Most of them have emerged during my recovery. It was hard, before then, to see beyond the food. Now, I follow the clashes, and the discussion and the flashes of insight; and the puzzle is coming steadily along.

I no longer expect it to be completed.

Last week, I read an article on ‘Existential depression in gifted individuals’ (as you do); and another piece started to emerge. It has been gradually gaining definition until I understand what it is trying to say.

I think, in essence, that I experienced some sort of existential depression; and, that my eating disorder provided a safer distraction and a sense of order that took the focus off the wider world which, to me, simply didn’t make any sense.

It’s a difficult concept that I’m still trying to work through, so forgive me if I’m clumsy with my words while I try and explain…

What the article says

I‘m not hot on the definition of “gifted” kids, and don’t know that I’d place myself under this heading; but, categorisation aside, the article (by James Webb) is exploring why “gifted” kids might be more likely to slip into existential depression with some ideas around how this could be avoided.

It begins with a description of existential depression, which is where the penny was lifted and ready to drop -

“Existential depression is a depression that arises when an individual confronts certain basic issues of existence. Yalom (1980) describes four such issues (or “ultimate concerns”)–death, freedom, isolation and meaninglessness. Death is an inevitable occurrence. Freedom, in an existential sense, refers to the absence of external structure. That is, humans do not enter a world which is inherently structured. We must give the world a structure which we ourselves create. Isolation recognizes that no matter how close we become to another person, a gap always remains, and we are nonetheless alone. Meaninglessness stems from the first three. If we must die, if we construct our own world, and if each of us is ultimately alone, then what meaning does life have?”

- and then continues to explore these insights in relation to the common traits of gifted youngsters, including intensity and “multi potentiality” (which I’m taking to mean across the board straight As) -

“When their intensity is combined with multi-potentiality, these youngsters become particularly frustrated with the existential limitations of space and time. ….

In such depression, gifted children typically try to find some sense of meaning, some anchor point which they can grasp to pull themselves out of the mire of “unfairness.” Often, though, the more they try to pull themselves out, the more they become acutely aware that their life is finite and brief, that they are alone and are only one very small organism in a quite large world, and that there is a frightening freedom regarding how one chooses to live one’s life. …”

Where it makes sense to me

I remember sitting at the piano, when I was about 8, feeling the world getting larger around me whilst I started to disappear. I remember my dog dying, at 7; and the nights then spent lying in bed staring at the diagonal rows of flowers on the wallpaper, wondering when it would happen to my family or me.

I remember that stomach-turning question of where does the universe end – and what is after the end? I remember the desperation of feeling like I was being swallowed up by a huge daunting world….

In other words, I think I had a good old dose of existential angst, but lacked the language to help me work it out. And, so, I avoided the questions; and attempted to alleviate the loneliness; and, instead of getting lost in the enormity of life, I focussed on the minutiae of food and weight –

And time stood still.

I had my meaning and I had the illusion of control.

And now?

Time has re-started now. I only learnt the term ‘existential’ as I had a major panic attack and was flung back into the acute sense of nothingness on the way to work one day. It turned out, later, to be classic ‘existential angst’. I think it’s more common when you’re older, so I am slightly less perturbed or, at least, I appreciate that hiding from the world’s not the best way to manage it.

It helps, somewhat, to realise that I was not – and am not – alone.

It also helps to get a little insight into what was going on, back then, so that I can let that little bit go and continue moving on.

The full article is on the Davidson Institute website and can be read here.

Related Posts: Life-And Death; “We perished, each alone”.

It is otherwise known as science.

Whether it started as a defence mechanism (Doctors, what do they know?); or was jumbled up with the health – social – emotional – personal – cultural contexts that eating disorders fall into; or, is just down to the fact that my science education stopped 14 years ago… I seem to have neglected a key area of sense making, and forgotten to factor an understanding of genetics or biology in.

They have proved unexpectedly relevant.

Now I’m no scientist (BIG DISCLAIMER!) and I have to admit that the detail of research abstracts and medical breakthroughs tend to go right over my head; but, as I’ve tentatively probed this unchartered area in the past few months, there’s been some sparks of connections and a few ‘Ah Ha’ moments that I certainly didn’t expect to find.

In the sudden clicks of understanding, I’ve begun to fill in a few of the gaps and realise that my eating disorder might not have been the personal flaw or inexplicable phenomenon I had it down for. It might also have had something to do with how I was made up;and as much to do with what was going on in my body, as what was happening in my head.

For example, I recognise myself in the…

“exaggerated worry and concern about what might happen in the future” that researchers have linked to“increased dopamine D2 and D3 receptor activity in another part of the basal ganglia called the dorsal caudate, which was related to anorexics’ responses to and avoidance of harm.” (from Psychiatric Times)

…and, even though I’ve no idea of what a dopamine D2 receptor is, the anxiety stuff’s an area where I’m right at home.

Similarly, the connection between conformity and “the internalization of societal standards of attractiveness” (citeulike) that is (apparently) common in those with eating disorders, starts to qualify a predisposition that I’ve sensed, but not quite been able to put my finger on.

Interesting.

Whilst I certainly haven’t concluded that my eating disorder was all inevitable, it’s becoming a little more comprehensible than it was before. And, although I still feel that the experience is highly subjective, I am beginning to understand that I wasn’t – contrary to my head’s previously taunts – totally on my own or, worse, a bit of a freak –

For example, the fact that I could binge without feeling full might not have been an indication of my personal greed; but linked into the possible impairment of Interoceptive awareness (or “the sense of the physiological condition of the body”, including the senses around food and recognising emotions) that ED bites so eloquently describes.

And, maybe the volatility in my emotions was linked into to the chemical stuff happening in my brain, as touched on by this piece in PubMed, or the effects of starvation rather than being a personal reaction that didn’t make any sense.

I don’t really get the science, and I’m not here to offer any high brow expertise -

But I spent a very long time thinking that my eating disorder was a personal failing – or a bad choice – or something that I didn’t fight hard enought against; and, I’ve been struck, recently, by the fact that there’s some information out there which might just prove me wrong -

People who do get the science:

Here are a few of the places that have opened my eyes to the scientific stuff:

• eating disorder research from the Institute of Psychiatry
• ED Bites blog
• Voice in Recovery facebook page

People who are behind the science:

I didn’t quite get the point of research when I was ill. I’m beginning to understand it’s value.

If you live in the UK and want to get involved, you can visit the Institute of Psychiatry website, or email Ertimiss Eshkevari to help with their work, currently around intrusive thoughts, the use of vodcasts, and self awareness around inner and outer selves.

In an attempt to be “good” (which I was a little hung up on), and to prove my self discipline (which seemed to be lapsing), and to convince myself, once and for all, that I could stick to my guns; I decided that a period of abstinence was a great way of putting myself on the straight and narrow -

Chocolate was the starting point (because everyone else was doing it), and puddings and fat were thrown in for good measure (because I was convinced that I was already on the way to hell).

And so, out went “bad” foods, like cakes, and biscuits, and sweets, and anything that exceeded the finger-in-the-air fat limit (10g); and, in came “good” foods, like müller lights and quorn mince and anything labelled “fat-free”.

It doesn’t take long for an eating disorder to kick in.

Anorexia wasn’t as common as it is today; but, by Easter, it had made itself at home. The end of Lent did not signal the sense of achievement I had anticipated; and the flake egg that I still remember 17 years, evoked an inexplicable terror, rather than a welcome release.

As Lent approaches and I can feel myself getting a little tense, I have been reminded of the dangers of misplaced terminology, and noticed that I am a little over-sensitive to the notion of “good” and “bad” food, or the idea that saying no to chocolate is a sign of virtue.

And, as I am still trying to deal with the 12 year old me’s messed up ideas around food, and deserving, and how to be good; I am instinctively adverse to the suggestion that giving up chocolate, or chips, or “bad” things, should be considered a “good” thing, particularly around children –

Because mixing food with morality can get a bit messy; and, confusing what you eat, with who you are, will often end in tears.

And, I am a case in point.

“Should” has always been bit of a problem for me, but I’d kind of prided myself on my ability to problem solve and think creatively and take the initiative …

The realisation that I automatically see objections – rather than possibilities – is a little sore.

I’ve also noticed that I assume there’s a “right way” and a “wrong way” of doing things; and, that “but” often emerges in this context, typically within phrases like “but that’s not the right away” and “but I don’t know how I’m meant to do it”…

This is another ongoing theme for me. It means that the first obstacle in any activity is identifying the “right” approach and, sometimes, that just doesn’t exist.

Last week, an article on ‘conformity’ that was winging its way around twitter joined the dots for me. Apparently, eating disorders are more common in people with a pre-disposition towards conformity; my over-preoccupation with “getting it right” – as signified by an increasing use of the word “but” – would suggest that I might fall into this category.

And that I haven’t quite grown out of it yet.

So, because I have been a little frustrated by the confines of my own thought process; and, as I have an inkling that my current mentality will always result in a general sense of worry and the impression that I’m not quite good enough, I think it’s about time that I had a little look at what’s really been going on, because addressing the conformity issue and the need to do it “right” might, perhaps, make life a little easier, and me, a little more “but” resistant.

When my eating disorder started, I was bang in conformity target zone: new school, new people, new social codes. Desperate to ‘belong’ and ‘succeed’ and ‘slot right in’, I became something of a chameleon (“whatever you want me to be”), willing to shoe-horn myself into which ever socially acceptable code of behaviour was present at the time.

As well as wearing the “right” clothes, and going to the “right” places, and saying the “right” words, eating the “right” foods and being the “right” weight, seemed like good ways of making sure that I met the social criteria…

Conformity comes at quite a high cost: along with messing up a previously healthy diet and tumbling straight into the unforgiving grasp of an eating disorder, I also managed to negate everything that made me, me, in the process.

Fast forward 18 years and add in the realisation (finally) that my attempts at eating the “right” food had spiralled dramatically out of control, along with the fact that the social markers had moved somewhat over the years (what’s on your plate is no longer quite so important); and I find myself still acting out the same need to “get it right” – just with a different set of criteria.

This time round, I’m trying to identify the key to fitting in at work, and the “right” things to do in my spare time; I’m attempting to go about relationships in the way you’re meant to go about them, and desperately trying to understand how life should be approached…

The contexts are different, but the feelings are exactly the same -

So, in the lingering assumption of a “right” or “wrong” way of doing things; and, operating within the restrictions of ever-changing and subject-to-multiple-interpretations social codes, I am losing myself, again, and reinforcing the same message that me, as me, does not stack up.

And, because I’m no longer sure which is “right” – or “wrong” – or acceptable – or not-acceptable, then the objections (but you can’t possibly do that), and the apprehension (but that might be wrong), and the need to get it right (but how should I be doing it) are getting louder –

And “but” is a big warning that I am about to make the same mistakes, all over again.

So, I’m going to try a little experiment (this time round), and give myself a little breathing space, because conforming has become claustrophobic and I am finding my quest for the “right” way is starting to stifle.

And, instead of assuming that there’s only one option or answer, I’m going to try and replace “but” with “maybe”, because entertaining the possibility is the first big step on the way to “could”.

Rather than checking out whether I’m “right” or “wrong” or the same as the girl next door, I’m going to see – for a little while – how it feels to just be me –

And, instead of assuming that there’s a correct process or procedure for every given action or experience, I’m going to see what happens if I try it my way –

And have a little faith in me.

There’s lots of possible scenarios; lots of incredibly plausible reasons; lots of speculation: I’ve heard it all.

Fear of getting fat (yep – but came later); celebrity copycatting (I was reading the Funday Times and seriously uncool); fear of getting older (maybe – but very deep seated); sexual abuse (no); attention seeking (possibly); bullying (another definite no); parent punishing (possibly – but I was a child, they do that); low self esteem (nothing that different there then)….

It could have been anything.

It’s a huge problem with eating disorders – or mine at least: working out the cause is nearly impossible so it’s hard to really understand what you’re working with; hard to fix something when you don’t know what part’s broken.

I’ve agonised over the predicament for years. Agatha Christie would have been impressed: me and my army of therapists have explored every possible avenue.

And we’ve quite possibly been chasing an illusion.

My eating disorder wasn’t caused by anything external – it was influenced by my perception and my feelings and all those intangible things that you can’t pin down. It was started by a strange and lethal combination of my head, my experiences, what was going on in the wider world – and a whole host of seemingly insignificant actions and comments and reactions.

Things that wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else. Things that I probably took the wrong way. Things that I just didn’t quite get.

So, all this stuff is going on in my mind, and, for some reason, food suddenly came into the equation. Not dieting or weight or calories. Just food.

It started with a brace (out went chewy things); then vegetarianism (out went meat); then, perversely, Lent (out went sugar). By Easter, I’d caught the bug: I didn’t want any of it back.

I also had absolutely no idea what was happening to me.

I’d forgotten how bad it felt.

I’d forgotten how many twists and turns an eating disorder can take.

8 years ago, I started looking at the whole process. My aide-memoire: captures the stuff that time heals; gives the whole process a bit of shape – from the first, fatal slip, to full blown subjugation; sheds a little light on how it happens.

I’ll help with the translations but you’ll have to excuse some of the writing.

Stage 1. Getting ill.

I called this bit ‘The Subtle Takeover’. The title’s not far off. Getting an eating disorder is ridiculously easy: the step from diet to obsession is the same distance as the step from one drink to one bottle. Barely discernible. It’s an insidious infection: it takes a while before you notice that something else is in control.

Then it hits you like a sledge hammer. It’s absolutely paralysing.

Around my thirteenth birthday, we went to a restaurant. I had ordered a vegetarian lasagne and, after carefully scraping off any signs of cheese or sauce, felt relatively okay with my meal. After finishing, the waiter brought around chocolates and, for some reason, a big fuss was made about us eating them.

The thought of having a piece of chocolate reduced me to a crying, shaking, terrified wreck. My reaction was incomprehensible – to myself and to others. It was, after all, only a small piece of chocolate. Even when I eventually gave in to their demands and, through my tears, ate the chocolate, spitting it into a napkin when no one was looking seemed like the only possible response.

This wasn’t me anymore. This was me following someone else’s orders and terrified of the consequences of disobeying this unknown authority. With hindsight, this was the point when I stopped controlling eating and became controlled by eating; and, significantly, when I started seeing other people as the enemy and building a wall between myself and them.

This is the first interesting point: I didn’t get what was going on.

At the time, anorexia wasn’t as common as it is now. It was a medical or media word; not part of the everyday vocabulary.

In the early stages, I could admit to being on a diet. I could appreciate that I wasn’t eating very much – and that I was in charge of that. But I didn’t bank on never being able to eat very much, and I didn’t expect to start being afraid of food.

It’s the terror that has stuck in my mind.

Point number 2 is also interesting. In as non psychotic as possible a way, it began to feel like something else was on the scene. Like the little voice in my head no longer belonged to me.

Anorexia’s great: it doesn’t just get you on a physical level; it digs right in to your psyche. It really makes itself at home.

As a grown up, I appreciate that definitions (not ‘labels’) make things a lot easier. That a checklist diagnostic is a SMART way of doing psychiatry. That even doctors need some guidelines.

Somewhere between these two points, I realised that I might not be as unique as I liked to think that I was. That I possibly shared some interesting similarities with the people that I met in eating disorder units. That there were, perhaps, some common traits that might – just might – have made me more susceptible to an eating disorder.

Whilst remaining virulently adverse to over-simplification, it’s this idea that I’m going to stick with for a while.

Not because I have developed a definitive checklist for identifying potential eating disorder sufferers – or even believe that there is such a thing as a definitive checklist; and not because I’d like to shift a little of this uncomfortable responsibility onto something totally beyond my control – a genetic pre-disposition, for example. But, because I do think that there were certain qualities – be it genetic or learned – that encouraged or enabled or sustained my eating disorder; and – without jumping on the put it in a box bandwagon – because I noticed a few interesting trends.

Because I noticed (reluctantly) that some of the qualities that people seemed to link to eating disorders – low self confidence, competitiveness, intelligence, sensitivity – did actually seem to be linked and did actually seem to shed a little light on the whole eating disorder puzzle.

Unless, of course, you’re the one stuck in the wrong body.

To carry the child into adult life
Is good? I say it is not,
To carry the child into adult life
Is to be handicapped

Stevie Smith

Being out of sync with your biological age may be great in theory (a 49 year old’s wisdom in a 16 year old body and a 14 year old head with the freedom of a 35 year old) but the reality’s somewhat different – and the inner-outer-adult-child dilemma is strangely relevant to anorexia.

After years of denying – scathingly – the therapists’ theories that eating disorders were linked to a fear of growing up, I had a slightly unsettling realisation around my 24th birthday. They were right. I was terrified.

Growing up is not just about growing into a bigger body; it is also about growing into a bigger person with responsibilities and expectations. I could, contrary to popular psychology (anorexia and child bodies and all that), see the appeal of looking like a grown up woman; it was the acting like a grown up woman that really put the frighteners on.

Anorexia and bulimia did a great job in delaying the aging process – both physically (unintentional, albeit effective) and emotionally (no spare head room). Being ill sheltered me from all the responsibilities and expectations of the adult world: it extended the period through which I was looked after and nurtured and protected by a good 14 years.

Until I woke up one day and realised that I couldn’t stop the biological body clock. My mind may not have taken the physical leap to adulthood but the number of years on my birth certificate had. Anorexia was a great mirage in the aging process. But it was only a mirage.

The whole age agenda was interesting in relation to my eating disorder. It provided a key piece of the ‘why-it all-started puzzle’: my fear of getting older and inability to deal with being an adult. And it also, to keep me busy, provided yet another hurdle on the road to recovery: I’d got my ages out of sync.

You would say a man had the upper hand
Of the child, if a child survive,
I say the child has fingers of strength
To strangle the man alive.

Oh it is not happy, it is never happy,
To carry the child into adulthood,
Let children lie down before full growth
And die in their infanthood
And be guilty of no man’s blood.

But oh the poor child, the poor child, what can he do,
Trapped in a grow-up carapace,
But peer outside of his prison room
With the eye of anarchist?

Stevie Smith