Thursday, 31 January 2013

Coming to terms.

I told you Monday and Tuesday would be bad, didn't I? Monday verged on vaguely ridiculous. They said that I could be a day patient (I keep demanding to go home), and just come here for 10 hours a day, Monday-Friday. Sounds good, no? I'm sure they were expecting I'd bite the hand off the person making the offer. Instead, I told them I didn't think my CPN, Scunny's community mental health lot, or even Ginge, would have me in the community. As a 'compromise' I was told that I could be a day patient here and then go to the nuthut of a night. Because that makes PERFECT sense. The whole thing pissed me off so entirely that I spent 24 hours locked up in my room, refusing all meals and replacement drinks.

Tuesday and my big review came and they'd realised what a moronic offer that was, I think. So I'm still on the eating disorder ward as an in-patient, until they get me into the next unit, on the condition I comply, which I had and have and have had no problem with, apart from those mardy cardi 24 hours. Unless I suddenly balloon, I suppose, in which case I guess I will end up on the nuthut. Bloody woe is bloody me.

I'm kind of coming to terms with the fact that I'll be lucky to see any of this year out of hospital. There's one unit that they really want me to go to, that I'd have to agree to (I'm here now against my will), that offers a 10 month programme. That's pretty bloody daunting and I was dead set against it, until Ginge did some research and found out that their (I keep saying they and their and all that, I suppose because I lump everyone involved some way or other in the system as one) second choice, the one they can and will force me to if I don't agree to the other, has an average stay of 16 months. I keep begging them to leave me the fuck alone, but I'm slowly coming to terms with the fact that that isn't going to happen, and either way I'm going to be in hospital a long time.

I'm so wobbly and unsure right now. Tonnes of people have told me that if I added up all the months over the last few years I'd spent in hospital, it would add up to far more than 10, which is true, and that this should be the unit to end all units (I'm paraphrasing, but that has a good ring to it. THE WAR TO END ALL WARS and all that). It doesn't help that I'm feeling so huge right now, and I'm still underweight. I've gained about 7kg (just over 15lbs) since coming here and it's really bloody tough, even though I'm still 10kg off what I was maintaining at before this relapse. It's taking me at least half an hour, and numerous changes, to come up with an outfit of a morning, which is a totally new thing to me. Usually, I just grab whatever I fancy first, add summat clashing and big jewellery or a tie or bow tie or a mix, and job's a good 'un, but now I'm dressing and redressing, just to find summat I don't feel I look obese in. That plays massively on my mind when I think about other units, 'cause the eating disorder grabs me with all the fake promises of what weight loss could bring, and although I know the promises are fake, the voice is so strong and I'm afraid 'cause I know wherever I end up, I won't be able to test the promises.

I just want to go home. I also want to be well. Ginge said that if they let me go home now, she thinks I'd be dead by Easter and I couldn't say owt back 'cause I couldn't promise I wouldn't be. I don't want to feel like this, but I don't want a year in hospital. It's going to happen though, whether I agree or not, so I really need to think, and I suppose a bit of reassurance that this is the right thing, that I'm worth and worthy of such NHS expense, and that I CAN, and this will be enough to make me, stable enough to cope with, and live, a real, decent, life.

Sunday, 27 January 2013

Bad week.

It's been a bad week. Actually, to be fair, only Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday were bad, but the bad feeling continued up until about yesterday, so that's why I've not blogged. After I post a positive post, I hate following it with negativity. In fact, I hate being negative on here, full stop. But it's been bad, so I'll let you know what's been going on, mostly because I use this space to work out how I really feel about things myself, I suppose, and if one person reads this, that's always a plus.

Mondays are always a shitter. They involve getting up earlier (on a normal day, they wake us up between 7 and about half past- and they usually leave me 'til nearer the half past mark- to do blood pressures and all that malarkey before breakfast. Everyone else then gets ready before breakfast at 8, whilst I go back to sleep until my breakfast is on the table, hahaha), for the weekly weigh-ins, ECGs, blood tests and the daily blood pressures. They also involve ward reviews, with the psychiatrist, a nurse and the dietitian. My review did not go well. I'm not a huge fan of the shrink anyway, I find her patronising to fuck. I actually told her that I wasn't a 'bloody moron' and, in a similar/slightly worse language (I'm from Scunthorpe after all, comes with the territory), not to treat me as such. She essentially told me that this isn't a nuthut, I shouldn't behave like a nut. Which, of course, TOTALLY stopped my flashbacks et al.

Tuesday involved the dietitian telling me I don't need to add variety to my diet- which I wasn't too arsed about 'cause I like having the same thing every day- like she encourages everyone else to do, because I'm here to gain weight before my next unit, not to recover. I know that I'm here to get to a certain BMI because originally the plan was just to send me straight to rehab, after all, but my weight was too low for them to take me so I ended up here. The thing is, knowing that and being told you're not here to work towards getting better, are two completely different things. All the 'challenge this food, challenge that food' shite that the staff bring to every meal just became meaningless; I lost all motivation to give, say, carbs, my freakout food group, a shot. Wednesday, my CPN came and we just had a long conversation where he told me I was going to another unit and I told him I wasn't, then he reminded me I was sectioned and I told him to piss off. Back and forth, back and forth.

So after that, I was completely lost. The staff all seemed to be against me and I felt like a battery hen being fattened up before being sent to the abattoir. So I dealt with it in typical Rebecca Condron styleee, by spending far too much money that I don't have, and honestly? I felt better. Not great, but better. My mum came on Wednesday night and I just cried at her, but by this weekend, I wasn't too bad. I spent the end of the week mostly online shopping, colouring mermaids and watching crap online and it helped; oftentimes, I just need to be left. Left to bad tele and bad colouring books. I don't brood when I'm alone necessarily, and I don't isolate myself, it's more just time to recover myself before I can put on the front I use around other people. The weekend has been nice though, Ginge came both days and since I'm allowed 'up to two hours daily escorted leave with staff or [my] mother', we went to a giant Asda yesterday (I love supermarkets. Like really, really, really) and to the seaside today. It was bloody freezing, at the seaside I mean, but we had such a laugh.

This week is going to be a bitch. On top of the usual Monday crap (please let me not have gained weight. Please let me have gained weight), I have my big review on Tuesday, with all my Scunthorpe care team, all the care team here and Ginge and ARGH. I'm trying not to stress, Ginge and I spoke about it today, basically agreeing not to talk about it beforehand and agreed that we're not going to agree in the meeting, but afterwards we'll go get a cuppa somewhere out and cool our jets.

Saturday, 19 January 2013

Fitting in.

My family is full of beautiful women. It's true; aesthetically, you would definitely be impressed at our family parties, a whole room full of MILFs (not that I'd like to fuck them, but I'm sure you would), my wonderful grandma and my stunning cousins, and even more so when you got talking to them- love, warmth, energy, strength, genuine care and pure feist flow from each and every member. There's not one who'd not give you the shirt off their back. My grandma and granddad had six girls and they're all very different, in both looks and personality, but all share the same inner and outer beauty. Between the six girls, they've produced for my grandma (it's heartbreaking that my granddad died just a year before his first grandchild, a boy, was born), four grandsons, four granddaughters and one of my cousins has produced two great granddaughters. The male members of my family, my uncles and cousins, are just as brilliant, but I'm going to neglect them and the rock which is my dad, in this post- so apologies guys!

The beautiful women in my family- and this includes my cousins and grandma- come in all sizes. I was going to say all shapes, but perhaps bar myself at the moment, they have a pretty cookie cutter shape. The women are womanly. No wait, I don't like that phrase because it implies that women of other shapes are not the way they ought to be. The women in my family are curvy, and I don't use that as an euphemism for fat, they just all have great arses and boobs. I think maybe my youngest cousin, who I've written about before and love as if she was my sister, is struggling perhaps with this, mostly 'cause she's 11 and going through puberty, but I hope that it takes her less time than it took me to recognise this beauty, especially because her inner beauty is almost blinding. We range from a size 8 (again, except me currently and Emily, the 11 year old) to maybe about a size 16, from about 5' to maybe 5'6, blonde to ginger to dark, but all share the same qualities and shape.

You don't choose your family, but if I could, I'd pick the one I was dealt. Genetics are a marvellous thing and I hope that I have some of the inner beauty that they do. More than that though, I've realised that I want to look the part, too. I want my boobs back, I want my arse back, I even want the thighs that I've always hated back, because I want to fit in with that incredible group of ladies. That thick, wavy hair that most of them have, that I used to have all those years ago- I want that back. A lifetime of Anorexia and Bulimia have taken everything wonderful that fate has dealt me from those strong women and all those before, and I want them back. Fitting in with my peers doesn't bother me, I'd far rather stand out, but standing with the women in my family, loving and laughing and eating and drinking, fitting in with them, well, I don't know why anyone would or could want anything else.

This need to fit in doesn't kill the disorder. But chipping away everyday, like the tides of the sea against a cliff, that's what it's all about.

Monday, 7 January 2013

Perfection paralysis, part 2.

I've just realised that I'm suffering from what I call perfection paralysis again. I wrote about it way back, with regards university essay writing, (you can read it here) but this is different. It's the same feeling, not being able to start something because I'm afraid that I can't do it perfectly, just this time not related to academia. Perfectionism, depressingly as cliched as talking about control with regards eating disorders, runs through my steel bones (everyone from Scunthorpe is made of steel), instead of marrow, and through my veins, instead of blood. I'm paralysed by the very thought that I can't do something, or be something, perfect. In the past it's mostly revolved around academia because that's what my drive was in, but now it's become part of my eating disorder and it's affecting my treatment, on this unit. Or maybe it's not that it's suddenly a part of it, but rather now that my focus has shifted entirely to the disorder and recovery, you can't get away from it or have a day off when it's hard, when you're on a unit, so it's become more apparent. All of the perfectionism from the areas of my previous life, like academia, has had to go somewhere, now that my life revolves entirely around getting better.

I'm not sure what I want to be perfect in. I mean, I know right now, totally and unequivocally, that I want to recover and be a perfect example of how it can be done. But when I'm faced with a meal, and my ED-head is going a million miles per hour, I'm suddenly not so sure. I know it's reasonably early days, I've only been in a few weeks, but there are certain foods that set off major alarm bells in my head, foods I just can't eat, and so I know that when faced with them, I'll not be able to complete that particular meal. So then the perfection paralysis. Do I start and do 'alright' at a meal, missing one component and eating the rest, or do I go into paralysis; write the whole thing off as a bad job, and childishly decide that it's perfection or nothing? The answer seems obvious now, but in the moment it's really not. Do I want to be the 'perfect Anorexic' and refuse all sustenance or do I allow myself to become imperfect through my struggle? But then, is there any imperfection in fighting a worthy war? Because there are few instances of war more worthy than fighting for one's life. I'm so conflicted.

I know perfection doesn't even really exist. At school, we were taught in RE that the fact that we have the notion of perfection proves that there is a god, because only a god can be perfect and so if there's no god, we wouldn't have the notion. I don't agree with this, as an atheist, but it is an interesting argument. 100% in any form of test is a perfect score, though. So I suppose I ought to look at this as some sort of test, this war against my own body hatred, a fight to the death. Because either the disorder dies, or I do; they told me the reason I was admitted here when I was, so quickly and right before Christmas, was that I was an immediate heart attack risk. I don't want to be a perfect Anorexic because the only way to be one is to be dead. But perfectionism, positive as it may be if you can get past or don't get the paralysis, and manage the fact that neither you nor everything you do can be perfect all the time, is a destructive force so deeply ingrained in me that I just don't know how to drain it away.

Wednesday, 2 January 2013

Poorly-sick.

I feel as if I'm obligated to do a round up of 2012, but I don't much want to. Too many hospitalisations and Sections and now this Section 3 and the ED unit. I don't much want to dwell and so I am not going to.

Instead, I'm going to whinge. I'm mardy; I'm poorly. The latest lot of my burns, done just before I was admitted here, have got infected and so I've been on antibiotics for a week. Somehow, during that week I've managed to get myself an ear infection. I think I'm basically a medical marvel. I really must have zero white blood cells, 'cause the infection in my arms isn't completely gone, either. I feel horrific, the infection in my ear is in the inner bit, so my balance is completely shot and I'm constantly dizzy. All I want to do is sleep until it's all gone away, and instead I have so much food to plow through, despite finding even sitting up at the table a struggle, and nurses on at me for not being more social and sitting with the other girls in the lounge. It's a bloody ballache 'cause I haven't the energy to be social, nor do I want to do owt but lie flat and maybe watch a bit of My So-Called Life (a nurse lent me the boxset and I'm addicted).

I know how whingey this is, blogging whilst ill should be as illegal as Facebooking whilst drunk.