Black Dogs

The pain of depression is invisible but still deadly. It kills at least a million people a year, more than any other acts of violence. Yet we are ashamed when things go wrong mentally. We can only help to remedy this by talking, reading and writing about it. When the tightrope on which we walk wobbles and we slip and come face to face with the existential horrors buried deep within our minds nobody can tell unless we talk. As such times you can be looking at the most beautiful view in the world on the sunniest of days but it won’t stop you wanting to die, and it is now you need to talk.

Oddly, depressed people don’t actually want to be happy, they just want an absence of pain. So being moralistic about someone who wants to kill themselves is to misunderstand. To say (or think) ‘pull yourself together’ is like saying ‘Ah you have cancer, come on now, mind over matter’. With a physical illness there is some separation between the pain and the self, whereas depression eats away at the self, you are your thoughts. Depression causes such relentless continuous pain that it is all engulfing. There is a constant self torment together with an exhaustion of never quite grasping mental comfort.

There are some things that help alleviate the mental agony and send weak rays of sunshine through the deadening grey cloud of fuzziness;

– Intense conversation, though paradoxically sometimes to talk about how I feel leads to feeling more of what I am feeling, but acting normal can lead to normal

– Coffee (in bucketloads)

– Exercise

– Sunshine

– Pills

Not all of these help all the time, and there’s no wonder cure that will suddenly unlock your mind and let you see the sunshine but the more we can talk about mental health as a society the less engulfing and terrifying depression will become.


Being at home 

It’s now over a week since my discharge from CH and I’m just about coming to terms with trying to live normally again after a good long stretch of having no motivation at all. It’s so easy to slip back into old ways and my general busyness has returned in full force. I don’t agree with those who think they know best that this is necessarily a bad thing though unfortunately, my latest visit to my dietician showed that I have managed to accidentally lose a little more weight despite a good intake of cake.

Changing from one state to another is never easy physically or mentally and I am still experimenting with intake and output but I think I need to accept that my body just doesn’t want to be (and actually never has been) the size that the medics see as acceptable. At present I’m still holding onto weight in annoying places; I have a little pot belly and big thighs and the rest of me is like a stick. That’ll teach me I suppose. With my increase in exercise my muscles are complaining like mad ; I think I need a few gym sessions to get things working properly. I never feel hungry or full, which I believe that is quite common in recovery, but it does mean that I am having to rely on being weighed regularly as having no integral fuel gauge I have absolutely no idea whether I’m losing or gaining weight. It’s a case of trial and error which can be exhausting. I’m always having to think ahead to the next meal. 

Simple input and output aside, of course there’s always the psychological element too. Eating foods labelled ‘low calorie’ or ‘healthy option’ is always, always a bad thing for a recovering anorexic as it just feeds the part of my brain which wants me not to eat. Leaving food on my plate has the same effect. It makes eating out with normal people who may choose not to finish a meal, or who choose the salad a minefield.

I have no expectations that this will ever change, the connections between food and reward and restriction and punishment have been with me from a very young age. I have always been afraid of cake and puddings and a fear of being fat, it represents a loss of control. However, I have, and can exercise the need for control in a positive way, and, given the distraction of normal life, this the aim.

Food obsessive ramblings aside, I did meet with people from work at the end of last week which was a massive positive step forward and we have devised a plan for a phased return back to work. I am both humbled and so grateful at the understanding and humanity they have shown and willingness to be flexible, it just makes me feel so lucky and much more able to keep on going forwards. I am so looking forward to being slightly useful again.

Latest selfie:

Some Goodbyes

I have 30 minutes left out of the 22 weeks and 4 days I have spent here and it feels like the longest half hour of my life. Really, what’s the point? What’s the just one more snack, will it really make all the difference? The answer is yes, of course it will. One more snack will literally and metaphorically always make a difference. If I stop believing that then I will be back to square one. It took a while for me to get my head round this, but I got there!

In the news today is the story of this hoodie which is being sold by Amazon:

This is horrifying for so many reasons not the least as it makes light of an illness which believe me, causes very real pain for so many. Can you imagine wearing a hoodie which made a joke from cancer or heart disease? Hopefully it will be withdrawn from the market, I can’t really see that anyone would think to buy it anyway.

Be back soon…..

The past is a foreign country 

Two days left at the unit and though it might be assumed that I am ‘cured’ I have learnt that it’s really only the beginning. There’s still work to be done.

I have been compelled to dig deep into the past to find reasons for my problems and I have had to face up to some very unappealing truths – about myself and my past. Insight is painful, but only through this pain can I find freedom.

I am looking for an antidote to the frustration. I am unable to properly communicate anything that will provide understanding, and am receiving nothing back but anger and hatred. It has almost a physical presence of its own, separate from, but still him. I have become an expert in knowing exactly what to do to get a reaction; which buttons to press. It feels dangerous and this is strangely addictive, I can’t help but provoke. It’s like poking a snake. I feel relief at finally having an outlet for my emotion but mixed with a great fear.

I want not to cry, the last thing I should do is to show any weakness, I stamp my feet to stave off the tears. I am invincible. I can stand steadfast against the torrent that will surely unleash.

Inevitably the damn breaks, it always does. The red hot anger reaches out and hits me, hard. It strikes all parts of me and somehow displaces me. Distantly now I hear a shout, incomprehensible with rage and finally, I feel a release. I have his whole attention and I am getting the punishment I crave and deserve. A sudden pain in my head as it is struck and I stumble and fall. I am weakened and shaking while the anger around me dissipates, I am pushed into my room and am alone, figuratively and literally locked in. I have put myself firmly and reassuringly in the wrong and feel cowed, regretting my behaviour as I am now trapped. I am desperate for air and space but I dare not leave the room until the anger has fully subsided. I am all too aware that the next stage is my abject apology and I will be expected to take responsibility for my actions otherwise I will be punished further. Why is the apology is the hardest part? I feel that I deserve the punishment. I am a terrible child and a mistake after all.

Later, when I perfect my escape by edging along the windowsill and then jumping off the high ledge to freedom, I will run and run, through beds of nettles to recreate yet escape the pain.

Progress and Puppies

So let’s talk about the elephant in the room, waving his trunk over there in the corner. I give him the occasional pat but mainly leave him to his own devices much to my shame. I have throughout this process made progress of a numerical kind. That’s not to say that this is linear, it’s been more like a rusty old rollercoaster, and it’s not all about the weight by any means. Every peak I reach seems to reveal another summit just out of reach. Though weight restoration is necessary for recovery, weight gain on its own it seems is not full recovery.

Importantly, I certainly don’t want a pat on the head for the weight regain. On the contrary, this feels difficult enough without someone recognising my increase in size. So the figure on the scale continues to creep up, and I’m now beginning to approach what is universally recognised as a ‘healthy weight” for my height. My aim for the next week or two is to reach the magic BMI of 18.5 and then in the forthcoming weeks work on getting out of here as soon as possible. I’ve learnt over time that its all about compliance with the system, whether this be real or faked. I’m wary of showing any signs of personality, but I fear might just start to get a little more opinionated. I am genuinely confused as to whether my desire to get out of here is my eating disorderly monkey telling me I no longer need help or if it’s the healthy me, wanting to resume a full and meaningful life and spend more time at home.

Since arriving home from Italy, I have been sleeping at home but staying in the clinic for long days, not leaving until after the evening meal at 6.30. Consequently I have found the last few days very wearing. I am driving home in rush hour, eating yet another snack and falling asleep in front of the TV. A new patient has arrived, who, not to put too fine a point on it, is not quite as high functioning as other patients. Her presence, with broken spectacles, dressed in a leopard skin onesie with her unwashed hair sticking up vertically, is both heart wrenching and serves to remind me that I am currently part of and in an institution. As I start to feel better, however fragile, the less I seem to be able to tolerate. I am desperate to resume my normal life but at the same time I am terrified that I have potentially ruined my career prospects and relationships with people who I can’t at the moment deal with.

We had a sobering community meeting today about self harm and attempted suicide. Those issues are sadly endemic if not universal amongst eating disorder patients and made for some very difficult conversations. Possibly wrongly, I would always choose not to engage with such disturbing matters, though here it is perceived as disordered to maintain that British stiff upper lip. I am all for naming the demon and removing the stigma from mental health issues, but can see that there is a danger too in bringing it out into the open. There is a dark sense of competition here which can be very unhelpful.

Which, in a nutshell, makes me appreciate the extra time at home all the more, whether considered to be beneficial or not!

Blue Hair Day

There are times when I reach the frayed ends of my endurance and I really need to get out of this place but have to be content with a mental, rather than physical escape. I divide my time into sections between meals into which I feign productivity; the chapter of a book, a row of crochet, a crossword puzzle. It sounds like a perpetual all inclusive holiday but believe me, it is nothing of the sort.

I write this blog partly for myself, and also to offer some insight or solace to others who may be suffering in a similar way. It acts as a salve, and though it is not intended as such, I fear it also acts a means to keep some of those who know me updated without the need for real human contact. My words feel somehow reduced in power because of this one-way communication, but I have decided that this is not a reason to desist.

I want to write about an incident that occurred last week, again, not by way of an update but simply to verbalise something that remains a painful truth. I became involved, and indeed was the perpetrator, of what on the face of it should have been some harmless fun. A prior patient had left behind a pampering kit containing hair chalks, sparkly nail varnish in garish colours, and glitter tattoos. With some enthusiasm, I offered to ‘tattoo’ the arms of fellow patients and in return, was offered a hair make-over, which resulted in horrifying bright blue streaks. I went to view my locks in a mirror and the result was electrifying. Staring back at me was a woman who should have known better, a professional and a mother who should either be working or at the least looking after the home and the family. Sitting crossed legged on the floor in a hospital lounge having my hair tinted blue represented the worst part of me; the part that has failed and I hated myself for it. The flash of self hatred was both sudden and terrifying, and unfortunately had an effect on my ability to deal with the food situation, my go-to comfort of deliberate restriction and hunger could not be satisfied, and I despised myself all the more for needing this crutch.

Thanks to the staff here and to my therapist I have learned to be more reflective over the past months, dealing with stuff that I have never before faced up to and unravelled. Things that have affected me deeply around which I have built up brick walls and masked behind a capable and competent woman who knows her own mind. There is a child inside all of us but mine is frightened and abused and she does not like what is happening. I have learnt that the past cannot be left behind, what is happening now is sadly partly a reflection of my childhood and teenage years. I cower from abuse, I run from indifference. Only now do I realised that the constant anger, the fractured family, the being hit and shouted at was not the fault of that child. I grew up genuinely thinking I was a miscreant. I now face the uphill task of learning to be kind to myself and cannot continue to be so self-berating. It is clear that this is not sustainable.

Yesterday, I had a day and night out of the unit, the first night I have had at home in my own bed for almost a month. I found that at home I instantly fell back into the same old habits, being the person who must achieve, even if the tasks were as inane as dusting, weeding or ironing. I simply could not help but slip back into self-punishing ways in order to justify any fun I might have, as if I need to balance good times by enduring hard work and the restriction of food order to deserve it.

The first step is understanding and acceptance. The rest, I hope, will follow.


Just what it says. There’s nothing I can do except ride it out. It comes in waves and is all engulfing. I am missing my family, my home and the familiar surroundings, my animals and my freedom. A bubble bath, a hug on the sofa watching rubbish TV. I have to be the best version of myself here, to be always in control and it’s exhausting. Saying goodbye after visits is awful and despite being surrounded by people and checked up on every 15 minutes, I feel desperately lonely. Friday night in hospital is not the best fun. Most people have gone home for the weekend and I’m sitting in the lounge waiting for medication so I can then just go to bed, attain a bit of oblivion and dream of home.

Being Friday evening and August the usual staff are thin on the ground and the ward is being run by agency workers who have no idea what’s going on. I had to talk through each dose of medication with the nurse who simply didn’t seem to know anything. It took 35 minutes. I wonder at such times why I am here at all.

Seen better views……