pressed but not crushed

Yesterday’s hematological checkup was a wake-up call.

You see, all these years hospital visits were just a routine that I make myself go through like a machine. From gynae clinic to medical to psychiatry then back to medical, it was like going to the grocery. I had toughened myself, and truth be told…I did not allow myself to feel any emotion. I didn’t want to be regarded as “weak” anymore, so when most people would feel distressed over health issues – I cannot be like them. I had even desensitized myself to blood tests – take all the blood you want and how many times you want…I don’t care.

And I really thought that I felt fine. Maybe I was – until yesterday.

I could sense that something was wrong when my blood took about 10 minutes to clot from the puncture wound yesterday. It doesn’t help that I only saw the doctor at 1pm which was wayyy beyond the clinic hours. As the doctor began to ask specific questions, and by the look on her face – I knew that something isn’t quite right.

Call it instincts.

My platelets dived 25,000. The counts still weren’t too low, but it was the sharp drop that worries the doctor. Thankfully, I have a doctor who doesn’t really approve steroids as much as possible, and so she gave me the choice – start treatment now (and suffer the side effects) or delay and take the risk. I chose the latter. She told me that as long as it stays above 80k, I might not require treatment. I’m now at exactly 80k…which means I can’t drop by more than 10k I think (or less). Actually I don’t know…10k is still a lot to drop, though not as bad as 25k. Hmmm. Oh boy, I have to go back in three weeks time (supposed to be two…I delayed it). each visit my count will be extremely important – cannot drop beyond 80!!

Really very stressed one lorr!!

After that visit, I finally broke down. All this while…I had ignored the concerned look on even my pastors’ faces. DrA calls that “counter-arrogance”…the feeling that you can take more than others. I didn’t allow myself to feel. This was my chance to show that I’m “stronger” than the rest.

I know the danger of low platelets. I know that only one treatment exists – steroids. I know that I can’t do ice-skating and paint-balling (though I pretty much want to, just to defy doctor’s orders and gain back some control). I know that I’m stuck with needles for the rest of my life unless a miracle happens.

I know the consequences. I just didn’t know that I wasn’t as strong as I thought. I forgot that it’s just human to feel distressed.

Today, I finally “let go”. Still, i tried to cope by making myself busy. The first time that I had allowed myself to face my emotions was in church. The tears just won’t stop flowing. PJK, as sharp as always…preached on facing our Goliaths.

I also wished that I can be happy as ever. Haven’t felt so down in a long time. I hate it when I lose control. Hate it when people see that I’m upset and I can’t hide it. Hate it that I’m “weak”. Hate it so much that I even sms-ed PsK to apologize for breaking down.

Perhaps, there are people who don’t expect me to be all “strong” when the waves do come crashing in. Perhaps, I had put too much pressure on myself to remain calm and happy “in spite of all circumstances”. At that point in church just now, I felt so defeated. PsK gave me a gentle reminder: “Jasmine, do you think that after experiencing breakthroughs…the trials get lesser? No!! They actually get fiercer! You’ve come this far, this is not the time to give up!”

It feels so good to have someone standing by and praying along.

broke down

“So how are you feeling about the diagnosis and everything?” PsK asked over lunch on Tuesday.
“I’m okay. No big deal.” I answered.

I really didn’t think a lot about it. I really thought that I was fine. But somehow I could feel the stress mounting out and waiting to explode – but I didn’t know what to do. I appraised it to the stress of simply being in the hospital, and running around for appointments. I attributed it to the logistics stress.

There were times when the stress took a toll on me, and I really felt like crying. But I still didn’t want to concede. I’ve been “fine” all this while. Too “fine”, in fact…that I didn’t even care to see a doctor when things weren’t looking good. I even smiled when the pastors chided at me for overlooking dire symptoms like massive bruising (up to 15 in two weeks), and having my menses for up to 5 weeks.

To redefine what is “urgent” is a challenge. For years, I didn’t know that I was emotionally handicapped. I thought everything was “normal”. Now that those were solved, I realized that my attitude towards my health has not changed. There was this extreme fear of being misunderstood. I didn’t want people to think that I was exaggerating, or that I’m seeking help because I want attention. I didn’t want them to think that I’m wallowing in self-pity.

Because those accusations are just brutal.

But in the process of being “careful”, I had neglected to look at my real condition. I didn’t really know what to do anymore. I didn’t even know how to tell it to people. I regretted sending the SMS to PsK telling her that my health isn’t doing too good, and to pray. I really believed that I was saying it to “gain attention”, instead of seeking real help.

But you know what – I’m glad I did. I’m glad I told someone about it, because they’re proven to me that they didn’t think of me as an “attention whore”. They saw it as a genuine emergency. I finally knew who cared, and who doesn’t.

I still tend to go too far to the extremes. I’ve waited too long to do something about this.

Last night, I let loose my emotions.

I cried.

I realized how far I’ve got to go to finally love myself.

Not just about self-esteem. Even physical acts.

I try to ignore how fat I think my body looks…I hope it’s working.

Yesterday just before talking to my supervisor, I rubbed (okay, I scratched) my nose and damn it bled. When I felt the blood inside my nostrils flowing, my mind went bonkers. Not here, please. Not in front of my supervisor. Not when I’m just about to discuss my thesis. Not when I have to pass through so many people in the office.

Of course, I was ignored.

My supervisor’s face cringed, perhaps seeing the blood dripping as I helplessly tried to cover it with my hands. Thank God it was just for a short while – I rushed to the toilet with my friends staring with horror. By the time I got to the sink, my mouth was covered with “red ink”. Thank God I wore a dark brown blouse for defense.

I have another problem – I pick on my scabs. I hate it when my wounds heal, and I would pick on it.

And you know what – I never believed that I was self-harming. This goes to show how deceptive all these are. I finally confided with one of my lecturers. At least, I’m not keeping this to myself anymore.

Sigh, I really REALLY need to stop this. =S

Jesus loves me this I know

“…yes, Jesus loves me.
yes, Jesus loves me.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
For the Bible tells me so.”

For some reasons, this has been my favorite song of all time. Forget that it’s a children song – deep within me I knew that it holds such power. But I could never really believe it. And hence, I had never lived in the power that Jesus loves me.

Where is the childlike faith that believes in the love of Christ simply “for the bible tells me so?” Why do we always have to question that simply because of circumstances? Why do we allow abuse or mistreatment by others to take away that simple truth? Why? Why have we come to believe that we are so bad that we don’t deserve to be loved?

I was challenged by one of the lecturers in the faculty to do the empty chair technique (part of Gestalt therapy) on myself. I improvised a little – and took out a cuddly lil girl’s photo of myself, and sang my favorite song over the little girl. And this time, I meant it. I sang it meaning to tell the little girl that Jesus loves her.

It finally started to sink.

What has that little girl done to be rejected? What has she done to be (psychologically and verbally) abused? What has she done to be cast aside?

Nothing.

It wasn’t the little girl’s fault. It was the abusers’ fault.

That little girl deserved to be cuddled, kissed, and stroked. She deserved to be told that she is precious. She deserved the best. And it wasn’t her fault that she hadn’t gotten any.

That same lecturer told me something profound – nobody can reject you if you will now choose to accept yourself. Accept that little girl. I can choose to cuddle and stroke her – metaphorically.

And with that, the little girl in the photo is no longer someone else.

I accepted the little girl as me. I bawled, I teared…but this exercise was just so powerful.

I can be independent. I can grow. And I deserve the best.

Because Jesus loves me this I know.

Dependence

It was one of the hardest session yesterday, in a long while (actually since I terminated with Rachel).

I had absolutely no idea what to expect – all I knew was that it was to investigate on how true the nightmares were…or was it just a dream signifying something else.

I did Gestalt therapy. It was the empty-chair technique.

What happened was I was to imagine myself as a little girl, sitting on top of that empty chair. Right from her age, to the clothes that she wears, to how her hair was tied up, and what she was doing on that chair…

Then I had to talk to her. To ask her how she’s feeling. Ask her why she’s afraid. To tell her that it’s okay, that I’m here. To hug her (which I couldn’t do). To hold her hands.

I’ll be honest – it wasn’t easy. I cried, and cried, and cried. And it didn’t even take long to evoke those tears. Damn, sometimes I do hate gestalt-styles…like psychodrama, and you know those “symbols-kind therapy”. They’re really effective in making you bawl.

At the debriefing, DrA being her…told me that I’m “compliant defiant”. She said that it seems that I want to be dependent on my therapist – doing exactly what she wants me to do and stop there. I won’t go further on my own, won’t take initiatives. To her, it was my way of “staying” in therapy.

I was confused…because I didn’t even think of it as wrong.

I spent the rest of the day thinking, wondering. I know that she’s right in most parts…but why?

And then it struck me.

All these years, I’ve been living under the shadows of my mum.

From the food that I eat to how much I eat, the clothes that I’m allowed to wear, to the way I walk and sit and talk…I live in fear of doing it my own way. Till this day, I find it extremely difficult to buy my own clothes. The first question that I’ll always ask is, “Will Mummy like this?” and then proceed to call her to describe as best I as could how the clothing looks like, then immediately show it to her via webcam when I get home (that’s if I think she may like it).

Yes it kept me safe from Mum’s sharp tongue and nagging. Yes as long as I follow what Mum says I know I won’t go wrong. But I also realized that this over-dependence had caused me a lot of problems with group work, work and even in therapy. I had assumed that in order for others to not reject or scold me, I will just follow exactly what they tell me to do.

It really wasn’t meant to be attention-seeking. I know it showed that way, but it isn’t – at least not consciously. I am really bound by fear.

And that feeling of being out of control had itself led to many other issues – like self-harm and disordered eating. I didn’t know how much being in bondage had hurt me. I thought that it protects me. Oh how wrong I was.

I do want to recover – that’s why I followed exactly what my therapist said (except for hugging the lil girl…which I just couldn’t bring myself to do). The fear of rejected or being scolded was paralyzing. In therapy, it wasn’t just abusing the system, but abusing myself as well.

It hurts. It does. DrA says that I’ll have to move on despite the fear. Move on despite the risk of failure.

p/s: It’s always hilarious when DrA finally announces (directly or indirectly) that “Okay, session’s over” and started being her chirpy self again. It’s like two totally different personas. “Therapy’s over” means talking about general stuff – like a lecturer and friend. It means teaching me about the technique that she used just now, like a lecturer.

I have a confession.

I’ve been a “glutton” this semester more than ever.

Of course, I feel guilty. But deep inside, I couldn’t help feeling glad that I’m not so enslaved by food as I was. And with little concentration.

Yes, I don’t really care about how little I eat anymore. And “magically”, I start increasing my food intake because I do not really think about restricting thereafter.

I think some parts of it happen quite naturally.

Like in my first semester as a freshman, I was controlling so much it was actually grueling. I didn’t know how I did it, but I could afford to have just an apple for dinner, or a small packet of cereal with hot water. Or two pieces of bread. On “good” days, I had a piece of bread with sausage for dinner. Then I started skipping breakfast. By the time I went home for my holidays, I was only able to consume one full meal a day.

Then as I began to release some of my pent-up emotions through therapy, I gradually lost more and more of the control. I started to take some oats for dinner, though I would still skip breakfast. I would buy some snacks. I increased one more piece of bread with my sausage.

Progress was small, but quite visible. But when I started to focus on my disordered eating, I sometimes tend to go back to full restricting again. That is when I realized that I should just stop focusing on what I should or should not eat.

This semester has been crazy. I still took my dinner and breakfast before and after a McValue meal. This used to be a huge no-no, and I do feel guilty about it. I would promise myself that I will restrict that night but sometimes I don’t follow through. I felt like I’ve broken some of my own rules, and am still trying to swallow the guilt. But I supposed that’s how recovery is like.

Emotionally and psychologically, I’m much healthier. I no longer feel so out of control as I had used to. Hence, I supposed the need to control my food and body does lessen. This proves that eating disorders transcend beyond pure body image issues – it’s about control. Of course, to properly heal I will still have to change my (in DrA’s words) “crappy thoughts about my body”. Body image is still a big thing for me.

But I believe that it’s safe to momentarily take away my focus from disordered eating, onto something that is more urgent. Nobody knows how next friday’s therapy is going to turn out, and I’m honestly scared. Still learning to take one thing at a time.

And I know, that I’ll make it…some day…

Therapy with DrA this time round had really forced me to be truthful with myself. Of course, it takes both sides – a therapist who is blunt enough, and plus I myself had to be ready. Often in her office, my heart skipped a beat or two. I was so scared. So uneasy. But who says recovery is easy?

I realized that I’ve been carrying a lot more fear than I knew. I’ve always feared that Mum would explode, always fearful that other people whom I look up to will explode and then reject me, fearful of abandonment, fearful of losing control, fearful of intimacy …

DrA asked me if I’m ready to deal with TheSecret. My answer to her question is that I’ve been preparing myself for it ever since I knew about it. She then explained that it doesn’t matter if it really did happen or not – the psychological impact is just as real.

I’m suspecting very difficult, painful sessions ahead.

I’m guessing it will be The Couch.

Mr Freud, be kind…will you?

Yes, I want to run. Yes, I’m panicked. Yes, I want to hide…

But I’ve been running and hiding for long enough.

If this incident was true, then of course I know where and how my self-worth dissolved to.

How can I be left alone at such a tender age, to people who are just my guardians for the day? How could my real guardians leave me for a younger one? How dare someone do this to a vulnerable, little girl? How dare her carers not care about what happened? How dare someone stole the innocence of her childhood? Is she of not worth, no value? Has a little girl no rights to a secure, safe, and loving environment?

I wished that I could answer those questions. I wished that I could hug that little girl. I wished that I could tell her that it’s okay. I wished that I can assure her of how precious she is. I wished that I could wipe her tears away. I wished to tell her that I’m near, that she need not be afraid. I wished to tell her that she deserves more than what is done to her. I wished to see her smile again.

Whether it was  a repressed memory expressed through dreams, or simply a nightmare…it doesn’t matter. I want that little girl in the dream to know.

Whether it did happen or not, like DrA says…it doesn’t matter anymore. Because I still need to deal with that fear that had existed long before the dream came to knowledge.

In times like these, I feel so alone.

How can I plead with people to not judge me? How can I beg that you won’t give up on me just yet? How can I ask for an extended period of recovery?

Do I even have a say? Do I deserve a chance to live? Do I deserve to love and be loved?

As I sat there in her office, those words rang in my ears:

“Jasmine, I want you to listen to me. We’re (DrR and DrH included) helping you because you deserve it. You’re good enough. You are.”

Isn’t a child created to feel good about herself? Where did all that go to? How can I redeem it back?

Sometimes, I just had to stop and ask myself,

“So what does recovery means to me?”

The polarized side of me says that there’s nothing to recover from because I don’t have a full-blown ED, but then the rational side argues that I won’t want to wait until then to do something about it. Granted, I hate recovery. Who doesn’t? I hate forcing myself to eat, I hate listening to my hunger pangs, I hate feeling like my body deserves nourishment.

Everytime I made a (half-hearted) commitment to “recover”, I always expect myself to fail. And when it does happen like always, I’ll start bashing myself up. It never ends.

I tell myself that I deserve it when people give up on me, I deserve to be sick, I deserve to be hated. That I don’t deserve respect, don’t deserve health, don’t deserve abundance.

Sometimes I wished that I can have the same amount of respect for my body (and myself) as I have for my nails. You see, I grew up having people (including mum) saying that my nails were the prettiest ever. And even though I hated my body, I still love my nails and will treat it well with colorful coats. Of course, Mum would then wish that “your body is as beautiful as your nails”.

I know that it goes way beyond body image. It’s all about pent-up anger, and frustrated emotions. But what if I don’t get to deal with them?

There’s always this ambivalence within me – I needed the support of others, and yet I’m pushing them away because I don’t think that I deserve it. Hence, it translates into “attention-seeking”.

Truth is, I’m more frustrated with myself than people think I am.

I can never comprehend why, in the times when I absolutely have no faith, God has still been so faithful. I’ll worry about every single thing there is to worry about. For example, I had to move house and I worried that if I arrive at the new house at 7pm, I won’t have time to go to the old house to get my beddings for the night.

Then I worried about the new house not having internet, and to me, I can’t live without internet. I would wake up in the middle of the night thinking how am I going to live without internet. However, my fears were not unfounded, as my instincts were proven right. Then I worried about having to pay too much for a personal broadband, and what if it doesn’t work. I won’t bore you with the details. You get the drift.

Today, Dad and I went to inquire and found out that we could switch our home’s internet to the Unipack package for only RM38 per month (plus free netbook), and was worried that we might have to pay a hefty sum to terminate…only to be told that we didn’t have to pay anything. Then now, I worry that by the time I go back to KL next week, the promotion will be over.

Sometimes I’m just so upset with myself. Why do I wreck myself with worry again and again simply because I can’t be certain about everything? I do realize that this need for control and perfection is slowly eating me up…

In order to survive back home this holidays, I had to make myself  “forget” that I have disordered eating. The more I focus on the fact that my eating habits are “disordered”, or even focusing on recovery gives me so much stress that I figured it isn’t worth it at all. Hence, I forgo my food diary, abandoned my food blog, ate my three meals (though I skimp on rice during dinner), drank fiber twice…as if everything is alright. Oh it feels so good to think that I can not be burdened even by recovery.

What happens after the holidays is another thing.

Yes I do feel like going round a vicious cycle.

Tomorrow’s my hospital visit again. God knows what will happen.

Sometimes, I’m just weary…

The one thing that is probably going to remain highlight for the rest of my holidays here, besides turning 23, is m health issues.

i had never really imagined my platelets drama to resurface, nor did I expect to go back to the hospital or go for more than the first visit. In fact, I must say that Dr Loh did the most thorough medical exam that Ive ever had – from checking from my hair to my feet, internal organs, hitting and pressing on my abdomen, and looking at where my bruises lie. He knew that I haven’t been eating well, and he wanted to make sure on that as well. To be honest I can’t remember when w the last time I saw a doctor for a cold or fever, and so I hadn’t have a stethoscope used on me for ages.

A day before I’m due to return to KL, I have to go back to the hospital (and hopefully see Dr Loh again) to see if my first round of tests gives me the green light to leave. If not, in Dr Loh’s words, he’ll have to have “a serious discussion” with me. Though my bleeding aren’t serious, the fact that there is spontaneous bleeding is enough for concern to him. And so fingers crossed that I’ll be fine…or I might be hooked to a hospital in KL or get an extra 4 months break 🙂 What is sure is, what Dr Ismail (psychiatrist) predicted wasn’t near accurate – I had to do long term follow-up.

Today was the second day of the International Women’s Conference. Last night was hilarious when a long-time pastor-friend (whom I knew since I was a kid) – Ps Joyce Chow from Singapore asked me this question the moment she saw me (yes, she skipped the how-are-you question): When are you getting married?

She thinks that she’s just being random and naughty as usual. But she didn’t realize the impact of it. If you know me, you’ll know that one thing I’ve feared the most if intimacy. Hence, marriage is totally out of the question. I did manage to talk to Joyce about it this afternoon…it’s almost like God assuring me once again.

I also had a nice chat with my “Godma”, Ps Teresa Tay. I shared about my struggle with food, and without me telling, she knew that i’ve lost the strength to carry on. And then after leading me thru a prayer renouncing self-hatred, she went, “Stop calling yourself ugly duckling or big fat pig.” I looked at her, stunned. “How did you know that i call myself that?” (I should have known better. She is prophetic). “Oh, I can hear it. I can hear it.”

It was a good conference. In fact, the theme “Beautiful Women” should have warned me.