OCD and Eating Disorders. Art.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and Eating Disorders occur together up to 40% of the time. My OCD and my eating disorder have gone untreated because there were other things that took first place like getting me emotionally stable so I could stay out of the psych ward, moving to stable housing, stabilizing dissociation and of course getting beyond the hospitalization in 2018. There’s always been something to push attention elsewhere.

Dr D and I have been discussing OCD regularly, and I’m still reading the OCD workbook. That’s going slowly because it’s very triggering. I discovered one of the most traumatic memories wasn’t my mother being abusive but having strong OCD symptoms for which she never sought help.

Every year when we went to Kentucky we crossed a bridge. While crossing we had to sit perfectly still for fear of triggering my mother, who said she’d drive over the edge. THAT is part of her OCD. At a reoccurring meeting, I worried I’d stand up and scream the F-word. THAT is the same kind of symptom from the disorder I inherited from her.

My mother and I share quite a few symptoms. We both need to see our belongings. I arrange and rearrange my apartment almost daily. It used to be daily. Now it’s once a week. The meds for OCD have helped me in many ways.

I keep quite a few art supplies out for two reasons; 1- easy to access 2- easy to see them, which brings me comfort.

Right now I’m having a difficult time with compulsive eating. There’s the obsessive thoughts followed by the compulsion. A box of 10 Twinkies was purchased the other day. Once the box is opened I’m compelled to eat the entire thing or risk something bad happening to me. I’m not sure what, but it happens with most packages of food. If I open it I’m compelled to eat the whole thing. I’ll eat during the day and night. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night until the item has been completely eaten. This means high calories that don’t get worked off like they used to. To make matters worse, three of my most vital medications has the side effect of increased appetite. I have that pulling on me and OCD associated eating.

There’s no strong emotion followed by binging. It’s obsessive thoughts followed by binging and compulsive eating. I don’t purge in any way though it has recently crossed my mind. I don’t want to gain more weight but I also don’t want to ever purge again, in any way.

I have to say, being in a wheelchair has increased pacing, rocking, counting and staying awake until I absolutely have to go to sleep. Then when I’m sleeping I don’t want to wake up. These may not all be OCD issues. I just recognize these behaviors in myself.

It can sometimes take

The book has really helpful information but as I said, it’s triggering because it brings back unwanted memories of my mother and her extreme behavior.

I’m unaware of aunts having OCD. As far as I know it’s in the immediate bloodline. It goes from my mother to my sister and me. It’s as disruptive in my life as dissociation.

Art

The woman feels very judged and misunderstood.

The 12×9 collage is on heavy paper and includes words and phrases cut out and strategically placed. It’s a work in progress. I’ve got to figure out what to do with the background. I started this piece today. I hope to finish it and one other piece very soon. The below piece is called The Deluge. The eating disorder piece is called Dignity.

Faith

Fear of Others Forgetting, Leaving, Criticizing.

To most I don’t look nearly as unhealthy as I am. Will people move on and expect me to keep up bc they think I look like I can? Will people remember how bad it was physically and emotionally and have grace for me when I get messed up during anniversary times like May 7th?

I don’t think people get that just because it was 2018 that the raw fear hasn’t passed. I know my amputation is limited but it’s on top of everything else. The nerve damage is crazy. The nub is open again. Open but not infected. I’m requesting medical honey for it.

Without THC I hurt all day, every day. I’m trying to get used to being high in public.

I have nerve damage from the full mouth tooth extraction. It’s so painful I rock back and forth holding my mouth. It’s been what, 4 months since the dental surgery? Just like phantom pain in my foot, I have dental phantom pain.

I fear people will expect me to keep up in life. I don’t think I can. If I fall behind (or become mentally unwell) don’t want people to forget why then give up on me.

I’m not a slacker.

When I go to the store like today people ask why I’m in an electric chair. Old women find it OK to comment on how they see so many young people in the electric carts. They ask, what’s wrong with you that you need a cart? It’s not diabetes. It’s Lupus! Yes, different stages of Lupus can lead to kidney and vascular problems. Blood clots lead to amputation.

Days like today fluster me. I was flat out asked what’s wrong with me. I sit bc I have to. Life in a wheelchair is harder than walking. It hurts. I get pressure sores from sitting in the wheelchair. The muscles in the lower back begin to shorten and spasm. Carpal tunnel is a struggle. Life long constipation, etc, etc. Life in a wheelchair isn’t as healthy as walking.

Update – I have an active blood clot in my left hip. The right leg shows vascular issues. I’m not in jeopardy of losing it.

So, I guess it boils down to understanding. I want my friends to understand why I’m not ok sometimes. I don’t want to lose my help bc I appear healthy.

Lastly, I’d been saying I can’t survive anything else, especially an amputation, but I was wrong. I have a lot of fight left. It comes in waves. Sometimes my strength has to be mined like gold, but the payoff justifies the effort.

Joan

What Keeps Me Awake – Fear of letting go

My mind will catch up with me if I turn over and go to sleep.

Grief will catch up with me if I allow my mind to slow down.

I’m afraid of the images that are so vivid even with my eyes closed so I watch worthless TV shows and listen to books I’ve heard more than the author has heard it himself.

I feel myself running. I’m afraid of being left. I hate hanging up the phone after therapy. I hate when my CNA leaves for the day. I feel alone in the world when people leave. It’s not that they are leaving to go home, it feels like they’re leaving me.

My face is different all the time.

I see my different selves in photos.

My appearance drastically changes as the day goes on.

It takes so much mental and physical energy to leave the house. When I return, I look swollen and tired. Seriously, these two photos were taken hours apart.

I often do not recognize myself in the mirror and that spooks me.

On days when this is happening I go in the restroom with the lights off, and keep my eyes down so I don’t catch the eyes of the person in the mirror.

I recently looked at more photos of my mother and her sisters. You can tell we share blood. I don’t mind clearly being from that family. Years ago I started getting ok in my head with having my mother’s hands. It feels like it should bother me to look so much like that family but it doesn’t. I suppose it would be another story if they were dog-butt ugly.

Art

I like to play with light on my face. I often want my face to be my art, expressing different emotions.

Photos after dental surgery (and with a filter) allowed me to show how my heart feels bruised and beaten by grief. It’s not just grief for -K-, it’s grief over the catastrophic consequences from the selfish choices my family routinely made when I was young. It’s grief over decisions I made as an adult trying to survive my past.

Sometimes these things feel as if they consume me.

*No worries. These photos are from past dental surgery. I’m 100% safe and healed, as seen in the recent photos at the top of the entry. *

I sold a few paintings.

I sold the little girl with the balloon

and the one about faith. The funds will go towards my trip at the end of June. I’m hoping to really fill my Etsy shop in hopes of making more money for my three day stay. I’ve also updated my Redbubble shop that offers prints and products of my art pieces.

It’s 2 in the morning. I have things to do tomorrow but being alone in the dark is hard.

My head is no better than when I started writing. Please, I need peace inside.

Joan

Father. Art.

I keep sighing. My heart is heavy but I keep trying to lift it up.

The fatigue is insane.

I’m learning so much about how OCD affects my life and how it affected my mother and sister.

I don’t know why I keep thinking about my father. I remember his voice was kind and sweet. I don’t want to be angry with my mother for separating us. It’s foolish to entertain what-if scenarios but what if one of my parents loved me.

I say my mother didn’t love but I’ve got to retract that statement. The more I learn about her mental health the more I think she had love for me from time to time but was unable to most of the time. There were many things I can point to now and see a shadow of normalcy where love could have existed. Somewhere in that shadow she may have been capable of loving me. Sometimes there may have been a spark.

I bet my mother battled depression after the divorce. I remember feeling like a failure after my marriage ended. Is that why she cried so often? Did she cry because of the divorce and the loneliness?

It’s hard to say she may have loved me while knowing the extremes she went to in order to hurt us.

She lied and told me my father was dead when he wasn’t. Now I wonder if what contact she had with him in my younger years.

Like all my other family photos, my father’s photo is tucked away so I can’t see it. There are no family photos on my walls at all, just art.

Our family of three left a restaurant together. While in the car my mother told me and my sister to “freeze, it’s an emergency, don’t move.” She said look straight ahead and don’t move. After about a minute or so she gave the all clear then said, “That was your father in the car next to us.” It was cruel.

I’m tired. I’ve got to sleep very shortly then get up and eat. The fatigue is heavy.

Original Art

This piece has changed significantly. It now reflects dissociation and PTSD. It’s currently listed in my Etsy shop.

This is more Chatter Art. It’s art that I do to better manage the incessant talking in my head. I’ll put this in the shop too. It’ll be in the section for journal art.

The above is complete and ready for the shop. It too is chatter art. It feels great to finish art pieces. You can see more in my Etsy shop. 🙂

I have a restart button hanging on the wall so if things really start to go down hill I can hit the button, take 5 minutes for breathing exercises then get back to life. I got the button from Dollar Tree.

Until soon,

Faith

Life Today

My hospital bed allows me to sleep well. I can lift the head and feet which helps me rest.

Joe turned 15 on the first. Come April my CNA will have been here for a full year. She treats me well. I have a CNA on Saturday too. I like her a lot.

I have a trip in May but a good friend of mine suggested we go to New York in September so I’m saving up. I’ve started using the piggy bank to bank roll the New York trip.

My new recliner is more than I could have asked for. I was going to purchase one. I even had one picked out, but friends came up with a free chair for me. It sits well and lets me raise my legs. I’m so thrilled. Joe sits with me either on the arm or between my feet.

The money I would have spent on a recliner I put towards a new manual wheelchair. The old one I had for six years is being donating for parts.

I’m comfortable. My heart is at rest and I’m fully in the moment. I’m grateful for today.

Faith

Relentless Grief – A History of Madness

Content – Physical sbuse with some details. Sexual abuse. No details.

I suddenly put 2 significant memories with the memory of the abuse of K. What does it all mean now?

'Turn Back - She Waits' digital

My mother used to giggle as she told us the story of our pet dog trying to bite her every time she’d whip my sister. My mother told us the story around the second grade. I know where I lived so I know what grade I was in.

My mother thought it was funny that, before I was born, she tried to whip my sister but the little dog kept trying to bite her. That particular day she was angry. She picked my sister up and threw her against the wall.

I wasn’t born yet. This puts my sister under the age of three. My mother told this story many times. She said she didn’t like to whip us if she was angry bc she knows what she’s capable of, throwing against a wall.

My mother used a dowel rod to beat my sister before throwing her against the wall. A dowel rod was used on little K as well.

A lot of dots were connected even though I wasn’t looking for them to.

I’ve spoken a few times about how my mother beat me after my older cousin touched me. No one stopped him. I just got in trouble when he was finished. She said I let him do it. I was three.

I was three when she held me down with one hand and beat me with a dowel rod in the other. She was pressing so hard on my body. My face was buried in the bed. It was pitch black but I could see a bright light. I couldn’t see past the light but I remember making every effort to not go near it.

Afterwards, my entire body hurt so badly I didn’t know what to do. I was stunned. Every inch of my body was on fire, some of my skin was hot and itchy. I hurt deep in my body, not just the skin. It hurt to touch me.

Something else was different. When she hit me I tried to run away (in my head) into the matress but I couldn’t. But I remember watching my mother from the corner of the room. I remember watching my yellow pajamas, seeing her one hand hold me down and the other beat the life out of me because I “let” my cousin touch me.

All three kids held down around age three and beaten like that. I know for a fact that I was 3 when beaten for being touched. K was beaten at 3 for touching himself. I don’t know what my sisters crime was before I was born, no more than three years old.

Masterbation made her furious. She watched in the dark hallway with her trench coat and hood on, to see if my sister or if I were masterbating. She wanted to know if we were touching each other. When I was in the 4th grade she insisted my sister and I took sexual photos together. The entire time living with her, including briefly living with her my senior year, she watched me shower and relentlessly asked if I was masterbating.

A weapon of my own.

In middle school I discovered my great grandfather’s name. He was legendary for the wrong reasons. I hear his own dogs hid when it was time for him to come home. He was wicked. We’ll, one day we were all talking about family and stuff so I asked a question and dropped his name. My mother’s blood drained. She was afraid, visibly shaken, something she didn’t recover from quickly. I knew I’d just stepped into important information.

The following is conjecture –

Over the years when I was told about my family line, his name was skipped. I’d say, what about X? I only did it to shock. But now I wonder what he did that was so bad that the dogs were afraid of him?

Did he touch my mother sexually? Did he hold my mother’s three year old body down and beat her with his leather belt until nothing in her world would ever be the same?

When I was young and my mother beat me that day, my aunt was at home but she didn’t help me. Who helped my sister or K? No one helped my mother, I’m sure of that.

Did my mother lay there stunned? Was she red, itchy, skin tight, hot, swollen? Could she process the pain? Could she see through the fog?

After my mother beat me that day I then turned around and slept next to her in her bed. The last time K was beaten with a dowel rod so viciously he slept next to my mother in her bed. I bet it’s true for my sister, too.

I said my mother is deserving of pity. I’d love to know what was deep in her heart when she laid next to three bodies, at different times, that she herself ravaged? I don’t think she felt responsible for the horror. I think she felt justified.

As a toddler we’d been touched or touched ourselves. But why was it met with violence, with barbarism? Why did my great grandfather’s name make her flustered and shake? His name was the only weapon I had. I was intrigued watching her continuance melt from cocky to a stuttering, fearful, child.

Yeah, his name, it felt like that was all I had to fight with.

Faith

Relentless Grief

CONTENT – Suicide. Abuse with few specifics. High emotion and anger. Not a light entry.

I stayed in bed three days with the lights out. I fed the animals and went back to bed. The world felt too big and too dark. Now I’m in the weeping side of grief.

Behind me. Cherrios. I Love Mom.

I was talking / weeping to my BFF that the memory of the various events is as clear as the day they happened. The fear was so incredible but someone had to do something!

My head is full. Sleep is a joke. I keep accidentally calling the cat by his name. It freaks me out a bit.

The image of him at age 3, turning and smiling that smile, it no longer makes me feel warm and sentimental. It makes me angry. I want to know if he would do things differently if he had the chance to learn the Gospel truth that “this too shall pass.” I’m angry.

I talked / blubbered to my BFF about how I can see better just how emotionally unwell my mother was. I can see how we ended up the way we were. I know the difficulty I have functioning even with my large support system. She had nothing. No information. No experts taking care of her mental health, like I have. She was shell shocked after the divorce and just lost. I pity her. No family who loved her. No friends to talk to intimately. No one to trust, and two kids in tow. Yeah, I pity her.

Her anger about life was coupled with mental illness, paranoia and OCD. It made every day a survival course. Here’s my thing, I see the paranoia clearly in her behavior, but I also know that her response to the paranoia was chosen and thought out. Her first choice was always violence. She said a person needs to be humiliated in order to learn. That’s not mental illness, that’s just messed up.

I always felt responsible for helping her feel better. If my mother cried, it all but destroyed me. I couldn’t stand to see her cry. She cried a lot in her room. I used to hang hearts all around the hallway and her room to prevent her from killing herself. It never crossed my mind that it’s the child who we’d lose to suicide. I was suicidal too, so was my sister. An entire family of suicidal people.

When I think about it, my sister and I were the focus of my mother’s paranoia. She always accused us of stealing, lying, etc.

As I sit here I still pity her. Pity feels much better than hate. Pity feels warranted.

I empathize with her being unprepared for the divorce and have two small children. I understand how things got crazy. I know she managed to keep a good job but still had us sleeping in the car. I know that her mental illness fueled that. But the violence, wow, just wow. That was always her first response, violence. You never knew what the heck she was plotting in retaliation for some false issue she accused you of. I couldn’t trust the moment, and once 3am hit, God help us bc it was about to get bad!

She hardly ever raised her voice, hardly ever cursed. She was a professional who men fawned over. She dressed well. At 5’10 she was a sight to see. Despite being pretty, my mother had one boyfriend when I was growing up. That is a whole different story.

I remember the last conversation I had with the child before the police took him away for good.

It was a house of horrors, period. I thought by getting him out of there he’d have a chance. Now I ask so many questions, did I do it soon enough? Were the things he endured from her too much to bear or was it an accumulation of things? Did I fail him? I can never forget the last night he was there. My God! My God! No one should be asked to endure that.

I know I didn’t fail him. I risked my life for him. Right now, holding his memory instead of his hand I think to myself, it should have been her, not him. But really, any suicide turns the world upside down and sets it on fire for a very long time. My heart is still in flames.

Faith

What Keeps Me Awake – Death and Dying

I have more trust that tomorrow will come than I did six years ago, still I live as if I’m breaths away from dying. I feel overwhelmed with the idea of dying which makes me wonder what will happen to all my plants I’ve worked so hard to nurture? Who will take my frogs if I die? Will they appreciate small moments with aquatic frogs and cute poses by the tree frogs?

And Joe, who will care for Joe? He’s 14. I’m his second home. Being passed around can be difficult.

My CNA has covid and will be gone for a bit. I was with her a day before she tested positive. I’ve consistently tested negative, as well as no fever.

You know what’s funny? I’ve got a very nice fill in but she’s not up to par with my regular CNA. Despite calling her a psychopath lol, her standard of care is significantly higher than others; this, on top of taking the time to get to know me, makes her a really good CNA.

I like the person I have right now, the cat does, too, but would she ever take the time to get to know me and work with me long term? I wonder, if I had to get a new CNA will it be difficult again? I’ve come to understand how difficult my OCD can be to work with.

I wish my regular CNA had to experience two clients before returning to me. The feeling of not knowing what you’ve got till it’s gone, goes both ways.

She most certainly has OCD though it manifests itself differently. Somehow we work well together. We’ve even sit down and talk about the books I have on OCD.

There’s a Japanese artist named Yayoi Kusama whom I relate to very well. She’s got OCD and other issues but it’s her OCD that I relate to the most.

Yayoi shamelessly paints what she sees in her head, in bright colors.

She’s known for painting dots and pumpkins.

Yayoi helped me let go of shame concerning how I express chatter in art form.

I scribble and sketch in order to process the constant talking in my head and the oppressive amount of stimulation I feel.

I have quite a few pieces of chatter art. To me, my chatter art feels different from art that I call chaos in color because the chatter has very little focus, no space unfilled, no place to rest the eyes, yet a legitimate expression of art therapy.

Yayoi spoke of feeling like the “modern day Alice in Wonderland.” I can’t count the amount of times I’ve called myself the Black Alice in Wonderland.

It feels good knowing my art has a place out here and that I don’t have to feel crazy about it. It’s ok to identify with Alice and Wonderland. It’s ok to let the art simply be a copy of inside my head, and to do so in emotive fashion.

Recently I’ve been using alcohol ink. It works well for what I’m trying express, and they travel well.

The artwork above is a combination of acrylic paint, neon acrylic paint, alcohol ink, black ink, gesso, paper.

I love how Yayoi prefers paper, too. I’m strongly considering writing to the 94 year old artist way over in Japan. She’s made a deep impression on me.

It’s encouraged when I find female artists like Yayoi and Freda Kahlo who by example, give my art legitimacy.

Tonight. I’m not sure why I’m overly stimulated. Concerns with death are extreme. Thank goodness I have plenty of art supplies.

Faith

Terrariums. Small Worlds.

I added moss to small, up cycled glass containers to make small worlds.

This one has been up significantly longer than the globe. I love how the moss keeps reaching up. I also adore the child figurine.

In the background of her terrarium you might be able to see vertical driftwood with moss on it.

The glass lid is on but not permanently sealed. She has springtails.

These globes are perfect for moss! Total love!

I’m overly cautious when working with it because I’d be so irritated if I dropped it upside down. I can see the disaster in my head. Lol. No sudden jerks or bumps, please.

The globes are going to be fun to landscape with my supper tiny terrarium supplies.

Once the ecosystem is more stable I’ll add a small figurine, a boy this time, then close it up. It too will have springtails.

These are some of the art and creations offer locally, only.

Faith

White Balloon Series pieces 2 and 3

As you can see, this artwork is painted directly on my clipboard. I’d been using the clipboard as a pallet. One thing led to another and I’d upcycled clip boards into part two and three of the White Balloon Series.

Both are 8 x 12 inches. These fully functioning art clipboards are offered separately on Etsy.

Thank you for visiting Sundrip – Art for Life

Faith