Tug of war- letting go of restricting.

We go one way, then we go another way. Forwards and back. The grass starts to get thread-bare, then completely worn away. Heels are digging in completely now.

I really, honestly do not know what to do. I have lost track of what “normal” eating is. I have lost track of what my body is supposed to look like. Supposed to feel like. My fingers find the bones of my chest. Ribs- I count them and rub them like a talisman. They protrude a little. When people hug me or rub my back it embarrasses me a bit- the knobs.

Now I’m not Skeletor (He-man reference). I don’t look “anorexic”. And I’m not. I am underweight but people don’t look at me and think “eeeek!”.

My dietitian thinks I should be about 1.5 stones heavier than I am. Now come on- I have never been that weight in my life and never intend to be. She very seriously tells me that at my current weight I would not be able to conceive. However my blood results are all within normal range, I manage to live a pretty normal life and my hair’s not falling out so I’m obviously not that bloody underweight. Also I get lots of calcium. So why can’t I just continue as I am?

But I’m not sure about how I look. The chest is obviously bony. I’ve always been small on top but now it’s super small. The shoulders are a bit pointy. But my stomach and thighs have never been like this before. Am I prepared to have a bony upper body just so that I can have slim thighs?

Eh. Yes. It would appear so.

I know I know I KNOW that men find slightly curvier women more attractive. Whevs. I am not doing this for men. I am doing it for my own sense of inner peace with my weight.

It could be just a phase. Normality might creep back in..

Yes, OK, I’ll give that a try….and other lies I told my Dietitian.

 

I had my initial appointment with the dietitian today.

I am sure this woman is well- used to her clients lying to her, telling her what she wants to hear and denying what she tells them. I am sure that she has been looked at in horror, laughed at, cried upon and maybe even been verbally abused. No, definitely.

I went willingly to my appointment. I requested it. I may be depressed and eating disordered but my need to be a good girl will always win out. So I am trying to be a good anorexic depressed person.

Here are the thoughts going through my head as I walk down the psych hospital corridor to outpatients:

1. Trying to strike the balance between walking without a care in the world and avoiding eye contact in case I bump into anyone from work (yes I work in the neighbouring hospital).

2. This won’t be too bad- all of the staff here so far have been great and she will be on my side.

3. Why is there a baby changing room there- babies should never be brought into a place like this! Oh. Unless their Mum is suffering from post-natal depression. Or a relapse of their ED triggered by post-natal depression. Or BY PREGNANCY! (more on this later)

4. How hard can this be?

So we met and we sat down and we got straight too it. I was honest. I explained the history- usually have on and off trouble with bulimia but over last 6 months have suffered depression and lost my appetite and motivation to eat which has spiralled into a mood and anorexia shit storm and I have lost weight,

Dietitian: how do you feel about your weight

Me: I don’t think I’m dangerously or even concerningly underweight and I am no longer losing weight (lie # 1 but I don’t know this as she hasn’t weighed me yet). I am just trying to keep things stable- I am happy with my weight because it is under control and therefore I don’t have to spend time thinking about how I should lose weight- which as most women know is a massive drag.

2: D: what do you want from this appointment? 

Me: for you to tell me if this weight is unsafe and if I am doing myself any harm because right now it is working for me.

Dietitian weighs and measure my height. Have lost teensy tiny 0.2 kilos but the downward trend however miniscule persists. BMI indicates underweight. There is a chart with swathes of colour indicating what level of healthiness your BMI corresponds with- orange is good. Red is overweight. I am yellow. I am on the edge of yellow and blue. 

She wants me to be in the orange. The weight she advises for me is a no-go never-ever. 

She tells me I am without doubt infertile right now. This is reversible.

She tells me that I am at risk of osteoporosis. This is not reversible. I need 4 servings of dairy a day- to be fair dairy is one thing I am ace at so one extra serving will be easy.

The meal plan she gives me is not outrageous but it seems unlikely to me. There is so much further I need to be along the recovery route mentally before I can take thus on. I say as much (truth). I say I will try (truth). I say it seems reasonable (lie) but there is not really anything reasonable about an ED. On this we agreed.

Vegan…vegetarian…anorexic (not to mention the horse-beef scandal)

Illustrated cleverly at Fat Ballerina’s blog   Vegan.

Hilarious (or a bit sad maybe) timing for me as I just received my Go- Veg starter pack from PETA.

Nobody can be mad at me or question the sanity of my being against animal cruelty.

Nobody can have a go at me if I decline to eat something because I’m a vegetarian.

Nobody can question my limited appetite and apparent disinterest in food.

It’s dangerous ground for the eating-disordered. Free reign to cut out whole swathes of food (practically bloody everything if you’re vegan).

Socially difficult, but so is eating  all &^%£ all.

Looking at it from another perspective- if eating vegan or veg helps you to get control of bingeing, or helps you to find an acceptable way to manage your intake without wrecking yourself then hey, knock yourself out. As a “functioning” anorexic I condone that. Anything you need to do to stay healthy, happy and in control.

Also anything that encourages you to eat more veg is great.

Tofu though. I have tried, really tried to like this stuff but Jesus. Come on. It’s rank. Spongy. It tastes like damp. If anyone can convince me otherwise with a great recipe I;ll give it a go.

Also think of the animals. The little critters and the big ones. Factory farming ad slaughter techniques are ugly. Free range feels better. Tesco value burgers is going to be plain wrong. Don’t be surprised there is horse in there. Be surprised there is beef in there, or any meat at all. People are OUTRAGED at eating horse- being DUPED into eating BLACK BEAUTY!

This debate also has a grey area. Easy to get on your high horse (heh) and preach about organic, free range, stroked to sleep with velvet pillows every night meat but not everyone can afford that, and if it’s a choice between ethical eating and not eating at all you’re going plump for the value burgers.

Basically you could argue your way around these ones all day.

FYI- horse meat is much leaner than beef.

 

“We’re not there yet, but we’re getting there”

Since my diagnosis of “depression etc” as I like to call it, 7 months ago, I have gone through a mixture of responses to the D word. It’s like a really unwelcome relative that moves in, uninvited and elbows her way in beside you on the couch. “Are you gonna eat that?” she might say, ask she filches the food off your plate.

I have gone through some kind of grief cycle with this-

Denial- “I can’t be depressed, depression is for losers who can’t cope, I’m too busy for this shit”. Why would I be depressed? Nobody died! I just got married, which was awesome, I just bought a great place, I am healthy, I have great friends, my job is fine. What have I got to be depressed about??

Then fear. It all went a bit stark and very lonely. Arctic landscape.

Anger (still here I’m afraid): this depression is a bastard. How dare it come along and eat up my confidence and personality. How dare it force me to take time off work and want to cut my hair off like Anne Hathaway’s. These stupid pills I have to take make me dizzy and crappy. 

Shame: shame, I’m afraid has been a constant. I am ashamed to be depressed. I am ashamed to have an eating disorder. But the ED is almost less of a deal for me. Maybe because EDs are everywhere, and probably most women I know have food issues, and (sorry to be honest here, you won’t like this) there is a little bit of pride attached to being anorexic- restricting your food intake is hard. Getting through that and still carrying on with your day is a challenge. There is a sense of being a toughie. Lots of anorexics will talk about the feeling of clean-ness, lightness, almost a rush (yes could be the low blood sugar).

But the depression-shame is different. Understand this: I strive on striving, I like to be good, the best at things. I am a good girl. Parents love me. My house is tidy. My work diary is covered with ticks. I get stuff done. I am on a mission. Depression doesn’t fit in there. Well, duh, it obviously does but you know what I mean.

I made an interesting choice about my treatment. There is a world class mental health facility basically right beside where I work. If I went there I would have access to the best professionals and a shorter waiting list, but I would have to run the risk of people see me go in, bump into me in the corridor. What if I needed to run out crying and ran into someone from work!

But I went for it. I didn’t want to wait. I took the chance. Now, I haven’t ever bumped into someone from work but seriously, the stress of trying to walk in there every week for my appointment borders on the ridiculous. Actually I may dedicate a separate blog to it.

Anyhoo- I have only told TWO people that I have depression- my husband, and eventually my sister. No one else. Not a word.

Acceptance: this is where I want to get to. Accepting that this depression, or break down or whatever, is here to help me- to adjust my approach to life and soften my perspective, to allow myself to not be “super” at all times. To give in. For that to be ok.

As the Irish government transport tagline says:

“We’re not there yet, but we’re getting there” choo choo