Episode 19 Father Wounds and Eating Disorders..

Episode 19

Healing from My Father Wounds..

Eating Disorders..

Therapy..

Transcript

SPEAKER_00: 0:00

Hello and a huge big Scottish welcome. Sleepless in Grenada episode 19. It's another hot one today. I woke up early and took the dogs down to the river. It's so still and tranquil early morning. The only sound is the distant tinkle of goat bells further up the mountain and the fresh icy cold water as it continues to cascade down from the Sierra Nevada. The river runs faster in the summer due to the snow melt. Isn't that incredible? My dad has been on my mind a lot. We were estranged for many, many years and mum told me on a regular basis to make up with him. You'll regret it one day if you don't, she said. Her words always fell in my deaf ears. He wasn't a good father, nor was he a good husband. I forgave him for that. over 30 years ago when the letter I had written for him went unread. It was still sitting on top of my fireplace when we got the horrific news that he had been murdered. He was only 56 years old. I placed that letter in his coffin. In the letter I poured out all the hurt, the feelings of neglect and abandonment that he had dealt me over the years. I told him in the letter that he was a prick and an arsehole but that he was my arsehole dad and that I loved him and forgave him. Mum had been right all these years and I did regret it. My happy life spiralled out of control. I couldn't cope with life. At that time I was very happily married and had two beautiful young children. It was as if someone had turned the light off in my world. Instead of sunshine and rainbows it was now darkness and mud. These were my normal. I felt I had lost control of all reality. I had no control over anything. My husband and my family were so very worried about me. You see, I developed an eating disorder. In my poor, broken mind, this was the only thing I could control. And that was what I put in my mouth. When I look back at photographs of myself back then, I looked like a lollipop. My head looked huge in comparison to my tiny, starving, skeletal body. but I didn't see any of this at the time. I thought I looked just fine. In despair, my husband made an appointment for me to see the doctor, but instead of telling the truth, I told the doctor I was an alcoholic. I've never been much of a drinker, and I knew the doctor didn't believe me. She did all sorts of blood tests, and when she called me back into her office two weeks later, this time I confessed I had an eating disorder. I knew the blood works would confirm that I had no alcohol in my system and it was game over. She was confused that I had lied to her. I can still see the furrowed brow as she questioned me. I broke down. I told her I felt so ashamed of myself for having an eating disorder and I thought that by saying I was an alcoholic was much more acceptable. I told her the full story about my dad and she was absolutely amazing. She referred me to a team who dealt with eating disorders and twice a week I had appointments with therapists, counsellors and psych doctors for over a year. They became so concerned about me because I would just sit there during the sessions barely uttering a word, eyes fixed on the ground and never, never making eye contact. I rarely completed my homework. All the exercise assignments remained blank. They were becoming increasingly worried about my mental health. I was comfortably numb, you see, and still defiant. This particular afternoon was a different session altogether. My favourite therapist, we'll call her S, sat in front of me. She gently lifted my chin up. I always spent the session staring at the floor. She said, I need you to work with me. Say you agree. I nodded my head. S told me, now close your eyes. You're a little girl. What age are you? I told her, I'm five. She then asked me to describe what I'm wearing. I told her, my red plastic raincoat, matching hat, and my Wellington boots. She then asked me, who's with you? I told her, I'm with my mummy. She then asked, what's your mum wearing? I said, she's wearing her lovely lilac coat and she has a scarf around her head because it's raining. She then asked me to describe what I was feeling. I said, I'm so happy I have mum all to myself today and mum's promised to buy me a comic. This went on and on and on. S now said to me, do you think that the beautiful, happy little you that you've just described, do you think she deserves to be in such agonising pain? I felt a solitary tear escape. I opened my eyes and I screamed. I lifted a chair that was opposite me and I threw it full force across the room as I shouted, if this is fucking therapy, you can stick it up your fucking hole. Just at that moment, two of the other therapists came into the room. They were all clapping and cheering, well done, well done. I headed for the door. They continued to clap their hands. See you next week. They cried out in unison, fuck off, fuck off. I have to add here for clarification, I'm not a violent human, not at all. The opposite, in fact. My throwing that chair was the start of my healing. All my inner child trauma that I had suppressed my entire life. And yes, I did return the next week and the next week after. It was painful and very difficult, but I started healing when I was ready. And six months later, I was discharged. And I had bi-annual and annual visits after that. But I was completely cured. I learned what my triggers were and stopped eating my emotions. I'm a complete foodie, you know, I've always loved food. But in my broken state of mind, it was the best way to punish myself. So many of us self-soothe with love, alcohol, gambling, drugs, work, sex, etc., I've enjoyed a fantastic relationship with food for over 20 years now. Everything I speak about in my podcast is from my point of view and my learned lived experiences. And I'm no way, any shape or form an expert. A woman who had an emotionally absent father, who she couldn't really connect to, who didn't seem at all interested in her, who showed her no love or affection, is much more likely to develop hyper-independence. And she won't be emotionally dependent on people because it doesn't feel safe to trust them. She may end up in relationships with men who are emotionally unavailable to her, who are unable to show up as this reminds her of her father. Unconsciously, she has this fantasy. that if she can fix this man, she'll be fixing her father. And finally, finally, a man will love her and care for her and show up for her in the way that she needs. It's then so very difficult to walk away from the wrong person, to ignore all the red flags, because subconsciously, this would mean giving up on the fantasy of fixing her father. And it would trigger all those feelings of being abandoned by her dad once more. I learned to get in touch with my anger. I learned to get in touch with my pain and my grief. I sat with my feelings of disappointment. It's agonizing, but with help, you too can heal and begin to live your life, really live it. And now a poem. It's an incredible poem by Nikita Gill. In another universe, I met my father when he was a child. We play catch in the woods and as we play he tells me he was never allowed to cry and that sometimes the world hurts him but he doesn't know what to do with all that pain. So I give him the shoulder he needs to cry on and he does until the tears are done. Afterwards I buy him ice cream and listen to his laugh, the glowing warm laugh of a child who knows he is safe. I wish someone could have done that for him. Been a kind, safe place for the child he used to be. Would it have made a difference? Would it have made a difference? Oh, that hit me right in the solar plexus. This was a sore episode. Thank you for listening. I would absolutely love to hear from you. Email me, sleeplessingranada at yahoo.com. Next episode to follow soon.