Skinny Girl's Fat

I appreciate that I am not obese.  Or technically overweight.  Or even 'average build.' I even appreciated that back then.  That that was the reality, even though I couldn't see it or believe it myself.  But I still have & had bits that jiggle.  I'm slim, but I can still have fat, cellulite and a general dislike for my figure!  It would be nice once in a while if comments were considered before communicated.

There are two types of dismissive comments.  One where I'm not even speaking, asked to speak or allowed to speak for myself.  These are the conversations where suddenly food, or the other person's weight/size/shape comes up in a sentence directly, with barely a comma's pause, followed by an assumption (sometimes wrapped within a 'compliment') that 'you don't have to worry, though' or 'you manage to eat what you like and you're a thin as a rake'.  If they're going all out, they may even call me a few names of 'endearment', you 'skinnie minnie!'  (Whatever that means...)

And every time, without fail, a ghost within me stands up and shouts at them.  What would you know?  Have you seen how many times a day I stand on the scales?  Have you watched me bending over the toilet?  Have you been inside the noise of my head trying to work out, arguing, whether I can eat today or not?  Have you been there when I've cried myself to sleep because I desperately want to function but can't bring myself to eat enough to manage it?  Do you have any idea what your dismissive, throw away comments do to me, my internal battle and my self esteem?

Then there's the few times that I do mention, as part of conversation, how I might feel about areas of my body's size, textures or flaws.  This does not go down well.  Ever.  Inevitably I end up being compared to one of them, told how lucky I am, and how everyone wishes they were me.  Not that they've seen under my clothes, not that they've been compelled to act compulsively, neurotically and destructively around food.  No.  They think it's a dream.  And I wish it were.  I look back at photos of times where I thought I was fat, and wish I'd had the confidence to embrace what I did have  But I had a distorted mirror for many many years.  Whether they think I'm fat or not, the fact is that the whole matter is subjective.  And if I think or feel that I am, that is the reality for me and my body.  Their reality is irrelevant and I wish they'd stop forcing it upon me, making it impossible for me to ever talk about these issues that ate away at me for years of my life.  Just because I function 'normally' and you've seen me eat a burger that one time doesn't mean I don't have a complex relationship with food or disordered eating.

Committing Euthanasia

That's what I wanted.  That's how I saw it, through my suffering.  A permanent suffering, from which there was no recovery to be had.  Permanent dysphoria interwoven with manic peaks so energetic that they sapped all the life out of me eventually.  I saw the highest highs, and felt a privilege being up so close to the stars.  But I also fell down into my life's ravine, hitting all the ledges on the way, no rescue rope in sight.  My experiences were not this two dimensional, either.  Maybe 7D?  Either way I was pulled and pushed, shoved and snatched, teased and torn in all directions. 

It hurt.  And there was no plaster or magic pill to make it go away.  I didn't want to go on.  I was trapped writhing in the middle of a web.  I did not want to wait out the inevitability of more pain and suffering.  I wanted it to end now.  And why not?  Wasn't that my choice?  We make these choices for animals every day.  'His quality of life will be very poor, and his chances of recovery are slim.'  So he is 'put to sleep' - how pleasant and comforting that phrase sounded. I longed for peace, quiet and stillness.  In many ways I'd never experienced that at all.  Wasn't it my turn?  How much more did I have to go through/put up with?  How many more times did I need to try to get better?  I was running on empty in every sense of the phrase.  I had nothing left to give, and life had everything still to take from me.  What I'd have given to have been put to sleep. 

A controversial issue.  Not ok in this country, but ok elsewhere.  Ok for physical things, not ok for mental things?  Would I have regretted committing euthanasia?  Well I wouldn't have ever known that I could have recovered.  I wouldn't have known this freedom, or this version of myself.  But at the time, no.  I would not have regretted ending that immense pain.  Looking back to that horrific place, I would still want it and not regret its cold logic. As I journalled at the time, 'I want to wake up tomorrow to find that I've gone.'  Why?
 
(another journal extract)
'I yearn to experience the fiery depths of hell.  Nothing can be worse than this.  Dying would be better.  I have to touch the flames of damnation, endure Satan himself.  Just to see.  Just to prove it.  A walk in the park.  Pain and hurting so familiar.  Endless strain.  No peace.  Incessant noise.  Piercing screams.  Continuous movement.  Blinding light.  Deadly fear.  Infernal burning.  Been there.  Done that.  The epitome of negative chaos.  Easy.'

There is only so much time one can spend in what I used to call the 'hope or die stage' before purgatory ensues.  And that's no life.  Luckily I managed to wait it out until I saw the pin prick of light and follow it through to safety.  Not without trauma and bad memories, but I found peace and stillness in the end.  And I still manage to visit the stars from time to time too.  But back then, when I was hurt, paralysed and weak on the inside, I still maintain it was my right to choose whether or not to continue.  That's not to say I think it's a good idea for others.  What I have now is more than I could ever have dreamed of, and so much better than ever before, even before I noticed I was ill.  And what better stance to appreciate it from than having been at the bottom of the dark ravine?

Recovery Perspectives

There are times at which I find myself feeling so happy and at ease that I realise quite how different 'this' is.  Feeling safe, feeling confident, feeling free.  It seems amazing that it all went away in the end.  Every so often during these moments, I realise how simple it was, to come over here.  To the other side of the line.  I think back and decide it was stupid and my own doing.  If it was that easy, why didn't I do it ages ago.  Why haven't I been like this all along?  Why did I make it hard for myself?

Other times the coin has flipped and the tables have turned.  Something will jog my memory and take me 'back there'.  I realise just quite what I went through.  The pain I endured.  The endlessness of it all.  God was it complex.  So much so.  It scares me.

Then I zoom out and catch sight of the big picture.  Quite how many issues/diagnoses/symptoms I had.  They seem too many for one person.  It's almost as if it never happened.  It couldn't have.

Except it did.  It left its mark.  It landed in my life like a meteor; one which had been part of a star.  I had known it existed, in the background.  I saw it glaring at me from time to time.  Then all of a sudden it fell.  Dented everything around me.  Destructed all in it's path.  Left a crater.  I'm not standing in the same spot, but the concave ruin remains.  It's just that the grass has grown over it and I've landscaped it into a shrine for wellness.  It will always be a part of me.  It's led to my now.  My safety.  My confidence.  My freedom.  It's better now than ever it was before.  I couldn't have got here without it.

Holby City Xmas Episode

Is it me, or was it slightly remiss of Sascha, not only to leave mid-shift for a brandy before returning to duty, but not to refer his suicide attempt patient for a psych evaluation before discharging him with a prescription Santa outfit?

Hospitals: A Safe Haven?

Given recent events, I have come to question the mental health training, if any, that NHS hospital staff receive.  Regardless the physical problem, the mental health label/history seems to penetrate the rest of the patient files, and the professionals' thought processes, ending up in a 'discussion' of 'is this all in your head?' or 'did you do this to yourself?' by every professional who passes the threshold of one's curtain, despite this being the 3rd time today. 

The fact that the hospital's mental health team has spoken at length and agreed a strategy and plan involving patient and family, and has this written up in the file for all to see seems to elude them all.  This has some how donned and invisibility cloak whilst the original history/diagnosis scrawled itself in indellable ink over every sheet in the file.  Meanwhile, doctors, nurses, surgeons, consultants run amock making faux pas left, right and centre, going against the patient's wishes, destroying their feelings of security and the pre-arranged, specialist-approved safety net. 

These were of course set up in order to take their thoughts, feelings and views into account, use existing effective measures of support, preserve their dignity and promote recovery.  For some reason the system seems to remain rather Victorian in this regard, and content to do as they will, ignorant to the detriment of their actions.

Why?

Failure to Communicate

Giving points of view, giving pre-made appointments, giving it 'all that,' they are good at.  But the key aspect of communication; all communication, but especially within mental health, is listening.  Without that, how they expect to draw accurate conclusions, let alone build trusting relationships is quite beyond me.  Asking a question about someone's life and then answering it themselves without so much as a glance for clarification is a sure fire way to foster anger, resentment and bring the relationship, what there is of it, crashing down.  Let alone build a false picture of what is going on, masking potential risks and provoking either the need to be rude in order to correct things, or to give up and let them get on with it if they're so determined to construct it all themselves anyway, and resign oneself to never receiving the right help and support.

Sticky Labels?

I recently revealed the diagnosis that I had, to some who knew I'd had issues in the past.  Following this talk, it came to my attention that it had been assumed that I was my label in the sense that I still had the label and diagnosis and therefore still came into the box of others with said diagnosis.  The idea that I was no longer my label, no longer had the diagnosis, and could have been 'cured' of it seemed inconceivable for some reason.  Sure, I used to struggle with many things, but I thought it was fairly clear and obvious now that these things were no longer an issue.  In which case, why would I still have the label?  Quite simply, because labels are sticky.  Stickers would be more apt a term.