Seven years ago today I drove into Gloucester for an appointment with my psychotherapist. The appointment was at 10.40am. By 11am I was outside the psychotherapist’s building in the back of an ambulance. I was hooked up to a heart monitor, having injections into my stomach and listening to paramedics tell me that I was having a heart attack. For the next few days I was to battle for my life until I was stable enough to have a life saving procedure to have two stents placed into my heart. I guess today could therefore be classed as an anniversary, the anniversary of the day that I almost died. The day that my body almost gave up on me. The day that over-eating, drinking and smoking took their toll on my heart and it said “enough is enough. I give in.” The weird thing is I was at my psychotherapists, it’s an oxymoron. Twelve months before that point I’d tried to take my own life because my mind was broken, but I was in a better place at the point where my heart decided to work against me.
Fast forward to today. You would think that I would be looking back and reflecting on the fact I survived. I should be using it to help me change where I’m at now, to drive me onward in my battle with Anorexia, Borderline Personality Disorder, anxiety and to help me better manage my Asperger’s traits. I’m glad I survived and been able to enjoy the times I have up until two years ago when Anorexia came knocking. However, if I’m being wholly honest, lately I have been spending a lot of time locked into a mind-set of wondering whether I would be better off not being here at all. This might sound dreadfully defeatist, a little self-indulgent in the misery stakes and might provoke annoyance in some people. But when you are faced with this illness, and have been for so long, when you aren’t getting the support you so desperately need and you are living the same routine each and every day with no end in sight, you really can’t see a way out other than the eternal comfort of the never.
What have I been doing lately? Very little different. I’ve baked a lot. Most of it has been very driven by the eating disorder. Sometimes the compulsion is so strong that I just make something and then get angry and throw it away. Most of the time I make stuff and Mum takes it away for herself, my step Dad and her friends & neighbour. I get inspired by Bake Off a lot and try and recreate a lot of the things they are making. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t all ED inspired, there is a creative element there and a joy. I just can’t indulge in any of it, there’s no way anorexia will allow it. If only.
I’ve been to all Wolves home games so far. I leave 5 minutes before the end of each game to avoid any kind of chance of getting crowd panic. It cost me the other day when Danny Batth scored a late equaliser, but that’s the price I pay to keep myself feeling safe. It’s a struggle at times, especially feeling week and having to amend my ED habits, but I tend to just not eat at all on match days. It’s easier to keep the ED voice quiet. At least I get to go!
But that’s the thing – dancing with the devil in my head in order to do anything I want to do takes away the full pleasure of doing things. I hate that. Why should I have to compromise everything in order to do anything? This is why I spend 99.9% of my time locked away in my flat watching Netflix and running back and forth to the bathroom. This is why I wonder whether I would just be better of having not survived seven years ago, or not surviving now. I’m going on a week’s holiday with mum & my step dad shortly. It’ll be nice to get some sun but, of course, the whole thing will be tempered by the ED and a lot of what I wish I could do I won’t be able to. When I get back I had been thinking of just giving into everything the ED wants and just allowing it to slowly take me for good. I echoed this to my CPN recently. I have a new referral to a psychologist as a result. Hopefully this will lead to some more meaningful treatment because, again, nothing has been happening. I’m still eating next to nothing, getting lighter, bombing laxatives, walking when I can. Still no ED support, no therapies elsewhere. I had to have a course of injections to right some imbalances in my bloods. Physically I’m a wreck really.
The life I wish I could have isn’t there. I can’t get it back myself. The professionals don’t seem able to help. The system is failing me. This anniversary – I wish I could celebrate it. I survived. I can’t celebrate that. What a shitty illness this is. Fuck you anorexia. You are worse than that heart attack. That was fixed by two stents and the skill of a team of doctors. You have far more power and you are looking more likely to kill me. Bastard.
Fingers crossed for that psychologists appointment this week.