I can not order my thoughts, nor find the words to express them. Sentences come – and then go – before I’ve time to pen them down; and the conclusion of any chain of thought is always a few phrases out of reach.

The panic is bubbling now, like acid.

It is making it harder to breathe, and has created a terror that permeates my sleep and drowns out the day: what to write what to think what to do what to say what to write what to do what to do –

Nothing.

In a rare moment of silence; I realise that I might just be repeating the same mistake. That all these years in, I am still looking for something to hold onto. A little validation that provides a temporary respite until the next time I am revealed –

Nothing and nobody.

Pull back the cloak and there’s only thin air –

This is the root of the problem. This is where it’s red raw and screams; where the urgency – and desperation – and scrabbling around for connections and meaning and words comes from –

Because without something, there’s nothing there.

Or so I have become accustomed to believing.

And so, I have been hooking my identity and any self worth on to things that are outside of me, and can be named, and acknowledged, and touched. Clutching onto descriptors that are tangible (the violinist) – and acceptable (the grade A student) – or ill (and so excused, for a little while); knowing, all the time, that these are temporary guises, assumed, but not intrinsic; and subject, at any moment, to exposure – or removal – or, in the current case, writer’s block –

And I am left with nothing.

Pull back the cloak and there’s only thin air –

I think that this will keep happening unless I am careful. That I will move from one validation to the next, writer – employee – speaker, always aware of the fragility of this foundation and in anticipation of the next tremor. Always waiting to be found out, or exposed, or to lose the thing that I have been desperately clinging to.

And, I wonder whether it’s correct, this dislocation of my assets from my self. Whether believing that these qualities are outside of me, rather than a part of me, is a true representation; or just a reflection of how little I really think of myself, and how scared I am that, should the cloak be yanked, cruelly, from behind me, then people might think that really

there’s nothing there –

To help me along this bumpy journey, I started to try and understand myself and my relationship to the world; to gain some insight into what had happened and why it had happened. The pen was my probe and my head, the subject. Or so I thought. Somewhere along the way, my psychological exercise stumbled into a sociological debate and took on a life of its own – particularly in relation to being a woman.

Whether career woman, ladette or a Bridget Jones-esque twenty-something, girl power, in its many guises, experienced a notable – and much noted upon – surge at the end of the last century. It confirmed and consolidated the dramatic transition that women, as a sex, were undergoing; provided a new way of being for the younger generation – and raised a whole host of questions for those of us who fell on the tipping point.

It is impossible for one person to understand or resolve the complexities of what went – and is going – on for women today; to explore the impact of the past century’s lightening speed race along the social evolutionary scale. One article cannot communicate or clarify what it feels like to be a woman within this wider historical context – but it might shed a little light on the relationship between what’s going on out there and what’s going on for me and, possibly, many other women in the UK.

Joining the Dots

What it meant to be a woman in the UK in the twentieth century has been a persistent interruption to my soul searching. It cropped up when I was considering identity; made another appearance when I got to body image; bounced into my biological or emotional debate: basically, it seemed to take a lot of space for something that I had considered to be, in the context of things, of little relevance. With my curiousity piqued and my frustration heightened, I decided that a little attention was evidently required – and opened a minefield.

My eating disorder seemed to be intricately and complexly connected to my gender; it had resonances with women today, yesterday and years ago; appeared to be informed by traditions and ingrained patterns that I had never consciously recognised; and, strangely, made a lot more sense from this perspective, as I will explain.

As you move out of the grey cloud of an eating disorder and, probably, many other mental health illnesses or addictions, one of the biggest challenges in the recovery process is working out who you are, re-discovering and re-claiming your identity. My exploration of the interplay between being a woman and eating disorders did not begin at the obvious point, i.e. the much discussed female form and the equally well discussed preoccupation with the female form; it started, instead, with identity, my contemplation of how we work out who we are and how we define ourselves to others – and introductory speech seemed the logical place to begin.

The female identity

Today, we are defined as much by what we do as who we are – “I’m so and so and I am a ….”. Our career is synonymous with our identity and, whether our career is reflective of our character or not, it is an easy and concrete starting point. Men are probably used to this; but, for the female species whose historical identifiers were mother, daughter or wife, this question has acquired a new significance. Now I’m all for equality and empowerment in the workplace; but I also wonder whether they have forced the question of how women define themselves to the forefront. If they have introduced another dimension into the female identity which has confused and complicated how, and where, women locate themselves.

So, where does this confusion rise from? Why should it be harder for women to identify themselves in this way than it is for men? And don’t the fathers and husbands and sons out there experience the same conflict in how they define themselves? No, I don’t think so. Men, as a species, are used to this way of things; women, on the other hand, are coming from a totally different state of consciousness. The conflict is heightened because our roots lie in an ‘other’ state which, while absent from our individual memories, seems somehow ingrained in our collective history.

If this argument feels too airy fairy for you, let me add some biological and sociological padding. Now I’m no historian (or doctor, for that matter) but it doesn’t take a scholar to map out the role of women through the centuries.

The Role of Women

Women have typically occupied a few select key positions: mother, home-maker and nurturer. Why? Because biology dictated this role for them in the evolutionary process: the smaller female physique is not as suited to the hardcore hunting/fighting/building initially needed for survival; women’s bodies and psyche are designed for motherhood and nurturing the young – and pregnancies are not conducive to a stable income.

Whilst times, circumstances and behaviours may have changed, if we consider the idea that our fundamental nature shaped a very different role for us to the one that we are trying to fill today, we’re getting closer to understanding the conflict around self-identification.

If we take this line of thought one step further and combine the biological make-up with the career identifier bit, we can also see that it is only the fortunate few whose careers bear any meaningful relationship to who they are. Pregnancies, maternity leave and the school runs aside, it can be difficult for women to really connect to a career or a vocation in the same way as men can.

Thus, defining ourselves in terms of what we are do, as society so often dictates, jars with our sense of self; yet we are negated totally if we return to our original identifiers.

So that sorted that out a bit – if I put myself and my confusion in a bigger context, the difficulties I was experiencing in working out who I was, whilst unresolved, started to make a bit more sense. And so did the issue of women and food or, more precisely, the powerful relationship between women and food. I have often wondered why food was my weapon of choice: what was it about food that was so difficult? Why did it seem so much harder for me and my female counterparts, to manage than for men? Back-tracking through the female experience again shed some light on the question.

Women and Food

It is difficult to imagine today’s constant debate over diet and body image having much place in early societies: if you’re just looking to survive or keep your family fed or meet society’s idea of femininity, I suspect that counting calories or exchanging waist measurements is not on your radar. Food, however, probably was: women and food seem to be intricately and intimately linked from the beginning.

Biological make-up, ie. breast feeding, is the most obvious illustration of this connectedness; but then there’s also the nurturing role, the cook function, the home keeper and, later, the supper on the table for the hard-working husband. Food has always been a central part of the female role and, consequently, the female identity. Could this, too, explain why I, as a woman, seemed to put more emphasis on food and find it more emotive than my male counterparts?

Let’s follow this argument a little further because it also seems to encompass the other side of the coin: eating. Back to caveman and the home keeping woman: if males had been out fighting or hunting or cavorting around the countryside, then they physically required more sustenance than their female counterpart and, thus, the differentiation between what women and men eat (in terms of how it looks, and not simply physiological need), is established. Speeding along again to Scarlett O’Hara squeezing into her corset; or the working class women donating their meat to the men; or the notion of dainty female behaviour: it’s not difficult to dismiss an evolutionary trend emerging around women and the act of eating.

The female form

So, finally, we move smoothly on from eating to the female form and, taking a walk through any art gallery demonstrates the long-standing obsession with women’s bodies. Whether the fashion has leant towards thin or fat figures, the female form, historically, seems to have attracted fascination and scrutiny – and we’re back to identity again. Whilst the position of men was informed by money and occupation, these avenues were limited to women: looks operated then, as they possibly still do now, as an asset or selling point.

My lightening bulb moment happened at this point: traditionally, women were defined by food in terms of both their value and their function. No wonder it caused so many problems.

It’s all interesting food for thought, to excuse the pun; but things have changed and, you may well be asking, what’s the relevance now? Possibly nothing more than a few minutes of contemplation or a little introspection before you rush back to the office or feed your own brood their overdue tea or head off for a night on the town with the girls; but, for me, the relevance comes from learning about myself through going back to my predecessors. It comes from gaining a little of that often lacking empathy with and connectedness to the female race. And it helps my journey.

Through putting my personal battles in a wider context and adding a little rationality to an irrational experience, I am moving away from the isolation and confusion that governed my illness, and gaining a little of that empathy and compassion which has also helped to define our gender.

This is progress.

The need to know – or control – or anticipate the future seems to have loosened; and, instead of checking in to BBC weather at hourly intervals, I have obviously found more interesting things to do, or just realised that I can manage, come rain or shine.

Change happens like this sometimes. Miniscule steps pass imperceptibly until, occasionally, you take a big step back and realise, “gosh, haven’t I come far…”

It has been similar with the food, though I couldn’t tell you when the turning point occurred. I no longer need to plan each meal, days in advance, to make sure that it’s something I can handle; I just realised, at some point, that despite the discomfort, I am starting to win.

That things which felt like mountains, have now shrunk to manageable hills that can be navigated, one stage at a time; and, that not knowing the end destination is far less traumatic now that I’ve stopped trying to predict the ride.

That miracles rarely happen overnight, but can take place in life times; and, that you can create great things just by chip chipping away.

And so, when I start on my next challenge, whatever that may be; then I will remind myself that I do not need to move mountains or aim for the sky…

I just need to take it, a step at a time, and keep on going; because one morning I will wake up and realise that I have just done something I didn’t think I’d be able to do –

Or reached a wonderful place that I didn’t even know I was heading for.

I forget sometimes, that it really doesn’t take a lot.

One kind word or a gentle gesture, and suddenly, the bridge between me and the rest of the world seems infinitely smaller.

It is important, every now and then, to remember this.

That some days, when it feels like everything is stacked against you and it’s hard to see the point, a random smile can magically pierce through the fogginess and reach somewhere that means you’re not really on your own.

And sometimes, when you’re feeling out of sorts or nothing seems to fit; then the sudden click of a connection or the warmth of a friendly word can reach somewhere, deep inside, and you realise that these fleeting moments and elusive sparks are probably what we’re looking for…

So I will remind myself – when I’m off fighting my demons or scrabbling around for an elusive elixir – that it’s important to keep things in perspective and stick my head above the parapet, every once in a while –

Because often, it doesn’t take a lot.

I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam uti chelidon – O swallow swallow
Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih shantih shantih

T.S. Eliot. The Waste Land. V. What the Thunder Said. 423-433

It is as though I stepped into a strange No Man’s land when I started getting ill, and closed the door on one life without pausing to look behind me. Before is strangely barren. Afterwards is a slideshow, spiked through with memories that scream.

I thought that I had frozen when time stopped, but separation is not that clean.

These come next.

A single bed, turned horizontally through the middle of the room after another Anastasia Krupnik inspired rearrangement. One side for ‘work’, the other for ‘play’, and a night time of raging raging hunger. Screwed shut eyes and breath held imagination and the taste of lasagne. One bite at a time. First the meat; then the pasta; and then the cheese. Who needs food when you can create it in your head?

Navy blue leotards and dusty gym mats in the hall. Whispering and staring eyes, and staying at the end because I was, they said, getting very very thin.

A changing room after swimming and being late for French because they’d called me aside, when I was shivering with cold, and said that they’d be writing home. A letter, they said, because we’re getting a bit worried, and we need to say we’re concerned.

And once I’d started crying, when everyone else had got dressed and gone on, unknowingly; then it was impossible to stop, because I’d done something wrong – without really meaning to – and I didn’t understand what was going on.

Later. Going back to the memory later – after the fear had gone – because it meant I was special, and if I could just recreate the moment and hold onto it, like some warped acknowledgement. Stop. Stop. Stop. Because what kind of a person am I?

Music camp. Just before Easter. Bunk beds that felt like islands. A pot of natural yoghurt and a bag of food that my violin teacher had brought me because I “didn’t look well”. Red hot embarrassment and a feeling of failure, mingled with the loneliness of not quite fitting it. The first few lies, as it rotted at the back of the wardrobe, and an introduction to deceit that finished, a few years later, when I could no longer look her in the eye.

Backwards. Jumbo cookies in the tuck shop. Thick shortbread with a chocolate drop on top, and the feeling that I never had the discipline to say no.

Forwards. 8 O’clock in the morning. Strawberry yoghurt before school. Standing behind the toilet door waiting for the footsteps to disappear. Gagging on two fingers, because it wasn’t natural then; and the sudden relief – after the heart-racing panic – that I could make it all disappear.

Lunch time. School dinner pizzas and the careful scraping off of any cheese.

A little book of recipes, written out immaculately in a spiral bound notebook, with the fat content noted in red.

Backwards. No control, and never do what you say. Never do what you say. Never go through with it, Melissa. All talk and no action. Words, words, words.

Forwards. A radiator. Thick railings and the heat pressed up against my legs because I can not get warm. Nothing will get me warm. Ink stained school desks and thick bobbly tights, and not quite finding the energy to speak because there’s nothing to say, anymore, so please don’t try and make me –

Backwards. A physics lesson. From kilograms to newtons and the first time I’d been weighed. A passing comment – “but I can’t weigh more than you” – that loaded the gun.

Forwards. From radiator to radiator because it is impossible to get warm.

Backwards. Because they’re all thin and you’re just normal.

Forwards. Can’t get warm.

Backwards. Normal. Ordinary. Plain.

Circling – and circling – and circling -

and stop.

I am worried that I have been skirting the edge of something for a while. That I have been holding myself until I am brave enough to stare into the precipice.

I’m not sure what I will find there, should I peer over the rim. I’m worried that peering will not be enough. That it will, instead, lead to a tumble into the unknown. And then, who can say what I will uncover

I am not expecting big things or dramatic revelations. I don’t think there’s a single monster, lurking there in the darkness. Rather, a twisted ball of hurt and anger and pain that I bound up, tight; and is starting to unravel now that I’ve stripped back the comforts and started poking around.

I think it means I need to go back to the beginning, now that we know what happens at the end; because I’m scared that the little ball is Melissa and without it I can’t work out who I am….

July. The year that Roxette’s Joyride was in the top 10. Mountain passes and the first blasts of Mediterranean heat. Three small children and a sweaty car. A Laura Ashley dress with loud bright flowers, and spaghetti carbonara in restaurant marquees with buzzing black beetles and the sound of heat. Pizza ovens and the first Italian words, and the strange sensation that I didn’t quite fit in.

This was the tipping point stage I think. Not lost, but floundering; not ill, but paving the way.

This bit is frozen, you see. Like the last supper, or a ghoulish image of someone before they passed away.

Fast forward. The first year of secondary school. A locker room and training bras and the desire to fit in. The first valentine’s disco: black leggings, a white shirt, ‘Sit Down’ and a kiss on a cheek that left me squirming with excitement and smiling all weekend (flash: two years on, jeans and a cropped white top and they whispered that I looked like a skeleton which made me particularly pleased). Growing up and feeling grown up; and noticing things that I somehow hadn’t seen –

Like the fact that I was bigger than them – and they were prettier than me – and I couldn’t see where I belonged – or what they could possibly like about me.

And so, I wrote lists, that year, because I could make myself better, if I tried; and I identified each and every flaw, because I could fix myself if I identified where the problems were; and, I filled my special Country Companions notebook with all the things that I did wrong and all the things that I wanted to do right –

I will not be rude to my parents. I will be nice to everyone. I will do one good thing every day. I will not get angry with people. I will not be greedy. I will be kind. I will cut off – and strip away – and break down all the things that make me, me; because I just want to be someone else.

Bang.

The first thread.

The occasion is bittersweet.

It has, as birthdays tend to do, sent my mind racing up and down the timeline. Somewhat tragically, the memories don’t hang on the parties or the celebration, but on the particular phase of my eating disorder that each year has become bound up with.

20 through to 25 are pretty much blanks.

Interestingly, the last pre-Eating Disorder party is one of the most poignant, maybe because I hadn’t stopped taking photos at that point or because it feels, sometimes, like I have been frozen in time…

So, there we are, at my 12^th fancy dress (country-themed: it was cool at the time) party; and I am a Spanish flamenco dancer in shocking red over a Victorian-petticoated-skirt. There is a little Mexican-hatted girl beside me, and a Chinese dress a bit further down and I don’t quite know what the rest of them were thinking. We are lined up in a row, beaming at the camera. Later, we watched Lorenzo’s Oil, which was a bit heavy duty for a Birthday; and, we ate fondue, which was my favourite food before I became too scared to eat.

There is not a photo for the next year, nor a theme that springs to mind; but I remember what I was wearing – a long blue Tammy Girl jumper over leggings – and I know that I had just started getting scarily thin.

After that it blurs. All that lingers is the fear of Birthday cakes and a resentment at having to celebrate things with food. We fought, I think, and got frustrated, because, it seemed a bit of a farce to celebrate when it was all going so horribly wrong.

18 comes next, and I wasn’t doing too badly. We went to an Italian, a whole huge table of us, and I was beginning to feel popular and grown up, and like things might fall into place. I had a bean salad (which was horrible) because the pizza was too scary; and got a kebab – of two – to throw up on the way home.

I don’t remember my 21st. I was very ill that year. I feel a little deprived, on hindsight; but I imagine it was a date to endure, rather than one to enjoy.

On my 25th, I went for a drink in the afternoon. The ring that my parents had given me fell off somewhere between rehab and the pub because my fingers were shrinking at the rate of knots. Within two weeks, I was back in hospital.

On my 27th and my 28th, I smiled politely and marked the occasion – but made sure that I was home in time for my nightly binge.

My 29th was my first bulimia free Birthday in over 15 years and was nearly cancelled as I realised that I had lost my friends. It came with a valuable lesson – quality and not quantity – and, whilst I didn’t quite make it to cake, we did make it to Ping Pong Dim Sum, and I started learning how to have fun –

This year, things are totally different.

I am, I’m aware, in a place that I didn’t think I’d reach, celebrating an occasion I wasn’t sure I’d make; and I should, I feel, be pretty happy that I will be spending my 30^th with friends and family, rather than a toilet bowl and a plate of food –

Only the thought of that child – and then this adult – is heartbreaking; and, after all those years, it only just feels like the ice is thawing and the flamenco dancer is coming back to life.

There’s nothing like a little live music to rouse the soul.

I’ve been a fan for a while and, whilst the performance didn’t disappoint, it was the encore that shot electric currents through the audience. You can always tell a good roundhouse gig from the mood at Chalk Falk tube station. At half 11 last night, it was buzzing.

The Noisettes are a UK group that reached top 10 status last year with ‘Don’t Upset the Rhythm’, a song that didn’t quite get me rushing (metaphorically) to iTunes; but tuned my radar into the conversation. Always one for a powerful female singer and on the hunt for things a little bit different, it didn’t take long for my curiosity to be piqued, and the release of ‘Wild Young Hearts’ far surpassed my initial expectations–

‘Don’t upset the Rhythm’ is only one facet of the Noisettes’ eclectic style, and just touches on the incredible strength and range of Shingai Shoniwa’s voice. Combining rock and punk and soul and blues, the Noisettes mix passion with catchiness, and seem to span all my moods. They are one of the few acts that I can dance along to or enjoy from my sofa; can make me feel and can also bring a great big smile to my face -

Which was what they did last night.

While the main performance met my expectations (great vocals, strong set), and was punctuated by some unexpected delights (covers of The Killers and ‘Chain Reaction’); it was an encore performance of ‘Atticus’, followed by ‘Every Now and Then’, that tipped me from conscious enjoyment to full blown captivation, and made me remember just how powerful music could be –

We were mesmerised.

Darkening lights. A rich and melodic introduction to ‘Sometimes’ that crescendoed and then captivated the audience. The pulsing tension of the guitar. A tangible sense of expectation. And then, a performance that thrilled – and chilled – and electrified -

I am quite demanding. It takes a lot to make me forget myself. Throughout the main set, the connection was nearly – but not quite – there. In the encore, they had me. With an unexpected appearance on the balcony by Shoniwa, the mood was transformed and any distance between audience and performer, physically and emotionally bridged.

Whilst the spectacle – a solo track danced along railings – was captivating enough, the features that had made the performance fun (vocal gymnastics), and energetic (pulsing rhythms), and powerful (strong harmonies) were concentrated in Shoniwa’s voice –

and it went right through you.

By the time she’d returned to the stage, I was spellbound and completely under their control.

I imagine that this is the key to a good show. When you can whip the audience into a frenzy – or hold them captive, with bated breath; when they’re hanging on your every note – or carried along on a wave of pure adrenaline; when a single guitar chord can create a wave of enthusiasm that is impossible to resist –

And when the first thing they do when they get home is log onto iTunes to try and replicate the experience, which is exactly what I have just done.

This is an important focus for anyone who’s been directly – or indirectly – touched by an eating disorder; and, for those who spend the remainder of the year campaigning, tirelessly, to change the misconceptions and put a few constraints on the terrifying spread.

There have been, therefore, some stories on the news; and some articles in magazines; and a scurry of activity, online, amongst the organisations and individuals out there who want to make a difference.

There are conferences going on; and new campaigns being started; and I have selected my five favourite recovery posts to highlight that it is possible –

Only it feels, slightly, like we’re talking to the converted; and, I’m not sure how the message will reach the many people who, without meaning to offend, can’t quite see the relevance…

Because anorexia’s a fad – or a fashion – or that thing that models get; cured by three good meals and a bit of common sense.

Bulimia’s “not something I can really relate to” – or gross – or great for getting your cake and eating it; but an illness? – no, and part of polite conversation – not really, thank you.

And EDNOS. What the hell are they?

I can see their point. If you’re not female, aged between 12 and 18, typically middle class and probably white – or have a daughter within this group – what’s the problem?

This.

According to statistics, eating disorders are on the up. They’re starting younger – and hitting people later.

Contrary to popular belief, they don’t mind if you’re male; and, aren’t confined to class – or country – or wealth – or race.

They’re wrapped up with food – but that’s just one dimension; the causes are complex and hard to pin down.

They’ll stay for a while – or cling on for a lifetime; at the least they’ll do damage; at the worst, they’ll cause death.

At the least they’ll do damage; at the worst, they’ll cause death.

Fortunately, part of raising awareness of eating disorders is about raising awareness of recovery from eating disorders, and making sure that people are aware of the help that’s out there and the fact that, despite how it feels, recovery is possible.

This is why we need to get the message out there; and reach the initiated – and the uninitiated; because, there’s a chance that we can reverse the trend – and limit the damage – and maybe even save a few lives, if we’re aware of what we’re dealing with and we’re working together towards the same end.

For help and support, visit the Getting Help pages.