How long was it? A week, two weeks? I don’t remember exactly. When the sidewalk falls out from under my feet, time becomes fuzzy. There were about three days that I forgot to eat, just plain forgot. Whenever that happens, afterwards, when I try to eat, I can’t keep it down. I barf up the food, and then I barf because my stomach is empty and the acids are eating away at it. I barf and I barf for days, and the pain becomes really agonizing. My thinking gets fuzzy because I’m running on an empty tank. I spend the day eating small amounts of simple foods, which is uncomfortable and difficult, and waiting to see how much I can keep down. I become so weak that it’s difficult to even sit up and watch movies, but I try--with a barf bucket next to me--because I don’t want to spend all of the day in bed. At the same time that I’m trying to get my stomach to calm down and heal, I've been doing two things which make it worse: I chain smoke on an empty stomach which is just plain crazy, and I drink water compulsively, which means that there’s that much more available in my stomach to barf.
I’ve been working for years on my issue with eating. My ex-psychiatrist said that it wasn’t anorexia, but like anorexia. I’m more than happy to eat if someone cooks for me, or if I’m in a restaurant, but I find it extremely difficult to make myself eat when I’m on my own--which is most of the time. Years ago, after a session with my psychiatrist, Hervé asked what I’d spoken about, and explained this issue. He said to imagine that I was a baby that was hungry, and asked me what I’d do with this baby. When he said that, I vividly imagined a baby in my arms, and throwing that baby to the ground, shouting: “I don’t want this baby.”
While I was waiting to get better, I started to get really scared that I wouldn’t be able to do it by myself, that I would need help, I began to fear that I’d have to go back to a psych ward. I asked a friend from the alcohol support group if I could check in with him each day about what I’d eaten, and if I’d taken my meds. It’s working, because I can’t call and say that I’ve eaten and taken my meds if I haven’t.
I have other issues that seem to be intertwined with my eating issue. I neglect health problems, letting them drag out for months or years before seeking proper treatment. For example, once I badly injured both knees, and spent months barely able to walk, before I sought help. I tend to get used to the pain and discomfort, no matter how bad it is. About nine years ago, I went into a deep depression that kept me in bed for three years. That was in my last apartment, which I’d renovated, nicely decorated, and kept spotless. My personal hygiene was impeccable, and I went to great lengths to dress quite fashionably on a limited budget. When the depression set in, my apartment went to hell, it became filthy, and I became filthy. That’s not surprising since just getting out of bed to pee felt like a major accomplishment. Curiously, as I got better, the sloth didn’t clear up. I love a good hot long bath, or short of that a good long hot shower. And yet, it has been a huge struggle to get back into the habit of showering and dressing nicely. I’ve made good progress there, but my room remains disgusting. Interestingly, I discovered in the bipolar chat room that many of us have issues with personal hygiene--we’re practically allergic to soap and water. I guess that’s the depression end of the spectrum, and being better doesn’t mean being well. It’s been a long hard climb out of that depression, and I’m not all of the way out of it yet. To make matters worse, the same problems with hygiene and cleanliness crop up for alcoholics--we have to build new habits when we get into recovery.
It’s clear that I’m not just dealing with bipolar symptoms and alcoholsim, since I’m throwing that baby, myself,to the ground, saying: “I don’t want this baby.” Clearly I have a problem with low self-esteem. Learning to take care of myself when I reject myself that severely is going to be a long and slow process.
I’ve been working for years on my issue with eating. My ex-psychiatrist said that it wasn’t anorexia, but like anorexia. I’m more than happy to eat if someone cooks for me, or if I’m in a restaurant, but I find it extremely difficult to make myself eat when I’m on my own--which is most of the time. Years ago, after a session with my psychiatrist, Hervé asked what I’d spoken about, and explained this issue. He said to imagine that I was a baby that was hungry, and asked me what I’d do with this baby. When he said that, I vividly imagined a baby in my arms, and throwing that baby to the ground, shouting: “I don’t want this baby.”
While I was waiting to get better, I started to get really scared that I wouldn’t be able to do it by myself, that I would need help, I began to fear that I’d have to go back to a psych ward. I asked a friend from the alcohol support group if I could check in with him each day about what I’d eaten, and if I’d taken my meds. It’s working, because I can’t call and say that I’ve eaten and taken my meds if I haven’t.
I have other issues that seem to be intertwined with my eating issue. I neglect health problems, letting them drag out for months or years before seeking proper treatment. For example, once I badly injured both knees, and spent months barely able to walk, before I sought help. I tend to get used to the pain and discomfort, no matter how bad it is. About nine years ago, I went into a deep depression that kept me in bed for three years. That was in my last apartment, which I’d renovated, nicely decorated, and kept spotless. My personal hygiene was impeccable, and I went to great lengths to dress quite fashionably on a limited budget. When the depression set in, my apartment went to hell, it became filthy, and I became filthy. That’s not surprising since just getting out of bed to pee felt like a major accomplishment. Curiously, as I got better, the sloth didn’t clear up. I love a good hot long bath, or short of that a good long hot shower. And yet, it has been a huge struggle to get back into the habit of showering and dressing nicely. I’ve made good progress there, but my room remains disgusting. Interestingly, I discovered in the bipolar chat room that many of us have issues with personal hygiene--we’re practically allergic to soap and water. I guess that’s the depression end of the spectrum, and being better doesn’t mean being well. It’s been a long hard climb out of that depression, and I’m not all of the way out of it yet. To make matters worse, the same problems with hygiene and cleanliness crop up for alcoholics--we have to build new habits when we get into recovery.
It’s clear that I’m not just dealing with bipolar symptoms and alcoholsim, since I’m throwing that baby, myself,to the ground, saying: “I don’t want this baby.” Clearly I have a problem with low self-esteem. Learning to take care of myself when I reject myself that severely is going to be a long and slow process.
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