The Hour of Lead

The past week has been hellish.  At times I've been so numbed out that I didn't actually know how I was feeling.  All the while it was building up behind the floodgates, ready to knock me off my feet when I was least expecting it.  

The days have been long and void of emotion and the nights, thanks to insomnia, have been long too, but it's only then that feelings hit with full force.  Keeping up my pretence is my main goal during the day: if I don't my misery contaminates everyone else's life too.   As soon as the freedom to feel is reinstated and I shut my bedroom door in the evening, the floodgates burst open.  

I can't shut feelings out anymore.  I've gotten good at fooling other people, but I've not figured out how to fool myself yet.  My feelings swamp me completely.  I can feel a dull heavy pain building in my chest, dragging me down as if I'm drowning in my own emotion. It's impossible to change how I feel.  I can't change the fact that it hurts, but that's where the paracetamol comes in.  If I can't make it stop the next best option is to dull the pain.  In my foggy paracetamol induced stupor I'm not drowning anymore: I'm floating.  

Yet another unhealthy coping mechanism, I know, but, yet again, I didn't give a damn.  Why sink when you can swim?  I didn't think it was a big deal, so I mentioned it in therapy, but boy, did the shit hit the fan.  She rang my Mum, then I had to get my Dad to come in to talk about it.  By the time I got home the GP had been called and I got a phone-call from a doctor because it was too late to arrange an appointment.  He told me to go to A&E for urgent blood tests and re-referred me to the CMHT.  I didn't go to A&E and I'm not sure what I'll do when my referral comes through in the post. 

I think I'm beginning to give off crazy person vibes again.  I am apparently not making very good choices because I'm not in a very good place right now.  The medication mafia is on the prowl again and my therapist even asked if it's safe for me to be at home this weekend.  Other people making my decisions for me, putting me in hospital without my consent and insisting that I ingest a host of happy pills morning and evening didn't exactly 'fix' me last time. 

Living seems like a ludicrous prospect.  I'm sure I'm even suicidal - just weary of living.  I’ve experienced as many emotional ups and downs than most people do over the course of a lifetime.  I’m as exhausted as a one hundred year old.  I’ve lived enough now.  I broke down this morning, crying hysterically for hours on end.  I 
don't know what to do anymore; I don't know what I want anymore.
  
Despite how bad things are at the moment, I did see how much progress I have made after the hysteria began to subside.   This time four years ago I was trying to steal my antidepressants and diazepam from my Mum’s bag when she wasn’t looking so I could overdose, three years ago I was burning myself with my curling tongs, two years ago I refused to eat anything but some lettuce every 48hrs and last year I was abusing laxatives, binging and overexercising compulsively.  I’m not going to wake up tomorrow, jump out of bed and be full of the joys of spring, but I won't do anything to stop me waking up tomorrow.  I've outlived the Hour of Lead before, and I'm going to do it again.  I'm not exactly sure how yet, but I'm going to cope somehow.           

The Narcissistic Parent

It's about secret things. The Destructive Narcissistic Parent creates a child that only exists to be an extension of her self. It's about body language. It's about disapproving glances. It's about vocal tone. It's very intimate. And it's very powerful. It's part of who the child is. 

This isn't a conclusion that I would ever have drawn of my own accord.  My therapist suggested I look up a particular  Facebook page about narcissistic mothers, so I typed the term and hit search with bemusement, preparing myself to laugh aloud as the page loaded.  I didn't laugh.  I cried. 

Some of the posts crossed the boundaries of narcissism, in my opinion, and entered the territory of pure sadistic abuse, but then I came across an article about the more subtle characteristics of narcissistic mothers, which evoked memory after memory.    

Everything she does is deniable.  Apologies don't exist.  When she knocked my iPod onto the floor and the screen smashed it was my fault for 'leaving it in the way', i.e. on an otherwise unoccupied flat surface where she often leaves her phone.  

She rarely says right out that she thinks you're inadequate.  Many of her putdowns are simply by comparison.  'Doesn't Jennifer just ooze confidence!' 'Isn't Luke so funny.'  'Isn't she so clever.'  'You always were grumpier and more selfish than your brother.' 

She will carefully separate cause (your joy in your accomplishment) from effect.   'You got 98%!  What happened to the other two percent?'  'I can't be bothered with parent-teacher interviews.' (Listening to people talk about how well I'm doing at school is a burden...)  

She'll spoil your pleasure in something by simply congratulating you for it in an angry, envious voice. *sarcastic tone* 'Well done'/'Very good'  'What do you want? A medal?' 

Criticism and slander is slyly disguised as concern.  'It's a good thing you didn't go to uni this year.  I mean, look at the state of you!  You're a mess.  I'm just so worried about you...'

She violates your boundaries. You feel like an extension of her. 'She'll have a small americano.'  'Naomi doesn't like capers.'  'She wouldn't like anything like that.'  (All in Naomi's presence, might I add.) 

Any attempt at autonomy on your part is strongly resisted.  'You can't do work experience in the city!  You're depressed.'  'Are you sure you can manage?  What will you do about food? - It's all going to be covered in oil. You shouldn't go. You'll never cope.' 

Your accomplishments are acknowledged only to the extent that she can take credit for them.   'I practically did your transfer test for you!  Remember those practice papers we did?  It was really me that got that A.' 

*At ED support group* 'Naomi's doing really well with food at the moment.'  Cue responses: 'You must be such a great support to her.'  'Having family on side is clearly makes a difference.'  (The only time she ever acknowledges my eating habits is when she's screaming at me/trying to threaten me with another hospital admission.) 

She will be nasty to you about things that are peripherally connected with your successes so that you find your joy in what you've done is tarnished.  'Does that mean I have to take you in to school for the high achievers photo?  Ugh...'  

If you complain about mistreatment by someone else, she will take that person's side even if she doesn't know them at all.  'You've always been selfish.'  'You're so awkward.'  'You're not exactly easy to love.'  'Well, it's not like you're anything special...' 

Her feelings, needs and wants are very important. On telling her I felt suicidal when I was fourteen and didn't know what to do: 'How could you be so selfish!  If you cared about me at all you wouldn't say anything like that!'   

She is insanely defensive and is extremely sensitive to any criticism. 'I didn't do/say that!'  'It's not my fault!'  'Just blame me, why don't you!'  Cue door slamming, feet stomping and huffing.  

She makes you look crazy.  'You just being oversensitive.'  'It wasn't anything to do with me.  This is your problem.  You're the one in therapy.' 

She's envious.  'You're definitely no better than average looking.' (I was thirteen and asked if I looked was okay for the school disco because I'd used make-up for the first time.)  

She has to be the center of attention all the time.  'Do you know what seeing you like this does to me?'  'You being like this [mentally unwell] just makes me want to run away from everything and never come back.' 

She projects.  'Why haven't you done any sewing today?  It's not like you've got anything more important to do.'  (She was in fact the one who didn't move from the sofa for 4hrs when she said she would go to the shop to get groceries...)  

She blames. It took four years for her to conceive my brother because 'You never slept' i.e. she wasn't ready to have another child because she wasn't coping well with the emotional demands. 

'You were always so clingy...'  Recently she admitted in therapy that found it hard to separate from me when I was younger.  

Almost all communication is triangular.  'I'll tell Naomi.  You wouldn't want to upset her when she's already depressed.'  'You know how your Dad isn't good at talking about things.  It'll be easier if I talk to him on my own.' 

She will melt into a soggy puddle of weepy helplessness when she's confronted with unavoidable consequences.  'It's all my fault.'  'I feel so bad.'  'You know I'm always here to support you.'  *Cue monstrous guilt on my part* 

My mother is a narcissist, but that's not necessarily the most difficult part of it.  The reason she acts like this is because she feels inadequate and has low-self esteem.  She's not outright manipulative or cruel, just thoughtless and lacking a sense of worth.  How can I justify being angry with her for doing something that she does unintentionally?  

Now that I'm becoming more aware of this, I can physically feel the anger rising up inside of me every time she criticises, patronises, blames or compares.  It would all be so much easier if I didn't have to endure it everyday, but, living in the same house, I don't have much of a choice.  I wish I could move out, but I'm not a student and I don't work, so I just don't have the means.  I still struggle to cope with my depression and eating disorder, so it's not all that advisable to move away from home right now because my parents are the only people I have.   

There are some things she has done that I struggle to forgive, but I feel overwhelmingly guilty for blaming her.  How could you tell your eight year old daughter that she will never get married or have children because she's too selfish?  How could you tell your thirteen year old daughter that she's a selfish bitch when she comes to you in floods of tears because she feels suicidal and doesn't know how to make the feelings stop?  How could you sit down beside another human being who is hysterically upset without even asking if they are okay and strike up a casual conversation about the price of diesel?  I know she does these things because she has issues dealing with emotions, but it infuriates me that all these little comments, that she has undoubtably long forgotten, are engrained in my mind forever and have helped make me into the person I am.  Indirectly, my mother, the person who is supposed to love me and protect me unconditionally, has told me that I'm unlovable, that my unhappiness isn't worthy of notice and that my suicidality isn't a big enough deal to warrant any kind of recognition, never mind help.  

It hurt then and still hurts now, but I know she will never change and I will have to live with it 24/7 for the time being.  Somehow I have to change the way I deal with it in order to be well enough to move out and look after myself, but I have no idea how.  Right now I'm really struggling to see a way out.      


(the referenced article: http://parrishmiller.com/narcissists.html)

Emotion vs. Education

Sleep and I are becoming progressively estranged.  Being awake gives way to thought, and that is where my problem lies. Sleeping is the only time I get a break from my brain.  If I could lie awake with my thoughts switched off for eight hours I could happily deal with the maleffects of sleep deprivation.  

As it gets later, darker and quieter in the house, the sense of impending doom begins to rise.  I lie awake, picking holes in everything.  By the time it's 3am my whole life has fallen apart at the seams.  If I were twenty years older I might be convinced I'm  having a mid-life crisis.  

There was a time when I thought I knew what I wanted, but everyday drags by and managing to crawl out the other side is a struggle.  I wonder if I'll ever crawl out the other side of this illness.  I wonder if taking this year out will make any difference to my mental state.  I wonder if it would be better to die now and save myself the misery of the next sixty years.  

Last night I thought that my mind was going blank and that I might finally be drifting off, but something in me made me jerk upright and start to bawl my eyes out.   

People have odd ideas of what brings happiness.  If happiness was earned in terms of achievements and material possessions, I ought to be pretty happy.  When it comes to books and exams I'm not stupid and I'm far from a failure, but what do I actually get out of any of it?  I've wanted to go to university for as long as I can remember, but what would the degree that I have an unconditional place on actually offer me?  

The one and only thing, that I can think of, that would make my existence seem worthwhile would be being able to make someone else feel like the most precious thing on earth.  You can't give anyone anything more valuable than the feeling that they are of infinite worth.  You could argue that people are in more desperate need of food, shelter and clothes, but I've had them all and have found myself refusing to eat the food put in front of me and wondering the streets barefoot, crying.

I could go and do my degree in Chinese and Russian, but I'm starting to question the value of academia.  What good will my being able to speak foreign languages do the world?  I haven't got anything worthwhile to say, even in my native tongue.  

Can I do a degree in how to love please?  Or even a personality transplant would probably do the trick.  Whichever's easiest. I'm not fussed.  

Fifty Percent Content

A couple of months ago I thought I had truly left anorexia behind.  My weight was normal, I felt well, I had stopped counting calories, weighing food, compulsively exercising, abusing laxatives and I didn't get overly anxious about eating anymore.  'Fearfoods' were a thing of the past and I ate what I wanted, when I wanted, which, in turn, prevented binging.  

I can't believe how quickly my mentality has changed.  I think about  little other than food, but the amounts and types of foods that I allow myself to eat has dwindled dramatically.  Carbs have completely gone out the window.  I live on fruit, 0% yoghurt and 10 calorie jellies.  Strangely my usual porridge for breakfast has morphed into a chocolate bar; one of the foods that I would have feared the most in the past.   

My mind-set is very anorexic, but my body isn't.  I might be less physically ill now than I was, but the thoughts and feelings from when I was most physically ill have returned.  I look like a healthy  person, but a healthy person does not shudder at the sight of a slice of bread.  No one would imagine what's going on in my head by looking at me.  My family have noticed that my eating habits have gotten a little odd, but they think that everything's okay because I eat chocolate.  Obviously people with eating disorders do not eat chocolate...  Bollocks. 

I know I've lost a little bit of weight, but nothing dramatic.  I fit into old clothes that had grown too tight and my finger span is only about a millimetre, as opposed to a centimetre, from encircling the girth of my arm, just above my elbow.  I want to loose weight.  I know it won't help, but I can't help hoping that it will.  Weight loss is the lure of an eating disorder, but it brings along so many other unwelcome side effects.  Of course, I know that anorexia will never be the answer, but, despite that, I can't break my attraction to it's magnetic pull.  

I don't understand it, but a part of me just wants to be ill and suffer.  I'm terrified of wasting my life and achieving nothing, but I can't decide if that's more or less terrifying than the thought of being well.  My therapist told me recently that a part of me is very well now.  I felt instantly nauseous after she uttered those words and instinctively I wanted to kill the part of me that she was talking about.  I feel like the battle between being ill and being well will rage on forever; there will always be one part of me that wins and one part that loses.  Whatever way it falls, I will only ever be 50% content. 

The Meaning of Menstruation

It's approaching the time of the month that I dread the most. And I'm not talking about the arrival of my bank statement.

My period absolutely terrifies me. I'd managed to stave my period off through starvation for almost two years and now I feel like I've hit puberty all over again/  I'm more scared now than first time around, but this time the fear's not about bleeding to death, a tampon swimming through my uterus and getting lost in my innards, or anything else equally childish.  

I'm not squeamish or prudish.  I will openly walk to the bathroom at home with a tampon or pad in my hand and I always stop the cashier from wrapping sanitary products in paper bags at the chemist, apparently for 'modesty'.  Since when is menstruation a good reason to kill extra trees?  I positively cringe when people talk about 'Aunt Ruby' or 'Mother Nature' visiting. 'Period' is not a dirty word.  I don't understand why a normal, healthy bodily function need be taboo, but I guess you could say that me and Aunt Ruby (ergh..) just aren't on good terms. 

While periods aren't exactly pleasant, it's not the unpleasant practicalities that bother me - it's the guilt.  I shouldn't have a healthy body, or so my brain tells me.  The fact that I have the physical capacity to reproduce seems morally wrong.  If I started spawning the world would be an inferior place.  Every time I feel the first cramp or see the first spot of blood I'm reminded that I'm not doing a good enough job of damaging my body.  Health isn't an easy state for me to be in. (physically or mentally)  Every time things seem to be on the up, that means it's time for my inner saboteur to make an appearance.  I never plan for it to happen, but somehow it always does and before I know it things are falling apart again. 

I realise that no healthy person would wish to be ill in any way, but I feel like I ought to be the anomaly here.  Every sign of outward health feels like intense betrayal.  Doesn't my body know I'm broken on the inside?  Having a healthy body makes me feel like more is expected of me than I can give.  I might have gained weight, but that doesn't mean I'm well.  My health is a heavy load on my shoulders, my reproductive health especially.  I would much rather be a childless physical tragedy rather than a social and emotional failure who simply doesn't have the aptitude to live the life that society expects.   

My body doesn't seem to understand the fact that I don't feel well.  The only time I've ever felt like my body was in sync with my brain was when I was at the depths of my anorexia with slowed up digestive system and a dodgy heart.  I know starvation isn't the way forward, but I wish my body would give me an alibi.