And So It Begins

And so today was the first proper day of treatment, and I feel not much but frustration (and probably some fear.)

Frustration because everything seems to be focused on drugs and alcohol, and so I feel like a second class citizen. When I filled out the intake form, all the questions were about drugs and alcohol -- and they were not phrased in such a way that you could really talk about eating disorders. (And the counselor seemed annoyed when I pointed this out.) Frustrated because nobody told me there would be dinner available – I mean, nobody would put out a buffet of drugs and alcohol for this group. Frustrated because we are tested for drugs and alcohol, and yet there is no way to test for what I’ve got. And frustrated because the left hand doesn’t seem to know what the right hand is doing, which is where the fear comes in: I need this to work. I really need this to work. I can’t imagine I’ll be able to do something like this again, from both opportunity and actual cost.

This evening’s session had a group about food and feelings, which seemed to include not just those of us with eating disorders (there appear to be two others, one of whom has a problem similar to mine and the other of whom is an anorexic), but people who are recovering from other addictions but seem to have replaced those with some problems with food, or uncovered a problem with food. I think I much preferred that half to a lecture about cravings, which was the second half. (If I’m honest, I also was starving by that point, as I went out at the break with another woman with an eating disorder just to be friendly, and because I didn’t want to face the food.)

In the food and feelings one most of the women (there were four women and two men) were talking about how they didn’t even notice other people’s size because they were so focused on their own. And it made me feel so separate, because frankly, I do. I wouldn’t have guessed anyone in that room had a problem with food, and couldn’t help noticing how much bigger I was than all of them. I never don’t notice size, and despite it supposedly being a judgment free zone, I didn’t feel I could say it. Maybe at some point I will.

London's Brilliant Parade

I’ve told my story, or some fraction of it, to probably at least a dozen people now: Doctors, therapists, behavioral health counselors. But somehow it never gets easier. I find the more sympathy I have for what must have been going on with my mother (though I’ve never been particularly angry with her, her situation seems sadder and sadder to me the older I get), the harder the story is to tell.

Today was no exception. After nearly 13 years of practice, I can say that she died without crying, at least in response to the all-too-frequent person who says, “And what about your mother?” when I answer a question about where my parents live with a statement about my father. I can say how she died. But more than that and I break down. Do British people really have such stiff upper lips that nobody cries even in therapy? (Presumably this is too personal a question to ask a friend, since therapy here isn’t as widely discussed as it is in the U.S.) There was a box of tissues, but the therapist (conducting my assessment for the program I start tomorrow) seemed a little disturbed by my doing so.

Every time I tell my story, I’m also struck by different parts of it. Today, when recounting how shameful it felt, age 4 or 5, to no longer be the same size as my (fraternal) twin sister, despite the fact that my mother fed us the same food, I thought: Wow, my problems started so young. What chance did I ever have not to feel like there was something wrong with me, when it seemed all anyone did was discuss it?

From this appointment I walked from South Kensington through Knightsbridge, up Piccadilly (past an antique jewelry shop with loads of tiaras!), and up to Bloomsbury – a little more than an hour – to my nutritionist appointment. (I won’t always walk that much, but it was a nice day, I like walking in London, and anyway, if I took the Tube or bus I’d basically just be killing some time somewhere.) I’d heard what she was like, and so was not especially surprised to be presented with quite a lot of food to eat, but was definitely surprised to hear her say she thought I underrate yesterday (when I had lasagna for lunch and some sort of tagliatelle in cream sauce for dinner). I need more snacks, she says, and to add vegetables with ready meals (which those were – can’t quite face cooking in this flat yet). The list of example snacks is enormous, and encompasses quite a lot of chocolate – she thinks at least one of your snacks needs to be something you love.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t sliiightly disappointed not to be handed some kind of diet, even though I knew that’s not what I’d get. Diets I know how to do. This I do not. Her rules also include no diet foods or lowfat versions (except for milk), and carbs at every meal (a radical shift for someone -- me -- who has had some success with Paleo.) I confess I’m scared of gaining yet more weight, but I know I have to just do this. No trying to find the lowest calorie version I can get away with. She doesn’t require me to come back and see her, but I’ve decided for now I will do 30 days of this exactly as instructed, and then – if I want to see about changing things – go back. I haven’t gotten on a scale for at least 2 or 3 years now (not without my eyes closed, anyway; I got on one today), but I should be able to tell from my clothes if the situation is getting worse.   

The Weekend That Was

Well, I meant to post daily, but already that’s not happening.

Friday started out like a good day, and I started writing a post about how sometimes things don’t work out as planned; they work out better.  

I was supposed to go round to a friend’s for lunch at noon, but I woke up later than planned (hit the snooze button a couple of times) and realized I could probably manage some writing and then a walk over to her flat but not also the trip to the gym I’d been planning/putting off. (One of the things I never missed about London is how long it takes to do most things – you can only fit a couple of things in a day once you include travel time.) But then she rang saying she was already running late, and could we meet at the Whole Foods instead? As the gym was about two minutes away, it worked out perfectly.

Spent part of the afternoon with her, then walked home from Shepherds Bush, with about a three-hour detour at the O2 store trying to sort out my mobile (don’t even ask.) And then on to a dinner party in Stockwell, where, well, apparently it bothered me more than I was willing to admit that I’m not able to drink for the next 14 weeks. I didn’t realize until Friday afternoon that Friday night would be my last drinks – I thought I’d have the weekend – but then S. told me they test you for drugs and alcohol on the first day, and that you need three days clean beforehand for the test to appear clean. (If you fail the test you can’t come back until the next week.) They actually hadn’t told me any of this – they’re somewhat disorganized – but S. and I agreed that if I were to turn up and say they hadn’t told me, they probably wouldn’t believe me, because frankly, it would be quite the addict thing to say. S. says it’s possible maybe the rules have changed, but it didn’t seem worth it to chance it. Anyway, after the shame/hangover I woke up with on Saturday morning, I was almost grateful at the thought that that wouldn’t happen again for the next 14 weeks. (Is it wrong that every time I type S. all I can think of is Blair on Gossip Girl?)

Saturday was lunch in Wimbledon – somewhere I haven’t been since the BN2 days – with a friend from college, and it was great to catch up. Then I managed to get myself to the gym (briefly – only 20 minutes) and then on to dinner with H., who has not been particularly supportive of the whole non-drinking thing. (Though of course I hadn’t realized until Friday that there wouldn’t be a last hurrah.) She also seemed horrified – that’s really the only description I can think of – when I told her I probably wouldn’t lose any weight these 14 weeks. (Both she and another friend of mine think just giving up drinking would make them lose weight, but I’m not so sure that will work for me. Certainly does make dinner bills cheaper, though…)

Today was a quiet one – I just went to an OA meeting and to the gym, and have been sitting around enjoying one last day of doing not much before I dive back into work tomorrow, plus the start of my assessment for the program I’m doing and a meeting with the nutritionist. (First official day of treatment is Tuesday.) Felt like I should have been out doing something in the glorious sunshine, but everywhere I looked I saw food and wine. I always thought this would be hard but I think I was sort of wishing it was one of those things that turns out to be easier than I thought.

Disconnected

If I’d written this even an hour ago, it might have had a very different tone. I know how fast things can flip from bleak to better (or the reverse) and yet it’s dizzying every time.

London apparently was colder today than it was on Christmas Day, and I’m still a little jetlagged and wondering what the hell I was thinking, coming here, and worrying about the fact that I haven’t done any work for several days, and also the loneliness factor. I’ve had plans for this Saturday for a week now, but the rest of the weekend seemed… empty, which is crazy, when you consider I sometimes have weekends like that in NYC and it’s all fine. (Maybe because I have more of a routine there.) But then came a lunch invitation for Saturday, and a last-minute dinner invite for tomorrow, and suddenly things seemed brighter.

I had to go to the letting office today in Marylebone to deal with some problems with my flat. It was an hour’s walk there, partly through Hyde Park. It’s strange to be in a new area of London, though I know it a bit from my old Saturday runs from Putney to High Street Kensington. (I actually live about five minutes’ walk now from my old favorite workout studio, the Pilates-on-crack place, though I don’t recognize a single instructor on the schedule and haven’t been yet.) I forgot my A to Z and don’t yet have an English smartphone, so making my way across town was a combination of instinct and the occasional map I spied on a Boris Bike docking station (can we still call them Boris Bikes?) Then I walked through Portman Square (where I used to go almost every day) and down to Piccadilly. I suppose I could have stopped at a Starbucks to check my email or send messages, but I didn’t, and so felt separate from the world – so, well, disconnected.

Today’s victory: I didn’t stop at Ben’s Cookies just because it was there and smelled delicious. The place I have to go for treatment is actually a couple of blocks from one, so I’ve told myself there will be plenty of chances.

London, Day One

Late in the afternoon of the day you arrive on an overnight flight, everything seems like a bad idea. This is what I’m trying to remind myself as I struggle through the hours until I can go to sleep and wake up and hopefully, everything will look better.

The truth is, it hasn’t been a bad day on balance – it’s actually been pretty good. I was lucky enough to have a friend come pick me up at the airport, which was just the nicest thing. S. took me to pick up my keys (this studio, ugh, makes my apartment in NYC look like a palace) and then helped me drag my luggage up multiple flights of stairs. And did I mention one of the suitcases was so heavy (above 70 pounds) that technically American Airlines could have rejected it? I think it was my gift of gab, as a friend likes to call it – I am super-chatty and nice to airline peeps, and either (a) they get caught up and don’t check as properly as they should, or (b) they just want me to shut up and so hurry things along. Good result either way, right?

(Sidenote: I’m not sure how I managed more than 70 pounds of stuff, seeing as I have about three things that fit. But that’s a story for another post, maybe.)

I then hung out with S. a bit more and joined her for a quick lunch with a friend, which saved me from eating on the run / eating junk food for lunch (I haven’t been bingeing for the past few weeks, but I have been doing things like having cake for dinner.) And then we went our separate ways, and I was OK, running a few errand and things, until the exhaustion set in. I can’t quite unpack because I need to buy a few things to unpack into… but before I could do that I needed to buy a tape measure to see what might fit in the wardrobe. Etc Etc. The bathroom is downright depressing, which is terrible in a country that loves baths (I don’t have one). The only thing that saved me from a binge was this feeling that I want to keep the slate clean if I can, so to speak. Maybe, just maybe, I can not binge at all while I’m here? But let's not get ahead of ourselves. 

I start treatment officially on Tuesday (though I have a few meetings Monday). My goal is to post daily. Right now I feel huge and uncomfortable, and am nearing the point of being so sick of eating anything I want (which I've been doing for a few weeks now) that all I want to do is restrict until Monday, because I know I won't be allowed to after that...

London, Round 2

On Saturday night, after a Passover seder I cooked for 10 curious, non-Jewish friends, I binged.

It was a pretty small binge, by my standards, but embarrassing in its semi-public-ness, and frustrating because I’d been doing so well: Not bingeing, not starving, not overexercising, and having dessert a few times a week, kinda like a normal person. So well that I was beginning to wonder if I really did need to go uproot myself for four months to get help; if the switch had finally flipped.

I feel like I did it almost to prove to myself that I do need help; that stressing myself out to get everything arranged to get to London is really necessary.

Because, yeah, I decided to do it. To go for treatment. I don’t know if it will work, but what I do know is this: I don’t want to keep doing what I’m doing. Ten years from now, I don’t want to wish I had done this and wonder what would happen if I had. I do that a lot, you know, and I think sometimes it’s related to the bingeing. I choose the solution that is the most expedient at present, because I don’t think I can handle all the hassle. And believe me, trying to get myself to London for four months is a lot of hassle.

I’m scared I won’t find anyone to sublet my place in New York. (I’m decluttering; it’s not quite in shape to take photos of yet.) I’m scared I won’t have any work in London. I’m scared I’ll sit around in London, feeling not a part of things there (Friend Bearing Chocolate, who some of you may remember, is behaving very strangely these days) and like I’m missing out in New York. Maybe everyone will be away on holiday.

It is four months. Not that long in the scheme of things. When I first left for London all those years ago – 14 years ago, in September – it was supposed to be for six months. And look at what happened – some of the most amazing and unexpected things ever. Round two, here I come…