Atypically Recovering: On My Own No Matter How This Goes

Category: Pain

  • The Letter I Can’t Send

    Image: Royalty Free Shutterstock 22349551

    I’m not sure what to say. It’s such a mashup of emotions at this point. The me at the beginning didn’t see any red flags. It felt like I was talking to the person from the mid-late 90s on “20/20”. The tone was kind and gentle, and when calls were supposed to happen, they did (within a flexible interpretation of punctuality, but they happened). I was being told what to eat and the amounts to eat, which did vary because of the lack of standard measuring and I understand the reason behind that, to minimize the focus on ‘numbers’. I needed to know for carbs and insulin doses, as well as protein limits. I still laughed back then, and truly enjoyed many conversations. I assumed that the ‘therapy’ part was dependent on getting through more of the food issues. I didn’t know that the phone calls were the therapy. It took me quite a while to figure that out. Per your wellness scale, I never got past the early part of Stage 2. Now, I’m back to my ‘usual’ restricting.

    During the messages before starting officially in June 2022, I’d discussed my history of eating disorders and health issues. What I hadn’t appreciated was my absolute cluelessness about how the way my family dealt with food being so engrained that my “normal” was basically a starvation ‘diet’. “Active” restricting was more like a metabolic apocalypse. But my folks were under-eating as well, so it wasn’t specifically aimed at me- it was how they viewed food. One thought it was not much more than an obligatory expense, and the other saw manipulating food as a way to lose weight (same pounds over and over). After a few days of starting, I was asked if I remembered ‘normal’ eating, and I did not. I wanted to trust what I was being told, and at the same time, I just saw someone in the mirror who was so gross, eating more made no sense. Every trip to the kitchen was like pouring salt on an open wound. Everything I’d learned as a kid, and through my own continuation of the family food rules starting when I was in high school were my normal. I was searching for the secret language of normal eating. So, I turned to YouTube at some point in 2023.

    In late December of 2022, there was the discussion of paying double for more intensive contact, and I was agreeable, hoping it would shave time off of the back end. Then in January 2023, there was radio silence. I had no idea where anyone was. I did get in contact with my buddy, and she let me know that everyone was OK, but there had been a ‘surprise’ patient from Oceania. When I was told his weight (later heard that was his lowest weight, not his arrival weight, so sneaky bit of wordsmith there), I couldn’t believe that there hadn’t been enough planning on how to get that person to Europe safely- and that I’d been asked to pay double when a new patient who wasn’t stable (what I was told) was needing more time than was available in a day. He was my more intensive time. I asked about postponing the intensive time until he was doing better, and was told no; both could happen at the same time, but that’s not how it turned out. Being told his weight also caused me so much shame for eating at all. THAT is why I stopped sending photos of what I was eating; I was ashamed.

    At one point earlier in 2023, I hadn’t eaten what I was supposed to, and as per instructions that was reported back to you. I got a call from you with a very short, angry tone telling me not to take an hour to finish a cracker, and getting a list of things to eat barked at me. It wasn’t a tone I was used to, and frankly it scared me. But any time I said I wanted to stop, I was told I wasn’t in any state to make those decisions, or that you wouldn’t allow me to leave. I was fortunate not to be a physical hostage, but the level of emotional control was toxic.

    Things would get better for a while, and then the pattern of not getting calls I was told were going to happen got to be routine. I quit waiting. IF the phone rang, OK. If not, I wasn’t waiting around, when I could use limited energy for laundry, taking out the trash, taking a shower, getting mail, getting groceries delivered and put away, as well as just plain relaxing into a quiet evening. I repeatedly asked that I not be told of any plans to talk until it was time to talk. Had that been honored, it would have at least felt like what I needed mattered. But instead, the on-and-off again crap just started to fester.

    Then the recording of the audiobook started in late Summer 2023, as well as the videos for a website that never happened in spite of numerous deadlines, which meant I never knew when I’d hear from you, mixed with the odd question here and there about what I was eating, but in that department I was pretty much on my own since managing diabetes, kidney disease, and gout for food related issues were beyond what was comfortable for you. I get it – it’s a lot. I live with that 3 miserable times a day. It took many, many months for the videos/ audiobooks to be completed- or that’s what I was told. To me, the impact was like being put on a shelf somewhere. Out of sight, out of mind.

    You were between countries every few months, so that was more time to get things settled there. In the meantime, I was looking more and more online for SOME consistent help, and found some good YouTube channels by eating disorder coaches or those who were recovering, with information that was new to me, but not to the ‘eating disorder world’. Between overt relapses I didn’t look for information about EDs (so 1997-2021). I began to see that the 90s had never ended for you. Nothing adapted. Nothing was current, and yet i was never told more about CNC or anything else that was your brand. But you had time for patients living with you, who started after I did. That just made me feel so “less than”. You spent the last 2 months of 2023 dealing with your own health issues. I won’t give specifics here. One thing (not relating to you) was when you said someone in the house had “a flu”, and described gastrointestinal issues. The actual flu is a respiratory virus. There can be some GI symptoms, but without respiratory symptoms, it’s not influenza, but more likely gastroenteritis from mild food poisoning. I kept my mouth shut. But many medical scenarios you told me simply didn’t make sense. The chipping away at what little trust remained became more difficult to ignore. Yet, I tried.

    In January 2024, I began keeping a log of when you said you’d call vs when you actually did, because I didn’t believe my own perceptions. Turns out I was being generous in my estimates. Sometimes you’d call several times a week, then disappear again with more empty plans to call- with very specific wording … “I want to call” isn’t a commitment. Always a loophole.. Messages weren’t seen for several days. While the monthly fee had been renegotiated, I was running out of patience with when any therapy was going to happen. In late September 2024, I told you that my last month to pay would be December 2024 because I was out of funds. I was quitting.

    You begged me to stay another year, without being charged. I reluctantly agreed, and got what I paid for… The requests for money for personal reasons for you or N started almost immediately. Between October 2, 2024 and March 24, 2025, I sent $2200.00 in 3 non-therapy payments to N’s account (shouldn’t have needed money for healthcare in a country where it’s universal). You asked me for more money (I’ll have to add up the screenshot messages), but I was tapped out. Those payments took away from what I needed, and that’s on me for being a fool. Save the whole bit about paying me when the book is published. From your own blog in 2013, it’s been imminent. When I started in June 2022, you said later that year, in September.

    In March 2025, I was in the middle of some scary stuff with my heath, and you were asking for money for some reported “Shark Tank” type thing. Said they’d turned a US company into a billion dollar one. I didn’t believe much at that point. I was given some potentially life-ending information about 2 things that were ‘off’. I sent screenshots to you so you’d know what was going on- and things were serious enough that palliative had been brought up. Here, palliative is about comfort and quality of life, and allows for medical intervention. Hospice does not. I had multiple procedures under general anesthesia or being knocked out with propofol that year for diagnosing what was going on, and fortunately I got really good news with the GYN issue. Then you started deflecting anything I said about my medical stuff with your own, that were almost echoing mine, but you did not get them dealt with..

    When my dog was in her last weeks, I was so saddened to know that my one true and constant ‘connection’ wasn’t going to be around for long. On May 22, 2025, she went quietly in my arms. At least she was at peace. It started the loneliest times I think I’ve ever felt. You were MIA more than around, and after the final ‘ask’ for $1000 didn’t happen, I’d get a phone call a month. Messages weren’t seen for up to a week, but you wanted control over food again. That’s just delusional where I come from. Classic breadcrumbing – a form of emotional control….for those who submit to being controlled. It woke me up a bit more… all of that time of no contact made ME stronger.

    When the colonoscopy showed a large polyp that they didn’t take out (said the prep wasn’t good enough, yet nothing came through me for another 4 days), and wanted to repeat the scope to get it out, I was beside myself with panic. The first prep had been excruciating. You KNOW I don’t complain about pain as much as it’s going on (chronic daily pain since 1995). You blew off my SOS call, even though you’d gotten off of, or didn’t call to start with when others had emergency calls they needed answering. I was literally getting messages from the GI doc I’d seen to schedule the scope, doc who did the scope, and 2 nurses wanting me to get the repeat colonoscopy scheduled right then. When I sent that in a message, you called back quickly, and told me to message the next day and you’d call so we could talk about possible ways to get through the now doubled prep (when I hadn’t gotten 3/4 through the first one). When I messaged you, it was “I’ll check my schedule”. Seriously. I have a polyp that they have noted as being high risk for turning malignant, and you have to check a schedule when you’d been telling me for months that you were too ill to have patients (yet had 2 living with you). What fucking schedule? When I got that message about checking your schedule, the entire curtain came down around the wizard at the phony control panel. It was a physical sensation of being kicked in the gut while my heart dropped. .

    The only thing I was thinking about at that point was hell no. I’m done and need to protect myself. And I have been. Sad it was and is from someone who I thought would help me get well. Instead, I’m purposely not getting medical stuff dealt with, hoping that I’ll be reunited with my dogs and parents as soon as my body is over waking up (parents being the ones who raised me as fallible humans do, who did things from a place of being broken, not calculated and deliberately to manipulate and control). After several months of no contact ( seven ?) I agreed to emails, but I kept things as superficial as possible. Need any more information on MREs ??

    The last email from you (around Sept 2nd or 3rd, 2026) was a few days after the article came out, and I don’t think I’d seen it yet. I just can’t comprehend how someone can sabotage their own reputation for decades with the lives of others (who made it) being used for personal gain. That’s some 47 shit. Could that be why you don’t sleep a lot? But at least I was aware of things that weren’t right and have so many screenshots going back years, as well as exported WhatsApp transcripts from both phones. I hated feeling the need for proof of interactions. I hate that I feel betrayed by someone who went on and on about nurturing deficits, abandonment and attachment issues, and the whole spiel about the tragedies of adoption- and did NOTHING to help resolve them.. I wrote to you directly about how I was feeling for months, long emails, and you never saw them until I was over anything to do with you. That was really hard. You’d quit me long before I quit you.

    The me who has had time to see the way this all unfolded is sad that you choose to treat people like disposable property. I miss being able to laugh like I used to. The things you did see that I’d written about my frustrations and doubts were met with sarcastic and self-serving victimhood when YOUR choices determined mine. I pray for those who are too weak-minded right now to see that they’re props in your life, because you’ve made them that way. It’s going to be so hard for them when they’re finally back in the real world. I’m sad for them. I’ve been a survivor longer than you’ve been “treating” people, and that doesn’t stop now.

    I can survive you. I just wish I’d been worth enough to follow through helping me get well. And I’m SO glad I woke up before I was any more broken.

  • Overwhelmed

    Image: generated

    It’s been a miserable few years, and so much seems like it’s overwhelming my already sketchy autonomic nervous system. I guess some of it started with my dad’s death 10 years ago, though I coasted through with numbness and my dog. There were more medical issues (broken ankle, gallstones, surgery on my scalp), many, many medical tests, too many doctors, and in general feeling like I was forced to die while still alive. Then the intensifying of food restriction started in May 2021.

    My dad was my earthly rock. He’d been sick for a month, but his death was not expected even at 83 years old. The guy didn’t even own Tylenol/paracetamol- he was healthy until that last month or so. His back had been bothering him a bit, but not so much that he didn’t drive to southern Florida for a few months with someone he knew. I got a call from the rehab place he’d been sent to after being hospitalized for some biopsied but unidentified lesions that were found on his spine. He had very low blood pressure, and was being sent to the ER. The rehab place had grossly under-reported his condition, shocking me a bit when I got to the ER, just behind the ambulance. The cognitively intact person I knew was delirious. And he was dying from what was found to be a ruptured bowel, so badly damaged that gas built up in his bladder, and the only option was comfort care.

    He was gone 19 hours after I got that phone call. I was with him alone for the last 6 hours, which are so precious to me. His cousin and close friends had been there earlier. Dad and I had discussed end of life care with each other, and I’m so thankful, because his desire to be kept comfortable was the only humane thing to do. He wouldn’t have survived anesthesia to try and fix what was a catastrophic bowel perforation; he’d complained to the rehab staff about abdominal pain since his admission, and nothing was done. I miss him more than I can express. It’s been too painful to visit the cemetery after that first Father’s Day, but I think I need to go up there. He was the only human ever to have my complete trust. He never lied to me. He always included things in family trips that he and mom wouldn’t have cared about, but knew that I would love to see or do. I’m incredibly thankful for the years as an adult when I got to know him so much better. I was lucky as an adoptee to land in a home where he was my dad.

    About 3 years prior to his death, he bought me a puppy after my previous dog (# 3 of an eventual 5) had died in my arms at home in late 2012. I was devastated. But my new pup ended up becoming the one who I was closest to since I’d been on disability for many years when I got her, so she never knew me working. We were together 24/7 for nearly 12 1/2 years. In 2025, she was starting to struggle. I’d been through the ‘end’ before with 2 dogs, as well as my childhood dog who was with my folks when her time came, and knew the signs to watch for. I let her dictate how things went. She had some skin issues that the vet refused to remove surgically for 3+ years of me trying to get it done for her. She also had possible mammary cancer noted at an age when it would have been more cruel to put her through major surgery away from our hometown. Initially, she just got picky with food. I ended up getting her baby food turkey, rice cereal, and applesauce that she ate eagerly, so I kept getting it for her. I knew it wasn’t ‘enough’, but I also knew that she was nearing the end, so if that’s what she wanted, that’s what she got, along with her favorite treats… until she didn’t want those.

    The night she quit following me wherever I went in the apartment, I knew it was time. She wasn’t even raising her head to see what I was up to, as she always had prior to getting up and trotting behind me. She was miserable, and I loved her too much to make her go on just because I would miss her so much. She had a look in her eyes that was sort of a silent resignation that the inevitable was coming, and it was too much for her. I took her to the emergency vet place the next morning (didn’t want her former vet dictating anything else about her care), who did an amazing job with a very emotional but necessary final visit. I had time before and after, and the feeling of her weight completely limp against my chest was one that still makes me cry. My soul dog was gone. She’s probably the closest relationship I ever had. Part of me died with her.

    Then the whole eating disorder “therapy” debacle added more pain to an already miserable existence. What I learned is that it is never safe to trust ‘outsiders’. Isolation is much safer. It’s dangerous to be open with someone, and believe that they’ll do what they were paid to do. It’s unconscionable that someone who knows a person’s history of trauma would use that to make it worse. And that I’m a fool for hoping that I’d matter enough to help as much as others who have gotten well with her- at least initially. The damage done with that whole situation will be with me for the rest of my life. I don’t hate her, but have absolutely no respect for what she does to people. None of it was worth it, even if it meant I would have died in 2022 without having to know the pain of the emotional trauma that I never anticipated even being a possibility. I was stupid to trust that particular person, and I’m paying the price; the offending party certainly isn’t. If there was a part of my brain that could be removed to kill the memory of the past 4 years, I’d sign up in a heartbeat. Maybe that was Lena Zavaroni’s hope when she opted for brain surgery. Instead, I just exist in a fog of disbelief at how someone could use vulnerable people for personal gain. But at least Isabella Heineken’s courage has opened the door for others of us to be able to be more open about our experiences.

    So, I write. And cry. I have given up on finessing the quality of the food I do eat (can’t afford the ‘bougie’ stuff), but still keep fairly rigid limits on calories, doing enough to keep my kidneys from getting worse, but no more than that. I’m losing muscle, which is good, so hope I get rid of weight sooner, but have to keep carbs up ‘enough’ so any muscle breakdown doesn’t give my kidneys more stress. And, I get in ‘enough’ fluids for the same reason.

    Each day is an exercise in waiting long enough to go back to bed with the only relief coming when I get hard-to-come-by sleep. I do watch videos or TV shows on my laptop. When it’s cool enough to be outside (below 70F if cloudy, 65F if sunny), I sometimes go sit by the pond near my home and watch the geese and ducks. If I’m lucky, the muskrat shows up just long enough to disappear again. On bad days, I hope I don’t wake up again, not being one to do anything that is intentional. On good days, I’ll find some amusement in a little frog who visits my patio when it’s rainy, seeming to enjoy the bug buffet under my patio light. There is no more ‘happy’. There is no more hope. There is only one thing to look forward to, and like everyone else on the planet, I have no idea when final peace will arrive. I look forward to seeing my dogs again, as well as my parents. Along with faith that means something to me, that’s what I have left. One day, that faith will guide me home.

  • The Sylvain Besson Article About Isabella Heineken and Peggy Claude-Pierre

    Image: online search; not my image.

    I believe Isabella Heineken. I’m saddened, yet not surprised by the Sylvain Besson (Swiss investigative journalist) article about Isabella Heineken of the Heineken beer family and her 4 year ordeal as a teenager being a patient of P Claude-Pierre. I’ve seen too many similar stories, and read enough to know that her story isn’t unique amongst patients of the person who seemed to offer so much hope, but never did have a nearly %100 cure rate as claimed in the ABC’s (American Broadcast Company) 20/20 episode in the mid-late 90s. That’s where I first heard of Ms. Claude-Pierre. And, why I wanted her for my therapist if I ever overtly relapsed. My head is all over the place writing this.

    https://www.youtube.com/shorts/kW3ZS17sbcg

    https://www.tagesanzeiger.ch/heineken-tochter-missbrauch-durch-magersucht-heilerin-672561764585

    English translation: (might have to scroll down a bit to see the text)
    https://www-24heures-ch.translate.goog/anorexie-un-fille-heineken-sous-lemprise-dune-guerisseuse-603161106967?_x_tr_sl=fr&_x_tr_tl=en&_x_tr_hl=en&_x_tr_pto=wapp

    This has gone on for 40 years. The Barbara McClintock book (2002) has more examples of good, not so good, and abusive practices (some by staff) during the earlier years Ms. Claude-Pierre (“P” for the remainder of the post) was “helping” patients with eating disorders, leading to the closure of the Montreux Clinic in Victoria, BC, Canada.

    https://quillandquire.com/review/anorexia-s-fallen-angel-the-untold-story-of-peggy-claude-pierre-and-the-controversial-montreux-clinic/

    There is so much about this that is sad. I’m all for accountability, as well as supporting those who have been harmed by anyone. The past 4 years of my life have been a rollercoaster of emotions from initial relief that someone understood me to the heartbreaking realization that I was a non-entity to someone who told me one thing, and showed me with actions something completely different. I wanted to be a success story. But all I got was financially drained and am still in lousy shape, with the longest period of active restriction in my life happening while being ‘helped’ by the person who was supposed to be able to get anyone through prolonged eating disorders. In previous posts, I’ve described a life of restriction that I refer to as active and passive- the passive restriction was how food was treated in my family, so my ‘normal’ until the last few years. During P’s ‘watch’ I also ended up in acute renal failure. Again. Fortunately, I have a good nephrologist.

    For those still with P, has she denied you your education? Has she isolated you from friends and family? Does she have possession of your passport and/or money? Are you so emotionally damaged now that you can’t see the control and admiration she demands? Can you come and go as you please? Is she telling you to take (supplements) or eat things you either don’t like, aren’t safe for medical conditions, or are forbidden by her for unproven reasons? Has she given you a ‘special’ name to ultimately reinforce her power in your life? Has she asked you for money for personal reasons, not associated with your “therapy”? Has she suddenly restricted your computer time? Has she vilified patients who no longer see her as some heaven-sent rescuer?

    I sent multiple emails to her when I was still a patient about things that were bothering me with her approach- which was basically ignoring me to help those who paid more to live with her, or other reasons- that’s how it felt to me, though she denies it. I sent her my reservations long before blogging. I got no response. Those emails weren’t seen for months, by which time I no longer considered myself her patient. While others were getting well starting after I began ‘therapy’ with P, I was paying to be blown off ( during part of that time, until the end of 2024, but she literally begged me to stay for another year without paying, and I got what I paid for). There was more contact if I sent her money for personal reasons which gave me less to survive on for myself (I’m on a fixed disability income that she knew about). She actually told me to sell personal possessions to get money to send to her (I have the screen shots). When I quit sending money, contact dramatically dropped (but she’d blame me for it, saying my perceptions were wrong… nobody can qualify someone else’s view on something that impacts them) and hearing from her less and less, finally only getting a call once a month with an account about various personal issues (then take a leave of absence and get well enough to come back and do the job).

    As I said above, she didn’t see most of the emails for MONTHS, starting while I was still a patient, but wanted to control food again, She didn’t see messages for up to a week, so how was managing food supposed to work? I hope she isn’t sick, and is actually OK. She had been a source of hope, until I became a patient. After about 6 months, I was getting the first indications that things weren’t OK. She also told me her books (5 of them) would be published in late 2022 (the summer I started with her), and the first of five was mentioned in her blog in 2013. Now she says this year, “promising” to send me money when they are published… I’m not holding my breath when a simple phone call was often too much. And how about the year she said she was recording videos for a website that never materialized? She said that Louis Vuitton wanted to buy it (that company doesn’t ‘do’ online therapy) when asking me to sell things to send her money. I have the screenshots. So was I being blown off just to do other things, unconcerned that I was still floundering and never got past the early part of Stage 2 (of her 5 part wellness scale) ? But she had time for the 2-3 “kids” (adults) living with her.

    When she did follow through on phone calls, she’d often fall asleep multiple times in one call. I’d have to tap on the phone to wake her up. She very often did not follow through on planned calls, leaving me hanging and postponing doing other things, When she told me to eat limited ‘allowed’ foods that I never ate regularly, I complied, and had to get used to crap I didn’t really want (she never made me eat things I hated- just had a line-up of foods that was a little weird for me). One night, after a difficult day with food in early 2023, she called me after getting home from ‘food police’ duty with a patient that ate at restaurants, and yelled at me while she told me what to eat. It was late at night in my time zone. I hadn’t heard that tone from her before, and it was frightening… “don’t take all day to eat that cracker”, “eat faster”, etc (I have medically documented swallowing issues, so dry crackers are often difficult, and she knew that). It wasn’t what she said, but it was the burning acid in her voice that was so alarming. That wasn’t common- I want to be clear on that. But when her usual tone of voice was SO different, it was incredibly scary. And another means of control by a tone resulting in fear.

    At one time, she’d planned to fly me to Switzerland to stay for a few months, but I already have a personal policy that I don’t go anywhere that I can’t get myself home from without anyone else in the mix. I’m extremely independent, which may be one of the reasons I became less worthwhile to her, though she said she “loved me like a daughter”. I did have some emotional dependency until it turned into a need to protect myself emotionally.

    “Therapy” consisted of socially toned phone calls. There was nothing about how to change my head. I sent her the information about my past that she asked for, but it was rarely discussed, and nothing about what to do with it. Nothing about actual nutrition info beyond her food rules (which were not nutritionally sound). I was told to avoid ‘nightshades’ (potatoes- though that was loosened up, bell peppers, eggplant, tomatoes with skin, etc). That cuts out a lot of vegetables and botanical fruits. I never heard about her “confirmed negativity condition”. I was supposed to get better just because she listened to me during those phone calls that actually did happen (there was an email response implying that).

    The thing that is hard for people to understand when they hear about the negative stuff is just how disarming P can be. She initially comes across as being the saving grace of all things. Her tone is comforting and it’s easy to get brainwashed and breadcrumbed because there’s a feeling that a bit of her is better than none of her. She did make the initial eating less stressful. Then she would have to get off of phone calls to go and cook for those living with her… OK, fine. But don’t tell me that when for me opening the fridge door was a source of a lot of tears and SO hard. I didn’t want to hear that she had people who did nothing to get their own food, and just sat around waiting for it. I just felt more worthless. I learned that I should have listened to MYSELF when I began to feel doubts in January 2023. Admittedly, I slept better after talking to her in the earlier years. And then it all became a nightmare of constant doubt. I also didn’t want to give up on the hope I had in the person I saw on 20/20, but found that the person I saw on TV didn’t really exist, for long anyway. It’s hard to feel that someone really gets it, only to find out that may not be the case.

    She ended up restricting my food more than I did. There were fear foods and a lot I restricted, but I’d always been a portion-shrinker more than anything. I’d eat many things that some people with EDs won’t eat, but I’d have a bite (teaspoon), or a fraction of a portion. When I told her that my physical hunger cues were starting to kick in, she told me to eat rice cakes and vegetables. Yes, I want to lose weight being ‘atypical’, but ALL of the current eating disorder recovery information I’ve seen after trying to find some help since it wasn’t coming from P talks about eliminating all restriction, no matter the person’s weight since restriction just keeps metabolic rates down (something that P talked about, but her food instructions didn’t match up).

    She is still working from her views first formed in the 80s. After the first 8 months or so, I stopped sending photos of what I was eating after she told me a weight of a new patient (not the weight on arrival, but that’s how she made it sound), and I was ashamed to eat at all, but she just assumed that it was because some people don’t like to talk about what they eat. I was barely getting 1000 calories/day- often much less.. It felt like it didn’t matter if I ate or not. Telling me someone weighed 29kg was incredibly triggering, and the vast majority of eating disorder therapists would know that. When I followed my dietician’s advice to gradually increase calories (whom P had required me to see here locally, which was good), I gained a lot of weight, which has made things harder emotionally, and my body started to build back a lot of muscle. Muscle weighs more than fat, and I want the muscle gone so the scale shows better numbers. That’s where my head still goes after 3+ years as a patient of hers. I’m no different.. still have to have ‘numbers’ that feel safe. The ‘voice’ still dictates all things food.

    Others have said that P’s presence in their lives eventually waned, and they felt abandoned. I can relate to that. She knew of past abandonment and trauma issues, and just added to them. Even if I had any trust left to get help, I couldn’t afford it now.

    But here’s where it gets emotionally difficult. I don’t wish anything ‘bad’ for her. She has to live with herself, and that must be difficult with needing to move so often. I don’t want her to be ill. I do wish she’d retire, both for the sake of patients who end up in the same state as so many of us, but also for her to have time to enjoy her life without ‘strays’ living with her. I wish that she could see how she impacts others without blaming the patient for things they point out about how she comes across to them (got an email from her chewing me out over that). l wish she didn’t seem to need the validation from vulnerable people who are known for their empathy and ability to sense the void in others.

    I know the Besson article is difficult to read, but if there wasn’t truth behind the story, it wouldn’t have been written by one of Switzerland’s most highly regarded investigative reporters. Someone like that doesn’t publish something without doing homework, and he did that for a year before it was published. It’s been overwhelming to see the impact on yet another person, and know the fear of speaking out… I’m scattered writing this because of the ‘surveillance’ by P’s live-ins (blocked some more ‘new’ FB profiles today). But were it not for the Besson article, I wouldn’t be writing this. The same things in the McClintock book continue to happen. That’s sad.

    I believe Isabella, and am thankful for her courage to speak out. I understand the fear about coming forward. She encourages all of us to speak up, so for Isabella, I won’t minimize my story, though I wasn’t held captive physically like she and many others were. But in addition to the eating disorder, I now feel I have to recover from P as well, and that’s hard to reconcile with the hope I once had.

    Screenshot
  • When Therapists Cause Way More Harm Than They Help

    When Therapists Cause Way More Harm Than They Help

    Image: Adobe Royalty-free stock images

    It’s hard to even comprehend how someone who is supposed to be a therapist can treat people like street garbage when they know their history of previous trauma. It’s having someone find out what will hurt the most, and then do that. In the 20 years I worked as a nurse, it never occurred to me to emotionally batter someone, or ignore why they were in the facility- to get help- and I took care of some pretty disturbed patients at times. But they were MY patients, and I was responsible for their care. It’s some serial killer mentality to make sport of hurting someone knowing that they’ve already been hurt. It’s manipulative emotional terrorism when it took so little to throw me away. There is no excuse. IF there really was something going on to limit the professional role, then the responsible thing to do is to let patients know that they are no longer able to be a therapist (and quit asking for money for bullshit ‘not-the-patient’s-problem’ personal stuff, especially knowing that I was on a fixed income).

    I was stupid not to read the ‘warnings’ before signing on with the person who hurt me way more than other things in my life that may sound worse. Therapists have very personal information to use when making the CHOICES to cause more pain. I’d repeatedly asked that I not be told a call would come in X hours/days to avoid the “she didn’t call… again” scenario, and she refused. I think she figured that a little contact (at her convenience) was better than no contact, and that simply isn’t true. She told me herself that I had abandonment and attachment trauma to work through, and then acted like I was a hobby to deal with after helping patients who obviously were more deserving of her time- though she had no problem taking my money for 3 years. So, she created more attachment issues, and abandoned me like a rotting animal carcass.

    That pedestal she has herself on must come with a lifetime supply of altitude sickness oxygen canisters. She made it very clear with the colonoscopy prep “no call” that I wasn’t worth helping to have the best outcome possible with the colon polyp/failed Cologuard test/abnormal MRI showing that there was cause to get the polyp out. Four people from the GI clinic (2 MDs, 2 RNs) emphasized the importance of getting the polyp out (but wouldn’t work with me on a volume I could tolerate). The physical feeling in my chest when she texted me “I’ll check my schedule” about discussing possible ways to make the prep easier was one of absolute worthlessness, and felt like my chest dropped about a foot. I wasn’t worth a phone call even if it could keep me alive. My life was nothing more to her than used toilet paper, after so many fake terms of endearment. After that, why would I get the polyp out? Why would I believe that I’m worth anything? Why would I ever want to speak to her after that, when I needed to talk to her the day she told me to message her, and she’d call me? Why did I waste so much time with someone who had been gradually and more frequently making it clear that I wasn’t worth her time? Why would I think that I’m worth going through hell again to remove the polyp? Why would I want to prolong my life? I’m obviously an idiot to think I’m anything but forgettable rubbish. I won’t actively end my life, but I won’t actively prolong it now, either. That ‘no call’ did a lot of damage.

    I wish I’d never contacted her. I wish I’d read the book and court ruling before trying to find her. I wish I wasn’t hoping for something that she obviously didn’t think was worth her time… getting well. I wish I hadn’t believed that she gave a damn about any of her “patients”. She told me more than once that she did 10 phone sessions a day… I wonder how many of them are feeling the way I do. I wonder how many more of her former patients (like many in the 20/20 episodes) are now dead. I wonder why she continues to do things that result in a corpse collection as part of her curriculum vitae. But I don’t wonder about her.

    I do hope the ‘captive’ patients that live with her can get away from her before their minds are set up to implode when she tires of them. I hope those who aren’t living with her get a clue before she does more damage to them (I know I’m not unique in how things ended with her, as the book would have warned me about). I hope she doesn’t drain their finances. I hope they don’t stay as long as I did. It wasn’t my job to tell her how to be a therapist, but now, I feel like I have an obligation to warn people to trust their gut if something seems off. To LEAVE abusiveness. To escape the constant chaos of unpredictability. To block all contact, in order to survive. I did block her in multiple places, and I still feel like I’m the ‘bad’ one in this situation. That I am so insignificant as a human that I deserved to be kicked to the curb by absolute indifference.

    If she was thinking I’d come up with more money to ‘MAKE me worthwhile’, she was dead wrong. There was nothing left to ‘come up’ with. She once messaged me to ‘sell everything’ (I have screenshots of many, many messages) when she asked me to send $1000 USD for some website that never materialized (always another deadline, and some looney claims about ‘investors’). I didn’t send anything, and that’s when gradual breadcrumbing became ignoring. She didn’t see messages for days to a week, but wanted control over food again… how in the hell was that supposed to work? A month went between calls more than once. If she wanted me to still believe in her, leaving me isolated was the perfect way for me to wake up and realize how much she was hurting me. I guess I can be thankful that her hurting me ‘enough’ finally woke me up to how fucked up things were.

    I’m glad I had the flawed mom I had- she did the best she could with how broken she was. I’m thankful for my biological mom, who is so much fun to talk to, and with whom I can just be goofy me without judgement. I’m thankful for previous good therapists I had, who had ethics and standards that kept things professional and fair. Even when there might be something difficult, they were honest with me, and I respect that a lot. I don’t respect creativity with the truth (bad enough that it’s a daily reminder in the US with who is ‘running; things). I don’t respect not following through with scheduled contact, or scripted empathy with no substance. I don’t respect manipulating already hurt people. I don’t respect self-promotion. I don’t respect hollow connections based on nothing.

    But I’m deeply grateful that I’m not her.



    Any reposts are originally from Atypically Recovering.

  • Tired Of Waking Up In This Body, But Can’t Get Weight Off

    Tired Of Waking Up In This Body, But Can’t Get Weight Off

    Photo- mine

    I’m not suicidal, so don’t alert the online mind police. There’s a difference between wanting to die and being tired of this excuse of a life. I’m in the latter category. I’ve spent the last 22 years on disability, and it’s just getting to be a tiresome and self-loathing “life”. I’m housebound because of severe heat intolerance, and have a laundry list of chronic medical disorders. The eating disorder (and being raised on a starvation ‘diet’) is responsible for a few of them. Others are common with aging, though I’m hardly elderly. The epilepsy has been around since a nasty concussion when I was nearly 13, and another 6 months later.

    I wanted SO much to get well from the eating disorder, but that was a bust. I ended up feeling more worthless than when I started, with a therapist who wasn’t at all engaged for about the last 2 years I was with her- but she’d have just enough contact to make it seem like something it wasn’t. She wasn’t going to help me with chronic reneging on phone calls. When that went south last Autumn, and I finally got that sinking feeling in my gut that I was worthless to her as well as myself, nothing has felt like it will ever be OK. The damage was done.

    I’m ‘atypical’, and overweight, so I can’t stand being in this body. I don’t know how to see my body as just a shell holding me together in space. I was conditioned from a very young age to equate weight with worth. Toss in society’s disgust with anything not abnormally thin, and I feel like a parasite on the ass of humanity. Disgusting to be anywhere near. And when the ‘self-worth therapist’ loses interest, that is the death knell for all things worthy of self-tolerance. I know that her shit is her shit- and it still hurts like hell to end up thinking anything she told me was pure BS. Just to keep getting paid- which now leaves me with nothing IF I’d want to get help elsewhere.

    I’m stopping with my dietitian as well- seems hypocritical to keep going when I can’t get myself to do anything “normal” with food. I want to go back in time before I ever heard of that therapist, and not be in this prison of worsened mental health because of her indifference. I needed that last phone call she never made… my life literally may end up shorter because she CHOSE not to call me to discuss a test prep that wasn’t possible; she said she might have ideas to make it easier. And she never called. I’d already flunked 3 colon cancer tests (including one colonoscopy). But without a prep that I can tolerate, there’s no second colonoscopy to remove a 1.5mm polyp. The Cologuard was abnormal (not an acid test for diagnostics, but with the other stuff it’s not good), and an MRI showed some abnormalities. So, that phone call that never happened mattered. The doctors won’t work with me. I’ve tried several different ways to try and get them to understand that the volume is too much. I got my nephrologist to sign off on a prep that I can tolerate, but the GI docs said no.

    How am I supposed to be interested in anything to do with being well when I’m kicked to the curb no matter where I look for help ? Why keep working on the eating disorder if I’m not worth a phone call ? What is the point? I’m still looking at stuff on YouTube hoping that something resets my thinking, but I’m not holding my breath.

  • Why I Became A R.N.

    Why I Became A R.N.

    Image: Online search results, cropped

    When I was at university, I was studying to become a teacher. Both of my parents were in education, and while they never pushed me in that direction, they were pleased. But then, I ended up getting booted out for anorexia and the overdose, and when I was at the psych hospital the second time, a single defining moment changed the rest of my life.

    I’d been sent off to the psych ICU for some reason- I think it was related to a new medication that had tanked my blood pressure. Most of the hospital was decorated in a gregarious 70s ‘floral’ motif. The ICU had bare cinderblock walls, beds bolted to the floor, bars over the outside windows, windows in the doors to the sleeping ‘cubicles’ (that were locked at night), and the lights were on 24/7, even if dimmed a bit. It was more like the images of a 60s state hospital instead of the private facility that it was. The staff were all pleasant, and the other patients weren’t that noteworthy. But it was rather barren. Everything was clinical, even if delivered pleasantly.

    One week, some nursing students were passing through the ICU during their psych rotation. They were in their late teens or early 20s, so in my age range. They were sweet, but a little intimidated before they figured out none of us were drooling in corners, or showing symptoms of rabies. I had dark straight hair that went halfway down my back, and it was thick. That also meant it was rather unruly in a facility where I couldn’t use many brushes or combs without supervision or at certain times.

    One of the nursing students approached me and asked if she could braid my hair. I wasn’t sure i heard correctly. I was used to “no touch”, and while the staff were always professional and kind to me, personal attention like braiding hair wasn’t in their job description. I told the student I’d like that, and she got my unruly hair braided and secured with a hair elastic. I felt human. That was amazing.

    In the few minutes that it took for the student RN to braid my hair, she reminded me that even in a bare psychiatric ICU, I’d been seen as a ‘regular’ human being. I wasn’t a diagnosis with feet with standard protocols laid out. I was just an 18 year old with long hair that could use some tidying up. She saw me as ‘normal’. It was life-changing, and I began realizing that I didn’t want to teach. I wanted to show people compassion and kindness. I’d always had nurse toys as a kid, and had read medical books (household editions at my grandparents’ home) from the time I could read (age 5-6). It was a perfect fit.

    I got out of the hospital just in time to start the Spring semester to get some adjunct nursing classes out of the way (chemistry, composition, sociology, nutrition, and psychology). It also gave me some structure as I was moving past 1982, and the 8 months I was confined in a place neither of my parents wanted me to speak about. My mom’s mom later told me that she’d never been told where I’d been. I’m not sure anyone knew where I’d been. All I knew was that I wanted to have a job where I could see past peoples’ diagnoses, and try and make at least one thing better for them that day.

    One nursing student changed the trajectory of my life. That’s powerful stuff.

  • What Will 2024 Be Like?

    Last year, I thought I’d be doing better than I am by this time. There have been more medical issues this year that derail eating, and have made keeping the NG tube in longer, just to get enough fluids in. Sometimes I also add a bottle of protein water if I’m low on that for the day. 

    Tomorrow, I see a new pain doctor (actually a nurse practitioner, which is generally a good thing), and I am somewhat fearful. Pain is such a taboo topic, and yet I’m at the point that I can’t keep this level of pain up indefinitely. My right shoulder bicep tendon is either damaged or completely shot, so use of my right arm is pretty limited. The pain if I move something incorrectly is the kind where I see stars. 

    I hope that I can get some kind of momentum going with the eating disorder recovery, because I’m losing patience with myself. I know it’s taken more than 54 years to get to this point, but I still expect myself to do better, even with no frame of reference for “normal” eating. I also hope to be drinking the full 2 liters before another year goes by- it’s been 18 months since I first put the NG in, and even though every one of my doctors has seen it, nobody has offered to help by prescribing the tubes and bags, so it’s all out of pocket on a disability income. For those shameless sods who think I inherited a fortune, they have no clue. 

    My level of hope is overshadowed by pain, and at the same time, I don’t want to give up. I’m learning about food as if I’ve never seen the stuff before. For those people out there who have kids whose weight they are concerned about, never make it about appearance. Never do anything without medical oversight- or you could end up with a ‘child’ whose lifespan is shortened by endless complications from restricting food from childhood, that carries on into adulthood because of not knowing anything different. Focus on health. Looks come and go no matter what- but if someone loses their health, there really aren’t a lot of ways to get that back. Especially in a capitalistic healthcare model. Keeping citizens healthy doesn’t benefit those who profit from keeping people sick and dependent on medications or treatments. 

  • Another Christmas With The Dog

    Since my dad died, I tend to avoid holiday get togethers, not just because of missing him, but because of the chaos that goes through my head when the idea of eating in front of others is in the mix. I haven’t eaten around anyone for years. I haven’t been to a restaurant in about 7 years. I know that there isn’t a single person in any restaurant that cares what I’m eating, but the feeing of being too fat to deserve food is pervasive. There’s no escape yet. I passed out twice this morning trying to get out of bed… at least I have the drill down to lean back on the bed when the lights start going out.

    I did manage to allow myself some Swedish potato sausage (potatiskorv), and a piece of forbidden chocolate. I’ve gained too much weight in the last couple of months, and I’m not sure if it was from steroids for pain, worsening kidney function, or what. The stress of more severe pain isn’t helping. Only 9 more days until the appointment with the new pain management folks… my degenerative joint disease and damaged bicep tendon are causing some “seeing stars” kind of pain.

    The dog turned 11 years old on Christmas Eve, and surprised me with her quick deducing of the interactive toy that requires her to pull stuffed carrots out of felt “pots” to find a treat. She’s not great with a lot of interactive toys, but figured this one out on the first go. No remedial toys needed (this time). She’s been very happy, and is such a great little companion. 

    I’ve been invited to a friend’s home for dinner with her family, but aside from the whole eating panic, I’m not that social. I tend to freeze around people I don’t know. The offers are very nice, but I’m not at a place where that would be at a manageable stress level. 

    I hope everyone is having a great holiday season, whatever you celebrate.