On edge

*content warning – frank discussion of eating disorders and suicide. If you or anyone you know is feeling suicidal, please reach out to the helpline or emergency room in your area. It does get better.

Whoever said bad things come in threes was probably someone who was lucky. In my experience, when one stumbles across bad luck, it keeps piling on until fate gets bored and takes amusement elsewhere.

This run of bad luck started in 2019, and shows no signs of slowing down. Though perhaps what I label as bad luck is simply life. If so, I agree with Douglas Adams –

In the beginning, the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry,
and been widely regarded as a bad move.

-Douglas Adams

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My computer is back home at last. That was some more bad luck in the form of malware. I took it to London Drugs to get fixed, and they did that, but then it got trapped there, held hostage by their own computer hack. That’s irony.

I missed having it around. I missed seeing it on my desk. I have a smart phone and a cheap tablet that’s slow to the point of frustrated screaming for anything beyond eBooks and games played in airplane mode, but I don’t like to write on them.

This is privilege complaining. I’m aware, but we are who we are. I’m also painfully aware of my Gen X-ness regarding desktop work, though I’ve managed to avoid screaming at clouds. Though if the weather in my locale doesn’t improve, that may change.

Narrator – good weather is scheduled for tomorrow. It looks to be a lovely day.

I like to use a keyboard to write on. This makes me a bit old school, but keyboards are where I’m comfortable and fast. And my computer’s not just back, it’s better. The interface is now a thing of beauty – it’s lighting fast. They removed the malware and installed a new SSD – solid state drive, and yes, I looked that up. I like to throw in jargon to look knowledgeable.

If only I had mad computing skills to take full advantage. Ah well, social justice keyboard warriors need speed too.

Habit and routine

The computer is part of my routine, and routine is important to me. It helps me stay calm. It helps me stay level. That, and the meds. Store bought neurochemicals are good if you don’t manufacture them in sufficient quantity. But environment is important too.

My brain is a complicated tangle of neuroses and neurodivergence, and it doesn’t like change all that much. A missing computer is change. A new car is change. The death of a parent is change. My brain is reeling a bit these days.

So it makes absolute sense that I’d throw moving into the mix. Nothing like preparing a house for sale and packing up your life to bring the chaos. It’s not listed yet – that comes after we paint the inside all the same whiteish. I like colour, but apparently this isn’t a selling plus: things like the dark green study and the New Mexico colours of my bedroom could perhaps be off-putting. Paint it is. But I’m listing once that’s done, and I’m selling via auction, so it’s going to be quick. All bids in by date X, and then you decide. I’m hoping for a mysterious billionaire who pays ten times too much.

But all of this is making me feel a bit on edge. I also don’t have a there yet.

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I’ve lived in this house for sixteen years. My kids lived here. Some of their stuff still does. I’m both packing, and cutting down on possession. I’ve entered my downsizing years, or so they say. I have far more stuff than I realized. Things in cupboards and drawers and on shelves take more boxes that you think. I needed two crates for shoes and I still have six pair out in rotation. Three boxes of coats and jackets. On the bright side, I thrift. Little of this was acquired new.

And then there’s the library. My books number in the hundreds. And there’s seasonal décor we supposedly need. And all the camping stuff. And the things you save for someday for some reason. Is it any wonder I’m one tiny obstacle away from a primal scream.

I can’t keep everything if I’m downsizing. And I don’t want to keep everything, except I kind of do. This would be easier if I didn’t anthropomorphize so viciously.

I am divesting despite the initial resistance – even the plants I thought I could never let go of are leaving. And I’ve discovered there’s a lightness to letting go of things. It’s nice, though I’m not experiencing it as much as would be ideal. I probably could’ve let go of the baking pans I mostly don’t use, and the numerous serving bowls living in the cupboard – I like a nice bowl – but there’s a method to this possession madness.

Stuff reminds me that I’m here. I exist. I take up space. I can forget that sometimes. Stuff also holds memories. Many of those I’m not ready to abandon.

I’m allowed to have things

My eating disorder likes to put life off for later, until I’m deserving of it. An eating disorder requires you to earn your air. You are insufficient and imperfect, and you have to not only correct that, but live in a state of apology for it for your whole life.

It likes to keep you small. A big life, a full life is also for later.

You can’t have what you want now because you’re imperfect, and imperfect is undeserving. Undeserving of so much – of food, of connection, of self-care, pretty things. All of that is for later, when you’re perfect.

Breaking that set of beliefs was hard. Believing you’re less then and imperfect infects every area of your life when you have an eating disorder (and to a degree if you don’t – capitalism needs shopping). It’s not just how you think about your body and appearance, it’s how you treat yourself, how you show up in relationships and work, and how you’re allowed to interact with the world.

I let myself buy clothes I like now, and beyond the categories of leggings and oversized shirts. I let myself experiment with makeup and skincare and cosmetics now, even though my face is imperfect and I’m struggling with NSSI. But no one ever punished anyone into improvement or happiness. That pain is necessary is another eating disorder lie.

You have no nice things, and you have no boundaries because you don’t deserve them. It took me a long time to learn that the eating disorder lies.

Treating yourself well isn’t undeserved arrogance demonstrated by a failure.

Saying “no” won’t make people hate you. And saying “no” is an important skill. Because if you can’t say “no,” then you also don’t know how to say “yes.”

Learning to say “yes” in recovery has been as hard as implementing boundaries. It’s hard to say yes to having, doing, and being when the inside voice keeps saying “later.” It’s hard to say yes when the inside voice does nothing but criticize. But it gets easier. It’s like saying “no.” It’s like skateboarding. Everything improves with practice.

I’m allowed to have boundaries. I’m allowed to say “no.” I’m allowed to treat myself well, and do nice things for myself. These are some of the truths that I’ve learned in recovery, and yet writing them still makes me cringe.

It takes a long time to get your brain back. Persistence is much.

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Packing my life up into bins and boxes is stressful. They’re not going away, they’re still mine, but access to my stuff is gone and the locations of this and that are a bit of a mystery. This is painful for me: I always know where everything is. I’m also a bit panicked by the constant change happening around me, despite being the one that pulled the trigger. But we’re a contradictory species.

But feeling on the edge of losing my grip becomes increasingly unpleasant as it persists. I’m pushing on because keep moving forward is how you get things done, but I’m aware that I’m in a place of risk. Movement is life. I’m ready for change, and I want big. Out of this house, this town, and this rut. It’s time. But caution and care are also required. Nobody wants to crash and burn. And been there, done that, have the shirt.

I love this house. I loved raising my son here. But it’s big, and the memories aren’t all good. I want to start this next chapter in a place free of memories. I’m tired of turning the corner and bumping into trauma.

Memory of place

When I moved here, I left behind a house full of memories. And like this house, the memories are complicated. Memories are complicated things when you live with an eating disorder. It colours much. I remember good times, but I associate pain and ugliness with it more.

I lived in that house with my partner and our family, but we rented it from my parents, and I’d lived there before in my late teens and early twenties during my first – and rather dramatic if I say so myself – breakdown.

That was where I lived when I first attempted suicide. That was where I was living when I tried again. I lived there during my first long-term hospitalization for my eating disorder. I lived there through binges, purges, breakdowns, and decompensations. And when I moved back there with my family, I added the memories from our dysfunctional and abusive relationship to an already nasty pile.

When I left that house, it felt like freedom. I weight I didn’t know I was carrying was put down. Memory of place is hard. Every room in that house held an ugliness. Living with that is hard on the soul.

And while this house has no abuse, my eating disorder lived here with me. There is bulimia in nearly every room. The memory of it coats the walls. I tried to kill myself while I lived in this house though not here – my locations tend to away with attempts. I don’t try at home. But there’s self harm here, and grief, and despair.

It’s time for a clean slate. I’m ready. And it’s time for the house to get someone new. We’re done with each other, I think. It needs more people, and I need less space.

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In October, I will have five years of abstinence since my last bulimic episode under my belt. My brain is getting better the longer that lasts, though I still struggle with eating disorder thinking. Part of that is a lack of work on my part. I’m resting here at purge-free instead of pushing for a recovery that extends into the mental, and I’m okay with that for now. I know there is more to eating disorder recovery. There is a life out there. But for now, I’m still good with the peace and freedom that comes from being purge-free.

Eating disorders are a lot. Recovery is a lot. Living with serious mental illness is a lot. I give myself much grief about the work it requires, and not enough credit for staying in the game.

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I like to make things all about me. Eating disorder encourage self-centredness. But change is hard on everyone. Grief is hard on everyone. Moving is a hellish experience for everyone. I’m not unique in my distress response here.

I also don’t know why I demand more of myself than I’d expect of others, especially when I’m already working with diminished spoons.

Then again, being nice to ourselves does not appear to be the human default position. We could probably do better.

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