No one will want to share a flat with me. I’ll spoil my professional reputation. I’ll become a source of gossip. There will be whispering and pointing and people will give me a wide berth on the street.

That kind of thing.

I nearly associated my response with stigma, then I realised that it is more akin to shame. I don’t necessarily need anyone else to point their finger or assign me with a name; I am already doing that myself.

I am already doing that myself – and yet the things that I am most ashamed of have also informed my greatest achievement: they come together hand in hand. The same experiences that nearly destroyed me have also made me who I am –

And in the act of exposing the illness, I have also exposed myself.

It is this bit that I am struggling with at the moment. It has got me in a bit of a stranglehold. I do not regret what I have written, nor feel the need to resurrect the wall between Melissa and Finding Melissa – I’m just a little afraid of what people might think.

I am also a little confused: “They don’t need to find out” makes everything a secret again; “Just don’t tell anyone” reaffirms the shame. And round we go again.

There is probably not an easy answer, nor one that applies to every situation I find myself in, or every person that I meet. I don’t know whether googling potential flatmates is common practice and my fears are grounded; or whether, actually, the judgments mostly belong to me. I have no idea whether careers fall on personal revelations, or whether there is a sign hovering over my head that will alert people to my messy past. I suspect not, and I have no evidence to support the former –

Just a little voice, echoing a few prickly memories from when I first became ill, that is proving hard to evict.

“Are you angry with me?” “What have I done?” “Don’t you like me anymore?”

I spent most of my teenage (and a fair few of my post-teenage) years asking various people this question. If they weren’t angry with me in the first place, it soon started to grate. You could hear it in the shortening answers and the exasperation.

I apologised as much as I asked whether I had annoyed. I might not have done anything in the first place, but I’d freely offer a “sorry” if it would make things better or smooth the awkwardness away. Sorry for what I said or didn’t say. Sorry for my actions or inactions. Sorry for not making things better. Sorry for being me.

I stopped asking the question – and apologising – about five years ago. After a while, “sorry” lost its meaning and people got tired of the incessant reassurance. I felt like a parasite, sapping their energy, so I swallowed the question instead, like bubble gum that stuck in my throat, and just tried to make up for whatever I’d done wrong.

Later, I started to learn that it wasn’t all about me, really; and that some times, the anger or dislike existed mostly in my own head.

I started to dissect the question yesterday, as it caught me off guard. It’s been whispering quite a lot lately. Not quite spoken, but sliding along the tip of my tongue. Say it. Ask them. I think it’s because I’m going through lots of changes and feeling a little uncertain so the need for reassurance has surfaced again.

I am not going to ask them because the more I break the pattern down, the more destructive it appears. The fear of anger and rejection is an obvious source of concern, but it’s the apologies afterwards that are so corrosive. The taking back of words – actions – thoughts – anything – the most damning reflection of who I am. Who I was.

Every time I took responsibility for something that didn’t belong to me, I bound myself in negativity and blame.

Every time I assumed that I was wrong – and said sorry – I think I undid a little bit of myself.

I’m not going to repeat the same mistake.

So, at the moment, I’m biting my tongue and answering my own question: “no, Melissa, you have not done anything wrong”. I am saving my sorrys for times when they are actually required, rather than because I can not tolerate another’s – or an imaginary – mood, or because I want to take the edge off the uncertainty.

It is hard, and uncomfortable, and quite unsettling – but it means I’m holding my own space, and strengthening, rather than negating, how it feels to just be me.

One (the eldest) of three.

This blog is not about my siblings (who are, by the way, totally wonderful and I love them to bits); but I think it might be about a younger me’s reaction to them, so I’m going to include this.

It is important to distinguish between your reality and the alternative versions of reality; the stuff that belongs to other people, and that which belongs to you.

This bit is mine.

Earlier today, someone asked me what I liked to eat as a child. Hoping to access my pre-ED tastes, I decided that casting my mind back a little (lot) and exploring the things that I used to look forward to at mealtimes sounded like a good idea.

It was. I just didn’t find what I was expecting.

Hoping to form a little connection to my childhood favourites and re-awaken any tastebuds that I’d snipped at the roots, I was waiting for the images of homemade macaroni cheese (yep, liked that) – or breakfasts at the weekend with my Dad (I know I used to enjoy these) – or crumble and custard on Sundays (a favourite, I think), to arrive. Instead, I got a hideous wave of inferiority and a horrible flashback to how I used to feel –

I was not, as a child, the skinny one.

My brother was a beanpole. My sister, petite and pretty. And me –

Normal. Healthy. Attractive. Big. Ungainly. Fat.

With a good appetite. A dead cert for seconds. Enjoyed her food. Greedy. Uncontrolled. Fat.

These things were not, of course, said; nor, I am certain, even thought. It’s just how I felt. Them – and me. Thin – and fat. Acceptable – and totally not.

I don’t know when I decided that body size cast the deciding vote. This certainly wasn’t a family message; and, it seems, oddly, to dismiss all the things that I clearly excelled at – school, music, reading, the ‘clever one’ – possibly, because even writing these things reminds me that they were irrelevant. Instantly negated. Uncool.

For whatever reason, at some deep and complicated level, worth and self-acceptance got all tangled up with whether I was skinny or not -

And, as a child, I was not the skinny one.

So, when I go back, even after all these years, and after the balance was so dramatically altered, the surge of inferiority is still uncomfortable; and the feeling of weightiness, bowls me over. And, even if I try to move beyond this, and go back – back – further – back to an earlier stage, where it didn’t matter so much or I wasn’t so aware; the memories of food remain hidden, and all I can see is –

One wooden chair leg, and a not skinny knee, poking out from a pair of cotton shorts, with the sun streaming through the window behind. A fork, on a plate, and sitting at the kitchen table wondering why I always wanted more.

Photos that made me feel horrible. Climbing frames that I seemed too big for. Clothes that I had outgrown.

Summer days, and paddling pools, and swimsuits with frilled bottoms, and queuing for barbecues, with an acute awareness of just how much space I seemed to consume.

This might, I think, be where some of it started.

In this small, still throbbing, sense of shame – and self-consciousness – and older sister awkwardness, some of the nerve ends remain red and raw.

I need, I think, when I’m feeling a bit braver, to go back and acknowledge that it hurt (that I felt I was different); and reassure, my younger me, that it was nothing to be ashamed of (this taking up of space). To explain that sometimes feelings, are just feelings (and not the reality); and unstick this person, who is still a little stuck –

Because I’ve probably been carrying this childlike sense of inadequacy around for a very long time -

And, it’s time to move on.

I’m not good with failure and I don’t like making mistakes. I aim to please, am a little obsessive, and like things to be ‘just so’…

Interestingly, if you asked me to define ‘just so’, I’d probably struggle, and if you asked me to describe “perfection”, it’d be equally hard….which is where this post begins.

Following an interesting twitter trail, I have been revisiting my issues with perfectionism, and stumbled across a few anomalies that have made me stop; think; and then begin to realise that it might actually be possible to shift my perpetual dissatisfaction.

After years of never quite being good enough, this would be most welcome.

Know where you’re heading….

Until today, I had never actually asked myself what perfection would look like, should I be fortunate enough to reach it. This fails the SMART test at the first step. Whilst I can highlight the flaws very easily; identify a positive in contrast to my negative; and am on familiar terms with disappointment, I can rarely describe what ‘perfect’ would be.

In some cases, this is easy to identify (correct spelling, for example, or a flawless painted wall); but, more often than not, perfection seems tied up with more abstract things, like how it feels when you get there, and whether or not you’ve spotted any kinks…

In most cases then, I defer my definition of perfection to other people’s opinions, and this is fundamental flaw number two:

Perfection is subjective

Take cake, as a simple example. Your perfect cake is probably not the same as mine. What’s more, if you’re judging perfection on appearance, an iced masterpiece might win; but, if it comes down to taste, the verdict could be very different.

Is perfection in the eyes of the beholder – or the creator; down to personal preference – or a set of criteria? If we’re talking about spelling, the answer’s obvious; but, when it comes down to the things I often struggle with (writing, being a nice person, saying the right thing, a good piece of work), the guidelines are less tangible.

Which version?

So, do I go for my idea of perfection (providing I remember to ask myself how I will know when I’ve got there), or do I defer to someone else’s ideal, and maybe hand over a little of the personal pride? Perhaps I should establish a scientific basis for each aspiration – or will that just create another opportunity for failure?

And then, supposing there was a formula and I achieved perfection on a regular basis; would that really be as satisfying as I hoped for…

Post perfection

You know that slightly empty feeling after you’ve finished working on something and it all comes off without a hitch; the kind of fizzle that seems to follow the relieved elation and the initial surge of pride.

Is this what it would feel like to live in perfection?

Or, would it be a constant looking over your shoulder to make sure you didn’t go on to disappoint or slid back down the slippery slope?

And where the hell do you go next?

Maybe, perfection’s created to keep us moving forwards, in which case we could well be chasing an illusion; because, “perfect” may disappear in a poof of smoke when you reach it – and realise that something’s a bit wrong…

The perfection illuson and positive imperfection

This would infer that, more often than not, perfection’s a bit of an illusion, and I’m sure the thesis has been explored by more philosophically trained minds than my own.

Plus, if we didn’t make mistakes, then we wouldn’t see where we could improve; and, more often than not, imperfections leads to learning and helps you to work out what to do next.

This is where the “no failure, only feedback” statement comes into its own, and where my random chain of perfection dissection has ended up; because, I’m not sure that I’d like a life of perfection (if it even exists), and I’d certainly miss the drive and the learning if I always got it right.

So, maybe it’s time to embrace my many imperfections; and show a little appreciation for the feedback (which is not failure); and go, unperfectly, into the next few weeks to see what I might find out when I happily get it wrong!

I’ve been going round and round and round and coming back to the same conclusion: we’re all unique and we all see things a bit differently.

It’s best illustrated through marmite. You either love it or hate it. A marmite lover talking about marmite is likely to create a very different impression of the flavour sensation to that given by a marmite hater.

As I said, it’s all subjective.

And subjectivity is a precarious basis for self perception.

A simple illustration:

When I was a child, I was occasionally teased about the slight angle at the end of my nose. I had, in children’s terminology, a pig nose.

At the time, I unquestioningly accepted my classmate’s verdict; and, as I grew up, I never challenged their opinion. It was only after reading an article on the aesthetically pleasing qualities of an upturned nose that I begun to realise how much I’d internalised the comments. It was only when I started untangling the mess that I’d become that I got the significance of their comments.

Nose shape aside – I was never that bothered by the whole issue – I learnt a valuable lesson: that you can easily base your perception of yourself on an opinion that may or may not be flawed. That you can take other people’s subjectivity far too objectively. That my illness was linked to a perception of myself that was, quite possibly, very much off the mark.

I know that we’re bordering on philosophical territory here, that it’s far easier to have a nice neat tangible cause and effect scenario; but, when I’d finally got my head around the whole issue of perception, when I’d finally separated out the strands of truth and opinion; well, I had a whole different version of myself –

Because, when you’re younger, it’s hard to understand the fine line between subjectivity and objectivity. It’s hard to make the distinction between opinion and fact.

When you’re a kid, it’s hard to know that anger is passing and can lead to things being said that shouldn’t have been said. It’s hard to remember that your elders are only human and they sometimes get it wrong. It’s virtually impossible to understand the whole spectrum of emotions – fear, jealousy, anger, impatience – that twist and strain and shape what and how we say. To remember that we’re not necessarily at the centre of everyone’s world: there’s a whole host of other factors in play.

When I got ill, I didn’t get this.

I was so busy listening to what everyone around me was saying that I mistook subjectivity for objectivity, fiction for fact; I leapt to a few conclusions about myself that were based on mis-interpretations; and, in typical human fashion, I hooked in to the bad bits and forgot about the feel good stuff.

I condemned myself without a fair trial.

I’ve been resisting the whole ‘distorted body image’ debate. Trying to steer clear of clichés or over-simplifications. Trying not to replicate the patronising overtones that I used to hear in the references to my own distorted image.

They missed a crucial point: it wasn’t my body image that was distorted; it was my interpretation of my body image.

And there’s a subtle difference.

To someone who’s obsessively tidy, a few cobwebs, a speck of dust and a misplaced book may seem like the height of messiness. To a normal level of tidiness person, the same set up may pass the tidy test. To someone used to living in a dump, it’s immaculate.

You see? It’s all a question of relativity. It all links back to those personal interpretations again.

Our three examples were faced with the same scene – they just rated it against different standards and latched on to different things.

The body image thing was similar for me. I don’t think that what I saw in the mirror was wildly different to what the person standing next to me saw. It’s just that my idea of what was fat and what wasn’t was wildly different.

You’d assume that this would make it easier to deal with. That the obvious solution would be to stand next to someone who matched your perception of being fat. That you’d quickly realise that your standards of judgements were way off the mark. But nothing’s ever that simple.

The first point’s human nature: we chastise ourselves for not getting up earlier, for example; but rarely level the same charge against anyone else.

The rest is linked to eating disorders and the way that they screw with your head.

When I started, 7 stone was thin. I got accustomed to that, so the marker moved back a notch. 6 ½ stone was the new thin. A little bit later, I got accustomed to that too, so the marker moved back a notch. 6 stone was the new thin. Being in hospital raised the stakes – and warped the comparators. Again, the marker moved back a notch. 5 ½ stone was the new thin.

It’s a lethal spiral. And it only goes in one direction.

For years, I believed that my voice was way too loud. I had a whole issue about speaking too much; was convinced that the volume was a notch or two too high, that I came across as overbearing or demanding.

One day, I was told that my voice was so quiet that it could barely be heard. That, by unspoken agreement, windows were closed when I was in the room so that any other noise was blocked out.

Moral of the story: your head can get it wrong.

I could have happily (or unhappily) gone along for years believing that I was too vocal, feeling that my voice was too loud. I could have continued thinking that people were ignoring me for any number of self-critical reasons – and not even considered the fact that they just hadn’t heard me in the first place.

At some point, my perception stopped being a perception and started becoming my truth. It moved from thought to belief to given. From ‘I think that I sound loud and overhearing’ to ‘I am loud and overbearing’.

Fiction became fact.

It took me a long time to realise it, but this is why my eating disorder was so incredibly difficult to get to the bottom of: so many of the beliefs and causes – and then actions and consequences – are located in a totally inaccessible and precarious headspace.

Everything’s subjective. It’s all relative. It all depends on your interpretation of things and your personal truths.

And you’ve got to really get in there to work out what’s going on.