There’s a mysterious, somewhat strange-sounding convention in psychiatry, I think. I’m not sure. I’ve never imagined it would apply to me, so I’ve never bothered to investigate it.

I’ve steered far away from. It scares me.

Leaving therapy…

Here’s how it was explained to me at the Eating Disorders Outpatient program I just completed. And remember, an eating disorder is a psychiatric illness.

For a minimum of two years, I was told, I could not go back to see my social worker, dietician or any of the practitioners who helped me begin eating normally for the first time in my life.

A follow-up might be possible, but now I have a psychologist to help me.

I suspect psychiatrists work in similar ways. I don’t know…

Once you say good bye. Once you receive your psychiatric “seal of approval.” Once you have your psychotherapeutic “walking papers.” Once you leave, is that it?

Do you venture off into the world on your trembling feet, vulnerable, alone? Independent?  Do you never see your therapist again? Or at least for a minimum of two years? That never seemed to be the case with Dr. Bob. It seemed he would always be there for me.

As anyone acquainted with me and this blog knows, I see a psychiatrist regularly for my mood disorder. We started seeing each other in 1991.

He’s an unusual psychiatrist…

Dr. Bob is not a psychoanalyst like my first psychotherapist back in 1960. She was Jungian and probably one of the only therapists to treat children like me in Toronto.

“A very, very, very difficult child,” I’ve been told time and again all my life. “There was something wrong with you.”

You hear that long enough and often enough and you begin to believe it, Dr. Bob reflected this week.

His orientation to psychotherapy is eclectic. We talk. I sit facing him and he sits behind his desk facing me. There’s a couch in his office, but I doubt anyone uses it. And an intriguing piece of art that says, I need you which I’ve written about here.

It’s been a while. And a struggle. But I am definitely on the mend.

Happy 2012. I have resolved not to make any resolutions, other than to be more empathetic with Marty, my husband, who has a completely different temperament than I do.

My mind works faster than my left forefinger, so writing this blog is not easy for me. Living with me is not easy either, but we’re doing much better. Couples therapy is wondrous if you find the right therapist and, happily, we did through my eating disorders program.

Today’s big news? 

My cast comes off today ~ I hope.

In the meantime, to make life easier for Saint Marty, I had all my hair cut off. Every little bit helps. I love it and when both my hands are working, I’ll send you a picture.

Since we last spoke, I was on Day 31 of my Eating Disorder Treatment Program.

You may be wondering where I’ve been since November 30 ~ Day Three ~ of my outpatient eating disorder treatment program.

Read the comments to that last post. You’ll see some of my progress.

Since then a few things happened…

I snapped the picture you see, this morning. It’s a tight shot of my right hand.

Note the discolouration on my thumb. Not dirt. It’s a bruise, black and blue.

Also…

I am very right-handed and not, as I have discovered ~ in the least, whatsoever, in any remote way ~ ambidextrous. The plaster cast you see goes up to my elbow. It weighs “a ton.” Feels like it, anyway.

After a stupid fall on Wednesday, December 14 ~ all falls methinks are stupid, right? ~ and an x-ray revealed that I had indeed broken my right arm above my wrist, the technician in the ER fracture clinic said I would be able to have a yellow fibreglass cast in a week. Mmmmmm. My favourite colour.

When I was about 16, I spent about nine months in a psychiatric hospital.

During that time, I was extremely ill. At one point, I became catatonic.

Following that hospitalization, I recovered at home with the help of my mother, who made two wise decisions.

My mother and my recovery…

The first, was to buy a dog for me to care for.

I was the sole family member to help her.

Finally, we settled on a Yorkshire Terrier. After accompanying my mother to dog shows and various breeders, we found our little pet. In this case a two-year-old retired show dog we named Derrier, or Derry for short.

Learning calligraphy was another recovery technique…

My mother was involved in a charity. Learning calligraphy was one of her chapter’s pet projects (no pun intended) so personalized plaques could be given to honour worthy recipients. These plaques were a form of fundraising.

I found calligraphy strangely therapeutic.

November is not a pretty month in these parts.

Today is typical. Though we have had some lovely, sunny, sweet un-November-like days, today is not one of them.

It’s grey and damp and drizzly.

Not a day to lift one’s spirits…

I have often said that I do not suffer with clinical depression. That is not to say, however, that I am immune to situational “sadnesses” or “the blues” or “the blahs” ~ and lately, that is how I’ve been feeling.

There are some solid reasons for this.

One is a feeling of worthlessness. Right now, I am not gainfully employed for the first time in my life. I am awaiting a call from an Eating Disorders Clinic that will tell me I must report the next day. I have no idea when that call will come, thus, it is rather futile to look for any kind of job.

I am not working. I am not writing, as you well know.

My posting here has practically stopped cold.

Introduction

Unlike almost everyone in Canada, this weekend Marty and I are not gorging on turkey, stuffing and all the other traditional Thanksgiving delicacies that celebrate the annual harvest.

Marty has a terrible cold and is living on chicken soup with matzah balls. I’m walking the pooches, eating whatever we have, whenever.

In short, we’re here.

As for my protracted “break from blogging,” all I can say is I’m otherwise occupied. Concentration isn’t the greatest at the moment and I’m not in terrific shape in terms of my mental health.

Just returned from the gym and a good workout. I walked there and back. It’s a glorious day. Blue skies, spattered with feathery clouds. It’s 25 degrees Celsius or 77 degrees Fahrenheit. How can one complain?

Also, it’s October. The best month of the year. I was born in this month and here in Ontario, autumn is breathtaking. Stunning. Dazzling.

The landscape is replete with all my favourite colours as the leaves change. Oranges and yellows and burnt amber and bright reds. My dogs are happy because they can walk in this weather, though it’s a bit warm for them today. They’re cold weather dogs, preferring sub-zero temperatures and snow to heat and rain.

Just back from a sublime five-day sojourn in a little slice of paradise called Cherry Grove on Fire Island.

This tiny community is one of many on Fire Island, a 50-kilometre long sand dune off the coast of Long Island, New York, about two hours from La Guardia.

Our first vacation since 2005 …

For our 11th anniversary, we decided to celebrate with two of our favourite people in the world. I’ll call them Q & T. They summer there and for years they have offered us an open invitation.

If ever there was a year to accept, this was it …

Travelling by plane, car and ferry, the instant we stepped onto the dock, the pressures of city-life faded away.

For three days, Marty swam, sunbathed and snoozed or read and unwound in the jacuzzi.

Everything was perfectly magical.

In February, my family doctor began cautioning me about my obsessive dieting.

She explained that eating disorders are psychiatric conditions, mental illnesses. She used the “A” word. Anorexia.

I thought she was out of her mind…

I am not thin. I’ve never been thin. Certainly never too thin. I feel I need to lose more weight. To get thinner.

She began monitoring me, monthly. By May, overly concerned about my inability to perceive myself realistically and my relentless determination to lose weight, she said this was related to my “mania” ~ my bipolar disorder.

She sent a note to my psychiatrist.

He referred me to an Eating Disorders Clinic…

Last month, my kidney transplant specialist expressed similar concerns. He didn’t want my electrolytes to go out of whack. When I diet, my sodium levels plummet.

When these three doctors, the team that keeps me alive, showed such alarm, I decided to investigate eating disorders myself.