I have always tended to gain weight in periods of emotional difficulty and distress. When I am happy – or, even, just not excessively miserable / stressed / anxious, I maintain without even having to think about it. I’ve been doing a little bit of navel gazing recently because I am genuinely intrigued as to why this is. The brain makes very powerful connections that sometimes we’re not aware of until we start picking at them.
Firstly, and most obviously, “comfort eating” is a thing because of chemical reactions in the brain caused by certain types of food. And, equally, the reason most of us have particular foods that we turn to in times of need is because there is some sort of happy association – possibly with childhood. But I’ve recently started to wonder if, for me, there’s another element to it – which is, on some level I think that being overweight is a safer, happier place than being slim.
When I was growing up I was a plump, clever teenager. I was surrounded by a nice group of likeminded friends and a loving, supportive family. I was bookish and musical. I didn’t really have boyfriends or, indeed, much interest in boys at all until I was quite a bit older. I was happy and fulfilled; I never thought of myself as one of the pretty, popular set but it didn’t particularly bother me. Except, of course, the media (even back then) bombarded young girls with the idea that being slim is the only acceptable aesthetic and so, probably even without really thinking what the outcome would be or why that outcome would be desirable, I dieted. I got thin.
Here’s the kicker though – I don’t think that being thin (and when I was seventeen / eighteen I was actually thin rather than slim) ever made me any happier and, in fact, the constant restrictive eating and the battles with my concerned parents and teachers combined with A-levels and university entrance interviews made life really rather stressful. I started to regain weight.
A few years later, I lost it again. Now I was in my early twenties and at my first job fresh out of university. I worked in a warehouse office, answering phones to delivery drivers (oh, the glamour!). It was a very aggressively male environment. I was young, I was female, I had a habit of dressing slightly provocatively (you can take the girl out of Essex…) and for the first time in my life I found myself the serious object of male attention. Looking back, I think that I was terrified and utterly out of my depth. I constantly felt that I was playing at being the cheerleader when really I wanted to run back to the library and hide. Again, it was not a happy time for me. When I met D and settled down with him, the weight began to creep back on – and I do wonder if, in part, it was my subconscious’s way of saying that I was now “off the market”.
It’s surely no surprise that, if the two main periods in my life when I was slim were both unhappy ones, I might eat not just to make myself feel better in the moment but to maintain a status quo that, on some level, I think will bring me more happiness? I’ve never really thought of that before, but it does make sense.
So how to overcome this? I think my current approach of focusing on the health aspects rather than the aesthetic ones is the right course for now. I also think that I need to ensure that any goal setting is health related rather than predicated on an aspirational dress size. There will be no skinny jeans or bikini hung on the back of the wardrobe door (although, in all honesty, I think I could get down to 8 stone and you wouldn’t see me in a bikini. I have never been comfortable with the idea of essentially wandering round the beach in your underwear. And I never go to the beach. So…)
The most important thing is to be alert and aware. Back when I was doing CBT a few years ago, my absolute favourite phrase was “Hold your stories loosely”. It means that we are all capable of change, of rewriting our own truths. So what steps can I take now to convince my brain to disassociate being slim with being scared and miserable? Answers, as ever, on a postcard!
Showing posts with label CBT. Show all posts
Showing posts with label CBT. Show all posts
Tuesday, 31 July 2018
Monday, 19 May 2014
Mental health awareness week - my two penn'orth
Last week was Mental Health Awareness week, which completely passed me by. It was also British Sandwich week, which, to be honest, I am far more likely to have noticed since I love sandwiches (and don’t tend to keep on top of mental health issues). But I didn’t want it to go completely unremarked upon, especially since the theme this year was anxiety which is an issue with which, sadly, I have had some considerable dealings.
The first time I had a full on anxiety attack I thought that I was going to die. Does that sound melodramatic? It feels melodramatic writing it down like that. But, nevertheless. I became intensely aware of every single function in my body – my heart, pounding, my stomach, churning, I had to concentrate on the act of breathing because if I didn’t I thought I might just stop. I was on a train to York, a journey that I had made a hundred times, and on this occasion the ambient light and noise was almost unbearable. Every sense was heightened to an uncomfortable degree, every limb tingled and trembled. I remember sitting, rigid, eyes closed, and just counting to ten over and over and over again. I had the sense that at any moment I might lose the capacity to understand language but as long as I could count, could remember the sequence of numbers, I still retained basic comprehension and it was all I could think of to do, so I counted and I counted.
When I got home I couldn’t do anything except lie prone, counting and crying. D came and sat with me, but I couldn’t bear for him to talk because the thought that at any minute I wouldn’t be able to understand him was overwhelmingly frightening. I tried to sleep but was too edgy and the dark held too many unnamed terrors. The next day, a Saturday, I phoned NHS Direct and wept down the phone at the poor lady who told me to go to A&E where a nice doctor gave me some betablockers to try and ease the physical symptoms. To be honest, she could have given me Smarties – at that point I just needed the comfort of seeing a medical professional and receiving the tacit reassurance that I wasn’t about to keel over with an advanced case of Death.
The trouble with anxiety attacks is that once you’ve had one you live with the constant fear that it will happen again, although nothing since has ever compared to that first experience. As I have got more used to them I have found that I can recognise the symptoms fairly early and, for the most part, actually talk myself down before sheer blind panic takes hold. When it comes to anxiety issues, knowledge really is power.
Even now, having experienced it first hand, I am slightly doubtful about the ease with which the terms “depression” and “anxiety disorder” get used. Like my mother before me, I am a natural born worrier with a tendency to fret about little things – this is not an anxiety disorder. Having a stressful time at work and coming home and bursting into tears over a stiff g&t is not depression. Sometimes we need to recognise our normal emotional reactions for what they are – no more and no less.
That said, if anxiety is taking over, if the thought of getting out of bed is just too much to cope with (bed being a designated safe place) then help needs to be sought. The right doctor is a very important part of the solution, so I would always encourage people to make sure that they are comfortable with their GP – and if they are not, request another doctor. You need to be prepared to be honest and raw with them so a rapport is crucial. Equally, medications – the effects and side effects can vary massively from person to person so don’t be afraid to ask to try different ones after an appropriate bedding in period – I went through four or five before settling. Talking therapies can be a great help and are available, as far as I know, in most health authorities, although the waiting list can be significant. A lot of doctors will recommend CBT for anxiety issues, and it can be helpful, but again, a lot of it will be to do with your relationship with the practitioner – the first time I tried CBT it did nothing for me at all. As an alternative, Helen Kennerley’s book “Overcoming Anxiety” was recommended to me by several people, so might be worth checking out while you wait for a referral, or decide whether CBT is the right kind of treatment for you.
Finally, I thought I would mention in passing (it being pertinent to the blog) the now pretty well established link between obesity and mental health issues. The direction of causality does not seem to be confirmed – i.e. no one is sure whether being depressed make you fat or being fat makes you depressed or if the truth lies somewhere in the middle. In my experience it is very, very natural to want to self medicate with food and drink when you’re going through something like this; when Outside is just too big and scary then wine and Kettle Chips on the sofa are comforting and safe. But they’re false friends - I know from bitter experience that if I eat well and get regular exercise then I am less vulnerable to those anxiety demons. And I think there is some comfort to be found in the ritualistic side of planning meals and concentrating on nourishing your body in order to soothe the mind.
For more information – or rather, for information, since I don’t flatter myself that my own ramblings count for very much at all in this particular field, the mental health foundation website can be found here. No one should ever have to suffer this alone when there are resources and people out there to help.
The first time I had a full on anxiety attack I thought that I was going to die. Does that sound melodramatic? It feels melodramatic writing it down like that. But, nevertheless. I became intensely aware of every single function in my body – my heart, pounding, my stomach, churning, I had to concentrate on the act of breathing because if I didn’t I thought I might just stop. I was on a train to York, a journey that I had made a hundred times, and on this occasion the ambient light and noise was almost unbearable. Every sense was heightened to an uncomfortable degree, every limb tingled and trembled. I remember sitting, rigid, eyes closed, and just counting to ten over and over and over again. I had the sense that at any moment I might lose the capacity to understand language but as long as I could count, could remember the sequence of numbers, I still retained basic comprehension and it was all I could think of to do, so I counted and I counted.
When I got home I couldn’t do anything except lie prone, counting and crying. D came and sat with me, but I couldn’t bear for him to talk because the thought that at any minute I wouldn’t be able to understand him was overwhelmingly frightening. I tried to sleep but was too edgy and the dark held too many unnamed terrors. The next day, a Saturday, I phoned NHS Direct and wept down the phone at the poor lady who told me to go to A&E where a nice doctor gave me some betablockers to try and ease the physical symptoms. To be honest, she could have given me Smarties – at that point I just needed the comfort of seeing a medical professional and receiving the tacit reassurance that I wasn’t about to keel over with an advanced case of Death.
The trouble with anxiety attacks is that once you’ve had one you live with the constant fear that it will happen again, although nothing since has ever compared to that first experience. As I have got more used to them I have found that I can recognise the symptoms fairly early and, for the most part, actually talk myself down before sheer blind panic takes hold. When it comes to anxiety issues, knowledge really is power.
Even now, having experienced it first hand, I am slightly doubtful about the ease with which the terms “depression” and “anxiety disorder” get used. Like my mother before me, I am a natural born worrier with a tendency to fret about little things – this is not an anxiety disorder. Having a stressful time at work and coming home and bursting into tears over a stiff g&t is not depression. Sometimes we need to recognise our normal emotional reactions for what they are – no more and no less.
That said, if anxiety is taking over, if the thought of getting out of bed is just too much to cope with (bed being a designated safe place) then help needs to be sought. The right doctor is a very important part of the solution, so I would always encourage people to make sure that they are comfortable with their GP – and if they are not, request another doctor. You need to be prepared to be honest and raw with them so a rapport is crucial. Equally, medications – the effects and side effects can vary massively from person to person so don’t be afraid to ask to try different ones after an appropriate bedding in period – I went through four or five before settling. Talking therapies can be a great help and are available, as far as I know, in most health authorities, although the waiting list can be significant. A lot of doctors will recommend CBT for anxiety issues, and it can be helpful, but again, a lot of it will be to do with your relationship with the practitioner – the first time I tried CBT it did nothing for me at all. As an alternative, Helen Kennerley’s book “Overcoming Anxiety” was recommended to me by several people, so might be worth checking out while you wait for a referral, or decide whether CBT is the right kind of treatment for you.
Finally, I thought I would mention in passing (it being pertinent to the blog) the now pretty well established link between obesity and mental health issues. The direction of causality does not seem to be confirmed – i.e. no one is sure whether being depressed make you fat or being fat makes you depressed or if the truth lies somewhere in the middle. In my experience it is very, very natural to want to self medicate with food and drink when you’re going through something like this; when Outside is just too big and scary then wine and Kettle Chips on the sofa are comforting and safe. But they’re false friends - I know from bitter experience that if I eat well and get regular exercise then I am less vulnerable to those anxiety demons. And I think there is some comfort to be found in the ritualistic side of planning meals and concentrating on nourishing your body in order to soothe the mind.
For more information – or rather, for information, since I don’t flatter myself that my own ramblings count for very much at all in this particular field, the mental health foundation website can be found here. No one should ever have to suffer this alone when there are resources and people out there to help.
Friday, 17 January 2014
Food for Thought: CBT and weight loss
It’s been a while now since I finished my sessions with Earnest Ross and I have been meaning to commit some of my thoughts to virtual paper ever since, but life and Christmas and travelling and all sorts of things got in the way.
It has not escaped my notice that since September I have been on the most sustained and successful weight loss drive in the history of this blog. Not quite the history of Seren – I’ve achieved the nirvana of goal weight a couple of times – but unlike these other occasions I am relaxed, I have eaten out, been on holiday and generally tried to make dieting (I hate that verb but it is the most appropriate in the circumstances) a part rather than the focus of my life.
Now this could be down to a number of things. But I do think it is, in no small measure, down to some of the work that Earnest Ross and I did.
I believe that people who are overweight often fall into one of two, very broad, categories. There are those for whom nutrition and the actual calorific worth of food are something of a mystery – who genuinely do not know that the whole pizza that they eat for supper contains a day’s worth of calorific content. Then there are those for whom food and drink are weapons and armour against stress, misery - generally, any negative emotion. These people know full well the calories in that pizza and they eat it anyway. And I, and I think many of the people who read this blog, fall firmly into the latter fold.
Now there are many lessons to be learned about identifying the cycle of emotion, thought and action that lead to people making these destructive decisions. And we talked a lot about self compassion and the strength and conviction it takes to practice it. But, for me, the thing that really stayed with me is something Ross said in one of our later sessions.
He said: “We need to hold our stories loosely.”
I love that phrase. I love the idea of holding my stories loosely. The stories of my past. The fact that I have always been “the fat girl” in my head and the sad floundering when I wasn’t, physically, her anymore and didn’t quite know what to do with myself. The stories of disappointments in love, of career paths that didn’t quite wend the way I expected them to, of confounded expectations. They are there, lightly clasped in the palm of my hand, but they none of them define me or my future. I do not have to do what I have always done, or to seek solace where I have always sought it.
And while I am not so naïve as to think that the battle is over and done with, still I feel the most tremendous sense of optimism, especially at the beginning of a brand new year, that by holding my stories loosely it will give me the strength and the freedom to write shiny new ones full of health and hope.
Monday, 23 December 2013
What a difference a year makes
Although the blog entries for this time last year sound quite cheery, I wasn’t really a very happy camper. A bit like a Primark Christmas jumper, the appearance from a distance was festive but, up close, I was a bit sad and bobbly. And for all that I talked about “getting it together” in the New Year, and looking after myself properly, it didn’t really happen.
Being separated was one of the most painful, difficult things I have ever been through. I suppose it is a measure of my very privileged life that I can say that, but there it is. I love my husband very much and felt very bereft and lonely without him. More than that though, I felt like I had failed at being a wife, and, by extension, a woman. Yes, no doubt it looks and sounds melodramatic but, again, there it is.
I hope to do one final post on the CBT sessions I had earlier this year at some point as they came along at just the right time and helped me in a very meaningful way, which was unexpected. Such that, if (God forbid), such a thing were ever to happen again, I feel like I would be far better equipped to deal with it. I feel better equipped to deal with life in general. That has been 2013’s great gift to me – that, and the fact that I have been given a second chance to make my marriage work for which I am deeply and profoundly grateful.
The last couple of months have seen everything begin to come together with regards weight loss (and let’s not forget that is supposed to be the raison d’être of this particular blog) which is wonderful and I hope that success continues into the New Year. But I suspect it is an effect, rather than a cause, of my general sense of contentment and well being.
I certainly don’t think I have all the answers yet – I don’t suppose I ever will – and I think I have further work to do next year, especially with regards balancing all the disparate aspects of my life (journeys of self discovery are all very well, but if they lead to you losing a bit of focus at work then you end up spending the last couple of weeks before the Christmas holidays working very hard to ensure that you are on top of everything, and that eats in to mulled wine time). But, hey, that’s all part of the journey I suppose.
And speaking of journeys, thank you to all of you who have walked alongside me (in a virtual sense) this year for your company. It, you are always appreciated. In case I don’t get the chance to post again before the big day, can I just wish everyone who reads this blog a very, very, very merry Christmas and hope that 2014 brings you peace, joy and plenty of cake.
Being separated was one of the most painful, difficult things I have ever been through. I suppose it is a measure of my very privileged life that I can say that, but there it is. I love my husband very much and felt very bereft and lonely without him. More than that though, I felt like I had failed at being a wife, and, by extension, a woman. Yes, no doubt it looks and sounds melodramatic but, again, there it is.
I hope to do one final post on the CBT sessions I had earlier this year at some point as they came along at just the right time and helped me in a very meaningful way, which was unexpected. Such that, if (God forbid), such a thing were ever to happen again, I feel like I would be far better equipped to deal with it. I feel better equipped to deal with life in general. That has been 2013’s great gift to me – that, and the fact that I have been given a second chance to make my marriage work for which I am deeply and profoundly grateful.
The last couple of months have seen everything begin to come together with regards weight loss (and let’s not forget that is supposed to be the raison d’être of this particular blog) which is wonderful and I hope that success continues into the New Year. But I suspect it is an effect, rather than a cause, of my general sense of contentment and well being.
I certainly don’t think I have all the answers yet – I don’t suppose I ever will – and I think I have further work to do next year, especially with regards balancing all the disparate aspects of my life (journeys of self discovery are all very well, but if they lead to you losing a bit of focus at work then you end up spending the last couple of weeks before the Christmas holidays working very hard to ensure that you are on top of everything, and that eats in to mulled wine time). But, hey, that’s all part of the journey I suppose.
And speaking of journeys, thank you to all of you who have walked alongside me (in a virtual sense) this year for your company. It, you are always appreciated. In case I don’t get the chance to post again before the big day, can I just wish everyone who reads this blog a very, very, very merry Christmas and hope that 2014 brings you peace, joy and plenty of cake.
Friday, 18 October 2013
Food for thought: compassion all round
Earnest Ross and I have been talking about compassion recently. Specifically, the idea of being compassionate towards oneself. It’s the kind of thing that sounds like it should be a no-brainer. But I’ve been shocked by the amount of resistance I’ve felt towards it.
“It feels,” I told him today, “That if I accept the need to be more compassionate to myself then I am giving myself permission to act or behave in a negative way. That I am excusing myself. It feels like weakness and failure.”
But, he countered, is showing compassion always an easy option? To be compassionate is not necessarily to excuse so much as to accept and not apply moral judgments. To be compassionate requires you to face difficult things head on. Nothing easy or weak about that.
Perhaps part of the resistance lies in the fact that we are all programmed to find fat distasteful. Just this week I saw this article on the Guardian website about NICE telling doctors that they should treat overweight people with respect. Exsqueeze me? They have to be told? Doctors, who I fondly imagine to be the most compassionate of people (with the possible exception of nuns), need to be actually told by a clinical institute that fat people should not be sneered at but offered realistic and practical and non judgemental advice? What hope is there for the rest of the society if our medical professionals need to have this spelled out to them?
I have been remarkably blessed in my dealings with doctors. The GPs I have seen in the last few years have been absolutely lovely and supportive and never made me feel as if every little niggle, from a cough to an ingrown toenail, was related to the fact that my BMI was over 30. But I understand that I am in a minority with this experience. Actually, I have been remarkably blessed full stop in that I have never encountered any major discrimination or bullying or unpleasantness related to my size. Perhaps that is one of the reasons that I am so much more critical of myself than anyone else could ever be.
“It feels,” I told him today, “That if I accept the need to be more compassionate to myself then I am giving myself permission to act or behave in a negative way. That I am excusing myself. It feels like weakness and failure.”
But, he countered, is showing compassion always an easy option? To be compassionate is not necessarily to excuse so much as to accept and not apply moral judgments. To be compassionate requires you to face difficult things head on. Nothing easy or weak about that.
Perhaps part of the resistance lies in the fact that we are all programmed to find fat distasteful. Just this week I saw this article on the Guardian website about NICE telling doctors that they should treat overweight people with respect. Exsqueeze me? They have to be told? Doctors, who I fondly imagine to be the most compassionate of people (with the possible exception of nuns), need to be actually told by a clinical institute that fat people should not be sneered at but offered realistic and practical and non judgemental advice? What hope is there for the rest of the society if our medical professionals need to have this spelled out to them?
I have been remarkably blessed in my dealings with doctors. The GPs I have seen in the last few years have been absolutely lovely and supportive and never made me feel as if every little niggle, from a cough to an ingrown toenail, was related to the fact that my BMI was over 30. But I understand that I am in a minority with this experience. Actually, I have been remarkably blessed full stop in that I have never encountered any major discrimination or bullying or unpleasantness related to my size. Perhaps that is one of the reasons that I am so much more critical of myself than anyone else could ever be.
Thursday, 22 August 2013
Further food for thought: More notes from a CBT session
Disclaimer as before:
I wanted to put some notes down about my ongoing CBT sessions, primarily for my own benefit. While sometimes the content may sound fairly negative, these words do not represent my mood for the majority of the time when I am my usual (sort of) cheery self. I hope that some of these observations could prove useful for others who have ever used food or any other substances in a slightly unhealthy way. I am not a medical professional and so if anything here is ringing lots and lots of bells then I would suggest you go and speak to your GP in the first instance. CBT, as well as many other counselling services, are available on the NHS albeit with a waiting list.
For those of you who follow this blog for somewhat lighter ramblings about dieting and dining then do feel free to skip.
The power of the mind is utterly, utterly breathtaking. After a really positive couple of sessions on emotional acceptance, my sneaky brain responded by reverting to past form. A good few years ago I used to suffer regularly from horrible panic attacks which D and I nicknamed “wobbles”. These wobbles had all but disappeared but they have slunk back into the picture over the last few weeks, the little tinkers, and much as I am better at dealing them now than previously (at one stage my preferred method was to take to my bed like a Victorian maiden aunt for days at a time) they are still unpleasant in the extreme. I discussed this with Earnest Ross. He looked very earnest indeed and commented that the brain will go to extreme lengths to protect its sense of identity. If you start to try and unpick that – even the unhealthy bits – it will react. Which is fairly frustrating since I don’t want my sense of identity to be that of a dipsomaniac overeater with a tendency to lose the ability to move from the sofa when things get tough (this, by the way, is a recognised form of distress tolerance called withdrawal – not sheer bloody laziness, although it looks very similar).
The key, it seems, is to work on identifying one’s core values. Once you have those then you can start to identify actions and shape your behaviours in such a way that they contribute to or move towards a life which is built around things that are important to you. It sounds screamingly obvious, but then, so does the idea of being mindful and I know for a fact that it takes a great deal of concentration and effort to live in a consistently mindful way.
My core, it turns out, is pretty people orientated. I instinctively identify my values as being first and foremost based around my family and my relationship – I want to be a good wife, a good daughter, a good sister, a good aunt. I also, somewhat surprisingly, value my professional life highly. I have never thought of myself as desperately ambitious but, on reflection, I do set a lot of store by the fact that I am a professional woman with a job that is as demanding as it is rewarding. I have an idea of where I want to be in ten years and it will require hard work and effort but, with application, is achievable.
So it seems as if I am learning about who I want to be and where I want to go…I suppose that, in itself, is the first step on the road that actually takes me there.
I wanted to put some notes down about my ongoing CBT sessions, primarily for my own benefit. While sometimes the content may sound fairly negative, these words do not represent my mood for the majority of the time when I am my usual (sort of) cheery self. I hope that some of these observations could prove useful for others who have ever used food or any other substances in a slightly unhealthy way. I am not a medical professional and so if anything here is ringing lots and lots of bells then I would suggest you go and speak to your GP in the first instance. CBT, as well as many other counselling services, are available on the NHS albeit with a waiting list.
For those of you who follow this blog for somewhat lighter ramblings about dieting and dining then do feel free to skip.
The power of the mind is utterly, utterly breathtaking. After a really positive couple of sessions on emotional acceptance, my sneaky brain responded by reverting to past form. A good few years ago I used to suffer regularly from horrible panic attacks which D and I nicknamed “wobbles”. These wobbles had all but disappeared but they have slunk back into the picture over the last few weeks, the little tinkers, and much as I am better at dealing them now than previously (at one stage my preferred method was to take to my bed like a Victorian maiden aunt for days at a time) they are still unpleasant in the extreme. I discussed this with Earnest Ross. He looked very earnest indeed and commented that the brain will go to extreme lengths to protect its sense of identity. If you start to try and unpick that – even the unhealthy bits – it will react. Which is fairly frustrating since I don’t want my sense of identity to be that of a dipsomaniac overeater with a tendency to lose the ability to move from the sofa when things get tough (this, by the way, is a recognised form of distress tolerance called withdrawal – not sheer bloody laziness, although it looks very similar).
The key, it seems, is to work on identifying one’s core values. Once you have those then you can start to identify actions and shape your behaviours in such a way that they contribute to or move towards a life which is built around things that are important to you. It sounds screamingly obvious, but then, so does the idea of being mindful and I know for a fact that it takes a great deal of concentration and effort to live in a consistently mindful way.
My core, it turns out, is pretty people orientated. I instinctively identify my values as being first and foremost based around my family and my relationship – I want to be a good wife, a good daughter, a good sister, a good aunt. I also, somewhat surprisingly, value my professional life highly. I have never thought of myself as desperately ambitious but, on reflection, I do set a lot of store by the fact that I am a professional woman with a job that is as demanding as it is rewarding. I have an idea of where I want to be in ten years and it will require hard work and effort but, with application, is achievable.
So it seems as if I am learning about who I want to be and where I want to go…I suppose that, in itself, is the first step on the road that actually takes me there.
Monday, 5 August 2013
Food for thought: Notes from a CBT session
I wanted to put some notes down about my ongoing CBT sessions, primarily for my own benefit. While sometimes the content may sound fairly negative, these words do not represent my mood for the majority of the time when I am my usual (sort of) cheery self. I hope that some of these observations could prove useful for others who have ever used food or any other substances in a slightly unhealthy way. I am not a medical professional and so if anything here is ringing lots and lots of bells then I would suggest you go and speak to your GP in the first instance. CBT, as well as many other counselling services, are available on the NHS albeit with a waiting list.
For those of you who follow this blog for somewhat lighter ramblings about dieting and dining then do feel free to skip.
Cognitive behavioural therapy involves far less talking about the death of your first pet hamster (RIP Pythagorus) and far more trying to identify patterns of thought and emotion and the attendant behaviours that these provoke. So, before you deal with the negative behaviours – in my case that potent combination of panic attacks and self medicating with cheese on toast and cheap wine – you have to pinpoint the moment when the urge to enact it arises. And then, once you have done that, you can start to identify positive behaviours with which to replace them. Otherwise you are left with gaping voids and black holes and they are never good, except as science fiction plot devices.
For me, one of the hardest things about the past year has been all the empty time. It’s the fact that I can go home from work at five, get back to work at nine the next morning and not have spoken to a soul in between. And I’m not talking about meaningful conversation, just the type of mundane chat with which anyone fills their evening – those thin, glistening threads that connect you to the rest of the world. I start to feel disjointed, faraway. I’m not someone who finds it easy to pick up the phone to a friend so I sit and eventually find myself retreating into the places in my head that are deeper in shadow.
Weekends are the worst for this. Especially those weekends when there is nothing arranged. But, having said that, even some weekends where I have had distractions lined up in the diary I have ended up cancelling them because, buried deep within my lair of duvet, the outside world seems a very distant and frightening place indeed.
And when it comes to filling the emptiness and the silence that is when my old friends and comfort blankets reappear. Some people take succour in music, others in exercise, for me it is the familiar foods and a few glasses of wine to soften the edges of the vast, quiet space.
And so firstly I must learn to sit with the emotions that being in the deep, deep quiet invokes. I must learn to be present with the sense of fear and loneliness, the nagging anxiety that I am unloved and unlovable. We talked about how these emotions could be visualised; as clouds perhaps, or leaves in a stream, or people leaving and entering a room – the point being, of course, that they are transient, that they pass and when they have passed rationality re-emerges and with it an end to the automatic groping for something, anything to help. And then, when the immediacy of the emotions has gone and the urge to act has waned, then you find something else.
One immediate concern of mine was that these behaviours are so deep entrenched as to become almost instinctive reactions – I’m alone, I’m sad, I’m angry – I eat. How can I find the impetus to use these techniques when the first time I’m really aware of what I’m doing is when I’m halfway through a family size bar of Dairy Milk? It’s not easy. We discussed visual stimuli – if using the cloud visualisation, for example, having a picture or a prompt to hand or even just going outside (although the neighbours may wonder what I’m doing standing in the middle of the yard staring up at the sky…) And breathe, breathe, breathe. The most immediate thing you can do to ground yourself is close your eyes and just focus on the process of breathing.
Finally, and I think that this is important; I need to remember that negative emotion isn’t a bad thing in itself. Sometimes, it is a fundamental evolutionary tool – fear, for example, fear can keep us safe. Sadness or anger can highlight for us areas of our life that need work and change. Or they can remind us of how much we love and are loved. They are part of the human condition, and a necessary part at that.
For those of you who follow this blog for somewhat lighter ramblings about dieting and dining then do feel free to skip.
Cognitive behavioural therapy involves far less talking about the death of your first pet hamster (RIP Pythagorus) and far more trying to identify patterns of thought and emotion and the attendant behaviours that these provoke. So, before you deal with the negative behaviours – in my case that potent combination of panic attacks and self medicating with cheese on toast and cheap wine – you have to pinpoint the moment when the urge to enact it arises. And then, once you have done that, you can start to identify positive behaviours with which to replace them. Otherwise you are left with gaping voids and black holes and they are never good, except as science fiction plot devices.
For me, one of the hardest things about the past year has been all the empty time. It’s the fact that I can go home from work at five, get back to work at nine the next morning and not have spoken to a soul in between. And I’m not talking about meaningful conversation, just the type of mundane chat with which anyone fills their evening – those thin, glistening threads that connect you to the rest of the world. I start to feel disjointed, faraway. I’m not someone who finds it easy to pick up the phone to a friend so I sit and eventually find myself retreating into the places in my head that are deeper in shadow.
Weekends are the worst for this. Especially those weekends when there is nothing arranged. But, having said that, even some weekends where I have had distractions lined up in the diary I have ended up cancelling them because, buried deep within my lair of duvet, the outside world seems a very distant and frightening place indeed.
And when it comes to filling the emptiness and the silence that is when my old friends and comfort blankets reappear. Some people take succour in music, others in exercise, for me it is the familiar foods and a few glasses of wine to soften the edges of the vast, quiet space.
And so firstly I must learn to sit with the emotions that being in the deep, deep quiet invokes. I must learn to be present with the sense of fear and loneliness, the nagging anxiety that I am unloved and unlovable. We talked about how these emotions could be visualised; as clouds perhaps, or leaves in a stream, or people leaving and entering a room – the point being, of course, that they are transient, that they pass and when they have passed rationality re-emerges and with it an end to the automatic groping for something, anything to help. And then, when the immediacy of the emotions has gone and the urge to act has waned, then you find something else.
One immediate concern of mine was that these behaviours are so deep entrenched as to become almost instinctive reactions – I’m alone, I’m sad, I’m angry – I eat. How can I find the impetus to use these techniques when the first time I’m really aware of what I’m doing is when I’m halfway through a family size bar of Dairy Milk? It’s not easy. We discussed visual stimuli – if using the cloud visualisation, for example, having a picture or a prompt to hand or even just going outside (although the neighbours may wonder what I’m doing standing in the middle of the yard staring up at the sky…) And breathe, breathe, breathe. The most immediate thing you can do to ground yourself is close your eyes and just focus on the process of breathing.
Finally, and I think that this is important; I need to remember that negative emotion isn’t a bad thing in itself. Sometimes, it is a fundamental evolutionary tool – fear, for example, fear can keep us safe. Sadness or anger can highlight for us areas of our life that need work and change. Or they can remind us of how much we love and are loved. They are part of the human condition, and a necessary part at that.
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