I am lucky to have a few of these precious friendships. They are like gold dust. The people that ground us when it feels like we’re being swept away; and offer a refuge when it all gets too much.

We won’t talk about things too heavily, I don’t think, though there are no limits on what we are “allowed” or able to say. And we won’t, I imagine, try and pull to pieces the months since our last face to face chat, although so much has been happening on both sides of the country –

But I’ll shrug off some of the heaviness that I’ve been wearing in the past month and we’ll slip, I hope, back into the easy conversation and the effortless friendship that I am starting to really miss.

Touchstones are important in recovery. When you often feel alone, it really matters that there are people around who you can reach out to and trust.

Honest relationships are difficult, when you’ve struggled with an eating disorder; or I, at least, found that my illness tended to feel threatened, and intervene –

But every now and then, someone comes along who is not deterred by the defences; and can see beyond the mess – or behind the mask – or around the illness, and then –

There is a sigh of relief as you can let the tension out –

And a rush of lightness as your shoulders start to lift –

And the sense of anchoring, when your feet seem to keep skimming off the surface –

Because the friendship comes without condition and it feels, in an almost inexplicable way, like a kind of coming home.

*      *      *

Related stuff….People Power; The How Do I Help Question; The Little Things and How To Make Friends…

Despite the amount of time I have spent obsessing on the subject, and in spite of the leaps that I have taken in the ‘right’ direction; I still find myself a little touchy around the conversations that most people have on a daily basis –

“That looks nice” is rarely awarded a response; “what are you eating?” gets a swift brush off; and, the “what food do you like?” question is shrugged off, like a bad smell.

I tense up when people start eating; never say yes to a passing plate; and find it hard to share –

These are the lingering remnants of my anorexic head; the last, entrenched, habits that have become so ingrained I sometimes forget they’re there. This is the anorexic speak that warded off any food-related conversations; but has become a little unsocial, now that I’m trying to get well.

So, I am having to coach myself not to snap – or bite – or rudely walk away, when food is on the table (both literally and practically); and, I’m trying to break down the language – and build it up all over again, because it’s easy to get caught up in the wrong kind of speak; and, I’m working really hard to see if, despite the emotional baggage, it would be possible for me – and food – to behave a little bit more like friends….

Which, given the progress I’ve made so far, could well happen –

1. Treating it Nicely.

It has taken a while to get there, but I have now stopped burning my food. Or seeping it in vinegar. Or covering it in a shovelful of salt. This has been step 1 – no more sabotage. After years of defiantly arguing that “at least I’m eating”, I’m getting there, one condiment at a time. This is a good starting place if you’re going to be on better terms with food.

Food will always be hard, no matter how much it is disguised; and I think it was the abnormality of it all that got to me in the end – a frustration with the sheer amount of paraphernalia that was required to serve food that was indiscernible as food; and, the dawning realisation that the raised eyebrows and laborious processes didn’t make me feel any good.

Nor did sitting in front of a plate of burnt food.

2. Presentation.

A couple of years ago in rehab, I was encouraged to make my food look pretty. At the time, this seemed a futile exercise; a good-looking plate of food bore no correlation to the level of fear that it evoked, nor where it was likely to end up –

I am now beginning to understand the point of the exercise.

If I serve myself an unappealing plate of food, I am telling myself that I don’t deserve anything better. This feeds the anorexia, rather than feeding me. It also spurs the bulimia on to want something far more appealing.

If, on the other hand, my plate starts to look nice (and be prepared for a little internal resistance here), then I am starting to change the message about myself (even if I don’t believe it yet), and I am starting to change the eating experience.

We’re not talking masterpieces here; it’s just about putting it nicely on the plate and serving yourself, as you would serve a friend.

4. In Conversation.

The verbal friendship is still proving a bit of a sticking point for me but I’m guessing that it works on the same principle as the presentation: change the tune, help to re-programme the message.

Whether I like it or not, food related conversations are commonplace; and, whilst I will probably continue to avoid entering calorie related debates for a while, I would like to be able to say what I like and not freeze up the moment anyone mentions what’s on my plate.

As my current response is not making me feel particularly great, I am starting with polite and practiced reciprocation of the “what do you like” or “what are you cooking tonight” type. The next step will be to answer the question myself.

I am also trying to remember that, by making it a big deal, I’m probably prolonging a pretty normal conversation or, at least, one that is a very normal part of human interaction –

4. Food with Friends.

My relationship with food is intensely and possessively personal. Life doesn’t operate on those terms. With three meals a day on the cards and the desire to connect eventually winning out, sharing food with friends is an ongoing challenge – but something I’m determined to crack.

At first, I started small, with safe food and people I unquestionably trusted. Then, I moved onto eating the same stuff; and, recently, I’ve broken the barrier of cooking for other people which has been unexpectedly fun.

I have practiced variety and made myself try the difficult things, so that when I am sitting in a meeting, I don’t spend two hours analysing the sandwiches rather than listening to what’s going on; and, when I’m in a restaurant, I can see beyond the fear – and let myself enjoy what’s going on.

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.

Now that I’ve realised that people are preferable to an eating disorder, I’m eager to make up for lost ground and appreciating just how much we’ve got to offer each other –

Only, it’s a little harder now that I’m nearing 30 and most people seem to be settled; and, I’ve hit a few unanticipated questions – like where do I go, and what do I say? – and some overlooked assumptions – like what do I have to offer? – that have put a few barriers in my way.

Making friends is far more complicated then I remember.

Given that the last time I tried to make friends, the other 30 people in the classroom shared my sentiments, this is, perhaps, unsurprising. However, after doing lots of things that I thought I couldn’t do, and as I’ve already come this far, there’s no points in shying away from a challenge – and this is what I’ve started to learn:

1. Being my own friend

I have a thing about loneliness. I tend to see it as a personal flaw and imagine I walk around with ‘billy no mates’ tattooed across my forehead. I assume that the rest of the world is out there, having lots of fun, whilst I’ve failed catastrophically at one of most basic social interactions.

Lesson 1 has been about giving myself a break because, let’s face it, the circumstances have hardly been conducive to a great social life, and I can’t be the only person who sometimes feels a little bit on their own.

More importantly, I can’t expect other people to want to be my friend if I’m not even nice to myself.

2. Getting real

Once I’d pulled my emotional socks up and stopped swerving between self-pity and self-hatred, assessing the situation was the next step; and, there’s no escaping the fact that it’s harder to make friends at 30 then it is at 17.

For a start, you come into contact with fewer people and, on top of that, lots of your peer group have entered the settling down family stage and aren’t as out-and-about as they used to be. This has several implications: you have to be a bit more proactive; and, you have to focus on the connection – rather than the circumstances.

3. The Proactive Approach

The proactive approach means that you can’t wait for people to come to you and you have to look for opportunities, rather than barriers.

This is hard work.

It means that you have to override the temptation to stop after steps 1 and 2, when you’ve realised the difficulty of meeting people but are secure in the knowledge that it’s not just down to you. It also means that you have to ignore the negative voice that says “it’s too much hard work and I can’t do it”, or poses the “what’s the point?” question…

There’s no shying away from the responsibility. If you want to meet people, you’ve got to get out there and you have to be a little bit brave.

4. Saying Yes

This is, contrary to how it initially feels, the easier option. It means that even when you want to say “no thank you” to a dinner that might be a little bit scary; or make up an excuse to an invitation where you’re likely to be a lemon; or side step a party where you could well be standing alone, you say “yes, please” –

Because you won’t know if you don’t try.

In order to support my attempts in this phase, I have, therefore, temporarily banned the word “no” from my ‘things to say to invitations’ response list, and have started saying “yes”. If it’s that bad, you can always leave but, more often than not, it’s quite good.

5. The harder option

I have also started dabbling with the harder option: the taking-the-initiative-and-going-it-alone approach. This one requires guts and the ability to ‘put it down to experience’.

As well as giving my eating disorder my friends, I also gave it my spare time; and, part of recovery has therefore been about finding out what I like and exploring who I am. This means that doing new things has two chances at success: firstly, I find out what I do (and don’t) like; and, secondly, I meet some new people.

To date, I have therefore tried Tai Chi (gave me some inner peace but a little too quiet for friendships); a networking group called More to Life Than Shoes (successful on both accounts); evening courses with the School of Life (I cheated and brought a friend, but the potentials there and the learning’s great); Salsa (surprisingly fun, even with two left feet); and a few other random things.

I am currently doing okay, but I am also revving myself up for: finding a book group; doing a course in something; and, going on holiday.

6. Only Human

I am not the most confident of people and there’s no disguising the fact that going out there’s a little scary; and the possibilities for failure – or rejection – or a heightened sense of alienation, far higher than those presented by a night in on the couch …

However, as you start doing new things and talking to new people, the balance begins to tip and, pretty soon, you start to realise that we’re all just human – which is the most important lesson that I have learnt so far.

I’m not sure where I picked up the idea that hostility is automatic, or at which point my self-esteem plummeted to the depths which I am dragging it up from; but, contrary to my previous assumptions, I’m beginning to notice that fear is unnecessary – and comparisons are irrelevant – and judgements don’t really stick –

And most of us like making friends.

Related stuff

• The Risk of Relationships
• Muddling Through
• Saturday Nights
• People Power
  

I realise that this comes a little late and that we’ve started, finally, to look forwards rather than backwards; but I’d like to start afresh and I want you to know – before we go any further – that I’m sorry (on behalf of my eating disorder), for some of the things that I imagine are hard to forget –

Like the times that I made you pick me up from supermarkets with armfuls of bags, or dragged you to all–you-can-eat buffets, because it was the cheapest way of bingeing and I wasn’t quite brave enough (then) to go on my own.

Or, the years that I dismissed your concerns and ignored what you were going through, because being thin was the top of my priorities and I didn’t think about what it must have been like, looking in.

For the times when I screamed and shouted and swore at your attempts to help me, and when I rejected the meals that you’d carefully prepared with an insult and an argument and a comment that was designed to hurt -

(because it was easier, you see, then doing what you had asked).

I am sorry for the family holidays that were cancelled, and the occasions that were ruined, and the obliteration of the dates which parents look forward to. For stealing my 16th – and my 18th – and my 21st – and leaving you wondering whether my wedding fund would be paying for my funeral.

I did not realise, then, that the sleepovers and schooldays were overshadowed with fear and that the whispering in the corner were not about boys and clothes and schoolgirl secrets – but about me

(because no one wants to watch their best friend whither away).

Nor did I understand, as I do now, that the anger which I reacted so virulently and violently to was directed, not at me, but at an illness -

(because no one wants to lose their child).

So, I know that we’ve moved on, now, and that I was not really me. And, I appreciate that this apology isn’t needed, anymore, because I’ve stopped saying sorry and started making it different –

But I’d like to apologise, it it’s not too late, for the pain that I caused and the things that I made you do. And I’d like to mention, just this once, the things that we have been too afraid to mention and have been too painful to discuss -

Because I can see, now, that I was not the only victim or the only one in pain -

And, I am deeply sorry.

I chose an eating disorder, over my friends.

It hurts like hell and I didn’t realise what I was doing until I woke up, one day, and understood what I had thrown away –

Schoolmates and best friends. The people that you share your fashion disasters and first loves with; who know you as well as you know yourself and who you must talk to the moment you’ve said goodbye. The friends that you spend your formative years with, day in and day out, and who you should be able to laugh over schoolgirl antics with, fifteen years down the line, when you’re all grown up.

Childhood friendships. The ready built networks that introduce you to the friends you suffer after school clubs with, or those who are as music or sport obsessed as you are. The people that you meet along the way, when you’re finding out what you like – and what your parent’s like – and striking up a conversation’s not as complicated as it later becomes.

University peers. The people you share the transition from home – to life – with. The new friends and extended social groups and people that expand your mind and share your thinking. The groups you rent your first home with, and celebrate your graduation with, and grab a drink with after work, years later, when you’re wondering what the student loan was for.

The people you meet when you’re on a beach in a swimsuit – or a pub on a Friday night – or at a random house party of the brother of someone you once met –

The friends of friends, who you get on with for the simple fact that you care about the same person.

The people that make you feel like you’ve come home.

An eating disorder does not do sharing and it’s not hot on friends.

It does not like people who ask questions or might cotton onto what’s going. It does not want comments about changing body shapes or reminders of ‘then’.

It’s not good with expectations (that might jeopardise its supremacy) and obligations (that might break the food rules) and emotions (that might make you think twice); is scared of guilt (from the hurt you could cause) and concern (because you might decide to change) and the possibility that you might reciprocate the friendship –

and then where would it go?

It steals – with little consideration for the consequences – the opportunities and occasions that take you into the world; prefers hospital beds to classrooms, and therapeutic care to friendships. It would rather you chose a safe and secure half life and remained away from the one that the rest of the world is enjoying –

And, because it hits you at the crucial time when it’s all going on, it very very nearly succeeds.

I have missed 21st Birthdays, and weddings, and seeing the people that I knew in shell suits and pyjama parties becomes lawyers and mothers, because I was oblivious to what was going on –

Have walked away when I might have been needed, and opted out, rather than joined in -

And now, I am salvaging the remains –

because I have made a terrible terrible mistake.

Whilst he probably doesn’t want to repeat the experience and I don’t think he’s available on loan, I’ve been trying to identify what really made the difference – because, whether he admits it or not, he helped me turn my life around.

So, in the absence of cloning and a sibling loan provision, I’ve tried to break-down my brother and pinpoint the things that helped; because, there might be some other guardian angels flying around out there, or you might have wings yourself….

My brother has the remarkable ability of not judging people. You can tell him anything, and he doesn’t flinch, or make you want to hide, or tell you what to do. In the light of these qualities, bulimia loses a little ground: the secrecy (but you can’t tell them that) that it likes to use to divide you from the rest of the world is redundant.

This meant that I was pretty open with my brother. We didn’t go into details, but he knew what was going on. Trust is a big thing when you’re trying to change your life. If you’re asking someone to help you, they’ve got to know what they’re getting involved in -

Like fighting demons on the first binge-free night.

For a long time, the terror of going to sleep without making sure that my stomach was totally empty was too much to contemplate. However hard I tried to convince myself that it would be okay, and nothing bad would happen overnight, and I could go back to the same routine in the morning, if I changed my mind; the leap into the unknown felt far too daunting and the fear would step in, just as I was about to dive –

My brother stood on the other side and stretched out a hand.

On the first binge-free night, he gave me his sofa and the reassurance that, come what may, he’d be there.

So, when I called to cancel because I’d spent the afternoon throwing up (in anticipation) and I screamed that I couldn’t do it (because it was just too hard), he calmed me down and told me to get on a train.

And, when I arrived, with puffy eyes and a bag full of terror, he made me a supper that I thought I could manage (because you’ve got to try to eat if you’re trying not to binge; and, to keep my busy (because distractions are important at first), he chose me a funny DVD to pass the time.

He listened, when I talked; was strong, when I was scared; and, he believed that I could do it – even though I wasn’t so sure.

His conviction carried me through; and, whether he knew it or not, his care made me brave.

The first night was a tentative toe in the water. It didn’t lead to the first month; but, it provided the first piece of evidence. It showed me that I would wake up the next day – and be okay. It gave me a glimpse of a reality that I could use as a basis for the new life I was going to build –

Which started with the first binge-free month.

During the first binge-free month, my brother was my guardian angel.

For the first few days, when it all felt surreal and nobody else knew what was really going on, he was my anchor. When I started to get cold feet or lost sight of why I was fighting, he brought me back to earth with a few reminders of what I’d be able to do at the other side. When the fear shot through me and the rest of the world seemed far too distant to reach, he stretched out with a smile. When I wasn’t sure that I was doing the right thing, he reminded me that I was.

We didn’t dwell on the subject; he just acknowledged what was going on.

And then, once the initial exhilaration had worn off and I started to realise that this was for good, he called me every evening, to acknowledge my achievement and to check that I was okay. When I didn’t think I could keep it going, he was confident that I would succeed; and, when I was tempted to take the easier path, he was prepared to remind me of what he had invested –

Because it takes a lot, this guardian angel role, and you’ve got to recognise the effort –

So last night, as we sat in a cocktail bar, trying my first mojito (because he’s good at challenging my fears), and I realised how far we’d come, I decided that it’s important to recognise the investment; because, even though my brother claims that I own the recovery, and seems to think that the success is all down to me, I know that I wouldn’t have made my first binge-free night without him –

– and I’m not sure that I’d be here today.

The trick to effective family therapy is in the “family”. For some reason, it can be hard for the word – and the people – to stick. In the first few attempts, we fell at this crucial hurdle; and, what began as a group affair, quickly reverted back to the therapist and me.

This kind of defeats the object, although it’s relatively easy to see where it all went wrong…

Contrary to what a younger and more angry me believed, family work is not about pointing a finger and shrugging off the responsibility; it’s about listening to what other people have to say. And not starting out on the offensive.

Having missed this crucial proviso, take one was an unmitigated disaster. In the anticipation of a them versus me scenario, and the expectation of a force by numbers approach; the defences were up, and the shutters, bolted down.

Talking to a shut door is pretty pointless: we didn’t last long and we didn’t get very far.

The second attempt was equally unsuccessful – for very different reasons. Instead of digging my heels in and sewing my mouth shut, I participated in a particularly unhelpful version of pin the blame on the family member and an equally destructive game of pass the accountability buck.

Family therapy doesn’t work if you’re constantly dodging the accusations that are flying round the air or the responsibility that is being passed, like a hot potato. It can be hard to keep the focus in sight when the air is muddy with anger and hurt and fear – or the room, heavy, with the awkward and embarrassed silence of suddenly remembering that you’re being observed…

Given the nature of eating disorders, a few emotional outbursts are probably to be expected; but, finding a therapist that can manage them – and not one that opens up a can of worms and then walks out of the door – is advisable. Selecting one that doesn’t feel like an uninvited guest is also wise.

Of course, the difficulty in agreeing who this therapist should be hits the challenge of family therapy on the head: different people have different perceptions, and different preferences, and, sometimes, vastly different priorities….

Third time lucky appreciated this; the secret of effective family therapy is found in the space that is created to accommodate the different people, with their different perceptions and preferences and priorities. It’s about letting these differences be voiced – and heard – because, the huge benefit of the family approach is that you uncover all the versions of the story.

My eating disorder had a bit of an off-kilter take on the world and its inhabitants. It also tended to take over. With a good facilitator, this couldn’t happen. In the space to speak, I learnt a whole heap about my family that helped challenge my eating disorder’s perception – and gave me a glimpse into other people’s perspectives.

In the management of the fear (“she can’t handle that”) and the threat (“she’ll get worse”) and the prioritising of feelings (“her feelings are more important”), a few things got cleared up and a few misunderstandings, addressed.

In the absence of blame (“her fault”) and guilt (“my fault”) and an unnecessary dredging up of the past, it was easier for the understanding to flow; more possible to be practical and positive –

Together.

So, whilst I might not be able to change anyone else, I at least understand how they work a little better (and vice versa). And, although family therapy was a little divisive to begin with, the later learning helped to bridge the gaps in a far more meaningful way. And, whilst I’m still sticking to my slight warning (make sure they’re up to the job), there’s no doubt that working as a family is important –

Because they’re often the most special people you’ve got –

And an eating disorder has the potential to leave a trail of destruction in its wake.

After the loneliness of an eating disorder, you don’t take anything for granted: a night in with friends may be commonplace – but after years of me and my food, even the mundane is strangely precious; even the smallest of pleasures is noted as an achievement –

Because Saturday nights still feel like a novelty – and friends are proving far better company than food.

Stopping binging was not something I entered into lightly. I thought that I’d covered all bases before I made the leap: I had a plan for each eventuality and a strategy for any food related pitfall.

The only thing I didn’t really consider was time –

I hadn’t realised quite how many hours the whole shop-cook-binge-purge cycle consumed until I found myself staring emptily into the endless hours of an unfilled evening.

I had been so focussed what I was stopping – rather than what I was starting; that it caught me unawares.

At first, the spare time seemed to stretch forever; and was filled, distractedly, with clock watching and inane activities and an acute awareness of the tick tick tick ticking of a snails paced minute hand.

For months, the void seemed insurmountable; the gap between my life – and what the rest of the world were filling their evenings with – felt too wide to bridge and too unfamiliar to see…..

So I started with the bigger things; because it’s easier to have something to hold onto, and it helps to have a good plan. Trips to a show and a night at the cinema and the knowledge that, at least once or twice a month, the time that I would be struggling with would be filled.

Then I added in some back up plans for when my head pointed out the loneliness or a plan fell through or the rest of the world was already busy. A couple of good magazines and a stack of my favourite DVDs and some positive phrases for when the laughter drifting through the flat walls became a little too raw.

And I asked other people what they got up to, because the things that they took for granted were the things that were priceless to me; and plans are great – but human company’s a whole better –

Because, even though I now have too little – rather than too much – time on my hands; and even though the solitary nights have become a blessing (every now and then), rather than a sore; nothing beats a night in with friends….

So, if you’re spending a Saturday night slumped in front of the TV with a glass of wine and a couple of special people; this time is precious and this relationship is a gift. And, if you’re looking to a night in – rather than a night out – then enjoy the moment –

Because a Saturday night in with friends is priceless -

The parameters have shifted somewhat; and, there has been a little lag in the transition – which is only to be expected after 17 years of living within the clearly defined cage of an eating disorder.

So, I am having to re-navigate relationships and re-set the expectations. I am learning to show that the things that weren’t possible before are now okay; that the concerns that were so palpable are no longer overwhelming; and, that the hope that was previously cloaked behind self protection and past disappointment, can finally be enjoyed –

After a lot of pain, the best way to do this is by example.

Meals out were a no go area for my anorexia and the evenings were reserved for whatever assault course the bulimia was planning. The fear of the former – and the guarded protection of the latter had resulted in a social calendar constructed purely around morning coffee – or afternoon tea.

If you want to change the pattern, you’ve got to start providing an alternative.

Now, I am asking people for dinner in the evening – or a drink at the end of a busy day; and, gradually, the invitations are extending both ways.

For a long time, my conversations were characterised by neediness and dependency and a draining sense of desperation. When you don’t know who you are, other people’s opinion become particularly important; and, when you don’t trust what you’re thinking, you can’t get enough reassurance.

I hadn’t realised how one-sided the relationships had become until I started noticing that “are you okay?” was replacing “hello”.

Now, I am trying to reciprocate the favour and learning to give – as well as take. Instead of the despair driven phone calls, I am saving my emergencies, for emergencies, and my calls, for conversations; and, slowly, the fear is being replaced by friendships –

Because I hadn’t realised just how far the impact of the eating disorder had spread.

And I had been frustrated by the impossibility of removing the assumptions and the associations –

Until I started to realise that this new way of being needs a little introducing and a while to get used to – because the old way of being had left a few painful scars.