Atypically Recovering: On My Own No Matter How This Goes

Tag: grief

  • Head In A Blender…

    Blender containing a creamy green mixture around its spinning blade
    Image: WordPress Image Generator

    TW: mentions sexual assault with general descriptions; much was left out intentionally.

    It’s been about a year since I last spoke to my ex-therapist, and a little over a month since the last email. It’s still raw and hard to navigate the emotional toll this has taken, and so many before me. I feel like a fool for not leaving sooner, and at the same time, the breadcrumbing was effective in keeping me around, until it wasn’t.

    I was looking at some messages from June 2023, both to and from my ex-therapist, and I went on a pretty big rant on how I was miserable, not getting better, and was tired of all of it, especially eating. Then it devolved in some descriptions of myself that weren’t family-friendly. That was about 6 months after the first red flags. I’ve got a lousy history when it comes to listening to my gut.

    In 1987 (Jan 10), I was raped, sodomized, and beaten for 6 hours with ‘him’, his fists, and a wine cooler bottle, in Austin, Texas. I’d lived in that apartment for 10 days after getting out of the hospital, where I’d been in traction for 10 days for a back injury. It was the uncle of a baby I took care of during the day while working as a RN at night. He lied his way to my apartment, with a convincing story. I met him briefly when I stopped by to get my car at the old apartment, and then asked the baby’s mom if she’d clean my old apartment for me, paid of course. Her brother was there, and I said hi, but was mostly enjoying watching the baby crawling around their apartment. She told me before I’d ended up in the hospital that her brother was getting out of jail, and would be staying with them. I asked what he’d been in jail for, and she told me that it was ‘wrong place, wrong time’. That’s probably the story he told her. She wasn’t 20 yet, and I was 23, and had no clue about criminal matters aside from my figure skating coach’s six kids being murdered by her husband when I was 14. I was naive, and wanted to help based on the story he told me. It was plausible. I was uneasy, but went to pick him up anyway. I knew he didn’t have a car. I later found out about his prior crimes, going back to his teens, and always reoffending when on parole.

    Eventually, Numbnuts (what I call the rapist) passed out, and I slowly got up to go to the bathroom; I could tell I was still bleeding. He stirred and asked if he and the knife needed to come along, and I stated “Where would I go naked?” It wasn’t a question. He agreed to let me go alone. I was still bleeding quite a bit, and knew I had to get help, so walked back towards the bedroom and saw he was sleeping again, and turned around, grabbed a bath towel, and took off out of the apartment. I ran down the stairs, feeling like he was directly behind me, and then knocked on the neighbors’ door (I’d met Mr a few days earlier, and Mrs the day before). I explained that I’d been raped and he was still upstairs, and asked to use their phone. Mrs grabbed my arm and pulled me inside, locking the door behind me.

    Police began to show up, and a rookie went in, got beat up and thrown out of the apartment (sounded like full on war upstairs as I sat in the neighbors’ apartment). He yelled for someone to call 911 again, and find out where the rest of the police units were. By this time, media started rolling in, and once I made the 2nd call, several additional police showed up. About that time, the ambulance folks came to see how I was doing, and I’m pretty sure I’d gone into shock by then. I could see several police officers with weapons drawn aiming at my balcony upstairs. I didn’t hear the gunshots, but was told that a sergeant had shot Numbnuts (in my bedroom). Then the helicopter showed up to take him to the hospital. He wasn’t killed, so I had to testify for the State, and after lunch, the ADA told me that he wanted to change his plea to guilty. I wouldn’t accept the 40 years being offered, and when they asked what I would accept, I said nothing less than 60 years, since he’d be eligible for parole in 20 years, which was the same as a life sentence at the time of the crime. If only I’d listened to that ‘uneasy’ feeling. I know that nothing excuses what he did, and that me trying to be nice wasn’t a crime, but it was a hard lesson learned. He’d planned to dismember me alive, and turns out I looked like his ex-wife.

    Anyway, the one thing I hang onto from all of that was that I have survived. I hate the term ‘victim’ (and state of mind that can go along with it), and was able to see how I was played that day that was almost my last. I survived, and that’s what matters. I just wish I knew how to move into a more ‘survivor’ mentality with what’s gone on with the ex-therapist. Emotionally, this is harder than the rape because it was someone I knew personally, or thought I could trust what I’d seen from a 30+ year old news show. When 2 people know each other, even if only messages and by phone, and have for several years, it’s not random. When that other person knows many, many personal stories of abuse, neglect, and abandonment, and then does the same in an employment situation, it’s egregious (remember, I paid her for a specific reason). The dependency that was encouraged and ‘groomed’ also means that the one with the power has ‘turned off’ some of the ‘adult’ in their target, by design. It hurts- and that’s what I’m working on fixing in myself.

    At the same time, I still blame myself, even if that’s so completely illogical in this situation, where someone who has done this repeatedly for 40 years is still doing it. A type of serial offender. I know that in this situation, I didn’t have the ‘power’ on my side. She was the one who made decisions, and impacted those in her crosshairs. There’s no professional agency to report to because she never had formal credentials. The international end of this is also frustrating (I don’t recommend seeing anyone who isn’t licensed in the country where the paying party lives).. So, I’m eager to get to the place where I feel more like a survivor. I’m not interested in anything that would mean having to have any future contact, and it saddens me that the person I initially was in contact with was playing her role in starting to control as much of my life as possible. It was about personal gain, from my perspective. There’s more to that, but I’m not up for more tonight.

    I’m no longer a victim of ex-therapist, so that’s a start. I removed myself from the offensive situation before I was too brainwashed to do so, and I’m thankful that I was in a position to do so since I live thousands of miles away, and was never physically held captive. That’s another win, though a slow one that cost more than money. I’ve survived most of my life. I’d like to know, even if not for all that long considering my age, what it’s like to live.

  • 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.

  • This Is Not Easy

    Photo: mine

    I’ve posted a lot about my experiences with the former eating disorder therapist I was with for over 3 years (have known for about 4 1/3 years at this point), and published one yesterday that was especially painful, because it was in response to an article that adds to the list of those who also experienced ‘unsatisfactory’ results. I don’t do this lightly, and it’s not from a place of malice. It’s been emotional whiplash going through the various feelings I’ve had, going back to January 2023, and building from there. I want to make a few things clear.

    In the beginning, and for a fair amount of time, I truly enjoyed talking to my former therapist. She had a tone of voice that was soothing the majority of the time. Later, it was clear that it was more of a grooming process, but in the moment, I would calm down after talking to her. I slept better. I didn’t realize that the social tone to the calls was the entirety of the ‘therapy’. She has a great sense of humor, and I looked forward to the spontaneous things that would have both of us laughing.

    There’s grief involved in this, in spite of the pain that was caused. There’s the loss of recovery with her, as well as the loss of who I thought she was. And yet, she has helped people. The loss of future years without the eating disorder ‘voice’ is probably the hardest to come to terms with, and while I’m trying on my own via YouTubers (and their books if they have them), I’d wanted help from the person I saw on TV in 1996 after getting home from a crap facility in California. It was a replay of the first 20/20 episode dedicated to the clinic. I was amazed at the clarity of seeing that it was about self-worth that was something Hilda Bruch discussed in the 70s, but had been buried for a couple of decades.

    There has been a lot of negative press about this therapist going back 40 years, but not everything I experienced was ‘bad’. I also think that the developmental stages that are arrested in so many of us are important to acknowledge, though the regression without ‘un-regressing’ wasn’t useful, and did create more dependency than I’d normally allow myself to engage in. With the decreasing contact, I became more aware of what my logical mind was telling me because there was no more reinforcement of her ideas and ‘rules’ when she went ‘missing in action’. She lost me when she had more contact after getting what she wanted from me at the time (money for personal matters). And, when she didn’t call about a very important medical test prep, I felt like she’d green-lit my possible death from what is felt to be at high risk of becoming cancer. My heart sunk, and I felt a physical ‘drop’ in my chest when she didn’t make the call she’d planned. I knew it was over, and blocked her on Facebook and WhatsApp. Until then, I was still hoping (with a lot of doubts) that something would shift, and I’d see glimpses of truly getting well. That never happened.

    It’s not easy to write something that is in all likelihood going to hurt someone I’d spent 3+ years focused on as the person who would get me out of the mindset of an eating disorder. That for the first time in over 50 years, I had a bit of hope that my childhood and later teen and adulthood restriction would go away. She would tell me that it was possible. And then I was basically adrift on my own. This blog’s purpose isn’t to hurt anyone, but to allow me a place for the expression of all kinds of emotions and experiences. I don’t have people here that I discuss much with, mostly because they just don’t ‘get it’. That’s another loss with the end of ‘therapy’ with someone who was too busy for me, unless it was to message about her own ‘stuff’.

    There is no explanation for how she’s treated (some) people going back to the 80s. That this is a pattern makes it even more egregious. There’s nothing that can fix that. There’s nothing that can make up for the reinforcement of the lack of self-worth when she decided who is worth the time, but still took on new patients when there wasn’t time for the ones she already had. There’s no ethically sound excuse for how so many have ended up so hurt. And that was completely her choice about who she gave her time to, which further reinforced feeling worthless.

    But there’s also the more human response to still want to see something good somewhere in a declining and painful ‘disposal’ of the supposedly therapeutic situation. Many of us blame ourselves for just about anything, even when we’re logically not in the least bit able to control whatever situation is on our minds. This has been no different, though I know that I did my part by being ready for phone calls that were nearly always late, when they happened at all. I ate what she told me to eat (when she was still in contact enough to make that reasonable). I cut out things I didn’t have an issue with because she ‘said so’. I gave up deciding what to eat. I spent money on organic food that she was so adamant about, even when there were times I had to pick and choose because my budget didn’t allow for ‘bougie’ types of food. Now, I’m thankful for store brands on sale.

    There has been anger at times when the hope of getting well seemed futile because of her notable absence. I paid what she agreed to before getting an invoice each month. She made choices, and in the past those choices cost her the clinic in Canada. But she’s ‘always right’ when listening to her, or reading others’ accounts in online court records or books. The only choices I had were to stay with or leave therapy. My hope of getting well kept me longer than I should have stayed. My experience as a RN, who worked in many areas of nursing including with psychiatric patients, told me that I needed to protect myself. From a therapist. That isn’t about her, but about saving what I could of myself. I had no contact with her for about 7-8 months, but in a moment of weakness on a really lousy day, I emailed her. She responded fairly soon. I’m much more guarded with what I discuss, and to me that feels like another act of self-preservation, which should never be part of any relationship. The emails have been cordial, and in better time than when I was actually a patient.

    I hope that more people will come forward after the Besson article, and for others to have more information before making decisions to do therapy with anyone. I hope that the courage of Isabella de Carvalho-Heineken can help save others from feeling like this, and others out there who have done so in silence will share their stories- not to hurt the former therapist, but to heal themselves. And I hope that the seemingly universal fear of those of us who did not get well from the self-proclaimed ‘anorexia whisperer’ (not her term) will fade as we feel freed to talk about what is our truth, backed up with the voices of others who have felt this same pain.

  • Back To Regular Programming

    Back To Regular Programming

    Photo: mine

    This week has been a little weird, but not bad. My incisions from the scalp surgery are healing, and I’ll get the stitches out in a few days. It’s been pretty amazing how little pain I’ve had. I was skeptical of not getting pain meds, and being told to take Tylenol, but it’s been fine. I haven’t even taken Tylenol past the 2nd or 3rd day post-op. I slept a LOT the first few days, and waited to resume the THC for sleep for 4-5 nights, but definitely needed it to help me get back into my ‘normal’ sleep schedule. It’s not ‘normal’ to most people, but I sleep better at during the day (avoids the heat of the day- and it’s been HOT, in the 90sF/33+C), and being awake at night (cooler, can get more done). So, that is all getting back to baseline. I took out the trash at 4:40 a.m. because the temp at the time was 70F, and that was the coolest part of the day. The sun was just starting to come up, so it wasn’t totally dark outside, and very peaceful.

    There was some email contact with my former therapist. She wanted to know how the surgery went. The exchanges were nice. I still don’t want to speak to her, but there’s no lingering bitterness so that is good. Moving on.

    I took out the NG tube last Monday- this is the longest I’ve gone without it since the summer of 2022 when I put it in. I hope I can keep it out. So far, I’ve been able to drink enough, which can mean I’m too full on fluids to have room for much food. I do better with fairly small portions of nutritionally dense foods. I still don’t care much about protein, but get some in. It’s better to just do what is comfortable, and not have food be so much more demanding of mental energy. There are some really good sparkling waters out there. My current favorite is Spindrift Tropical Punch- very noticeable guava, which I like.

    Food is still problematic for my ‘head’, though I’ve been trying some new things that don’t have ‘scary numbers’. I’m learning that I need to do the most ‘complicated’ foods early in the day when I have more energy. They’re still fairly simple, but food that has to be cooked or ‘babysat’ takes up energy I often don’t have. If I get a spurt of energy, I’ll do some veggie prep to make the next meals easier. The new things have been really good. I’ve heard of many of them, but just never had the chance to eat them before. They’ve been a pleasant surprise, and part of my ‘stash pantry’. They still have to ‘fit’ into the ‘numbers’ or my head freaks out and I end up immobilized mentally. Juggling ‘keeping the peace’ with my head, and getting enough in to avoid further organ damage is exhausting. Freeing up when I eat specific things is helpful. The fewer rules the better, though I still feel like there are many more rules than not.

    I still watch different kinds of ‘normal eaters’ on YouTube when I eat, for distraction and to see how people without eating disorders manage food. Many also give me ideas of things to try. Tonight I watched an episode of “Sorted Food” where they ate ( many) and made lobster rolls. Lobster is way outside of my budget, but surimi lobster is very doable and I like it, so I am going to try that soon as a lobster roll. The biggest fear with that is the bread. But I’ve got to get carbs in some way, so for a lobster roll bread is the most logical option. I found a brioche hotdog bun that is sliced on the top, and I think that will work; numbers aren’t terrifying. I’ve had real lobster rolls in the past, and like them, so I hope that carries over to the faux version. YouTube content creators that aren’t ED recovery focused likely have no idea how their videos are used to help reframe how food is viewed. It’s a very slow process, but it is helpful. I still watch a couple of ED focused channels, but for the most part, I’ve opted to watch more of the non-ED folks.

    It’s hard to believe that the year is half over. Time goes too quickly, and I’m working on some kind of ‘schedule’ to get some things done, at a doable pace. Even 30 minutes a day would be useful, and not super overwhelming. I might have to split that into 2 parts, but that’s OK. It still gets things done.

  • Perspective From The Past

    Perspective From The Past

    Photo- mine (single footprint on dry riverbed in Kerrville, TX)

    Something that helped me during my 1995 relapse was a gratitude journal, which sounded ridiculous at the time, but I gave it a shot. It was free (minus the notebook and pen), and couldn’t do any harm. I had nothing to lose. It started out fairly pathetically with “my socks match”, “the milk in the fridge doesn’t have chunks”, etc- but it built up into a log of 5 things per day (no repeats) for an entire year, and made a huge difference in how I viewed things. I had a LOT to be thankful for, even having been told I had about a month left to live if I didn’t get my act together. It also showed me how insignificant my ED was in the greater context of the world. It didn’t make it go away, but it gave me perspective, and for decades, I did OK ‘enough” with food. 

    What we put into our heads stays in our heads. I can choose to look at what is left that’s good (living indoors, clothing, my late dogs’ photos to remind me of what love can feel like, etc), or I can focus on how miserable I am (and sometimes, it’s both).  But the overall ‘stuff’ I think about IS WHAT I BECOME. 

    Rewiring our brains doesn’t just include what we think and do with food- but also how much negative we dwell on. It’s not a smooth path- lots of ups and downs, but the point is to look for the good, even in the bad. You can’t expect to have sweetness if you sit in vinegar.

    Does that mean ignore feelings like pain, resentment, disappointment, etc? NO- it means being thankful for what good there is- and there IS good. If I CHOOSE not to believe it, then that’s on me. My family wasn’t perfect by a long shot (like everyone’s), but I’d give anything to have them back again. 

    If I surround myself with negative people or dwell on painful things, what use is that? Yeah, everyone has a crap day/week/month/year (and trauma creates another layer of chaos to that), but even though I’ve been through, and am going through now, some doesn’t mean EVERYTHING is . 

    My skating coach’s husband murdered their 6 kids when I was 14. It was a lot for a kid to deal with; I knew the oldest girl. I was brutally raped/beaten/etc  for 6 hours- but I wasn’t murdered as planned; police arrived after he passed out and I escaped, and one cop shot Numbnuts (my name for him) in my bedroom… I had to clean it up when my apartment was released as a crime scene (1987). He didn’t die, and I had to testify at the trial; he changed his plea after my testimony, and is still my bitch, on parole or back in prison until 2048. I was pregnant from the rape, and thankfully miscarried it- though I felt guilt because of those who miscarry wanted pregnancies. I survived leukemia that is often diagnosed at autopsy. I’m disabled and chronically ill with multiple ED and non-ED (many painful) diagnoses- but I’m not dead. I’m often frustrated and nearly always isolated- but I can still think and watch the Olympics (volunteer or work on a dementia unit for perspective). Every person on the planet has their own version of this.And that forms how they see things and how they react to others. 

    Bottom line- I might not choose my circumstances, but ONLY I am responsible for my attitude. Nobody else can “make me” feel any particular way unless I let them. And I avoid negative people (not people going through rough times- and there’s a difference… up to a point). 

    I don’t want to BE what I’d avoid.

  • What Kind Of Parents Restrict Food From Their Kid?

    What Kind Of Parents Restrict Food From Their Kid?

    Image- Shutterstock royalty free

    In general, my folks were good people. They weren’t perfect, but they weren’t psychos by a long shot. My dad was a great dad, but when it came to appearances, I had to buck up. Mom was broken and tried her best. I think she did the best she could with what she had to work with in her life. Her mom was an orphan at age 6 because of the Flu Pandemic of 1917, and was distant with her kids. When my mom was 18 months old, she became a big sister, to an asthmatic baby, so she was the “good”, quiet one who learned that she was not as important in her mind. .

    My mom and dad weren’t “mean” by nature. They’d lost 2 very newborn babies two years apart, from what was called hyaline membrane disease at the time. Each was born about a month early with placenta issues requiring emergency C-sections. The second one made it to day 6… 4 1/2 days longer than his late older brother, who didn’t even get a name on his birth certificate… just “baby boy’ and his footprints. They didn’t weigh him, either. Mom never saw either of them. He always had a name with my parents and me (and they are appropriately memorialized on the family tombstone). Anyway, a bit of a tangent, but I think it’s important to show compassion even when I was inadvertently given a life sentence regarding a severely wonky relationship with food. I don’t believe for a minute that they would intentionally hurt me.

    I was adopted by them before I was 2 weeks old, after spending over a week in the hospital for “feeding problems”. Eventually, after a week in a large Chicago hospital, they got me to take some kind of formula, and I was cleared for placement in my folks’ home. They’d been through the loss of 2 babies just 3 and 5 years before they got me. They wanted me. Mom struggled, I think because she was afraid that I’d be taken away before the adoption was finalized. Dad was initially reluctant to adopt after the babies’ deaths, but said once I was there, he wanted a bunch of kids- he had a lot of fun. Mom said no.

    My parents didn’t bat an eye when I would count out three thin slices of hard salami, one small-ish kosher dill pickle, and a cut up carrot, and take that with me to school as my complete lunch (I’d get a diet soda in the cafeteria). That added up to about 175 calories for an entire day. I rarely ate breakfast, and we’d (mom, dad, and I) would share a 15 oz can of ravioli, Hamburger Helper, or a box of mac & cheese- with the expectation that we’d have leftovers from the boxed meals. Mom bought that food.

    Teachers at school noticed when I’d start to crater, but if they said anything that got back to my dad (principal at the school), I’d be told to always say I was “fine”. One English teacher, bless her, gave me a depression questionnaire, and took the results to my high school guidance counselor, who had been a neighbor at one time. I’d known him and his family since I was two years old. Dad was furious. I was allowed to drop physics, since I had 8 classes with Driver’s Ed, so no lunch break- and dad was fine with that. He demanded it so I could graduate a full year early. I did manage to bail after the first semester of my Senior year- and was so glad to be rid of that place. I hated high school, and thankfully don’t remember a lot of it. I remember names, and a bit more about people I saw away from school. But for the most part it’s a 3 1/2 year stain on my life aside from some people. I later contacted that English teacher after dad died, and told her that I remembered her kindness, and thanked her for trying to help me. She had been transferred to a different school after her ‘intervention’ with me- and I felt so guilty.

    Food was an expense to dad. He had no concept of what made up normal eating, though his mom was a great cook and baker (from Sweden), and his father had gardens of organic veggies every year. He just knew that if something was filling and tasted good, that was enough. The nutritional aspect and how that relates to health wasn’t considered. He didn’t want to spend money on something he saw as a waste. Nutrition/malnutrition be damned.

    They were both on constant diets. Dad’s ‘go-to’ was bananas and yogurt until his pants fit as he liked. Mom went to every ‘diet club’ and tried every stupid diet on the planet- Weight Watchers, Diet Workshop, cabbage soup, just cabbage with either soy sauce or taco seasoning on it, and dragged me along to one of those “fitness” places where they’d strap in to some contraption that made every last ass in that place look like a 3-D seismograph. It was appalling to a 8 year old. It’s still appalling when I remember those quaking asses.

    Mom started to bribe me to lose weight when I was in 2nd grade (6-7 years old)… a buck for each pound, and then the schizoid large bag of CANDY for every 5 pounds. I wasn’t remotely overweight at that point. She wanted a ‘greyhound’ like skinny kids at church. I’m more of a golden retriever in my natural body type- not the one forced on it by a mom who was too terrified to have a kid with ‘defects’, presumably because she was afraid I’d be taken away. Later, in my teens, she’d weigh me before figure skating lessons, and if I didn’t weigh what she wanted me to weigh, she’d refuse to pay for lessons. Skating was my escape- so I’d run around the neighborhood to sweat off the weight. It was a recipe for a life of eating disorders. She was never as interested in me as she was when I was on a diet. She’d whip out her wallet so fast it was like time travel. Steak for the diet? No problem. Eating grapefruit and eggs for 2 weeks – no issue. Until I started to fall apart from starvation.

    I didn’t look like I had eating issues. Nobody knew what was going on at home. Nobody knew that I needed to be rescued from her. Nobody knew that we were all malnourished in that house- and it would be decades before I learned of the Minnesota Starvation Study by Dr. Ancel Keyes (he later became a total douche with lies about saturated fat and heart disease…. there is NO link; he lied with his own research). That study explained everything about what lack of nutrition does to thinking. And I’ve been in that head space for over 55 years.

    My folks were struggling with their own self-worth, and that was compounded by the grief over two newborns. Mom never seeing them was a travesty and fit with the view at the time that they weren’t gong to live, so don’t get attached (as if pregnancy hadn’t done that already). I was damaged by their views on food- but I don’t think it was malicious. It was very misguided, but I still think they were mostly good parents, and decent people.

  • Waves of Grief and Anger

    Waves of Grief and Anger

    Photo: Mine

    Even though I fully understand that the manipulation and emotional control measures used by my ex-therapist is her pathological shit, it still deeply impacted me. She doesn’t seem to feel remorse about much, and sent me a message saying she hoped i didn’t turn all of the crap she threw at me against myself. WTF? She KNOWS my history of poor attachment and abandonment, and it seems her ‘kindness matters’ schtick is reserved for those who pay for it. I ran out of money, so my former therapist ran off for greener pastures, resulting in a month going by between calls, and always with some reason that didn’t stand up when she said what else she’d been doing. I’m guessing, based on 3 1/2 years of hearing various things from her, that she’s got more patients that are ripe for the squeezing (of parents’ bank accounts). God help them.

    I’m still dealing with the grief of not being a success story with that particular therapist, but still hoping that I can do what so many have done, and do it with YouTube videos and the books by those whose channels I prefer. I’m still struggling a lot with what I see in the mirror, and to justify feeding that thing, but at the same time, I know I have to eat enough to stay out of acute renal failure. Chronic kidney disease from poor perfusion (related to decades of inadequate fluids, food, blood pressure, and heart rate) is lousy enough with the protein restrictions.

    I’m grieving the person I saw early on in this fiasco, who WAS very attentive, kept in fairly regular contact, went above and beyond a few times when I was sick, or my blood sugar tanked and I was having trouble keeping it up, etc. That person was gone in January 2023. I completely understand that contact lessens with more stable intake and coping with the hell of learning to eat, but then don’t say that a call is coming when the schedule is already booked.

    Don’t tell me about multiple (odd) medical issues, that aren’t taken care of, but while being “too ill” to even phone me, she’s off to London to see a patient, off to Canada to see a patient, assessing patients in various parts of Europe, attending conferences in Macedonia, and moving countries again… if she’s so damn sick, she’s certainly not slowed down by it.

    When I’ve had medical issues come up, I’d send screenshots of lab work or test results. I can show proof of what is going on. I’ve had multiple chronic disorders since 1995, with pain, dysautonomia, fibromyalgia, epilepsy that was diagnosed in 1986, degenerative disc disease, degenerative joint disease, SI joint inflammation, gout, diabetes, kidney disease, and something I’m forgetting. The epilepsy diagnosis was ‘fine tuned’ diagnosis in about 2005 or so, with a 5 day video EEG that showed increased risk of seizures in the first stages of sleep- however I end up there… bed, low blood sugar, dysautonomia. There have been numerous times when what she told me about her medical stuff, or her daughter’s just hasn’t made sense. She’s not stupid, but I’m not sure if there was some misunderstanding from what the docs told her, or what. But 35 yrs of being an RN, with 20 of that working in various types of nursing (heavy on the ortho and neuro, as well as general med-surg), I can sniff out a skunk fairly well. But it could be that not being a medical person, it was a misunderstanding. All I know is that shit didn’t make sense.

    I’ve been doing fairly well with getting food in to meet minimums with macros, and have for a while. I’ve also been using Liquid IV, in order to get enough sodium to keep my BP up (check with your doc before manipulating electrolytes, protein, fat, and carbs for your particular situation). Today, I even managed an apple-cinnamon bagel (scary) with some cream cheese and apple butter, and really liked it. It’s hard for me to say I like something, because my head insists that means I’m going to go nuts and eat an entire package. I was stuffed after that ‘normal’ (not massive) sized bagel and toppings- but I also know that it’s something that is filling, tastes good, and even though I was apprehensive, I got it down without a lot of inner dialogue about eating it.

    Individually portioned products are also helpful, and feel safer (depending on what it is). And I’m trying some new things here and there, even if just a bite or two. I do like to try new things, but it’s still scary. Food shouldn’t evoke that kind of emotion. It’s simply a fuel to get my body through the day, as well as repair damage from decades of under-eating.

    I am angry at the load of crap I was fed during the love-bombing, and believe none of it at this point. It all seems like one big scam. I feel so stupid for sticking around as long as I did. I think that by not having consistent contact, it’s supposed to make me more appreciative of any crumbs of attention she gave me, but I don’t operate like that. If someone doesn’t do what they say they will, I back off, and take notes. When the BS outweighs anything useful, I don’t let the door hit me in the ass on my way out. And I don’t think she gives a shit that she made things worse. She implied some kind of medical issue that was bad, but in her usual manner, she chooses words wisely that could be interpreted in multiple ways, including pure BS. If she really is sick this time, I don’t wish her any ill will. But I doubt everything she says now. Hopefully, the messages in the archived section of WhatsApp will stay quiet.

    I also hope that my head calms down about this. She’s really not worth being upset about, and yet the waves of anger and grief still pop up. Writing helps. So, I write.