he’s just crazy”, “he has the best intentions”, “at heart he’s a good guy”. And suddenly up from the yuck has bubbled these feelings of rage and disgust. He is creepy and scary and unsafe and manipulative and cruel. And as an editorial sidenote: I’m not just a schlocky melodramatic writer, he actually speaks this way. It’s part of his narcissistic charm or something to call me “my darling”. So, with that as an intro…read on…
I watch from above his rounded upper back as he tenderly smoothes my hair across the stark white sheet, carefully arranging the blonde in a river spilling off the left side of the wooden table on which I lay. The room is dimly lit. Warm. Sparsely decorated but not cold or institutional. It feels like our living room. He leans in and whispers, “My darling daughter, you’re going to make it through this just fine. I’m right here by your side,” sliding his hand into my own relaxed palm and offering a brief firm squeeze. He withdraws in a gentle caress and returns to my side beginning to slice – scalpel slipping effortlessly dividing my upper abdomen and then down to my bellybutton with a ribbon of red. No pain. No messy drips or splatter. No resistance from my flesh, its layers yielding effortlessly as if offering their contents for his examination. My lowered eyelids neither flinch nor flutter and my resting pose looks peaceful and kind. He praises, “You’re doing great, my love. Just great.”
The procedure he so painstakingly and gently conducts look something like a cross between panning for gold and picking ripened delicate fruit. He begins with the organs, shiny and pink. Holds them up to the light and examines them from different angles – marveling at his harvest. With those out of the way, he begins sifting with a pan occasionally gasping at the beauty of what he has discovered within my body cavity. He withdraws these gems with a closed grasp, occasionally breathing comments of gratitude and admiration, “Oh, you are such a sweetheart,” and sets them aside on the table obscured from my view by his hunched shoulders. When he is done, his palms smooth the sides of my belly together with his warm hands, like clay, and the wound disappears. As if my skin and flesh and connective tissues were malleable under his touch, effortlessly obeying his carefully orchestrated commands.
Back at the head of my makeshift bed, my eyes open and I am relieved to meet his eyes and feel his warm kiss on my forehead. “I’m so glad you’re here with me, Dad.”
The Tailhook Effect
Tuesday and Wednesday of this week I was strapped tightly into the cockpit of a supersonic stealth jet. The deafening engine noises were exhilerating, the powerful acceleration energizing me and the sheer speed of the familiar sights of the world whizzing by at unfamiliar angles thrilled me to the core. I was fully aware, however, that the ride was both temporary and fueled by the need to escape. And I touched down in what I hoped would be a gentle and precise landing, I realized this that the destination of my mission was an aircraft carrier. The G-forces as the tailhook snatched me snapped my head forward and nearly pulled my heart out of my chest. So much for a graceful end to my little joyride.
As the tears flowed freely tonight I told J that I just feel all “stormy” inside. The avoidance, denial, distraction and overall false sense of power of my crazed business and over-achieverdom over the past few days were not lost on me. I watched myself complete a gym workout, two hours of errands and an hour of cleaning house all BEFORE going to work and sighed with full knowledge that I was trying to push something out of my life by not making time for it (or sleep, or food). In therapy this morning when I sat, closed my eyes and tried to find my breath I could feel my brain sloshing rhythmically from side to side, crashing into the left, then the right, then the left sides of my inner skull. It reminded me of one of those desk top “art” pieces with bright blue oil in a clear plastic rectangle that rocks on a fulcrum. Crash, boom, crash, boom. It was dizzying and a bit terrifying at first. But the session went well and at the end I felt much more present in my body and a bit more stable in the head.
I felt slower throughout the day. Still a bit restless but distinctly fatigued. Tonight in group I had a good yoga practice and found myself unintentionally closing my eyes a lot. Was I trying to tune out my surroundings? Another effort to escape? Or a chance to deepen and bring more presence to my practice? Or merely sleepiness settling in? During check-in in the group session, I realized how fucking uncomfortable I am with big emotions. One girl was pissed of and her rage spewed out of her in a torrent of obscenities and negativity spoken with a harsh and biting tone, seeming to splash on the floor a bit too close to my chair for comfort. Then the girl just next to me burst into tears – not gentle ones soft on her cheeks easily sniffled and wiped away – but big chest sobs with grimaced expression. The sadness poured onto the floor and oozed towards my feet. Run. Hide. Get a towel. Pull yourselves together! The strange thing was that somehow the physical proximity of these two individuals made the experience more intense for me. I wanted to be further away, across the room, maybe on the other side of a screen door, perhaps backing away in slow, sneaky steps all the while nodding with false empathy. I was so uncomfortable that I began to figdet and squirm and wound up with the sleeve of my fleece sweater pressed tightly to my mouth and chin. Stay up. Don’t let the corners of your mouth get pulled down. Don’t let your chin start to quiver. In general it was a good group and I was a somewhat involved participant but I could feel my insides churning. Upon arriving home, anxiety about my weekend trip to my brother’s house set in, gloominess once again settled in my chest and the pressure of stifled tears made the top of my skull throb. 24 hours ago I was buzzing with anticipation of all the things I would get done today and feeling quite proud of myself for the accomplishments of my day. Now, my mouth tastes of vomit and I’m once again feeling defeated.
Will try to post from my brother’s this weekend – if only for my sanity.
