I guess the difference between where I am and where I was a few months ago is in the level of feeling. Okay, I haven’t got the emotional regulation quite figured out yet, and I am still ricocheting between the highs and lows like a teenager; but I have let down the defences and gone with the unpredictability of life, rather than trying to keep it all ordered and boxed in. I don’t think I felt safe enough in myself to do this until now. I certainly still had a lot of crutches and support structures in place to make sure that I was okay.

I am okay.

Wobbling like hell and falling over multiple times on a daily basis; but, ultimately, I’m okay.

There have been some hard lessons in amongst the amazingness. I guess that this is why I think I needed to make sure that I was safe; that I didn’t respond in the way I would have previously, and play it out through food. I have learnt that there are lots of things that you can’t control and more variables than I could have imagined. That there are more disappointments when you engage in life and certainly more risks. That uncertainty is inherent, and fear doesn’t go away.

This is all okay too.

It is just the stuff that I would have learnt if I hadn’t removed myself from the world. I have no doubt that there are plenty more highs and lows and lessons to come –

Unexpectedly, I find it kind of exciting.

I’ve been waiting for things all week, and it’s left me somewhere between frazzled – and totally burned out. I like things straight away, please, before they might run out or run away…And yes, I know that I am a grown woman.

I also like to know exactly what’s coming and when it will arrive; so there’s some control and anxiety bubbling around in there as well, just to heighten the experience.

This is nothing new – I just haven’t sat with it before. It was one of the key feelings I tried to get rid of during my illness; either by not wanting (so not waiting), or by changing the direction with the violence of a purge. If you want things, you might be disappointed. If you’re excited about something, bingeing offers an alternative high and one that resets the equilibrium…in a very flawed way.

So, excitement – and the need for patience – and managing unpredictability – are all things that are quite new to me; and good, because it means there’s lots to look forward to – but bad, because they kind of mess around with my head and mean that I’m always trying to catapult myself ahead…

A lovely quote from Eckhart Tolle kind of summed up what I think is happening: “Stress is caused by being ‘here’ but wanting to be ‘there.” This is what impatience is all about, for me. The next step, the next thing, the next certainty.

Now.

Of course, life doesn’t really work on these terms. You have to wait for things and you have to appreciate that some things happen – and others don’t…. But it would be good to have a few strategies or approaches to dealing with the interim period, so to speak. To help me learn how to be patient – or, at least, how not to burn myself out.

Any ideas?

It is amazing what you can learn when you’re pinned to a chair trying not to overthink; because, as the facilitator introduced the need to remain mindful – in meditation – and described how to detach a little part of your consciousness to check that you are, indeed, relaxing –

the penny finally dropped.

I was already sectioning parts of my head out, as per the process; but because I wanted to make sure that I was staying totally in control – not because I wanted to watch the calming thoughts flowing in.

This is exactly what I used to do in therapy – and hypnotherapy – and whenever something my illness didn’t want to hear was being said. The detachment process that was going on in my head felt exactly like this – only the function wasn’t mindfulness. It was fear.

A little – but highly important – part of my mind that needed to be engaged, and operating and trying, please, to pay attention; had shored up the defences and totally tuned out.

Déjà vu.

In meditation, I was wary of the power of relaxing and wanted to tune out the voice that promised to float me away. In therapy, I was suspicious of someone influencing my behaviour or making me admit to things that I didn’t want to say. But the experience felt exactly the same –

Keep a little bit back, as a precaution, because you don’t know what they’re going to say.

Separate a little bit out, just for protection, so you can censor what comes out, and what you’re prepared to allow in.

No wonder I went through therapists at the rate of knots.

There is a book on my shelf that I treat with the same distrust. It is meant to help me feel better – but I am scared of what this might mean. There is a CD that promises to help me sleep which I still have unwrapped, three years on, because it promises to reach my unconscious. A variety of anti-depressants in the cupboard that I agreed to try, in theory, but am then afraid might work –

Which is, of course, the point.

I am not suprised that it took me so long to find a gap that I could challenge the eating disorder in.

But now I’ve got the upper hand.

I might not have let go enough to participate in the meditation and the bars may still shoot up the moment a new idea or challenge is presented; but, I’ve located another little part of my head – and it’s on the alert for unnecessary blocking. It’s got its eye on the bit which has got its eye on the ‘risks’, –

Which sounds pretty complicated – but is actually quite simple.

It means that next time I’m watching out for something that might help me; I’m also going to be watching out for the bit that is trying to lock me in.

The excitement is bristled through with anxiety, or maybe it’s the other way around.

I am still getting used to the fact that I can leave the 30 mile radius that my eating disorder deemed comfortable, let alone the country. There were too many variables in travelling to make it feasible. The anxiety of the unknown and the uncontrollable, compacted by the need to be within arms-length of my doctor / dentist / therapist, meant that I spent ten years or so within the confines of the M25* – and I’m still getting used to being free.

There is a whole wide world out there to explore.

Last year, I did two days in Spain. There were oranges hanging on the trees, and the buzz of heat and insects ringing through the silence of the valley. I had forgotten the excitement of stepping off a plane into a new land; and long since stopped missing how soft sunkissed air and the warm breeze that rarely visits England feels.

We spent the evenings sitting out on the terrace in t-shirts, listening to the darkness fall; and the days reading beside the pool, jumping in every now and then to cool down. My back burnt to a blister and I spent the following week in agony, reeking of aloe vera. It didn’t matter in the least.

It had been years since the fear of food had subsided enough to focus on what was going on around me.

The previous year broke the barrier, and marked the watershed between my bulimic existence – and my new life. Four days and three nights in France, approached with pure terror, shot through with relief. When I went away, the bingeing and purging that had punctuated every waking day would no longer be able to continue: when I came back, things had to be different.

It was easier, somehow, to make this transformation in a foreign land.

My brother and his girlfriend were there, and we walked down to the harbour in the setting sun, past the quaint cottages with hanging baskets overflowing with flowers. There was a bar, on the beach, with some dodgem cars and wasp candles. The sea – and the sand – and the general sense of airiness made it easier not to focus on the wrench.

We walked round the edge of a castle on the second day and my Dad took a photo of us sitting on a cannon, as we had when we were children. He and I walked down the beach and hunted for shells with the sea licking our ankles. It felt, although we were in a foreign country, and despite everything that had gone between, like coming home.

In the afternoon, the sun was too bright to look at; and, the choice between an eating disorder – and life – was piercing.

So France – and then Spain – and now Vienna, with a few explorations of England in between; and I am learning that it is okay to leave the safety of my home for a short period of time.

I am finding, despite my concerns, that I can manage the uncertainty; and that, now I’m not so fixated on working out the French calorie system – or planning where to purge – or anticipating the next binge, there are some really wonderful things out there to explore –

Like the scent of the sea and the salty taste that lingers in my hair; or the crumbling cottages hidden amongst the endless vineyards. Driving on the wrong side of the road and the movie star excitement of stepping down from a plane. The sun turning orange as it sinks into the horizon –

And the joy and fascination that comes with exploring a new world.

* For non-UK readers, the M25 is a motorway that circles London and is always traffic jammed or being dug up.

If you don’t do that – then this will happen, OR, if you do that – then this will be the result.

It likes to predict the outcome, does the if-then voice. It likes to consider any action – or non action – in terms of what will come next and in line with its own, mysterious, agenda, which is mostly around controlling me.

If-then is into a control in a big way. It’s not a nice, consequential kind of statement: it’s an ominous threat. It’s not concerned with accountability: it’s all about obedient submission. If-then likes to make me sweat –

If you eat that, then you’ll put on weight.

If you say that, then everyone will hate you.

From what I can work out, if-then first made an appearance when my eating disorder started. It was the voice that shouted when I was tempted to eat and in charge of keeping me on the straight and narrow, of making sure that I didn’t ‘lapse’.

Over the years, if-then has extended its remit to include virtually anything. Sometimes the links are logical, but most of the time they’re tenuous, at best, and ridiculous, if you’re totally objective.

If you don’t check your handbrake, then you’ll die tonight.

If you wear that, then you’ll crash your car.

See what I mean? Yet I’m still a little scared.

This is, of course, what if-then relies on. It keeps me under the thumb, so to speak, and means that I don’t eat that and I do check my handbrake and I go out and buy a clove of garlic, just in case….And, in return for my obedience, I feel like I’m keeping safe – and doing the right thing – and being in control, which is what it’s all about –

Recently, if-then has been getting on my nerves. I am finding myself, increasingly, at loggerheads with its logic and struggling to wrest myself from its control. Checking my handbrake a million times will only ensure that it’s on – and not that I’ll wake up tomorrow morning; and, unless I’m wearing killer stilettos, then I very much doubt that my outfit will determine my car safety.

It has made everything far more complicated than it really is and me, far more responsible than I could possibly be –

So I think I’d like to step out of the if-then shadow, over the next few months, and see if the world comes crashing down if I ignore its commands. And I might try trusting myself, for a while, rather than faltering in agreement and scurrying around on inane missions–

So, I’m going to do the one thing that will really upset if-then, and take away punishments, and allow for errors, and appreciate the fact that things aren’t always under my control; and I’m going to chop the then off, and see what happens –

If…

It sits, alongside all the other well-intended treatment, in my kitchen cupboard, whilst I toss, and turn, and wait for the panic to wear itself out–

I have never been very good with medication.

I don’t trust that it will do what it’s supposed to do and I’m not very good at giving up control. I am particularly cautious with anything that threatens to change my mind – or alter my mood – or moderate my feelings -

Nope, I’d rather toss– and turn – and sweat through the anxiety because, however uncomfortable that feels, it is, at least, more comfortable then letting go –

Or giving in –

Or accepting help.

Which I don’t do well.

So, instead, I struggle through – because I can get there on my own, thank you very much – and I remain adamant that I will find the cure. By my self. I grin and bear it – because it’s better the devil you know – and I maintain a precise control of the workings of my mind – which belongs to me.

I have stayed away from psychiatric drugs (with the added fear of weight gain); snubbed the support of nicotine patches (which might be deceptive); resisted the name of the antipsychotics (who, me?); got far too anxious even considering anti-anxiety meds (which defeats the purpose); and remain a bit wary of anything sleep related (because I might not wake up)…

It would be interesting to back track and see what would have happened if I’d said yes – instead of no.

There’s no disputing that free choice is essential – only I couldn’t guarantee that my choice has been freely made; because, really, my cupboard full of medicine is not an advertisement for psychiatric drugs or chemically coated cures, but a metaphor for how difficult it is to –

Let go of the control –

And commit to something different –

And accept a little help.

But, because I’m in a rush (by the time I’ve spent the prescribed minutes eating each regulated teaspoonful in the right order), and as I have become accustomed (over the years) to my drawn out morning routine, I push the thought aside -

For a while –

Until, on the odd occasion that a meeting runs into my snack time, and I notice that the panic, which is coursing through me, doesn’t seem to be shared by the other people in the room; then I start to wonder whether I’m really in control – or just controlled.

And when they go for lunch (without pre-arrangement) or pick at the plate of cakes that’s circling the office (without knowing what’s in them) or “fancy” a bar of chocolate (because it would taste nice), I’d have to say that the latter appears more probable.

And, if weren’t for the detour to three different supermarkets to buy the right brands of the correct foods on my way home –

Or the fact that I was cooking each meal from scratch so that I could account for each and every ingredient –

I could convince myself that the verdict was still in the balance.

And, if I didn’t decline the dinner invitation on the basis that I can’t quite manage the menu and I can’t be sure of the timing –

Or, if I was happy leaving the party because my head would prefer that I was home, at night, for breakfast at 6:30am in the morning -

Then I might be able to argue that I was happily in control…

…rather than controlled.

Extract from Jean Rhys, Good Morning, Midnight

A lot of any emotion can feel a little too much.

It’s better to keep everything calm, stable and on the same level – even when the emotion’s something good like excitement.

We’ve been repressing things for years. Maybe it’s linked into civilisation coming along and writing the social rules. Or, maybe it’s just part of the human condition; an emotional version of defence.

I have never seen ‘Volcanoes’—
But, when Travellers tell
How those old—phlegmatic mountains
Usually so still—

Bear within—appalling Ordnance,
Fire, and smoke, and gun,
Taking Villages for breakfast,
And appalling Men—

If the stillness is Volcanic
In the human face
When upon a pain Titanic
Features keep their place—

Extract from Emily Dickinson

I can understand self protection – but everyone knows that expression’s healthier than repression. Feelings tend to surge up and explode when they’re left to fester. Excitement turns to hysteria; anger to violence; pain to despair.

The Life that tied too tight escapes
Will ever after run
With a prudential look behind
And spectres of the Rein —

Extract from Emily Dickinson

Anorexia was about repression; bulimia, a twisted form of release. The one led to the other.

Your version may be different.

But finding a way of getting things out healthily seems to be a bit or a recurring problem –

Maybe we all need to take a leaf out of Emily Dickinson’s writing about it book?

Or maybe we just need to go and give that treadmill a good pummeling? -

- because it’ll come out somehow.

It means that you read things in to everything and tie yourself in knots trying to solve questions that can’t be solved.

Some things just are.

Some things don’t make sense.

Most people are far too complex to analyse satisfactorily.

Having established that over-analysis is pretty pointless, it is, with a touch of irony, that I pursue the subject further… but it would be a shame to waste the opportunity; and, I might actually learn something new because I’m not convinced that over-analysers are born that way. I think it’s linked into other things that are going on.

Which means there’s hope for me yet.

As well as a self confessed over-analyser, I am also a recovering control freak; and, control’s as good a starting place as any: they’re not that far apart.

Control’s about certainty – and over-analysis attempts to solve uncertainty Being in control is about knowing what’s going on – and analysing to the nth degree hopes to uncover (or foresee) this. Control leaves nothing to chance – analysis assumes a reason. For everything.

In some instances, looking for a reason is the sensible, rational and – eventually – rewarding thing to do. When it comes to human beings, exerting control can often backfire and applying logic is not always appropriate.

An over-analytical mind can sometimes forget this – particularly one that has tendencies towards insecurity. Correlation number two. I tend to get caught up in my over-analysis. I assume that I’m in there somewhere; part of a cause effect scenario; somehow responsible.

Narcissistic? Possibly; but, mostly due to over-sensitivity and a touch of paranoia. If you always jump to the negative conclusion, it’s easy to blame yourself for how other people behave. If things go wrong,
shouldering the responsibility is almost automatic. Particularly if you’re a perfectionist – number three.

Perfectionism infers a right and wrong way of doing thing, a clear idea of the top standard. If only the top is good enough, you’re far harder to satisfy – and far more likely to try and work out what went wrong. We’re back to over-analysis again.

It all links up.

Over-sensitivity and problems that don’t exist: an endless supply of subject matter for the over-analytical mind.

Boredom and too much time to think: an excellent opportunity for a little dissection.

I’ve successfully analysed over-analysis.

Or perhaps I’ve just demonstrated that I spend far too much time in my own head. Maybe I’ve just illustrated the futility of my internal debates.

In true over-analyser style, I haven’t actually reached a conclusive answer –

- but I’ve enjoyed the process; and, I’ll probably catch myself before I try and solve the next mystery of the universe -

– because I might learn to enjoy the uncertainty –

Another reminder that we’re not infallible.

Another reminder that you can’t control everything.

Another reminder that we’re small fry in the grand scheme of things.

I’ll explain how my random chain of thoughts all links up.

A couple of years ago, I had a tooth extraction. Nothing unusual there – unless you’re a bulimic, confronted by a significant obstacle in your throwing up routine.

Lesson 1: bulimia is not very adaptable to changing circumstances.

Next, a particularly snowy winter. My anorexia demanded its usual lengthy excursion. And nature dug its heels in: walking in snow is not only unpleasant; it’s near on impossible.

Lesson 2: the world – and nature, in particular – is bigger than me.

Finally, a traffic jam on the way back from Brighton. Totally unexpected. Beyond all reasonable traffic jam timescales. When you’ve got anorexia, timing is very important. Particularly in relation to meal timing. Getting it wrong is very unpleasant. It has been known to evoke panic, desperation, tears, anger – not something I’m proud of, but it happened.

Lesson 3: some things are beyond your control.

These are the extreme examples, the lightbulb moments that have been imprinted in my memory; but they definitely linked into some recurring themes. They definitely contributed to two parallel realisations that had some pretty significant implications for my eating disorder.

First, it’s impossible to get along with the world when you have an eating disorder.
And, second, you’re not just going against the grain with nature: you’re actively fighting it.

And this is when the broken leg speculation made its debut:

It’s easy to become a little paranoid when you realise just how many things you’re depending on that are totally out of your control.

It’s hard when you realise that an eating disorder is highly incompatible with normal life.

You start, uncomfortably, noticing just how unnatural the whole thing is.

It’s a great impetus for change.