I’ve had two appointments now, with the clinical psychologist. Nice guy. And he listens. Properly listens. First time, I wasn’t so sure, it was all about triggers, and what it’s like to have a binge. But yesterday we got down to the nitty gritty.

See, as a result of conversations with myself and R. I had begun to realise that the B.E.D. is something left over from childhood. An inappropriate response to something that isn’t even there now. As a child I was bored and lonely. A lot. I’m neither of those things now. When I was a child I sought comfort in illicit, or secret eating. Even then, it didn’t work. But it was all I could do and I did it as often as I could. In my head it became ‘comfort’ (even though it wasn’t). It became the thing to do whenever I was on my own (which, when I was a child, was when I was the MOST bored). So now, I do it when I’m on my own, even though boredom isn’t really an issue in my life. What’s more I PLAN to be on my own just so’s I can do it. And actually set myself up in intellectually non-stimulating situations (trashy mags and telly), which do indeed create boredom. So, I kind of knew that, but it really helped articulating it to Dr M.

I also felt great compassion for that sad lonely little girl, undoubtedly loved, but never/rarely hugged, rarely praised, rarely acknowledged.

I rang up the counselling place last week, as when I’d spoken with them last the implication had been that I would have heard something by now. She said, ‘ah yes, you’re waiting for CBT, aren’t you?’. ‘Well, no, I’m feckin NOT’ the voice in my head shouted. I really don’t think the kind of ‘looking back and poking around to find out why I’m like it’ which was decided upon, could be classed as CBT, but anyway. I forbore and was told, to my astonishment, that I could have an appointment next week. NEXT WEEK! Thank goodness I rang.

Personal growth, and in that I very much include my work on my B.E.D., is like peeling an onion, you keep uncovering a new layer. A big difference, and where that simile falls down, is that every new layer is something unexpected. Though it can make you cry!

I was awake very early this morning and I was reflecting on the mild anxiety that is a common feature of my life, or rather the feeling in my gut which is also present when I’m anxious. I’m certainly not an overtly anxious person, but nevertheless there is this adrenalin-type feeling which I almost don’t notice. And it sits in the same place I feel hunger. This feels like an important insight. I’m going to take it to my Cranio-sacral therapist, who works wonders which such things. I’ll keep you posted.

It is so strange how I can be so very aware of my lack of awareness. I can be really, really THERE whilst I’m buying the vat of ice cream and the family-size bag of pretzels.Yet, if I was really there I would eschew them in favour of, well, nothing at all really, given that I’m not remotely hungry.

Hubby went away last week and he’ll be gone for a while. It was always going to be a testing time and two days ago I thought I’d failed the test, big time. I’ve had a few days of tricky evenings, but managed to hold onto some sense of control until Monday.

As is my usual pattern in these circumstances I was fine during the morning, slightly too ‘snacky’ in the afternoon and then the evening brought a full-blown attack of binge eating. I had a healthy dinner (plaice, salad and some new potatoes) immediately followed by a large bag of twiglets, half a large tub of ice cream (equivalent to a full, normal tub of Hagen Daaz), lots of cheese, sultanas, greek yoghurt with brown sugar (yum!); to be honest I’ve forgotten what else. There was certainly more and I went to bed feeling ghastly.

Normally that would be the start of an extended period of binge eating, but to my delight, and in the knowledge that these things must be taken one day at a time, yesterday was a completely different story. I woke with a sense of weight in my guts, a reminder of the excesses of the previous evening, and that served to reinforce my resolve. The morning was fine, some fruit and later on, some muesli. A lunch of raw veg and guacamole, followed by a cheeky pecan Danish satisfied me until 6 ish when I had dinner – steak (naughty, but while the cat’s away), salad and potatoes – I went and did some more work, watched some TV, had a bottle of beer and a small handful of sultanas. Then went to bed. Like a regular person, not like some freak with B.E.D.

Yes, a victory of a sort. Watch this space.

You know that thing about learning – you start off as unconsciously incompetent (first stage), then when you cotton on that you know jack about the thing, you become consciously incompetent (2nd). Then you start to learn and you become consciously competent (3rd) and you’ve really cracked it when you finally are unconsciously competent (the 4th stage).

Well…

I’m trying to apply that model to my eating. For years I was pigging out without having a clue about what I was doing or why. Then, recently, I have become increasingly aware of what I’m doing, so that I notice I’m doing it. That stage comes and goes so I don’t think I’m properly there yet. But then, sometimes I have a sense of being in touch with what I’d rather do in terms of eating and I see that as a glimmer of the third stage. The fourth stage is a long way off yet. But I had to share my idea. I think it’s rather splendid!

I’m back to normal. Not ‘normal’ you’ll note. That’s for people without B.E.D. I’m just ordinary normal. Which is bad news. It means I’m not practicing conscious eating. I’m not bingeing per se but inexorably drifting into the place where I shall. Regular readers will have noticed my absence and probably worked out that it is a bad sign. Well, thank you for caring, and at least I’m back now. So maybe awareness is creeping back in. Watch this space.

It’s been a while, but today, this afternoon has got me right back in the saddle. Bingeing for my country. Starting well, with a bowl of sultanas, moving on to a lump of Brie and then, properly in the zone, into the freezer for a bag of scones, 10 mins warming them through and about 5 to eat them. I feel bloated and fed up. I feel disconnected. It’s been coming on for days, and I’ve been unable to write about it. I feel like there’s a lump of lead in my belly. It’s a warm day and I’m uncomfortably hot, as if I’ve eaten too much (which I have).

Hubby is out overseeing a project at the local comp. I worked my socks off early this morning, but ennui slowly built and now I’m in this horrible post bingeing, pissed off place!

It just creeps on me insidiously! How annoying, I hadn’t noticed that before. I’ve always thought that there was a trigger which, if I could identify it, I could work on and all would be well. Naive, you might think given I’ve been struggling with this for so long.

A lovely restful weekend away gave me an opportunity to take my mind off resolving this issue, and in fact, nurtured by the company of my man and my friends, with plenty of fantastic food available at all times, I didn’t feel it necessary to eat unless I was hungry. True I had extended breakfasts. I love that about sharing a house with lots of friends, breakfast can extend almost to lunch time, as one after another people arrive in the kitchen and the conversation takes a new turn. But I didn’t pig out, not at all.

Since I got home, though, I’ve had a few little episodes involving initially some of the left-over goodies we brought home with us, and then, well, anything I could find in my old, familiar, scouring the cupboards way of being. Oh, and buying a small custard tart to add to my already substantial lunch*. I didn’t even notice what I was doing for a couple of days.

There is an absence of sultanas in the house at the moment, which I shall remedy this afternoon. I find even a small handful makes a huge difference. It’s a texture and flavour thing I think.

So, we’ll see if the sultanas get me back on course.

*In the past the purchase of custard tarts was done in twos, one never being enough. This would precipitate a regular double purchase, sometimes twice in one day, for the duration of the bingeing episode. So, actually, one tart ain’t so bad

Here’s another peculiar, contradictory juxtaposition of thoughts in this paradox-laden condition.

Lethargy, ennui allow for it, yet I long for times with no agenda, no appointments, just space. When I get that space, the potential is always there to self-sabotage.