Diary entry: 17th January
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Scary. I couldn't write anything this morning because a) I couldn't remember where I'd left the pen and b) I couldn't bring myself to write in any other colour. Anyway, as you can see, I found it (same place as I'd left my marbles) so I'd better write something.
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I seem to have hit a bit of a brick wall capacity-wise. I need to find something to take my mind off how full I feel. Why can't I digest things better? I suppose it'll take time - I need to retrain my system to accept more food. I just want to keep brushing my teeth to take the taste away. I guess I might have a wheat intolerance (let's face it, I've got a food intolerance) but I'm going to have to put up with it (unless I fancy going down the wheat-free, gluten-free, taste-free route). I can't believe Cotswold House would indulge allergies. 3 dislikes was all we were allowed. Let me see now... 1) food 2) food 3) food. The sword of Clinutren hovering over me is not aiding digestion either - Hannah is insisting I have one today but I'm not ready. I'm still getting used to the extra meals.
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I needed to get away from things, so I treated myself to a massage at Daylesford which, despite being the embodiment of everything I hate about pseudo-country living, does give amazingly good treatments. I have got to make sure I nourish myself in other ways than just with food. Look after myself and do things that I like doing. On the way back from being pummelled to within an inch of my life, the man from the Telegraph rang - apparently the story is due to go in on Monday. He thinks it is "heart-breaking" which makes me feel like a very sad little person.
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Went out for dinner with Hannah, Dorcas & Nikky which was a first. Hannah was understandably slightly cautious and established that I didn't need my hand held throughout. I had to try to reassure her - after all, eating out is as "normal" for Barry and me as eating in. And in some ways, eating out is easier - after all I don't have to think about making it or portioning it (or washing up). Anyway, it was fine although I did feel (or imagine) her eyes on me which made half of me want to keep ploughing on, and the other half stop. Afterwards she told me she thought it had gone well. Not really - not compared to how it could have gone. But the first time doing anything is going to be slightly awkward - after all, they have no idea how much I normally eat in the evening. I think they might be surprised by what I do manage. Perhaps they think I don't have anything. But if I didn't I would be in hospital already.
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I found myself torn between showing them how much I am used to and how well I am doing - and risk them thinking what? That I'm a pig? That I'm not that bad after all? - and showing them how much I am struggling. Why? They know already, I don't need to prove anything to anyone. It doesn't change the situation - however much I 'm eating, it is evidently not enough. I don't need anyone's affirmation that I did well - I know I didn't. And for that I feel crap. So what am I going to do about it? The Clinutren are still sitting in the windowsill. Haven't made it as far as the fridge yet. I wonder if I could mix it with vodka. A Clinutren Wallbanger. Mmm, maybe they're not so bad after all.
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I'm not sure how to cope with this weekend. I don't want to prevent Barry from coming home, yet equally I can't risk him upsetting the routine. Nor can I expect him to have thought about perhaps taking charge of the meals this weekend. It is only in the short-term. Yes, I know he has been working his socks off all week but if I'd just had a cataract operation, he wouldn't expect me to do the driving and I'm sure he wouldn't expect me to carry on as normal if I had cancer. But somehow this illness doesn't generate the same kind of sympathy. It is still regarded as self-inflicted by many people (myself included). It's my own fault and all I have to do to get better is eat. Even Mim believes that is true - only the other day she said that it is not as if I've got cancer, after all the cure (i.e. food) exists so why don't I just take the medicine. Exactly. Why don't I? It is so simple on paper. Black and white. Cause and effect. Extra calories in = weight gained = money for the hospice and a happier, healthier Lizzie. Keep taking the medicine. Unfortunately I need to increase the dose. Still, it's lunchtime. Great. God I'm starving, seems like ages since breakfast, I could eat a horse (keep going, you might convince yourself).
