An Adventure in Opening Boxes

I don't know if you are aware of Schrödinger's Cat. As I don't know, I will assume that you - my collective of reader/s - are both aware AND unaware of Schrödinger's Cat.

Schrödinger was a quantum physicist. No wait, come back... That part isn't particularly relevant. But it IS relevant that Schrödinger devised a thought experiment to help him explain an argument in his field of quantum physics. 

There is a cat in a box. The box is concealed and the cat is unobservable. There is a radioactive substance in the box, firing off atoms at random. If an atom hits the detector pad then a vat of poison is released, which the cat drinks and dies. If an atom doesn't hit the detector pad, the vat of poison is not released and the cat does not die. 

Here's the important part: due to the decay of radioactive material being unpredictable, the outcome of the experiment, (and the fate of the cat), is also unpredictable.

Presumably, Schrödinger did not own a cat. Or have experience of being in the company of cats. Or had never met a cat, at all, under any circumstances. If he had been more accustomed to the feline way, he would have known that neither of these conclusions were feasible. First of all, getting a cat in a box is a mission and, even then, it probably would claw it's way out, or 'nap' for a year until it succumbs to radiation sickness. Or else it would catch a baby bird and leave it to die on my doorstep, (because, against all odds, cats ALWAYS seem able to do that). Regardless, the end result would be the same and the cat would ultimately either be dead or alive*.

Schrödinger claimed that, as we cannot possibly guess an outcome, the cat must be considered both dead AND alive. That's not EITHER dead or alive, but actually existing in a living and very-much-not-living state simultaneously. Until you open the box and look inside, the mortal state of poor moggie has infinite possibilities, all of which are true. 

Yes really.

(Don't fret... Schrödinger was aware that this situation is a contradiction, and he devised it in part to illustrate that quantum physics and common sense are arch enemies.)

As a side note, you should know that Schrödinger's first name was Erwin. You should know this not because it is related to the aforementioned palaver, but because I don't feel that there are enough positive role models called Erwin in the world today.

So, what does this have to do with my life? Sadly, the box opening adventure of the title has nothing to do with my recent birthday or the imminent arrival of Christmas.

I was finally discharged from an Eating Disorders' unit last Wednesday. I had been struggling during my extended leave the previous week, and was asked by staff if I was ready for discharge. I said, "I don't know, but I have to try". Perhaps a better response would have been, "I need to listen to Schrödinger, because at the moment my future self is both coping and not coping with discharge, and I won't know if the cat is alive until I open the metaphorical box".

Or, maybe, in the interests of being allowed out of a psychiatric hospital "I don't know, but I have to try" was more appropriate after all.

Yours freely,

BT x

*Not to be confused with the cat being the band Dead or Alive. I don't know any cat who could pull off the Pete Burns look.

An Adventure in Change

I don't do change. 

I do organisation. I do rules. I do plans.

Unknowns are the enemy, and preparation is my friend.

If I don't keep account of every variable in my life, it feels as though anything could happen.

This is what one psychiatrist referred to in my notes as "rigidity of thinking". (Although she may not be the most reliable source of information. In the very same notes, after being treated to a ninety minute interrogation, I was consistently referred to by the wrong name...) Rigidity of thinking is a common trait in those with Anorexia, and associated mental health problems - and it's a nightmare to live with.

Today, I was told that my "weekend" leave from hospital had to be extended for at least another 72 hours, due to infection. This is at least 24 hours after I had hoped to be discharged. This is obviously nobody's fault, but it's completely thrown me. I don't know what is going to happen with my treatment, whether I'll have the chance to say goodbye to staff and patients or, most importantly, when I'll be able to collect my knitting.

Whatever the outcome is now, my carefully placed safety net has been removed and I have to try my best to cope with the consequences. 

Wish me luck.

Yours in uncertainty,

BT x

An Adventure in Neuro-Zoology

Something my therapist said this week made me think of platypuses.

As everybody knows, if you take the platypus out of its native Australian waters for long enough, it can be reduced to two fundamental components – the duck, and the beaver.

The Beaver of Half-Truths is balanced by the Duck of Optimism. Both are at odds with the Platypus of Reason, and all three exist inside my head… Metaphorically speaking. The Beaver of Half-Truths is very much the devil in this dichotomous relationship. The Duck of Optimism, on the other hand, is said to possess the knowledge to end all misery in the multiverse, as well as the recipe for a ruddy good loaf of bread. Unfortunately, it is usually only able to muster a "Quack" out loud, which is of limited use to me in the vast majority of situations.

Anyway, the thing my therapist said this week that made me think of platypuses was this:

“You are very convincing.”

She was referring to the fact that I can easily portray myself as somebody who is not mental. I can blag my way through a therapy session, articulating emotions that I think somebody in my position should be feeling. It's not deliberate. I even convince myself sometimes. It's as if the Platypus of Reason - the logical voice in my head that I know, deep down, to be correct - takes complete control of my speech.

Meanwhile, in the depths of my zoological psyche, the Beaver of Half-Truths remains censored. 

Censoring is problematic, as it's hard to argue with something if it isn't verbalised. Consequently, the Beaver of Half-Truths remains unchallenged, free to roam the Damned Dams of my mind. I went into therapy with the goal of amplifying my rational thoughts, but it's become apparent that listening to the Platypus of Reason is pointless unless I first acknowledge the irrational thoughts I'm attempting to counter. And to accomplish this I need to scour my neuro-streams, find the Beaver of Half-Truths and give it a good telling off.

Incidentally, I mentioned earlier that the Duck of Optimism is useless in the vast majority of situations. There is one obvious exception to this. In a pub quiz where the question is “Complete the name of this well-known illicit substance, pronounced in the style of Jonathon Ross, ‘____ Cocaine’”, the Duck of Optimism becomes very useful indeed. In fact, the Duck of Optimism aces these sorts of situations.

Quack,

BT x

An Exceptional Adventure

Greetings dear reader, it’s been a while!

The last three months have been spent as an inpatient in a psychiatric hospital. My life has consisted mostly of putting on weight, working out a healthy way of relating to (and consuming) food, and gaining insight into my mental health problems.

When I was admitted, there were many forms to fill out, and many boxes to tick. Generally speaking, the nursing team are good at dealing with eating disorders – which you would hope, considering that is the specialism of the ward. Some members of staff, however, struggle with the fact that very few people are Just an Eating Disorder.

This what I imagine the secretary was thinking when dealing with my admission:

After explaining for the umpteenth time that, yes, it IS possible to be anorexic AND mental AND crippled AND queer, you begin to feel abnormal in an environment in which abnormality is standard.

Literature on anorexia excludes any mention of gay women or disability, and the majority of medical professionals automatically conclude that I’m heterosexual and healthy. In the context of hospital, my urges to over-exercise aren’t seem as problematic because power-walking for twenty minutes doesn’t constitute ‘excessive exercising’ if you’re otherwise healthy. My digestive symptoms have also been marginalised because it’s not considered possible to find eating challenging due to physical AND psychological reasons. And divulging ethical vegetarianism in an Eating Disorders Ward is tantamount to declaring you only go to gay clubs because you "enjoy the décor", while maintaining that you're straight - everyone doubts your motives.

The attitude of compartmentalising different aspects of a person, at risk of missing the obvious, isn’t unique to mental health services. It’s hard for some doctors to realise that not all difficulties in life can be treated in the same way, even if they impact on one another. This is the experience I had upon visiting my GP, aged 12.

Having a chronic illness, especially one which is often dismissed or trivialised, plays havoc with your mental health. You are constantly primed to defend your experiences as genuine, and to prove that you aren’t to blame for the pain, exhaustion and discomfort. It makes you doubt yourself; your thoughts, your feelings, your perceptions of reality. Combined with separate, but just as problematic, mental illness and it's a struggle to be understood - or even acknowledged.

For these reasons, when I attempt to explain the rationale behind my decisions, I end up in tangled in a ball of thought-wool. Take this example:

Now take the same example, this time with the thought-wool unravelled and knitted it into a scarf of bullet points.

I have been invited to a competitive, all-female, erotic bake-a-thon by a medium close friend. I like friends. I like cakes. I'm also not adverse to all females, competitively erotic. However, there are a multitude of reasons why I might decline the invitation. Here are a select few:

• I might be doing something important in the days prior to or after the bake-a-thon which require me to rest. If the baking is done standing up, or the pornographic batter takes several hours to become firm, cakey buttocks, then my stamina probably won’t be sufficient.
• My pain, fatigue, nausea, brainfog and other levels of discomfort may be too high to tolerate the stimulus and activity. Even if I make it, then my symptoms may worsen as the day goes on and, as everybody knows, competitive bake-a-thons are a little pointless if you’re not able to witness (and eat) the end results.
• I may experience a dip in mood. And by dip, I mean huge nosedive. Imagine a tub of emotion-salsa the size of a Boeing 747 and you’re getting close. Falling into the Guacamole of Depression stops me enjoying every simple pleasure, takes away motivation to contemplate doing anything, leaves me unable to tolerate any forms of merriment (and/or gateaux-based innuendo) and usually ends with me hoping I, or the world, would disappear.
• Being around food is an enormous struggle. I could potentially spend the entire event denying myself penis cake, or continually nibbling on sugar nipples. In turn, I would either get frustrated that I couldn't enjoy the food, or I'd feel awful for allowing myself to eat too much. It is unlikely that food, weight, eating and disgust at my body would leave my mind at any point.
• Social anxiety often leaves me crippled with worry about making conversation, behaving appropriately and potentially embarrassing myself, (the opportunities for which would be reasonably large when faced with edible cream-filled genitalia). I have around four ‘safe’ people in my life that I feel comfortable spending time with and, regardless of how much I enjoy the company of other friends, I find socialising primarily with one person incredibly intense.
• I would far rather bake boobs than six-packs, but most situations only consider those of a heterosexual inclination. If I’m not in the mood to be ‘gay and proud’, then I would end up feeling isolated and obliged to conform. I am yet to put testicles in my mouth, and I’m not keen to start - chocolate sprinkles or no chocolate sprinkles – but I’ll do most things to avoid drawing attention to myself.
• There is too much room for failure in a competition. Even without the explicit competitive nature of the bake-a-thon (explicit in both senses of the word) - and even if I won - I would still feel that my work was terrible compared to other competitors. I have low enough self-confidence as it is, without adding ‘recreating the Karma Sutra in marzipan’ to my ‘things I'm crap at’ list.

If I wake up in a homophobia-free, anxiety-free, depression-free, illness-free world then of course I would go… Acutally, if such a miracle occurred then baking rude desserts would be at least 6^th down on my ‘To Do’ list, but this is of minimal significance. On the day of the bake-a-thon, I would almost certainly experience each of the above elements, and if one issue worsens then everything else is thrown out of balance. I either wouldn't have the mental capacity to push past my physical symptoms, or I wouldn't have the physical capacity to rationalise my psychological symptoms. And prejudice, sexism, ignorance, homophobia… they all need a certain amount of energy to challenge.

It’s hard to explain the above without confusing somebody or making it sound like a list of excuses. It’s also hard to find somebody who realises that I can’t be judged by the same criteria as Ms/Mr Average. I can say with some conviction that my experiences of being treated as Just an Eating Disorder are not unique in this environment. Or any environment, for that matter. Because, if you listen to the Platypus of Reason, you’ll realise that there is no Ms/Mr Average.

Upon consideration, I think I could tolerate being a Box Ticker if it didn't mean constantly being reduced to a single, isolated box. I am rarely seen as a complete sheet of paper, let alone a human exercise book; one full of lists, charts and the occasional diagram (not included in this blog for reasons of personal decency). When the platypus was first discovered, it was thought to be a joke, a melange of animals sewed together. I feel for the poor animal, and I, like the platypus, aim to be seen as more than merely an anomaly.

I want my figurative beak to be recognised alongside my metaphorical beaver’s body, and I don’t want my egg-born young to find life more difficult simply because they don’t fit a preconceived idea of what a mammal should be.

I have another three weeks left in hospital before I am discharged, and when that time comes, I shall demand to be seen as a whole person. I vow to embody the Platypus of Reason - and I hope the world will join me.

Yours without exception,

BT x