Sandpaper and sunsets: A day in the life of my nervous system

“Does anyone else find normal, boring, every day life really exhausting?”. It’s a question commonly asked in the autism groups I belong to on Facebook, and the answer, by the overwhelming majority, is always “yes”. Sometimes with added “but I don’t know why, and I feel really pathetic for struggling when there’s nothing obviously stressful going on”.

I’ve experienced different types of exhaustion throughout my life. Endometriosis-related; the kind of fatigue which often goes along with conditions which involve your body attacking itself in various creative ways, manifesting itself as the sense that I age fifty years at certain points in my cycle. Post-traumatic stress has been another cause: after certain events in my life, my nervous system has been constantly on high alert, and I’ve burnt out within weeks. My experience of depression has often been similar to this, in that I tend to become depressed after long periods of stress, especially if I have no control over the stressor. Then, I drag myself out of bed, crawl through the day in a fog, and am desperate to retreat back to a darkened room by 6pm, though even lying flat in bed feels intolerably tiring. Insomnia has brought sleepy-tiredness, so there have been times in my life when I’ve fallen asleep in classrooms, the cinema, any convenient resting place, because I can’t seem to lose consciousness where and when I’m supposed to. And, of course, there was the jittery, bone-cold exhaustion of being seriously malnourished when my anorexia was at its worst.

I sleep well now, my weight and mood are fine, I am no longer hypervigilent to reminders of trauma, and my endometriosis has been much better since the operation. But I will always answer that question with a yes, me too. So why do I still find the world so exhausting to engage with? I’m going to take you through a typical day’s worth of the challenges I deal with to demonstrate.

During the week, my day starts at 6.15am. Although I’m usually a little drowsy from the medication I take at night, in some ways this is the time of day that I feel best. I’m relaxed, calm; so far no spears have been thrown at my nervous system. The first test to get through is breakfast. I eat the same thing every weekday morning, so I have a routine that works fairly well, but I find changes difficult to adapt to. I ran out of dates last week before buying some more yesterday, and adding back in the step of chopping them into my porridge is strangely overwhelming. I need a chopping board, a knife, and I have to remember not to turn the hob up too high because the extra sugar burns my porridge too quickly – it’s not that complicated. But I have executive function difficulties: planning a sequence of actions is not one of my strong points. I open the cutlery drawer for a spoon, see the knives and remember that I need one, but then get distracted by the fact that I’ve forgotten to open the window to stop it steaming up, and why have I not turned the hob up today, that was silly…oh yes, dates! I need to chop them. While I’m looking for the chopping board I’ll get distracted by the cupboard above it because that’s where the bowls live, and while trying to work out whether I’ve already got a bowl out I will forget that the point of being on that side of the kitchen was the chopping board. And this should only be an extra five steps: find board, find knife, find dates, chop dates, put dates in saucepan. You should see me cooking dinner. How I’ve not lost a finger yet, I don’t know.

After showering, catching the bus into town is often next, either for lectures or work. The pavement outside is dirty. It hurts me. I can’t tell you how, but it makes my fingers curl, and I do a complicated dance, trying not to step on mud or worse. It’s not germs I’m worried about, it just all makes my skin crawl. Disastrously, on the bus there are soggy bits of filo pastry (undoubtedly originating from Greggs) on the floor by my feet and I am constantly aware of them. I can’t screen them out: my disgust response is on a hair trigger, however hard to try to desensitise myself. PASTRY. WATCH THE PASTRY. WATCH IT. SHOES. PASTRY. BAD. I take deep, slow breaths and try to concentrate on the sunrise.

Once I’ve seen the two clients scheduled for the day, I walk up the road to my university, which is only five minutes away. There’s a postgraduate common room, and I often sit in there to work on the computers if I have a spare hour or several. For the first hour it’s lovely and quiet, and I read through journal articles relevant to my thesis. Slowly, other students come in. One chews gum for seventeen minutes. I know it’s seventeen minutes, because I literally can’t focus on anything else, and I have to leave the room and drink tea in the little kitchen to calm down. But that’s over relatively quickly today. A few minutes later, a couple start up a quiet conversation. Normally, people quickly habituate to background noise: It might be irritating for a few minutes, but brains are generally very good at working out which sounds are irrelevant to them, and relinquishing awareness of them. I can’t habituate. Every word is like a pin, jabbing me, and I quickly start to feel anxious. Once I realise how agitated I’m getting I think of finding my earphones and listening to a rain storm on YouTube, which helps. I can’t listen to music, it has to be a consistent, non-patterned sound, because anything with rhythm, let alone words, will be impossible to concentrate through. The bass of the thunder obscures the voices, and I can think again. Back to reading.

The noise isn’t bothering me any more, but I’m still struggling to focus. I feel like nothing’s really going in. I’m reading articles on cognitive psychology, which can be a bit convoluted and difficult to understand at the best of times, but the main problem for me is that I can’t form an overview of a subject until I really understand the basics. Whereas, last year, others in my class seemed to learn just enough to be able to discuss a subject in an appropriate amount of detail for a Masters, this is not the way my brain works. My brain can’t prioritise; it can’t work out what is really necessary for understanding a topic, and what is superfluous detail. It treats all information equally, and refuses to integrate the massive collection of details on a subject until I’ve explored every rabbit hole I could possibly fall down. Consequently, I spend 98% of my time at university feeling like I’m desperately hanging on to a thousand different strands of a subject, and I still couldn’t actually describe what I know to you. There’s always a point at which everything finally comes together, and then I can actually see where I’m going – that point is exhilarating, and frequently I find that all those extra details push my marks over the border of ‘good’ to ‘great’, so there is a benefit in the long run. But it’s bloody painful going. I feel like my head might explode.

I’m working again, but after a while I notice that I feel wrong. Kind of…sad? No. Hungry? Not that. Oh, I’m cold! I am both alexithymic – I struggle to identify and describe emotions, although 16 years of therapy on and off have helped – and the physical equivalent, lacking much interoceptive awareness. I’m not naturally fluent in any of the signals my body sends, and I frequently either mix them up or overlook them until I’m half way to a panic attack because I’m too hot, or in pain because my bladder has been full for too long, or dizzy because I didn’t catch my body’s ever more urgent hunger cues. I dive under the table and turn the radiator up, and the sadhungrycold goes away after a few minutes.

Speaking of hunger, the next thing is lunch. I make this the night before, so at least I don’t have to deal with my unruly executives at this point. However, lunch is problematic on a sensory level. I am pretty much disgusted by the sensory experience of eating a lot of foods – untoasted bread, unmelted cheese, bananas, cereal, and so on. But I’m also not organised enough to make something hot (hot is easier, somehow) in advance every week, like soup, so I usually end up deep-breathing and distracting my way through a sandwich. That’s the hard part over with though – I have no sensory problems with the chocolate that comes next 😉

I’ve dealt with quite a lot of stress so far today, and my tics are getting louder and more frequent. They change every so often, as is common of neurologically-based tics, and for the last year or so it’s been sniffing and touching the side of my nose. This is part of why I’m so open about my neurological weirdness: autism is not an invisible disability for me, there are some aspects that are really obvious and easily misinterpreted. Occasionally someone from a different course shoots me a slightly strange look across the common room, and I idly wonder what they’re thinking. I don’t mind if they think I’m weird, but I do get anxious that I might be irritating them.

Ten minutes later, another group of students come in, and start working on a project together. They’re not talking loudly, but it’s enough to raise the ambient noise level a bit too far for my thunderstorm to compensate. I have to turn it off because when I can hear the voices over it, it becomes extra sensory input that I can’t tolerate. I try to work for a bit longer, but the voices are jolting me. It’s like being in a constant cycle of falling asleep, and being woken up a second later by a loud noise. I can’t cope with it and I have to pack up and leave.

So far all of the difficulties I’ve covered have been related to executive dysfunction or sensory distress. Autism is supposed to be about difficulties with social communication and understanding, and yet on a day to day basis, those are not really the things that bother me. This is mostly because of my environment: at university, the people I see most often are very tolerant of the weird. I accidentally insult people (after 18 months of working with me my supervisor laughs when I do it to him), interrupt conversations, meow randomly, stop talking mid-sentence because I’m distracted by something shiny, and misinterpret comments all over the shop, but everyone important knows I don’t mean anything by it. Even before my diagnosis, the weird was largely overlooked. There’s a lot of it about in my department.

This falls down when I’m not at home or university. After leaving the common room, there’s often something for me to do in town before I can go home. Today I’m changing my address with the bank that holds our joint account, having recently moved house. I go up to the desk – the queue is very well defined, which helps, because unorganised queues make me so anxious – and try to explain to the cashier. It all comes out wrong, with preamble that doesn’t make sense, mixed up words, and ending with me just thrusting a letter I got from the bank at her, hoping that will explain it. It doesn’t matter how well I prepare for communicating with someone I don’t know, my brain usually scrambles it. And when she replies, I don’t understand what I’ve heard, but after decades of unconsciously covering up my difficulties with processing spoken language, I automatically nod. Two seconds later my brain catches up with my ears, and I have to shake my head instead and correct her. It’s proving difficult to train myself out of this autoresponse, and I frequently end up having to go back to someone I’ve interacted with to try again.

On my way to the bus stop someone catches my arm and says hello. I stare at them blankly for a second too long before recognising the accent and general configuration of height/hair colour/clothing of my supervisor. I have mild-moderate prosopagnosia – recognising people by their faces is a struggle. People with total prosopagnosia don’t even recognise when they’re looking at a face (hence The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat), and I’m not that far up the spectrum, but I frequently walk past people I know really well: my lovely and frequently-insulted supervisor, my ex-boyfriend, friends, therapists. While my brain is occupied with trying to identify them, I usually miss the first thing they say to me as well, and a blank stare followed by extended silence doesn’t make for the most rewarding or stress-free social encounters. I am quite happy to explain to people why I’ve seemingly ignored them, so I don’t worry too much about what they must think of me, but I still get caught unawares every time and it never fails to frustrate me.

Finally, I am on the bus. I am so looking forward to getting home, because at home I’m maybe 90% in control of my environment. If something is messy I can tidy it up, if it’s too loud I can turn the volume down, if I can’t string a sentence together I can just flap or meow at my wife and she’ll get the general gist without giving it a second thought. There’s still dinner to make and tomorrow to prepare for, but I get to rest after that. I can stare blankly at my laptop or read one of my endless supply of take-yer-brain-out crime novels to recover from the general cognitive and sensory overload of the day. I can’t even tell you how relieved I feel when I think about my flat, inside of which is my comforting dressing gown, the ability to make cups of tea on demand, our squishy sofa, the rustling trees, my rocking chair, and all the other things at home that make me feel safe and calm. Also my wife. Mostly my wife.

Despite all of this, I don’t hate being autistic. I wish it wasn’t all so tiring, I am perpetually terrified of burning out, and I have the ever-present sense that the world is sandpaper on my nerves. But overly sensitive perception works both ways. I am riveted by dappled light among trees, falling rain, the colours of the sunset, the sharp geometry of my favourite bridge. I can take 500 photos of the same thing, and I might grumble at sorting and categorising them afterwards, but I secretly love the orderliness of creating my own filing systems, and I never tire of looking at the same view from minutely different perspectives. I experience childlike joy when I see butterflies, or wrap myself up in an extra-soft blanket, or stroke a friendly dog. I often come across as aloof, standoffish, unable to concede a point, and a relentless know-it-all to people who don’t know me, but I also know I grow on them after a year or so: they laugh at my bizarre turns of phrase, admire my capacity for entirely useless trivia, and comment on my depthless curiosity about the world and its alien inhabitants. I am dazzled by it all. So I’m constantly tired, and frustrated, and my nerves are taut with stress on a daily basis. But I still keep opening my door and going outside.


Hello remaining blog followers 🙂 you are all very tenacious, given how sporadically I update these days!

I have been meaning to write another post for a few weeks, but life stuff keeps getting in the way. I’ve started another Masters – an MRes (/of research) this time – which is keeping me very busy. I’m currently doing a small qualitative study on gender in autistic people assigned female at birth, planning my thesis on visual perception and autistic traits, and developing software to improve the methodology of visual working memory tasks, on top of general reading for lectures each week, and keeping my business going. Somehow.

In amongst all of this, I have been coming to terms with my new diagnosis. While I referred myself to the diagnostic service, and privately believed I was finally heading towards the correct answers, having others validate this was still very surprising. I am really, really not used to having my internal experiences reflected in other peoples’ words and interpretations. Quite the opposite: what I am used to is having to fight for every tiny glimmer of understanding, and even then having my attempts at explaining what the world is like for me labelled pedantic, over-intellectualised; pathologised as a defence against ‘real’ engagement with the ‘real’ issues.

Since my assessment I have deliberately sought out other people with autism, especially women and non-binary people. And I feel like I’ve stumbled into a parallel dimension. From being a mystery to everyone around me throughout my life, suddenly I am actually quite typical, my quirks commonplace and my life full of such glaring stereotypes I can’t quite understand how the autism had been missed until  now. I felt so alone, even among people with eating disorders, anxiety disorders, trauma histories, diverse sexual orientations and gender identities, nerds and geeks and freaks. Now I am one of thousands, all telling such similar stories.

I went to a conference today on women and autism, and I saw myself reflected everywhere. In speakers’ descriptions of personal experiences, and their unfiltered, tangential styles of communication, and their tics, and the way one choked up when talking about what a revelation her own process of diagnosis and talking to others like her had been, and even in noticing how many of us were transfixed by the patterns thrown by the chandeliers in the hotel function room. I can’t tell you what it is like to see myself in other people – I hadn’t even realised that was something to lack until very recently. There have been a few people over the years that I’ve been drawn to because there was something about them – and actually, I think this is it. These are the invisible wires connecting me to the few people who know me intimately. We all have at least one foot in Narnia.

I’ve had a rough idea of what autism is about for years, and I’ve kept an eye on the literature on autistic traits in anorexia since 2010 at least. But actually applying this filter to myself and my life is still very new and overwhelming. I’m not quite on top of how it feels and what it means and where I go with it now. I’ve seen other people discuss the controversy of the puzzle piece metaphor of autism – the othering nature of seeing us as inexplicable. But stealing it for my own purposes, I feel as if I have been a single jigsaw piece all my life (lost under someone’s sofa perhaps), and finally someone has picked me up, fit me in, and said – here. And here I am, part of a coherent picture at last.

Did you hear the one about the autistic counsellor?

My Twitter bio currently reads “Mentally interesting queer with awkward career”. I last edited it a couple of years ago during the general horror of my last episode of depression, referencing the irony of a therapist who couldn’t seem to stabilise their own mental health. But my mood has been much better for a year now: the bio might have appeared during the depression, but it stayed for the social awkwardness, and the emerging suspicion that my long and colourful history might not actually have been entirely caused by psychological factors.

A few months ago, having a slight dip in professional confidence, I tried googling variations on a theme of “counsellor with autism”. All I came up with was a reddit thread of laughably inappropriate jobs: autistic counsellor had the honour of being top of the list. With my new diagnosis, I am even more of a punchline than ever before.

I see why, and I find it kind of entertaining myself. Autism is defined, diagnostically, by social and communication impairments. I have these impairments alongside a degree and a business based on communication skills. People also find it funny because of the idea that people with autism don’t have the ability to empathise, and empathy is the very foundation of counselling.

From my academic studies, I know this is largely a myth perpetrated by poor communication (haha) of research findings by the media. While reading research on central coherence (i.e. super attention to detail, possibly also coupled with difficulties seeing the bigger picture) in autism and anorexia for my thesis last year, I also ended up indirectly learning more about empathy in autism, since a lot of studies research several cognitive traits associated with autism in one go. I eventually came to an understanding on the subject that I shared with someone asking questions on Twitter a couple of weeks ago, which I’ll mostly copy and paste here due to laziness 😉

Given that empathy wasn’t my main research subject, I should make a disclaimer that my understanding might still have some holes I’m unaware of. Having said that, it seems fairly well accepted that empathy in autism is a lot more complex than what is portrayed in the media (well, isn’t everything?!).

Firstly, theory of mind is the concept used to describe the ability to understand that other people also have thoughts. Secondary to this is that those thoughts may be the same or different to your own. This is something most children start picking up as toddlers, but seems to be developmentally delayed in children with autism. I’ve seen a review which suggests it is largely developed in typical kids by age 5, whereas children with autism typically get to the same point by around age 10, although in children with additional learning disabilities or those who are largely non-verbal it can be hard to assess.

Affective empathy is the automatic reactions people have to seeing emotions and pain in others. This seems to potentially be intact in autism. So if someone is crying, I feel pained that they are hurting and my eyes water, which can be a real pain in the arse when I’m working! Anyway, this reaction is what the general public tend to imagine is impaired in autism – the equivalent of not caring if someone is in pain.

Cognitive empathy is what seems to be affected in autism. This is the ability to quickly, instinctively understand why someone thinks or feels the way they do. People with high functioning autism often do develop cognitive empathy, but it tends to be the product of logical deduction rather than the more automatic process in neurotypicals. Logical deduction is a lot slower and more energy consuming, so this leads to slower performance on cognitive empathy tasks, and outside of a lab, lots of going quiet or blurting out something inappropriate in a heated/emotional moment. So, for example, if I’ve upset someone, the reason for their reaction only tends to occur to me later, or after someone else has helped me figure it out. But that’s not the same thing as not caring, or not being upset that I’ve upset someone because I know how that emotion feels and don’t want other people to feel like that because of me, which is more what people tend to think happens with autistic people.

Finally, this is all complicated by alexythymia, which is common in autism. This is a neurological difficulty in understanding what you yourself are feeling, and in explaining this to others. This means that sometimes people with autism might not know that they are feeling bad for someone else, even if fMRI shows the expected pattern of activation for empathic pain in response to someone hurting emotionally. I think I’m alexythymic too, although 15 years in and out of therapy has helped with this quite a bit.

(/end of technical bit)

I knew before my diagnosis that I have strengths and weaknesses as a counsellor. Judging by my long term clients, I work best with people who have eating disorders, people with high levels of autistic traits, and those who have chronic problems with anxiety or depression who want someone to talk to every few weeks rather than a third or fourth stint with IAPT involving someone trying to “fix” them in six weeks and discharge them without support when it doesn’t work again (n.b.: IAPT have their uses, but I get a lot of people who have been through the system repeatedly and have a number of very similar complaints about the process. However, I also recognise that I’m bound to end up with a poor opinion of the service because obviously I never see the successes – they don’t need a counsellor anymore!). On the other hand, I don’t consider myself to be competent, skilled, or experienced enough for trauma work, I get too frustrated on behalf of clients experiencing work-related stress, and I am uneasy working with relationship difficulties. I know my limits and I am comfortable referring people elsewhere if I don’t feel I’m the right person for them.

I am not the therapist for everyone, by a long stretch. But my longer term clients consistently tell me that I “get it”, when no one else ever has. This, to me, suggests ableism at play in my profession. An autistic counsellor is a joke: but then, does everyone really relate best to and feel most comfortable with a neurotypical therapist? As a client, I’ve felt with virtually every therapist I’ve ever seen that I’m continually having to fight against their basic assumptions about what the human experience is: every session is a variation on the theme of BUT IT’S NOT LIKE THAT FOR ME. This is often read as me being defensive, arrogant, in denial, over-intellectualising, and so on – and so the divide widens. Until my diagnosis I had no words with which to back up the basic experience – like my clients – that people just didn’t get me or me them. While I tried hard to figure out what I was doing to make everyone misunderstand me, a small voice in the back of my head complained that actually, people in the caring professions seemed to lack empathy. They just couldn’t put themselves in my shoes.

(Understandably, since my feet are only size 3.5. Which is a very literal interpretation of the phrase. Which is in itself unnecessary to say, since most of you would have got the joke. I’ll stop there before I accidentally use another metaphor and have to deconstruct it. Oh dear.)

So, the world might not be ready to understand how autistic counsellors could possibly exist. However, given personal experience as a client, and professional experience of the people I work best with, and the consistency of what the non-neurotypical minority say to me about their experiences with neurotypical professionals, I put forward the suggestion that maybe the world needs a few more autistic counsellors.

Contextual information

A year ago in August 2015, I was diagnosed with endometriosis after having exploratory surgery. I wondered prior to my operation whether I was making a huge mistake – whether I had such a pathological desire for validation that I would even go under the knife unnecessarily. I thought this way despite knowing logically that I had been tolerating excruciating period pain for 15 years by that point, and that other weird and increasingly debilitating symptoms related to fatigue, my bladder, and my digestive system, had been worsening ever since my periods had come back during weight restoration in 2009. I decided to go through with it anyway, but a part of me remained convinced I was making it up; that I was just oversensitive, exaggerating the problem, or lacking the ability to cope with normal amounts of pain. When I woke up to find my abdomen had four holes instead of the two I’d expected, which suggested the surgeon had indeed found something worth removing, I was so surprised (well, as surprised as it is possible to be immediately after being knocked out with ketamine. Trippy). In the following weeks, my surgery and diagnosis made a huge difference to my mental health. I was kinder to myself, more understanding when I was exhausted or feeling ill, the pain no longer scared me so much because I knew what it was, and having less inflamed mutant uterus lurking around my abdominal cavity had a big impact on my energy levels. It was, also, very validating: the pain, and the cause of it, were demonstrably real. I’d even seen the photographs to prove it.

On Tuesday last week, in the final few days of August 2016, another team of specialists assessed whether I had an undiagnosed condition which had been causing havoc with my life. Again, before seeing them I questioned whether I was just imagining things, looking for easy answers, or trying to find excuses for my inability to function as others do, when really I just needed to toughen up. I suspected the assessors would think similarly of me, and treat me like a time-waster. I wondered why I was putting myself through the risk of encountering unsympathetic professionals again, after last years’ debacle with the CMHT.

Instead, I came away with a diagnosis of autism.

The assessors didn’t just listen to me, they observed how I reacted to questions, how I structured answers, my facial expressions, and my body language. They told me beforehand that if they weren’t certain, they would seek other sources of information on my childhood to confirm or deny. But that wasn’t necessary, because they were very sure. And despite suspecting this for a while now, I was taken aback by the novelty of two NHS professionals believing me on the subject of my brain.

There is a wider conversation to be had about the way society views psychosomatic pain, or desperate, chaotic behaviour driven entirely by psychosocial causes, because these should be treated with equal respect as rogue endometrium and neurological conditions. But after everything I’ve been through and sought help for and been disbelieved or misinterpreted about, and after feeling so alone and scared for so much of my life, I suddenly have context. I have one label with which I can finally form a coherent narrative about my life, rather than 10 disparate diagnoses which hang and cling in the wrong places if left to their own devices, leaving me scrambling to pin and tuck and tie them together into something that vaguely makes sense.

Nothing has changed. I am still the same person I have been for the last 31 years. And yet everything is different.


While I was walking into town yesterday I started thinking, which is always dangerous. I remembered the sense of security and comfort my body provided when I was very ill. My ribs and spine and hips felt like anchors for my flyaway mind; they seemed the most real, solid things in my life, the only things I could really trust or depend on, even as they thinned and began to decay.

Now, I find a sense of what is tangible and safe in other ways. I hug my wife, and my whole nervous system exhales. I walk into town slightly too fast, five minutes later than I’d like to be, with my laptop and half a litre of tea in a flask in my backpack, and despite the weight on my shoulders and the burning in my legs, I feel grounded and secure in my body’s capacity to work and to not just endure this, but to benefit from it. I kneel on the earth at our allotment and weed around the carrots or the shallots, with the sun on my back and my mind talks to itself; of the warmth and the frustration of bindweed and how to organise the argument for my thesis and how satisfying it is to clear away the tangles from a wanted plant, so it can breathe more freely.

The latter doesn’t replace the former. There was something about restriction and emaciation that channelled my anxiety and subdued my mind in a way that nothing else will ever touch. Much like the way I can feel peaceful and content butterfly-spotting in a wildflower meadow, and how that is different to the oblivion of being drunk, and how peaceful and content don’t always soothe as deeply as oblivion, even if we are not supposed to admit to that. However, I know oblivion well now, and I know the way my external and internal lives constrict in tandem with my calorie intake and my waist circumference, and I feel like those are sacrifices I am not prepared to make any longer. I finally have too much to lose to lose weight.

We need to talk about EDA week.

22-28 February is Eating Disorders Awareness Week. This year, the UK is almost in tandem with the USA equivalent, which runs from 21-27 February. So all week, articles about the need to raise awareness of eating disorders and their devastating effects have been popping up in the media. And with a few exceptions, like this article, the majority of coverage has been repeating the same themes: being emaciated is dangerous (but so shocking and sensational, look how many clicks we get if we include photos), the media is harmful (and let’s pretend printing that line means we have no further responsibility to change), teenagers need to learn to love their bodies (and on the next page, Shock as Corrie Star Gains 2 Stone! How To Lose 20lbs In A Month!).

I take no issue with any of those three facts independent of each other. Eating disorders do have an extremely high mortality rate, possibly even the highest of any mental health condition, although I do sometimes wonder whether that would still hold if anyone bothered to pay attention to less media friendly, trauma-related consequences like dissociative identity disorder or certain personality disorders. A related issue is that when people hear this statistic about premature deaths, which varies from 10-20% of people experiencing eating disorders, they automatically think of anorexia and organ failure. In reality, studies such as these two from 2009 and 2011 have found mortality rates comparable to anorexia in bulimia and eating disorders not otherwise specified, with suicide being a leading cause of death. Yet this fact doesn’t sink in: not for the general public, where a quick poll of any group no more than conversationally familiar with eating disorders will show most think anorexia is the most common and most severe; and not in the medical professions, where eating disorders are treated hierarchically, with many areas of the UK refusing even outpatient therapy to people with a BMI over 17.

A further problem is the homogeneity of the personal narratives which make it into the media. The general public could almost be forgiven for assuming that anorexia is the most common and most deadly, and that it is the sole problem of white teenage girls from ‘good’ (read: affluent) families, because that describes 99% of stories published by the press. Even someone looking at my current client base might suggest this conclusion, since I overwhelmingly see students whose parents can afford private therapy. However, the problem is far more complex just below the surface.

My average client does have a privileged background, and a pretty stereotypical presentation. Most also have high-achieving parents, and have experienced no obvious trauma or deprivation. Many have fairly ‘simple’ eating disorders (as much as a serious mental health condition can ever be called simple), in which an attempt to eat more healthily or to lose a few pounds resulted in a self-perpetuating behavioural loop of restriction or bingeing and purging, possibly because some people are genetically predisposed to react this way to restrictive or chaotic eating patterns. That doesn’t mean that the assumptions made by the uninitiated are correct, because without exception, their eating disorders cause misery and chaos, none of them are immune to death or permanent disability, and all are confused and distressed by their inability to ‘pull themselves together’ and eat, despite high intelligence, ambition, and motivation. None would genuinely choose to do this for attention, or to look like a model. These are young people in a huge amount of trouble, and they deserve appropriate support and treatment. Luckily, many seem to make a full recovery.

But there’s a vast gap in my practice, as in all private therapy practices; to a large extent, also in NHS services, and certainly in the media. Eating disorders affect people of all ages, nationalities, genders, sexual orientations, socioeconomic groups, and disability status’. I know from personal experience – both my own and that of the people I’ve met through eating disorder forums and blogs – that oppression of minority groups contributes to the triggering and maintaining processes of eating disorders, and hampers accessibility and appropriateness of treatment.

To give concrete examples: trans people are very vulnerable to eating disorders, both because being underweight suspends secondary sexual characteristics associated with gender dysphoria, and because they typically face high levels of stigma and violence in day-to-day life, leading to chronic stress and trauma. People of colour experience eating disorders as frequently and severely as white people, but the attitude that eating disorders are a white rich kid problem stops them and others from identifying the problem, making it much harder to access treatment. People who started out at higher weights are often excluded from treatment on the grounds of BMI even after losing a dangerous amount of weight, and those whose natural set points are higher than average are discouraged from seeking full health in recovery, both by obesity-obsessed clinicians, and by the fact that public narratives of eating disorders overwhelmingly feature young women who are still very thin after weight restoration. Various studies have suggested that people with ‘treatment resistant’ chronic eating disorders are often those who are not neurotypical, or who have been subjected to complex trauma in childhood; people who have been failed by typical treatment. Clinicians with a narrow view of eating disorders as being caused by distorted body image, leading to pathological thoughts, feelings, and behaviours, tend to blame those who don’t respond to treatment as not trying hard enough, being too comfortable in a ‘sick role’, or having a damaged personality. If you restrict or binge and purge because it dampens otherwise overwhelming flashbacks of abuse, if you struggle intensely with sensory difficulties associated with eating and feeling full, if you cannot make anyone around you believe that you really don’t think you’re fat, you’re just terrified of vomiting or choking or of the safe numbers changing,  treatment providers that do not accommodate diversity will most likely fuck you up and then blame you for their short-sightedness.

That isn’t to say that abuse, neurodevelopmental conditions, gender diversity, or other factors associated with oppression don’t affect people who appear on the surface to meet the stereotype. To a certain extent, this was true of me. I am white, I was assigned female at birth, and I’m a bit of a perfectionist who has had the opportunity to attend university. I grew up in a family which struggled to make ends meet, but there was a period during my teens when we were comfortably well off, and my parents did have a go at funding private therapy for me. Again, when I was really unwell seven years ago, I was able to go back to live with my parents, where I didn’t have to work or pay rent, so could afford to seek private therapy. I am uncomfortable when people suggest my recovery is purely due to factors internal to me, like determination, or ‘bravery’, because actually, I was in a very privileged position, being able to take an entire year out from my life to focus on my recovery. If I’d had to work during that period, if I had bills I couldn’t pay, if I had been entirely dependent on the NHS to get me better, I feel it is very unlikely I would have managed to drag myself out of that hole.

This isn’t because the NHS is always incompetent at treating eating disorders, or that being employed is inherently stressful. This is because I didn’t fit into anyone’s model of anorexia. I had a long, complicated history of repeated trauma, self harm, extreme side effects from antidepressants; I had no body dysmorphia, but was still terrified of gaining weight. I never told anyone at the eating disorder unit that I identified as queer, both in terms of sexual orientation and gender identity. I also have a neurodevelopmental condition – a tic disorder – but my myriad other signs of neurodiversity were never picked up or connected to my problems with eating. My fear of gaining weight was driven by associations between numbers and safety, not the way those numbers looked on my body. I really suffered when my hormones started working properly again during refeeding, both because my history of being raped made me very uncomfortable with sexual attention, and because I have never fully identified as female, and my body seemed ill-fitting. I had very little social support, which people involved in my treatment put down as the result of me dropping out of education several times, but in reality was also related to the fact that I really struggle to interpret and join in with social behaviour, and as a consequence have made very few friends in ‘real life’, as opposed to the internet, where it is easier to think through interactions before engaging. The eating disorder unit I went to made attending therapeutic groups mandatory, and my inability to cope in groups, and the staff’s complete lack of awareness of why this might be, led to my discharge at a low weight the first time around. Several years later, I now suspect that I’m on the autistic spectrum, and am on a waiting list to be assessed by the local diagnostic team. Even if it turns out I have high levels of autistic traits but don’t meet the diagnostic criteria, this issue was enough to make my experiences of treatment first punitive and blaming, and then inaccessible. Treating those with eating disorders as a homogeneous group fails so many of us not represented by the clinical and popular idea of what EDs look like.

Hilde Bruch, author of the famous book on anorexia “The Golden Cage”, heavily pushed the stereotype of the young, white, female, perfectionist with rich, overachieving parents. It seems that she made the mistake of assuming her clients, who like mine, could afford therapy, were a representative sample of people with eating disorders. Similarly, the media has a confirmation bias problem, in that journalists seek what they expect: young, thin, white girls with a single episode of illness, hospitalisation, and a supposedly full recovery to a thin body. Eating disorder activism is also populated with young women who fit conventional Western standards of attractiveness, and giving time and energy to activism is much easier for people who have financial resources. That’s not to say that there is no one out there who has gained a platform purely through merit, and I can think of several people who don’t fit the usual mould at all – just that it’s easier if you have contacts and money. This goes equally for parents and carers – conferences, networking, and awareness raising can be expensive and time consuming. The net result is that the dominant narrative about eating disorders is a very narrow story, which does not take into account the way various forms of privilege and oppression intersect to elevate some and render others invisible.

It’s so important for the full diversity of eating disorder narratives to be visible. It would benefit the people who feel uniquely untreatable and invisible; it would extend the public understanding of eating disorders to reduce misunderstandings and myths; and it would suggest to the current powers that be in eating disorder research and treatment that their pet theories are not universally applicable. I don’t know how to change this, although I’m grateful to the internet for giving more people the ability to create a platform and a voice for themselves. Still, online communities are easily dismissed, especially when related to mental health, and when they voice things that people with a vested interest in the dominant narrative don’t want to hear. What we get is emaciated photos and horror stories to shock people into recovery (like that ever works), calculations of how much we cost the benefits system and NHS to guilt us into eating, inspiration porn about celebrities who have overcome their problems and how you could too (if you had that sort of money), articles on body positivity showing well-proportioned women with flawless skin, and magazine editors arguing about whether BMI restrictions on models are necessary or oppressive to the extreme end of the spectrum who are naturally model-thin. This is what I see every eating disorders awareness week, and it is bullshit.

I don’t know what is needed, but more of the same awareness raising is not it.

The best and worst of 2015

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? All the things have been happening, so I thought I would post an update. I’m writing more regularly on my other blog, but I’m not sure I’ll ever abandon this one completely.

I was having a really hard time when I last posted. I still am, to a varying extent. I got a bit of a reprieve part-way through last year, in August, after a diagnostic operation to determine whether I had endometriosis. Having spent most of my life trying to cope with excruciating period pain and IBS, fielding repeated suggestions that it was all a physical manifestation of my anxiety, it was a huge relief to be told by the nurses when I came round that the surgeon had found something to remove. I had small spots on my ovaries and uterosacral ligament, but the biggest patch, and the culprit for the pain, IBS, and other weird symptoms I’d been experiencing, was in my Pouch of Douglas. Post-op, it took me a couple of weeks to recover, but once my stomach muscles had stopped spasming every time I moved (not painful as such, more a kind of whole-abdomen hiccup!), I felt so much better. Not particularly in terms of pain, although the absolute worst, top level, can’t-remember-what-my-name-is-right-now pain seems slightly diminished – but I had so much more energy, and my mood was definitely lighter. I don’t know whether it was the reduction in inflammation (it turns out that bleeding into your abdomen is pretty bad for your health. Who’d have thought?) or the validation and relief of finding out what was causing all the pain, but I suspect both helped.

Apart from surgery, the only recommended treatment to stop it returning is progesterone-based medication to halt ovulation, which I was very wary about for several reasons: on top of the fact that progesterone and depression don’t always mix well, and that ovulating is quite useful if you have fucked up bones from anorexia, I’m not massively convinced by the research. So, my GP put me on amitriptyline, which is used for neuropathic pain as well as being an antidepressant. This was a huge risk, given my usual reaction to antidepressants which target serotonin, and the even worse reaction to those targeting noradrenaline, because amitriptyline works on both. But I’m on a tiny dose (like, less than half the recommended starting dose for depression), and while it’s not done a thing for the pain as far as I can tell, my IBS has all but disappeared. What’s more, because the endometriosis was sitting on/near some important nerves which made my bladder incredibly sensitive, calming those down has let me sleep properly for the first time in years. I didn’t know how sleep deprived I was until I was only getting up a couple of times during the night, rather than the usual 5-10 times prior to the op. I didn’t realise how ill and exhausted I was.

And it’s a good job that I have a bit more energy, because in September I started a Psychology Masters with an incredibly high work load. I’m just about keeping up, which is a bit of a shock because I still kind of expect to drop out of every course I start, despite having finally finished my BA. The course is really interesting though – much of the work necessary for assignments is self-directed, so I’ve ended up familiarising myself with all sorts of random topics, like the supposedly cognitively-enhancing powers of green tea (spoiler: it’s bollocks), the evidence for and against brain training interventions, arguments around genetic and environmental influences in personality development, the historical development of psychology as a science, all sorts.

Properly learning about heritability has been quite eye opening. I spent a good few years insisting that eating disorders were biologically-based, and that trauma/abuse couldn’t play a role in their development. I suppose my own grasp on recovery was so fragile that I had to hang on to the idea that if I just ate enough for long enough, everything would get better – I couldn’t imagine surviving otherwise. My impressively shitty mental health over the past two years has forced me to reconsider, but even if I had remained mostly stable, I think I would have had to let go of that idea at some point. It’s not just my personal experience that contradicts it, it’s delving into the methodological problems inherent in behaviour genetics, learning about gene X environment interactions, reading about the profound effects trauma has on developing brains. Even in the absence of personal experience, science doesn’t support the idea that mental health problems are entirely, or even mostly, based on faulty wiring or unfortunate genes, and there is every reason to believe that trauma can directly cause mental health problems. I know that’s not the case for everyone, but it’s certainly not universally untrue either. I wish I could apologise to everyone I argued with or invalidated in my quest to ignore my own experiences of abuse.

That’s part of the reason I wanted to update this blog. I want it in black and white that my opinion has changed, because I was so strident about this in the past, and I am certain that hurt people. It’s hurt me as well. I’ve spent the last eighteen months with my current therapist trying to undo the damage that not acknowledging the abuse for so long has done. I had it pretty much shoved in my face by an episode of self harm in May 2015 that I almost needed surgery for. In the last few months I’ve finally accepted that I have been profoundly mistreated by many different people at many different points in my life, and trying to deal with the emotions involved without hurting myself again. It’s been incredibly painful, but it’s also helped so much. Now I have a way of understanding the urges to self harm – why the urges reappeared when they did, what sort of things trigger them, which thoughts and feelings act as a warning that I’m about to be overwhelmed by them. I was always missing the context. It’s kind of fitting that 2015 was the year in which a surgical procedure immeasurably improved my mental health, and yet I also realised that my experiences were more important than biology. My body has always been awkward 😉

December and so far, January, have both been hard. More triggers, more urges to re-enact shit from the past, more trying to combine who I have been with who I am and who I want to be, and multiple exams and assignments to keep me distracted in between the existential crises. On the plus side, I’m having great fun (no, seriously, it’s fun!) planning and working on my thesis, I have been married for over a year, and my career is going well. I saw butterflies in 2015 that I’d never seen in Newcastle before. My wife and I have been keeping an allotment since last spring; it was beautiful in the summer, and although having dozens of Large White caterpillars vomit on me while I was pulling them off our broccoli was a low point (fluorescent purple vomit, at that), we managed to grow a pretty impressive amount for our first year.

I’ve leave you with my favourite photo from 2015, from our first anniversary trip to the Lake District. I’m sure I’ll be back at some point.

Lake district

Time for a change

I love this blog. Genuinely, it’s been a huge source of comfort and support for the last six years. My life would be unrecognisable if I hadn’t started writing it – I even met my wife through a mutual friend who I first got to know through blogging! I’m also very attached to the name 😉 which is understandable, because it is fabulous. However. This week I started a new blog, where I can be a bit more anonymous and talk about subjects I’m not hugely comfortable reaching the extent of the audience this blog has/has had in the past. If anyone wants to know the address of the new blog, it’s likely that I will be willing to share it, so please email me (my email is that way –> )

Because I have started this new blog due to privacy concerns, if anyone does find a way to discover it without me telling them (unless you follow me on twitter, where I’ve been sharing links), I would be really grateful if you could let me know so I can plug any gaps.

Love to all of you who have read and replied. Even when I’ve not been up to replying to individual comments, they really have been appreciated. I do still intend to update this blog every now and then – certainly no less frequently than I have been doing for the past two or three years!


Hung parliament

TW for self harm (naming specific methods, but not going into greater detail), mention of eating disorder.


I had the idea for this post last week, but then it was more of a thought exercise. Now it’s turned into a debriefing. The original idea would have been preferable.

I thought of another scale. For the last six months or so, I’ve woken up wondering how likely I am to cut or otherwise harm myself that day. Prior to – let’s say, late November – I didn’t think I would actually act on it. I had stopped regularly self harming in the latter half of 2007, when I was 22. Since then, it had been a less than once-per-year occurrence. The very brief lapse in January 2014, during the week following the death of a friend, had been easy to dismiss as a moment of madness when I had good reason to be highly distressed. There was no reason to think it would get out of control again.

I conveniently forgot a couple of things. The latter half of 2007 was when the last major relapse into anorexia started, so the fact that I had also stopped cutting regularly at that point should have told me something. Until last autumn I was still a bit underweight. It wasn’t entirely deliberate: my hunger cues and digestive system are still fucked so it’s hard to eat enough, and after being dangerously underweight for a few years, achieving any definition of healthy seemed pretty damn impressive at the time. Even so, this may have been keeping my anxiety and mood swings dampened down a little, because I’ve felt a lot less stable and able to cope since gaining a few extra pounds. The other thing I managed to ignore was that over the last few years I WAS still self harming on a semi-regular basis when I was upset or agitated, but as I was ‘just’ biting or hitting myself, I convinced myself it didn’t count. Story of my life, really, that mix of denial and defensiveness – I feel like I’ve been running around for the last six years shouting ALL BETTER NOT TO WORRY at anyone who implies concern, only to finally run out of steam and slump in a corner, whispering to myself: okay, fuck. Maybe worry after all.

I spent yesterday afternoon in the accident and emergency department of the city hospital, the first time I’ve had to seek medical attention for something self inflicted since 2007. I felt ashamed enough having to tell people that I had started self harming again at the end of last year, but this was exponentially more humiliating. Nobody else contributed to that – I was worried that the staff would treat me like a time wasting attention seeker (my brain thinks this is true so why wouldn’t other people see it the same way?), but they were all lovely. The member of staff from the psychiatric liaison team was particularly nice, and sent me home with a stack of self help materials and crisis numbers. She emphasised that I shouldn’t put pressure on myself to promise it would never happen again just because I was mortified, because in all likelihood, this particular method of coping is going to be difficult to leave behind now I am minus the eating disorder.

This sort of message gives me mixed feelings. On one hand, even being aware of the likelihood that it will happen at some point in the not-to-distant-future is a huge disappointment to me after many years of very infrequent self harm, so if I’m feeling vulnerable already, the sense of ‘fuck it, it’s inevitable’ could possibly tip me over the edge. But then again, the last six years of investing in the idea that I will never do it again have only resulted in denial, minimisation and vast oceans of shame when I have self harmed, which has the added bonus of making me feel compelled to lie about my actions to preserve my sense of identity as A Recovered (ha) Person who is responsible and stable and not at all crazy.

I think a fair amount of the shame is down to the fact that I don’t really understand my self harm. I don’t mean intellectually, because I’ve been reading books and research on self harm since I was a teenager, and I could give many coherent descriptions of how it might begin/become habitual: neurological processes, the role of attachment and trauma, similarities and differences to addiction, common meanings of behaviours, conditions it is often associated with and why, etc. But the actual internal experience of being an adult who cuts and burns themselves is so very resistant to rationalisation. My experience is one of self-contempt and terror and so much shame I can’t get my head around it.

An example: when does an urge become an intention? A came to A&E with me yesterday, which made so much difference. I’d never had company before; in my teens and early 20s I always chose the right time of day to take myself off to hospital so no one would miss me, which added to the dissociation-inducing illusion that nothing had happened. Anyway, while we were waiting to be seen by the doctor, she started helping me write a harm minimisation plan, so I could do my best to avoid that particular type of injury happening again. One of the stumbling blocks was that I had no idea – even after eighteen years of experience – how to tell when an urge was just a random thought that wasn’t going to lead to anything, and when it was something more serious. I made a guess that if the urge persisted for more than three hours, or occurred on two or more days in one seven day period, I should take it seriously. And I probably should, it seems like a sensible guideline. But intensity, frequency or duration of urges is not at all the whole story. Whether there is any intention to act on them is missing.

I can rationalise being triggered, given my history and my understanding of self harm. It’s not that difficult to find some compassion towards myself when my mind is being bombarded with self destructive thoughts and images. I can even be kind to myself when some part of me feels it needs to self harm for whatever reason. But when thought, image, urge, need or whatever else I have designated as an invasion of my mind that I am not to blame for, merges with my sense of self, and I start feeling as if I want to hurt myself and that I will do it at some point soon, I am disgusted with myself. I start treating myself like I’ve crossed an invisible line from victim of an unfortunate set of circumstances to a calculating waste of space who knows exactly what she’s doing and just isn’t trying hard enough to control herself. A sense of intention means I take all the blame, that I am just a bad person. Never mind if this is true – I’m pretty sure I would never think of other people in the same situation in this way, and I’m sure no one who loves me would condemn me like that either – but that is how I feel.

My experience of intention is strange and nuanced. Going back to the ‘will it happen today’ test, on days when the likelihood seems less than 50/50 (yes/no) it’s still a possibility, but not necessarily – aside from sudden crises – a probability. That’s what around half of the days in the last six months have been like, and I can deal with that. Other days (weeks, months) are more confusing. A 60/40 split is a nebulous, non-specific intention. 70/30 means direct intention, but I still have a reasonable change of being able to distract myself until A comes home. 80/20, in which I will feel reasonably sure it will happen, will ensure a vast amount of cognitive dissonance if I do somehow manage to keep myself otherwise occupied – not harming myself will feel more like an accident than a success. 90/10 means there will be a plan as well as intention, although I will usually keep nagging at outs: do you have to? Do you still have to? Is there anything else you could do? Honestly? Come on, are you really going to do this? At that point I’m unlikely to get answers other than yes, yes, no, yes, yes (and fuck off) – but I’m always aware of a small part of me that’s still arguing.

Anything over equal in the yes direction ensures I will feel awful regardless of how intact my skin is at the end of the day. If I survive in one piece, I will feel like a fake: I didn’t really mean to, it’s not exactly a victory, I just ran out of time, maybe I wasn’t that upset after all, if I *had* to I would have. If I do self harm, I will also feel like a fraud: but surely I wasn’t that desperate, wasn’t there something else I could have done, why now when I was far more upset on [X]day, I know all sorts of other ways to cope with urges, why didn’t I use that knowledge? For every urge I have an almost-equal opposite. If I feel strongly compelled to self destruct, I will drag my heels, pull back from the edge, and then panic if I get to the end of my time alone without having acted on the original intention. If I do act on it, I will panic anyway. Many days I feel like Schrödinger’s cutter: part-way through those bad days I feel I have somehow simultaneously already hurt myself and avoided doing so, and I have no idea which way reality will assert itself until someone else looks at me. It is a huge mindfuck, and I can’t explain it any better.

Thinking about the eating disorder equivalent reminds me that there can be intention in more than one direction at the same time (which is part of what I was trying and failing to explain in my super-short post last week). The quietest that self destructive side has been was when I was originally and deliberately gaining weight; the rest of the past six years has been spent somewhere between 40/60 and 60/40. I’m currently at my highest ever adult weight, but as mentioned previously, I’ve been in a constant battle to get here for years. Some of that time I vaguely accepted I should have probably been few pounds heavier, but didn’t act in a way that made that outcome more likely. Other times I felt like I would really prefer to maintain or to be a few pounds lighter, but acted as if I was trying to gain weight. I don’t mean eating or gaining weight in a totally uncontrolled manner, more like I was being governed by a hung parliament: no part of me had overall control.

I suppose what I’m really trying to do is come up with a convincing argument for forgiving and being kind to myself. I think I’m probably going about this the wrong way, because I seem to be trying to simultaneously berate myself for acting with complete deliberation, and convince myself that I am a blameless puppet, strung to my neural pathways. Maybe I’m going about it all the wrong way, switching between the extremes of free will and determinism. Maybe I’m on the wrong spectrum entirely, and it’s too complex to fit into a philosophical concept. Maybe I’ve just internalised a hundred of the people who had some sort of caring responsibility towards me, treating me with contempt when I was forced to discuss self harm with them.

Maybe I wasn’t ever taught how to manage my emotions, instead, as a thirteen year old rapidly heading into a psychotic breakdown, being forced to make up my own system. And maybe the system of a terrified child doesn’t always age well.

Counting to ten

This year it feels like Newcastle has taken an unusually long time to defrost after winter. I’m not entirely sure if this is an accurate reflection of reality – that we really are missing a few degrees on the average day, and have had fewer of those nice little heatwaves than usual – or if I am just projecting onto the weather, because my mental health seems the same way. This is far from an original analogy, but the depression I experienced last year felt like the psychological equivalent of having lain on your arm the wrong way in bed; waking up to the sense of intolerable, agonising numbness. It seems wrong to suggest that numbness can be painful, but that kind really is. That strange, aching, emptiness, that heaviness, that absence.

I’m being investigated for endometriosis at the moment, due to episodes of extreme physical pain. I’ve experienced that pain on and off for over a decade, and have slowly become familiar with it. I know which conditions are most likely to set it off, the different ways it usually starts, the course it generally takes, how long it lasts. Just to be weird (because my body seems to enjoy that), if we’re going to ten out of ten on the pain scale of holy fuck rather than taking the shorter route to eight and back, I can almost set my watch by the different phases. From lack of awareness to when it passes five and I know I’m in trouble is most often ten minutes, although on very rare occasions that phase can last a couple of hours, taunting me with will-I-won’t-I (end up retching and screaming on the bathroom floor today). From five to eight, another five minutes. If I top out at eight, usually I’ll be fully in charge of my faculties again in twenty minutes. If it keeps climbing to ten, I’ll stay there for half an hour. After forty-five minutes in total it’ll start dropping again, and after a full hour I’ll be back on the sofa, chugging tea like my life depends on it, because my body seems to go into a sort of mild shock. But before I can curl up safely on the sofa, I have to get through the panic that happens when I realise that today my body is not going to stop at five, and the loss of all rational thought past nine. I’ve only found one way to hang on to any sense that it will ever end, and that is to count. Minutes elapsed, minutes to go, where I am from nought to ten.

Without really being aware I was doing so, I started counting in a similar way over the winter, although without any reassurance as to how long I would have to do so. I started counting at eight, and kept half an eye on the daily fluctuations between there and nine-and-a-half. I didn’t really plan to do anything with the information, there was no concrete intention to use it to look for patterns or to report back to my therapist or GP for safety’s sake, I just counted because then I had something to hold onto. If today is an eight, I will be just about in control of my actions. If today day is a nine, I need to keep very still and quiet so the pain cannot see me. I stop panicking and fold into myself at physical nine, and at psychological nine. Nine means regressing to the little, vulnerable notion that if I hide so it can’t see me, maybe it will leave me alone.

Some research (that’s just one study, there are many more) has suggested that psychological and physical pain can activate the brain in similar ways; that neurologically, my sense that depression is similar to my experience of extreme physical pain might be justified. Switching analogies again, the long climb out of the worst ravages of depression feels more like that numb arm coming back to life. It’s slow, painful, and terrifying, and feels as if my neurons are shooting off all sorts of confused, chaotic signals. Any stress sends the whole thing half way back to numb, with bigger and more violent distress signals once I’ve realised what’s going on and removed the pressure again. Case in point: I spent most of last week veering wildly between deadened and panic-stricken while trying to recover from burning myself out with anxiety on Friday 8th, which was distressing for personal and political reasons. There was one point a few days ago when the numbness lifted suddenly, passed through anger, fear, and sadness at warp speed and settled at the highly disturbing sensation that my whole nervous system was on fire, which was just…odd. I would have done anything to make it stop, but luckily it escalated at the exact time I had to leave the house to pick A up from work, so I took the scenic route back to baseline rather than the faster, pointier, methods I am susceptible to at the moment.

I am trying to see the return of any sensation, however frightening, as A Good Thing, a sign that I am coming back to life. But it takes so long, and involves so much pain and humiliation as I fuck up multiple times trying to find something to hold onto. My analogy seems ironic when I consider that the way I was dealing with life before really was treating my brain like a numb arm: acting as if it was any other body part, as if the symptom of numbness was the whole cause, rather than taking into consideration the position I habitually lie in bed. My consciousness might be nothing more than a bundle of neurons chattering to each other in a frustratingly dysfunctional manner, but that conversation has been shaped by experience, in particular by trauma. I wasn’t just made this way, randomly defective, with nothing to blame but my genes. Dealing only with the symptoms makes the numbness worse in the long term, and is clearly not going to work. I’m still not really sure what, if anything, will work. Therapy, safe relationships, talking to people, trying to get in touch with my emotions, grieving past losses – these are all such nebulous concepts. It was so much easier when I thought everything could be solved by eating more and treating my mind like a vicious sadist needing to be policed 24/7.

My psychological pain scale originally consisted of one axis, similar to its physical equivalent: from having no awareness of pain to intolerable pain that is an immediate threat to my life. All I could see then was absence: nought being an absence of pain, ten an absence so profound I felt as if it would kill me. But there are different types of pain. The numbness of depression and the nerves-on-fire of chaotic, awakening emotions couldn’t be more different, but they are not on opposite ends of a scale either. Shame is different too. The shame of writing in a way that makes me feel exposed, the shame of claiming trauma when my head tells me I’m melodramatic and pathetic, the shame of still finding it impossible to disconnect from that shame when so many people have tried to validate my experiences and feelings over the years, the shame of having resorted in panic to some self destructive way of dialling back from nine to short-lived oblivion. Today I’m writing rather than anything else, but there is shame and confusion in the fact that I can’t guarantee the rest of the week. And anxiety: I count anxiety too, and it behaves strangely. This morning, the forecast predicting thundery showers, I walked calmly home from the shops while a massive black cloud bore down, beginning to spit at me. It held at five for the majority of the walk, seven when the rain started, but under control. It spiked hugely when I went to get the washing in, three steps from my kitchen door, no longer raining.

I don’t long for axes on which to plot happiness or contentment or peace. I long for a basic sense of predictability and security which allows me to let go of counting as irrelevant.


I feel frustrated. Not just emotionally; it feels as if I’m stuck in quicksand, and my body is instinctively and furiously struggling to escape, making me sink faster in the process. I keep starting things – movements, thoughts, sentences – and jolting to a stop again, coming to a standstill and staring off into space. This isn’t peaceful reflection or even indecision, it’s more like my brain is attempting to do several opposing things at once, with the result that I go nowhere, but feel like I’m expending a huge amount of mental energy in doing so.

It took me two hours to write that paragraph. Fucks sake.

White-knuckle sobriety

I am currently reading a wonderful book on the neuroscience of attachment and trauma, The Body Keeps The Score by Bessel van der Kolk. I could (I may well) write a whole series of posts on how relevant and helpful I’ve found different ideas from it. I keep finding parts of my life on the pages; specific, eerily accurate details about the way I think, feel, and behave.

I searched my blog, and apparently I’ve never mentioned that the first psychiatrist I ever saw, when I was 16, diagnosed me with an attachment disorder. I do know this is something I’ve spoken about during talks on eating disorders, generally in the context of how my mum felt alienated and blamed by this psychiatrist. I don’t remember him being critical (I thought he seemed very friendly and had an interesting bow tie), but one way in which he definitely slipped up was not explaining his diagnosis to me. Lacking an explanation, like all sixteen year olds recently acquainted with the internet in the very early 00s, I went home and googled (or rather…Jeeved? Binged? Yahooed? I’m not sure Google was a thing I was aware of then) attachment disorders, and I was horrified by what I read. Most of what I found described much smaller children who exhibited severely disturbed or out of control behaviour, who wet the bed and grew up to be serial killers. Anxiety might have exaggerated this memory a little, but those were the basic messages I got from my research. I couldn’t see myself in those descriptions.

The descriptions in the book ARE me. They are more me than anything else I’ve ever come across. Reading this book is like encountering the Minnesota Starvation Study for the first time and being creeped out by how a group of men in the 1940s can have the exact same cognitive and emotional response to starvation as anorexic 23 year old me in 2009. My lack of joy in 2001 was mostly to do with the fact that the internet was more of a blunt instrument back then – what I found was mostly in relation to the type of attachment problems correlated with a diagnosis of psychopathy in later life. A few years later, when I could have found more relevant information, I had had The Fear Of Borderline Personality Disorder Diagnosis put into me by various mental health professionals, and so wanted nothing to do with the line of thought that insecure attachments and chronic invalidation could result in a person who behaved very much like me.

I’m quite grumpy about this. Not that I want a personality disorder diagnosis, but I feel like a lot of my behaviour over the last ten years has been geared towards making sure that no one can ever suspect me of this. As a result, I’ve not talked about how difficult I find making and keeping friends, or not reacting self destructively during arguments with loved ones. I’ve become chronically bitter about experiences in which I was invalidated or dismissed by professionals, because I was so desperate at the time to act as if I was ‘okay’ with being treated like that. I’ve hidden self harm relapses as an adult. I’ve walked around feeling empty and lost and like I have no idea who I am, but been too scared to ask for help for this, instead going to the doctor with specific problems, like my phobia of thunderstorms. I’ve lived my life feeling a weird combination of both numb and incredibly oversensitive/overwhelmed, using self harm, the eating disorder and alcohol to switch when one state or the other becomes unbearable. Part of it was down to the pervasive idea that these sorts of experiences and behaviours can’t be “fixed”; I always wanted to believe that if I just tried hard enough, I could force myself to act in a socially acceptable way, and that if I did that for long enough, maybe all the inner turmoil would just disappear. Fake it ’til you make it.

This didn’t work. This is essentially what I tried to do in recovery from anorexia. I came across the concept of “white-knuckle sobriety” the other day – the AA tenet that if a person uses nothing but willpower to stay sober, they will struggle to maintain their recovery. In The Body Keeps The Score, van der Kolk uses this phrase to explain why, similarly, trying to stay in control of your emotions by sheer force when you have no natural ability to regulate them never ends well. I very much relate to this. For a while, recovery was just as distracting and all consuming as the anorexia had been, and the rigid rules and beliefs I had about recovery gave me something concrete to focus on and cling to when I was feeling unsettled. I was incredibly inflexible and defensive when anyone even gently challenged me, because to my mind, those rules and beliefs were the only things stopping me losing any grip on sanity. And when the immediate process of gaining weight was over I started struggling a lot more. I felt empty and lost, fairly minor stressors resulted in small relapses or self harm, and I was constantly terrified that any strong emotion had the power to knock me so off balance that I’d end up in hospital. As a consequence I kept myself as numb as possible, and am now suffering from all sorts of weird side effects of that. Anxiety was the only feeling I could just about work with, because I’ve had so much fucking practice, so every emotional response I had got turned into anxiety. When I couldn’t cope with anxiety it became some sort of somatic problem: headaches, IBS, dizziness. Those I could medicate. Problem solved.

Except it all broke down last year. Situations relating to my problems with attachment kept cropping up, triggering all sorts of incredibly strong feelings that I couldn’t escape, and I’ve not been able to just swallow them or turn the other way and claim ignorance. As the depression has lifted a little I’ve become less rather than more stable: there have been more episodes of self harm in the last six months than there were in the six years previous, and problems with dissociation and panic attacks have either increased or I’m noticing them a lot more. I can’t just grit my teeth and pretend this isn’t happening any longer.

My current therapist wonders if this is coming up now because the rest of my life is more stable than it’s been in a long time (possibly ever). I have a very part time job I can just about cope with, I am in a supportive relationship, my health is okay, there are no major crises apart from the one in my head. Maybe there have been signs for years, but now is the first time it’s been safe enough to notice them. Maybe now I have the right people around me to help. Maybe.

I just wish none of this was necessary. I wish I could solve all my problems with extra cake.


Insert joke about my blog posts being like buses here. As in, none for ages and then several come along at once, as opposed to being like several tonnes of metal hitting you. I hope.

I was once criticised by a commenter for retelling the same stories over and over again. No point denying it – I do. I find it helpful to pick out different facets or feelings of various experiences I’ve had, because goodness knows I’m more than averagely rubbish at actually processing things as they happen to me.

This post is one of those retellings. This is something I wrote this afternoon after therapy, about why this week has been so difficult, particularly in regards to self harm urges. I didn’t add to my last post that actually, the depression has been slowly lifting for a few weeks now. This latest crisis was set off by a specific comment someone made to me last Friday, which triggered remnants of the PTSD I didn’t even realise were still lurking in my head. So now I know, apparently. I’m posting what I wrote here because my therapist is off on holiday for a fortnight now, and I want to let go of it rather than sit on it all that time, if you know what I mean. But just to say, posting this is more about what I need to do with it than wanting it to be seen/read, so if no one feels up to graphic descriptions of self harm on this fine Thursday afternoon, that’s okay with me.

If you do, TW the size of that bus for rape and self harm.


“Your hair looks really nice today”.

At the moment, my hair is much longer than I usually allow it to grow. This is not intentional, I’ve just forgotten to care recently. People tell me it makes me look younger than thirty, although this is not something I particularly want. Compliments about my appearance, especially from men, make me feel uncomfortably vulnerable. He is twice my size, and he could easily –

I don’t know if sleep is the correct word. It seems obscene to think that I could have fallen asleep on this floor, in this room, with these people. If I was capable of sleep, does that make me complicit in this, somehow? It is possible that after the incredible pain and terror I just passed out. It’s possible that my body is trying to play dead.

They think I’m asleep. I lie rigidly still and keep my eyes closed, although pretending to sleep didn’t stop them mauling me earlier. I am prey in the lions’ den, and if I play dead, they might lose interest. I feel subhuman, incapable of thinking in sentences, nothing but fear and instinct.

“She’s beautiful. Her hair is beautiful”.

Two feet away they talk about me quietly, as if I am a delicacy she has dragged home for him to eat. What’s left of me is equally disgusted by them, and by myself. My appearance – an immature, childlike eighteen, long curly hair, the fucking hair – I want to rip it out. My inability to foresee this, when now the way in which I have been groomed over the last few weeks seems so laughably obvious. My physical weakness. The predisposition of my nervous system to freeze when others would fight or take flight. I should have, I should – I don’t know. I do know that all I have done has been wrong, and now I might be dead.

I have never been so alone. I didn’t bring my bag, with my phone and my money and everything else I’d need to escape. I left it at her house. She said just a couple of drinks, and we’ll go back to mine. I want my bag, I want my mum, I don’t want to die, I –

Later, safe at home, I reconsider. Now I wish they had killed me. I numbly weigh up the benefits of dying at the hands of others, a blameless victim. Now all I can think about is death and if I kill myself, people will be so angry. But surely I can’t survive feeling this way. I am just as trapped, just as desperate, just as alone as in that tiny room two towns over. Not physically: my family are downstairs, my friends at the end of a text message or email. But I still can’t think or feel or talk, and my head is full of static.

I retreat to my cave but there are no wounds to lick, because what they did to me only survives in my head. I ritualistically go about making the damage visible. I start with my right leg. I come home from college, mechanically choke down my dinner, and go up to my room. I switch on my television. I cut myself one hundred times, in counts of ten, with pauses in between tens. The next evening the number is two hundred. Three. Four. Five, then seven-fifty, and finally one thousand. There is no room left on my leg, so my right arm and stomach are recruited in service of my sanity. The television stays on while I try to sleep, limbs wrapped in towels. After a week of these evenings it hurts so much to walk that I don’t have to cut myself any more. Nobody stops me. Nobody rescues me. I learn just how alone it is possible to be, and I have my hair cut shorter than I’ve ever dared.

Years pass, and every time I try to squash this vast and shapeless horror into a coherent narrative I find myself more able to remain present, to anchor myself to reality so I don’t float away – into the carpet, or the painting behind the latest therapist’s head – or go home and recreate the carnage I inflicted on myself after the fact. And sometimes it can be months since I last thought of it. Sometimes the anniversary passes and I almost forget.

And sometimes someone makes an innocuous comment about my hair, and ice runs in my veins and I shake, and I am confused and disoriented for days. I feel so strongly compelled to re-enact my original reaction to being raped – the television, the counting, the defining of my boundaries with sharp edges. It’s not something that can be argued with, or rationalised, it just needs, or thinks it does. The cognitive dissonance created by not going along with this is intense.

I try to wait it out patiently. And I think about cutting my hair.


Consider this a heads up: I will be talking about self harm in this post.

I often find that talking/writing about things I’m struggling with makes them easier to manage. There are several reasons for this that I can think of: it helps me get my thoughts all in a row; sometimes trying to make things that are confusing to me, coherent to other people, makes more sense of them to me too; responses from other people who give a crap are always appreciated regardless of whether I’m looking for feedback, advice, or just “wow, that sucks, sorry to hear it”; and finally, I am prone to keeping things to myself, so making an effort to communicate sends my brain the firm message that actually, the world does not end if I talk. Writing my last post and the reactions to it genuinely helped during the worst phase of the depression. It was like realising I’d been carrying around all this incredibly painful muscular tension, and deliberately relaxing. Not in the way of Hollywood-style catharsis, not that I got up the next morning and the birds were singing – I mean, I just hadn’t realised how isolated and alone I felt, how hard I was finding it to cope by myself, and indeed how fucking obvious it was that this didn’t have to be the case. But brains are strange creatures, and for a supposedly intelligent person I do seem to need reminding on a very regular basis that I don’t have to carry everything myself.

I think part of how this forgetting happens is related to feeling like I say more than I do. Sometimes I feel like I do an awful lot of ranting on social media sites (particularly Twitter). But often, I look back through my recent tweets or updates and realise I haven’t been nearly as outspoken or open as I thought. Because my fear of the consequences of leaving myself to stew in my thoughts for too long is very strongly counterbalanced by my fear of clients finding me on social media, I often come away from attempts to talk about something difficult feeling like I’ve said too much and too little all in one go.

This is definitely the case with self harm. I know I’ve communicated my annoyance about the lack of focus on/service provision for people over the age of 25 (or even 21) who self harm. I have retweeted and favourited and even gone as far as posting something on Facebook about Self Injury Awareness Day (tldr:  I hate ‘awareness’ events. Too many myths and stereotypes get reinforced, and they always end up being about a population rather than for them. Ooh, look at all the skinny/scarred people in the media this week, how interesting, I feel so much more aware of this issue now. NOPE forever). But I can count on one hand the number of people who knew prior to that FB post that the last time I cut myself was just a few weeks ago in January this year, and even fewer know that I would probably be writing ‘yesterday’ (or even ‘this morning’) if I hadn’t managed to get my arse out of the house to meet a friend at the last minute, and then seriously ripped the contents of my brain to shreds with my wife’s help in the evening.

It’s sad how surprised I was when I started cutting again at the start of that last relapse early on in December last year, like somehow being a proper grown up with a proper job and a wife should make me invulnerable to such things. It’s not something I ever would have said, or even consciously thought without correcting myself. It’s more like internalised stigma, a result of slowly, over eighteen years, absorbing from various institutions and authority figures the rhetoric that people who self harm are attention seeking, a waste of NHS resources, copycats, stupid teenage girls, over-privileged children who need to grow up, spoilt idiots who should be sent to see true hardship (“think of the starving children in…”), people who don’t try hard enough to cope or to control themselves, people who are hopeless and pathetic. The internalised voice of all those consultant psychiatrists and newspaper articles and ignorant teachers tells me, to bastardise Dickens, that if they want to kill themselves then let them do it, and reduce the surplus population. This is what I have been taught to believe about people who self harm, and although it doesn’t at all tally with my experience or what I know of friends’ experiences, it is surprisingly hard to unlearn.

This semi-conscious shame stops me being specific when I vaguebook something about having a hard day, when what I mean is that I’m having a staring match with razor blades. It stops me asking friends for help, or even considering that this is something they could help with, or that I deserve help. Often I’m so busy being in denial that I don’t even notice there’s a problem until the urge to harm myself is so loud I can’t think clearly enough to avoid the situation I was trying to ignore. And by that point it’s almost too late, because by that point it appears in my head as a decision that’s already been made, and it is obviously the right thing to do, and that decision is tortuously difficult and psychologically painful to unmake (case in point: the slow dawning on me yesterday evening, having wanted to – intended to, even – act on the urge all day, that actually maybe it wasn’t strictly necessary, and the absolute brainfuck that caused. More NOPEs needed in service of explaining just how little I wish to go through that undeciding process again in the near future). Even on this blog – the number of posts in which I specifically talk about an aspect of eating disorder recovery (hundreds), versus the number of posts in which I try to deal with lapses into self harming (this post makes four or five, I think?). The last time I cut myself before this January was January 2014, after Charlotte died, and I told one person. I know for a fact that I was incredibly triggered for weeks on end at different points during 2011, 12 and 13, even though I didn’t act on it (much – there may have been biting and hitting at various points, but no cutting) or, again, talk about it. And before January 2014 the last two times I relapsed were during the winters of 2010 and 2009, and although I was updating this blog very frequently in those days, I wrote one or two posts about each incident. Maybe five posts, and I’ve spent hours, days, weeks, months fighting the urge to hurt myself over the last six years.

It’s somehow easier (and this is entirely personal, I’m making no generalisations and I know everyone experiences these things differently) with the eating disorder. I think it’s partly that I’ve had more practice distancing myself from eating disordered thoughts, and recognising that they lead nowhere good. I also think any return to eating disordered behaviours affects more areas of my life more quickly than self harming does. Within days of starting to restrict, I might feel some relief, but I will also feel cold, start obsessing about food, find it harder to concentrate at work, realise I’m becoming much more short tempered, my relationship with A will suffer in subtle but noticeable (to me) ways, I will be constantly exhausted and yet hyperactive, I will start to realise that I’m actually just as anxious as before I relapsed, but it’s just all been funnelled into food and numbers, so I might not be worrying about someone shooting me or dying of ebola, but I am obsessed with how quickly I could reach Xlbs, or with calculating and re-calculating calories eaten today. My motivation for staying in recovery is easier for me to rediscover and hold on to when I experience all of this and remember just how much worse it all gets the longer it goes on. Motivation to avoid self harming is so much more tenuous for me, and is easily lost when the inside of my skull feels and sounds like a crowded shopping centre on Saturday morning. That same noise, that claustrophobia. And it is not helped – not at all – by the fact that of all the different things I have experienced, this is the hardest one for me to talk about. The hardest, and because of how helpful I find the process of working things out loud or in writing, possibly the one thing I would benefit most from talking about.

Now I’ve started writing this I almost don’t want to stop, but I also don’t really know what else I want to say. How do you talk about something that is so hard to pin down? It’s like one of those magic eye images – you look through them, slowly move them away from your face, you avoid looking directly at whatever starts to emerge, and if you can do all of that, you might be successful. I was always completely and utterly shite at those things. Couldn’t do it if the coordinates to the only antidote of a poison my nemesis had slipped me were hidden in one, although that’s an interesting idea for a future James Bond film.

So lets all be glad that I have a competent therapist at the moment instead.

When everything goes right and everything feels wrong

This post is coming to you from my bed, where I am currently hiding from the workmen who have colonised my bathroom, living room, and spare room. They are sorting out the damp problem in various ways, which will be lovely when it’s done. In the meantime I am trying to stem the rising tide of hysteria induced by the sheer state my home is in by…well, mostly by just not looking at anything other than my laptop.

So much happened last year, and I only updated this blog twice. In September, I turned 30, which felt particularly meaningful because it was the end of the five years I gave myself to decide if recovery was worth the effort. A huge amount changed in those five years. My life didn’t stop while I was spending time trying to catch up with all the social and emotional development I missed out on in my teens and early twenties. My late twenties were no less eventful, and I feel like I’m going to be playing catch up for a while yet.

The other big occasion was in October, when Audrey and I got married! I was surprisingly calm about the whole thing until about two weeks before. This was partly because we insisted on doing so much of it ourselves, including but not limited to the table decorations, the bouquets for us and our bridesmaids, the music to be played during the ceremony and dinner (give a woman with OCD a playlist to organise, and she will be there for days), the wedding favours, and so on. I’ve been meaning to post photos for months, but haven’t quite got around to it.

The not-getting-around-to-it has been largely sponsored by my mood. I have only just started trying to tell people what’s been going on, purely because it didn’t occur to me until it recently started getting really obvious and a bit scary that I was depressed rather than a lazy fuck (ah, depressed brain, you are so friendly and charming). In more subtle theories, for a while I failed to take it seriously because I thought I was just burned out from my dissertation, and would bounce back eventually. Bouncing back has totally failed to occur in the last fifteen months or so. Following the stress of having my hours at my last job suddenly cut in September 2013, my mood never recovered after Charlotte died a year ago, and every time something else stressful happened – writing my dissertation, reintroducing wheat into my diet for a few weeks so I could be properly tested for coeliac, getting married (fabulous things can be stressful too) – it dropped lower. Apart from a couple of weeks before and after the wedding, when I was sufficiently distracted by A Project, the vast majority of 2014 (and 2015, so far) was spent sitting on my sofa, staring into space, trying to find the energy or motivation to move and DO SOMETHING. ANYTHING BUT SIT HERE FOR ANOTHER DAY. But although I’ve managed to carry on working, at home all I can seem to get myself to do most of the time is sit. A couple of weeks ago, on a Friday when I had no (paid) work to do, I had to get on top of the cleaning. I cried while I was trying to hang the washing up because I couldn’t decide where to put anything, and again when I couldn’t get the bloody duvet into the fucking duvet cover (expletives were totally necessary at the time), and again when I got in the shower and considered that crying over the soul destroying properties of damp socks was not what I had intended for my life at 30 years old.

I’m certainly far more tired, both in the sleepy and the fatigued senses, than is strictly necessary for someone my age, but most of the time the difficulty feels less about lack of energy and more to do with my brain just not working properly. Some days over the last few weeks when I’ve come home from work, it has taken me twenty minutes plus of very slowly doing one little thing at a time before I could move from the bedroom to the living room or kitchen. Okay, I’m home. What first? Turn off alarm. Take off my shoes, replace with slippers. Next, put shoes away. Now take off and put away coat. Now put on dressing gown, because it’s bloody freezing. Now put lip balm (one of my current tics is chewing my lips. Really not a good one to have in January) and phone in dressing gown pockets. Now open backpack. Are there any empty food or drink containers to be washed up? Take to kitchen. Are there any receipts? Put in recycling – no, wait, Audrey might need them, sort through them first. Oh god, I don’t know what to do with the receipts. Um. Sit on the bed and stare blankly for five minutes. Try again.

And so on. Trying to make a simple decision currently feels akin to attempting my physics homework when I was going down the drain at York. My brain just doesn’t want to know. A couple of friends have noticed that I’m much more quiet on Facebook – I often type and delete comments and statuses several times a day, but very rarely hit anything but the ‘like’ button, because social interaction seems so complicated. I am terrified of getting into a debate or discussion, because I don’t have the resilience to cope with them at the moment, and I’m scared of my potential reaction to being trolled. I’ve quietly left virtually all the groups I used to belong to. This post is only getting written because the need to distract myself from the horror of PEOPLE IN MY FLAT MAKING A MESS is great enough to focus the mind a bit.

I finally spoke to my GP about my mood and rampaging anxiety at the start of December, and I have an appointment with someone from the local CMHT in a couple of weeks. I don’t really know what they can do – I think we’ve pretty much proven that medication is a bad idea, and waiting lists for specialist therapy services are a bitch (I went through the primary care psychological therapy services a couple of years ago, it didn’t really get me anywhere). But I didn’t know what else to do, and you never know what a new (to me) team will come up with.

It is disappointing that things have gotten so bad, especially when last year my weight and eating was better than it ever had been. I know you can’t fix everything with weight gain, especially when my co-morbid issues so pre-dated my eating disorder, but it is still frustrating. When I am anxious or depressed and actively eating disordered there is a concrete reason for the distress, and a thing that can be fixed in a practical manner. As eating less became the answer to every problem when I was ill, eating more became the answer when I was in recovery. But having been physically healthy for years, doing everything ‘right’ behaviourally, and still becoming seriously depressed, is profoundly terrifying to me. There’s nothing to pin it on, nothing to blame. Or rather, there is this chaotic mess of stress and unresolved grief and regret and a cold, damp flat, and a job that isolates me and never makes enough money for us to live on, and a sense that everything I try fails, and that life will carry on slamming doors in my face, and that nothing will ever be okay, and I don’t even know where to start with that.

I will try to update a bit more often, and to at least put some photos of the wedding up. I say that every time though, and still the gaps between posts increase, and the longer I am away, the less this blog feels like a safe haven where I can be honest and find support. This mirrors one of the worst aspects of depression for me: that the more I need people to understand and help me, the less I feel able to find the words to ask.