Widely published at last! 

ME AND LAPTOP

After crashing out of my career as a reporter for the BBC and national newspapers because of my drug addiction and mental health problems in 2005 I am now, at 12 years clean, a professional journalist again! I have written reports about mental health and addiction for the Sunday Times https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/deaths-spark-care-fears-at-prioryhospitals-jdtf38khp  The Times      https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/huge-rise-in-middle-aged-drinkers-with-brain-damage-n5zgcwzf5 the Telegraph http://www.telegraph.co.uk/women/life/black-bruises-didnt-recognise-domestic-abuse-calls-reach-all/  I also have upcoming commissions for the Guardian and several ideas for the BBC!

Thank you for all your support for my blog.

Caroline.

My birthday – will the Corbynistas kill the Conservatives?

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How do you organise a birthday party when your friends are at opposite ends of the political spectrum and want to kill each other? I have joined the Conservative Party, largely to find a husband but failing that a career. I have just become involved in politics this year and want to become the government’s Minister for Addiction and Mental Health. This comes after crashing out of my career as a BBC reporter because of my cocaine addiction and mental health problems. I have sent my CV to the health ministry with entries such as “Lost in Rehab 2005-2008” and “Only sane inmate at the Prison View Psychiatric Unit 2008-2009.” Strangely they haven’t called me back…

To kick start my apparently moribund political career I therefore want to invite some of my new Conservative friends to my birthday party. Unfortunately one of my best friends, who saved my sanity when I had a nervous breakdown, says that all Conservatives are members of a “toxic neo-fascist political party.”  Obviously he’s a supporter of the hard-left Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn who evokes adulation among his acolytes and despair from his detractors. A Corbynista comedian my friend’s routine includes an explanation as to why God has always voted Labour. He’s so left wing he called his only child Fidel. And she’s a girl. I feel a diatribe from him may hinder my political prospects. And he is not the only Corbynista friend I have in fact all my friends are solid Labour supporters.   I too was a socialist until the stratospheric leap in value of my house in Notting Hill, which I bought for £400,000 in 1999, convinced me I was a Tory.

I have now gone from Conservative to Confused as the new UKIP lite incarnation of the Tory Party has made me and many other pro-European Tories seriously consider defecting to the Liberal Democrats. Indeed I was campaigning for the Liberal Democrats (and looking for a boyfriend) in the Richmond Park by election and was ecstatic when they won.

I have thought of a potential solution of seating the Corbynistas at one end of the table and the Conservatives at the other with large signs at either end. I will sit in the middle physically preventing any contact between the two warring sides. Milling around is dangerous so there will be no chatting after the meal or offers of people to come back to my house. As soon as someone gets up to leave I will escort them swiftly out of the restaurant pausing solely to check they have paid. I am still extremely nervous and have put the Samaritans on speed dial (who were very sympathetic when I phoned them saying I was heartbroken as I’d failed to win a handbag on eBay) for the birthday. Will this be the Last Supper of my Sanity?

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1st Christmas with my family for 12 years!

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Today for the first time in 12 years and for the first time in my entire recovery I spent Christmas with my family. In December 2004 just before I got into recovery I spent Christmas Day alone with a bag of cocaine and litre of vodka. That rock bottom was the start of my recovery journey. Every Christmas since then I have spent away from my family. Before I went into family therapy with my father the relationship was too strained for me to contemplate spending Christmas with him. But I hope there will be other Christmases in future. It was the first time I had been to my father’s house since he bought it almost 10 years ago. After practically bursting into tears 5 minutes after I arrived as I was so upset it turned into a fabulous day.  Unfortunately there will be no Christmases with my mother who died 10 years ago this year. But despite my issues with her she has given me the freedom to write which is amazing. I dream about her all the time. RIP

I’m a professional writer again!

I get a commission to do a story for the Sunday Times my first paid journalism work for my entire 12 year recovery

At last I have made some money from writing! This is the first time I have been paid to write for my entire twelve year recovery. It is true that I have only recently started trying to resurrect my freelance journalism career, buoyed by the success of the blog. In the first year of the blog I had more than 30,000 hits. The piece, for the Sunday Times News Review, was about my quest for a husband at the Tory Party Conference. Alas I did not find one but I did find a career. I now want to become an MP so I can get my dream job of being the Minister of Addiction and Mental Health.  Of course I crashed out of my journalism career at the beginning of 2005 because of my rampant cocaine addiction, bulimia and general loopiness and ended up in rehab for 5 years. My C.V. simply refers to this period as “lost in rehab” which is better than “Only sane patient at the Prison View psychiatric unit (in my own head at least)”  All this will now be chalked down to “research” for my future job.

I have created a “news agency” of mental health and addiction news so I can select stories to pitch to the newspapers. I am also very much getting up to speed on all aspects of mental health. And I plan to apply for funding for my idea to help everyone who goes into a doctor’s surgery with a mental health or addiction problem in the New Year. I am also preparing my application to stand as a councillor for the Conservative Party. There is a section on the form where they say “Is there anything about you that could be an embarrassment to the Party?”  Let’s hope they don’t read about my previous 22 hour a day cocaine addiction or experiences such as “Being seduced by a (female) teenage stripper who’d killed someone the week before (and then stole my car).”  I will simply say on the application form “I am open about the fact that I am in (long term) recovery from drug and alcohol addiction.”

Anyway I am taking a bit of a break from the blog and have resolved to only write something when I have something interesting to say. Now the Referendum is over, as is my hobnobbing with the Prime Minister and Mayor of London, that is less often than before. Mr Right has tragically gone from my life making him just another Mr Unavailable.  But this first paycheck for my writing in twelve years could not be missed out. I will keep you posted on what happens in my writing career and non-existent love life in the next few weeks. Actually I have a man staying in my house for the weekend, unfortunately in my lodger’s room not mine. But after no man overnight in my house for many years I am hoping the unaccustomed male energy will shift my luck with men.

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What I found at the Conservative Party Conference. Husbands: none Career: 1?

I attend the Conservative Party Conference in Birmingham where the Prime Minister Teresa May the Foreign Secretary Boris Johnson and the Chancellor of the Exchequer Philip Hammond were all speaking

If politics is Rock for ugly people then the party conferences are like going on tour. Rumours of sleeping around and extra marital affairs are rife. But in this febrile sexual and political atmosphere is it possible to find love?

I was extremely excited about attending my first ever Tory Party Conference where I was  trying to advance my political career – I am applying to stand as a local Councillor and want to become an MP. But there was another reason for my enthusiasm.  My efforts to find Mr Right through online dating have been as successful as a polar bear trying to find an ice floe in the Sahara.  And when I announced on a recent date with a promising man on lefty website Guardian Soulmates that I was a Tory he immediately ordered the bill.  I need someone intelligent and interested in politics – as since I became one of the London Team leaders for Britain Stronger in Europe during the Referendum campaign I have been mildly obsessed. Before the campaign I had never been involved in politics as no issue had moved me enough.

I had worked out long in advance my agenda (and outfits) for the Conference to fulfil my dual purpose of communicating that I am a serious politician in waiting but also, of course, look hot. I was obviously, going to attend all the main speeches by the Prime Minister, Foreign Secretary and Chancellor of the Exchequer. But I’d also selected a host of fringe events where I was likely to meet Mr Right. My Conservatives friends say it has long been received wisdom in the party that joining the Young Conservatives is a way of finding a partner and were optimistic at my chances.

The first event I attended was the Prime Minister’s and Foreign Secretary’s speech on Brexit.  This required a demure outfit and rapt attention to the speakers with no obvious ogling of men. I have to say I was slightly disturbed by the emphasis on controlling immigration. I do not want my cleaner or builder to go home. I then went to the Conservative Group for Europe reception as I am positively allergic to boyfriends who voted for Brexit. In fact my primary chat up line at the Conference was “which side were you on Leave or Remain?” Unfortunately there was no one I fancied at the reception. Next on my tour was the Conservative Friends of Cyprus reception – I have limited interest in Cyprus but a great deal of interest in Greek men. This required a slight change of outfit to show a hint of cleavage. As the Tories are now more egalitarian since the demise of David Cameron I had left all my designer bags at home.  The Foreign Secretary Boris Johnson was there prompting frenzied adulation and shouts of “Boris Boris Boris” from the audience a sort of Tory version of One Direction. Apart from obviously me who blames Boris for Brexit.

On the Monday I was going to attend the speech by the Chancellor of the Exchequer.  But at the last minute I decided this was a waste of time as the Chancellor is married and not really my type so I went to a meeting of pro-European Tories instead.

Then came the absolute crack pipe of my political and dating plans “How can Conservatives win the Black and Minority Ethnic votes they need to win in 2020.” The constituency I am interested in standing in as an MP has a high number of ethnic voters but also, as I am half Jamaican, I think my political soulmate would be another ethnic Tory. The Conservatives secured over a million black, Asian and Minority Ethnic votes in the 2015 elections and are closing the gap on Labour.  Alas there was no one I fancied at the meeting but I did get a picture with a black female Conservative MP who said she would help me get elected.

Me and Conservative MP for Maidstone and the Weald Helen Grant
Me with Helen Grant MP

My primary interest in politics is to work with the government in addiction and mental health so I went to an event about supporting families with these problems. I pitched my idea to help everyone who goes into a doctors surgery with an addiction or mental health problem to the chief executives of two of the largest charities in Britain and they were very interested.

On Tuesday I got up at the crack of dawn to attend a Conservative Group for Europe breakfast meeting. I hate getting up early but as openly pro-European Tories have been thin on ground since the Brexit vote I had to set my alarm. Alas most of the men there were not my type so I sat playing with my phone. I was then cheering various  Celebrating the Union speeches in the main hall (ie England Scotland Northern Ireland and Wales) – a union which seems to be remaining intact, despite the Brexit vote, as the Scottish cannot afford to leave.

There was then the photo with my local Conservative Association where there were some rather attractive men. Obviously I gave them my business card saying “we must campaign together.”

My final event of the night was a Conservative Friends of Bangladesh reception which required a slightly sexier outfit.  I have never been to Bangladesh and my knowledge of the country is purely based on what I have seen on the BBC news but I am very interested in getting to know some more Bangladeshi Tories. My local Conservative Association has strong links to the Bangladeshi community so I made sure I appeared in all the photos.  There was a rather attractive mixed race man at the Bangladeshi event who despite the fact that he was 20 years younger than me I managed to engage in conversation. I am sure I am not the only cougar at the Conference.

The final day was the troop rousing speech by the Prime Minister and the leader of the Scottish Conservatives “A Country that works for everyone.”  This was the busiest day of the Conference as many members come on a one day pass and I had therefore held back my most flattering outfit. The Prime Minister was wearing a rather sexy crimson dress and said the biggest challenge of the conference was whether the colourful Boris Johnson would “stay on message for four days.” The conference ended at one o clock but I had not booked my train until early evening in case I bumped into a likely husband and wanted to meet him for lunch. Alas I didn’t find a husband, but after four days of high octane excitement, decided I want to stand as an MP. If I became an MP my past is so colourful that Boris would look bland.

Top publisher says my blog is “funny” has “an engaging voice” and “lots of great material”

Sarah Savitt deputy publisher at Virago and former publishing director at Headline and Headline Review says I

Sarah Savitt, deputy head of feminist publisher Virago and former publishing director at Headline, one of the most successful commercial imprints in the UK,  said my blog was “definitely enjoyable to read” as it was “funny, fast paced and interesting.” She recommended making changes to the blog, which I’ve now turned into a memoir, so that is has greater “focus” and “structure.” She gave me three pages of feedback on the memoir and recommended I read nine successful recent memoirs and analyse them technically to see how they tell their story.

I am now doing this starting with best sellers “Mad Girl”by Bryony Gordon which also talks about OCD, bulimia, cocaine addiction and journalism and “Reasons to Stay Alive” by Matt Haig which deals with depression and anxiety. She said there were “many themes” in my memoir “from class and privilege and race (people constantly asking where you’re from) to mental health to your mother’s abuse to drugs and sex.” She said I need to “choose one or two things to focus on and weight the book towards those themes.” She said that it is difficult for people who are not famous to get memoirs published but that those that are published and “break out” and become successful have this particular focus.  After I’ve read the 9 memoirs I am going to start a re-write of mine.

I’m also starting a freelance journalism course in October to try to resurrect my freelance journalism career and raise the profile of my writing. I may do a course on memoir as well. The agent didn’t work out but given that the publisher said the blog needed a major rewrite to make it commercially viable this may be why.

The search for Mr Right continues of course unsuccessfully. I’ve been on a few dates but haven’t fancied them. I’ve signed up to various Conservative party events (I grew scales and a tail before the last General Election and was, alarmingly, diagnosed as a Tory) to try to network and meet an ethnic Tory Mr Right. I did go to an event on Wednesday and met an attractive ethnic Tory but he was only 21.

The big change on the home front is that as I am now almost completely recovered from the OCD and broken my ban on having anyone to stay in my house over the summer I am going to get a lodger. This will bring in useful extra income as well as give me someone to discuss world current affairs with. Of course due to my bisexual tendencies the search for a lodger has been fraught with problems. I was worried about fancying the prospective male lodgers who came along but it was actually a gorgeous Iranian woman with arresting green eyes who made me swoon. Obviously I couldn’t say “you’re too sexy to move in” so I just told her an elephant was moving in instead.

I now have the assistant to a Member of Parliament moving in who is very bright and interested in politics and crucially, given my previous campaigning for Britain Stronger in Europe, pro-European. All the lodgers were quizzed on their Brexit views and any prospective pro-Brexit people were executed.

In preparation for the lodger I am de-cluttering my house going through every cupboard and throwing out junk and the fifty tonnes of paperwork I’ve accumulated since I started writing my first novel in 2009. Before the viewings by the lodgers every inch of floor space was covered in reams of paper from various re-writes of the novel and the blog and a rhino that I’d brought back from Sudan was watching my telly. I’ve now thrown out a hundred bags of rubbish which are sitting in my front garden rather optimistically waiting for the bin men to take them away. I’ve got so much excess paper I could actually start a re-cycling plant in my home.  The rhino is claiming asylum due to the civil war in Sudan so is now living on my roof terrace.

As part of my new political activities I went to the Conservative Women’s Organisation summer party on Thursday. I was worried that everyone might be white but in fact half of them were ethnic minorities showing that I am not the only ethnic minority in London who votes Conservative. Though curiously when I see black supporters of Donald Trump paraded in front of the cameras at his speeches I think “you are a traitor to your race.”  I can see that some black people in dying former industrial towns in the United States may warm to the Trump message. But in the UK it is aspirational ethnic minorities who vote Conservative. Now I look Jamaican with my natural hair obviously everyone thinks I’m a Labour party supporter.

After coming out on Facebook as a Tory earlier this year I will be revealing myself on the national media by attending the Conservative Party Conference in October. This is not just an attempt to network and further my political career but also crucially to find a husband. But my chat up lines will not be the bog standard “do you come here often” but the rather more focused “what do you think about Brexit?”

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Next blog post – Finding a husband at the Conservative Party Conference (or should I be looking for a career?)

 

 

My life changing recovery from 30 years of bulimia and anorexia

I recover from 30 years of anorexia and bulimia by following a food plan organised by Overeaters Anonymous a 12 Step programme dealing with eating disorders

I had my first bout of anorexia at the age of 7 starting a 32 year battle with eating disorders which very nearly killed me.  At that time (the late 1970s) it was incredibly unusual for children of that age to have eating disorders so everyone in my family was mystified. I had always been a very thin child. But I suddenly decided I was “fat,” would lock myself in my room for hours screaming that I was fat, weighed myself and exercised compulsively. Everyone in my family blamed my mother, who was an overeater and crash dieter. And it is true that I had a very bad relationship with her, as she was absent most of the time, and did not want to be like her.   But I now think the reason behind that first bout of anorexia was that it was at that age that I was first sexually abused.

My parents had already taken me to see a child psychologist because I was dreamy and lost in a fantasy world.  I had 70 imaginary friends, my teddies, all with their own voices and personalities and would create complex Elephant v Snoopy sibling rivalries. We had schools, we had hospitals, even our own Christmas Day. My mother said the psychologist said I had “behavioural problems” but that there was nothing wrong with me.  I now realise that the reason I had retreated into a fantasy world was that my mother was away 6 days a week, my father was unreliable and, by the age of 8, I had had eleven nannies that I could remember.

The anorexia went away. But when I went to boarding school at the age of 10 and was homesick and under a lot of academic pressure, I started having competitions with my best friend as to who could eat less. I was the winner, of course. My parents took me back to a child psychologist who said I was in danger of developing anorexia again if I stayed at the school so they took me away.

However the eating disorder wasn’t just about being thin. So troubled was my relationship with my mother that I was also obsessed with staying a child forever and not growing into a woman at all. When I was 11 or 12 and started developing breasts I would bind my chest with belts so tightly I could hardly breathe to stop my breasts growing. By 13 I had started making myself sick on “special events” such as Christmas Day when I would eat a lot of food. I had no knowledge or understanding of bulimia, was not copying anyone I knew, it just struck me as the “natural” thing to do. The refrain that has followed me all my life started at this time: “where do you put all that food?”  When someone eats a massive quantity of food, then literally runs to the toilet at the end of the meal, I think it should be pretty obvious what they are doing with the food. But I managed to conceal my bulimia from my family for 25 years. Perhaps they didn’t want to know.

Then, at the age of 13, I had the most traumatic event of my life, my parents vicious divorce in which both of them turned on me, their only child, my mother telling me I was evil and my father telling me I was ugly. My mother calmly sat opposite me in our house threatening to put a contract out on my father, and saying I was just like him and wasn’t even her daughter.  My father said my academic achievements (I was a very clever child) were “boring” and that my legs were too short and my head too big. I am mixed race,  as my mother is Jamaican. But he started making racist comments about black people and Jamaicans with his blonde blue eyed Swedish girlfriend.  I felt totally rejected.

The bulimia was erratic. There were other girls at my boarding school who had bulimia and anorexia but I never saw myself as someone who had an eating disorder.  Nonetheless, as my efforts to stop my breasts growing had failed, I took a drastic step at the age of 15 and tried to cut them off with a carving knife.  I didn’t get very far just superficial scars and never told anyone or sought treatment.

Meanwhile the bulimia was progressing. In my first year at Oxford University I would vomit in the sink of my room. And in the second year, when I had to appear in a see-through body suit, as Titania in “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” I starved myself jogging and doing squats for 10 hours a day. Then as soon as the play was over, I started stuffing myself with jacket potatoes cheese and sour cream. I adopted a strict Atkins diet regurgitating all the carbs down the loo.  My cat also became bulimic after I fed him sweet and sour squid. The fact that I’d given him a couple of blow backs from a joint probably didn’t help.

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After I left university, the bulimia was sporadic. I had been severely depressed since my parents divorce at the age of 13 and was diagnosed with clinical depression at the age of 22.

I was diagnosed with clinical depression at the age of 22 by the psychiatrists at St Mary's hospital in Paddington where I was being treated at the Patterson wing and was actively suicidal ending up with a carving knife at my throat

As I was actively suicidal and ended up with a carving knife at my throat, about to cut my throat, the bulimia was the least of my problems.

After intensive therapy, I recovered from the clinical depression at the age of 25 and it was then that the bulimia and my substance addiction problems took off. For some reason, I’m not quite sure why, all my addictive behaviours were kept under control by the depression, possibly because I was so depressed that there was no way I thought anything would improve the way I felt, suicide was the only option.

I had smoked dope at University and tried ecstasy in my early 20s but it was the beginning of my first serious relationship at the age of 25/26 that both my using and bulimia took off.  My boyfriend had quite a lot of money and would regularly take me out to expensive meals which I would eat then run to the loo to purge. He also crucially introduced me to cocaine which would be my downfall 10 years later.  I was diagnosed with bulimia at the age of 25/26 and was once again back in treatment with NHS mental health services.  The therapist who’d helped me with the depression couldn’t help me with the bulimia at all as she wasn’t an addictions therapist. So I stopped seeing her completely and just ploughed on with the bulimia and substance abuse. I was dumped by my boyfriend triggering my drinking and bulimia to spiral out of control.

At my job as a producer reporter at BBC TV I would literally run to the loo to vomit after lunch every day.  People noticed that my eyes would be red after I came out of the loo and everyone thought and would openly ask if I was on cocaine. But no one guessed about my hidden disorder bulimia. I was prescribed 60 mg of fluoxetine, an anti depressant, every day for the bulimia. But this did almost nothing to curb the symptoms of the bulimia although I did feel the fluoxetine “come up” like a medical version of ecstasy at midday every day. The staff at the BBC reacted badly when I started dancing in the office.

Then a disaster happened that almost ruined my life. My mother had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease when I was 17. The doctors had recommended she have an implant in her brain to control the shaking, but as she was living in Jamaica, she would have had to move to the United States or travel to the United States every two weeks to have the implant monitored. Determined to stay in Jamaica, she decided to have a partial lobotomy instead.  This led, almost certainly to a massive stroke and a series of further strokes. By October 2001, two years after the operation, she was paralysed but shaking uncontrollably, having psychotic hallucinations and screaming from 5am to midnight every day. As her condition deteriorated, she had begged me to move out to Jamaica to spend time with her and so I took a career break from the BBC. My mother’s illness made me want to slash my wrists and had a disastrous impact on my substance use and bulimia. I first started drinking on my own at home, deliberately trying to get drunk, then continued with the binge drinking in public which had started when my boyfriend dumped me.

My family said I had a drink problem. I was in total denial and thought you could not be an alcoholic unless you had been filmed on reality TV attacking the police in Newcastle. So I decided to up my cocaine intake to “control” my drinking. When I went to a Jamaican ghetto at midnight to score drugs, thinking I was very likely to be gang raped and have my throat cut, when I finally found a dealer he asked me “how much do you want one kilo or two?” I left with a massive bag of cocaine knowing I would get addicted to it. Meanwhile the eating disorder had escalated sharply – apart from making myself sick I had discovered that diet apocalypse Xenical, a fat blocker which would literally remove large quantities of the fat from food, The side effects were disgusting – constant diarrhea – but I didn’t care as it made me thin.

As the cocaine addiction escalated to using 22 hours a day so did the bulimia. I would eat healthily till 7pm but then start going out on trips to score fast food like fried chicken and ice cream then vomit and score some more.  These trips became so frequent that I would literally eat the fast food over the toilet vomit and go out again. The doctors who were treating me for bulimia in London said that every time I made myself sick on the quantity of cocaine I was taking, which happened at least 3 times a day, I could easily die of a fatal heart attack. But as I was distraught and trapped by the terrible state my mother was in I thought I wanted to kill myself.My cocaine addiction progresses to 22 hours a day and my bulimia to three times a day as I am deeply traumatised by my mother's illness after she has multiple strokes when I live in Kingston Jamaica. I now realise that I was in denial about my mother’s abuse as a child and underneath was angry because the minute she got ill her and all her family expected me to drop everything and look after her. I wasn’t even aware of my anger let alone being able to express it so I turned the whole thing in on myself.

When I went to the psychiatrist treating me for bulimia at the Eating Disorders Unit in London at the beginning of December 2004 and said I was drinking a litre of vodka a day and taking large quantities of cocaine he said he could no longer treat me. He expressed extreme concern about me going back to Jamaica where my addiction had spiralled out of control and said I needed to sort out my drug problem. Seeing the in patient anorexics at the Eating Disorders Unit, who looked like concentration camp survivors so thin they could barely walk, I thought my problems weren’t that bad. I said I had to go back to Jamaica as I couldn’t abandon my mother. I went back to Jamaica my cocaine addiction and bulimia spiralling to a whole new level. I spent Christmas day 2004 on my own with a litre of vodka and a large bag of coke and then, desperate, told my family about my cocaine addiction and bulimia.

I said I wanted to go into treatment but that I wasn’t in a rush. This was after I’d been given 3 months to live by the psychiatrist in Jamaica. My family had other ideas, packing my bags and forcibly escorting me to the airport to get on a flight to the UK. There I decided to go to St Chillin’s, Britain’s most exclusive rehab, as I felt it would look best on my CV. I smuggled enough benzos and diet pills, Xenical, into the rehab to keep me going for the first week. I was also addicted to lorazepam as it was the only thing that could make me sleep after 22 hours of using cocaine. I went absolutely mad when the diet pills ran out begging the psychiatrists to prescribe me more. You’ve got an eating disorder they said we’re not prescribing you anything. Desperate and defiant I scored laxatives at the local chemist not attempting to hide this from the other St Chillin’s residents. I was confronted in my therapy group about the laxatives and said that the main reason I was in rehab was not to sort out my drug problem but, obviously, to lose weight. I’d also adopted a protein only diet at St Chillin’s to foster my goal of weight loss. They said I could not be treated on the general addictions programme but needed to move to the Food Disorders Factory at the main branch of St Chillins in London. In fact they packed up all my bags, including 12 pairs of Agent Provocateur lingerie, 36 handbags and 15 pot plants, and tried to forcibly move me. But when I went for an interview at the London branch of St Chillin’s they said there was no way I could go to the Food Disorders Factory if I had a drug problem as so many of the women in there were on drugs.

I returned defiant to the rural outpost determined not to be moved. And although I wasn’t in an eating disorders programme the treatment at St Chillin’s had a remarkable effect on my eating disorder. I was put on a strict diet of 3 meals a day, no puddings or snacks. I considered this a massive curb on my human right to snack but actually it worked.  The enforced abstinence from alcohol and cocaine also had a massive impact on calming down my bulimia. I was only sick once at St Chillin’s, my eating disorder was on its way to recovery.  I was told that I would know when my eating disorder was in recovery when I no longer cared what size I was.

With enough mental health problems and addictions that my ego had a serious problem of crowd control I was told by the psychiatrist at St Chillin’s that I had “too many issues” to be treated in the private sector as I would “bankrupt my family.”  He told me I needed to move to a state rehab. As my own decisions had ended me up in rehab, totally broke, I decided I’d better start listening to other people.

At my next rehab, a tough outfit in South London bristling with ex-cons, they told me I would have to leave if I was sick as they couldn’t treat bulimia. As the puddings were delicious, I developed exercise bulimia instead spending 5 hours a night on the exercise bike in the gym.  I burned as many calories as Neanderthal Man at the darkest point of the Ice Age. When somebody broke the exercise bike I threatened to put out a contract on them. But as I’d been bankrupted by my shopping addiction the would be assassins said that the packet of fake nail glue – which was all I had to offer – just wasn’t enough. I wasn’t sick once at my second rehab but I did get very thin.

At my third rehab I put on weight ate perfectly normally and was only sick once.  But once I was out of the cozy cotton wool of rehab the bulimia flared up again. From the beginning of 2006 to 2009 I would be sick every couple of weeks, sometimes once a week. It was much better than before but the bulimia was still not in recovery. I would also do compulsive exercise.

My friend from “Divorced from my Drug Dealer Anonymous” introduced me to the food programmes of Overeaters Anonymous. I had attended OA at St Chillin’s where I’d been taxied to the meetings despite my reluctance. But the next rehabs I went to were mainly focused on drugs and didn’t get me to go to OA meetings.

Following my friend who was a kind of mentor for me in recovery, I adopted the OA food programme which consisted of a certain amount of protein, carbohydrate, vegetable and fat at every meal. Also crucially the OA food programme banned sugar and high fat food which had often been the trigger for me to binge and puke.

Following a food programme designed by Overeaters Anonymous I cut out sugar and high fat food from my diet and recover from the bulimia that I have had since I was 13

After about 6 months of doing the programme I made myself sick for the last time in July 2009. I have never been sick since then though I have done compulsive exercise.

I no longer follow the OA food programme and have re-introduced small quantities of sugar and high fat food into my diet. It is important that I only have these foods occasionally and that it does not become a habit as if it did I would be exposed to the desire to purge the high calorie food through bulimia or compulsive exercise. I control my portion size, never eating an amount that would be too large as this would make me want to purge.  Also, as at St Chillin’s, I have three meals a day and do not snack. I am quite thin, I got down to 105 pounds when I had a nervous breakdown at the end of 2013. I only realised in retrospect that, as well as doing crazy OCD checking rituals 10 hours a day as I felt out of control, I was also controlling my food.

My weight is now slightly higher at 107 pounds but I am still very slim. I have not and will never reach the level of recovery from an eating disorder where I don’t care what size I am. I have no desire to reach this state as I might then be happy being fat!  Being slim gives me freedom as I feel I can indulge in sugar and high fat food maybe once or twice a week. When I was a normal size when I had a high sugar or high fat meal I would feel a twinge of compulsion to purge or compulsively exercise. I have not compulsively exercised for at least six months. My recovery isn’t perfect but considering I was given 3 months to live because of my bulimia it’s has definitely changed my life.

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Next week: My battle with Body Dysmorphic Disorder.

 

 

More than 30,000 hits on my blog and Literary agent very interested but Mr Right has got lost in Antarctica.

AGENTFACEBOOK

Day 1. Disastrous date as having spent an hour getting ready and hours getting there when I saw him I realised he’d put up an old photo and was now, unfortunately, bald. As I love thick dark hair on men this meant that the date was a waste of time. He also didn’t have the scintillating intellect I was looking for. He obviously liked me and tried to kiss me as we said goodbye but I evaded his advances. Having only fancied one man I’ve met online this date was a turning point. Never again, I resolved, would I go on a date with someone before I was sure what they looked like now. I would insist on Skyping them first. This would not only weed out those who’d put up a super flattering photograph but also stop me getting so wildly excited by the photographs that I’d married them, had their children and planned the entire education of the child before we’d even met.

Day 2. I put this plan into action. A man I was due to meet the following day had only put up one photograph on the dating website. I texted him to say I was reluctant to meet based on one photograph and wanted to Skype instead. He said he didn’t like Skype but would send me some extra photographs. A flurry of photographs followed but when I looked at them I wasn’t sure I fancied him at all. Mr Dangerous and Unavailable (former drug dealer) was at my Shagger and Lurve Addicts Anonymous meeting that night looking suitably dark and hot. I told him he couldn’t move in with me as a lodger as I fancied him too much. His response was “I’m unavailable.”

Day 3. I didn’t get back to the non-Skype online man till the following morning saying I wanted to meet by which time he’d changed his mind and pulled out of the date because he said I was giving “mixed messages.” I had been slightly put off by the fact that he had been texting me every day as I thought this was too keen. Also he didn’t sound as intelligent on the phone as Mr Right (now after he’s dumped me Mr Unavailable) from Britain Stronger in Europe. But as this new guy was now unavailable and had rejected me I was therefore desperate to meet him. It is clear that I am threatened by the prospect of a relationship with a man who is actually available. Having had over 30,000 hits on the blog, which I’ve now turned into a memoir, on WordPress and a US addiction website,  I had received an exciting full manuscript request from an agent. So instead of going on the date sat at home finishing the memoir instead. The first half of the memoir is already with a top publisher so I should know within the next two weeks whether it has commercial potential.

Day 4. More work on the memoir as I ruminated over my never ending attraction to men who are dangerous or unavailable. As I have recovered from OCD, bulimia, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, clinical depression and drug and alcohol addiction this is my only remaining mental health problem. I resolved I would throw my weight towards breaking this barrier which was keeping me alone and would hurl my entire recovery tool box at it.

Day 5. I went to an all day “dating workshop” organised by dating website Guardian Soulmates. Of course I hoped that this would give me an opportunity for face to face contact with hot men on their website. Maybe I would meet an available Mr Right who I was actually interested in. When I got there there were 500 women and 3 men.  But the men were very attractive, tall and dark and I wondered if I would be able to fight through the throngs of women to speak to them. The dating guru who took the workshop said it was vital to “create opportunities” by going up to people you fancied in public places and trying to get their phone number. Of course I’d been able to do this very successfully when I was working for Britain Stronger in Europe as I had the excuse of asking them to “help with my campaign.” I resolved I would put this advice into action and approached two men I fancied in the interval. One gave me his phone number but spent the entire conversation eyeing up a busty blonde and the other said “I’m not looking at the moment.”  Clearly my unavailable men antennae were fully functioning. I learned a lot from the workshop in particular the earth shattering news that it was necessary to “give” to a man. My primary interest in men before had been what they can do for me. I left the workshop resolved to put this new giving into action.

Day 6. I decided that every day I would do at least one nice thing for someone else. As I was already looking after my friend Susanna’s hamster for the summer (which was easy as it had become confused in my house and gone into hibernation) this meant at least one other thing per day. I posted this on Facebook specifying that it did not mean sleeping with various random men who hassle me on Facebook. Since the referendum when I felt I was positively influencing the future of the country, albeit unsuccessfully, I have decided I want to “make a difference” in the area of mental health.  I have come up with an idea for a “mental health survival kit” which could help everyone who goes into a doctor’s surgery with a mental health or addiction problem get extra support and strengthen their recovery.  My local NHS trust and my doctor think it is a very good idea. And I recently had my first job interview for my entire 11 year recovery, to discuss the project.  Unlike my job interviews at the BBC I was on time and didn’t have to invent any imaginary bombs on the tube to explain my delayed arrival.

Day 7. I went to a pro-European meeting trying to unite all the various groups that had split off from Britain Stronger in Europe since the Referendum campaign. I was of course interested in what these groups had to say but also thought it would be an ideal opportunity to meet a politically compatible Mr Right. There were two men I fancied there who I did speak to despite or perhaps because of their youth. But one of them I had met previously and not fancied as he was too white. As he didn’t look like the type who would be keen on winter sunbeds I thought I would give it a miss. The White Man Apocalypse seems to be on me in full force and I only find dark men attractive.

Day 7. Things were hotting up on Elite Singles and I was getting multiple messages every day. This accelerated sharply after I actually started logging on after ignoring the website for 3 months. I resolved to put my new plan in action and insist on Skyping first. The reaction to this from many of the men was extremely hostile telling me to fuck off. But after a while I realised there was a particular way to phrase it that would make them more keen on Skype. I also decided I would wear my bikini for the conversations.

Day 8. I tested this out with my first online Skype interview. Although the picture was fuzzy I could immediately see that he had put up an incredibly flattering photo on the website that didn’t really look like him. I also recoiled at his anti-European Union views. I have pretty much decided I cannot date someone who is pro-Brexit.

Day 9. I went to Shagger and Lurve Addicts Anonymous where I revealed my intensive plan to combat my attraction to men who are dangerous and unavailable. I would, as recommended by the dating guru at the workshop, do breathing exercises with positive affirmations around dating and relationships as well as self-esteem. Although I might not believe them at first if I repeat  “I will not turn into a clingy two year old who calls my boyfriend mummy” often enough it might actually sink in.  I would also pray, I’m not sure to what as I don’t know whether I believe in God, that my attraction to unavailable men be lifted and that my inner child’s desire to heal the relationship with my father who abandoned me be removed. It is this that is behind my incessant attraction to unavailable men. I would also go on a health blitz, cutting down on caffeine and trying to do yoga to help me sleep in an effort to cut down on my psychiatric medication.

Day 10. At a meeting with my new co-sponsor in Shagger and Lurve Addicts Anonymous I set out a series of positive actions I would try to do every day to get me out of the dating quagmire. One of these, which I’m totally unable to do due to Catholic indoctrination from my mother, is regular masturbation. She showed me a website which had a series of rather utilitarian looking vibrators which she promised would “wake me up.”  My sex drive is even more dormant than the hibernating hamster as its been bludgeoned on the head by all my psychiatric medication. I explained that I was terrified of waking my sex drive up, without a partner, as what would happen if I suddenly got out of control and had to shag someone? The reality is that not having a partner and being, as I now realise, chronically avoidant and sexually anorexic I love not having a sex drive.  She said I’d better try to find one pretty damn quickly if I wanted to have a relationship and should perhaps look into cutting down on my psychiatric medication.

Day 11. I tried to put my new yoga plan into action but alas after an hour and a half of yoga was bored shitless and practically fell asleep. This did give me the idea that I could do the yoga at night instead of a sleeping pill.   Disastrous date with the once evil now reformed Vicomte de Valmont, who I was previously obsessed with and have been avoiding for 5 years. I became very upset after he referred to a (white) friend of his as “wog” a derogatory term for black people. He then said “everyone is racist.”  I realised I was so upset as anyone posh and racist reminds me of my father who after he left my Jamaican mother would take the piss out of Jamaicans and say black people were “different” as they “had a different pelvis shape.”  I practically burst into tears and resolved I could not date him. This meant that every opportunity to date a man I actually know in real life was closed to me and only online was available.

Day 12. Wild excitement as I get an email from an agent (one hour after phone prayer session with hot Priest I wanted to marry) saying that he likes the memoir, which I’d sent him only three days before and that he wanted to see the novel. He sounded interested in taking me on and this is the closest I’ve got to an agent yet. Started reading the novel, whose two central characters are based on my ex-armed robber boyfriend and me,  which I hadn’t looked at for a year. Decided that the novel needed quite a bit more work and that I would edit it and send it in 10 days. Texted and emailed the Vicomte de Valmont, whose mother is a literary agent, and my therapist with the email I proposed to send to the agent. Was touched that Valmont took time out of his busy work schedule to read my email and text me his thoughts.

Day 13. As the Vicompte has looked after me have wild fantasies at the gym that he is my new “mummy.”  Quite how this squares with him freely admitting he is racist I don’t know. I really thought I had got over the desire to find a replacement mummy and confess this relapse to my therapist. Although he helps me again that afternoon with my email the wild fantasies about him being mummy seem to subside. I immerse myself in the novel, which needs a lot of work, hoping that the agent will think it has potential and take me on. The next time I write this blog I may be a professional writer!

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10 Tips to avoid relapse when you encounter alcohol or drugs in work or social settings

I celebrated 11 years of recovery from alcohol and drugs at the beginning of 2016 and have never relapsed since I came into recovery at the beginning of 2005 by following these tips Following these suggestions I have been in countless situations involving alcohol and drugs and have never relapsed in my eleven and a half year recovery.

  1. Always have a couple of people’s phone numbers in recovery you can call if you feel triggered.
  2. In a social situation, if you think you are going to pick up, leave.
  3. In a work situation, if you feel you are going to pick up and cannot go home, leave the room for 5 minutes, make a phone call, pray, meditate or do some deep breathing exercises.
  4. Carry a list with you of the worst things you did when you were drinking and using so you remind yourself how bad it could get if you relapsed.
  5. If your job involves constant client entertainment, where you are under pressure to drink alcohol, switch to another role in the company where you don’t have to do this or find another job.
  6. If your job involves regular contact with your drug of choice, consider changing your job.
  7. Avoid social situations where you know you will see drugs, particularly your drug of choice. If someone brings out your drug of choice in a social situation, leave.
  8. Explain to your partner/close friends/family members how bad your drinking/using was and how terrible it would be for everyone if you relapsed. Encourage one person not to drink at social events with you or if they accompany you to work events. Then you have a non-drinking buddy to hang out with.
  9. If your partner/family members/friends are not there, there is often one other person who is not drinking because they are driving or on medication. Sit near them or hang out with them if it’s a social setting so you feel less isolated.
  10. I was advised in rehab not to drink non-alcoholic beer or wine or soft drinks out of wine glasses. Both can trigger a craving and you can end up picking up the wrong bottle or glass that actually has alcohol in it.Sign up for updates on this blog

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My search for the perfect sperm donor

After spending most of the year in a fruitless quest for Mr Right on Guardian Soulmates, Elite Singles and the Inner Circle I give up on the quest for Mr Right and look to find a sperm donor instead. I go to Create Fertility in London headed by Professor Geeta Nargund and look at website SurrogateFinder.com

My six month long search for Mr Right has been a disaster. I found Mr Right, another volunteer on the Britain Stronger in Europe campaign, but as soon as he showed he was interested in me I went off him. Now of course as he is cold and distant from me I am crazy about him. The fact that he is twenty years younger than me and penniless has not dented my enthusiasm.

I decided earlier this year that, having recovered from all my longstanding mental health and addiction problems, I could now, for the first time in my life, contemplate having a baby. The search for Mr Right has run in parallel with the less ambitious aim of finding a sperm donor. Not that I am any less picky about finding a sperm donor than a boyfriend but at least the sperm donor does not need to understand my mental health problems. I was going to ask Mr Right but now uninterested to be my sperm donor as he is tall very good looking and highly intelligent. But as he is now ignoring my texts and phone calls that avenue is closed.

I have always viewed it as the great tragedy of my life that the men I was most interested in were not interested in me. I have now realised that this is because of me as I am only attracted to men who are dangerous or unavailable. The reason I pined after men like my friend Alex at Oxford who I was “in love with” for 15 years was because they didn’t like me. I know the reason for this – I am trying to “heal the wound” with my father who was dangerous and unavailable and rejected me as ugly as a child. But that doesn’t stop me repeating the pattern.

Similarly there was a man I know who was previously very promiscuous – a gambling addict who would steal his girlfriends’ cars and credit cards. When I thought I would relapse and it would ruin my life if I got involved with him I was completely obsessed with him. This was purely because of his danger factor as he is very odd looking like a scarecrow with an eating disorder and when I met him I didn’t fancy him at all. After years of avoiding him I needed some help with the idea I have had to help everyone who comes to a doctor in the UK with a mental health problem or addiction. I met him with trepidation thinking I might end up in bed with him but at least thinking he could be my sperm donor. However now he has reformed is monogamous and no longer dangerous I don’t fancy him at all. My therapist said I have to look at my own unavailability and unwillingness to get into a relationship.

Since I decided I wanted to keep my options open in terms of having a child I have viewed every man I vaguely fancy as a potential sperm donor. My therapist says this makes me a sperm burglar. I actually interviewed a potential sperm donor earlier this year (unbenknownst to him) but rejected him as he had a receding chin. Then when another unavailable and dangerous man (avoidant ex-drug dealer) wanted to move into my house I thought he could be my sperm donor. However I realised that coming up to someone at the end of a Shagger and Lurve Addicts Anonymous meeting and saying “will you be my sperm donor?” might not be viewed very well in the fellowship. I have now asked every man I actually know to be my sperm donor but they have said that any child of mine will end up in an asylum. I have asked my therapist if she has a discount rate for babies.

I have investigated all the options for getting a sperm donor from a UK sperm bank but all are completely unsuitable. Although you can get the educational background of the donor you cannot get a photograph. What happens if Quasimodo has slipped through the sperm bank’s net and the child comes out with a face that leads to a lifelong phobia of mirrors? After all I believed I was so ugly that I couldn’t go out in daylight as the sun would show everyone how ugly I was. I thought the Elephant man was Helen of Troy compared to me. No ships would be setting sail because of my face, they’d stay in port until they rusted away and got scrapped. I was informed by a fertility clinic that there is a sperm bank in California where they have film star lookalikes and you can simply go online and select your film star. Ben Affleck is the most popular. But I want a Hispanic looking donor and couldn’t think of a Hispanic film star I wanted to mate with. Anyway with the prevalence of plastic surgery in California god knows what they originally looked like. In any event you cannot get a photograph.

I interviewed an older mother who’d used a sperm donor for a feature I was doing on the record number of over 40 mothers in the UK. Although she was useless for the feature (as it turned out she’d had the child when she was 39) she did tell me that in Norway they had sperm banks where you could not only get a photo of the donor but an entire dating video. This is exactly like my scenario in my screen play the Fishtank Babies where the career woman goes to a sperm bank and surfs through all the videos.

I googled “Sperm bank Norway” but the only things that came up were sperm banks in Denmark that do not provide a photograph. I texted the lady who’d put me onto the Norweigan sperm banks but didn’t hear from her. I phoned the Norwegian Embassy in London with a desperate plea “I need to find out everything you know about Norwegian sperm banks.”  I could almost hear the giggles coming down the phone. “Erm I’m not able to help you with that,” an information lady said. “But if you send an email our sperm specialist will get back to you.” I sent them an email titled “NORWEGIAN SPERM NOW.”  I am still waiting to hear from them. In fact there has been a massive boom in the use of Scandinavian sperm in the UK which commentators have called “a second Viking invasion.”

I found a website SurrogateFinder.com where they did have a lot of pictures of the sperm donors.

website SurrogateFinder.com  has sperm donors from all over the world and does provide a photograph but I need to find out if they screen the sperm

A few were in the UK, most of them were in India. But when I was actually surfing the list of sperm donors, I realised I couldn’t do it. For a start I want a sperm donor who is highly intelligent which you cannot tell from a photograph. It is extremely expensive to contact the donors. The idea of having a child with a donor who I can’t even speak to is not possible. I may have to pay the hefty fee for contacting the donors.

But the advantage of proper sperm banks is that they vet the quality of the sperm so that only the healthiest, fittest and fastest get through. The Norwegian sperm banks guarantee that the sperm can swim at at least 50 miles per hour. If I just get the donor from what looks like an unregulated website the sperm may be slower than a donkey with arthritis. Or it may have a genetic disease. I have contacted surrogacy.Finder.com to find out if their screening procedures are more rigorous than simply asking “do you have a dick?”

Shopping for a man online hasn’t worked for me with the internet dating. I joined Elite Singles four months ago full of hope that I would meet Tarzan with a PhD and a penthouse in Mayfair. I got one message from a dwarf in a bedsit in arse end of the universe Slough. And despite receiving hundreds of messages I have yet to meet a man online who I actually fancy. This may simply be because they are actually available.

I have a final consultation with a fertility clinic next week to say whether it is too late for egg freezing. I’m hoping I can do that instead as my efforts to find a sperm donor in real life have been as unsuccessful as a polar bear trying to find an ice floe in the Sahara. However once the Norwegian embassy stops laughing at my request I am hoping to be put in touch with the nirvana of Norwegian sperm banks with their dating videos. I will introduce you to all my sperm suitors once I’ve whittled them down to 5.

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