Its quite embarrassing when I glance over some of my previous blogs only to confirm that nothing has changed and I’m still a prisoner to my addictive, ritualistic behaviour. Despite being severely challenged and receiving painful and costly physical wake-up calls, yet still I persist in this inexplicable, damaging and self-limiting behaviour. My expertise in avoidance has been exemplary. Coupled with this are life altering events that have occurred since I last wrote a Post but for how long can I milk these recent challenges as a means for not dealing with my very real and chronic ongoing behaviour?
I returned to London in September 2019 basking in some of the success and positivity that my novel writing had generated. I had experienced the most wonderful, self-indulgent summer in France where not only did I spend hours each day writing, but I was also feeling so well physically. I was walking, cycling and swimming regularly and alongside this, I was playing the piano and reading more frequently. The eating rituals were still rife but somehow, thanks to my preoccupation with my writing, they didn’t evoke negative thoughts or self-recriminations. Due to the fact that I felt so well, I had sub-consciously endorsed my diet as being okay despite the mendacity of the repetitive formula. I was also able to curtail my stinking thinking because I started each day with a sense of purpose and ended the day with a sense of worth and accomplishment. These feelings were previously alien to me having never felt that I did anything productive or meaningful. Obviously my writing was only pertinent and pleasing to me, its not as if I was serving or helping others, something that niggles constantly even when I am feeling good about things. I get that but in the context of my very small world, what I ‘ achieved ‘ felt marvellous.
After catching up with my family and friends I had a major birthday to celebrate and look forward to. Fortunately I met with my family 2 days before the actual birthday and celebrated early because I was woken on my birthday with a phone call informing me that my mother had just died. Not only was this shock difficult to digest but I had to then counteract every call that I received with this awful news. Celebratory wishes became condolences. The following weeks were endured on pure adrenaline as I flew to Cape Town to arrange my mother’s funeral and deal with all her possessions. This was always going to be the case, whenever the inevitable happened but alongside it was my younger daughter, very pregnant with twins and needing my support in London. As fate would have it, the worst scenario erupted a couple of days after I had arrived in Cape Town when she was rushed off for an emergency C Section with the twins being delivered 7 weeks prematurely. The emotional rollercoaster was sometimes more than I could bear but as one does in these types of circumstances, one soldiers on as best as one can. I returned to London a week later – ( the twins had to remain in ICU for many weeks ) and immediately went to Cambridge , where my daughter lives, for a couple of weeks to help her out with her toddler whilst she spent most days at the hospital.
The reason I am mentioning all of this is because when the dust had finally settled, the twins were back at home and things were going along steadily, all the wheels fell off and I contracted pneumonia for the second time in 2 years. It was clear that my system was literally running along driven by necessity amidst all the hardship and challenges and so when I let go and tried to resume normal activities and lifestyle, my immunity just couldn’t cope when the onslaught of nasties attacked. I was completely floored again and my CRP count was dangerously high. It took me almost 6 weeks to feel relatively normal again but now, 4 weeks later, I have yet again been hit by these nasty and greedy little suckers who revel in lodging themselves in my severely depleted and possible malnourished body. Its crystal clear that I just don’t have the reserves to fight infections anymore and my recovery is never fully complete or resistant enough to withstand or fight germs. Naturally my family ascribe this all to my low body weight and diet and I cannot argue with them because even I am starting to question how healthy I actually am. Right now, I am a pathetic puddle of decrepitude , a sorry , weak invalid whether through my own choices or not.
How low do I have to sink before I am forced into stopping with all the ridiculousness of my eating regime and just cease this pernicious and dangerous way of existing? After the pneumonia I was convinced that this was the end of my behaviour, that I never again wanted to feel so ill and that THIS TIME I was definitely going to break free. It lasted a couple of weeks and in that time I managed to put on some weight rising from 45.6 to 47.2 kilograms. I announced my intentions to several key members of my family and friends and truly thought I was on my merry way. For a time I was temporarily liberated to go out and about and to push the boat out a bit where exploring and expanding my horizons were concerned. A couple of weeks is not long enough to break the habits of a lifetime. I’m being pushed to accept help. I get that but I have sought help before in the past and it has all amounted to nought. Unless I am prepared to make that commitment inside, nothing anyone else suggests or advises will make any difference to this stubbornly and stupidly committed brain that is hellbent towards my destruction and demise.
How depressing it all sounds and writing this is sounds so vacuous and self-absorbed, which indeed it is. Its easier, if not cowardly , to avoid it all together and rather live in a semi-robotic numbness. Easier yes, but so much worse for me and those around me and so desperately sad and wasteful.
Should I post this? I’m unsure. The only possible benefit is that preserving it in black and white is one way of holding a mirror up to my actions. Upon reading it back I know that it will be uncomfortable. I need to confront myself. This is what therapy is all about , isn’t it? How can you ever move on or heal unless you are relentless and keep gnawing on a problem like a dog with a bone in a bid to get to the marrow inside. I only ever lick the surface thus deriving no pleasure from it. If I just kept on going, working diligently and resolutely in my quest to find something that will be well worth all the effort and slog I have put in, the rewards will be innumerable and wonderful. Intellectually I know all this so why do I still cling on to those things that truly don’t make me happy or indeed, healthy?
The million dollar question, eh?
My novel is three quarters complete. Will this too be relegated to the pile of half-hearted attempts at anything? I’m done with promises and projections. I’m not giving up yet on hope.
