Recoveredbulimic’s Weblog

Well, I was rather annoyed because - being the nice mother I am - I offered to drive my daughter to the bus stop in the pouring rain this morning. The annoying part was, she was so slow-moving, that she managed to miss the bus and I ended up driving her to school. But that’s okay. I made a point of getting out of bed on the right foot this morning (which in my case happens to be my left foot), so I came home, had breakfast, and am settled with a cup of coffee at the computer.

As I said, it’s raining and dreary outside, which makes it a wonderful day for keyboard rambling. I have hesitated to mention this in more detail, because in a sense I started this blog to tell people about my book. You know: “Look at me, I am healthy. Read my story and you can recover, too.” I am 100% convinced about the story, but the catch is: I didn’t live happily ever after. In fact, as I’ve already mentioned, things have been building up inside recently.

This is what happened. I wrote my book, and in that process a lot of stuff came up again. The book is comprised of nearly 50 journals, which I wrote between the ages of 10 and 31 years. Most of it I had completely forgotten. So that first round was quite heavy, including a depressive break of a few months. Rather, I took a few months off, otherwise I would have become seriously depressed. Still, I managed.

I live in a German-speaking country, so during the past year I translated the book. I don’t know why, but through the process of translating, it all hit me even harder. Perhaps because in my mother language, it was all rather automated and I read it more as an editor. Whereas translating it into a different language really made me think.

I know, I am meandering, but that is my style, and this is difficult besides. I finished this round of work on the book with a lot of sadness, because I realized a few things. First of all, my heart has always been elsewhere, but I never pursued it honestly, because I was convinced that I am not loveable. Ouch! Second, I never really had anything in common with my husband, except that he was willing to put up with me. Ouch again!

This past Christmas I went home to New York City for one week. (That trip was the subject of the first blog  in “Old Scars.”) What does one do with so little time? Of course - I went to Barnes & Noble. And there I was looking for 2 specific books. I didn’t find either one, but I ended up with three wonderful books: one on Arthur Rimbaud & Jim Morrison, one compiled collection of sample writings from the beat generation, and one on verbally abusive men (by Patricia Evans). It took me nearly half an hour of leafing through before I could convince myself that the third book might be applicable. I read that book on a train ride along the Hudson River and time and again felt tears of relief brimming. “Oh, it’s not all me! It’s not my fault! He really is not behaving appropriately!” I hate to admit it, but it took me 23 years in this relationship to accept the gut feeling that I am not happy with him nor will I ever be.

Don’t get me wrong! He’s wonderful - kind, reliable, faithful, generous, isn’t an alcoholic, doesn’t hit me, doesn’t smoke, gives me my freedom to do as I please. But from the beginning, I loved him most when we were separated, and always breathed a sigh of relief when he went away on business. And he knew enough not to be too nice to me. I’ve already mentioned that - because if he were too nice, I would have considered him a jerk like all the rest and left him early on. The bad part is, he’s neat and I’m sloppy - and that’s just the beginning. He makes me feel stupid, can be very condescending, looks at me like I am a jerk. Sometimes I have difficulty with the language, which doesn’t help. If I say “What?” three times, he often says, “Oh, forget it.” But after all these years, he hasn’t learned to speak loudly or clearly enough to avoid that, as some of my other friends do.

I am still not completely sure how much of the problems have to do with my acting out patterns that I learned as a child. I consider this situation an opportunity to grow. Perhaps I’m crazy, scared, or maybe just procrastinating, but at the moment, I am changing the interaction, and then I’ll see what happens. To leave now, I feel like I would be setting a bad example for my children, and probably pick up the same problems with the next relationship (after the honeymoon, of course). I want to work things through, so that we can separate as two mature adults. That may be wishful thinking. In fact, we might even change our relating to such an extent that we get along better, and according to the book I read, some men can change. Either way, I believe this relationship is an opportunity to learn, and perhaps it’s lasted so long because I’ve been too afraid to learn. Instead of speaking out, I hid in my room and cried alone.

At this point I am focussing on growth within the present situation. I am also focussing on getting my life together. I am not in a position (yet) to simply leave. Actually, I feel a certain elative thrill as I learn to stick up for myself. If he gives me a “stupid” look, I don’t accept it. I give it back and clearly explain what I did/said, etc. and why it makes sense. That also takes a lot of energy and awareness, but I feel better than I do expending the energy to suffer quietly, anticipate his every reaction, or try to keep harmony at all costs. While other people were “walking on sunshine” as Katrina sang, I was walking on eggshells. Now I’m trampling the eggshells, scooping them up and scattering them on the compost heap, convinced that something better will grow, and I’m ready to walk on sunshine!

So, I hope I’m not disappointing anybody by not sticking to the “I am recovered and holier than thou” routine, but that just wouldn’t be authentic. And right now, authenticity is what it’s all about. Just through blogging I have come across some wonderful people, and it warms my heart. In the long run, that’s really what it’s about - sharing and participating in a community. And from what I’ve heard, abusive relationships are no rarity! Especially among people who have/had eating disorders!

Today’s message in a nutshell: Let’s talk about this stuff! And like I said the other day: Recovery is life, so it’s an ongoing process. I thought my book would close one chapter of my life, but it turned around on me and opened a new one!

In this context, I mean the conscious dreams or aspirations that we have. It’s not like I have nothing better to do, but I manage to think reflectively during the day and today my thoughts wandered to singing.

As I worked on my book (Diary of a Recovered Bulimic), which is comprised of journal entries over a period of 20 years, I was surprised by the frequent mention of my desire to sing. I first mention wanting to sing when I was 20. Every time the wish had come up in the past, I’d suppressed it, since I didn’t think I could sing well enough. Ten years ago, when I was 35, I suddenly realized that all I’d ever wanted to do was sing, but had never dared to pursue it. I thought this realization was a new discovery. I decided to pursue that dream and make the most of it, given my life situation and despite my age - 35 is slightly a bit old to become a rock star, but it works fine for a singer/songwriter. Since that time, I have been singing, writing songs and learning to play guitar. I have given a dozen concerts and I confess: I love standing on the stage and talking to the audience - and singing, too! 

Now that the background information has been provided, we jump into today’s reflection about the power of dreams. I’ve never been very ambitious, although I do work hard when I have a project or job to do, but just never had that sense of purpose. That has changed. I want to be the best singer I can possibly be, given my late start. This goal is what helped me give up smoking four years ago and not miss it. I didn’t want the smoking to affect my voice.

At the moment, a lot of old stuff is coming up from my past. I thought I had dealt with everything when I first recovered, but things just keep coming up anyway. Perhaps such long-term recovery and strength are necessary before the really heavy stuff can be handled. I don’t know. In any case, I am facing old fears and destructive behavior (relationship) patterns, as well as considering some major changes in my life. Some days I am tempted to just give up and forget everything. What gives me the strength and determination to continue? Singing and the desire to sing the best I can!

The voice is an extremely sensitive instrument. I have noticed in the past how it is affected by my energy level. When I am tired or under stress, I cannot sing well. Singing is also about letting go. I cannot sing well when I try hard. It has to be effortless and flowing, which is no easy task for someone with my background. As is true for many anorexics and bulimics, I have a tendency towards perfection. Since I plan to record a CD in the near future, it would be in my best interest to feel strong, well-rested, not be stressed, and to simply let go and enjoy the process. This realization more or less hit me over the head today. That is the key! I realized I am willing to go to extreme lengths, to take risks and assert myself for my voice. My voice is me!

My mind continued to wander in between chores and errands, and I felt a warm sense of gratitude spread through me. My dream gives me strength to face the more difficult tasks and situations in my life, and encouragement to cope well. My reward is the ability to sing freely and let my voice express itself fully. I’m not there yet, but since I stumbled upon this piece of clarity today, I know what I have to do.

During the past year I have visited a few cities and places in my mind where I had spent some time 25 years ago, while I was still in the throes of bulimia. It was quite unexpected, but each time there was an awareness of having been there, having been ill, and having harbored images of how I would like my life to be. At that time, I was not able to realize my dreams, because I was repeatedly distracted by binges and wasted money. The bingeing and vomiting exhausted me and my resources, so there was often not enough money to do something nice – like going to a museum or to the movies.

Each recent visit to a city was connected by a common event: Patti Smith was playing a concert there. I have worshipped her since I was 16 years old. Last spring I saw her play in Munich and Zurich. I arranged to arrive in Zurich late in the morning and spend the night at a hotel. That gave me most of the afternoon to wander around the city, which I did. What happiness it brought to discover the city on foot, to go to a museum, to walk through the pedestrian zone and then stop to have a bite to eat! During the day, images returned from the time 25 years ago when I had been there for a few weeks, doing some work at a branch of our main office in New York. Back then I also walked around, but my main memory is a blur of food and the lack of energy or interest to enjoy the city.

This past Christmas I was in Manhattan. I travelled alone, leaving my husband at home with our two teenagers. My sister-in-law let me stay at her apartment in exchange for cat-sitting. So there I was, back in Greenwich Village for one week, left to my own de/vices. How delightful it was to walk around, to rediscover places I had been 25 years ago. How nice that so many of them are still there! Although I spent some time visiting with friends and family, a lot of time was spent alone, simply being. (Of course, I also spent a considerable amount of time with the cat!) Since I once lived in Manhattan, this week was really like going back to the past and getting a second chance. I spent the week living how I would have liked to do back then. I went out for breakfast, went to cafés, walked around, went to the movies, spent hours at book stores, and stayed home and read. Oh, and I saw Patti Smith live three nights in a row!!!

It wasn’t until some time after I returned home that I recognized the healing aspect of these trips. Old wounds and disappointments were closing, despite a hint of yearning to stay longer and truly live there. That longing will be dealt with when the time is right.

I also noticed that I wasn’t quite as worshipping as I used to be. At the concerts, I didn’t hang on her every word, nor did I need to be in the front row. The first night, my mother fainted near the end of the show. The next night, we decided to go later, so that she wouldn’t have to stand for so long. That meant that we would have to stand further back from the stage, which didn’t really bother me. The concert took on the air of a big party (it was Patti’s birthday), rather than the religious experience it usually was for me. The third night we also got there later – just as she came on stage. It was fun and I was elated, but calm. 

Later on, I thought back to the two times I’d seen her at that same venue nine years earlier. The first night I had tears in my eyes, as it had been 18 years since I’d last seen her. The following week, I saw her in Vienna and in Salzburg, and I asked myself: Why am I so obsessed with this woman? Why am I willing to go to such lengths to see her? An answer came: Because she is living my dream. I wanted to sing and play rock and roll. At that time, I was just about to turn 36, but I decided to salvage what I could of that dream. I learned a few chords on the guitar and started writing songs. Since then I have given a dozen concerts, have a small but faithful group of fans, have recorded a CD, and will soon record another one. It’s more folky than rock and roll, but it sounds like me.

After the recent Patti Smith concerts, I asked myself: Why am I not so obsessed by her anymore? An answer came: Because I am living my dream! I no longer need to live vicariously through her. I am who I am, doing what I need to do, and I am authentic. I am not copying her or trying to be her. So the circle has closed. I appreciate and admire her as I always have, but I have my own life as well. I am grateful for that.

Yesterday I went to see a physiotherapist. Ever since an accident 4 years ago, I have had chronic neck pain in my right neck and shoulder. The pain has worsened over the past few months. This physiotherapist is also a TCM (Traditional Chinese Medicine) doctor. She listened to my self-diagnosis and explanation, then she asked me a few questions which included operations and scars. To my surprise, she focussed on the scars from the removal of my appendix (18 years ago) and an ovarian cyst (11 years ago). After a few mystical gestures, she rubbed a scar cream over the two areas, explaining to me that scars interrupt the flow of energy in the body. Then she poked around on my left shoulder, where I have no pain. That was it. To my great surprise, the pain had subsided and I could move my head quite freely. This improved during the course of the afternoon.

I came home exhausted and would have gone to bed at 7 pm, but my children weren’t home yet, so I had to wait. That gave me a chance to reflect. I wondered about the significance of the scars. It seemed so absurd. Then it didn’t seem absurd at all. Just as the past year has been about the intense healing of old, long-buried emotional scars, the physical scars take on a certain symbolic meaning. Perhaps the emotional scars joined together with the pain in my neck and right shoulder, causing it to increase to an unbearable degree. Although some emotional scars have healed during the past year, I have become aware that there is more to be dealt with than I knew.

Two weeks ago in therapy we looked at me as a young girl. It was my second individual session with this therapist. Originally I contacted her because I was having difficulties with one of my teenagers. Those became manageable to a large extent after a few sessions. Then I realized that I want support for myself. There are changes to be made in my life, and I feel overwhelmed at the prospect of introducing them all by myself.

With the help of some simple wooden figures, I arranged the members of my family of origin, including myself as a young girl. I cried and laughed, explaining that I thought I had dealt with accepting and loving that little girl in therapy 20 years ago. I thought I was finished with all of that! Surprise, surprise! We realized that I had given up on life before the bulimia began. I resigned myself to fate, and gave myself up.

The concept was interesting, but I wasn’t totally convinced. Afterwards, more reflection brought me to the insight that it was indeed true. So many of the “wrong” decisions I have made over the years stem from that sense of hopelessness. I often chose what I considered the “right” thing, even when it opposed my heart and intuition, and suffered bitterly as a result. Or I would make a decision, with the underlying tone being that it really didn’t matter one way or the other anyway. I felt I was destined to suffer.

 This revelation has caused an avalanche of new awareness. It has brought me to the resolution that I will follow my intuition. I have taken on myself – my life – as a worthy cause. Challenges will be accepted and dealt with. I refuse to give up and feel helpless any longer. What a difference! Although these changes and insights are exhausting at times, my general energy level has increased. I am more cheerful and enthusiastic than I have been for a long time!