Eating disorders: control and shame

I think for me, ‘disordered’ eating has always been to some extent about control; a fairly common theme, I know.

It makes kind of logical sense in some ways. I dread the stereotypical ‘wanting to be in control of your body because of times when you haven’t’, though I do accept this theory. For me, I’ve been thinking more and more about exactly what it is I want to control: is it my weight, my appearance, my eating desires? Is it about wanting to see how far I can push myself, how much discipline and control I have over myself? 

These were all things I used to think I wanted to be in control of. From a young age I learnt to control myself in so many ways and ‘controlling’ food helped me to continue this; which is something I felt I should do. 

Suddenly though, I realise it is not just about these things. It is about controlling me. It’s about holding me back. Keeping the little battered me inside. 

I feel so utterly branded by shame on the inside that I must hide myself; I must not have desires or be who I want to be. 

It feels as though every part of my soul has been seared and scarred by shame and I darent share it with anyone for fear of repulsion. My eating disorder has cut over scar after scar of shame and kept me quiet, kept me hidden. 

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Do you remember the wounds?

It makes physical sense that a scar won’t look the same as the wound, nor the skin before. The tissue, damaged then inflamed seeks to heal and creates a substitute tissue to stand in the originals place. Thick and non-functioning, it fills a void. Do you remember the wounds before them? Remember the wounds your scars replaced, what they stand for? Do you remember the pain of them, how they came about? Do you even remember the story they tell?

Many scars tell a good story, but many more tell a horrible one. 

And what of the emotional scars, the ‘psychological’ ones? Do we remember what stood before them? Do we remember ourselves before that trauma? Our emotions, our thoughts, thick and hardened through the hands of abuse not dissimilar to the scars on our skin. The bodies inate, desperate mechanisms to heal and heal quickly. To survive. 

Can we change them? Can we soften the scar tissue in anyway? Can it be treated? Can we remember what was there before, can we remember the wounds? Would it help to?

What is it like to be covered in scars you don’t remember receiving, wounds that have healed behind your back without your knowing? Perhaps that is unanswerable. 

Talking out

It is not often I see the pros of ‘talking out’, of telling or sharing my story. I am all to easily silenced by myself or others, but a recent blog post has made me think a little more. 

When you have a thought or memory endlessly cycling in yor head it can be near impossible to get it out. If you picture it physically, you can almost see it there inside your skull bouncing of the walls trying desperately to get out, but with your mouth tight shut it has no where to go, no escape. By opening your mouth you allow it out. You create a tangent for your memory to spin off and finally end its repititive circling. Or you can cry it out, I suppose. If you know how. 

That is all. 

Nobody knows…….

Nobody knows what we go through, unless you’ve been there with us.

http://vandaair.com/2016/02/03/nobody-knows/

A powerful picture from a side of my life I do not often talk about 

The ‘mute’ button

I feel like someone’s pressed it again. I feel totally silenced. Was it me? I am exhausted of this fight. 

Mutism has always been a safety blanket for me. They say ‘if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all’, but I think sometimes it’s if you don’t have anything right to say. Silence is safety, talking is risk. If you don’t know the right way to talk yourself out of a situation, maybe you shouldn’t even try. I simply do not have the willpower or strength to keep trying to talk out. I don’t have the energy to analyse what is safe and what’s not. 

So I fall silent, again. To fight back, with words or strength is essentially a sin. ‘Children are to be seen, and not heard’, that’s what they always said. 

Is it better to fight and to lose, or not to fight at all?

In my experience, it has always been the latter. 

I am fighting to speak, but nobody hears me. To lift my internal mute is a dangerous agony. Even when I manage, it’s like my volumes turned right down; you probably couldn’t listen, even if you tried. More often I cannot lift the mute, I cannot deselect my selective mutism, learnt as a child, so I hide in the middle of it, screaming where no one can hear. 

Is it even worth it? Do I want to share my story? Does anybody want to hear? It’s much easier and innate to keep quiet. 

“Dark times lie ahead of us and there will be a time when we must choose between what is easy and what is right.” – JK Rowling, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. 

Trying to keep strong and positive (believe it or not). Trying to keep talking. 

Maybe I am just broken

Maybe it is time that I just accept that I am broken, that I can’t be fixed. I have tried for so long to put myself back together maybe it is time I just accepted ‘me’ the way I am and carried on with my broken and painful parts. 

I have carried this pain for so long, blistered and sliced my fingers trying desperately to put the fractured parts of my soul back together maybe I should just give up. My coping mechanisms have gotten me this far, maybe I should carry on with them. Who says I need to be fixed?

I suppose I do, really. Dancing over the shatterings of glass left after a childhood of abuse has proved only painful, but that is the only footing I have. I cannot just walk away, unfortunately. 

I suppose my hands can be fixed, but if I don’t use them to realign the pieces of my soul I will always be broken. 

Food for thought.