Tag Archives: Accountability
This Is All About Pain
Featured“Are you going to eat all that yourself?“
The delivery guy’s expression was incredulous as he handed me my order–an order, which, I’d used compromising means of obtaining, so desperate and pathological the means of my destruction had devolved.
I paused, immediately conjured a plausible lie, dismissed it and admitted, “Yes.”
“Whaaat?” He assessed my frame in disbelief. “But…how?”
I had no energy for shame or mortification.
“I’m going to throw it all up when I’m done.”
Caught off guard by my candidness, his speech faltered, “Oh! OhmyGod. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your problem.” I pause. “Only, if you don’t ask your customers so many personal questions, you might not have to deal with so many personal answers.”
He nodded, reaching for the signed receipt.
Now, he is finally walking away, and I think he is going to let me be.
Still, not put off, he’s got one more for me.
“So…you’re like, Anorexic or somethin’”?
Yeah, buddy. Or somethin’.
They don’t understand. It isn’t gluttony. And isn’t hedonism.
This is not about pleasure. This is all about pain.
Credit: Pixabay
Near or distant, it’s likely that nearly every family has at least one “mad” relation. You know who I’m talking about; the one who’s responsible for the legendary tales of insane behavior, collective embarrassment, and general familial strife? Chances are if you’re reading this essay, you either love a “mad” person or are one of them. Well, you’re in good company my friend.
As late as the 1970’s, those “affected” were institutionalized in barbaric versions of asylums and hospitals, a la One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Strides made in modern medicine and mental health care ought to reduce the destructive ripple effect these individuals wield upon their respective families, but, in my estimation, it hasn’t done much to help.
At best, positive changes have been minimal; mental illness poisons entire families. The reality of mental illness is that there is no cure, only strategies of maintenance and coping. The management of mood disorders is largely guesswork: trial and error requiring time, patience, resources and information.
And step one is diagnosis.
Correct diagnosis, that is.
From childhood into my early 30’s, I’ve been the unwilling passenger of a perpetual rollercoaster, with violent emotional waves dictating my behavior, decisions, and interactions.
I felt (and still feel) so wrong in the head, not understanding the constant intensity of emotion, the internal turmoil always clutching at my insides.
I’ve been confused by the behavior of those around me. Everyone else seems so relaxed, so unaffected, so very, very even.
When I was younger, in elementary, middle and even high school, it frustrated me to no end that, when I was in a manic rage or sobbing desperately, my parents didn’t seem to take me seriously, dammit. In fact, they often appeared amused.
Outrageous! How dare you! This is life and death we are talking about here!
I was quite indignant.
Talking to my dad about it now, he tells me: “I didn’t realize anything was really wrong. I just assumed the fighting with your mother, the emotional outbursts, the dramatics…that it was all part of being a girl.”
Sexist, maybe. Understandable? Absolutely.
Most of the time, I covered up the illness. I desperately wanted (and still want) to fit in, be accepted, appear normal, be liked and admired.
And still, to this day, I seek external validation. My 20+ years of Anorexia and Bulimia can certainly attest to that.
But of course, an Eating Disorder is not ever about just one thing. Yes, a significant part of me wants to appear attractive, controlled, on top of things, and strong (ha ha…ha), BUT the main role of my Anorexia and Bulimia has been a homemade mood stabilizer, only I never realized its true function until 2014, when I was finally diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder.
For years, family, doctors, psychologists, and therapists attempted to treat only the presenting symptoms: the starving, bingeing, purging, over-exercising, self-harming behaviors.
All the while, not seeing the forest from the trees.
At my sickest, I felt angry at them. Patronized.
My problems were chalked up to the trivial pursuit of beauty. Thinness. Perfection. Attaining the unattainable, blah, blah, blah.
My parents theorized it was a preoccupation with vanity; a hyperbolic representation of societal standards for the aesthetic ideal.
The times when I veered toward the danger zone, more dead than alive, they realized it had become an obsession over which I’d lost control; a set of destructive behaviors so addictive and necessary that I was willing to die for them.
And I may, still.
My parents tried to understand, but they did not have all the information.
Credit: Pixabay
Wanting very much to keep me alive, they’ve attempted all conceivable ways to help: spending tens of thousands of dollars on treatment, hospitals, rehab, therapists, doctors, and dentists. Arguing with insurance companies on my behalf, fighting for more comprehensive care. Seeing me through divorce and bankruptcy. Moving me back home and opening their own homes to me, all the while providing financial and emotional support. Straining their own relationships, prioritizing my needs at the expense of my siblings.
I am a living, breathing investment.
And then.
Then, the true and full extent of my family’s unconditional love, support and patience was tested when I had my first psychotic manic episode. I had initially not been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder because, for years, doctors, psychologists, therapists, and counselors had been focused on the presenting symptoms of my eating disorder. Forest…trees…you get it.
Around the time of my divorce, my family had helped moved me back home, at their time and expense, I might add, but I’d already been relapsing into Anorexia once again. Historically my anorexia has always manifested as sub-type 2: purging type. What this means is, that I primarily restrict my calorie intake, but if I do binge, or even eat normal portion sizes, I will purge through vomiting. During anorectic relapses, this behavior is always accompanied by excessive exercise. I normally run 45 minutes to an hour, but during a relapse, a two to three-hour workout would be about average for me. OCD behaviors always intensify during these times as well.
Having refused to go to inpatient eating disorder treatment during this relapse, I was seeing both a medical doctor and an outpatient therapist regularly, at my family’s behest. The doctor, in an attempt to treat my “depression and anxiety” prescribed me anti-depressants, which promptly sent me into full blown mania.
Starvation-and not in the hyperbolic sense, mind you-combined with, well, basically speed for Bipolar people, made me a fucking lunatic.
Credit: Pixabay
Compounding that, a Bipolar person, having a mixed-manic episode, I was readily and enthusiastically putting myself in peril. There’s that impulsive, risky element that’s so magnetically attractive in this state; even suicidal thoughts are idealized and appealing.
A Body That’s Mine to Accept
FeaturedGaining weight and maintaining an appropriate body size and shape for my height has been the most difficult step in the recovery process. Being comfortable in my own skin is an arduous process. It’s one that I have to battle on a daily basis. Some days it’s a much easier fight than others. I wrote this essay a long while ago, so it’s not new or anything. I don’t always feel this way about my body now–and not to such extremes, but I do still struggle a great deal. I know a lot of people struggle with body image too. It’s up on The Mighty today, so I decided to share it with you all, as this step was helpful for me in LESSENING THE INTENSITY of the feeling of body hatred. It helped me create a distance between myself and my hallowed anorectic frame. Read, don’t read, comment, don’t comment, but whatever you do, love yourself and your body.
Read, Share, & Like on The Mighty
I’m ‘Sitting Shiva’ for My Anorexic Body
Orchestrating Change Indiegogo Campaign Ending!
FeaturedThe IndieGoGo campaign for the documentary film about the Me2/Orchestra, the only classical music organization in the world for people living with mental illnesses and those who support them, called ORCHESTRATING CHANGE, is coming to a close.
Margie Friedman & Barbara Multer-Wellin have been working like crazy to get it finished, but there’s still one more day to donate and no donation is too small. Continue reading
My Ecotone
FeaturedWhen I initially launched saltandpepperthearth, my post topics were fairly diverse. I wrote about activities which I enjoy: running, biking, not swimming (yep, no tri’s for me), gardening, reading, and, of course, writing.
I discussed topics about which I was continuously learning: organic gardening methods, fitness, healthy eating, supplementation, and do-it-yourself projects.
Shortly after I moved into my house in early Spring 2014, I plowed up the lawn and utilized the lot to establish a miniature-scale organic farm featuring a variety of fruit trees, vegetable plants, edible flowers, herbs, and vines. This has been the largest and most difficult do-it-yourself project I’ve ever undertaken. It’s also been the most successful and personally rewarding.
My garden is a living, ongoing project. It’s changed with the seasons and with time. I’ve killed a lot of plants and done really well by a lot of plants. Like a lot of things in life, it’s about trial and error.
My garden is a living, ongoing project. It’s changed with the seasons and with time. I’ve killed a lot of plants and done really well by a lot of plants. Like a lot of things in life, it’s about trial and error.
Because the project was so unusual and interesting, I began documenting my progress with this blog, taking pictures and sharing growing methods which work in a Florida climate. I was excited about this large project, so the blog was conceived as a smaller, adjacent undertaking.
At first, the content was a bit “surfacey”. I wanted to be construed upbeat and likable. I hoped that readers would be drawn to a (counterfeit) cheery personality. I thought that, perhaps, they might think of me as a pretty girl with a bright outlook who was enigmatic and energetic. I (incorrectly) assumed that growing readership translated to blogging solely about pleasant, trendy topics like organic gardening, fitness and nutrition.
So…that worked for the first ten posts or so–and maybe not even those. I began to feel irritated and repressed. Writing this blog was supposed to be pleasurable, something to look forward to doing, but it just wasn’t. Almost immediately, it began to feel like a tedious task.
I wasn’t writing as my authentic self.
I’m still raising my crops, maintaining my plot of land and enjoying that work. But that’s mostly just for me. I do like writing about it and sharing the pictures occasionally, but I can’t limit myself to the sole topic of gardening.
Yes, the pictures are beautiful, and the fact that anyone can grow their own food is amazing and wonderful. The sustainability movement is huge and sharing information about it is vital.
But, it’s not my cause.
For me, writing exclusively about my gardening felt so one-dimensional. And an attempt at “spicing up” the content with my repetitive workouts felt frivolous. New recipes were fun to try and share every so often, but the posts lacked depth and meaning.
I’m not the pretty, bright and cheerful girl who I initially misrepresented myself to be.
I don’t ever wear makeup except for very special occasions, like when I was honored to be a bridesmaid for the wedding of my very dear friend, Miranda. I normally wash my hair with a 2-in-1 and use inexpensive liquid hand soap on my face and body. There are no fancy lotions, potions, or fragrances. And I shave my legs when I begin looking like a Gorilla in the Mist.
The truth is, I’m raw, dirty, sinful, indulgent and flawed. I’m selfish, dishonest, inconsistent and careless. I’m forgetful and clumsy. I have cellulite, grey hairs and sun spots.
In short, I’m human. Real and passionate. Damaged.
Damaged…but interesting.
When I realized it would be much more cathartic and therapeutic to start writing publicly the way I thought privately, I started to write for real. And I haven’t stopped.
The gardening pictures have all been lovely, but the written content reads like junk food for the mind. Gratuitous and flowery.
Reading the older posts now, I think: Who is this annoying person? How tedious is she? How obnoxious and patronizing? Ewww.
If you’ve read this blog for a while, you may have noticed that, a couple of months ago, I changed the header tagline from “GIRL GOES GREEN” to “DAMAGED, BUT INTERESTING”. I probably should have changed it back in October of 2014, when I got home from the crazy hospital. The reason that I didn’t change it then was because, quite honestly, it hadn’t occurred to me. The transition from superficial content to the gritty details happened organically (no pun intended).
Transition.
Transitions are difficult for me. I need for them to be very gradual, nearly to the point that I’m not aware they’re even happening.
So, gradually, I began sharing more and more of the shameful, strange and intimate workings of my bizarre brain. And my unconventional, dysfunctional life is thus displayed for public consumption.
There is a term for the region of biological transition. Where the overlapping takes place. It’s called Ecotone. Isn’t that beautiful? I like to think that this blog is my own little region of transition. My Ecotone.
And it’s probably saved my life.
Dear Sir
Featured, The Mighty, BlogHer, and The BodyisNotanApology:
To the Father of the Little Girl, Whom He Teased
Publicly About Being ‘Fat’
Dear Sir,
I’m guessing you didn’t mean intentional harm when you laughed loudly and instructed your young daughter to get on the scale at the Publix supermarket so you could see how “fat” she was. I’m sure you didn’t mean anything by your thoughtless remark. In fact, you acted quite tickled with yourself, as though what you’d said had been rather clever. You even looked around to gauge the reaction of onlookers — a goofy, expectant grin pasted on your face. You waited for those within earshot to reward your “witticism” with a hearty chuckle.
When you made eye contact with my friend who’d been there, she did not laugh. She did not smile. You may, at that point, have realized your social faux pas. You might have thought perhaps what you’d said had been in poor taste.
Maybe you felt a little sheepish, a little badly, even.
Had I been there myself, I would have stopped you in your tracks. I would have made you listen. I would have told you my story. Because I was that little girl. I am that little girl.
Every day, I relive every instance of that hateful word “fat” being directed at me. I remember every single time in hideous, gut-wrenching detail. In fact, I still suffer frequent nightmares about one boy who was particularly cruel in middle school. I am 33 years old and have dealt with anorexia and bulimia for more than half of my life.
I have no doubt you love your daughter unconditionally and, had you realized your “playful teasing” might be doing irreparable harm, you’d have stopped yourself at once.
Yes, there were times when my own parents were guilty of something similar, an offhand remark about another person’s figure or some gentle teasing when I was going through some awkward stage.
Truly, it boggles my mind, though, how parents, in the year 2016, can still claim ignorance to the pitfalls and dangers of body image issues for both girls and boys. I am not a parent, but damn if I don’t feel fiercely maternal when it comes to this topic.
When it comes to The Absolute Necessity of Positive Body Image, how can it be, with all the efforts to educate and campaigns of awareness launched, that our society remains grossly uneducated and unaware? With glazed, unseeing eyes, we view The Dove Campaign for Real Beauty ads on television, flip past the pictures of “real women” and spend more time gazing at the fantasy.
Although I readily admit to being guilty of doing this myself, I recognize it’s not the way it should be and certainly not the way I would want my own child to experience the world. There really wasn’t anything like the Dove campaigns when I was growing up. I was raised as a Barbie Girl in a Barbie World, saddled for a lifetime of body dissatisfaction. But no one knew any better! Positive Body Image wasn’t a “thing” yet.
It took the healthcare community a long time to recognize anorexia and bulimia as serious (and deadly) problems. Bulimia didn’t even make it into the DSM until 1980, and the term “bulimia nervosa” wasn’t coined until 1987. I was born in 1982, and eating disorder advocacy didn’t really begin to gain momentum until the 90’s, and even then, it wasn’t broadcast widely.
Before I became sick, the only eating disorder case of which my parents had even heard, was that of Karen Carpenter. How could they know any comments or observations, however well-intentioned or harmless, might be 1) Misconstrued and 2) Solidly ingrained in my memory and thus have an impact on my body image well into my 30s? They didn’t know. They didn’t know I was genetically predisposed to developing an eating disorder. They didn’t know I was battling a constellation of cognitive issues including bipolar disorder. They didn’t know what they might say about my body, their own bodies or the bodies of others would be interpreted as a guide for self-evaluation.
I was (and am) hypersensitive to any and all comments and (perceived?) criticism, seeking external validation constantly. Awareness. just. wasn’t. I think it’s interesting to note the contrast in education and awareness between then and now. Although I stand by my assertion that continued societal ignorance borders on negligence, there are now more resources available resulting in an improved sensitivity within child-rearing.
Of course, eating disorders are incredibly complex, and the causes are myriad.
However, prevention can start at home if you Watch Your Mouth:
-
Foster Positive Self-Talk.
- Be careful of disparaging your own body’s flaws in the presence of your children.
- Be careful of disparaging other’s bodies in the presence of your children.
-
Resist the urge to comment or criticize your child’s appearance and/or how their eating habits have an impact on their appearance.
- Healthy eating does not require motivation by shame or guilt. Instead, emphasize improved health instead of improved appearance.
- Prioritize other qualities as having greater value than appearances such as intelligence and character attributes like kindness, generosity, honesty, i.e. fruits of the spirit.
Note: This Body Image “Prehab” applies to girls and boys.
Eating Disorders do not gender discriminate.
Protect your children and Watch Your Mouth.
Infectious Pain
FeaturedBecause my body’s been fighting a nasty infection, I’ve been feeling run down, sleeping terribly, and really struggling to get through any physically demanding tasks. Activities that I enjoy; love even, have felt grating. 
I started prescription antibiotics on Friday, and when I woke up Sunday, wasn’t really expecting much in the way of motivation. I’ve been running, of course, because, if you know me, you know I will run with a severed head if I can manage it. I’ve also put in a little time into the garden each day–just not as much as I ought to at this point of the season.
I know I need to step it up, but I’ve felt so below par and, this is going to sound counterintuitive, but, for some reason, the kind of physicality that gardening requires–the squatting and standing back up again repeatedly–versus the continuous cadence of running, has felt so much more taxing over the last week.
Sometimes when I am gardening, I get dizzy and see stars, or everything gets very dark momentarily. It’s possible that it has something to do with orthostatic hypotension (a drop in blood pressure when standing quickly). It’s very common and causes of this are myriad, but I think (and we all know I have an advanced medical degree, haha) the likely culprits are either dehydration, anemia, or my prescribed beta blocker.
Racecars & Reality
FeaturedTo say it’s been a while since my last post would be an understatement.
It’s been 35 days since I last hit the “publish” button on the blog. And it feels a great deal longer than that! Making my life and thoughts available for public consumption has become so natural, so routine and so vital to my identity that a separation from writing and publishing, however brief, is unwelcome–distressing, even. I’m glad to be resuming a normal writing schedule for both the blog and my offline writing project.
And to address the break itself, I’ll say that things hadn’t–and haven’t–been going so well for me personally: internally and emotionally. I could just say: “I went off my meds” and leave it at that; streamline the speculation process, so that everyone could conclude that I willfully and deliberately made a choice to stop taking the medications that effectively manage my mood, personality and eating disorders.
But it’s a little more complicated than that.
I didn’t just wake up one morning, see my bottles of pills all lined up, quietly and patiently waiting for me, throw out an arm, scattering them to the floor, all the while hollering Fuck it All to Hell!
Why would I do that? The current meds were working! The suicidal ideation had stopped completely. I’d begun tentatively thinking about the future. I was experiencing little to no side effects. I couldn’t even claim one of the more adverse side effects–weight gain–that prevents some from taking psychiatric medication altogether. In fact, I’ve actually lost weight over time since beginning a consistent course of medication.
So…why, then? If I was feeling better, what was the problem?
I really was. Feeling. Better.
Well, what happened, see, was it was time to refill one of the bottles of pills, see. A really important bottle. The mood stabilizing one.
And because it’s a government subsidized program, the SMA Pharmacy is necessarily and understandably tightfisted concerning medication refills and the flexibility in picking them up sooner rather than later. And so, unfortunately, one can’t plan very far in advance.
And in the days leading up to this, I’d miscalculated, called in the refill late, had to sit it out over the weekend (as they are closed) and come Monday morning, the pharmacy staff told me they were out of the specific medication I had refilled. Not that my refill wasn’t ready. That they were just. Out.
So now, thanks to my own poor judgment, with a side of bad luck, I’m now on Day Five sans mood stabilizer.
The good people at SMA say, Don’t worry, it’s okay.
They say, Come back tomorrow. We will have your medicine by then and you will be okay.
I say, okay. I say, See you tomorrow.
I do not see them tomorrow, because, by this time tomorrow, I am batshit crazy.
The very poisonous, very diseased part of my brain, assumed command and jumped into the driver’s seat. I don’t even own a car, but there the demon was, racing gloves snapped on, pedal to the medal, zooming around like a Daytona 500 pro. By then, I wasn’t even in the passenger’s seat. I was knocked out, unconscious, in the trunk, without even enough time to try and kick out the tail lights like they tell you to do. …they? I guess maybe I read that somewhere; it sounds plausible.
Anyway…it sounds as though I’m not taking responsibility, right? Well, I am. I got what was coming to me. And since then, my meds have been adjusted. The monster inside me is sleeping. Fitfully sometimes; quietly, mostly. Continue reading
Dr. Candy Crush, Dogs, & Triggers
FeaturedI saw my psychiatrist today for a medication management appointment. Yes, Dr. Candy Crush, again.
In her defense, she was actually pretty focused today.
I attribute this mainly to the brevity of the appointment and the fact that I came straight in, disregarded the usual pleasantries, and immediately stated my request. I’m growing fairly certain she’s ADHD.
Although, the perpetual communication breakdown probably lies with me. I’m the patient and am therefore, the affected one.
Hard-knuckling through a bi-monthly face-to-face of endless, repetitive droning about my *horrible life cognition* has got to be brutal, whether her time’s compensated or not. I mean, who would sit, hands steepled, transfixed, while I regale them with fresh hell from neuron-to-synapse-to-mouth?
Lara Croft & Writing
FeaturedHold on for one second, can we all just acknowledge that some random Facebook App
has deemed my countenance most closely resembling that of Lara Croft in Tomb Raider?
Compared to…Mickey Mouse, I guess?
I don’t care, I’ll take it.
Please, and Thank you. 🙂
Now that we’ve dealt with housekeeping matters most pressing, I’ll let you know what I’ve been doing, and that is not been preparing much new *quality* blog material unless you count my diatribe on Running!
In the last 19 months or so, the subject matter of my writing has remained largely the same: organic gardening, fitness, running, eating disorders and mental health. When I first began publicly sharing my life, the ratio of posts devoted to gardening and fitness was much more balanced.
Just as I explained in MY ECOTONE, the blog was launched to document my out-of-the-box gardening activities. That wasn’t enough, so I began writing EXACTLY what I’ve been living. It was real, raw, and mortifying.
It’s was also self-indulgent and woe-is-me. Sorry about that.
Yes, my posts can seem redundant. My subject matter can be tedious, monotonous, repetitive, obsessive, what-have-you. You know why? Because not every reader has been following from Day One, and I have a message.
If I were pressed to state two goals I had for this blog, I’d have to say 1.) Personal Catharsis, 2.) Public Awareness.
Writing privately is therapeutic. Writing publicly–especially about the ugly, shameful, humiliating, terror in my brain, my head and my life is surprisingly restorative.
I’m not looking to be told I am brave, strong or virtuous for sharing unattractive and embarrassing details. I’m weak and sick. I’ve done such incredible damage to myself and much more to my family. I’m that nasty fault line under my parents’ and siblings’ homes. The structural damage reaches it’s treacherous, spiky thorns across the country, insidious, cracking foundations, separating lives and relationships.
*There I go again.*
Not everyone has the time for (or interest in) reading every last Mental Health or Eating Disorder Related post in chronological order. I don’t even want to do that. Some of my posts are horrifyingly self-indulgent, narcissistic and just plain garbage.
With that being said, the Blog is still Here. I am still writing and am still passionate about the message.
But, for the heavier writing about mental health and eating disorders, I am realizing a blog is simply too disjointed a forum for the subject matter.
I want to write on this Comprehensively, Provocatively, and Articulately. Hence, the project.
So, what I have been up to recently, besides deluding myself into thinking that Angelina and I might share some facial features? 
Writing, writing, writing.
Running (about 3-4 times a week).
Gardening (Yep, it’s already started…I planted a new Pomegranate Tree today and I am in the process of transplanting 9 (Little) FIG TREES).
So, coming up, you will be seeing a great deal of gardening and fitness related posts, with some light discussion on mental health issues. 🙂