Groundhog Day. It’s a film that so many people have seen, a popular film that for so long I hadn’t seen. I finally watched it a few months ago and thoroughly enjoyed it. Watching films is difficult at times, my attention span isn’t very good these days. If you aren’t familiar with the film you’ll at least be familiar with the concept. Every day being the same as the last. Well, that’s very true of my life as it stands, and as it has stood for a very long time now. I’ve been masking the truth of course.
Things are taking a serious nose dive right now. I’ve been in limbo for a long time, in a rut. I’ve danced to the tune of my eating disorder. We’d kinda done a deal, reached an agreement, and I’d stuck to my side of the bargain. I personify my illness, it allows me to cope with it better. A lot of sufferers do, and that’s ok. The first time I heard someone actually name it I was horrified and didn’t get it, I do now. If you can give it character it gives you something to take aim at, it gives you something to hate. Sadly, it also gives you something to talk to, to reason with, but it also gives it a voice. Sometimes that voice is loud. At the moment it’s the loudest voice there is.
Groundhog Day has, at times, been interspersed with nice things. The odd gig here (Paramore, Ricky Ross, Katherine Ryan) and, of course, the football. On those days the deals made are tricky. Ever tougher regimes in order to make up for the fact that I will need strength to get through those occasions. Strength means food. Tougher days follows those. Swings and roundabouts, but I have to have some break from the Groundhog. What I haven’t realised, until the past few weeks, is that the eating disorder has slowly been gaining an upper hand. The deal has been getting changed, it’s got stricter.
If you follow me on Twitter you see me masking a truth. I probably come across as quite content. You’re aware of my issues but I seem positive, at least I think I do. I talk about my baking and the Battling Baker project. I’m always posting things about what I’ve baked. You might think I am eating that stuff. No. I try bits, but it’s never more than a pinch. The truth. That was the aim, but the ED slammed that plan hard. Not that i’ll give up. My passion is too great, and one day, maybe, I’ll swallow more than a sparrow’s beak amount and not walk it off afterwards.
I find it hard to say all this on Twitter, or to anyone in fact. People ask sometimes. “How are you?” I almost dread the question because I WILL tell people if they ask, but when I do I hate that I’m saying it. I hate that I’m writing this now but I need to get it out there. Also, I hate that I have nowhere to turn. That’s the thing – I don’t have the help, I don’t have the therapy and I don’t actually have the means to ask anymore.
So how bad is it? Wolves played Birmingham City on 15th April. I ate a meal that day. I’ve eaten 4 other meals since then. It’s 10th May now. Other than that I’ve had an average of 2 of my own “rescue” biscuits per day to keep myself vertical. Yes, I’ve lost weight. No numbers – I know it’s not good to write that stuff down. What I will say is that the eating disorder tells me that in order to have the next meal I must be X weight, each time the X number must be lower than the time before I ate last. No amount of fighting from me stops the relentless attack mentally if I even try and break it.
I’ll tell you one story. It was the last home game of the season. I’d planned this. I wanted fish & chips. MAJOR for someone with my issue. Deal was done. HARD week before, but the figure the eating disorder set was reached. All the way home it tried HARD to talk me out of it, but I’d stuck to my side of the deal. I was doing it, even if I only managed half. By the time I got to the fish & chip shop I was already “talked” into only having small fish & chips rather than standard. OK, I was backtracking but at least I was doing SOMETHING. I was in a cold sweat going into that shop. It was so hard. There was a wait for the fish, they had sold out. Instant panic. Just wait it out, it was ok. 3 minutes passed. 5 minutes passed. My head was SCREAMING. I began to cry. Not just hidden sobs, this was proper crying. In a shop full of people waiting for fish to cook. I kept my head down but people noticed. I wish I’d run out but I didn’t. 10 minutes it took. The woman handed it over and apologised for the delay, maybe thinking my distress was over that. I thanked her, said it was ok and ran out of the shop. I’ll never go there again. I can never face that ordeal again. I ate half the meal. I’d wanted to enjoy it, it was marred.
Groundhog Day is more frequent now. The football is over until mid August. I have a week holiday at the end of June and that’s all there is to break it up. The deal for that is too severe to put down, but I am going to try hard to make that week as good as I can. However, things are SO bad at the moment. One meal a week is making me very ill. I have developed acute tendonitis in my left arm that starts in my shoulder and goes right into my wrist. Physio would help, but without muscle to build up strength won’t be very effective. Food will help build muscle. So the cycle continues.
I sit here this morning and I know I haven’t hit where ED says I can have a meal. I probably will tomorrow. HOORAY. Mum goes on holiday for two weeks. Two weeks I probably won’t see anyone, although I believe someone I have got to know on Twitter is popping in for a coffee on one of the days. The hardest thing in all this is the lack of support from the people who are meant to help. I can’t ask for ED services help now because they have said they will only help if I do their day treatment therapy. Well, if you read my previous post on that you will know I am in no place to be able to engage with it. There ARE other alternatives but they will just NOT entertain it. I can’t discuss it with my CPN because they don’t deal with eating disorders and have no experience. Psychotherapy team won’t engage until I’m eating. I can’t go private because I can’t afford it. I’m trapped.
Sometimes I sit here and I wonder what the escape route is. Do I just exist like this? Is there a way out? Sometimes there’s a dark answer and it seems a light one.
When I try and fight, when I look at my life as it was (the good bits) and fight for that, the power of this illness really does show its grip. That’s how I know just how ill I am. Yesterday, whilst out walking, I was listening to a song by Anne-Marie. She sang about not caring how she looks, about eating her body weight in chocolate, about loving herself for who she is, about being comfortable in her own skin, about loving herself for her. Suddenly I thought “yes, why am I being trapped like this? Who am I doing this for? Why don’t I like myself?” I started to fight a little. SLAM. Suddenly my couple of miles around the block became a lot longer. I was put in my place. I’m so ill.
So, the masking. It really is a mask. This is the truth. I’m REALLY struggling. I hate it. I want a way out and I can’t find it.
I’m sorry this isn’t more positive. I can’t keep masking. This is my hell.
On a scale of one to “I’m in the bowels of hell” this really has been one of the worst weeks in a long time. I can tell you, the bowels of hell aren’t too pleasant. It’s been a mix of a continuation of assessment work at the autism centre, a lot of physical tests at the GP, meetings & reviews with my CPN and, finally, a showdown with the team at Gloucestershire Eating Disorders Service. The outcome of that meeting was, in short, not good. That’s an understatement to be honest. I am divorcing them, but only because they have engineered it in the most despicable way imaginable. They would say they are “getting tough with anorexia.” I would retort that within this is still a person, still Simon Rickards, still dignity. Why am I divorcing them? And in reality, am I ACTUALLY doing so or are they actually giving me no options at all? In reality, are Gloucestershire Eating Disorders Service washing their hands of me, giving me an option that they know I am in no place to be able to engage with and therefore fully aware that I am going to be off their hands anyway. And if they know this how can they happily allow it? Here’s the thing; I actually asked that question. The answer is horrifying.
As my physical health has been deteriorating lately with anorexia’s stranglehold taking an even stronger hold, I had begged for further treatment and, with advocacy from my CPN, the ED services had re-engaged with me. I begged them for further inpatient treatment, afraid of my own vulnerability at the mercy of the eating disorder’s will and not trusting of my own strength to be able to engage with their day treatment programme, the very one that I had failed at right at the start of my descent into all this when I wasn’t as bad as I am this day. There was resistance to my pleas but I felt like maybe I was getting somewhere, particularly given that the physical issues were becoming ever more serious. Yesterday’s meeting was with not only my care co-rdinator, but with the decision maker, the man who decides what options to give a patient in the services’ care. After keeping me waiting almost an hour past my appointment time and barely apologising for it they began a line of questioning that almost made me feel like they were calling into question my whole diagnosis. I stopped them and asked them if they thought I was making it all up, becoming emotional. They assured me this wasn’t the case. They checked my weight. Still very low. They checked my pulse. Still very low. They acknowledged my low body temperature and so on. They could clearly see just what state I was in. But they were being very abrupt, almost to the point of how a boss speaks to an employee that hasn’t been doing their job properly. Now, I know that people with eating disorders have to take some responsibility for their recovery, I get that, but at the same time when you are very ill, and have had zero help, support or therapy for over 12 months it’s bloody hard! Their approach took none of this into consideration and I felt like my dignity as a human being was being compromised. At this point we hadn’t even got to the hammer blow.
They have decided that under no circumstances will they offer inpatient treatment. They also regret ever giving me inpatient treatment in the past, suggesting it did me no good (well, it didn’t, but only because it was handled badly) and that it doesn’t matter how I am now or will be in the future it won’t be happening again. There are a variety of treatment options accessible through them, however I can only access them through one route; by doing their day treatment programme. Now, if you have an eating disorder what I am about to say may be triggering so read on with that warning in mind or close the browser now. Otherwise those without or accepting the warning; I haven’t eaten a proper meal since I left the last eating disorders unit in Bristol this time last year. Anything that I’ve eaten out of the boundary of what my eating disorder dictates…well, I’ll just say I deal with it, again as my eating disorder dictates. Rules of day treatment; eat ALL food within 20 minutes. There is NO flexibility. Outside of the programme, at home, you are to follow the agreed meal plan and not engage in any eating disorder behaviours. Ok, all fair enough – people go on that programme to get better and sign up for that. Understand this: I WANT TO GET BETTER. I want to get control. I may never get rid of this completely, but I want control. So take that as read before we go on. Back to my point. I have not eaten properly in over a year. There is no chance in hell that I am going to be able to go from where I am at this moment to eating a full meal (with pudding) in 20 minutes. There is no way that I am going to be able to spend 18 hours a day in my own company outside of day treatment, and weekends, and be able to not engage in behaviours that have dominated my life for approaching two and a half years. It doesn’t matter how much I want to be better than I am, I am mentally ill and at this stage, right now, as things stand, day treatment will not be an option I can realistically succeed in. They know this, I know this and I am sure that anyone reading this will understand and will come to know this too.
So I asked them this question: “If I come on day treatment and fail one meal, what will happen?” Their answer: “We will discharge you from the programme and from the service.” So I asked them; “What if I don’t do the day treatment programme?” Their answer; “We will discharge you from the service.” My final question: “So you would knowingly, wilfully and happily discharge someone and give no help to someone with anorexia, who is as ill as I am?” A one word, cold, emotionless response: “Yes.” It was at this point where they claimed they were being tough with my eating disorder and not me and didn’t offer any support when I was clearly distressed. They told me to think it over and tell them next week. In my emotional state I told them I would if “I was still here.” They knew what I meant, read between the lines and you will too. I didn’t mean it but I felt it in the heat of that moment. Their response was to quickly usher me out of the room and escort me out of the building as quickly as they could.
I have given them many reasons why I believe things could be different with treatment at this point in my illness. Sure, I am much worse than I have ever been, but I believe that if I can get on the recovery path there are things that I can focus on now as a way forward. I’ve not had that before. My passion for baking, healing broken relationships, real concrete and good things that weren’t a part of life when I tried to engage in treatment in the past. Before I came out of treatment to….nothing. Now it would be different. This situation I’m in now is frightening, because I am going to have to rely solely on myself. I now have nobody to turn to in a professional capacity to help me fight and get control of this illness that has controlled me all this time. I know now that I am stuck with this for life, and I need to find a way to survive it for as long as I can, so that I can live.
I‘m not going to do that day treatment programme. I don’t want to suffer the indignity of being thrown out of a building in front of 9 other people who are all struggling, I’ve already had that happen and it’s a horrible and embarrassing feeling. Dare I say, it’s even more triggering than some of the more obvious things people expect. Also, because of how I’ve actually been treated on a human level I wouldn’t want to be treated by the individuals who operate within that service. They place no value on me as a person, don’t allow me any dignity, respect and have never listened to any of my views about my treatment. This ISN’T just about them not giving inpatient treatment when I’ve asked, there have been many MANY other times when I have been ignored, belittled, talked down and insulted (once they actually had to formally apologise to me) and I actually think they have done and would continue to do more harm than good.
So that’s it, this fight will have to start again, only I can only rely on one person. Me. I have absolutely no idea where to begin, how I will make even a baby step forward let alone a normal sized one. At the moment all is as was yesterday, last week, a month ago. At some point I need to find a starting point. One things for sure, it won’t begin with that team, ever again.
It’s World Mental Health Day. I’ve put a picture of a goat lying down and you’re probably wondering what the hell that’s got to do with anything. You’d be justified in wondering, I would too. I took this picture whilst on holiday last week in Zakynthos. This was the first proper holiday I have ever been on, the fact I was there was a minor miracle in itself, but as I meandered through the lonely hills of the island, away from the hustle & bustle of the tourist town of Alikanas where I was staying, I came across this goat. He was lying in a barren bit of land, attached to a pretty run down small holding, looking pretty glum in his own world. He wasn’t aware of the hardships of the island, the fact that everyone on it works 7 days a week just to make ends meet, that the Greek economy is such that the potential of this island can’t truly be met. The financial infrastructure isn’t there to back it up. The potential is there to see (there are some absolute beauty spots), but the people are letting it go to rack & ruin and seem to be just ticking over, leaving vast areas spoilt by unsightly rubbish and abandoned building projects. The goat reminded me of my own state of mind. He was locked in his own misery, just there with no apparent purpose (although probably used for milk), whilst the world around him carried on doing what it did, whether that be to tick over or, as we are more fortunate than the Greeks, to progress. I’m digressing at the moment – Asperger’s – I’ll get where I’m going shortly.
An update on my health. I’m still where I was, although an admission. I’ve developed bulimia. I use it to keep myself in check when anorexia isn’t enough, when I’m not strong enough to restrict. Wow, I can’t believe I’ve just typed such a weak minded thing, but that in itself is an indicator of just how bad I am. So, anorexia, bulimia, borderline personality disorder and Asperger’s – it’s little wonder that my latest letter from my psychiatrist again uses the word “complex” to describe my case. My weight is low, my strength is rubbish and my mind weak. My mood is stable but best described as “numb” and I’ve got little appetite for life at the moment. I have no goals to speak of and there are no treatment aims being talked about. The eating disorders team have made no contact since putting me on this “break” and I can’t see that changing. Heaven knows what will happen. Maybe the posts will stop one day – and that will be a sign that the whole thing ended badly. So yeah, that’s that. Oh – Wolves are doing well though. There has to be ONE positive, and that’s one that will always make me smile!!
So, World Mental Health Day. Why do we have to have one day when attention is brought to this issue? Should awareness not be something that should be accepted by now? Is it a case where for one day everyone is made aware that people suffer with mental illness and tomorrow people forget? Does the media forget that for people like me and the millions across the world with a mental illness there are 364 other days where this is STILL part of our lives? And WHY is this still needing to be highlighted in the way it is? Why is there still this stigma? Do we have a World Broken Leg day? Because that’s a normal, that’s something you can see so therefore it’s legitimised. Well let me tell you something. Have a look at me if you ever can. My mental illness has physical repercussions. I’d post a picture of myself in just my underwear if I didn’t think it would be triggering to some people just to show that there are physical consequences to some of the mental illnesses I suffer from. Would it get the message across to some of the ignorant then? Of course it would. BUT IT SHOULDN’T TAKE THAT!
Piers Morgan tweeted this earlier:
“On #WorldMentalHealthDay, a reminder that statistically, this is the safest & healthiest time to ever be alive in recorded history.”
The ignorance in that one tweet sent me to boiling point. He’s probably right, from a physical perspective. From a mental health perspective he is absolutely wrong. Social pressure, world pressure, means that we are probably living in the WORST time for mental health. People don’t realise it, but it’s a fact. How do we address it? It’s up to people with the most influence to ensure that they are using that influence for good, to be more aware of the impact they have on society and on people. And then we need to look at ourselves and how we are toward each other. We need to look within our schools and how children are toward each other. We need to look at how we conduct ourselves and interact with each other online. We almost need to start a collective think tank and start again, we need to learn how to be kinder to one another and see that these brains of ours are not indestructible. They’re fragile, they need looking after. WE need looking after as people. It’s not just our bodies that need maintaining, it’s our minds too. Piers Morgan’s tweet COULD be all encompassing if we learned just to look after each other better.
World Mental Health Day itself needs to be handled better. It’s good that people in the public eye are used to highlight the issue, but what about the people that REALLY suffer each day. The Royal family are all over social media today, pop stars, TV & film stars, all talking about the good work that people do or their own experiences…but what about people who live with these chronic conditions day in, day out? Give us a voice, give us air time. Come and see the reality of how this really is. Only then will acceptance of the legitimacy of mental illness come to the fore.
Finally, I saw Jeremy Hunt speaking at a ‘Time To Change’ event. This man is the Health Minister responsible for the vast cuts in the NHS, not least cuts in Mental Health care. It’s insulting that he is even invited to speak at such events, let alone that he even turns up. The government continues to cut funds, yet more and more people suffer, more and more people need treatment and more and more people die. To say it’s not good enough is an understatement. It has to change. One more death is a death too many. Jeremy Hunt & the government have so much blood dripping from their hands that I’m surprised they are able to grip a door handle. I couldn’t look myself in the mirror each day knowing I was depriving people of the care so many of us need. It has to change…and we must keep pushing them for that change.
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.
For the past week I’ve felt like I’m permanently staring down the barrel of a gun or completely trapped. It’s a horrible feeling, a feeling created by the worst of circumstances at a time when I probably need help the most. Those who are in touch with me on social media might be forgiven for thinking that I’ve been making an effort to do a bit more of the things I’ve been trapped from doing. My last blog entry indeed suggests this, but actually things are going badly. Very badly.
I had an appointment with my psychiatrist just over a week ago. He is part of the recovery team, helping me more with day to day integration, coping with my anxiety issues and Asperger’s. During that appointment he posed certain questions that unnerved me, centred around the possibility that I could be discharged from the care of the eating disorders service. I was stunned at the mere suggestion. Lately the anorexia side of things have taken quite a kicking and, with necessary sensitivity, it’s obvious that behaviours are out of control and physical repercussions coming to the fore. The justification for the suggestion was due to the lack of progress or engagement in any meaningful treatment since discharge from my last inpatient admission in February. As I pointed out this had been due to my moving and the eating disorders service wanting to ensure my work with the recovery team being established so that cross agency involvement could be created to devise a way forward. I hoped that he was simply “shooting fish in a barrel” and that I could query this with my care co-ordinator at the ED service at my appointment last Friday, but I didn’t like the fact he even brought it up. Anyone who has experience with eating disorders know that this kind of thing can be a trigger, and that’s the last thing I need when things are as bad as they are at the moment.
My appointment at the eating disorders clinic didn’t go as my care co-ordinator was obviously planning. I don’t think she had any intent of discussing any of this with me, indeed that was what she intimated as soon as I queried what had been mentioned in my appointment with the psychiatrist. She confirmed everything he had said and then detailed my options. I was horrified. They are indeed looking to give me a ‘therapeutic break’ from treatment (temporary discharge, let’s not dress this up) unless I took the only option open to me. This option, in reality, isn’t one…not for where I’m at.
Gloucestershire Eating Disorders Service is one of only a few in the country that offers a day treatment programme. Just after my diagnosis of anorexia I was referred onto this programme but was discharged from it after just one week. The programme is meant to last eight weeks. They have very strict guidelines, one of which is that all meals are completed within a set amount of time. These rules are there to ensure that you are committed to the programme, your recovery, and to protect the recovery of the other patients. I understand the rules, I accept them but at the same time I understand that if you can’t stick to them you can’t stay. I also acknowledge that if you can’t adhere to them that you aren’t well enough for the programme, and that your illness is more severe than that programme can accommodate. If that’s the case then other treatment MUST be instigated, simply leaving someone to fend for themselves should NEVER be the way.
My care co-ordinator says this is the only option open to me at this time. If the programme wasn’t right for me at the start of my diagnosis there is NO way it is right for me now, not when my illness is so much more progressed, my behaviours are far worse, my weight so much lower and my food fears so much more profound. I know exactly what is expected of me there and should I accept a place I am certain that I would be discharged very early on. The net result of that would be damaging in the extreme and that’s something I am simply not prepared to face. Things are bad enough as they are, why would I do it? This, to anyone reading who has no experience or understanding of eating disorders, must seem ridiculously defeatist. I am being nothing more than brutally honest with myself and what I know of where I am. With all the will in the world and desire to gain control over this BASTARD of an illness it has me on the ropes. Even if, hypothetically, I went and did the programme I would still spend 20 hours a day at home. That’s a lot of time at the mercy of all that goes on in my head, not being supervised through meal times, not being stopped from carrying through on behaviours that might undo anything I might do in day treatment. It’s all that happened before.
Our conversation then progressed and she posed the question of in-patient treatment again. I had been thinking about this as an offshoot of my psychiatrist appointment. He had asked me if I thought I would benefit and although I’d been resistant to this point I have become so desperate to regain some life back and some control that I realised that this might actually be the best way forward. I began to get tearful for the first time in a long time and nodded in agreement. I wish she hadn’t asked the question. It would seem that the NHS Commissioners will not sanction inpatient treatment for me again, especially in view of day care treatment being an option. Given the reasons I have gone over above this leaves me in the wilderness. Day care treatment would be, I believe, catastrophic and inpatient treatment isn’t allowed. I don’t blame the NHS for this, nor my care team really – this sounds like a funding issue and isn’t the first time I’ve been in this position. You have to admire our government don’t you? Oh no, you don’t!!!
So here I am. The wilderness. The eating disorders service haven’t formally put me on a ‘therapeutic break’ yet, they want to have a meeting with me and the recovery team, alongside my GP, and then they will. It’s here that I have to tell them my decision in regard to day treatment, but, in truth, I see no real prospect of me engaging with that for all the reasons I’ve said. Meanwhile I am physically getting worse as the anorexia has a field day with my vulnerable state. Even at that appointment with my ED care co-ordinator my weight had dropped and has continued to do so, not because I’m proving any point, but because I am that ill. And the worst thing? I’m still not 100% sure these professionals completely listen to me. Yes, I’ve always had mental health issues. Yes, I’ve always had food issues but just today I had a letter from my psychiatrist following up on our meeting suggesting that maybe all of this might just link back to my being on the autistic spectrum. It’s at times like this I am really at my most vulnerable, when I can’t see any way out. My sole issue right now, or rather my primary issue, is that of my eating disorder. I need help with that and that alone. If I can’t get it I have no future, it’s as black & white as that. Yet here I am facing the prospect of losing the support of both the ED and recovery teams.
I’m trapped. I feel like I’m staring down the barrel of a gun. I’m looking for a future that doesn’t seem to exist and all the while this pig of an illness is mocking me, making me scared and won’t let go.