From Me to Hannah

A bit of a long (but hopefully positive) one from, umm, about 6 years ago. How it is that long I have *no* idea, but it gives some insight in to my capacity for empathy for myself - which is something I have struggled with and probably will continue to stubbornly whilst I can still think for myself. But... there's hope in my words here. I can't remember if I was encouraged to write this (but I seem to think I was) and to this day it seems both 'me' and 'not me'; for anyone who's seen me struggle with obsessive negativity and perfectionism, maybe this is the reminder that I need:

Autumn 2013
Dear Hannah,

This letter is a difficult one to write but I hope that I am able to do it well enough to show you that I am capable of the same kind of compassion for you as I have for the girls at school. Certainly I owe you that. There are things I know you fear me acknowledging, let alone saying, but I am going to try. And perhaps, however imperfect that try is, you will be able to accept it as good enough for now. Some of the things I am going to say you may not believe that I truly mean, but for now it doesn’t matter, the fact that I am saying them is important enough. I may not carry them through into real life, but for the purposes of this letter, please believe me when I tell you that you deserve kindness and compassion every bit as much as those around you deserve it.

You beat yourself up about every little thing that doesn’t go quite right, and you don’t need to do that. People will love you and like you even if you are imperfectly flawed – you are a real human being, you don’t have to be an automaton and put everyone before yourself. Just every now and then it’s ok to look after you and not always say yes when someone asks something of you. Just as you value people with clear boundaries and the ability to say no, you have my permission to do just that: say no when you need to. Nothing bad is going to happen if you do that, I promise you, but you may start to discover who you are rather than what people want you to be. That’s not a bad thing, by the way, it’s ok to be you – whoever that may be, and I know that it scares you that ‘you’ may be bad or horrible or some other negative, but I don’t think that’s likely. You will probably be you but happier, less worried and much calmer.

Anger isn’t a bad emotion. I know you worry that it isn’t ‘right’ but, again, you are a human – it’s part of the spectrum of emotions that we all feel. Allow yourself to feel it and not feel guilty for it. You constantly measure yourself against whether you ‘should’ or ‘shouldn’t’ feel angry – but who’s to say whether anyone ‘should’ or ‘shouldn’t’ feel angry – humans just do. Please don’t turn it inwards on yourself either. For so many years you have tried to stop yourself from feeling any kind of extreme emotion, including anger. You’ve starved yourself, you’ve vomited away every ounce of feeling, you’ve successfully numbed yourself to so much. This isn’t a criticism and I know you find it so hard to hear when I talk about your eating disorder in such naked terms, but it’s merely an observation. You have. And I’m not sitting in judgment, I’m asking you to think how you’d treat a friend who had struggled in the same way? Would you constantly belittle and berate them the way you do to yourself? Or would you listen and soothe and understand? If I know you well enough (and I think I do) – you’d do the latter. You’d be like Donna is to you, you’d remind yourself gently of the need to eat, of the importance of rest and of the value of your friendship regardless of whatever issues you’re battling. You don’t judge anyone else’s worth on their mental health, so please don’t do it to yourself. 

I know that you regard yourself with a degree of despair that you have struggled with this eating disorder (go on, I dare you to say the words Anorexia Nervosa – it’s nothing to be ashamed of, I promise you) for over half of your life. I know that you fear that things will never get any better, but I also want you to understand that you’re on a journey, and it’s been a tough one. I know you will argue with that and say that it’s no tougher than anyone else’s, and that may be true, but it’s also been your journey – and it’s not an admission of defeat to admit that it’s been tough. Use that endless compassion you have for others for yourself – you don’t have to be defined by your past, but you’re allowed to acknowledge how difficult it has been for you. I can feel you prickle as I say that, like it’s shameful, or weak. It’s not, it’s really not. You grew up under difficult circumstances. However much you feel that you shouldn’t complain about your upbringing, there are aspects of it that are undeniably painful. Your memories may not be fully coherent, but you saw horrible things happen – things that no child should ever see. If you taught a child who you knew went through what you did, you would want to reach out and hug them and support them. No one was able to do that for you at the time, but maybe, just maybe, you can do that for yourself now – and look after yourself, speak kindly to yourself and understand that some of the coping strategies (for that is what they are) you have become so skilled at might be understandable given the circumstances. Perhaps if you can accept that and try to be a little less harsh on yourself, you could even start to be kind to yourself, because you deserve it just as much as anyone else. Please stop feeling such shame. Why are you so ashamed? I know that you’ll think it worn for me to say so, but you have an illness. No less an illness than a physical illness, and no more your fault, even though I know you struggle to accept that. It’s ok though, let me hold your hand and help you to work through it. We can be friends – it’s really not a bad thing to be kind to yourself – I promise it doesn’t make you a bad person and whatever you believe, bad things will not happen to you or others if you allow yourself that.

Hannah, I know you will find this difficult to hear, but I am so proud of how far you have come in the last 8 months. I know how difficult it has been, but you’ve kept going. And I know how hard every little weight gain has been, and how difficult it has seemed to not want to undo the positive (yes, really, it is positive) changes. I know you feel like a failure for not reaching the point that Riverdale (and Leicester before them) set for you, but you’re not a failure, you are doing this, and you’re doing it by yourself. Think back to September and you will remember how many people doubted you could do this by yourself, but you have done so well. And no, I don’t mean you’ve become so fat, although I know only too painfully how you will hear that from me. I know how uncomfortable you are in your new shape. I even know that it’s difficult for you to read that without shuddering to think about it. But please don’t close your eyes – accept that you are steadily making improvements. I know some days it doesn’t feel like that – days when all you can think of, with a mixture of misplaced shame and perhaps a little pride, is how little you have eaten, or how much you have managed to get rid of by purging. I’m sorry, because I know you hate that word. I know you hate talking about it at all. But even on those days, when you feel like you’re back to square one, please take stock of what you’ve managed to do by yourself. And that it’s understandable that you might find it difficult and that sometimes that difficulty may become so overwhelming. But it is at these times that you should treat yourself even more kindly, because it’s testament to how hard you are trying and how real this journey is. You remember the passage from The Velveteen Rabbit, the one that you had as a reading at your wedding? Remember that being ‘real’ isn’t about being flawless or without fault; it’s about loving and being loved and, sometimes, becoming threadbare, but not in a bad way – threadbare and beautiful and real. I know you want to be real – you value the ‘realness’ in others, so allow yourself your flaws and even the days where everything feels so horrendous you wonder what the point is, you aren’t perfect, but that’s ok. Nobody is. And perhaps if you can start accept that you’ll stop beating yourself with this enormous stick you carry – I care too much about you to allow you to do that for the rest of your life. So although I know there are times that you hate me, or regard me with, at best ambivalence, at worst suspicion, let’s try to be friends. I know how hard this is for you, I really do, and I want you to know that it’s ok to feel everything you are feeling and that it won’t always feel so raw – you’ll get used to feeling and you’ll give yourself a chance to be real – or at least that is what I hope for you, and I know you can do it, you have such strength of character (even though I know you can’t see in yourself.)

You are learning to tolerate yourself (those are Johanna’s words, you have heard them many times, I know – but it’s true) – to tolerate your body, your actions and your thoughts and feelings. You are doing that with support from Johanna, but apart from that, little else. You are not an inpatient with access to support 24/7, you are bravely doing this day in-day out, and you are trying your hardest. You do your best to engage in therapy, and although I know you are often ambivalent about the notion of recovery, you are engaged. And what’s more you’re also working in a new job, with new responsibility and doing a really good job (I think you might even be able to accept a grain of truth in this – allow yourself that) – of course you’re going to get tired, and perhaps you just need to be aware that you’re still recovering (no, it’s not self-indulgent or pathetic to allow yourself to acknowledge that) and that when you’re tired, be aware that’s when you’re more likely to struggle to manage your emotions. Take some time out. Try to do the soothing rhythm breathing you know helps. It’s not going to make you gain weight, or worse, I promise, but it may help you to tolerate yourself a little better. I know that taking time for you is something that you struggle with, but you might even enjoy it (and that is not a bad thing, I promise) – you could write (you can write) or you could read or draw (I know you think you’re rubbish at it, but you enjoy it so why not? Or even just do some colouring, which I know you love!) 

This is all just the beginning – I know you want a future with a family and Paul, and I promise you, the time will be right eventually and Paul isn’t going anywhere. But, all in good time. You just need to breathe for now. And take stock of how far you have come. And know that whatever happens, you are valued and valuable. My hope for you is that you can now begin to feel that from within you.

With my greatest respect,

Hannah