I bumped into a friend on Clapham High Street last night. Mid flat-hunting panic, when it felt like the city might swallow me and I was feeling scarily alone, she walked past and invited me to come along for dinner.
I hesitated (because I had planned my supper already) and scrabbled around for an excuse (because they were going for pizza, and I haven’t faced that challenge yet); and then realised that it was more important – given the loneliness – that I was fully available to life.
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Because it’s a bank holiday weekend and I have been struggling a little, lately; I am going to stay with one of those rare friends who can miraculously reel you back in – when your head is starting to drift – and help you put down the baggage for a while.
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.
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Recently, I started following an account on twitter called ‘OMG I do this too’. A couple of times a day, I therefore receive a tweet which reads something like: “Do you ever get a really good idea, but when you explain it to someone, it sounds terrible so you don’t end up doing it?” or “Do you feel cell phone vibrations, even when you don’t have your phone with you?”*
Most of these tweets bring a huge smile to my face. “YES!” I want to shout: “I do do that too”; and “YES! That is exactly like me”… and I’m not the only one?
In that 140 characters of connection, there is an instant click to other people and the warm reassurance that I am not on my own.
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Now that I’ve made some space for a life, I am enjoying the Saturday night experience.
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.
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I seem to have stopped being invisible now that I’ve put on a little weight.
People are no longer looking through me or averting their eyes.
I didn’t realise that they were doing this until I had a comparison – but now that there’s a little more skin on my bones, the reaction is a whole lot more positive…
I actually feel quite good.
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I had forgotten that there was an element of risk involved in any relationship.
Writing a blog has heightened the experience.
Start an interaction and you’ve got to be able to handle the response –
An eating disorder protects you, to some extent. It’s a risk reduction when the social interactions decrease; a comfort when they go wrong.
The real world does not operate on these terms and self protection comes at a cost. You do, quite possibly, lose far more than you gain –
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I’m going to be practical here.
I think I’ve dwelt on the ache of isolation enough; I’m starting to depress myself.
It’s not an easy ride; but I’m beginning to see a way out. I’m beginning to see where the cracks in the glass door between me and the rest of the world are.
The first step – recognising the loneliness – was the most painful. And now I’ve taken my head out of the sand: it’s plain sailing from here onwards – with an eye out for pitfalls, of course.
Lesson 1: Don’t expect the world to come to you. It’s easy to get caught up in the misery of loneliness: this will make it worse. Accept it, take a bit of responsibility (you did start the brick wall) – but don’t get hung up on your mistakes (the eating disorder’s probably punished you more than enough already).
Lesson 2: Try and fix it. It’s tiring and a little scary and potentially disheartening – but take the initiative. Start with a smile – they do smile back – and go from there.
Lesson 3: Learn a little patience. Rome wasn’t built in a day. It’s the small connections that lead to the big ones in the end.
“Always, Mrs Ramsay felt, one helped oneself out of solitude reluctantly by laying hold of some little odd or end, some sound, some sight.”
To The Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
As I said, you’ve got to take the initiative.
