toxic

I will let my children eat coke and cake whenever they like, I said as a kid. Mum and Dad assured me that I would change my mind when I grew up, but I was certain that I wouldn’t. According to my baby book, I used to sit in front of the sweet food cupboard just fantasizing about the sugary delights within. In my childish mind there was no good reason not to eat these delicious things; I went on taste buds alone. When mum started to serve up healthy brown rice instead of white, I was furious. I hated the stuff.

I also thought food was about filling myself up. Eat enough bread to keep away hunger pains, and all will run fine. Anyway, the packets of food always boasted their great health benefits, and I believed the propaganda.

I went on the Candida Diet eleven months after I became sick. This diet is basically the elimination of yeast, sugar, wheat and cheese, because these things feed a fungus, Candida, which is toxic to the body. 

toxic.

What a scary word. We see it slapped across cleaning products, and glues, and dyes. We don’t see it written on coke, or white bread, but maybe it should be...

At first when I started to eliminate these trouble making food groups, I definitely saw it as ‘a diet’ - an extreme measure to take in the extreme circumstance of having Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I was dying for the day I would come off my diet, and once again indulge in my favourite dessert, golden syrup dumplings and sticky date pudding. Oh, and creaming soda.

But while on this eating regime, I started to read about food. It was unpleasant and convicting to read these things, to remove the cotton wool which was securely fastened over my eyes. I mean, its hearty nutrition to have a couple of pieces of toast and a glass of milk in the morning isn’t it? I started to discover that all those beautifully, delicious, refined things...white sugar, white flour, white rice, white milk...they are not nutritious, but rather loading the body full of rubbish which it then has to deal with, using precious energy and resources it doesn’t have. It takes more energy to work through these processed foods than is gained by consuming them in the first place.

I began reading the labels on food. For the first time ever. I discovered that it wasn’t just ‘sweet’ food that was full of toxic stuff, it was savoury too. In fact, it was nearly anything which wasn’t in its raw form. Take a dinner staple, chicken stock:

Salt, sugar, flavours, maltodextrin (form of sugar), maize startch, onion, chicken (4%), sunflower oil, yeast extract, parsley, flavour enhancer, colours, anti-caking agent, wheat starch, spice extract, herb extracts.

So, chicken stock has 4% chicken in it. That’s all.

You wouldn’t think yourself unhealthy for eating hearty savoury meals, but once you start looking at what you’re putting in it, it’s frightening. The faster, the more refined, the more deadly and nutrition-lacking for the body.

And we wonder why our bodies develop all kinds of ‘mysterious’ illnesses and cancers?

I don’t consider myself to be on ‘a diet’ anymore. I have made permanent choices about how I’m going to eat, based on the huge blessing of no longer being blind to our dangerously processed food world. Even, and especially if I have great health one day, I will still say ‘no’ to those insidious processed foods which are clogging up bodies all over the western world. I haven’t loved being sick, but I am incredibly grateful for the way it’s shaken me up and forced me to care for my body the healthy way.

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Cooking healthily isn’t quite as ‘quick’ as grabbing a packet of preservative filled rot from the supermarket, but even with my husband’s business and my lack of energy, we’ve found ways. And dessert is still on the menu. Here’s my favourite recipe for a quick and delicious dessert:

Berry Crumble

• Grab some frozen mixed berries or fresh berries; put them in a ramekin or small dish, filling it 2/3 way up.
• Chop up some dates and sprinkle over the berries for sweetness.
• Make in a small bowl a mixture of almond meal, shredded coconut, rolled oats (if you like) and rub some Nuttelex into it.
• Sprinkle the crumble mixture over the berries and dates. Drizzle organic honey over the top of the crumble and stick in the oven.
• Take out once the top is light golden, and the juices of the berries are bubbling.

being incredible

From time to time I have a day of insanity and decide that I am going to be superwoman A+ wife. Let’s make that, housewife. I model myself on a 1950’s wife, and decide to feed my man, wash for him, keep the house impeccably clean, and basically be incredibly industrious. Oh, and look good too.

 1955,  The Good Wife's Guide

Yesterday I was in this ridiculous frame of mind due to having slightly more energy than usual, combined with delusional thoughts that I am a failure of a wife for rarely cooking or cleaning. 

The day started well. I was enthused, and confident that yes I could tidy the house, clean the rabbit cage, do the washing, go to the gym and make dinner. Despite my illness. 

It got to 2 pm and I started to feel very worn out, and just plain ill. The house was tidy, I was exercised, I had some shopping, but oh how was I to make dinner? I granted myself the luxury of an hour’s nap feeling guilty for such a deviation from domestic goddess-ing. This nap was far from relaxing because I knew that I needed to get up shortly and keep ploughing on. My nap ended before I’d even began to unwind. But I decided that I was not going to fail, not this time, I just wanted to be a ‘proper housewife’ for one measly day. Partially because people pity Ben for having to work AND look after himself and his sick wife...and I take those comments as a judgement on me and my limitations. I resolutely dragged my ill body from the enticing couch and walked myself into the kitchen where I proceeded to cook my first meal in months. 

It was 5.30 and Ben arrived home. 

I felt deflated, ill and irritable. Exhausted from my efforts, I had nothing left to give, not even a laugh. I didn’t enjoy our time together because I was spent and ruined. By 8.30 pm I had the early onset of a migraine. By 10.00pm I had a head splitting migraine, which was not about to allow me any rest. I lay in bed holding my head for dear life, while moaning that I wouldn’t be able to make it to my appointment the next morning and what a disaster this would be. We didn’t get off to sleep till the early hours of the morning – and here ended my day of being a super housewife. Super.

A gorgeous friend (find her here) who is also chronically sick put it just perfectly after I told her my feelings:

But you can love him, laugh with him, cuddle him, be there, talk to him, smile, hug him, comfort him, care for him, and make him excited to come home for dinner. Aren’t those things more important and more precious than cleaning and cooking?

How many times has Ben said he doesn’t want me to waste energy on the house, because it’s not important, because it’s not what counts...

And I continually fall into the trap of wanting to be society’s ideal partner– the girl who earns an income, or the girl who is the classic capable housewife...instead of being his best friend and most loyal supporter. When I said my vows, I didn’t promise to cook dinner, I promised to love him and cherish him and respect him and that is all he ever wanted from me. 

Today I took my wifeing to a whole new level. I spent time with my friend, took my dog to the park and lay in the sunshine, lay on the couch, ate food and left the dishes untouched....and I am so ready to hang out with my man tonight. 

Dear Self,

I know you're a slow learner, but why do you keep getting side tracked from life by living up to unimportant expectations?

Seriously, D 

pick your devil

When I started taking anti depressants in January to aid my cognitive behavioural therapy, I knew there would be side effects. The effects I was unfortunate enough to receive were nightmares and night sweats. But oh, the sweet, sweet relief of having my anxiety dampened, my spirits lifted...I was prepared to put up with the night-time horrors because I didn’t want to farewell my newly found day- time bliss. My shrink told me to let him know when I got sick of the side effects and I could change medication. Seven months later I was exasperated. I just wanted to go to bed without getting killed or raped, to wake up dry, to sleep like I used to. 

But instead of suggesting a change, he suggested I try stopping altogether to see if I am now able to cope without it; to see whether my anxiety can be managed medicine free. After all, I was on a small dose. All the counselling may mean that I am in a position to deal with myself.

I was told that I shouldn’t feel too much, maybe a headache...but I have grown to know my body intimately these past few years and I doubted these words would be true for me. My body takes things abnormally hard. I am the person who has an adverse reaction when none is expected. I can’t handle perfume, I can’t tolerate drugs for insomnia, I can’t drink half a glass of alcohol without becoming weak, and I can’t eat a biscuit without feeling some fast and unpleasant physical side effect. I am the girl who nearly ends up in hospital from the drug that the hospital gave me.

It has been ghastly. 

It’s frightening to realise how acutely my body is missing this drug, how addicted I have become to it. Many times in the last few days I have thought about people who are dependent on nicotine, and alcohol, and drugs...and I know why they find it so hard to end their complicated relationship with these substances. Because they can barely survive without it. What support they need.

I’ve been experiencing brain zaps – nigh impossible to describe, it’s this horrid sensation of my brain falling away and losing all consciousness for a few seconds. This happens every time I move my head. It’s sickening. Last night I was more drenched when I woke up at 3 am than ever before, and again at 7am. I lie down and sleep for hours, and wake confused, disorientated, and feverish. It’s a far madder feeling than the illness which had me go on these drugs...the first day I was so irritable I thought I had lost my whole character. I asked Ben if he would buy me a punching bag, but he didn’t think it was practical. 

These medications seem like such a blessing – oh, but are they are curse? What are they doing to me? If it’s possible to survive without them, surely that is better. Pick your devil – the torment of mental illness, or the torment of mental illness medication.

Now I wait, and pray that in a few weeks (please no longer) once the withdrawal symptoms have left I will be in a position to manage my anxiety, medicine free. 

courage

With spring days upon us, I was looking through my draw for some suitable t-shirts to wear. Most of them were pilled, misshapen, or had an unpleasant odour which refused to be washed out and I had a very female crisis at this discovery. Basics never last, so I never bother to spend much money on them. They get washed most days, and that’s what kills them so fast. Anyway, I went shopping and found a top that I loved. Usually I don’t wear prints or words, to my eye they are often wanting in the style deparment. But I guess it depends on the word...because I ended up buying an Esprit top with both a word and a picture on it.

It has a red squiggly heart on the front, and the word ‘courage’

It was one of those times where you just grab it off the rack and know that it’s the one. I’ve worn it ceaselessly since.

 Somehow over the past few years ‘courage’ has come to be one of my favourite words, and I mutter it to myself at appropriate times. It seems that being alive takes a lot of courage. Just putting one foot out of bed in the morning takes courage on those days where I feel I can’t move.

little wobbly steps

My favourite thing about courage is this: if you routinely practice being courageous, facing your fears and fighting your weaknesses, you gradually wear them away till they are problems no longer.

I was 19 and I could not go to the doctor alone.

I could not go for a blood test without mum.

I could not drive the car without panic attacks.

But I was pushed into frequent solo doctor trips once I found myself living in Melbourne away from my mum, and with a husband at work. I went for bloodtests on my own, in complete trepidation, and survived. And I hopped in the car which made me shake and sweat and cry – over and over again with Ben beside me. And now its 2 years later, and Ben asks me if I want him to drive me to the psychiatrist because he has a free morning. I thank him, but say that I really don’t mind driving at all, and feel full of confidence. Driving has no fear for me, nor does going to doctor’s surgeries. It’s a delicious feeling, this sense of overcoming. 

Last weekend we took our puppy to a big waterhole at the park.

“Are you sure he will be able to swim?” asked Ben

“Of course he’ll be able to! He’s a dog. It’s not like we have to take him to puppy swimming school,” I replied, confident in my assertion.

We watched him running up to the water and then backing away from the unknown substance. Some bigger dogs jumped in and enthusiastically doggy paddled in the deep. Our little dog looked on curiously. We decided it was time for him to take the plunge, and Ben threw a nice stick into the water. Without a thought, Wolfie jumped for the stick and splashed into the water – where he sank down. And down. I could see his floppy ears floating up under the water, but he wasn’t struggling, or swimming. My heart stopped. Ben moved to the edge of the water, about to jump in to get him, but just before he moved, Wolfie started to flap himself upwards with great effort and unpolished skill. He finally got his head above water and groped for the rock, where he hung for a while looking scared and dishevelled. 

I was so proud of him. He evidently didn’t know what to do at first, he just went down. But then he struggled, and pushed and somehow got himself up. I wouldn’t call it swimming, but it was a big plunge and the first step. And I thought of what courage it takes to do things for the first time – sometimes it’s still scary at the 20^th. But imperceptibly it improves, each time you dare to be courageous.

photo source

One of my weaknesses is this beastly disorder where I pull out my hair compulsively – Trichotillomania. Often I have felt sure that I will go into old age still pulling my hair for relief, though at least I could wear a wig then and it wouldn’t be so odd. Yet I know I don’t have to be a slave to this – if I’m to win over Trichotillomania I’m going to have to kick it hard.

I have a chart on my fridge.

If I pull out my hair, I am not allowed my nightly cup of tea and gluten free muffin. If you know me at all, that is pretty much the worst punishment imaginable. I see the stars on the days that I have resisted the urges and I feel excitement – each star is another sign that I need not be conquered. It gives me courage to fight the urges when they next arrive; I am determined to have another day of beating the hair-pulling monster (and another cup of tea). Sometimes the battle inside is excruciating, but there is always pain involved with courage and change. Being outside of my comfort zone is horrendous at the time, but without fail I am relieved, thankful and inspired afterwards. 

It doesn’t have to be two steps at a time. Just one. Just one tiny courageous step towards a better way.