In the last couple of days I’ve bumped into a few people who look at me, their faces sinking into a look of deep sympathy and compassion, often paired with the glistening of tears in their eyes.
Righto-o, I think. This fella is a popyarns follower.
That’s the thing. I’ve hidden all this disclosure from no one. Initially in status sharing, I’d screen it from certain someones. But then the whole “honesty is key” approach in my posts made me realise I can’t pick and choose who reads. They (you? I don’t know) do. So off came the blockages and the filters, and popyarns was a free for all. I stopped dithering over who was reading. In fact, I didn’t even let myself consider it. Who reads reads, I thought. Unless they contact me, I have no clue. Share and feel no shame. (Though the panic attacks in the middle of the night doubting what I’ve done in admitting all this still occur about three times a week. Thank The Lord for Rescue Remedy eh?).
I need to disclaim here; my intention is in no way a bid for pity or for people to feel sorry for me. Absolutely, positively, in no way even incrementally. It is purely an outlet that helps me, other people, and (I hope) provides insight/entertainment/material to browse through at leisure. It is not an attention seeking attempt (though I do love attention when it’s not in such circumstances); it is more the first step of recovery.
What you must also realise is that the boo-hoo blogs of the last two weeks that have everyone all concerned (bless you for this; the messages of worry for my wellbeing really do touch my heart) are not new to me. Rather, this is how I’ve been living for the majority of the last decade. Day in, day out. Before being away (I’m sorry, I hate to be one of those people that name drops exotic locations and travels but I just can’t help it) and having a taste of life away from the entrenchment of Ed, such living was normality. I taught myself to function perfectly adequately, even probably better than when I was feeling fantastic, because, well, I didn’t really have a choice now did I?
Every morning had me lying in bed, listing all consumed the previous day and adding up calories. The resulting maths would directly impact my internal mood from there. Skinny day? I was elated and ecstatic from within. “Fat” day (the more common go)? Bubbly and burbly on the outside, but falling to pieces on the inner.
I forget that people that don’t really have an inkling of what it’s like to have old Eddy don’t know this. For the first time ever I’m being as open as a shredded Courier Post bag, but this isn’t new. It’s how I’ve been living in my mind since I was 14.What’s new is that I’m sharing it.
Someone asked Deb, “Is this the worst she’s ever been?” and she could only respond, “I actually don’t know. It’s the first time she’s ever opened up about it.”
That’s the thing. I’ve been in far, far darker frames of mind. I’ve had days of dread and despair that make the last wee while seem like a five-year-old’s birthday party full of fairies and candy floss. I’ve just always masked it. Covered it over with a heavy black blanket and glossed it up with glitter. And never ever once admitted the battle raging inside.
I don’t have depression. I’m not manic or bipolar. While they are all cousins from the same family tree and now and then share some relative (golden pun embedded in a metaphoric description, quite chuffed with that) characteristics, I don’t encompass them.
I’m devastated with myself and my body, but I can laugh from my heart at a funny moment, appreciate beauty in my surroundings, find joy in spending time with people I love. The Ed stuff happens around my life, not smashing through it. Granted, at times it may disrupt a pleasant moment, but one of my great skills is detachment; unless the thought is overpowering, nine times out of twelve I can bury it away to agonise over later and be back in the moment.
I write this stuff to offer insight. To people who want to understand, to people who need to understand, to myself. Even if your thoughts are more along the train of disbelief and even ridicule, at least you’re reading an account that makes you feel that way.
I am happy. I can laugh. Life is good; Ed just isn’t easing up as much as I’d hoped. I was too optimistic, I thought I’d changed far more than I had. But my life is beautiful and I’m happy to wake up each day, tough that they may be right now. It’s all candyfloss, it’s just a little bit droopy and stale ATM.
Mate, I’m UltraPop. I just need to re up the anti. And I think I know how (to be cont….).
(Don’t you hate “to be continued?” They have always enraged the fuck out of me. Promise won’t leave this dangling for long).
(Or maybe I will).
(Kidding. I won’t I promise).