“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.

This is difficult to admit.

I recognise that an eating disorder is an illness – and not an identity – but I appear to have accepted the label; and, now that it’s been ripped off, I’m finding the exposure hurts. It is strange that, although I would never introduce myself as an eating disorder and vehemently abhor the pain and damage it has caused, it seems preferable to being me.

Oh dear.

It is hard not to cast judgement on this statement and plaster it over with things I should say. There is, however, only one way of changing it: by finding out what’s underneath.

This evening, I took myself for a long walk, with the objective of finding out why I’d rather be an eating disorder, than a person. No judgements. No censoring of my thoughts. Just a little heart to heart with me.

These are some of the reasons that I have found.

1. Lacking Other Terms of Reference

An eating disorder is an incredibly pervasive condition. It can hijack almost every aspect of your life. This makes it difficult to create an alternative vocabulary and means that the terms of reference are harder to come by.

For a significant proportion of my life, my personality, aspirations, and interests were warped by the eating disorder, to the extent that it was difficult to separate the illness out from me. The usual identifiers (career, interests, hobbies, likes, characteristics) were glaringly absent, and the eating disorder gradually took over the vacated space.

The first reason that it is hard to isolate me – from the illness – is that I have, until recently, had little else in my life. I lived, as if I was an illness, and have become used to identifying and describing myself in that way.

2. Personal Worth

Identity, I think, is often bound up with values and worth; and the next knot comes in relation to my previous ideas of self-worth.

As well as absorbing the different areas of my life, the eating disorder also hijacked the values that I placed on things, the way I determined my self worth. Good was a number on a scale; control was reflected by calorific intake; and success, in terms of things like BMI.

Now that the blinkers are off, I know that we are far more than our weight – but reconstructing my value system appears to be taking a little time.

3. “You are nothing without me”

There is still an echo of the eating disorder’s voice, floating around inside my head. It is quieter, nowadays, but not quite dead. It liked to tell me that I would be nothing, without an eating disorder; and that every success I had belonged to it, and not to me. It liked to claim that the things I prized would vanish, should I ignore it; and that, with nothing else to offer, I was nobody.

I do not consider an eating disorder to be an asset. I do not view it as something that is initially strived for and then obtained; as a quality, or a characteristic, or an admirable trait –

But I have to acknowledge that, in my stumbling search for a defining feature, I fell into an eating disorder; and, by accepting that label, I gave away the need – or opportunity – to find me.

This might explain why I am now feeling so completely exposed.

4. Hiding

My current state of vulnerability is a tricky one to untangle.

It suggests that I have been hiding behind the eating disorder, or using it as an extra layer of defence. This has, of course, been a double edged sword and attracted its own form of attack – but I wonder if this was preferable, some how. Whether it was easier to attribute any criticism or judgement to an eating disorder – rather than accepting that it was linked to me?

5. Distinguishing Features

This one’s related, and equally hard to admit. Identity is about similarities – and differences; the way we connect to other people – and what stands us apart. Although the realisation appals me, I think my eating disorder became my distinguishing feature: something that I took as mine.

3 through to 5 are contradictory but linked. About smoke and mirrors; hiding, and yet also finding a space that belonged to me. About fearing anonymity and irrelevance and being lost in the swell – without knowing how else to speak or be seen.

Urgh.

6. Confusion

Identity is hard to define. Eating disorders are notoriously complicated. Examine them together, and I am not surprised I have become confused.

The final reason I uncovered, in relation to why I’m finding the being – or having – an illness debate so hard, is because it is difficult to separate out the different strands and elements. To recognise that this characteristic belongs to Melissa – but was commandeered by the illness; and that preoccupation is directed by the eating disorder – where as this one, is just a part of me.

The lines are blurry, eroded by an eating disorder’s corrosive impact on self-trust. The messages are confusing, often suppressed by a history of self-denial.

I don’t have an answer for this one, nor for any of the others. It takes time to deconstruct a person – and it will probably take time to build her up again. I can, however, acknowledge their presence and accept my ambivalence –

Because, if there’s one thing of which I’m certain, it’s that I’d rather be a person working through recovery, than an illness -

And I hope that this awareness will create a space for finding 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.

Listing things we love about ourselves is not something we are often encouraged to do, particularly in the UK. Modesty is seen as an attribute; and pride tends to come before a fall – or so I have always believed.

Accepting that an outfit looks nice takes places after some painful to-ing and fro-ing (“do you really think so?” – “yes really” – “but doesn’t it look out of place?” – “no, not at all”); and is, more often than not, accompanied by a mental twist (“she didn’t mean that”). Whilst blowing your own trumpet typically comes with an apology (“I don’t mean to brag but…”) or a quick justification (“well, that’s what so-and-so thought”) – so that it’s acceptably said.

Liking yourself might be mistaken for arrogance – or is halted, subconsciously, before the charge can be laid; and why wait for other people to point out your weaknesses if you can get there first…

You can not, I am beginning to learn, expect others to like you if you don’t even like yourself.

Listing the things I like about me therefore seems like a good place to start – but it also comes with a massive risk. I am setting myself up for contention and breaking what I have conceived to be a major social rule.

But then I’ve probably done a lot of that already, so here goes and in no particular order…

Things I like about being me -

1. That I get ridiculously excited about books -
2. And writing.
3. And the connections between the world and writing
4. My curiosity.
5. The birthday cards I make for my friends (when I remember) -
6. And how that makes them feel.
7. My hair when it goes wavy.
8. The fact that I do things that I’m scared of -
9. And that I can admit to my faults.
10. My ability to analyse everything (okay, it’s both annoying and a skill!).
11. The speed of my head.
12. How easily pleased I often am.
13. That I still write to my Granny every week even though she forgets.
14. My honesty.
15. The good ideas I have at work. Sometimes.
16. That I can still play the first page of the Bruch Violin concerto, even if my technique’s totally shot.
17. My slightly eclectic music taste.
18. How easily excited I am.
19. That I try to be kind.
20. My scrabble skills.
21. That I carry on writing the books I’m reading in my head to fall asleep.
22. My belief in Love.
23. And fairytales.
24. My genuine hugs.

Whew! There we go. That used a whole different thought process, and a lot of hushing and shushing of the voices that would have liked to jump straight in.

It is surprisingly hard to move beyond the objections and accept that I can like myself.

It feels unexpectedly unfamiliar to give myself a little positive endorsement – rather than fixating on the flaws.

But it is strangely pleasing to realise that I’m not quite as bad as I tend to think I am – and there’s rather a lot I like about being me.

And now it’s your turn. What are the things you like about you?

Nope. I still manage to shock myself.

They keep coming, thick and fast, like unpleasant discoveries or bruises that are so deep they are only felt when you push the exact spot.

This post’s on possession. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of; but it might lessen – this possessiveness – if it is acknowledged and moved on.

For as long as I can remember, I have been “the ill one”. It is not a title that most people (myself included) aspire towards; but it has been, nonetheless, a position, of some description, which is better than being nothing at all.

My status as “the ill one” depended on one feature: the eating disorder. Take that away and, whoosh, there’s nothing there. This meant that holding onto the eating disorder was a good thing (which we all know is a bit of a distortion), and that it was important that the eating disorder was MINE. And no one else’s.

This is, of course, ridiculous, given that many people suffer from eating disorders and they are a condition, rather than a characteristic; but putting logic to one side here, in my immediate circle, the “eating disorder” position was filled. By me.

(In hospitals, this was, of course, totally different, and it was a relief to find out that I wasn’t alone in my experiences; but, as I mentioned, logic doesn’t seem to apply here, and consistency was never that relevant to my eating disorder when it wanted something.)

In the instances, therefore, when others expressed an interest in dieting, or lost a little weight, the defensiveness kicked in; and, like a military campaign, the eating disorder rallied the troops and upped the antes. I didn’t feel understanding – or compassion – or a desire to get involved. I felt possessiveness. And threat. And jealousy. Because the eating disorder is MINE.

As I said before, this is not something that I am particularly proud of. It is also something that kept me stuck for a very long time…..

Today is a little different. I appreciate that I might have been tricked into seeing the eating disorder as an asset. I understand that it did not replace an identify – but just stood in for a total lack of self esteem. I am enraged by just how cruel – and destructive – and absolutely devastating they are to everyone involved –

And yet, I am struggling, still, with this perverse sense of ownership over something that I don’t actually want to own. With feelings which don’t seem to apply to the wider world but, in my little context, are still lurking there.

I have tried to articulate them – but words fail me, and it seems hard to move beyond what should not be said –

So, instead, I am left only with an image of a gnarled hand, clenched tight, like stone; and it is only when I start prising the fingers open that I am beginning to understand it is not the eating disorder clasped tightly inside –

It is a little part of me.

I can’t get it out of my mind.

It has struck a sensitive chord that I am almost too scared to write about; and, because the chord is exposed, a wall’s gone up and now I can’t see what’s going on behind.

According to this article, rejection is like a physical pain. Whether you care about who’s rejecting you or they’re hidden behind a computer screen, the hurt is the same –

A twisting in the gut and a bowing of the shoulders and a sinking of the head and the unbearable feeling of shame. Or that’s the imprint that remains for me.

A few weeks ago, I had my own little example.

In our office, birthday cards are part of the team spirit. Regardless of whether you’re best buddies or just sit in the same room, a card on your birthday and one when you leave are a given.

This year, my birthday was on a Saturday; and, on Friday night, I went home with a few personal cards – but no passed around best wishes. Despite the fact that I’m not particularly close to my work colleagues, the hurt was palpable and I spent much of the weekend trying to work out what I had done wrong.

When I returned to the office a few days later, the cards were waiting for me with a completely rational explanation; but, in those few days, I realised just how much I cared what other people thought of me. And just how much rejection ached.

It is difficult to write this, in case other people assume the same.

Rejection feels contagious: one snubbed nose, and it soon spreads.

The act is as physical as the response. Or so I have come to believe.

Ironically, I have little to back up this supposition. The instances are mild and I’ve always muddled along, possibly because my eating disorder was both defence (I don’t need them) and excuse (the problem’s with the eating disorder, and not with me) –

Only there’s a lingering sense of being outside, rather than “in”, and the sharp horror of discovering that I’d been left out…

It is hard to admit to these things, despite the fact that my response appears to be quite normal –

Because, it hit me, when I was reading this article, that rejection is part of the human experience, and not just a personal indictment of me. And it seemed, in the light of the science, that there was very little that I could do to change the response, rather than take a deep breath and remember that I am not everyone’s cup of tea –

So, in the absence of a solution, and because my reaction was as you would expect, I have decided that awareness is a good starting point; and that, as rejection is an ongoing and not uncommon possibility, I can only work with me.

Which means that I will acknowledge the feeling (rather than hide it behind food), and remind myself that I’m only human (rather than pretending that I don’t really care), and appreciate that I might not always be part of things (because everybody’s different) -

But I don’t need to compound the rejection by holding on to the pain –

or assuming that everything’s wrong with me.

Mine is defunct.

The self destruct button is jammed down, by default, and I seem to have been programmed in reverse. Instead of stopping before I step over the line, I ramp up the speed on the descent and it takes someone else to step in and say

Stop.

The eating disorder is the obvious example; but doesn’t appear to have re-set the switch. I am daring to see how far I can push things – like work, and relationships, and life – and I don’t quite sense the danger until someone else comes along and says, “what the hell are you doing?”

To which I reply, unexpectedly, “waiting for you to see how terrible I am” -

Because you’ll reach the same conclusion at some point.

This is not a great formula for successful living. There’s a touch of self fulfilling prophecy, a big dose of sabotage, and no way of knowing when I’m entering red – because that’s been the agenda, all along, hasn’t it?

So, whilst the manifestation’s a little more subtle now that I’ve taken the eating disorder as far as it could go (because it’s not about annihilation; it’s the punishing bit between); there’s a pattern emerging, and it looks like I’m going out of my way to make sure that happiness doesn’t win –

Which means that I step over the line, without really noticing what I’m doing; and, like some warped game of dare, I push – and pull – at life, and challenge anyone who gets caught in between: If I go far enough, will you stop trying to save me; and, if I ruthlessly push you away, will you start seeing the Melissa that I see?

Which means I keep snapping connections (because they’ll only start to hurt); and resist caring (because it comes back to the same person in the end); and maintain the need to apologise for my existence (because success would infer deserving); and I rarely pause to consider the consequences of any action –

Because, the alarm that is meant to kick in when you endanger yourself is now faulty; and, the sensors that are meant to warn me when I’ve gone into the red were suspended, some time ago, when I decided that I wasn’t worth being saved.

Which means that, unless I do a little re-programming, I am pretty likely to self destruct or sabotage any happiness –

Because I’ve already decided on the end.

This question makes me upset.

With ongoing job dissatisfaction and a permanent juggle between a profession I have fallen into; a blog which I love – but seems to lack direction; and a life that I’m still trying to repair, I’m desperate for an answer –

Only I was so busy getting my eating disorder that I didn’t really consider my career.

This is proving a little problematic now that I’ve broken through to the other side and am in the unexpected position of having a future to consider. It’s been hard to explain – when I am asked the “what did you want to do” question – that, for most of the last two decades, I didn’t think beyond the next mealtime, and I certainly didn’t worry about things like what I would be doing as a career.

I think that this is what is meant by focussing in on the detail.

I think it’s indicative of just how obsessed with the whole thing it is possible to get, and how one dimensional life with an eating disorder can become. How it is impossible to see beyond the food; or look at the bigger picture; or see life in relation to life – rather than in relation to eating.

Or it was for me, anyway.

So, now, the “what did you want to do when you were older” question makes me want to cry; because I know that when I should have been asking these questions, I was pre-occupied with dodging the next meal or planning the subsequent binge.

And the elusiveness of the answer is driving me to distraction; because I have buried any aspirations so deep that I still can’t reach any conclusion, nor believe – just yet – that should I uncover the answer, I’d be able to make it possible –

And so, it feels like I am going round in circles that are becoming more and more claustrophobic and the frustration is building like a scream

-

I know that lots of people aren’t sure about what they want to do.

I get – kind of – that career paths often follow a rambling and unexpected route. ..

But if you ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, then I can honestly say that, from the age of about 12, I didn’t even ask myself the question – or contemplate the options – or consider the subject to be particularly relevant -

Because I didn’t believe that I could actually get anywhere –

And so, I was far more pre-occupied with making sure that I was thin.

Rejected – see what happens when they work you out?

Humiliated – because everyone can see, now, that you’re fundamentally flawed.

One.

Everyone.

These are the things that my head is telling me that I shouldn’t say. This is the ammunition that will lead to the future rejections. Push. Push. Push. What will they think? Do it. Say it. Write it. And eventually they’ll be no one there.

Maybe this is what I’m scared of, though I’m tempting the situation. Or, maybe it’s just that perspective eludes me and things are all – or nothing – with no gradients in between. Maybe it’s neither, and I just haven’t cottoned onto the fact that the world doesn’t revolve entirely around me –

I have a tendency to jump from one example to a full blown foregone conclusion.

To take it all too personally.

To completely over-react.

I think that my eating disorder had a field day with my over-reaction, and this might be why I’m finding it hard to just sit with the emotion. It took a little event, or feeling, or comment, and stretched it out of all proportion so that it was impossible to see what else was going on. It twisted, and contorted, and confused experiences so that, in the end, they only pointed at one thing – a negative reflection of me. And then, it twisted the knife with the next, inevitable, conclusion: self-obsession, narcissist, don’t ever look beyond yourself –

Or maybe that wasn’t the eating disorder, but me?

At the moment, the hurt – from whenever – is red raw and rampant. Tomorrow, though, when the heat has subsided, I will make myself take a step back; because I’ve learnt a lot in the past few years that I need to remember when it feels like ‘everybody hates me’ –

Like the fact that there are a hundred things going on in the world at any one time, and they’re virtually all unrelated to me.

Or that some people like oranges, whilst others prefer grapes.

And that it is impossible to make sweeping judgements on twisted evidence –

Because my head is still getting perspective very wrong.

I can not order my thoughts, nor find the words to express them. Sentences come – and then go – before I’ve time to pen them down; and the conclusion of any chain of thought is always a few phrases out of reach.

The panic is bubbling now, like acid.

It is making it harder to breathe, and has created a terror that permeates my sleep and drowns out the day: what to write what to think what to do what to say what to write what to do what to do –

Nothing.

In a rare moment of silence; I realise that I might just be repeating the same mistake. That all these years in, I am still looking for something to hold onto. A little validation that provides a temporary respite until the next time I am revealed –

Nothing and nobody.

Pull back the cloak and there’s only thin air –

This is the root of the problem. This is where it’s red raw and screams; where the urgency – and desperation – and scrabbling around for connections and meaning and words comes from –

Because without something, there’s nothing there.

Or so I have become accustomed to believing.

And so, I have been hooking my identity and any self worth on to things that are outside of me, and can be named, and acknowledged, and touched. Clutching onto descriptors that are tangible (the violinist) – and acceptable (the grade A student) – or ill (and so excused, for a little while); knowing, all the time, that these are temporary guises, assumed, but not intrinsic; and subject, at any moment, to exposure – or removal – or, in the current case, writer’s block –

And I am left with nothing.

Pull back the cloak and there’s only thin air –

I think that this will keep happening unless I am careful. That I will move from one validation to the next, writer – employee – speaker, always aware of the fragility of this foundation and in anticipation of the next tremor. Always waiting to be found out, or exposed, or to lose the thing that I have been desperately clinging to.

And, I wonder whether it’s correct, this dislocation of my assets from my self. Whether believing that these qualities are outside of me, rather than a part of me, is a true representation; or just a reflection of how little I really think of myself, and how scared I am that, should the cloak be yanked, cruelly, from behind me, then people might think that really

there’s nothing there –