Puzzled and pointless

I’m still feeling wretched. I have moments of feeling ok – like the first twenty seconds of being awake, until I remember what has happened – and then I fall apart again. I thought I was ok to go to work today, but as soon as I left the house the tears started again (actually they started in the shower, but you don’t need those details). It’s like in the early days when I didn’t understand how the world could go on; when everything in my world seems to be falling apart.

I can’t sleep. I’m not hungry. Everything just feels wrong and I feel broken. The food thing has me puzzled, as I’ve traditionally been captain of the binge eating club to squash any emotions. Why not this time, too?

I haven’t been able to see my therapist yet. She wasn’t able to see me last night as there were workmen at her office. I’m pleased she didn’t subject me to them or their noise, as tradesmen are a big trigger for me. I’ll see her tonight instead. (For those of you worried that I won’t go, I will. She shuffled another client around to see me, so I will go, if for no other reason that not to muck her about given she did this.)

I’m puzzled that you all seem to think this wasn’t my fault, that there’s not something inherently wrong with me. If there’s not, then why can’t I find anyone who wants to be with me? For some reason the universe has seen fit to deny me the things I most desire. I don’t understand why.

I never thought there was much hope, but my therapist thought there was. So I put my faith in her. Silly, silly me. That’s only led to heartache and pain, as I should have known it would.

There seems no point to anything anymore. I can’t see how I’ll get over this. I know I can’t go back to hiding in loneliness and isolation. But I also can’t go forward. That’s where my thoughts turn to the pills.

Emptying my head

I think I’m depressed. I’m back to blah. Sigh. I’m sick of it. It’s a long weekend here next weekend and I thought I might go away to try to break the cycle. I even thought I’d go to one of my favourite places (the one pictured in my header). Alas, the person who normally kitty-sits for me can’t do it next weekend. Sigh. (Totally as an aside, how this person runs a pet minding business when she’s not available most holiday weekends is totally and utterly beyond me.)

Anyway, having binged my way to emotional numbness, I thought I’d try to empty my head. Here goes…

I’ve been “dating” – or trying to. Only no one’s interested. I’ve been doing that online thing. The Wonder Therapist has been encouraging me to try to meet (or at least touch base with) as many men as possible, as a self-esteem booster. So, I contacted (another) eight guys last night. Six have already said they’re not interested. Terrific self-esteem booster, that one. Could this be the first time the Wonder Therapist is wrong about something?

The Wonder Therapist is going on holidays next week. For six weeks. Count them: six. She’s travelling the world to exotic locations. I’ll be seeing the Famous Back up Therapist while she’s away, and even though I know this will be ok (probably more than ok), I’m still panicking about the Wonder Therapist going. I feel childish and pathetic. Sigh.

My own motivation to go to exotic locations has totally evaporated. I don’t know where it’s gone, and I can’t seem to find it. My travel agent is still doing things for me, but really, I don’t know if I can do it.

I had to go to a work retreat this week – an overnighter with a bunch of colleagues I pretty much don’t like, and who pretty much trigger a whole lot of sh1t for me. I went. People are telling me I should be proud of myself for going. I’m not.

I haven’t been totally honest here lately. Well, I have been, but I just haven’t talked about the “real” issues for me at the moment. It’s all tied up with dating, and being rejected, and feeling like a fool. And my deepest, most intimate hopes and dreams. I’m a failure. There, I said it. I’m a failure and the things I want most in life won’t happen, so what is the point of anything?

On top of all this, every time I walk past the refrigerator I put on weight. The new “healthy eating” plan the dietician put me on has been working very well – NOT. It’s so hideous. I can’t stand the sight of myself.

The little pills I fought so hard last year have started calling to me again. I know that sounds crazy and I know I shouldn’t listen. I’m just so tired. So very, very tired.

The Food Thing Part 834 – or: Progress? Or not?

I’ve written a few times about the Food Thing (starting here, with lots more here). In a bid to start addressing this, I saw a dietician this week. My therapist wants to tackle it physically as well as psychologically. I didn’t want to go, but I did. My therapist thinks this is great progress. I’m not so sure.

Unfortunately I wasn’t able to be honest with the dietician about my f***ed up relationship with food. She said and did a couple of things that made me clam up and retreat. My walls went up… BIG TIME.

So the person who went to the dietician’s appointment was a different version of me: a not-quite-honest version; the person who fronts banks and the like; the person who deals with things totally objectively as if she’s talking about another person.

Certainly not the person who writes this blog. And certainly not the person who has been so brutally honest with you, and with her therapist, about the Food Thing.

If I had DID I might describe this person as “Management”. She steps in sometimes when the “real” me can’t deal with things. I haven’t seen her for a long time, though – not since I started therapy. It was quite odd to see her again.

My therapist is just about having kittens that I was able to talk to someone about the Food Thing – and its close cousins the Weight Thing and the Body Image Thing – even if I wasn’t honest. Not entirely. The other me stepped in and spoke objectively about things I eat, but wasn’t entirely honest about the binge eating and other stupid behaviours.

The whole experience was kinda triggering. Being weighed. Talking about weight. Talking about foods (some of which are triggering as well). To her credit the dietician suggested a couple of easy things that I’ll try, but none of it was fun – I cried all the way home and then pigged out on chocolate when I got here – but the therapist thinks it’s great progress.

From my perspective my biggest achievement was in not wigging out when I had to drive through the tunnel that runs under the river here (the bridge at the other end was another matter, but that’s another story for another time).

Control – I lost it

As most of you know I’ve been having a rough time lately. As if the work situation isn’t enough, I am possibly/probably heading for another round of gynae surgery before Christmas (unexpectedly but not emergently) and have scratched/smashed two cars in two weeks. Sigh.

I’ve found myself turning to time honoured strategies… in particular, The Food Thing.

I hate to admit it but I have been binge eating quite a lot lately. The worst episode for a while was last week. I got sick. Quite sick. So sick that it took me a couple of days to recover. And then I turned to another time honoured strategy: not eating anything at all. 

I have been trying to think about why I do this… if there are any triggers or any clues about what’s coming. I think there are. I know that as soon as work gets stressful, I start craving chocolate. And when I get upset or anxious, I just want to run. And when I can’t run, I eat. Even when I can run, I still crave food. Not just chocolate. Any food. Anything at all.

Sometimes I’m not even aware of what I’m doing… not until afterwards when I can see the mess, or when I’m suffering the consequences.

I know this can’t go on. For one thing it just generates more self loathing. Not to mention the potential weight gain that is itself a giant trigger. A ridiculously vicious circle.

I talked to my therapist about it this week. I foolishly gave her permission to tie me down and bludgeon me into talking about it. For some reason the stupid little leprechaun who lives in my head thought this was a good idea. Now I’m not so sure.

I came away with one side of my head screaming, “I HATE MY THERAPIST” and the other side saying, “No you don’t. She’s just trying to help.” In the cool light of day I realise she is just trying to help. It’s just incredibly hard and incredibly shame-inducing dealing with all this.


On eyes and cake and failure to set boundaries

I saw my therapist yesterday. It helped – sort of. I still feel like a mess, and have been in tears for much of this week.  My therapist says it’s better to let the tears out. I guess, but it’s hard now that my mother has helped me bottle them up again.

I told my therapist the good news about seeing something positive in my toes and my eyes. She looked like she thought I was a bit weird. At least until she asked me what was wrong with my eyes before? When I told her, she just looked at me with such sadness and said, “Oh, Kerro.” So now I feel bad for upsetting her. Doh.

I came away from the session craving junk food. This sometimes happens, and more often happens when I’m at work and things turn stressful. I don’t always give in, but I did yesterday, albeit unconsciously. I ate…and I ate…and I ate…and then I ate cream cake until I was sick. Binge binge binge. It’s been a while since I’ve done that. And of course this is more heroin for the inner critic. (Yes, I am deliberately glossing over this.)

This Food Thing and the endless tears lead me to think that something’s not quite right. I’m perhaps not ready to face it, but I am sick of this pain and the dark clouds that are following me about. Perhaps, to use David’s analogy, I’m trying to walk again before the latest round of toxic infection has been dealt with? My therapist says I need to cut myself some slack after the time away with my mother. I guess.

In other news, I had another Pilates session today. And again I received a barrage of PTSD related information and tips from the Instructor. I came away stressed and upset – mostly upset with myself for not telling this woman to shut up. She’s one of those people who could talk under water, and it’s downright annoying. Not to mention that I generally don’t want to hear what she’s saying. Yak yak yak. Incessant banter about her own traumas and her own experiences with PTSD and all the varied things that have and haven’t helped her and all the people she’s met who have PTSD and who she’s rescued helped. That’s all fine, but I can’t deal with all that as well as my own mess. I did a better job this week of letting her yakking just float off into the ether but it still affected me.

David was right when he said that she needs to “stay in her own space”. I don’t need this. I see that now. Yes I experienced trauma and yes, I have PTSD, but I need to heal in my own way. I know that my healing needs to include something for my body as well as my mind – and Pilates will help with that – but I don’t want to have breakfast with her. I don’t want to write a book with her. And I don’t want to go to her retreat in Bali. The best thing she can do for me is focus on Pilates. Pilates will be good, but only if it doesn’t come with all this mess. I feel mean saying that, but I really need to set this boundary or she’ll do me in.

Random ups and downs

I’m guessing that putting on weight is triggering for me or something. I went shopping today and the sight of myself in the fitting room mirrors made me feel sick. I was truly repulsed. I felt I didn’t deserve anything, let alone anything good or nice. I certainly didn’t deserve to look good.

I guess this comes from my parents (and particularly my father) who spent many years laughing at me or mocking me or telling me off for how much I weighed. He’s even done that to me as an adult. I remember a few years ago not having seen him for a few weeks. His first comment to me wasn’t ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’ or any other greeting; it was, “you’ve put on weight”.

Those comments, and the sight of myself in the mirrors, make me want to crawl into a dark hole for a very long time. This is the inner critic’s utopia.  

In other news I was offered – or sort of offered – another job yesterday through a former colleague. It sounds good – really good. If I were willing to go “freelance” I could start tomorrow (a salaried position may take a little longer). “Freelance” would be great as I could pick and choose my work, work more flexibly, work on the good projects (or the money spinners) and leave the rest.

Trouble is I have never been a risk taker so think I’m probably destined to indentured servitude for a while longer yet.