THE 'GUIDELINES'
The system designed to provide treatment to eating disorder patients ticks the boxes from a scientific perspective but theoutlined guidelines fail to be guided by the evidence that is an individual's and family's experience and history. The 'guidelines', in fact, totally miss the individual as they become reduced to their mental illness that exists only within an outdated textbook. The lack of this critical component is detrimental to those who suffer chronically from an eating disorder. Whilst the system continues to 'not work' time and time again, it is time and time again that the same guidelines are enacted. The outcome? AN admissiOn enteREd to save a life leads to an eXIt with the deAth of a soul.
I cried when they told me I had to be tubed then as they forced it down my nose then when they told me it wouldn't go down because even my throat had become too thin then as I tightly squeezed my mother's loving hands as they inserted the child-sized tube, desperately sipping the Coke Zero she bought me because we've learnt that it's the only thing that dilutes the distinct taste of its rubber (though nothing can completely erase the sensation), the one that lingers so fiercely that it can be tasted in my mouth if I so much as think of it. I cried the day I walked into the maximum security doors of the mental health hospital. Sitting in my wheelchair, I looked behind me, my heart burning with the increasing premonition that I was walking into another loveless institution confined by walls of fear and saw the doting eyes of my father, his understanding expression, his head nudging the way it does when he says that no matter how bad it is, he'll be with me every step of the way. That night, I cried until my fatigue outgrew the strength of the endless tears leaking from my eyes. It was with the promise of knowing I would see my father in the morning that I could persevere through the black cracks splintering my once whole heart. I cried those times and many others before, between and after, but I cried the most the day they told me they were taking me far away from them where the visitless times to come would be week-long, fortnight-long. I cried the most that day and every day since because without them, breaking becomes broken, lonely becomes alone and lost becomes nowhere to be found.
I recall one haunted midnight hour, the chilling voice of an elderly woman sleeping beside me in my two-bed bay. She whispered ever-so-softly 'Are you okay darling?' to which I responded with my answerless answer of continued trying-to-be-silent weeps because my answer was that Jenny, darling, I've never been more un-okay.
The distance tortured us. The distance struck a knife to our hearts and twisted it. The distance took all that makes us whole until we became bits and pieces. The distance traumatised me, the little lamb who had seen it all... fool-proof addicts in forgotten rooms receiving deathly scowls from unknowledgeable clerks lurking within their unknowledgeable chambers.
The 'guidelines' allowed that.
The 'guidelines' said it was 'best practice'.
The 'guidelines' said it would help.
The 'guidelines' said I'd come out 'better'.
The 'guidelines' don't listen to beggars for we begged and begged and begged.
Throughout childhood my biological father liked outshining me, preventing me from feeling like I had talents of my own. I didn't feel I deserved friends or kindness because I was bullied. I didn't feel I deserved apologies because I was always to blame. And I didn't feel I deserved to take up space because I was incessantly belittled, left only to feel small. These combining factors of exclusion, inadequacy and low self-esteem led to the manifestation of my eating disorder and multiple aspects of the hospital experience re-enforce those same emotions and experiences.
My parents always expect that a hospital admission will result in an outcome of mental change when in reality, its succession lies within immediate physical change. And when time and time again, this expectation is placed upon me, the pressure leaves no space for me to hold that hope for myself, filled only with the fear of the expectation itself. So far, my hospital admissions haven't resulted in an outcome of mental change, which coupled with the expectation placed upon me has led me to conjure within myself a deep-rooted, overbearing and complex sense of shame about where I'm still at.
I have spent most of my life feeling out of place as a result of my personality, morals, interests and maturity not aligning with the majority of my cohort. I felt more accepted by older souls, thereby my only sense of acceptance was found among my family, parents and my parents' friends. My childhood led me to be very insecure within myself. To this day, my default presumption is that I won't belong, outlining the severe prevalence of this fear in my present-day life. Eating disorders are still very misunderstood. Whilst there is room for that, it can only be deemed as an understandable misunderstanding for so long before it crosses over the line into blatant ignorance, rudeness and judgment, all things that I have often faced throughout my treatment. I have faced it from doctors who have labelled me as 'incurable' and 'treatment resistant'. I have faced it as nurses have told me I am 'difficult', painting me out to be dramatic during my struggles with anorexia. I have faced it as GPs have told me eating disorders are not mental illnesses. Growing up, every time I felt out of place, a piece of me died. So whilst the hospital saves my life, I am butchered as the vulnerable wounds of my childhood are exposed.
At the hands of an emotionally manipulative, borderline sociopathic and abusive family member, I craved control to an extreme extent from a young age. Expectations of reaction, validation of feelings and a predictable presence were constantly lacking. My prolonged case of anorexia has been largely defined by this thirst for security and in hospital, I've only ever been ripped from the very things that make me feel the most secure... my family, my rights and my ability to make decisions. Though the Mental Health Act claims to take into consideration the desires, preferrable treatment methods and perceptions of the said person and their family members, in my previous admission, it was entirely overlooked. Having my voice ripped from me is one thing, but it was especially devastating when my parents and I realised that even their views of what was to happen to me next, who would do what to me next, where I would be hospitalised next or what challenges I could endure next were not considered.
I think one of the most difficult things about life is when you can see and understand why something is happening to you and simultaneously hate that it is with every bone in your body. I am more homesick than I knew it was possible to be and as the days go on, the sadder I become. So I hold onto the promise of one day being home, for it is the one love I spend my sleepless nights dreaming of.
Kisses,
COS x
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