Tag Archives: Mental Health

Weekly Diary

Weekly Diary #10

Happy new year, everyone! I hope you all enjoyed the holiday season!

I celebrated Christmas with my mom and even though we spend a week together in my tiny 30 sqm apartment, we still don’t hate each other. In fact, I had very relaxing holidays spent with the classic Christmas activities like baking, cooking, going for walks, and playing board games. But my favorite tradition of ours is comparing all the horoscopes for the new year we can find in women’s magazines.
As a new tradition, I also did a small Tarot reading every morning after breakfast. And even though I’m still very new at this, I strongly believe that the cards never lie. So I wasn’t really surprised when the cards I pulled matched the horoscopes for 2022 I read later that week. It was the same for my mom. The cards already announced the important turning points that we know will come up eventually.
In my case, there will be one critical change in my professional life, and I have to admit that I’ve been dreading this moment, I still am. I guess that’s why I’m really reluctant to write my thesis and why I kept procrastinating for years. I’m so fucking scared of what comes after, I just don’t want to face it.
Another big change will hopefully be in my relationships. I really love cats, but it’d still be nice to have someone in my life who I can state as an emergency contact.

When I started writing this post, the first week of January was already over. It’s hard to believe that we’re already two weeks into the new year. I feel like the last two years didn’t even happen. But I guess I’m not alone. It’s so hard to believe that it’s been only a few months since I went to a different party or rave every couple of days. I barely slept. And now, I’m sitting here sipping my lemon water, celebrating that I haven’t had a drink in two weeks. Though I have to admit that I’m only sticking to Dry January right now because there’s no red wine at my place. And I’m not in the mood for white wine, it doesn’t go as well with my outfit today nor with the French playlist I’m listening to this evening. It’s all about the aesthetics. By the way, that’s why I started smoking in my early twenties. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I blame my mom. We watched so many movies from the Golden Age of Hollywood together, so of course I wanted to have my own collection of cigarette holders. Also, I did a photoshoot last week where we had to include a cigarette just to add a little lasciviousness. I might pick up smoking again. Or maybe I just try to get some of these chocolate cigarettes we had as kids.

Isn’t it crazy that these were targeted at children? Makes me think of the vintage ads praising the benefits of alcohol, such as the nourishing qualities for babies. And in case you were wondering, you can still get chewing gum cigarettes. Apparently, they even produce smoke. I will definitely test them. But apart from my desire to look like a glamorous movie star, I’m enjoying getting a little healthier.

When I started writing this post last Sunday, the moon was in Pisces. And I was rather emotional as well. So I didn’t really take care of myself, and I haven’t in a while. I still have to force myself out of bed, let alone do a workout. Though I’m slowly getting better at that, thanks to a fitness app with short, scheduled workouts, and thanks to a YouTube video reminding me that I have to practice self-care in order to attract positive things in life. It made me realize how poorly I’ve been treating myself in the past, not to say as long as I can think. In addition to that, I never took time to heal from any sort of physical or psychological, or emotional trauma. Instead, I used very unhealthy coping mechanisms and just kept going.

I’m not gonna lie, realizing this sucked. It even had me paralyzed for most of the week because I suddenly got stuck with all the negative thoughts and emotions I’ve been bottling up for so long. Besides, it’s really hard to break well established thought patterns. And so I just had a few days where I felt like a waste of space and absolutely unworthy of anything. Fun side note: Even my therapist seems to be a little stumped and doesn’t know what to do with me. She keeps asking me what kind of treatment I think would be best for me. I guess she’s trying to be considerate, but quite frankly, I’m not going to see a professional just to write my treatment plan myself. And these past days, thinking of my therapist’s overwhelmedness just added to my down spiral. It’s come to the point where I’m not even sure if therapy is helpful for me. At least so far, it hasn’t really made a difference for me whether or not I talk to a stranger about my feelings. Most of the time, I just feel reassured that my perception is right, even when a therapist (I’ve had a few) disagrees with me. And except for me second-guessing myself and wondering if I’m a narcissist, that doesn’t do much. I’ll still stick to it though. I mean, you never know.

But now, I have a real resolution for this year. Besides working out regularly and finally finishing my studies, I want to cultivate a positive mindset. No more talking myself down. And I challenge everyone reading this to do the same. Raise your vibrations and stuff.

The good news is that Mercury is in retrograde again, until February 3. This is the perfect time to reflect on yourself, your relationships, and how you go about life. Despite having a bad rep, Mercury retrogrades are actually a great opportunity to take a breather and to focus on what is really important or what needs to change. What energies do you want to attract, what brings you further in life? During this first Mercury retrograde of the year, we can set our intentions for the months to come. (And if you have to get back with your ex, be sure about your Why.)

So take it easy, be kind to yourself, do what makes you happy. And have the best year ever!

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Mental Health

My slow recovery from bulimia

Let me start this post by saying that I’m fucking proud of myself. I’m proud because the last two days, I resisted the urge to binge and purge – something that I’ve not yet managed in the past.

Normally, I would allow myself one sick ‘cheat day’ and then start over again, trying to let more and more days pass between each episode. And even though I have come a long way from pretty much not keeping any meal down to just purging every one to two weeks, I haven’t yet been able not to binge. Until this week.

Imagine me being pretty emotional while I’m writing this down. I reached a milestone, despite everything else I have going on right now. It’s weird because I really don’t have the feeling that my depression is getting any better.

Just this morning, I thought of the sleeping pills I was taking for a while back in Paris and how I could have easily overdosed. But I’m a coward, and I wouldn’t want to end up as a vegetable, or leave earth leaving a disfigured body. And so I find comfort in looking at very dark-humored memes on r/depression_memes like this one here 👉

But maybe the good thing about depression is that I give significantly fewer fucks about anything, including my weight.

Actually this week, I hit the 60 kg (130 lbs) mark. A couple of years or even months ago, I would have been devastated. Since I was a teenager, I knew that I definitely wanted to keep my weight below 60 kg. At first, I was happy with 59,5 kg. But then of course, I started thinking less was better. And in just a year, I reached around 46 kg (102 lbs). For reference, I’m 1,79 m (5’11”) tall. I remember back then, at the age of 16, I kept thinking that it was impossible to keep this going until I’d be 60. I thought that only once I got old, I could allow myself to gain weight, or “get fat” how I’d call it. As it soon turned out, I didn’t have to maintain this low weight for long after all, since of course, my doctor and family got more and more alarmed. My supportive family compared me several times to the victims of the Holocaust.

And even though I never received proper treatment, I managed to gain weight. It was a relief that I was given the permission to, since I didn’t give it to myself, and I also thought that I could lose any extra weight just as fast. The only problem was that, as soon as I had stopped only eating 800 kcal a day, I couldn’t go back to it. It was too hard. (Btw, even back then, I never understood how some people could restrict themselves to only 400 kcal a day. 800 was already super difficult for me. But I was also scared of eating cotton balls.)

However, I wasn’t happy with the way I looked. At age 17 until 19, I had my highest weight so far, which was 63 kg (139 lbs). I felt horrible. Even worse was when people still told me I was skinny when I felt the exact opposite. And then I moved to Paris.

The first couple of months were really hard. I didn’t have my friends around me and, of course, didn’t know the city. It was the first time I lived alone. And without anyone watching me, I started purging every time I thought I’d eaten too much. Quickly, my weight was down to 48 kg (105 lbs) again. During that time, I also started smoking. Mostly because I (still) love the aesthetic of Old Hollywood actors with their quellazaires, but also because I’d read somewhere that smoking can burn up to 300 kcal. So I smoked a pack per day.

In addition to throwing up multiple times a day, it’s not surprising that it took a big toll on my teeth. They’re now paper-thin and so, the only part of my body I’m truly worried about. I never cared about what binging and purging would do to my organs, honestly, I still don’t care that much. But as I mentioned earlier, I wouldn’t want to be an ugly corpse. Nor would I like to lose my teeth while still being alive.

Besides, buying tons of foods to binge on is fucking expensive. All the money I could have saved literally went down the drain. As a “solution”, I started stealing my food, which was super easy. And so, even after a while where my episodes were spaced a little, I quickly was back on purging three times a day.

Eventually, I was caught stealing, fortunately. Who knows how long I would have continued with that lifestyle. But still without proper treatment, I still struggled. The only thing I managed was to reduce the number of episodes. And depending on the circumstances, I was more or less successful with that. During that time, my average weight was around 53 kg (116 lbs), the weight I also have in the two first photos left in the image above. The two photos on the right show how I look now. Funnily, not as drastic of a difference as I would have thought in my teens or early twenties.

Unfortunately, I can’t even tell you exactly what I did to be able to accept myself more. Sure, I’ve seen a few therapists, but I found that talking about my past didn’t do shit to change any toxic behaviors of the present. Besides, none of them were specialized in treating eating disorders. One thing that was very helpful though was that I deleted all the calorie-tracking apps I had on my phone. And yes, at one point, I used more than one. I guess by deleting them, I also unlearned to count them, even though I’ve pretty much known the number of calories of every single food since my teens.

Another thing that helps a lot is that fashion manufacturers have started using stretchy materials. I remember the stiff skinny jeans that would cut off your circulation I used to wear as a teen. You don’t see those around anymore, and it makes being comfortable in my body much easier for me, even though I’m still not thrilled to see my flabby ass in the harsh neon light of a fitting room. But I learned that I have to build muscle to achieve the look I want. And since I’m just not very athletic, I’m already proud when I’m somewhat consistent with my workouts. That probably shifted my perspective from feeling guilty to valuing my achievements more.

Nevertheless, I’m obviously still far away from a full recovery, if that’s even possible. (In my opinion, you carry an eating disorder for life, you just learn to manage it.) I’m still scared of weighing myself or taking my measurements. I’m still not happy about how my body looks. But now, I’m rather focused on getting toned than on being thin, which I still want to be, but not at any cost.

Now, every day I look in the mirror, I see what the drastic weight loss and weight gain have done to my connective tissue and muscles. I feel like I have barely any muscle strength left, I can’t even do one push-up, and my breasts are probably the body part I’m most self-conscious about. They’re very, very relaxed. Yet, I’m aware that recovery takes lots of time, and I’m happy about the smallest step I can take to better health. For now, I’ll celebrate reaching a massive milestone.

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Mental Health

Withdrawal madness

Raise your hands if you’ve been affected by mental health problems.

If your hand’s up, you maybe know that medication can do a great deal – just by giving you the possibility of functioning like a normal human being, you know, people you don’t have a full-blown meltdown when they’re listening to a (semi) sad song.

At first I thought, I’d be fine. Which is the usual approach of a psychologically damaged brain. Better even, I was proven right, since I was doing so much coke that it actually did trick my brain into being happy for another two weeks. But then I stopped the hardcore partying, and I felt like shit after my last “enhanced” night. And being the wimp that I am, I actually considered calling an ambulance when I had the impression that my head would explode (no exaggeration here, it really felt like that), so fun pills or powders aren’t really my thing, even though I love the aesthetics. I mean, Heroine Chic is somewhat to die for. Pun intended.

Anyway, the last couple of days were rough, like really rough. I felt like a Dementor had sucked all will to live out of me. And since I didn’t have a new prescription for my medical approved drugs, I did some self-medication. Spoiler: It wasn’t too efficient.

I honestly thought that my brain had a kind of reset thanks to all the coke. I was under the impression that it understood for once how to react to happy hormones. After my coke adventures, it seemed like everything was normal. I didn’t have a crash, before this day with crazy headaches, I just felt normal. Btw, I still think that micro dosing could be super helpful, so I can’t wait to see where studies are going with this. I’d even offer my services as a guinea pig.

However, since I, like most depressive people, am bad at keeping track of time, I have no ability or patience to plan ahead. Logical consequence, I ran out of meds, but it still took me by surprise.

I’m not great at adulting in general. Actually, I really suck at it. It’s now been the umpteenth time that I ran out of antidepressants without having a new prescription ready to use. And even though I’ve been fine for almost three weeks, I’m now experiencing pretty bad withdrawal symptoms.

Weirdly enough, though, there’s something funny about this situation. Maybe you’ve heard of the podcast The Hilarious World of Depression. The host always asks people on the podcast if they think that depression can be funny. At first, I thought, “What a dumb question”. But now, I find it rather funny when I just start crying without any reason. For example when I went to see my therapist today. You can’t deny the comedy of starting to cry at random questions. In addition to that, my mind is usually all over the place, so I can’t even put two cohesive sentences together. It is hilarious when you think about it. Just think Mean Girls and word vomit.

Anyway, I’ve been pretty emotional this week, Emotional enough to learn that going through self-inflicted withdrawal is an interesting experience. At least that’s how I see it, looking back on how these last couple of days. It started with very apparent body dysmorphia – which I experience constantly, but it got especially intense lately. I found myself and my body just horrible, and it’s safe to say that it was definitely the lowest my self-esteem has been so far. Even when I had a phase where I was fantasizing about chopping off my saggy boobs, my overall opinion of my body was still better. It didn’t help that people confused me with a dude.

I mean yes, I’m freakishly tall, you should probably put me in a museum just to make future parents be aware of the horrible consequences an overconsumption of milk can have, but being asked about my gender still hurts. I mean, it’s being ripped off all my feminine attributes in just one sentence. All that’s left is the freak.

As a natural consequence, I fell back into binging and purging. Even though I had many friends confirming that they very much perceived me in my biological, female identity, I didn’t believe them. So now, I have an appointment for lip fillers which I’m actually looking forward to, and a couple of evenings that I can write down as ‘transformative crying’ in my diary.

To end this post on a positive note, I should probably add the following. A few weeks ago, a friend asked me what I’d do with my life if I could do anything. My reply was “End it”. My demented humor kicked in, and I’m still laughing about my answer when I think back. But now that I have these aesthetic procedures planned, I’m thinking, “Why having all the work done for nothing? This shit is expensive”. So everyone can rest assured that I’ll stick around for a while. Besides, it’s not too long until Halloween, no way I’d miss a chance to scare people with my scary and very bloody makeup.

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Just blogging

This Will Never End Cause I Want More…

Today is one of the days where I wish I was any other person. Or at least not in my head. My day was actually pretty good, I had a good night’s sleep, had a great workout and a nice walk, ran some errands. I also made plans for the weekend (which I usually never do) – I#m going to see some Shakespeare-related performances and am actually really excited about it, even though or maybe especially because I’m usually quite lowbrow. I also received an H&M delivery today, a really cool bomber jacket I can’t wait to wear for the next shooting. So all in all, I would say it was a pretty good day. However, at some time after my workout, I suddenly felt this darkness creeping in. I think it was when I looked at some magazines and one headline I saw claimed that millenials have no money. I quickly read the article (yes, I’m that person who reads articles on magazines without buying them . That’s why I never remember my sources.) The article was depressing. It pretty much said that millenials are doomed because living expenses are constantly rising but wages stay the same. And if that wasn’t enough, one of my favorite bloggers just published a blog post about the change from analog to digital, which made me think of Fahrenheit 451 and that stuff is scary af.
My – let’s call it anxious state of mind – became even stronger on my way back home. On the train, there were two girls next to me talking about some guy they knew who was going to be incredibly successful with some app or whatever. At the age of 17. And my mind immediately jumped to the question of what I hve accomplished so far. Well, nothing, really. And I don’t even know what I wanna do in life. It sounds whiney and annoying, but I wish things weren’t as hard. I wish I just knew what I wanted to do in life instead of looking for something I’m “passionate about”. Or maybe I should rephrase that. I know a few things I’m passionate about, but I don’t know how to turn them into something that’ll make a living. Besides, I get the impression that if you wanna do something creative, you need to have a great set of skills – which I don’t have. It’s a litte discouraging, especially because I’m not really excelling at anything. And no one cares for mediocre. I don’t know if it makes sense to you, but I often feel like life can’t really provide a sense or something that I would want. It just seems too small and insignificant, which makes me feel small and insignfiicant. Because even if you have wealth and anything you wnat, where does it lead you? Basically no where. Because even the most successful people don’t have everything. And so that brings me back to the theory of anti-natalism and is also the reason why I’m listening to Fever Ray and drinking looooots of wine tonight.

 

 

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Mental Health

Ana and Mia

This is probably the hardest post to write. Not only because it’s super personal and kinda heavy, but also because it’s much easier to write about stuff that’s in the past and that doesn’t still affect me. And yet, I wanted to write about this for such a long time, now. Partly because I think that it’ll create a new incentive for me to get better, partly because I think there’s still a stigma around eating disorders and mental health which prevents people to talk about it. In case you didn’t guess it from the title, this post is about my struggle with anorexia and bulimia.

I don’t really know where to begin and this will probably be the most unstructured post you’ve ever seen. I also don’t have any special advice, since I’m still trying to figure things out for myself. (And also, have you ever met someone who actually follows their own advice?)

So why am I posting this now?
To be completely honest, I’m writing this today because I just had an episode. And after 14 years of having eating disorders, it’s just annoying to be some tragic figure who doesn’t find a way out of her dilemma. It’s pathetic. And I feel weak and disgustung.

(If you’re reading this because you’re affected, please don’t take this or anything I’m going to say as a judgement on your condition. I’m just talking about my personal feelings, I’m not judging anyone.)

A psychologist once told me I should consider my eating disorder a disease. Well, I have difficulties doing that, since I feel like it’s in my control to give in or not and that I should be better than that. Except that I’m not. So I have no idea what to do with that information. Besides, it’s been such a long time that I’m dealing with that issue, it’s been more than 14 years.

I remember that when I was 7yo, I already wasn’t happy the way I looked. When I compared myself to my classmates, I found them much prettier. They weren’t as freakishly tall as I was. They also seemed to be more athletic and have nicer features in general. (Btw, this all was way before social media.) I never was the athletic type and since I scrutinized my body in the mirror every night, I noticed that I had ceelulite at a very early age. Sounds unreal, right? However, the dimples I discovered in my butt cheeks back then are still there. After that, my New Year’s Resolution would be to loose weight. However, I never succeeded. I mean, I was a kid and didn’t know shit about nutrition or dieting. And even though I’ve always been physically active, I never got ripped. Instead, I got some very unpleasant memories from when I tried out athletic sports and failed tremendously.

But then, right before my 15th birthday, my family and I made a trip to Italy. I remember flipping through a magazine and reading about this new trend called ‘Homeless Chic’. And apparently Mary-Kate Olsen incorporated it the best way possible. On the drive to Italy, I was reading a fashion magazine and still remember the exact picture, it was Gemma Ward wearing a ripped pullover from Dior. Next to her, Mariacarla Boscono in a similar outift. That day, I decided (!) that after the trip to Italy and all the pasta and pizza, I’d be anorexic.

Now people who say it was the magazine fault, stfu. In fact, do you remember that scene in SATC where Charlotte says that she can’t look at a magazine cover without thinking about her thighs? I absolutely hated it. Of course, the way how we see beauty is influenced by fashion mags and now, social media, but if a photo has that much power over you, there are probably some deeper issues.

In my case, it was the fact that I never felt beautiful or even appreciated. My father told me that he disliked the way I looked and also never took any interest in me, at least not as his child. He also let me know that he thought of me as lazy when I didn’t wanna do my homework or when I came home with a grade that was not brilliant. As for my mom, I could feel her disappointment when it became clear that I’d never be an athlete, nor good at science, especially maths. (She used to excel in both.) And her trying make me become better actually felt more like harrassment than encouragement. In addition to that, my family never had a normal way around eating and I can’t think of a single meal that wasn’t stressful in a way or another. According to what my mom has told me, I had a phase where I refused to eat when I was 3yo and since then, everyone in my family made sure that I ate enough, to the point that I was forced to empty my plate. And if all that wasn’t enough, let’s throw in the snide remarks my parents would make about my friend’s looks, some bullying at school, and a predisposition for depression that seems to run in my family.

I kept the promise I’d made to myself. When I turned 15, I weighed around 53kg (117lbs) for 1,79m (5’11”). A few months later, I went down to 46kg (101lbs), then 43kg (95lbs). One day, at a doctor’s appointment, my doctor pointed out that my state of health was pretty critical. That was when I was 16. The word she used was pathological. Yet, I never went to see a professional. I only had to go to a clinic where they did a couple of blood tests and then told me that my liver values were shit. But that was pretty much it. I never had anyone help me with a recovery plan or anything.

However, after this, I put on weight pretty quickly. I kinda happened automatically after I heard that my father was worried. This detail really annoys me up to this day. Daddy issues defining my life. Classic. And again, pathetic.

When I turned 17, my weight was up to 63kg (139lbs). Side note, the highest my weight had been before was 59kg (130lbs). And that was at a time when my mom let me know that my ass was getting huge and that a classmate said about me that he’d only consider dating me if I’d loose like 20kg (44lbs). In other words, I hated how I looked in that year. My face was puffy, everything felt huge, I didn’t feel like myself at all. So I slowly started loosing weight again, but still wasn’t happy with how I looked. Besides, shopping for jeans was a nightmare that time, my waist size being 30.

And then, I moved to Paris.

Didn’t know anyone there and later went through two rather difficult relationships. It didn’t take long until I was down to 46kg again. My mom came to see me and started to cry, which I found pretty annoying. I don’t know what made me gain weight after that, but slowly, I did and have maintained a weight of 57kg (125lbs), even though not always in a healthy way.

I still haven’t established a normal attitude towards eating yet, and probably never will, at least not completely. I’ve been in therapy a couple of times, not sure if it really helped. However, the number of bulimic episodes has decreased from 5 times a day to around twice a month. That’s at least something. My major motivation right now are my teeth. I know, it sounds sad, but I kinda stopped caring about other people’s feelings and opinions on what I should and shouldn’t do. (Probably because my parents did a great job at ignoring what was going on and especially after I had a friend tell me that the way I looked made her feel uncomfortable.) So yes, it’s about my teeth. Because even though they’re already paperthin, I would like to keep them until after I turn 50.

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