Sometimes - for little minutes - I get this soaring feeling of hope. An imprecise knowledge that your life will be returned to you (and in turn, mine to me) in all it's simple glory and all will be well. And then I remember that it took you three quarters of an hour to choose how to incorporate into your day the requisite - instructed - extra 200 calories issued in today's clinic appointment. Dillying and hesitating, delaying and vacillating - the cake and biscuit counter in Sainsbury's a sea of foulness before your poor eyes.
Such worry and fear in your bearing as you move from cakes to breads to biscuits to cakes and over and over again - picking up packet after packet and then back to the first, seemingly willing the fat content to have each time miraculously gone down and the calorie content to be the exact right number - trying to do the right thing, do as you've been told, battling against the voice and trying to get well. I know you don't want to eat at all but you told me today how frightened you are of becoming so ill again, reverting to that terrified girl who battled to starve herself successfully. So you try and you fight it and you do as you're told. But it very nearly breaks you. To pick up the slack and to give you what paltry reserves of courage I can spare for you to take, leaves me barely able to see.
We get home and I fall into my bed while the sun shines outside and children laugh in the gardens over the way. The nothingness of my room is like heaven. All I have to do is be. And yet all I can do is think of you downstairs - actually being the one doing the living through every second of all the terrible things I imagine. I think of your next meal and your pain and your struggle and your worry and your sadness. And I could punch myself with the guilt and disgust.
Point four of a kilo lost this week. All those stairs at college - corridors strode down and classrooms crossed at speed to keep up with timetables and friends. But with each step, the burning of energy and the maths of it all makes you thinner. So, the numbers do bad things and the balance must be addressed. With more food. You eat so much but of so few calories and such little fat. I despair. How to smile and gather hope and be your calm, equable Mother when according to the calculations, IT'S NOT WORKING. I just don't know. I try to sort it in my head - battle plans and strategies - but I am frozen with indecision and woe. I just want to go to bed and bury my head and melt away into oblivion. I do not know how to keep on doing this. If all this fails, it will be my fault for not being able to hide my rage and my crying and my fear. I let little bits escape, against my will: tears squeezed through swollen and stinging lids; sharp words through tight, bitten lips - lumpy and ragged inside from my restless teeth.
I am so tired, I feel I could vomit. I feel sick with the worry and the exhaustion and the middle-of-the-night wakefulness. The fear is a part of me now - grafted like a new skin over the old me. There seems to be little of me left now. I don't recognise myself anymore - not the vision in the mirror nor the voice in my head. I am on a mysterious autopilot - assigned to me by someone who has never met me before and doesn't quite know how to create the facsimile. I have no idea who I am.
4 comments:
I am sat here working out how to put down what I want to say about today’s post. It is so painful to read what you are going through, what you are both going through, and I feel so helpless.
Knowing she has lost more weight and although we read it as such a small loss, for her and for you, it is a huge loss. How frightening for you both. At least she is looking at the food that she needs to eat to have those extra calories in the day. For her not to want to revert to being so ill and trying to do the right thing, that in itself is a small positive step.
You say if this fails, it will be your fault. It won’t be. You cannot help the words that slip out, the tears that fall, you are human, above all a mother. Your anger is fear and your fear is anger. I could not do what you do. I would say the words, I would shed the tears, and I would show the anger. I would not have the self-control that you have. You are wonderful and supportive mother and you should not be chastising yourself.
The final paragraph is heartbreaking. To know you feel like that and that you sound so alone and afraid. I am crying because you should not have to feel like that. Know you are loved and cared about so very much. I would take all this pain, anger and fear from you, from you both, so that normality can come back into your life. Words are easy to say, actions are harder. I would gladly put my words into action and take all this away from you.
Hello, dear one.
Nicky spoke very much for me in her last paragraph. I would so gladly take a share of the pain from you and have it instead. If I could take it from Grace, God, part of me would be singing with joy as I shuddered through what would have been hers.
I have a deal with the Universe about that... who knows if it works - I'm sure every parent of every ill child asks for it to be them instead and they don't get their wish. But the bargain is that if anything threatens your sobriety or Grace's long term health, I want it. Every now and then, I reaffirm what I've volunteered for. It makes a safety net in my mind for you both - that you can't fall into the abyss because I'm standing in the gap and you'd have to come through me first. Like I say, who knows if it works. But good thoughts never do any harm.
If this fails, it will be your fault... Well, (a) it's not going to fail. If, in the absolute worst case scenario, you run out of strength to keep supervising all this and keeping the show on the road, I will take over. I'm there in the gap in a practical sense if needs be. And there'd be plenty of people willing to join me, I'm sure. I so doubt that will be necessary though. Please let those of us who love you keep feeding you and filling you back up. Grace will recover - is already recovering.
That's (b) - she has come so far. You said it yourself in your post today - how she recognises herself now as less ill than she used to be and doesn't want to go back. That level of self-awareness is unusual and amazing. That she would say it aloud to you speaks volumes about your relationship. You have brought her this far. Her ability to understand and reflect and her will to fight are largely down to how you've handled this all along. I remember you saying that you wanted to make her better, and then realised you couldn't - that all you could do is be there while she mended. But you are doing it - you are healing your daughter. And not because you've been perfectly self controlled and contained all your rage and fear - because you've been your wise, loving, courageous self.
I am sure that you can work on the range of things she eats in the same way that you've worked on the amount. It will come (whatever approach you use.) If you ever want to talk strategy with me - use me as a sounding board while you make your mind up - I'm here.
You say you don't know who you are. You're certainly not the same person as my dear friend from before all this, and I miss that old incarnation of you (very powerfully some days.) And I've had to accept I won't get you back the same when it's all over. I understand you feeling like nothing but the overseer of Grace's recovery - little of Bec; definitely nothing of Ruby. I still see little glimmers though - in your photos, your humour online, the way you speak to me. (I'm always struck by how considerate you are of my feelings - how do you have that to spare?!) And your awareness and intelligence and loving heart shine through in everything you post on here. I see you in there. I love you as you are. And when you get your life back and unfold into a new shape, I'll love you then. If I'm going to know you when I'm 40, I'll have to get used riding out some changes! (I don't mean to be flippant, but I'd love to leave you with just a ghost of a smile on your lips.)
Thinking of you always, M xxx
Thank you, my dear friends, for your wise and compassionate and loving words. You have no idea the strength they give me and I am forever grateful to have you in my life. I am blessed indeed.
I wish I had even one little thing of value that I could offer you but it would be supremely arrogant to assume I might be able to offer help or comfort. I am so glad you have real friends in your life who are willing to help in any way they can.
I am also glad that you are feeling occasional moments of hope to brighten these bleak weeks and months while you support G in every way you can. You are a terrific mother but you are also human so please be as kind as you can be to yourself on those few occasions when a cross word or your anguish escapes. I have nothing but admiration and respect for your courage and endurance. It is a dreadful thing that G has this to deal with in her young life, but I am thankful she has you on her side.
Sal
x
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