The truth about laxative addiction

Most of my friends and family know now about my addiction to laxatives. It was a struggle that I kept secret for years but over time became something I couldn't hide anymore.
Recently someone joked that they'd be intrigued to see what laxatives were like, presuming I take them to lose weight. That's the danger, you initially think you might lose a couple of pounds and then that's that.
The truth with laxatives is you don't lose weight. Pounds may lower on the scales but that's water weight and it will never truly stay off.
My usage of laxatives has grown over the recent years, I don't think it's helpful or healthy to write down that number I take. The world of eating disorders can be even more lethal when numbers come into it.
But, nevertheless, it's grown to the point where it's classed as an addiction by doctors and dieticians, it's grown to the point it's cost me more money than I can even think about, but more importantly it costs me my health.
My health wasn't great before, have an eating disorder and all. But what nobody realises in the early days is that laxatives drain your electrolytes. They literally strip your stomach lining out of you. Your stomach lining that is full of good bacteria and electrolytes that you need to keep your heart steady and your liver healthy.
Electrolytes help with hydration. They rebuild broken parts of you, like cuts and grazes.
Electrolytes ranges from sodium to calcium to potassium.
And laxative abuse will drain them from your insides.
The effects of this then range from dehydration to dizziness to heart palpitafions, and so on.
The reality of a laxative addiction is horrendous. It means being able to physically feel the goodness of electrolytes leave your body and this leaves you dazed, slightly confused at times, your face turns whiter, you're cold but also sweating and then the heart palpitations and the nausea kick in.
People suffer heart palpitations for all sorts of reasons and I've had them before my eating disorder and many times since my laxative abuse, and in a nutshell,
they are horrible.
A tightness in your chest and the feeling that you cannot control your heart beats. Irregular and unnerving and sickly beats.
In the worst case scenarios, laxative abuse leads to sudden seizures or death, because your body can't regulate it's organs, most specifically your heart, liver and your kidneys. So in these worst cases scenarios, your heart just packs in.
I suppose it's the same last dying from a heroin overdose or ecstasy. The drug has made your insides irregular and your heart can't take it.
I've clearly not died due to laxative abuse, unless this is the afterlife? (Actually maybe I'm in hell and that's why I can't break my addiction.)
But back to me being alive, I've had some moments where I've said to myself this is going to kill me.
Many people think taking laxatives just means you shit yourself basically you get bad diahorrea and that's that. Maybe that's how it is if you take a prescribed amount once or twice.
But that is not what chronic laxative abuse is. Chronic laxative abuse is, like I said, all the goodness draining from you and being able to literally feel your heart strain to cope with what you are doing.
It's being tired all the time, feeling sick, not being able to keep any food inside you, dehydration, dizziness, it's being in a foul mood a lot of the time, it's sweating, fainting, horrendous pain, it's total and utter shame over what you've done to your life.
If writing this can steer even one person away from taking laxatives to cope with an eating disorder then I'm not ashamed of my issue and I won't be embarrassed to put these words out there for the world to see.
Starting taking laxatives was the worst decision of my life and you have to believe me when I say it will ruin your life.
It's hard to believe when a packet of laxatives is a couple of quid and so easily accessible, but heroin is easy accessible if you know the right people. 

How do you keep faith whilst fighting mental illness?

How do you keep faith during mental illness? Perhaps this is the million dollar question. From things I have read and things I have experienced, I can only imagine that people both find faith and lose faith when coping with mental illness.

I was brought up a Christian, went to Brownies and church on a Sunday. It was a nice upbringing, I enjoyed learning about Bible stories. I have believed in God for as long as I can remember, it was just part of my mind set I guess.

I’m sure people of all religions have times in their lives when they question their faith in one way or another. I have only had two times in my life where I have really questioned my faith. The first time was when I realised I had feelings towards a girl, but I decided quite quickly that the God I knew loves people for who they are.

The other time of questioning has been over the last two years, when my eating disorder climaxed and took over my everyday life. I believe strongly that there is always someone who is worse off than you, and it is right to be grateful for what we have. I have been lucky in life in many ways and I have always thanked God for that. But there are times when I have to ask why.

It’s 2.30am and I’m lying on the bathroom floor, near crippled from the pain of the tablets I’ve been addicted to for the last five or six years. The voice of my eating disorder is prominent, taunting me for the fact I used to be thinner, I used to weigh less, I’ve let myself put on weight again. The tablets leave me completely dehydrated, I feel the need to wee and the pain in my bladder but nothing happens for hours and hours. There’s something tomorrow I’m meant to do, go to work or go out somewhere – but I know I won’t feel well enough. This is a time when I ask God why, why has this happened to me?

I never ask “why me?” because I’d simply never wish this on someone else instead of me. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. The physical pain and the mental desperation and self-destruction.

There are times when I say how can God be real? If God exists why does He allow this to happen?

I imagine most people with mental illness and faith must question this at one time or another. When you feel the lowest you’ve ever felt, depression grips you, you’re anxious about everything and suicidal thoughts creep into your mind – how can God be there and let this happen?

Is it a test of our strength? This would be the cruellest test.

How do you keep your faith whilst fighting mental illness?

When is the right time to end therapy sessions?

When is the right time to end therapy sessions?
Through my teen years I watched Sex and The City and the girls talked about seeing therapists as if it was trendy, as if it was the thing to do.
I started seeing my therapist in October 2017, and seeing her has been beyond helpful in teaching me ways to break my obsessional traits and take back some control from my eating disorder.
When I went to her I was clinically classed as anorexic, lacking in mental stability. I had no concentration, I couldn't care about anything properly.
Since seeing her my weight has gone up to 8 stone. My BMI is now in the healthy range, at the low end but still in the healthy range.
I know she has helped me a lot but I do long to see if I can manage alone.
6-7 months isn't a long time in terms of having therapy, not at all, so I wonder am I ready to try alone?

The true miracle is not walking on water or walking in air, but simply walking on this earth. ― Thích Nhất Hạnh

I have a new respect for life that I didn't have when I was seriously unwell last year. I was ready to let go of life and waiting for my way out.
Now, for the first time in several years, I really want to be alive.
Therapy has given so much back to me.
I am not fully recovered, or even close, but I have gone from 20-25 laxatives daily to 12. And I now have to knowledge to lower that number further.
I have more control now than I've had before with this disorder.
As we strive to destigmatise mental health, I know the thought of having therapy becomes destigmatised too.
Far too many people are afraid to ask for help or ashamed, I was for many years, but therapy has given me a chance at life again.
Whether I do the rest of this journey alone is not important, whether I continue to see my therapist every week or only once a month doesn't matter. What matters is seeing a therapist in the first place probably saved my life.

Blossoms

My whole life I have loved writing.
I started writing stories and poetry when I was in my early teens, by the time I was sixteen I wanted to be a play write.
Although this wasn't a career I pursued, I never stopped writing.
It always brought peace to my mind.
When I became ill everything changed.
The only thing I knew to write about was being ill. Was my disorder. Was depression.
For a while it helped me to write about it at the beginning of the darkness, it helped me to navigate through it.
From time to time now I still find it a needed release, but I don't want to simply write about being unwell anymore.
I am in recovery, recovery is slow and some days feels impossible.
I want to write about life again.
This time last year, the year before and the year before that, I was quite sure the illness would end my life at some point, so documenting how I felt seemed the right thing to do.
When you are mentally unwell, life loses its colour and the world seems dismal shades of grey and black.
Slowly, as recovery progresses, the colours come back.
I can see colour again, I can see the pink and white blossom on the trees.
I promise myself I will never let an illness take the colours of the earth away from my sight again.
What is life if everything is grey?