(BTW: This post's got nothing to do with the lovely Lady Gaga, though I do seriously love her song with similar title).
For some time now,I have been envious of those colleagues and friends with babies - for the sheer luxury of nine months (to one year for some lucky mummies) off work. Now I'm well aware that the reality of this would be somewhat different. If I were lucky, there may be some visits to a park or a local playgroup, in between sleepless nights and sick-ups all over my best clothes. If I happened to be unlucky, I might find myself in a spiral of depression, or worse (read a wonderful article in UK Red magazine this month - August 2011 - for an amazingly touching piece on post-natal depression).
This is getting off the point.
My point here is that I am not happy in my work life.
My current job aside, I seem to have developed a general disillusionment with "the world of work" (how much does that sound like a Disneyland ride? And why do university tutors insist on referring to it as such?! What a let down!).
Since leaving education, I've worked in an office environment. I find myself feeling detached, distracted and, in all honesty, bored. This leads to high anxiety and depressive feelings. At the same time, whenever I am busy (and I do often have busy times where there's work to do), I find myself feeling similarly anxious and low.I struggle with office politics, preferring to keep myself to myself, and my work life seperate from my personal life.
In theory, withdrawal from any uncomfortable situation may solve the issues. Go to work, do your work and come home, forgetting it all until the next day. However given the feelings it produces in me, it's not so easy.For someone with a history of depression and disordered eating, these feelings are particularly difficult to deal with.
Bearing in mind my mission to move forward in all areas of my life, this is an important issue to tackle. I figure opening, rather than closing, doors is key to my not feeling trapped (and therefore reducing the anxiety and hopelessness I sometimes experience).
I am currently exploring the following options:
1. Actively seek employment which is better suited to me, keeping an open mind as to what that could be. With the economy as it is, it is realistic to expect that this may be a more medium-term action to keep going with.
2. Making the most of the time I do have to myself to do the things that I really do love. As you may have read, or at least surmised, writing is something I genuinely love. I can lose myself when I write. Even when the dreaded block kicks in, I'm learning to write through it (badly) and I still am able to lose myself in the moment; in my imagination. Time seems to fly by.
3. Generally being open to new opportunities, whatever they may be, and whatever direction they take me in.
Not only with respect to work, but in life, I have found that developing an eating disorder came with a particular view of the world. In this world, seen through the eyes of my eating disorder, there was no way I would be able to do anything my heart might want to do. I lost all my self-confidence, and my ability to have dreams for myself. I trapped myself in.
Opening myself to new opportunities is my attempt to free myself to move forward.
There are, of course, practicalities. Hence the title of this post. Financially, I am entirely dependent on working and am grateful to be in full-time, permanent employment during such difficult times. I know that other people are not so lucky. I am not writing this post in a "poor me" attempt at drawing attention to my unhappiness(as cathartic as it is to let out my feelings). It's to say that the practicalities of moving forward - in any area of your life - will involve starting to see beyond the blinkers put in place by your eating disorder (or anything else, really).
Moving forward is all about being open, where you previously closed off from the world. This is where I am, with my own work life. And I'm seeing that happiness in my working life isn't all about the money (honey).
Wednesday, 13 July 2011
Thursday, 7 July 2011
The Happiness Myth
I was reading this brilliant post over at Medicinal Marzipan yesterday and it got me thinking.
When does self-improvement become destructive? Can we make ourselves happy by making ourselves "better"?And can we get so caught up in moving forward from disordered eating, that we pin all our hopes for happiness on it?
It's a given that to move forward from disordered eating, we need to make changes - to our lives and ourselves - that help us head in a positive and healthy direction. By definition then, the moving forward process is a kind of self-improvement. Recovery talk is littered with discussions of the ways in which we can make small changes to improve our situation. Self-help books, tapes and blogs letting us in on the next thing we can make better, to feel better, abound. It is, in short, everywhere.
Overall, I believe this is a fantastic thing.
We have access to all kinds of (free!) resources that can help us to make those first steps away from our eating disorders. We might come across all kinds of things to try that we never thought of by ourselves. I found out about my local ED charity that offers all kinds of help (like cut-price counselling, free monthly group sessions and art classes), without which I wouldn't progressed as much as I have over the past two years or so.I learnt about different books people were reading, and ventured into the world of self-help literature. Okay; not everything I've read has been particularly helpful but I've come across a few gems that've given me a boost to keep moving forward when it's felt like I'm doing anything but.
But there is, I'm learning, a fine line between positive self-improvement and what I'd say is a self-improvement "addiction", to use the term loosely.
In my ED days, I was permanently competing and comparing myself to myself (and others) as a sort of motivating factor to be thinner, smarter, blonder, BETTER than what I was. I pinned my hopes on happiness coming once I had just made this little improvement. Inevitably, the "if I were thinner, I'd be happy" fallacy collapsed on its bony ass (almost literally) and I knew the truth: Happiness was not going to come from chasing the next bit of weight lost, or dress size smaller. I knew it because I was several sizes smaller, and even more miserable than ever.
When I found self-improvement/recovery/moving forward (delete as applicable)I thought I'd found the solution to my unhappiness in myself, and especially in my skin. I figured that if I could just get over the eating disorder, I would be happy.
There is some important truth in this.
I'm so much further away from being eating disordered that I can now say that I am not currently experiencing an eating disorder for the first time in about five or six years. I am considerably happier than I was when I was in my eating disordered mindset.
But does self-improvement, in itself, lead to happiness?
No.
I don't mean to shatter illusions here, but it is so easy for the process of moving forward, recovery and self-improvement to become the replacement for the gap in the "if I just..... I will be happy" sentence. It can do so much to rebuild confidence, inspire positivity and repair our relationships with food, our bodies, others and the world around us. That cannot be underestimated in its value.
Happiness, however,seems to be something else. It doesn't quite work in our sentence. It's elusive, like a scent on the breeze, or a rainbow. We know what it looks like; what it smells like - we just can't quite touch it.
As I've kept on moving forward and away from disordered eating, I've noticed my own tendency to pin my hopes for greater happiness on this process. It's an easy thing to do when you've been pinning your hopes for happiness on things (an eating disorder, academic success, a boyfriend, weight loss, recovery).
It's just an impossible hope. Because happiness seems to come from choice. It's a feeling - a reaction - to the happenings around me. I find it when I look at all the wonderful people, things and achievements (those small things that mean the world to me, but are insignificant to others) I make each day. I find it when I go look at the moorhens in their river nest outside my new place. I find it when I realise I'm looking after my plants, or holding the cat, or notice the sparkle in my boyfriends eyes as if I'm seeing it again for the first time. I find it when the words seem to come out of my hands and mind almost effortlessly, and onto the page or screen.
There are times we cannot seem to choose to feel happy. There are some things which just don't open the door to choose this at all. And that's okay too.
What I'm learning is that happiness is not something we can choose to have and then that's it; it's with us for life. We cannot store up on happiness now to draw on later, during the bad times, like I had hoped each time I searched for it in places it could not be found.
Happiness is beautiful, in part, because of its elusive nature. It can only be taken in certain moments of our lives, but it's memory seems to stay with us like a photograph in our minds. It is wonderful, and fragile, and we can create happy moments for ourselves now, irrespective of how far along we are in moving forward with our lives. It's non-discriminate and doesn't wait for us to be thinner, better, smarter. We have to take it now.
So when does self-improvement become destructive?
I'd say if it is taking you back to a place where you're waiting to be something or someone other than you are now before you can live your life, then look again. This is disordered thinking and you may be no longer helping yourself.
Can we make ourselves happy by making ourselves "better"?
Maybe. We can be happy right now, though; no changes required!
And can we get so caught up in moving forward from disordered eating, that we pin all our hopes for happiness on it?
Yes. We can also choose happiness now.
I wish you all happiness today.
When does self-improvement become destructive? Can we make ourselves happy by making ourselves "better"?And can we get so caught up in moving forward from disordered eating, that we pin all our hopes for happiness on it?
It's a given that to move forward from disordered eating, we need to make changes - to our lives and ourselves - that help us head in a positive and healthy direction. By definition then, the moving forward process is a kind of self-improvement. Recovery talk is littered with discussions of the ways in which we can make small changes to improve our situation. Self-help books, tapes and blogs letting us in on the next thing we can make better, to feel better, abound. It is, in short, everywhere.
Overall, I believe this is a fantastic thing.
We have access to all kinds of (free!) resources that can help us to make those first steps away from our eating disorders. We might come across all kinds of things to try that we never thought of by ourselves. I found out about my local ED charity that offers all kinds of help (like cut-price counselling, free monthly group sessions and art classes), without which I wouldn't progressed as much as I have over the past two years or so.I learnt about different books people were reading, and ventured into the world of self-help literature. Okay; not everything I've read has been particularly helpful but I've come across a few gems that've given me a boost to keep moving forward when it's felt like I'm doing anything but.
But there is, I'm learning, a fine line between positive self-improvement and what I'd say is a self-improvement "addiction", to use the term loosely.
In my ED days, I was permanently competing and comparing myself to myself (and others) as a sort of motivating factor to be thinner, smarter, blonder, BETTER than what I was. I pinned my hopes on happiness coming once I had just made this little improvement. Inevitably, the "if I were thinner, I'd be happy" fallacy collapsed on its bony ass (almost literally) and I knew the truth: Happiness was not going to come from chasing the next bit of weight lost, or dress size smaller. I knew it because I was several sizes smaller, and even more miserable than ever.
When I found self-improvement/recovery/moving forward (delete as applicable)I thought I'd found the solution to my unhappiness in myself, and especially in my skin. I figured that if I could just get over the eating disorder, I would be happy.
There is some important truth in this.
I'm so much further away from being eating disordered that I can now say that I am not currently experiencing an eating disorder for the first time in about five or six years. I am considerably happier than I was when I was in my eating disordered mindset.
But does self-improvement, in itself, lead to happiness?
No.
I don't mean to shatter illusions here, but it is so easy for the process of moving forward, recovery and self-improvement to become the replacement for the gap in the "if I just..... I will be happy" sentence. It can do so much to rebuild confidence, inspire positivity and repair our relationships with food, our bodies, others and the world around us. That cannot be underestimated in its value.
Happiness, however,seems to be something else. It doesn't quite work in our sentence. It's elusive, like a scent on the breeze, or a rainbow. We know what it looks like; what it smells like - we just can't quite touch it.
As I've kept on moving forward and away from disordered eating, I've noticed my own tendency to pin my hopes for greater happiness on this process. It's an easy thing to do when you've been pinning your hopes for happiness on things (an eating disorder, academic success, a boyfriend, weight loss, recovery).
It's just an impossible hope. Because happiness seems to come from choice. It's a feeling - a reaction - to the happenings around me. I find it when I look at all the wonderful people, things and achievements (those small things that mean the world to me, but are insignificant to others) I make each day. I find it when I go look at the moorhens in their river nest outside my new place. I find it when I realise I'm looking after my plants, or holding the cat, or notice the sparkle in my boyfriends eyes as if I'm seeing it again for the first time. I find it when the words seem to come out of my hands and mind almost effortlessly, and onto the page or screen.
There are times we cannot seem to choose to feel happy. There are some things which just don't open the door to choose this at all. And that's okay too.
What I'm learning is that happiness is not something we can choose to have and then that's it; it's with us for life. We cannot store up on happiness now to draw on later, during the bad times, like I had hoped each time I searched for it in places it could not be found.
Happiness is beautiful, in part, because of its elusive nature. It can only be taken in certain moments of our lives, but it's memory seems to stay with us like a photograph in our minds. It is wonderful, and fragile, and we can create happy moments for ourselves now, irrespective of how far along we are in moving forward with our lives. It's non-discriminate and doesn't wait for us to be thinner, better, smarter. We have to take it now.
So when does self-improvement become destructive?
I'd say if it is taking you back to a place where you're waiting to be something or someone other than you are now before you can live your life, then look again. This is disordered thinking and you may be no longer helping yourself.
Can we make ourselves happy by making ourselves "better"?
Maybe. We can be happy right now, though; no changes required!
And can we get so caught up in moving forward from disordered eating, that we pin all our hopes for happiness on it?
Yes. We can also choose happiness now.
I wish you all happiness today.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
Body Speaks
Somewhere in this whole moving forward process, I heard that we need to listen to our bodies - not our heads - when trying to figure out when and what to eat to feel healthy and good about ourselves.
This is one of the fundamental principles of intuitive eating. I'd heard a lot about this, too. It seems to be one of the most popular ways in which people who have had an issue with food make peace with it, and move forward with their lives as happier, healthier people. Sounds good, right?
Not having read too much into the nitty-gritty of it, I'm still on the fence as to whether intuitive eating could work for me. Reading about, and engaging with, a particular way of eating still has its hang-ups for me. It reminds me of searching for answers in dieting. So for now, I plan to stick to working out what this whole "listening" to my body thing could mean.
It sounds rather New Age-y, if I'm honest. As if I need to put my ear to the ground, thump my foot on the dirt and wait for an answer to magically appear. In reality, it involves me trying to work out when something in my head is telling me I need to eat, and when my body is trying to speak.
Essentially, I figure that if it's coming to me in words first (the "voice" in my head), it's most likely to be my head telling me to eat. When it's coming from my head, I'm likely to be thinking about eating just about anything, but especially sweet stuff and white, processed carb-based foods. When I get a physical feeling that seems to tell me I'm hungry, I notice I'm far more likely to crave vegetables or meat-based produced. The "words" come after the feeling. This, I believe, is my body telling me what I need to eat.
Perhaps I have this all wrong. I don't know.
But over the past few weeks (or possibly longer), there's been a change going on.
Today I have noticed again the impact that the food I eat has on my body and how I feel physically and mentally.
This morning I ate one large croissant with butter and jam and a bowl of rice krispies. I had coffee with one sugar and some water. I noticed that I quickly developed stomach ache. I fel bloated. I felt like I want to be sick to get rid of this heavy, full feeling putting pressure on my throat, despite not ever really having purging tendancies. I reached about an 8 on the fullness scale, which is pretty damn uncomfortable.
I also noticed that eating a chicken and noodle stir fry for dinner last night, with different coloured vegetables on my plate felt really good. I was satisfied at the end of the meal and was around a 6.5 on the fullness scale. I went to bed feeling fairly comfortable, despite eating late.
Again, I have noticed that when I eat sugary snacks at work (which is my go-to type of food when I am there) or drink too much coffee, I get head aches. I perk up, momentarily, only to crash back down quickly afterwards. I tend to feel lethargic, depressed and unmotivated which I believe is exaccerbated by my food choices.
The more I pay attention to the impact of the foods I choose, the less I like the outcomes. I hadn't noticed before. Listening to my body is becoming easier, the more I am on the look-out. Yet the loudness of the shouts is quite scary. It feels much the same way as when I was first introduced to the concept of my Inner Critic in therapy. I noticed other people's Critics in conversations with them - and it was difficult, almost impossible, not to notice them. The more I listen, the more I hear the complaints my body is making about the choices I'm making as to what to feed it.
It's tempting to stop paying attention. Stay ignorant. But I won't. I am collating my own evidence to show that there may be some value in this intuitive eating malarky. And if it's going to help me move forward in this particular area of my life, then I am willing to go through the awkward and uncomfortable parts of moving forward to get there.
This is one of the fundamental principles of intuitive eating. I'd heard a lot about this, too. It seems to be one of the most popular ways in which people who have had an issue with food make peace with it, and move forward with their lives as happier, healthier people. Sounds good, right?
Not having read too much into the nitty-gritty of it, I'm still on the fence as to whether intuitive eating could work for me. Reading about, and engaging with, a particular way of eating still has its hang-ups for me. It reminds me of searching for answers in dieting. So for now, I plan to stick to working out what this whole "listening" to my body thing could mean.
It sounds rather New Age-y, if I'm honest. As if I need to put my ear to the ground, thump my foot on the dirt and wait for an answer to magically appear. In reality, it involves me trying to work out when something in my head is telling me I need to eat, and when my body is trying to speak.
Essentially, I figure that if it's coming to me in words first (the "voice" in my head), it's most likely to be my head telling me to eat. When it's coming from my head, I'm likely to be thinking about eating just about anything, but especially sweet stuff and white, processed carb-based foods. When I get a physical feeling that seems to tell me I'm hungry, I notice I'm far more likely to crave vegetables or meat-based produced. The "words" come after the feeling. This, I believe, is my body telling me what I need to eat.
Perhaps I have this all wrong. I don't know.
But over the past few weeks (or possibly longer), there's been a change going on.
Today I have noticed again the impact that the food I eat has on my body and how I feel physically and mentally.
This morning I ate one large croissant with butter and jam and a bowl of rice krispies. I had coffee with one sugar and some water. I noticed that I quickly developed stomach ache. I fel bloated. I felt like I want to be sick to get rid of this heavy, full feeling putting pressure on my throat, despite not ever really having purging tendancies. I reached about an 8 on the fullness scale, which is pretty damn uncomfortable.
I also noticed that eating a chicken and noodle stir fry for dinner last night, with different coloured vegetables on my plate felt really good. I was satisfied at the end of the meal and was around a 6.5 on the fullness scale. I went to bed feeling fairly comfortable, despite eating late.
Again, I have noticed that when I eat sugary snacks at work (which is my go-to type of food when I am there) or drink too much coffee, I get head aches. I perk up, momentarily, only to crash back down quickly afterwards. I tend to feel lethargic, depressed and unmotivated which I believe is exaccerbated by my food choices.
The more I pay attention to the impact of the foods I choose, the less I like the outcomes. I hadn't noticed before. Listening to my body is becoming easier, the more I am on the look-out. Yet the loudness of the shouts is quite scary. It feels much the same way as when I was first introduced to the concept of my Inner Critic in therapy. I noticed other people's Critics in conversations with them - and it was difficult, almost impossible, not to notice them. The more I listen, the more I hear the complaints my body is making about the choices I'm making as to what to feed it.
It's tempting to stop paying attention. Stay ignorant. But I won't. I am collating my own evidence to show that there may be some value in this intuitive eating malarky. And if it's going to help me move forward in this particular area of my life, then I am willing to go through the awkward and uncomfortable parts of moving forward to get there.
Finally Food
As far as moving forward from disordered eating goes, there has to be at least some part of the process that involves dealing with food, my eating and how this impacts my weight. Right?
For me, this whole process thus far has had to focus on the other stuff first. What other stuff?
Well, off the top of my head, this has included things like:
-Getting an idea of why I may have developed a disordered relationship with food in the first place
- Asking for help - and accepting it
- Therapy
- Attending support groups
- Finding the clues that (in retrospect, at least) suggest I have been succeptible to developing an eating disorder
- Looking into my past, at other issues I have had, and working on letting them go
- Re-building friendships and making new ones
- Working on forgiveness (of myself and others) for all kinds of things
- Figuring out (slowly) who I am, now that I'm no longer the person I was before, or during, my eating disorder and accompanying depression
- Learning to take risks, make decisions and get my braves on!
All these things, and many more I'm sure I'll talk about on this blog, have helped to alter my relationship with food in a positive way. I can't quite put my finger on how this has worked, but I can tell you that it is working to improve my issues with food and the impact it has on my weight.
Since taking these non-food related steps forward my weight has stabilised at a little over what I believe my natural, non- eating disordered, weight probably will be. I've been in the same size clothes for around 3 years now. my food fears are at an all-time minimum and I am currently at my closest to having a "normal" relationship with eating in the six years since my eating disorder, as such, began.
I am therefore proving to myself (and others) that even without directly tackling the issues I have with food, moving forward from disordered eating is possible.
Two or more years into my committment to move forward, I feel like I am now only just getting to a place where I can begin to look at the specifics of my eating.
Why now and not then?
There are a couple of reasons why I believe I can now handle this stage of moving forward.
First, I am able to look at what I eat, how and when I eat certain things, without judging myself as a person on my eating. This is a huge thing for me, and for anyone whose worth has essentially been pinned on what they look like and what they put into their body. To not have to feel bad for putting food in my mouth is wonderful! Yet now that I tend not to feel this (though occasionally it does happen), it doesn't feel like such a big deal anymore. It is, and it's a huge step to being able to really look at what's going on in my relationship with food.
Importantly, there's also the fact that I am no longer trapped in the bingeing-dieting cycle. I don't even believe in dieting as a valid lifestyle choice any more. I can think more clearly (because I am not biologically all over the place as a result of some serious self-medication with food) and I no longer fear slipping back into an eating disorder. Don't get me wrong; there are temptations at times and I am not naieve enough to think it an impossibility. I just know that it's not worth it, for me. I have too much to get out of living a life without it, than to go back to not living a life, but being in the grips of an eating disorder.
I am also now at a point where I can begin to entertain the notion of changing the foods I eat and the habits I have around food. I thought that wanting to move forward from my disordered eating was the same thing as changing my relationship with food. I've learnt that it is and it isn't.
When I made the decision to move forward with my life, it definitely included a different way of eating. A happier, more comfortable and relaxed way of eating. I just couldn't do it straight away. My head had to get to a more happy, comfortable and relaxed state first. I had to prove to myself that I could change, by showing myself in other areas of my life, before I could let myself believe that the same was possible for my eating. I think I have enough evidence stashed up to support me in experimenting with changes in my eating.
Stepping away from the evidence-based reasoning as to why I am willing to now look at addressing the food side of my disordered eating past.... Well,it just feels right for me to do this now.
So in answer to the original question at the beginning of this post, moving forward from disordered eating will inevitably involve dealing with food issues. It just might not be as soon as you'd think. And that's okay.
For me, this whole process thus far has had to focus on the other stuff first. What other stuff?
Well, off the top of my head, this has included things like:
-Getting an idea of why I may have developed a disordered relationship with food in the first place
- Asking for help - and accepting it
- Therapy
- Attending support groups
- Finding the clues that (in retrospect, at least) suggest I have been succeptible to developing an eating disorder
- Looking into my past, at other issues I have had, and working on letting them go
- Re-building friendships and making new ones
- Working on forgiveness (of myself and others) for all kinds of things
- Figuring out (slowly) who I am, now that I'm no longer the person I was before, or during, my eating disorder and accompanying depression
- Learning to take risks, make decisions and get my braves on!
All these things, and many more I'm sure I'll talk about on this blog, have helped to alter my relationship with food in a positive way. I can't quite put my finger on how this has worked, but I can tell you that it is working to improve my issues with food and the impact it has on my weight.
Since taking these non-food related steps forward my weight has stabilised at a little over what I believe my natural, non- eating disordered, weight probably will be. I've been in the same size clothes for around 3 years now. my food fears are at an all-time minimum and I am currently at my closest to having a "normal" relationship with eating in the six years since my eating disorder, as such, began.
I am therefore proving to myself (and others) that even without directly tackling the issues I have with food, moving forward from disordered eating is possible.
Two or more years into my committment to move forward, I feel like I am now only just getting to a place where I can begin to look at the specifics of my eating.
Why now and not then?
There are a couple of reasons why I believe I can now handle this stage of moving forward.
First, I am able to look at what I eat, how and when I eat certain things, without judging myself as a person on my eating. This is a huge thing for me, and for anyone whose worth has essentially been pinned on what they look like and what they put into their body. To not have to feel bad for putting food in my mouth is wonderful! Yet now that I tend not to feel this (though occasionally it does happen), it doesn't feel like such a big deal anymore. It is, and it's a huge step to being able to really look at what's going on in my relationship with food.
Importantly, there's also the fact that I am no longer trapped in the bingeing-dieting cycle. I don't even believe in dieting as a valid lifestyle choice any more. I can think more clearly (because I am not biologically all over the place as a result of some serious self-medication with food) and I no longer fear slipping back into an eating disorder. Don't get me wrong; there are temptations at times and I am not naieve enough to think it an impossibility. I just know that it's not worth it, for me. I have too much to get out of living a life without it, than to go back to not living a life, but being in the grips of an eating disorder.
I am also now at a point where I can begin to entertain the notion of changing the foods I eat and the habits I have around food. I thought that wanting to move forward from my disordered eating was the same thing as changing my relationship with food. I've learnt that it is and it isn't.
When I made the decision to move forward with my life, it definitely included a different way of eating. A happier, more comfortable and relaxed way of eating. I just couldn't do it straight away. My head had to get to a more happy, comfortable and relaxed state first. I had to prove to myself that I could change, by showing myself in other areas of my life, before I could let myself believe that the same was possible for my eating. I think I have enough evidence stashed up to support me in experimenting with changes in my eating.
Stepping away from the evidence-based reasoning as to why I am willing to now look at addressing the food side of my disordered eating past.... Well,it just feels right for me to do this now.
So in answer to the original question at the beginning of this post, moving forward from disordered eating will inevitably involve dealing with food issues. It just might not be as soon as you'd think. And that's okay.
Confessions of a Blogger with Writer's Block
Okay. Time to speak the truth about my absence from my blog.
I struggle with writer's block here, and yet, I write all the time elsewhere.
My bag typically holds my journal and when I'm stuck at the computer, I use a great site called 750 words (http://750words.com/) to journal for myself. Sometimes, I tweet, text or email friends for support.I've even started writing content for my book.
So what's up with getting my writing up here?
Fear
I self-edit like crazy before posting here.
Confession time: I am afraid that if I post here, regularly and honestly, someone I know will come across it and will know all my "secrets".
I am afraid of writing. Which seems ridiculous, given how much I do and how big a part of my life it has become in my moving forward.
But here's the thing: By putting my writing (including the non-edited, non-perfect bits) out there, I feel that I am putting myself - and my dreams of becoming a published writer - up to be judged, shot down or criticised.
Perhaps someone influential will read it... and (literally) write me off as a failure before I even truly begin.
Perhaps a friend, or a family member, will read it... and worry that I am spending too much time thinking about issues I ought to be so over - so past this - by now.
Perhaps a stranger will read it... and never come back.
Perhaps - and this is the worst one of all - no one will really care. What's the point in writing this blog (or - gulp! - my book) at all, if no one will read it?!
Scary stuff, huh?
You may be thinking why even bother? I can tell you that this has definitely crossed my mind a million times. And yet here I am. I can't quite let go of the idea of writing a blog. My other forums for all sorts of different writings are brilliant - they truly are - and yet... here I am.
Moving forward has become about so much more than food, and my disordered relationship with it. It has opened up to being about allowing myself to dream. It's about allowing myself to try new things. It's even about allowing myself to fail, and if that is what becomes of my blog, my writing, my book then so be it.
So be it.
You see, there's a whole other list of 'perhaps' I overlook when the fear kicks in and it goes something like this:
Perhaps someone influential will read my blog... and will really love it. Maybe - just maybe - they'll love it so much, that I could stand a real chance at getting my dream job as a writer.
Perhaps a friend, or family member, will read my blog... and they will really understand what's been going on for me. Maybe my relationships will change for the better as a result of my being honest about my experiences of moving forward with my life.
Perhaps a stranger will read my blog... and will keep coming back.
Perhaps there are people out there who will care about what I have to say. Perhaps I will realise just how much of a positive impact I can have, with my words.
Today, in the spirit of committing to moving forward, I am choosing to believe in myself, my writing and in you - the people who may just happen to come across this blog.
Thank you for reading this. I sincerely mean it and I hope that you find something here that inspires or intrigues you enough to keep coming back.
I struggle with writer's block here, and yet, I write all the time elsewhere.
My bag typically holds my journal and when I'm stuck at the computer, I use a great site called 750 words (http://750words.com/) to journal for myself. Sometimes, I tweet, text or email friends for support.I've even started writing content for my book.
So what's up with getting my writing up here?
Fear
I self-edit like crazy before posting here.
Confession time: I am afraid that if I post here, regularly and honestly, someone I know will come across it and will know all my "secrets".
I am afraid of writing. Which seems ridiculous, given how much I do and how big a part of my life it has become in my moving forward.
But here's the thing: By putting my writing (including the non-edited, non-perfect bits) out there, I feel that I am putting myself - and my dreams of becoming a published writer - up to be judged, shot down or criticised.
Perhaps someone influential will read it... and (literally) write me off as a failure before I even truly begin.
Perhaps a friend, or a family member, will read it... and worry that I am spending too much time thinking about issues I ought to be so over - so past this - by now.
Perhaps a stranger will read it... and never come back.
Perhaps - and this is the worst one of all - no one will really care. What's the point in writing this blog (or - gulp! - my book) at all, if no one will read it?!
Scary stuff, huh?
You may be thinking why even bother? I can tell you that this has definitely crossed my mind a million times. And yet here I am. I can't quite let go of the idea of writing a blog. My other forums for all sorts of different writings are brilliant - they truly are - and yet... here I am.
Moving forward has become about so much more than food, and my disordered relationship with it. It has opened up to being about allowing myself to dream. It's about allowing myself to try new things. It's even about allowing myself to fail, and if that is what becomes of my blog, my writing, my book then so be it.
So be it.
You see, there's a whole other list of 'perhaps' I overlook when the fear kicks in and it goes something like this:
Perhaps someone influential will read my blog... and will really love it. Maybe - just maybe - they'll love it so much, that I could stand a real chance at getting my dream job as a writer.
Perhaps a friend, or family member, will read my blog... and they will really understand what's been going on for me. Maybe my relationships will change for the better as a result of my being honest about my experiences of moving forward with my life.
Perhaps a stranger will read my blog... and will keep coming back.
Perhaps there are people out there who will care about what I have to say. Perhaps I will realise just how much of a positive impact I can have, with my words.
Today, in the spirit of committing to moving forward, I am choosing to believe in myself, my writing and in you - the people who may just happen to come across this blog.
Thank you for reading this. I sincerely mean it and I hope that you find something here that inspires or intrigues you enough to keep coming back.
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
Fear, Food and Chopsticks
This weekend I went with my boyfriend for a traditional Chinese meal. Since I said yes to an offer of a business trip to China six weeks ago, time has flown and what was just a blip on the horizon is not right up in my face. And I’m scared. A little excited, but mainly scared. This was my plan for exposure-style therapy; confront your fears and they become less… well… fearsome.
Having opted for hot pot on the advice of someone in the know, we entered the fairly drab, unremarkable restaurant and were presented with a hot plate. On top of this, a young girl placed a bowl of boiling flavoured stock. I think she asked me what we wanted this stock to be, but I was kind of flustered and chose the least fish-like. We filled a bowl with sauces we didn’t recognise. (He thought the garlic was sugar.) We chose bits of food that looked vaguely familiar from the buffet to put in the pot. And noodles (I know where I am with a noodle).
I ate on auto-pilot at first, hoping that the eat-first, think-later strategy might serve me best. I guess it did for a moment or two, before the flutters in my stomach grew and the tickly sting of tears rose behind my eyes. Two or three panic-breaths escaped my mouth. My boyfriend looked anxious and disappointed (I think he was getting ready to have to leave in his head). One lone tear crept down my right cheek, almost invisible through the steam clouds round our heads.
In that moment, though I made my choice in a split-second, I somehow knew inside I had a really important choice to make. Was I going to let this food fear get the better of me or was I going to push through and see what’s on the other side? If I let it win, I could go home and eat something I know I like. I would also have to look at the disappointment on his face, mirroring the same disappointment I would feel in myself, not knowing which was more painful. If I push through it, I don’t know if it will get any better, but I know I can’t feel much worse.
I pushed through it. And whilst I can’t honestly say I liked the meal, I didn’t hate it. My boyfriend says it’s okay not to love every single food I eat, and that sometimes, the joy in eating it is in the not being sure of whether we like it or not, but in the experience itself.
I wouldn’t normally support the idea of eating over emotions, but in this case, I know it was something I needed to do. I needed to prove to myself that I can do it. I needed to know that I can be strong enough to brave new situations. I needed a little faith to cling to before I’m out there, in the big, wide world, alone, experiencing new places, and people, and foods.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the first pangs of fear I have around this trip gravitate towards food. It’s my fall-back worry for when I’m afraid or unsure of something that I can’t quite (or don’t want to) pin down. Truth is, I’m getting so much better around new foods that these fears are pretty minute. I momentarily wavered at the restaurant this weekend, but I think now that maybe this was less about the food than it seemed.
This will be the longest period of time I’ve spent apart from my boyfriend since we met. It’s also the first solo trip I’ve made since my time living abroad, with depression, suicidal feelings and binge-eating disorder (following a period of anorexia).
Typing these out and saying the words, I’ve got that same flutter in my stomach and prickling of tears behind my eyes as I did in the restaurant. I am scared. I am scared that, perhaps, I won’t be able to cope with being on my own. I’m scared also, perhaps, because maybe I will, and maybe he’ll think I need him less. I’m afraid of being alone.
I’m scared because it might bring back those memories, and with them, the feelings of loneliness and desperation that I’d rather forget. I’m scared because I’m not the same girl that set out by herself before. I don’t yet know how this woman will handle things. I’m afraid of facing my past and stepping into the future.
The truth is, I just don’t yet know the answers to these questions.
And it’s this – the uncertainty – that’s the real fear. Not knowing. It makes me feel vulnerable, lost and child-like. Knowing stuff is something I’m extremely good at, and for which people have praised me. Maybe this is why I find it so hard to accept uncertainty.
But accepting uncertainty, and facing my fears, is a lesson for which I’m long overdue. Like the meal, this trip will not necessarily be easy. I’ll need to look my fears in the eye and I’ll stare them down. I’m telling myself that there are always going to be things I don’t know, or might have to wait to find out. That knowing to expect the unexpected makes me feel better – more prepared – but truth is, it doesn’t settle the flutters in my belly. I know that there’ll be moments I’ll want to cry, even if I don’t.
I also know it’s the pushing through these moments that allow me to move forward, move further from disordered eating and thinking habits. This IS the “recovery” purported by so many people with all kinds of afflictions and addictions holding them back in life. It’s not all happy and pretty; it’s uncomfortable and unnerving, but ultimately leaves me in a better place than I was before. I’m a stronger, more beautiful woman because of these moments. This is what I hope to learn from this trip, as I’ve learnt at the restaurant on a far smaller scale.
I also learnt another important thing: I really like Chinese rice pudding parcels, tied with string and steam-cooked inside palm leaves.
Having opted for hot pot on the advice of someone in the know, we entered the fairly drab, unremarkable restaurant and were presented with a hot plate. On top of this, a young girl placed a bowl of boiling flavoured stock. I think she asked me what we wanted this stock to be, but I was kind of flustered and chose the least fish-like. We filled a bowl with sauces we didn’t recognise. (He thought the garlic was sugar.) We chose bits of food that looked vaguely familiar from the buffet to put in the pot. And noodles (I know where I am with a noodle).
I ate on auto-pilot at first, hoping that the eat-first, think-later strategy might serve me best. I guess it did for a moment or two, before the flutters in my stomach grew and the tickly sting of tears rose behind my eyes. Two or three panic-breaths escaped my mouth. My boyfriend looked anxious and disappointed (I think he was getting ready to have to leave in his head). One lone tear crept down my right cheek, almost invisible through the steam clouds round our heads.
In that moment, though I made my choice in a split-second, I somehow knew inside I had a really important choice to make. Was I going to let this food fear get the better of me or was I going to push through and see what’s on the other side? If I let it win, I could go home and eat something I know I like. I would also have to look at the disappointment on his face, mirroring the same disappointment I would feel in myself, not knowing which was more painful. If I push through it, I don’t know if it will get any better, but I know I can’t feel much worse.
I pushed through it. And whilst I can’t honestly say I liked the meal, I didn’t hate it. My boyfriend says it’s okay not to love every single food I eat, and that sometimes, the joy in eating it is in the not being sure of whether we like it or not, but in the experience itself.
I wouldn’t normally support the idea of eating over emotions, but in this case, I know it was something I needed to do. I needed to prove to myself that I can do it. I needed to know that I can be strong enough to brave new situations. I needed a little faith to cling to before I’m out there, in the big, wide world, alone, experiencing new places, and people, and foods.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the first pangs of fear I have around this trip gravitate towards food. It’s my fall-back worry for when I’m afraid or unsure of something that I can’t quite (or don’t want to) pin down. Truth is, I’m getting so much better around new foods that these fears are pretty minute. I momentarily wavered at the restaurant this weekend, but I think now that maybe this was less about the food than it seemed.
This will be the longest period of time I’ve spent apart from my boyfriend since we met. It’s also the first solo trip I’ve made since my time living abroad, with depression, suicidal feelings and binge-eating disorder (following a period of anorexia).
Typing these out and saying the words, I’ve got that same flutter in my stomach and prickling of tears behind my eyes as I did in the restaurant. I am scared. I am scared that, perhaps, I won’t be able to cope with being on my own. I’m scared also, perhaps, because maybe I will, and maybe he’ll think I need him less. I’m afraid of being alone.
I’m scared because it might bring back those memories, and with them, the feelings of loneliness and desperation that I’d rather forget. I’m scared because I’m not the same girl that set out by herself before. I don’t yet know how this woman will handle things. I’m afraid of facing my past and stepping into the future.
The truth is, I just don’t yet know the answers to these questions.
And it’s this – the uncertainty – that’s the real fear. Not knowing. It makes me feel vulnerable, lost and child-like. Knowing stuff is something I’m extremely good at, and for which people have praised me. Maybe this is why I find it so hard to accept uncertainty.
But accepting uncertainty, and facing my fears, is a lesson for which I’m long overdue. Like the meal, this trip will not necessarily be easy. I’ll need to look my fears in the eye and I’ll stare them down. I’m telling myself that there are always going to be things I don’t know, or might have to wait to find out. That knowing to expect the unexpected makes me feel better – more prepared – but truth is, it doesn’t settle the flutters in my belly. I know that there’ll be moments I’ll want to cry, even if I don’t.
I also know it’s the pushing through these moments that allow me to move forward, move further from disordered eating and thinking habits. This IS the “recovery” purported by so many people with all kinds of afflictions and addictions holding them back in life. It’s not all happy and pretty; it’s uncomfortable and unnerving, but ultimately leaves me in a better place than I was before. I’m a stronger, more beautiful woman because of these moments. This is what I hope to learn from this trip, as I’ve learnt at the restaurant on a far smaller scale.
I also learnt another important thing: I really like Chinese rice pudding parcels, tied with string and steam-cooked inside palm leaves.
Monday, 7 March 2011
Building on the Writing Blocks
Writing in my journal comes naturally to me. So does writing on a scrap of paper, come to think of it, and writing an essay or assignment. The words just seem to flow, and I can get lost in the process of writing. It's a skill I've used and developed in moving on from disordered eating and thinking. It's an essential tool to staying sane, really.
When I get an attack of that critical voice - the one that tells me whatever I've done, said, thought or indeed am is wrong - my best move is to pull out my journal (or whatever's at hand) and scribble it all out. I write out what that voice is saying. Sometimes it's hard, because the words hurt, embarrass or sting me. Sometimes it's as easy as turning on a tap. And then I formulate my counter-attack and rebuke whatever arguments are thrown at me. I make it positive, non-judgemental and supportive. I write to myself as my own best friend. And then, invariably, the knots in my stomach unravel a little and the volume of the voice goes down a few notches. I move forward another step.
Whilst writing myself better, I've learnt that writing also makes me happy.The movement of my pen on the paper, feeling relieved as the words spill on the page, and excited as I can't write as fast as the words appear in my mind. The whole thing is pretty exhilarating, despite never leaving my seat. I feel silly even typing this.
Happiness in writing is not something I can remember feeling whilst obsessively counting calories. Happiness only came from losing pounds or dropping sizes.. Looking back, I'm not even sure I'd call it "happiness" anyway - perhaps relief or a sense of achievement is more accurate. Writing the numbers down and listing myself into a frenzy, I used writing against myself to account for myself. Each and every mouthful logged in little notebooks, until the bingeing began and I couldn't face writing anymore. I guess this partly why writing feels so brilliant now.
It's perhaps not surprising that I'm discovering how passionate I am about writing a book. A real book. No one needs to see this book but me; I just need to write. I've got a couple of ideas for what I'd like to write about, both of which I think have promise. I'm not so overwhelmed by my new job and my eating issues nowadays that I cannot make some space to write little and often. The scene is set and the future looks promising, right?
Yet when I put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) to write for this purpose - to fulfil this dream or burning ambition (over-used cliches, I know, but sometimes the oldies are goodies) - I stop short. I can't seem to get the words out. My head feels like alphabet soup. It's all consonants and no vowels, Carol.
I don't yet know why this is, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it's that critical voice again rendering me frozen with fear. I can't remember what it was to have dreams and ambitions; ones that are truly mine and mine alone. I've achieved things, sure. I'm moving forward in life, in terms of the usual progression markers of work and relationships. But very few of these feel truly mine. The closest I can get is my relationship with my partner; yet that is ours - relationships imply more than one person - and I'm talking about the solo stuff here.
Writing is something that is entirely mine.
No one is pressuring me to write (but me) and no one knows this is even a dream of mine (but me and him indoors). Being all mine perhaps makes it that bit more precious and fragile.
At the moment, it feels like I'm holding a glass bird in my hands; I can't open them for fear of it falling and breaking. My emotions run high whenever I dare to even consider it. If I'd been a different child, had a different life, dreams might be like sugar stealers. I'd be able to voice them aloud and blow them away, and perhaps a few would seed and grow. Being the person I am, with the life and experiences I've had, it's pretty understandable that the rarity of these dreams might make me a little more Gollum-like.
My writing is perhaps "my precious". But to really feel happiness in my writing, perhaps I need to let go a little and just let it come. See what happens. Maybe it won't shatter; maybe it'll shine a little brighter if I give it the freedom just to be.
When I get an attack of that critical voice - the one that tells me whatever I've done, said, thought or indeed am is wrong - my best move is to pull out my journal (or whatever's at hand) and scribble it all out. I write out what that voice is saying. Sometimes it's hard, because the words hurt, embarrass or sting me. Sometimes it's as easy as turning on a tap. And then I formulate my counter-attack and rebuke whatever arguments are thrown at me. I make it positive, non-judgemental and supportive. I write to myself as my own best friend. And then, invariably, the knots in my stomach unravel a little and the volume of the voice goes down a few notches. I move forward another step.
Whilst writing myself better, I've learnt that writing also makes me happy.The movement of my pen on the paper, feeling relieved as the words spill on the page, and excited as I can't write as fast as the words appear in my mind. The whole thing is pretty exhilarating, despite never leaving my seat. I feel silly even typing this.
Happiness in writing is not something I can remember feeling whilst obsessively counting calories. Happiness only came from losing pounds or dropping sizes.. Looking back, I'm not even sure I'd call it "happiness" anyway - perhaps relief or a sense of achievement is more accurate. Writing the numbers down and listing myself into a frenzy, I used writing against myself to account for myself. Each and every mouthful logged in little notebooks, until the bingeing began and I couldn't face writing anymore. I guess this partly why writing feels so brilliant now.
It's perhaps not surprising that I'm discovering how passionate I am about writing a book. A real book. No one needs to see this book but me; I just need to write. I've got a couple of ideas for what I'd like to write about, both of which I think have promise. I'm not so overwhelmed by my new job and my eating issues nowadays that I cannot make some space to write little and often. The scene is set and the future looks promising, right?
Yet when I put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) to write for this purpose - to fulfil this dream or burning ambition (over-used cliches, I know, but sometimes the oldies are goodies) - I stop short. I can't seem to get the words out. My head feels like alphabet soup. It's all consonants and no vowels, Carol.
I don't yet know why this is, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it's that critical voice again rendering me frozen with fear. I can't remember what it was to have dreams and ambitions; ones that are truly mine and mine alone. I've achieved things, sure. I'm moving forward in life, in terms of the usual progression markers of work and relationships. But very few of these feel truly mine. The closest I can get is my relationship with my partner; yet that is ours - relationships imply more than one person - and I'm talking about the solo stuff here.
Writing is something that is entirely mine.
No one is pressuring me to write (but me) and no one knows this is even a dream of mine (but me and him indoors). Being all mine perhaps makes it that bit more precious and fragile.
At the moment, it feels like I'm holding a glass bird in my hands; I can't open them for fear of it falling and breaking. My emotions run high whenever I dare to even consider it. If I'd been a different child, had a different life, dreams might be like sugar stealers. I'd be able to voice them aloud and blow them away, and perhaps a few would seed and grow. Being the person I am, with the life and experiences I've had, it's pretty understandable that the rarity of these dreams might make me a little more Gollum-like.
My writing is perhaps "my precious". But to really feel happiness in my writing, perhaps I need to let go a little and just let it come. See what happens. Maybe it won't shatter; maybe it'll shine a little brighter if I give it the freedom just to be.
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