Not Skinny Enough... For Eating Disorder Treatment

 It's been a while. I'll get into why in a later post, but for now I need to get this off my chest. I will be talking about Eating Disorders and Mental Health. It will be very angry, very sweary and very raw; so if you don't feel up to reading about these topics then that's totally okay, I understand 💙 

 I had a phone call from my CPN today, I've not seen her in a while because I've barely left Heaton in the past six weeks. Other than Download Festival - a break I desperately needed - the furthest I've been from home is to see my parents. My CPN is based in Gateshead and is in the process of switching me over to the Newcastle team for the rest of my treatment; Gateshead are frantically trying to reduce their case and patient loads, my guess being because of budget cuts and staff shortages, and Newcastle have better resources for helping patients with Eating Disorders. It sounded like a sweet deal, closer to home and more specialised treatment than just DBT, and they had no waiting lists so I could be transferred straight over. However that phone call shattered any illusions I had about finally getting back into recovery.

 I don't blame my CPN, she was trying to get me more specialised treatment closer to home - exactly what NICE guidelines specify as key criteria for successful recovery - and even now she's writing letters and making more calls to try and change their minds, I'm very grateful for her. I have lived with an Eating Disorder in some form or another since I was 14, beginning after I was sexually assaulted; at some point over the years the bulimia developed into anorexia, though the binging and purging still like to rear their ugly heads from time to time. I consume on average 700-800 calories per day. I have a BMI of 15.8 (though BMI is bullshit criteria anyway). I've lost over 10kg since the beginning of 2018. I have collapsed in public due to sheer exhaustion. My thoughts are clouded, my brain is foggy and my periods have virtually stopped. But according to Newcastle's Mental Health team? I'm "not underweight enough" to receive treatment.

 They always say that asking for help is the hardest step to make when you're trying to recover. I asked for help in 2015, I saw my GP in Gateshead, got onto the waiting list for a psychiatric evaluation and four months later was diagnosed with a personality disorder - because nothing makes you feel more fucked up than being told it's your personality that's the problem. They never explored this, never worked on giving me anything more specific, just sort of went from there and offered me different types of treatment, from one-to-one talking therapy, mindfulness exercises, more DBT - including group therapy. Apparently this was part of the problem for Newcastle, as it wasn't until later into my treatment with Gateshead that I was recognised as having an Eating Disorder, they didn't see it as a long-term problem because of the late diagnosis. 

 They also said I seem "unwilling to accept treatment" too, based on the fact that I dropped out of the DBT group therapy after a few sessions, and refused an appointment with a dietitian. There are glaring issues with this. Firstly, the DBT group was ran by the most patronising woman I have met in my life; she would show me up for asking questions if I didn't understand something - in one session taking the time to say "and for Lizi's benefit, this means..." every time she explained a new topic. How fucking unprofessional is that? Of course I wouldn't want to keep going back if that's what they're offering me as 'treatment'. I didn't realise public humiliation was part of DBT! Also, what fucking genius thought that putting somebody with crippling social anxiety into group therapy with a bunch of strangers would work out? I don't care how many times you claim it's a Safe bastarding Space, I was treated better by drunken perverts when I was doing bar work.

 Secondly, and this is the kicker, what the fuck is a fucking Dietitian going to do for me*? I refused the appointment because believe it or not I know what sort of things I need to be eating to keep my weight up, I know exactly how many meals, how much, what macro and micronutrients I need to be putting in my face to maintain a healthy body. The issue is that I can't. I just fucking can't. The last time I checked, having a piece of paper that says "I'm a food doctor, I know what you need to be eating" doesn't also come with a bonus Magic fucking Wand that will suddenly make me able to eat without wanting to a) throw it all up again or b) tear off my skin because I feel so fucking afraid and disgusting every time I put food in my mouth. I didn't take that appointment because I know exactly what sort of strain the NHS and Mental Health services are under and there are thousands of other people who need that appointment more desperately than I do. 

*note - no offence to any dietitians out there, and you probably do a lot more than tell people what to eat but that's how your job was explained to me and (as you've probably gathered) I'm a stubborn cunt. Just let me be angry for now - or lend me that Magic Wand.

 So that puts me in an awkward position. Either I go back to the start of the queue, wait however long it takes to be seen for an assessment by the Newcastle team, probably involving going through all the bullshit of talking therapies and CBT again - where I was at five years ago - and hope and pray to whatever deity I don't believe in that I'll be able to get help not only for my Eating Disorder but for other aspects of my mental health. Oh yeah, according to Newcastle I seem to be "doing okay/managing" in other aspects of my mental health so I'm not considered at risk or in need of treatment. They totally ignored my CPN telling them about me being sexually assaulted the other month, and that she also believes that my specific personality disorder is BPD. In the words of my friend Annie (total babe) you wouldn't treat any other illness like this, you wouldn't say to a diabetic "okay so we know you're diabetic, but you haven't slipped into a coma recently so we should just wait and see how it goes!". And Eating Disorders aren't just Mental Health conditions, they affect your physical health too. Gateshead services made sure that I had regular physical health checks, everything from my weight, blood pressure, blood tests, ECGs (heart monitory things), how my ED has affected my asthma. I'm not a doctor and I don't have X-ray vision so I can't see the physical harm I'm doing to myself without their help; and as the saying goes it's "out of sight, out of mind" for me. If I'm not monitored then I can easily go straight back to indulging the voices in my head and continue losing weight without knowing what harm I'm doing. 

 That brings me to option number two. As above, I can continue losing weight in a bid to pull myself out of this miserable 10 year slog in an attempt to actually get treatment - or die trying. I'm far from the only person living with an ED who will have considered this as a viable option, in fact I know I'm not - you can read the reality of this trend for yourself. I say trend, it's more of our last resort in some ways.

 I fucking love the NHS. I wouldn't be alive without the bloody thing, for more reasons than I can list without making this longer than it already is. But it makes me sick to my stomach knowing that we have a government that has made so many funding cuts, putting so many lives at risk, that we now have a system only able to treat ailments when they become life-threatening. Treating the symptoms rather than the cause. 

Current Self:
Slightly sunburned, back from holiday,
trying to hold myself together.

 I'm feeling a lot of different things right now and hopeful isn't one of them. Current ED treatment plans seem more like they're treating the symptoms rather than the cause. It vaguely reminds me of the Cat and Mouse system used when the Suffragettes were imprisoned: let them starve, recuperate at home, then haul them back inside once they start being a problem again and force-feed them as the eventual solution; kicking them out again and starting the cycle over again. Without front line services in place, free at the point of use from the NHS, then how can we expect people to recover as well as they can from disordered eating? We can't, plain and simple. So in the spirit of 2018, if we really want to mark the centenary of the Women's Suffrage Movement, then we need to stop using the same methods to treat people living with and suffering with Eating Disorders.



To sort this whole shit-storm out in a productive way, I'm going to my GP in the morning, and hoping this is all a ridiculous miscommunication. I won't be wallowing in this and doing nothing about it. Either way I'll be making something of this anger, even if it's just sharing my experience to add to the list of reasons we need to improve the NHS and stop cutting its fucking budget. Seriously, how can you class anything as overspending if it's being put into a service that literally can stop people from dying?

Following in Father's Footsteps...

WARNING: This post is a little gorey, if you're not a fan of hilariously stupid injuries and fairly graphic descriptions of them then you may want to turn back. In the meantime though you can check out my shiny new Facebook page for behind the scenes rambling, daft pictures and more details of other shenanigans.


 This is my Daddybear. Isn't he handsome? He's the loveliest Daddy I could have asked for - albeit occasionally grumpy and a total wind-up merchant - and I love him to bits. I've always been told I look a lot like him, though my beard never comes in that well; and that we have a lot of the same mannerisms. We're both total nerds, enjoy shouting at the telly and ranting about things and both find Hayley Williams very attractive.

 But last night I had a moment that definitely solidified that there is no denying I'm his daughter. When I was younger I would do the typical teenage thing of arguing with him, storm to my room and slam the door, and think to myself "how can I actually be related to this man!?". Don't lie, we've all done it at one time or another. However this event makes me question how I could ever think that.

 One of my clearest childhood memories was from when I was about seven. Dad was fitting a new banister, and being the handy-around-the-house DIY type that he is he was doing all the work himself; staining and varnishing the wood, cutting and fitting pieces. Though this would prove to be a bit of a mistake. I'd been sat in the living room watching Scooby Doo (probably, it was my absolute favourite) when he comes in from his garage (aka his Man Cave), talking incoherently and in a panic and goes to see my Mam. I follow him into the kitchen and see blood all over the kitchen floor and him holding his hand. From what my little brother told me it was quite a spectacular sight. He'd been in the garage at the time and saw Dad slice through his hand between his finger and thumb with a stanley knife while evening out the bottom of one of the rungs, coming very close to losing his thumb. The knife had slipped, cutting his hand quite deeply, blood shooting up in an arc through the air. My little brother's reaction - cry, scream, panic at the blood? Nope!

"Wow, do it again Dad!!"

My Mam, as any good partner would, put it under the tap to clean it up and see how bad it was. However in the process she ended up washing part of his nerve down the sink too. It was a bit of a crazy night, one of our Grandparents having to take him to hospital rather than dragging the whole family out to Accident and Emergency. After surgery and a lot of stitches he was all patched up and on the mend. I remember Mam taking us on the bus over to see him in the RVI and it absolutely pouring with rain; we ended up having to duck into the Oxfam shop on the way from the bus station to get some dry clothes - I got a nice pair of jeans with a skirt attached to them and they became my absolute favourite. He looked pretty sorry for himself, full of painkillers with his hand all strapped up. It's pretty strange as a child with parents who are otherwise fit and well to see them so ill. Dad recovered well and eventually got the feeling back in his hand, though we still mock him to this day about this and similar clumsy injuries. However last night I may have lost any high ground I had to mock him from about such a ridiculous injury.

Like father like daughter - still both adorable!

 Paul and I got back to Newcastle at about 10 last night after a weekend in Edinburgh with a wonderful friend of ours, we had had such a fantastic time and were quite sad to leave. Given how late it was and how down we felt about coming home we agreed that something quick and convenient from Sainsbury's would be better than cooking that night so instead we could devote our energy to cuddling up in front of the telly and talking about how good our trip had been. Being the good wifey-to-be that I am I put Paul's pizza in the oven while my pasta bake was in the microwave and he got the telly set up and an episode of Family Guy ready to go. However shit hit the fan when I decided to go one step further and cut his pizza for him, the cutter slipped when I got stuck on the crust and I found that while I didn't quite get through the crust I had almost severed the tip of my finger.

 It was a bit of a surreal moment, it stung like a bitch and bled all over my feet and the floor and all I could do was stand there looking at it, wondering how on earth I had managed such a deep cut with a bloody pizza cutter of all damn things and how I'd go about clearing it up with just one hand. Priorities, amiright? When Paul came in to see what had happened, what had warranted the "oh fuck", he immediately began asking if I was okay and how bad it was. All I could say?

"Well... There's no denying I'm my father's daughter."

 I stayed quite calm actually, polishing off my pasta bake and chatting happily about what an idiot I was while my poor Paulobear panicked that I'd severed my tendons. Having done so himself a few years ago I could see why it was a worry. After a phone call to NHS 111 I told him to get to bed while I got myself along to the RVI. A long wait, x-ray and a tetanus jab later (it really fucking hurt, right in my shoulder!) the wonderful doctors determined that I had cut right down to the bone but it was perfectly intact, no damage to that. Unfortunately because of where the injury is, right down my finger tip it wouldn't be possible to stitch it as it would just split again so I'm looking forward to sever weeks of steristrips and three days of antibiotics just to be on the safeside.

 So from my little misadventure I've learned several things:

• If you're going to slice your hand/fingers with anything, do it with a pizza cutter; it leaves a nice and straight cut - although hot cheese and tomato sauce aren't the nicest of things to get in a wound.
• The NHS is absolutely fantastic, no matter how stupid your injury they'll try their best not to laugh at you.
• Clumsiness can run in the family. Not only have me and my Dad shown that we can't be trusted with sharp objects but a year or so ago my darling little brother thought that the best way to see if the blender was still broken was with his finger...

 Thank you Daddybear, while we may be ridiculous human beings we at least give people a good laugh! Love you xx

P.S. - if you haven't already, check out my shiny new Facebook page here!!

I've lost my leggings virginity! And other tidbits

 Welcome back readers, apologies once again for another long break. As I explained in my last post I've been very poorly lately and often have very little energy left for this, which is very very sad. But I've got some rather interesting entries in the works for you all so they are to be looked forward to! This is more just a catching up, getting me back into writing post for now. 

 Less than three weeks to go until my neurology appointment now, it certainly cant come quick enough! I'm still having an awful time with these seizures, as an adult woman it's rather embarrassing having to explain to friends and family that the bruise on your arm or the black eye is from injuring yourself during one. There have been good things in the past month though, The People's March for the NHS set off eleven days ago now and they're on track to reach London for September 6th so if you're in the area when they're passing through your town or city be sure to show your support for them. It's a wonderful cause which originated as an idea from a group of mums in Darlington, the Darlo Mums, to re-enact the Jarrow March in order to raise awareness of the cuts and privatisation happening to the NHS. I was very happy to be invited to speak on the platform at the rally before the march set off, it was very humbling to see so many turn up to see off the marchers. I was up there speaking as a descendent of one of the original marchers and seeing that the legacy of it is still so vibrant is very touching.

Look how big!!

 

 Well done to all those marching, very good cause, please give them your support. Why not join in if you can? Paul and myself did the first leg of it to Chester-le-Street, it was really nice seeing so many people in high spirits out in support of our health service. And believe me it's gruelling committing to something like this, I did about two weeks in total of the Youth Fight For Jobs march back in 2011 and a few weekends, not all in one go but I feel that it was easier doing the week in one go than the weekends as you got into the routine of it a bit more, there was more good nights of sleep (apart from those where your comrades snored - no names!) rather than marching ten miles in a day after sleeping on a coach/train - then having the same bad sleep in preparation for the week ahead of you. But don't let it put you off!!  

 The picture to the left is ...I don't actually know what it is but I picked it up somewhere on the way to Birtley, and by picked up I mean found in the sole of my shoe! Yikes, very glad I wore my walking shoes that day.

 In other news - VICTORY!! There were over 70,000 signatures on the petition to get the mother's name on the marriage certificate and the current outdated certificate we have at the minute is set to be given the heave-ho. Even though David Cameron has 'pledged' to resolve this I still couldn't trust the man as far as I could throw him but now that the public pressure is clearly there we're much closer to this becoming reality.

*Side ramble: when I went to google this I got a little side-tracked after typing in 'mother', my browser seems to know my interests now and came up with 'mother of the bride dresses'. I had a little poke about by something I couldn't get over? None of the women modelling dresses marketed specifically in a category 'mother of the bride' looked old enough to have a daughter of marrying age, how irksome! 

 What else what else? Hmmm... this may seem a bit filler-ish but it really isn't actually (don't you 'yeah, yeah' me). The other week I had a very horrible incident involving my smoke alarms. We have a rather old heating system with a water heater instead of a boiler, so if you want to have a bath and do the dishes at the same time then tough, the dishes will just have to wait. Though there is a way round this with the emergency switch, y'know, for emergencies like if the dishes just can't wait. Anyway after Paul had a bath that morning the switch was left on accidentally and the water heater started steaming. The same happened the day we moved into our flat, almost a year ago now, and it set the smoke alarms off. It caused a lot of bother a) because of the ceilngs being so high are impossible to reach and b) even when you find something to stand on to reach them they don't have a working hush switch. Because the property is rented they're wired into the mains to prevent tenants taking the batteries out when they burn their toast, forgetting to replace them and burning the house down. Ours have never gone off when we've burned food though, it only goes off for the water heater so there was clearly something wrong with it. Last time it only lasted half an hour or so (I say only...) which should have flagged up that there was something wrong but this time it went on for Three. Straight. Hours.

A not so happy Stormy having a bath

It was bloody awful, I was ill enough as it was that day but three hours of non-stop noise was unbearable. I had to text Paul at work, he rang me back and I couldn't talk for crying (this was after about an hour), so he ended up ringing my mam and she came from work to wait with me while the landlord sent somebody round to sort it out. Most of all I was worried about Stormageddon. He's my little baby and I was so worried about the noise scaring him and the scare making him poorly, so my hero of a mam got him out of his viv (I was too worked up to), into his carry box and into her car to sit for a bit. And the little git had slept right through it, lucky thing! He wasn't happy about being disturbed  but I felt better for it. So mam could get back to work I took him round to my friends', Clara and Nina's. It was lovely of them to take him in as they were doing a big clean up ready to move out, I'm really grateful to have such lovely women in my life.  

 Which brings me to today. I had an exam this morning which was absolutely awful (don't ask) and left me in a buy/eat everything in sight mood. I had tried so hard to prepare for it, even having a bath the night before to get a decent sleep that night. However it took a turn for the worst during that when I had a seizure in the bath. It's been frustrating not being able to have them unsupervised but I definitely get why now. Paul didn't realise what was happening at first, he just thought I was rinsing my hair but when the splashing started he got me out straight away. It was pretty traumatic, I'd taken in a fair bit of water and felt awful the rest of the night, in fact I still feel like I've got some up my nose. Still, after years of avoiding the trend I gave in and bought my first ever pair of leggings in my strop today. I'm pretty pleased with them (although I may not look it!) my main reason being I have some lovely dresses from Moonmaiden Gothic, that I want to be able to wear over the winter but would be a bit too chilly with just tights. They're all handmade by Sarah and Michael Eddy, a wonderful couple based in Cornwall; for such great quality clothing they're very reasonably priced too.

 Anyway, I hope to get my new posts up before I go back to uni. Until then - happy feministing!