Nature V’s Nurture

Yesterday, during a rather lengthy walk, Grace and I had a discussion about my illnesses and the likelihood of them being hereditary.   I can’t quite remember what we were talking about but the conversation started with Grace asking me, “Mum, do you think I’ll be Anorexic too?”.  Obviously, when this subject comes up I immediately feel anxious.  I mean, how am I supposed to answer that?

I’m not going to lie to her.  She is always going to be more susceptible to mental illness than a child who isn’t exposed to such things, but I do wonder to what extent she is predisposed to develop issues similar to mine.  Of course, I’m aware that mental illness can run in families, but how much of that is genetic and how much is as a result of a child’s upbringing and experiences?  I feel that, in my case, nature and nurture conspired against me to an extent that it would have been virtually impossible for me to not develop severe psychological issues.  I don’t know enough about my family history to know whether mental illness has been passed down.  I only know that my Mother clearly suffered with mental illness, but I don’t know exactly what.  I would also hazard a guess and say that my Father probably suffered from some form of psychological disturbance too, although there is no evidence of this in any other members of my paternal family.

I tried to reassure Grace as much as I could, whilst maintaining a level of honesty and realism.  Grace does have a higher chance of developing Anorexia than a child whose Mother doesn’t suffer with it.  Behaviours are learnt, and the child of a disordered parent will undoubtedly pick up some behaviours from their parent.  However, in my opinion, the simple fact that Grace has increased chances of developing mental illness in adulthood means that steps can be taken to prevent that from happening, and I think that’s really where the nature versus nurture debate comes into play.

I answered Grace’s questions as honestly and concisely as I could.  I admitted that she could be more vulnerable to developing Anorexia or BPD and that she is probably predisposed to depression, but I will always argue that my childhood experiences were extreme and my life as a result was pretty much a forgone conclusion.  Whilst Grace has gone through things that many children haven’t, and she’s had to deal with very painful emotions at an early age, I don’t believe this means that her life is mapped out for her in the way that mine was.  The fact that at the age of 11 we’re already discussing possibilities surely provides us with a level of awareness that may aid us in formulating effective preventative measures?

It’s so difficult to explain Anorexia, it’s symptoms and origins to a person who doesn’t suffer with an eating disorder.  It’s especially difficult to try to explain it to a child.  Particularly when you’re someone like me, who doesn’t fit the conventional profile of an Anorexia sufferer.  However, Grace agreed that she does not feel she’s been exposed to my illness as much as she could have.  The incident from a couple of weeks ago stands alone in her 11 years of being alive.  We discussed the fact that it’s not ok for her to witness her Mother calling herself fat.  Not only because it’s not true, but also because hearing me deem an extremely thin person as fat could leave her with a distorted view on what size constitutes being over weight. 

Grace’s interest in my mental illness is increasing, and I’m finding that she’s asking a lot more questions.  I’m not sure if that’s due to the symptoms of my Anorexia and BPD being more prevalent, or simply because she’s getting older and more curious.  In any case, I think it’s incredibly important that I educate her as much as I possibly can, and the fact that she’s now asked me, more than once, if she too might develop problems later on in life means that we need to start working on this.

I asked Grace what she sees when she looks in the mirror and her response, I think, shows that she’s already very aware of the symptoms of Anorexia.  She said that she sees a face, not a “fat” face, and when she looks at her body she sees a normal, average girl.  When you’re 11, being average is all you want.  You don’t want to stand out amongst your friends as being different.  This is what I observe in Grace anyway.  We discussed the fact that I’ve never said anything negative to her regarding how she looks.  She quite smugly agreed that I’ve always told her how beautiful I think she is.  Equally, her sense of self-worth is elevated.  Not to the point of arrogance, but simply in that she’s incredibly confident about her abilities and her strengths as a person.  These are all things that were severely lacking in my childhood.  I was never good enough, clever enough; even loved enough.  I attribute these to the development of my eating disorder.  My life was shrouded with negativity and I grew up feeling that I wasn’t good enough.  Grace on the other hand, whilst she has witnesses severe negativity, it has never been aimed at her, only at myself.  That’s still not particularly conducive to providing Grace with a healthy view of the world, but I’m not perfect, particularly with my parenting.  I do feel, however, that my knowledge and understanding of what led to my development of mental illness will help me.  So long as I do the exact opposite of what my parents did with me, then I believe that I can prevent Grace from having the unhappy life that I’ve had to endure.

I suppose only time will tell if nature will win over nurture.  But I don’t believe that just because her Mother suffers with severe mental disorders it’s a foregone conclusion that Grace will too.  So long as she maintains a healthy body image, sense of self-worth, and the healthy relationship she has with food, then I think she’ll be just fine.  If she’s not, at least I’m hyper-vigilant to the signs and I will be able to help her before anything manifests.  I hope so anyway.

Oh, I completely forgot one of the most important things.  Grace has decided that she’s now old enough to start learning about Anorexia and BPD.  At 11 I worry that she’s still too young, but she is mature way beyond her years, so I’m thinking about letting her find out everything she wants to know.

Is 11 too young for a child to learn about mental illness?  Will it be too much for her to digest?

Dealing With Hot Weather. *Trigger Warning*

*This post contains photographs of scarring left by self harm.  I sincerely hope that it won’t trigger anything negative in anyone who reads my blog. *

The past couple of days the weather has been glorious.  It’s warm and sunny after what seems like months and months of rain and clouds.  Unfortunately, the warmer weather opens me up to a wealth of insecurities, particularly when I visit the gym.  Recently I’ve been going to the gym in the evenings when it’s slightly cooler and there are less people around.  Yesterday was just awful.  It was absolutely boiling in the gym and it was stupidly busy.  I have a strange little insecurity about sweating and having patches of sweat on my clothes.  Obviously, it’s expected in the gym, but for some reason I still end up feeling quite self-conscious.  Last night, I guess I should have been reassured by the sheer amount of people, male and female, who were sweating buckets.  Unfortunately it just made me feel even worse.  As I looked around I could see people in shorts and t-shirts or vests.  I felt ashamed because I couldn’t even take my jacket off, despite the heat.  I would simply rather be uncomfortably hot than run the risk of anyone seeing the scars I have all over my body.

At one point I sat down and I just wanted to cry.  I felt so uncomfortable.  I thought back to a couple of weeks ago when my Doctor told me it would take at least a year for my scars to fade, and then to the joke my Therapist made about me looking like a heroin user.  Helpful, thanks!  I considered whether I could actually deal with not going to the gym until the scars are no longer so visible, but the thought of doing that absolutely terrifies me.  So, it’s up to me to now try and find a way that I can live with the evidence of my self harming, and try to face the discomfort of my scars possibly being seen by others.

Obviously, it’s well-known that I am a ‘self harmer’, but I am very careful to keep it hidden.  Partly for me.  I feel embarrassed and ashamed by my habit, and I worry that others will judge me.  But I also feel I should hide it from other people because I don’t want them to feel uncomfortable when confronted with the evidence of a person who self harms.  But now it’s beginning to affect my day-to-day life and I feel I have to do something in order to help myself feel more at ease.

And so, with that, I’m going to do something I’ve never dared do before.  I thought it might help me to actually be more open with regard to the visible effects of my self harm by posting photographs of my scars.  I’m much more comfortable with the idea of posting them here, a place where I feel safe to a certain extent, and somewhere that I don’t feel I’d be judged too negatively.  There’s also a part of me I suppose, that gets a little bit tired of the constant reassurances, “you’re beautiful as you are”, “you still look great”, “I hardly even notice them”.  Whilst I’m aware that people mean well, and they just want me to feel better and that’s always appreciated, I do find that it does sometimes leave me feeling invalidated over something that causes me a great deal of anxiety.  But how can I expect people to understand exactly how I feel about the way I look if I’m hiding the very thing I feel anxious about?  Here goes….

Ok, so first is my legs.  The pictures aren’t that great but you can still see that I have scars to both legs that are quite visible.  I’ve worn shorts and a top, the kind of thing I would have worn to the gym last year to illustrate what would be on show should I actually wear such attire again.  Obviously at the moment I can’t wear anything that doesn’t cover above the knee.

Also, this is so lame, but I’m actually a bit paranoid that my legs look enormous!!  Ahh the joys of distorted perception (or is it?)

On the tops of my arms, both sides.  The left arm is worse than the right arm.

Hmm, yeah, the inside of arms look like this.

And the other one.

So there you go.   That’s what I’ve got in my locker.

I guess I’d like to ask, what would you think if you saw someone whose arms or legs looked like this?  Would it make you feel uncomfortable?

 

S’pose I Ought to ‘Fess Up.

There is an incident that I omitted from my account of Grace’s birthday weekend.  Not because I’m trying to hide it, although I am quite ashamed of what I did, but more because I didn’t feel it was relative to the subject I was focusing on and thought it perhaps required a post of its own.  It’s almost a week since it happened now and I actually feel a little deceitful not mentioning it on here.

So, here goes…

Whilst ensconced in the throes of my breakdown at the beginning of the year I was drinking heavily on a daily basis.  My eating pattern was all over the place and I dread to think what my calorie intake must have been, due to the excessive alcohol consumption and subsequent drunken binges.  I also neglected to visit the gym for about 4 months.  Anyway, suffice to say, I gained a substantial amount of weight during this time.  Something I was quite aware of, but unable to address due to my condition.  Since I left hospital and began my recovery I’ve become increasingly aware of my weight and the difference in my body shape.  This was exacerbated by my therapist’s insistence on weighing me about 5 weeks ago.

My two biggest coping mechanisms seem to be self harm and Anorexia.  When one is more prevalent the other is virtually non-existent.  When I’m self harming frequently the focus on my weight and food is lessened, and vice versa.  Obviously, being in recovery, I have not been self harming at all, meaning that I’ve once again become completely consumed with Anorexic thoughts.  Discovering how much I weighed threw me into an intense quest to lose as much weight as possible, and it’s not been easy at all.  Food, weight and exercise have dominated my thoughts, and I’ve found it incredibly difficult to think about anything else.  Preparing for Grace’s birthday was quite a challenge as I had to force myself to think about something other than my weight issues.  Add to that the fact that I always get stressed out around Grace’s birthday, and you’ve got one loose cannon.

In all the time I’ve known him I’ve never considered Charlie to be someone who over-eats.  In fact, I don’t think he really eats that much at all.  But lately I’ve been so mean to him about his eating habits.  We don’t see a great deal of each other, but when we do a lot of our plans seem to involve food.  I have to keep rationalizing with myself that it’s entirely normal to factor food into one’s day, but where I am alone most of the time it’s not something I’m exposed to, so when Charlie is around I suppose it’s even more apparent that he needs to plan when he’s going to eat throughout the day.  Every time he brings up the subject of food he’s met with anger, and I’ve mocked him for “only ever thinking about food”.  I think perhaps it could be because I’m now spending so much time alone that I’m given more control over what I eat (or don’t eat), and when Charlie’s around I blame him for making me think about food.  It’s not his fault, he’s just being a normal person, but try telling that to my head!!

When planning the weekend with Grace the subject of food came up A LOT.   I had accepted that we would have to eat out on the Saturday as we’d be on our trip, and I was kind of OK with it.  But, when our plans got changed things went downhill.  I picked Grace up in the morning and brought her back to my flat.  Neither Grace or Charlie had eaten breakfast, so that was first on the agenda.  This is an example of the discussion between Charlie and I:

Me:  What do you want for breakfast?

Charlie:  Um, I’m not sure.  What are you thinking?

I’m not thinking anything, but Grace needs to eat so what do you want?

Well, we’re going to have lunch, do you think a late lunch and then something light for dinner?

Ok, well that’s lunch and dinner, what do you want for breakfast?

Why don’t I cook something for Grace and I for breakfast, then you don’t need to worry.

Then came a lengthy discussion about where we would go for lunch.  We decided on a place that’s not too far from my flat.  We looked up the menu online, because I always have to see the menu before I go out so that I can check there’s actually something I’m willing to eat.  When I looked at the menu I noticed that they had the calorie content of every dish.  When I looked through the menu I couldn’t escape the calories.  I was shocked at how many calories were contained in everything.  Even a salad was listed as having about 350 calories per portion.  I think this is when I started to freak out.

Charlie, there’s 980 calories in the steak dish.  Thank God I don’t eat steak.  And that’s not even with the sides.  If you have chips with it and a sauce then you’re looking at well over a thousand calories just on lunch.  Maybe I’ll just have salad.

Well yeah, you could just have some chicken or something with some salad.  Make it quite light so you can have dinner later. 

Yeah.

And I was thinking, as Grace is going back late tomorrow, we could maybe have a roast?

Right.  So we’re only on lunch today and already you’re planning what we’re going to eat tomorrow?

Then we started to get ready for going out.  I should probably add that recently I’ve not been wearing my usual clothes.  I’ve either been in my gym gear or my pyjamas.  When I feel my weight is high I generally don’t wear ‘normal’ clothes because I’m terrified of them being too tight.  As we were going out for a meal, and it was Grace’s birthday I figured I should make a little effort, so I tried to find something that I’d be comfortable wearing.  My first mistake was to try on a pair of jeans that Charlie had bought me a few months ago.  They’re a very small size, and predictably they were very tight.  I took them straight off and put on my ‘fail safe’ jeans – which are actually the same size, but a different fit.  After that, every single thing I tried on felt stupidly tight.  Looking in the mirror, all I could see was fat bulging out of my clothes.  I started to have a panic attack and sat down on the bed to try and compose myself.  Charlie came into the room, and I think noticed my distress, but for Grace’s sake tried to ignore it.  Big mistake.

Hey, you alright?

No.  No, I’m not alright.  Do I look alright?  None of my clothes fucking fit.  I can’t wear anything.  It’s doing my head in.  And all you do is talk about food.  We’re always eating.  Why do you keep making me go out to eat?  I can’t cope with eating so much.  Do you ever think about anything but food? 

Laura, I’m trying to help you.  Grace needs to eat, and I thought that by taking control and planning it for you I was making it easier. 

But it’s not easier.  Making me go out for meals means that I have to eat, and if I don’t, it’s highlighted.

Well, what would you do if I wasn’t here?

I would cook for her.  Do you think I don’t feed my own Daughter?  When she eats here I can choose whether or not to have some, and I can control the amount.  Making me eat out is just making it harder for me.  Why do you keep doing this to me?  Why do you keep making me eat?  You can see I’m not coping, but you don’t stop going on about food.

At this point Grace walks into the room, but we don’t notice her straight away.

Do you think I talk about food all of the time?  Do you think I eat too much?

Yes.  You never stop talking about food and I’m tired of it.  Look at me!!  I’m so fat and disgusting and I’m putting on more and more weight and you just don’t stop.  You’re making me fat.  It’s disgusting.  Can’t you talk about anything other than fucking food?

Do you think I’m fat?

Yes.  Yes I do.  (I don’t)

I very rarely vocalise my Anorexic thoughts because I know that they’re part of the disorder and I’m very aware that no-one else shares my opinion that I’m ‘fat’.  I’ve become quite adept at keeping the crazy and irrational nature of my illness to myself over the years, so this outburst was incredibly out of character.  In the 11 years that she’s been alive Grace has NEVER heard me refer to myself in this way and I’m quite shocked and ashamed that she bore witness to it.  I think the guilt and shame hit me pretty quickly as I just dissolved into a weeping mess.

I left the flat for a few minutes to try and compose myself and when I came back the three of us sat and talked, me still in tears.  I had to try and explain to Grace that due to my illness my perception of myself is distorted and she should most certainly not consider a person of my size to be overweight.  Thankfully, Grace has been aware of Anorexia and it’s symptoms for many years and she has a good head on her shoulders.  She said that she knew it was my illness talking and reassured me that:

“Mum, I know that it’s because you’re ill, and I know that you’re not really fat.  In fact, it’s not normal for you to be able to fit in my clothes”

Bless her.  But how horrific that she should have witness her Mother acting so crazily.

For the record, we didn’t go out for lunch.  We went for a long walk and then to the fair.  Grace and Charlie sacrificed their meal out in order to try and make me feel better, and chose an activity that involved us being, well, active.  I’m very fortunate to have two incredibly caring and understanding people in my life.  I just wish I could stop being such a bitch.

Birthday Washout.

I had plans this weekend. Really fucking good plans. I was going to make Grace’s birthday so special. Grace and I had been talking for months about what we planned to do. Above anything else, she wanted to go to an art gallery. I found an exhibition on in the next city to ours. An exhibition of Surrealist paintings. We’d even been doing a little research. Grace was quite taken with the work of Salvador Dali. I love that. I love that my little girl loves things like art. She takes an interest in everything, and we enjoy learning together. All she wanted to do was go and see some real art for the first time; and I was going to be the person to introduce her to this wonderful, beautiful world. Just like I introduced her to music so long ago.

Living with her Father she exists in a world where computer games and TV are the main sources of entertainment. Her Dad isn’t a bad guy, he works hard and he provides for his family. But he offers Grace very little on an emotional or intellectual level. I’ve taken on that role with enthusiasm; but it’s a role that isn’t taken seriously. I’m the crazy, over-emotional Mum who’s not deemed fit to take care of her. I always thought that Grace was lucky to have parents who are so different. She has the stable, dependable Father with the great work ethic; and then she has a Mother with whom she can talk about anything, open up about her feelings, talk about her dreams and wants for the future. But now, it seems that the two extremes cannot exist in unison. It’s either one or the other.  Unfortunately it seems that the arty-farty homemade gift loving influence cannot really compete with the iPad and Blackberry giving side.  I mean, come on!!  What 11 year old needs a mobile phone, and a Blackberry at that!?

There’s strength in numbers. Grace exists within a tight family network. One of which I am not a member. On my side, it’s just me. I don’t have any family to back me up. I’m always going to lose. When birthday’s or Christmas come around it’s just a given that Grace should be with her Father. Why would she want to have an unhappy day with just her Mum, when she could have a fun time with all of her family? For the most part, I agree. But as the years go by she’s moving further and further away from me, and our Mother-Daughter relationship is being considered less and less important.

Sometimes I just want to scream, “CAN’T YOU SEE THAT A LITTLE GIRL NEEDS HER MOTHER?”. Let’s face it, if you wanted an advert for a little girl who needed her Mother you only have to look at me. Can’t they see that they’re depriving Grace of something she needs? It doesn’t matter whether you like me, or if you think I’m annoying, or I cry too much – it doesn’t matter what YOUR opinion is; what matters is that I am Grace’s Mother and she needs me.  And I need her.  I didn’t get to have a bond with my own Mother, and now I don’t get to have a bond with my Daughter either.

My present to Grace this year was a room. A room in my flat that she could call her own. Admittedly it’s a tiny room, and probably doesn’t even deserve the title “room”, more of a large cupboard. I made it for her. I turned it from a grotty, damp, cluttered space into a light, pretty, functional room for her to sit at a desk and write or paint or do whatever the hell she likes. It wasn’t cheap, and I had to pay someone to come in and build a desk and shelves. The rest was entirely done by me, even down to the carpet, which I’m laying myself (lord knows why I thought I could actually fit a carpet on my own).

In the weeks leading up to her birthday I’ve been in that room working constantly to make it perfect for her for this weekend. My aim was to create a blank canvas for her to then make it her own. We’d planned to go to the art gallery on Saturday and then afterwards take a trip to Ikea armed with a list of accessories she’d picked out for the room. It was all going to be perfect. We’d get home on Saturday evening and put all the finishing touches to her room. Sadly, it wasn’t to be.

Friday morning I woke up early. Grace was coming at 6pm so I had the day to get everything finished. I spent the morning adding the final touches to her room. The last coat of blackboard paint, and just removing all the masking tape, standing back and looking proudly at how neat it all looked. Then I headed out to get the ingredients for her birthday cake. Lexi had sent me an amazing recipe for a ‘rainbow cake in a jar’ that was perfect. Cool and different, and in keeping with the theme of Grace’s room as we’d painted it completely white with a view to adding bright colours. I bought her a couple of little presents so that she’d have something to open and I got some food in for dinner that evening. We would be up early on Saturday morning and we’d be having a meal out. I managed to get everything done, and all the shopping finished with quite some time to spare. I was feeling quite chuffed with myself when I glanced at my phone. It was about half an hour before Grace was due to arrive. I had a text from Grace’s Dad informing me that he wasn’t able to bring Grace over because he was feeling unwell. He suggested “maybe tomorrow”.

“Ok, that’s cool”, I thought to myself, “more time to prepare”. That’s how I have to try and deal with these things nowadays. They happen so frequently that I have to just try and see the positives. It’s pointless getting angry and winding myself up, because I’ve learnt that I can’t change it, so I have to just let it be. It was actually Charlie who was the most angry. He’d been feeling quite frustrated at the situation for some time, and I think quite possibly more frustrated with me. Charlie knows me as someone who is quite feisty, someone who isn’t afraid to stick up for themselves and doesn’t shy away from an argument. To see me in such a submissive role leaves him somewhat confused, particularly because Grace’s Father is, in Charlie’s own words, “a bit of a wet blanket”. This description is very fitting. But Grace’s Dad has something over me. My Daughter. He has the power to stop me from seeing her, so I have to be compliant or I risk losing her all over again. But I think he’s taken it too far now. Not even out of malice really. I think it’s just a complete lack of consideration. I simply don’t factor in his life in any way, and it seems almost as though he sees it as an inconvenience to have to maintain Grace’s relationship with me. Our time together is entirely set around what he’s doing or what he wants, to the point that Grace and I only actually spend a total of 3 days a month together, if that.

Recently, things have got to a point where I don’t know what’s happening with regard to my contact with Grace from one moment to the next. Each time he cancels or changes plans I simply say “OK”. But it’s not OK. Especially when it’s her birthday. Because the one thing he’s forgetting in all of this is that Grace actually wants to see her Mum. She said that she didn’t know that she wasn’t coming on Friday evening until the same time that he told me. There was no room for negotiation, that was it. And for most of Friday night we didn’t even know if she would be coming on Saturday either. It was only as a result of Charlie’s persistence, and a fair few arguments between myself and Charlie, that we actually managed to get Grace’s Dad to agree to let her come in the morning. However, he declared that he couldn’t bring her all the way so I would have to travel to collect her. Unfortunately all of this meant that we simply wouldn’t have time to go on our day out. We were all incredibly disappointed, but we managed to come to an agreement that we could postpone the trip and do something else instead. We went to the fair, which was a lot of fun.

When he dropped Grace off he said that he would pick her up from my flat at 6pm the following day, Sunday. Immediately we were pleased as it meant that I could cook a Sunday roast for Grace, which I usually don’t get to do as the time she gets picked up varies from week to week and almost never goes that late. So, even though our plans on Saturday didn’t quite work out we were excited to have a nice Sunday lunch together. Grace always talks about “Mum’s roast dinners” (I think it’s pretty standard for kids to think that their Mum cooks the best roast, is it not?) so she was super excited. I planned to make her birthday cake for her as well and had some more presents for her to open. It looked like we were going to salvage something from our weekend after all.

I’d arranged for Charlie to come round and watch Grace whilst I went to the supermarket to buy ingredients for our lunch, and the last few bits for Grace’s cake.  Just as I was leaving, around 2pm, I picked up my phone and saw that I had a text message.  “I’ll pick Grace up between 3.30-4pm”.  Fuck.  Grace and I both clearly remember her Dad saying he would pick her up at 6.  Why was he now sending me a message at 2pm changing the time – again?  No apologies, no explanation.  At least this time Grace was actually with me, so I could witness myself how she felt about the constant changing of plans.  She declared that it wasn’t fair of him to keep doing this, “especially the day before my birthday”.  My sentiments exactly.  So, we were unable to follow through with our plans yet again.  I felt incredibly disappointed, but I tried to hide it as much as I could, and attempted to enjoy the last couple of hours I had left with Grace.

Annoyingly, it got to 4 o’clock.  A text message.  He was running late.  He didn’t arrive until gone half past 4.  Again, no apologies.  By this point I didn’t feel that I could go through the niceties so often exchanged between Grace’s Father and I.  Instead, I kissed Grace at the door and wished her a happy birthday for Monday, and as I saw him walk up to my front door I simply closed it without saying a word.  Probably not the best thing to do in front of Grace, but it was either do that, or cry or shout, or both.  At least he knows I was pissed off – that is, if he even noticed.

So Grace didn’t get to have her birthday weekend with me.  It’s been postponed for 2 weeks.  It would have been a weekend filled with art, shopping and Mother-Daughter bonding.  Instead, it was over-shadowed by a Father who couldn’t care less whether his Daughter got to spend any time at all with her Mother; ignorant to the fact that maybe, just maybe I might have had plans for my Daughter’s birthday weekend, and the resentment felt by both myself and Grace at our relationship being over-looked once again.

Birthday Girl

Texting Grace,

“Hey birthday girl.  Hope you’re having a nice time.”

“I am.  I’m at Antonio’s now and just eating a big piece of birthday cake!”

My little girl is having a meal out for her 11th birthday.  She has her family around her and is tucking into her birthday cake.  All I can do is text her.  I can’t be with her.  I wasn’t invited.  I’m never invited.

I can’t remember the last time I saw Grace on her birthday.

The cake I had planned to make her remains un-baked.  The cake mixture is still in it’s bowl in the fridge.  I’ll probably have to throw it away.  It’s been sat there since Friday.

Happy birthday Grace.

Food, Schmood…

Food has turned me into a bitch today.  I don’t like myself too much right now, and I shouldn’t think anyone else particularly likes me either.  Ever since my therapist insisted that I be weighed two weeks ago I’ve been locked in an internal battle, between the desire to lose as much weight as possible, and the knowledge that I can’t possibly exhibit any extreme weight loss at my next weigh in, next Friday.

At my last DBT appointment Sheila asked if she could check my weight.  I immediately became incredibly anxious.  Due to physical health issues, and the fact that my breakdown had meant I’d not been to the gym for about 4 months, I knew that I would not like the number I saw on the scales.  My clothes have felt much tighter, and I have been very aware that I’ve gained weight, but I was terrified of seeing any proof of this.  If I didn’t know my weight, perhaps I could keep kidding myself that I was still tiny.  Obviously, seeing how frightened I was at the simple task of stepping on the scales prompted Sheila to practically enforce it.  I suggested that she weigh me, but I don’t look, because I just couldn’t cope with knowing.  Sheila then made me go through all of the reasons why this was not the best course of action, and quite rightly said “it’s your body, so it’s not fair that I know and you don’t”.  I completely understand her motives – to make me confront my fears.  So I did it.

As soon as I saw the number I felt a wave of emotion sweep over me.  It was even higher than I’d expected.  Higher than it has been for a very long time.  I stood for a second, attempting to stop the emotion, but it was too strong and I promptly burst into tears and had a mild panic attack.  We discussed my recent circumstances, and I could absolutely rationalise exactly why I had gained weight.  It made perfect sense to me,  but knowing what had led to the weight gain didn’t help the feelings of anxiety, shame, and complete and utter panic.  These overwhelming emotions were very quickly replaced by embarrassment.  I was embarrassed that I was crying over gaining a few pounds.  I’m 32 years old, and I’m sat with my therapist, crying uncontrollably because I’m not as thin as I want to be.  So stupid.  And the worst part about it is that I’m still underweight.  Overweight by my standards, but underweight by the standards of the eating disorder service.

Since then I’ve been desperately trying to gain an element of control.  My laxative use has increased, my eating patterns have been sporadic, to say the least, and I’ve been back at the gym with the sole mission of burning as many calories as possible.  But nothing seems to be working.  I keep telling myself that I’ve only been back at the gym for 2 weeks, and it often takes a little while to get back into the swing of things.  Last week I felt like I was getting somewhere, but then I go and have a day, like today, when I realise that nothing’s changed at all.

I much prefer being at my “safe” weight.  A weight that I feel comfortable with.  Then I can relax, and just enjoy going to the gym and getting some exercise.  When I’m actively trying to lose weight thoughts of food occupy my mind constantly.  Thoughts of not wanting to eat anything at all, seeing how long I can go without eating, then remembering that I have to eat as I’m not allowed to restrict; and then the out of control urges to eat as much as possible.  It’s exhausting.

Right now I’m agonising over a bar of chocolate.  I’ve barely eaten all day, and I’ve been up for ages.  I’ve been writing down everything I eat so that I can keep track of it.  I know I’m in dangerous territory, but I just can’t seem to help it.  There’s a chocolate bar in my fridge.  I can’t stop thinking about it.  I want to eat it; I’m feeling quite depressed and hormonal, and I guess, like any other girl, I want to eat a bit of chocolate to feel better.  The chocolate bar is 250 calories.  I’m scared by that number.  So I’ve been considering either trying to only eat a small amount of it, leaving the rest.  But I think I know that’s not likely to happen.  Once I start eating it, I’ll want to eat the entire bar.  My other option is one that I resort to more often than I’d perhaps like to admit.  I’m very prone to just throwing untouched food into the bin – so wasteful.  I’m scared to do that, because it will just prove how deep I’ve gotten into this fucked up eating disorder world.  My rational mind is saying that it’s only 250 calories and it’s really not going to make that much difference, but my Anorexic mind is telling me that if I eat that chocolate bar then I will have failed.  I will wake up tomorrow and find that I’ve gained even more weight.

That’s so fucked up.

But that’s not why food has turned me into a bitch.  This is:

It’s a bank holiday tomorrow, meaning that Charlie doesn’t have to go into work, giving him an extra day to play with.  He wanted to spend that day with me.  He suggested a Sunday roast a few days ago, giving me the option of going out for one, ordering one (from my lovely friend who runs a roast dinner delivery service.  I know, right?  What a great idea), or me cooking one.  I aboslutely love cooking and I’ve not done it for a while, so I chose to make one.  I was looking forward to it.  I went shopping for supplies last night on my way home from the gym.  I guess I should have noticed that the warning signs were there, even whilst buying the ingredients.  I found myself buying the bare minimum, where I would usually go all out and create a banquet.

Fast forward to this morning.  Charlie got in contact to discuss our plans.  He was clearly looking forward to the day, and suggested that maybe we have dinner at his house for a change.  Immediately I felt angry, but I didn’t really know why.  I accused him of being selfish and inconsiderate.  Having an altercation regarding food is incredibly difficult when you also suffer from BPD.  It’s almost like the two disorders are taking turns, and defending one another.  I realise now that I was simply creating a situation whereapon I could avoid having to eat the roast dinner; but at Charlie’s expense.

Charlie bears the brunt of most of my anger.  I can only imagine it’s exhausting for him too.  If it’s the Anorexia that causes me to try and get out of having to eat a meal, then it’s most definitely the BPD that takes over and turns me into a completely irrational, abusive nutcase.  When I’m in my BPD mode there is literally no talking to me.  You can’t do anything right.  Argue with me, you’re a c**t; be nice to me, you’re a c**t.

I’ve been mocking Charlie for the past couple of weeks, because I’ve been overly sensitive to any plans being made that involve food.  I’ve pratically taunted him for “only ever thinking about food”.  But deep down I know that it’s entirely normal to factor food into a day’s plans.  But for me, it’s just not something that really enters my head, and certainly not something I feel comfortable with.  Where Charlie is now away most of the time I’m pretty much left to my own devices.  Which means there’s no-one checking to make sure I’m eating properly.  But when Charlie comes home at the weekend, we eat.  So now I’ve put all of the blame onto him.  My Anorexic mind is telling me that it’s his fault.  That he’s making me eat:

“How DARE he be an entirely normal person who eats 3 meals a day and considers that when making plans with me!”

As a result of my fucked up behaviour?  Well, aside from the fact that I successfully managed to avoid eating a whole meal, I’ve managed to upset Charlie and be pretty abusive towards him, I’ve suffered with extreme anxiety for most of the day; and I’ve not actually managed to get anything done because I’ve been too depressed.

And so, the chocolate bar lives to see another day…

Embracing My Ordinaryness, And Making Up Cool New Words…

Sheila has been setting me A LOT of homework lately, probably as payback for my being such an abysmal ‘DBT graduate’.  Anyway, a couple of weeks ago she suggested that I take a look at one of Brené Brown’s talks ‘The Price of Invulnerability’ on youtube and asked that I give feedback at our next session (which was Friday, just gone).

So I watched the video on Thursday night so that it would be fresh in my mind for my session on Friday and I barely thought or talked about anything else for the rest of the night.  It’s been a while since I’ve seen something that has had such a profound effect on me.  I felt like I could identify with pretty much everything Brené Brown said.  If you don’t have the time or inclination to watch the clip, here is the synopsis:

TEDxKC talk synopsis: In our anxious world, we often protect ourselves by closing off parts of our lives that leave us feeling most vulnerable. Yet invulnerability has a price. When we knowingly or unknowingly numb ourselves to what we sense threatens us, we sacrifice an essential tool for navigating uncertain times — joy. This talk will explore how and why fear and collective scarcity has profoundly dangerous consequences on how we live, love, parent, work and engage in relationships — and how simple acts can restore our sense of purpose and meaning.

Speaker: Dr. Brené Brown is a research professor at the University of Houston Graduate College of Social Work where she has spent the past 10 years studying courage, shame and authenticity. She is the Behavioral Health Scholar-in-Residence at the Council on Alcohol and Drugs and has written several books on her research.

As I had not engaged in any of my target behaviours I was allowed to choose the subject of discussion for my session with Sheila.  I chose to focus on this talk.

In ‘The Price of Invulnerability’ Brené (yes, I’m on first name terms now.  Hope she doesn’t mind)  states that “we are losing our tolerance for vulnerability“.  Now, this was immediately interesting to me as I’ve always considered myself to be quite a vulnerable person.  The definition of vulnerable is:

Exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally

When I look at the definition of vulnerability I can see that I’m not vulnerable at all.  I use every possible method to protect myself at all times.  Obviously, a lot of the trauma and abuse I have suffered in my life happened when I was a child and unable to protect myself, so as an adult I have created a life where I cannot be hurt, emotionally or physically.  Entirely understandable.  However, I’m now starting to re-think my entire philosophy.

Brené, quite rightly, states that:

“Vulnerability is absolutely at the core of fear and anxiety and shame, and very difficult emotions that we all experience; but vulnerability is also the birth place of joy, of love, of belonging, of creativity, of faith…”

So that tells me that whilst I may be protecting myself from the emotions I find most difficult, I am also depriving myself of the very things I crave.  I don’t allow anyone to get close to me because if I did I’d be opening myself up to the possibility of being let down and hurt, even abandoned – I would be vulnerable.  But in doing so, I am creating a rather lonely and unhappy existence.  Vulnerability, by its very definition is considered to be a weakness, but my invulnerability comes from a place of fear, which, paradoxically is itself a weakness.  To be open to the possibility of failure or disappointment is surely a strength?  It’s certainly admirable; and to allow yourself to be vulnerable to potential difficulties you are also exposed to the many wonderful things that life has to offer.

This message, that I received today when discussing this post with Charlie says it all really:

“you’ve no idea how much I want you to get better, to be vulnerable, and to allow yourself to feel happiness and love “

Brené goes on to say that, as a culture, we are ‘losing our tolerance for vulnerability’.  The symptoms of which she identifies as:

• Joy becomes foreboding
• Disappointment as a lifestyle
• Low-grade disconnection
• Perfection (the 200lb shield)
• Extremism
• We numb

The first three I can absolutely identify with.  I tend to have a very fatalistic outlook on life.  I’m always expecting something bad to happen, or something to go wrong.  I’ve always defended my way of thinking, declaring that a pessimist is never disappointed.  Again, I think it’s understandable that I would think this way.  I’ve almost been conditioned to expect the worst outcome, because let’s face it, I’ve not had much go right for me in my life.  But maybe I have, I just haven’t seen it, because I’ve been too busy focusing on the disappointments in my life.

When I have something potentially exciting on the horizon, instead of looking forward to it, I tend to push away all feelings of anticipation and try not to ‘get my hopes up’ just incase something goes wrong.  I fear the anti-climax.  So many times throughout my life I’ve built things up in my head and felt overwhelming excitement that when something doesn’t live up to my expectations I feel crushing disappointment.  So I suppose I’ve learnt to not expect periods of happiness, so that when they ‘inevitably’ don’t deliver, I won’t be disappointed.  I’m also the queen of the self-fulfilling prophecy.  I’m so intent on being let down or disappointed that I actually manage to make it happen.

Perfection (the 200lb shield) -

“I’m going to perform and please, and make sure everything’s perfect”.

My goodness, this applies to me in so many ways.  I am a perfectionist of epic proportions and my need for everything to be perfect often obstructs my ability to get things done; and that’s where my terrible procrastination tendencies come in.  I find that every aspect of my life has to be perfect, “just so”, or at least have the illusion of perfection.

“Perfection is a tool to protect ourselves”.

Absolutely.  I’m well aware that my need for everything to appear perfect is to protect myself from being ‘exposed’.  I create a facade of functionality out of fear of someone discovering who I truly am.  For some reason I feel that if I look good and present myself as an intelligent, well spoken, measured person then other people won’t see the ‘real’ me.  Because once they’ve seen who I really am then I become vulnerable to rejection, judgement and misunderstanding.

“Evidence of the numbing.  We are the most addicted, the most medicated, obese and in debt adult cohort in human history.  We’re numbing.”

And this really brings me to the original reason for Sheila’s suggestion that I watch this talk.  We had been discussing the fact that my urges to partake in my target behaviours had been very low.   There is only room on the diary card for four target behaviours.  I have many more than just four, but I have chosen the most important ones, the most damaging, to rate on my weekly diary.  They are:

• Self harm
• Overdose/suicide
• Drinking – alone, and in order to block
• Restricting

It’s very common for my restricting urges to be quite high, as obviously I suffer with Anorexia, but I also have to rate whether I act on the urges or not.  It is in my therapeutic contract that I must eat at least one meal per day, so even though I do still restrict my food intake daily, it is stipulated that for me, ‘restricting’ would be not eating at all in a 24 hour period.  The other target behaviours are really the ones that I have to work on more than the restricting, because DBT is aimed at managing the symptoms of BPD, rather than Anorexia.  It just so happens that Sheila is primarily an eating disorder specialist, which explains why Anorexic behaviours are also looked at.

Over a two-week period my urges to self harm, take overdoses and drink in order to block my emotions had been extremely low, if there at all.  Sheila congratulated me on this progress, but I said that I didn’t really feel I could take all of the credit for this as I had been taking a fairly hefty dose of propranolol that was prescribed to me whilst I was in hospital.  The propranolol was prescribed to help with the severe anxiety I had been feeling.  It had helped enormously, but I was troubled by the fact that I’d now become quite numb to any emotions at all.  I said that I felt robotic – I was going through the motions of my day-to-day life, but was not feeling anything.

I often joke about the sheer amount of medication I have to take in order to get through a day.  But really, I don’t see it as a joke.  I find it quite sad that I am pumped full of medication, just to keep me alive.  I discussed this with Sheila, and whilst I identified that the medication was necessary in the short-term, giving me a chance to think more clearly and make a recovery plan; I did not envisage taking it long-term as I hated not being able to feel anything.  Yes, propranolol took away the feelings of anxiety – the nervous, butterflies in the stomach feeling, the sweating, elevated heart rate, etc; but it also removed any feelings of excitement, happiness, even humour.  A few people had remarked that they’d noticed a change in me, and it was suggested that I’d lost my “spark”.  It was even noticed that I’d started to walk more slowly, as opposed to my usual sprint.

Brené identifies another symptom of numbing – busyness:

“We just stay so busy that the truth of our lives can’t catch up”

This is something that I’ve always been very guilty of.  My need to be constantly busy was one thing that led to my diagnosis of obsessive Compulsive Disorder many years ago.  I was so busy all of the time, and following rituals, that I never allowed myself the time to stay still long enough for my thoughts to catch up with me.  If I don’t stop, I can’t think.

“We cannot selectively numb emotion.  When we numb the dark emotions; when we numb vulnerability and fear, and shame of not being good enough, we by default numb joy.”

The next thing that Brené says resonated with me more than anything else:

“An intensly positive experience is as likely to trigger relapse as an intensely negative experience.”

Quite coincidentally this is something that I have been exploring in recent months.  I’m very aware that it is common for me to ‘crash’ following a positive experience.  When I’ve done something that I’ve enjoyed, I can often fall into a deep depression once it’s over.  This has happened to me twice this year (and as we’re entering our 5th month I can see how depressing it is that I’ve only actually done two cool things in this time), both times were when I went to London to see The Black Keys and The Shins respectively.  Both times I have enjoyed myself, yet both times I have experienced severe depression for up to a week afterwards.  I’ve discussed this problem with friends, and they’ve often found it confusing.  I’d come to the conclusion that I feel depressed after positive experiences because I feel that once they’re over I can never have them back.  For one very brief moment I felt elated, and then I realise that it’s over and I can never recreate it.  So when I heard that statement, it immediately grabbed my interest.

“If vulnerability is a sharp edge, there may be nothing sharper than joy”

I think this really reiterates what being invulnerable can do to you.  All of my frantic efforts to avoid difficult emotions have left me as someone who is also unable to experience joy and other positive emotions.  I’d never actually thought about it in this way until I watched this talk.

“To let yourself soften into loving someone, to caring about something passionately…  That’s vulnerable”

In order to ‘embrace vulnerability’ Brené says that we must

“Practice gratitude” and “honour what’s ordinary about our lives”.

And this now leads me to my homework assignment this week:

When discussing this talk with Sheila I commented that I felt I didn’t ever really consider the small, seemingly insignificant parts of my life that make me happy.  I spoke about my recent bout of ‘writer’s block’ and I’m now kind of ashamed to say that I think I was unable to write because things were actually calm and ok.  I felt that no one would want to read about me doing well, or about the little things that make me smile.  I didn’t feel that I was interesting enough away from the illnesses that clearly define me.  But there are certainly moments that I experience daily that bring me a feeling of pure happiness, I just choose to ignore them because I’m more used to acknowledging the negative.

So my homework is to first identify my own vulnerabilities, which I’m pretty sure will be the easy part; and second, to list the simple, ordinary things about myself and my life that make me happy.  Things I feel I’m good at, strengths I feel I have, and the things that those close to me do that enrich my life in some way.   I need to embrace the ordinary things about me so that I can perhaps one day see myself as being a ‘whole’ person away from all of the negative aspects of my life.

 

A Rant.

What the fuck do you do when your Daughter tells you that she doesn’t feel like you’re actually her Mum?  Possibly the worst thing that anyone could hear ever.  Well, if you’re me, you cry a little bit, but for the most part try to keep your utter despair to a minimum whilst you attempt to problem solve and desperately try to make your child feel better all the while feeling like you’re dying inside; then kiss them goodnight and retreat to another room to mourn the loss of a once amazing relationship.

No Mum should ever have to hear that from their child, but equally, no child should ever have to feel that way about their Mother.  It’s not her fault, and I’m sure it was as distressing for her to say as it was for me to hear.  What makes it even sadder is that I feel exactly the same way.  I don’t feel like she’s my Daughter.  I feel like she’s just someone who comes to stay with me once a fortnight and then we just go through the motions.

I’m pretty sure that this is a very recent turn of events, but I can’t quite pinpoint where it started to go wrong.  Things haven’t been right for a while, but I really had no idea things had become so bad, until tonight.

It all started because I suggested to Grace that she read a book for a little while before going to sleep.  Her reaction was that of someone who had just been asked to do something abhorrent.  I sat for a little while, just soaking in the atmosphere which was frosty to say the least.  In fact, let’s go for arctic.  I could see her out of the corner of my eye, fuming, and just staring at the page of her book.  I immediately felt guilty for making her do something that she clearly didn’t want to do.  I felt torn between sucking it up and following through with my request that she read, and just giving in and letting her do something else instead.  Anything to ease the discomfort that we were both clearly feeling.

I should give a little context to the situation I’ve found myself in with Grace.  Grace has always excelled at school.  Always top of the class and at the end of each term I would look forward to another glowing report.  But recently something’s changed.  She’s completely lost interest in school, and pretty much everything that doesn’t involve staring at the TV, eating, or playing on her iPad.  Her most recent school report, whilst still excellent, did state that at a couple of subjects she is working “below a level expected for her class” and suggested that she needs to be reading as much as she can at home and working on the areas in which she struggles.

I seem to have been the only person to notice that her grades have slipped, and actually read the words in the school report.  Being the parent who is essentially saying that she’s not doing well enough doesn’t really sit well with me.  It is not a role I’m able to assume with ease.  I’ve always been the parent who thinks that my child can do no wrong; she’s the best at everything and the sun pretty much shines out of her arse, so to now being questioning that leaves me feeling rather uncomfortable.  I feel out of my depth with her; it’s entirely new territory for me to finally acknowledge that Grace isn’t perfect.

Obviously I didn’t just sit there and pick apart her report, telling her that she’s failing, or that she’s not good enough, but I did ask her why she thought she wasn’t doing as well as she always has in the past.  Her response was pretty much what I already suspected – her not entirely stable home life and the enormous distraction of her iPad.  I’m pleased that Grace was able to admit that her iPad was distracting her from her school work.  Very mature.  I asked her what she thought might help her get back on track, and she agreed that she needed a little guidance and set homework/reading times to be enforced.  And herein lies the problem….

I struggle when it comes to disciplining Grace, and I find it difficult to offer her the correct guidance.  Ever since I had her I feel that I’ve just been stumbling around in the dark when it comes to parenting.  I know how not to be a parent – I learnt from the best – but I don’t know how to be a good parent.  My life is a shambles, and I often feel like a hypocrite when I try to tell Grace how she should be conducting her life.  I have the added problem that no-one actually takes me seriously, and they certainly don’t respect me.  I guess it’s understandable, given that I made such a hash of being a Mother, but surely there has to come a time when I can be unwell, and suffer with emotional difficulties yet still be a parent who wants the best for their child?  In my mind the two can coexist.  But that opinion seems limited to only me.

In the month or so since I received Grace’s school report I have tried to help her.   Charlie and I, admittedly more Charlie, have tried enforcing reading time, much to Grace’s displeasure.  Charlie and I are both avid readers and we’ve reminisced with Grace about how much we enjoyed reading when we were young, but it doesn’t seem to be having any effect on her whatsoever.  It’s something that I can’t identify with, and I find it incredibly frustrating.  I can’t understand how anyone could not like getting lost in a good book, but I have to accept that everyone’s different.  It also difficult when you know that you’re doing the right thing by making your child do things that they don’t necessarily want to do because they will undoubtedly thank you later; it’s difficult because they don’t know that.  All they know is that you’re annoying them by making them do something they hate.  Charlie has always recognised that I find it difficult to be the “bad cop” so he takes on that role to help ease the discomfort for me.  If I didn’t have Charlie to support me, I honestly don’t know what I’d do.  I want so badly for Grace to love me, like me, that I find it incredibly distressing to have to behave in a way that might cause her to dislike me.  Of course, I know that this is stupid.  Children don’t hate their parents for trying to help them, but still, I can’t help it.

Every time Grace comes to stay with me we discuss her day to day life with her Father.  It’s unsettled to say the least.  As a result of his divorce they are living at his Mother’s house.  Grace has a great relationship with her Nan, but recently she’s expressed concern at her Nan’s behaviour.  Her Nan is a big drinker.  I remember her always drinking whiskey of an evening, and I recall that she could become quite volatile when she’d been drinking, but I’m going back to when I was 16.  I had no idea it was still an issue, until Grace told me a few months ago.  Grace confided that she worries about being left alone with her Nan in case something happens and she’s too drunk to be able to deal with it.  I asked her if she’d raised these concerns with her Dad, and she said she had but that nothing ever gets done.  We talked for a long time about how Grace might be able to speak to her Nan and express her fears.  Her Nan is a lovely person, and I have no doubt that when sober, she would probably be mortified to discover that Grace felt this way.  We did some role-play, where Grace practised talking to her Nan, and I felt we’d made some headway.  Months on, Grace still hasn’t plucked up the courage to have this conversation.

It seems that Grace has also taken issue with her Father.  Ever since his divorce she feels that he’s not been a ‘proper’ Dad to her.  He seems to be fully embracing his new single life, which is understandable, but he appears to have forgotten that he has an impressionable young daughter who’s crying out for some stability.  I sat with Grace last night and listened to her cry about how she feels completely overlooked when it’s come to his break up with his wife.  She said “I didn’t even get a hug when they broke up”.  She got a hug from me.  Her Father doesn’t want to talk about his break- up.  Again, understandable.  He’s obviously hurt, upset and nervous about the future, and I think to a certain extent he’s probably trying to keep it together for Grace’s sake.  But it’s not what she needs.  When my Mother died, no-one ever spoke about it.  Almost like it hadn’t even happened.  That was the WORST thing that anyone could have done.  I feel that the same could be said for Grace’s situation.  I don’t understand how people are unable to see that children need to talk things through, they need to be able to communicate their feelings.  Why don’t people see this?  Just because Grace may appear fine on the surface, it doesn’t mean that she is fine.  I seem to be the only person who is able to tap into what Grace is really feeling.  It takes a fucking long time to get it out of her, but when you finally do it’s almost a relief to see the emotions flow.

You may be wondering why, throughout all of this I don’t intervene.  After all, I’m her Mother and should have a say in how she’s brought up.  But that couldn’t be further from the truth.  I have no say whatsoever.  I probably have the least say in Grace’s life out of any of her family members; and that is how we have ended up at the point where we no longer feel like Mother and Daughter.  Grace and I both recognise that we don’t spend nearly enough time together to be able to maintain a functional relationship.  Once a fortnight isn’t enough.  Twice a month.  It’s not enough.  Over the years we have asked for more time, only to be ignored.  When we spoke about this last night Grace said that she’s not allowed to come to me more often because she doesn’t get to spend much time with her Dad.  She said she only gets to see him for about 2 hours every evening.  But that’s normal, surely?  Parents work, children go to school, and it’s pretty standard to only get a couple of hours at the end of each day.  When she said this I felt angry.  Because if you add those 2 hours per day up, and add the weekends that she’s not with me, and the fact that her Father finishes work early on Fridays it’s pretty clear to see that she spend substantially more time with him than she does with me.  I actually think it’s quite selfish for him to drum it into her that she can’t see more of me because he wants more time with her.  A child needs both parents.

Over the years I’ve tried and tried to communicate with Grace’s Dad.  He nods, and agrees, but he doesn’t act.  He doesn’t take me seriously as Grace’s Mother at all.  He doesn’t listen to my concerns about her emotional well-being.  He didn’t even listen to the judge at our custody hearing when he stated explicitly that Grace would need additional support to help her deal with the upheaval she faced as a result of his decision to remove her from my care.  The suggestion of counselling was mocked, and each and every time I have asked him to talk to her about her feelings he’s declared that she’s fine.  Every suggestion I make, every request of emotional support for her is dismissed as simply the words of a crazy person.  I’ve even tried to use the angle that I am living proof of what can happen if problems aren’t addressed and dealt with.  Nothing I do gets through to him, and unfortunately his attitude towards me has now started to rub off on Grace.  She doesn’t respect me and she doesn’t listen to me.  Every single weekend she bemoans her life at home, she cries, and she gets angry; but every suggestion I make falls on deaf ears.  I feel like I’m watching a car crash unfold in front of me, but I’m powerless to do anything.  When will they stop seeing me as the crazy person and start seeing me as Grace’s Mother?

I grew up without a Mother, and it was the worst thing that ever happened to me.  Now I’m watching it happen to my own Daughter and it’s heartbreaking.  I want so badly to be her Mum, but I’m not allowed to be.  I was ill, yes, and I made mistakes, but that never took away my maternal instinct; and my mental health has never removed my intelligence or my ability to see the world.  Sometimes I actually feel like the only sane person.  I seem to be the only one who can see that my Daughter needs help, but I’m the last person anyone would ever listen to.  I almost wish that it was me who was ignorant to all of this and it was everyone else who could see what I see, because at least then she would be getting the appropriate support and guidance.  This way, she’s getting nothing and it’s tearing me up inside.

I hate this.

The Conversation That Highlighted The Absurdity of My Life!

I’m ashamed, but also slightly amused, to say that this is an actual conversation I found myself having today.  What has become of me?

 

Laura: I’m going to try and get an early night too

Laura: I’m so happy I woke up early today

Charlie: yeah, I’m glad for you

Laura: I’d like that to carry on all week

Charlie: no reason why not !

Charlie: if you want me to call I’m happy to

Laura: I don’t want you to call me every morning

Laura: because it’s much nicer when I’m able to get myself up

Charlie: no, I totally get that, just wanted you to know I will if you need it

Charlie: means a lot more when you do it yourself though doesn’t it ?

 Laura: yes

Laura: seriously, it’s like I’m retarded or something

Laura: can you believe we’re actually having this conversation about the simple act of waking up in the morning?

Charlie: yeah, I’m sure it must be tiresome

Charlie: pardon the pun…

Laura: it’s not tiresome

Laura: it’s just funny

Laura: I’m 32 years old!!

Charlie: of course you are…………..

Laura: fuck you

Don’t Think, DO!

Helloo!!

I’m back!  Sort of.  I’m kind of just testing the waters, seeing how writing feels after a fairly lengthy leave of absense.  I appear to have had writer’s block pretty much since I left hospital back in March.  Obviously I have written a few blog posts, but they have mostly been about anything and everything that’s not my mental health, my relapse or my recent attempts at recovery.  I’ve been procrastinating terribly about what to write, or whether I even should write which has been strange given that previously I was writing so frequently.  I have a few ideas as to why this happened, and I will divulge thusly, but first I should go into what this post is actually about.

I mentioned some time ago that I had reconnected with my former DBT therapist, Sheila.  I’ve been seeing her regularly over the past couple of months and we’ve been working at getting me back on track and implimenting the DBT skills back into my life.  Something as simple as filling in the daily diary and skills chart has been immeasurable in helping me keep track of my emotions and identifying triggers.  Obviously Sheila was disappointed to see me back with her, resorting to the same old coping mechanisms and behaviours, and seemingly no better than when I first started DBT.  Thankfully, she’s a lovely person and she responds well to effort and commitment – the harder I work, and the more I’m able to show that I’m commited to change, the more I benefit.

Something that frequently came up during my 18 month term in DBT was that I think and anaylse things far too much.  Being a deep thinker and having an analytical brain is not necessarily a bad thing, but when it gets in the way of actually being able to do things and actively make changes it can become quite a problem.  It was initially thought that my insight into my illnesses would serve me well during recovery, but as time went on it became clear that it was actually more of a hindrance.  I often talk about my tendency to procrastinate.  For some reason I find myself constantly caught up in the ‘whys’.  I know everything there is to know about Anorexia and Borderline Personality Disorder.  I know why I suffer from these disorders, I know where they came from; I also know exactly what I need to be doing in order to break free from the shackles of these illnesses.  The problem I have is moving from simply thinking about these things to actually doing what I need to do in order to get better and engaging fully in the priciples of DBT.  I’m slowly beginning to realise that I can have all the knowledge and understanding in the world, but until I’m able to break through the barrier of simply thinking about getting better yet never actually doing anything, then I will stay stuck like this without ever making any progress.

I’d like to say that I’ve managed to break through and actually start engaging with the skills, but, of course, my stupid brain is too stubborn to accept change and prefers to stick to what it does best; that is, thinking about doing things, writing lists about all the things I’m going to do, and then leaving said lists to gather dust whilst I go about my business.  However, I must be doing something right because there have been no episodes of self harm whatsoever since I returned home from hospital.  I’m really pleased about that, but I know that I need to be doing much more to prevent a relapse happening again.  I just don’t know how to train my mind to stop constantly analysing everything to the n’th degree and make myself begin to actually impliment change.

Does anyone else have this problem?  Any advice on this would be very welcome.  Ta.