Wandering

Again I have been silent. No, I haven’t forgotten about you all, I have merely retreated for a bit to take care of myself. Times are rough, emotionally. But I’m hanging in there, so don’t worry. I’ll climb back out of the hole again. Hopefully with some fresh insights after lessons learned, but for now I’d settle for just being able to go through a day without chest pains and tears.

 

I’ll be alright.

 

My greatest sadness is the strain it all puts on my beloved husband. I so wish I could be a normal, happy, rock steady wife for him, but instead I am this. That is what hurts the most. It is worse than all the rest, and it is not rare for me to think those horrid thoughts – that he would be better off without me.

 

But, there are also still moments of joy. It’s in the scent and warmth of my husband as I hold him close. It’s in the deeply satisfying realization that I’ve learned something new. It’s in being able to help a friend, and put a smile on another’s face.

 

woods.jpg

 

If you are lost in the woods, who would you rather have guide you? One who has never been in those woods themselves, only seen it from the outside, or one who has walked the paths herself, and found the way out? Or perhaps even she who has made the woods her home. No longer lost, but safe and happy right where she is? I don’t know, I am still wandering.

 

 

 

Fasting Day 1

To say that I have a difficult relationship with food is an understatement. The truth is I have an eating disorder. Not anorexia or bulimia, which most people would assume from such a statement, but what in medicine is called UNS, unspecified. To be more exact, I am a food addict. Yes, for real.

I don’t need an excuse to eat. The urge is always there, I always want to eat, and every waking moment that I don’t is the result of a conscious decision and effort to not do it. Resisting when the urge grows stronger doesn’t just lead to me getting hungry – I panic. I cry. I beg. I tremble like a leaf. My entire existence screams at me to EAT! Even if I had a hearty lunch just two hours earlier, that doesn’t matter. Because it’s not a matter of eating to satisfy a physical hunger, it’s addiction.

How do handle an addiction, normally? You make yourself stop. You get sober, stop drinking alcohol if that’s your vice, stop taking drugs, stop gambling, stop… But you can’t stop eating. Basically I am like the alcoholic who tries to get rid of her addiction, but who has to drink a glass of wine three times a day.

Why am I telling you all this now?

Well, here’s the deal. While I can’t stop eating entirely, what I can do is fast for a few days. It’s horrendously difficult, but I can do it. I must be able to do it. It’s not to lose weight, it’s not an extreme form of dieting, it’s all about breaking addiction’s spine. It is about taking back control.

It’s been a few years since my last real fast, but now I feel it is time again. The husband is away, so I won’t have to suffer through the ordeal of seeing him cook and eat. Smelling it, hearing the sizzling of meat in a hot pan, hearing the crunch of chewing… So, now is the time.

It is morning now, and I have had a cup of tea. Day 1 of fasting. I will not eat today. I will not eat.

I’ll drink plenty though, water and tea. If it gets too bad I might allow myself fruit juice. But that’s it.

I know that many see fasting as too extreme, as potentially dangerous. But don’t worry. My body has plenty of energy stored, I’ll be fine. It’ll be difficult, but I’ll be fine. And of course I’ll stop if anything seems to threaten my health.

Commence Fasting Day 1.

Wish me luck.

Delete?

Getting the urge to delete this blog. Because it’s crappy. Because who cares what I think? Because a person who speaks up is likely to get metaphorically punched in the nose. Because it hurts when people misunderstand what I am trying to say. Because I am terrified of being mocked by trolls. Because I don’t fucking matter and my words will be remembered by no one. Because right now, all I want to do is cry.

 

I could really use a hug right now.

Busy busy, no time to waste!

I have had a number of blog posts almost written this last week. One about the most marvelous wild raspberry jam I made, and one about a this year’s disastrous blackcurrant jelly (it didn’t set, so basically I have lots of sweet blackcurrant sauce). And a couple of cat posts for Katzenworld!

But alas, I have been unable to write properly since I got back from the Netherlands. The reason is no great unknown –  next week is Medieval Week in Visby and I am busy sewing. While navigating a chaotic world of panic and anxiety, as I’m still not really recovered since my last downfall. So basically my days at the moment look something like… this:

Breakfast -> short burst of sewing -> mini panic attack -> short burst of sewing ->anxiety attack -> short burst of sewing -> go outside to pick some berries in attempt at not panicking again -> panic anyway -> collapse, feeling like I just ran a marathon.

 

Yeeah, it’s not great! But it’ll be alright. I’m so far pleased with how the sewing project is coming along, and I think I’ll manage to finish it before Visby. (It’s that or go nekkid! I can’t fit in my old clothes at the moment. *sadface* )

 

So now, blogging will have to wait. Or well, I did manage this little update! That’s a success, I believe. Now I need to get back to sewing, wish me luck!

I’m only sleeping

A few days ago, on Monday morning, I crashed. The night before I was crying myself to sleep after some unwelcome news and in the morning everything felt dark and dull. I poured myself a cup of  tea and sat down on the couch. Had a sip and looked out the window. And everything just stopped.

Couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Just sat there.

My husband got worried of course. I wanted to tell him it was alright, but I couldn’t get the words out. It was difficult enough just to move my eyes to look at him. Stuck, I felt stuck in my own head.

He drove me to the hospital, to this emergency psychiatric place. Thoughts kept spinning in my mind, it may have looked like I was half asleep but it was quite the opposite. I was aware, fully aware, painfully aware of every little detail. My uncombed hair. My husband’s concern. The chatter of others in the waiting room.

There was a woman there, waiting for her turn, who started talking of babies. On and on she went, describing her previous pregnancies and how giving birth was the best thing ever, the best, the best. Husband told me not to listen but I couldn’t stop it. I listened, and felt close to blacking out. My head was about to explode it seemed, I couldn’t breathe and everything hurt. I hurt, the world hurt, the woman’s words hurt.

I couldn’t sit there listening. In a full panic I fled into the nearest bathroom and sat down on the floor, in a corner, crying.

We were at the hospital for half a day. I talked to doctors – or rather they talked to me while I merely managed to whisper a few stray words in return – and got pills.

Once home I slept.

The day after I slept.

And the day after that.

Despite sleeping all day I’ve also been able to sleep all night, so my waking hours have dwindled to barely more than a handful per day. I’m exhausted, absolutely exhausted. All I want to do is sleep.

I wish I could just make it stop. I wish I could be normal. I wish I wouldn’t hurt my husband like this. I wish the pain would stop.

 

They call me from the hospital every day now, to check on me. They keep asking if I want to kill myself. Every day they ask. I keep saying no. They don’t seem to believe me. But I keep saying no. I won’t. Even though I feel worthless, even though I’m sure my husband would be better off without me, I won’t. I want to live. I want to grow old. And I want to see this hell through and come out victorious on the other side.

Hurting

I  am not doing great. It is Friday and I should be happy for the upcoming weekend, for the summer warmth and for the chance to simply hang out with my husband. To enjoy the garden, cuddle the cats, keep writing, keep working on that embroidery too that I’m so proud of.

 

Instead I just hurt. I cry. I do my job but without pleasure, with every minute stretching out to last an hour.

 

By necessity I am trying to face and accept the possibility that we won’t ever have a child. Wondering when to say stop, when to give up, when to decide that it won’t happen. But that acceptance does not come easy. The questions hover over me like a dark cloud, blocking out the sun.

 

I’m not doing great. It hurts, badly.