There’s stuff going on in my head that I can’t quite seem to work out. Passing snippets that have paired themselves off without quite explaining the pairing, and insights that still remain partially hidden. There is one common thread. It is the word fear.

Fear.

I’m scared.

Belly scared. Paralysed scared. Scared silly….yet not quite sure of the source (there’s so many); nor, if I’m honest, of the emotion (it’s just what I always feel).

Some people say that excitement is the flipside to fear. If this is the case, I wouldn’t recognise it as such because I have only referred to the experience with one word….

Fear.

And me.

Me and fear go way back. For as long as I can remember, I have been scared. Scared of people (who might not like me, or might try and hurt me, or might be out to get me). Scared of change (which might lead to failure, or end in disappointment, or feel different from that which has come before). Scared of living, loving and losing. Scared of feeling, wanting and hoping. Scared of getting it wrong. Scared of getting it right. Scared of not being able to cope.

You get the idea.

Fear has been my default setting, or so I’d come to believe…

It might, upon reflection, be more accurate to consider that the default is the belief that I should be scared.

Seth Godin’s rooms

I said this would be random.

I was reading a post from Seth Godin’s Blog which talked about rooms and moods (and brands and lots of other interesting things). My head has decided that the post belongs with my consideration of fear. There were two sentences that stuck. The first occurs in relation to an analogy of emotions being like rooms -

“But most often, we seek emotions out, find refuge in them, just as we walk into the living room or the den.”

And the second, about the feelings evoked by experiences (again, described in terms of rooms) –

“…it’s something you choose to do, because going there takes your emotions to a place you’ve gotten used to, a place where you feel comfortable, even if it makes you unhappy.”

I wonder if I do this with fear? If I keep entering the fear room because it’s an emotion that I’ve become accustomed to; one that I am familiar with and able to define.

Why fear?

Seth acknowledges that we sometimes go to emotions that aren’t very comfortable and this would certainly describe fear; so, the next question in my random chain of thinking is why I would gravitate to a state that is so paralysing and has caused me such distress. Where, in other words, is the comfort, for me, in fear?

Time to get uncomfortably honest.

Maybe if I’m scared, then there’s a safety net for failing? Maybe if I build up life into a series of insurmountable challenges, I have a little get-out clause if it goes wrong? Maybe I was scared by one thing and blew it up until it took over the world? Maybe I caught the fear, like a virus, and it stuck? Maybe being scared lets me bury my head in the sand? Maybe I don’t have the emotional language to describe the feeling in any other way?

The flipside to fear

One of my dearest friends is always reminding me that excitement is the flipside to fear. The same emotional experience – just a different way of referring to it.

When I was thinking about my current fear (an imminent flat move) earlier, I felt the little flutter of potential and a gasp of energy, which might be what she was talking about…..

Only, I am also a little scared of excitement. It raises an expectation – so then you can get hurt.

Oh dear. Round we go again.

It takes longer than a couple of hours contemplation and 639 words to change a lifetime of believing that “I’m scared” –

But it takes about a second to ask whether there might be an element of choice in the experience – and whether the vocabulary actually fits.

Read the full post: The places you go

I didn’t stop to consider where it came from until recently; in fact, I don’t think the question even entered my head. It has only emerged – upon closer inspection – that a lot of the fears and feelings I have assumed over the years do not belong to me.

It has been like getting home with the right black coat – only when you check the label, it’s wrong.

The assumption that the world is out to get me – well, it’s not mine and I’m not sure I agree. And the drive, constantly, to prove and demonstrate and assert an authority – well that might have been necessary once, but it doesn’t fit anymore.

The belief that taking up space merits an explanation or an apology is starting to scratch; and the need to match everyone else’s clothing has got rather tight….

In fact, a lot of what I’ve been walking around in is outdated or second hand.

So, I am sorting through my metaphorical wardrobe to distinguish my belongings from those I have mistakenly put on; and, I’m trying on some stuff I’ve been keeping – only to realise that it’s no longer my size and my style has changed, dramatically, over the years.

It is helpful, every now and then, to step back with a critical eye and check that we’re not wearing someone else’s wardrobe or last decade’s trends. To see beyond the reflections and refractions, and sift out the things that we have walked off with –

And those it might be time to replace.

I think this is called ambition.

And I am trying not to be scared.

There is an element of want, I think, in ambition, that I instinctively shy away from. A subtle danger that I sensed, but could not articulate, before. There’s the potential, in the hope, for disappointment; and in the hunger, a desire that can overwhelm.

Which I could not allow.

So brakes down, feelings in, do not want and do not try – because the disappointment is not worth the effort and the failure will eat you from within. A million moons ago I put any ambition in a safety box where it couldn’t hurt me –

And now I have found that I hold the key.

And you know what? I’m not scared anymore. I’m not quite so afraid of wanting as I was when all this began…

So I am holding this little ball of glowing ambition, and watching it flicker and dance, and it doesn’t feel like the world will come crashing down if I don’t get anywhere – because the little spark will keep going and I will just start again. And I’m not as worried, as I was, about disappointment, or failure, or the overwhelmingness of want –

Because it has dissipated, unexpectedly, in the act of trying, and in the sheer excitement of finally joining in.

Change often happens this way for me. The fear paralyses. Then comes the frustration. And, finally, the elastic-band-snap of emancipation and whoosh, I’m free –

Come what will.

I went through the same process in my recovery. The same wheel-spinning-yet-not-going-anywhere, until it felt like a miracle that I didn’t implode. All talk, I seemed – and no action. All words – and nothing behind them but fear.

Only I am recognising this, now, as part of my journey. One cog in the creaking – spinning – stopping – starting process of change. Like revving up the engine; or stretching to a breakpoint; or feeling the pressure, bubbling, until, eventually, there is no other option but

Jump.

You do, I am being to realise, find your wings.

I think this is called the contemplation phase of change. I’m sure there’s a better way of getting though it than waiting for the metaphorical shove –

(I’ll keep you posted.)

But, I wanted to write this at the tipping point because –

Sometimes, when you’re stuck in the wheelspin or can’t see beyond the frustration, it’s hard to have faith that things will be okay. And, sometimes, when you’ve been talk talk talking away – and yet never quite seem to walk the walk – then it can feel like you’re all air (and no substance) and all words (though the promise was action); when, in reality, change is really hard.

Really hard –

And so, when the doubt begins to elbow it’s way back in (you’ve made the wrong decision); or the critical voice starts smirking away in the background (told you, Melissa, that you’d fail); or the landscape gets a little scary and unfamiliar, I’ll be returning to this post to remind myself that I feel a hundred times better – now that I’ve started moving – and, whatever the outcome or the route to the destination –

It’s far preferable to the paralysing fear of change.

To emphasise the point, the ‘fact’ on my shampoo bottles (shampoo: “who is the person you talk to most?” / conditioner: “yourself”) have concurred to make the message heard. This is clearly a subject that I am meant to be writing about –

Self-talking is something I now do on a regular basis. It kicks in, the moment my head kicks off – and seems to work through a few key themes:

Recognition

The recognition bit is around letting me know that my head has now gone off on its own merry way. It’s that little voice that says “whoa there, Melissa, what’s going on?” It recognises that things aren’t quite right; but also helps me to name the feeling by recognising where I have felt it before.

Realisation

When I have acknowledged the feeling, and realised what it is, then my self-talking voice can start to play detective, and work out where it began. This seems to involve walking my thoughts backwards to the first sense of the feeling (if possible), so that I can get some idea of how I’ve arrived at where I am.

Even if the progression is somewhat unclear.

Rationalisation

Rationalisation is the next step. It’s the voice that then chips in and points out where I’ve made some giant leaps in my thinking (like when I am catastrophising or have forgotten the colour grey) – or why it actually makes sense that I am feeling how I am (because I am hurt, or angry, for example), and that this is totally okay.

Reminding

Then comes the reminding. The reminder that I have been here before – and coped just fine. The reminder of the people and thoughts that I can turn to when I need a little support. The reminder that feelings are just feelings, and this too, will pass.

Makes sense.

But it doesn’t stop there! My self-talking has also developed a range of tones and approaches so that it can be doubly sure of being heard. Different feelings, times, and contexts, inevitably require different types of talk.

Compassion

This is the kind voice. It listens to what I’m saying and reassures me that it is okay. It is characterised by positivity (“you can do this”), and compassion (“you deserve to do this”), and reassurance (“I promise that you’ll be okay”).

Practical

This voice gives me ideas. It helps me when I can’t find the energy, and focuses on proactive help.

Minus the word “should”.

Practical is “calling a friend made you feel better last time you were alone” and “plan something for tomorrow if you’re feeling lonely today” and “you’ll feel better if you have a shower or give yourself a little TLC”. It’s the voice that I quite often want to tell to shut up – but is, very often, right.

Therapist

This voice is a professional. It helps me to unravel – and then resolve – what’s going on. It is closely linked to the realisation and rationalisation stages, and characterised by questions (“what are you feeling?”), and honesty (“what are you really feeling?”), and teasing things out –

So that they can then go away.

Cheerleader

This one’s still undeveloped, but I am marking it’s space. It is about cheering me on, and fighting my corner, and taking over the things that I normally wait for other people to say!

Perspective

This voice is the perspective, an objective take on what’s going on. It reminds me to look at the bigger picture, when I’m stuck on a detail; or the smaller picture, when I can’t see where it will all end.

*    *    *

So, that’s a whistlestop tour of what’s often going on my head – and I’d be really interested in hearing how other people have developed their ability to self-talk, or if they use any other techniques instead?

Related stuff: Self-talking and not self-harming; Self Management and Resisting Relapse.

There is a theme emerging in the quotes I keep bookmarking. They are about focusing on the process, rather than the outcome; and, enjoying the experience, rather than only celebrating success.

Making mistakes – so the message seems to go – is part of the learning, and broadens the opportunities for the great things that come next.

Lately, I have become more and more aware that I only do what I know I can do, and only try that which it is safe for me to try. That I am stifled, daily, by over-precaution, and paralysed by the fear of ‘getting it wrong’ –

Which is getting quite frustrating.

So, in the interest of science, and because there’s a convergance of opinion, I am going to give myself (at least temporarily), full permission to fail.

This involves shifting a few of the things that stop me from passing go.

1. The Fear of Reprisal

With a head that likes to point out, repeatedly, my shortcomings, the insufferable noise that a mistake will inevitably lead to is enough to keep me from even trying…

So I am now imposing a temporary gag.

Zipped up. Silenced. Schtum.

There can be no recriminations and “I told you so-s” if I have accepted that it is okay, Melissa, to sometimes get it wrong.

“If you hear a voice within you say “you cannot paint,” then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced.” Vincent van Gogh

2. Catastrophising

As well as shooting myself down, I expect that, should I make a mistake, everyone else will jump on the ‘condemn Melissa bandwagon’ and join in the fun. They will notice my error – and then decide that they can’t stand me – and then make sure that everyone else in the whole wide world feels exactly the same -

I have no evidence for this happening and I’m pretty sure that people have better things to do than stand on the sidelines waiting for me to fail….So step two is about keeping the consequences in perspective:

“Success isn’t permanent, and failure isn’t fatal.” Mike Ditka

3. A Difference of Opinion

I have got myself confused and muddled up thoughts and feelings, with what qualifies as a right – or a wrong. There is, however, rarely one right opinion – or an automatically opposing wrong; so, instead of back-pedalling the moment I come up against a challenge, or crumbling under the fear that “they’re right and my opinions are always wrong”, I’m going to factor in room for variety, and subjectivity, and a difference in opinions –

Because some things are muddy, and life isn’t always so clear cut.

“Trust your own instinct. Your mistakes might as well be your own, instead of someone elses.” Billy Wilder

4. Being the Best

It is better to be playing the game then watching it happen because you’re scared that you won’t win.

Enough said.

I need to get over this one.

5. One Way or Another

If there’s one thing my recovery has taught me, it’s that there’s no one route. Some things work on some days and don’t on other days; some things don’t work full stop. Sometimes, the things that you don’t expect to help, do; and sometimes, those that you’ve been banking on, don’t.

It is only through making mistakes that I have found this out…

So, I now need to apply the same approach to the rest of my life, and start exploring where else I might be able to do the impossible – and what might happen if I got out of my own way!

“Most of the shadows of this life are caused by standing in one’s own sunshine.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

Related Stuff….The Frontiers; Shoulds, Buts and the Need to Get it Right Go Unperfectly; and, Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast.

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…

Jealousy is something that I struggle with on an almost daily basis. A cruel and angry emotion that starts in the pit of my stomach; winds its way around the object – and then shoots back to me again.

Envy is closely aligned, yet more crippling. It is ingrained and slow-moving, and I often get them confused.

Her job is more interesting than my job; his flat is bigger than my flat; where they live is better than where I live; blonde hair has far more allure that brunette; if only I was as clever – or as beautiful – or as popular – or as slim, as her.

One complaint leads to the next and the poison oozes, insidiously, until everything’s tainted.

For as long as I can remember, I have been like this.

Threatened by other people’s success (and then ashamed of the emotion). Envious of other people’s attributes (and then aware of my own deficiencies). Possessive of people and qualities (which you can not own, nor really compete over). Angry and hurt and frustrated that it is always them – and not me.

Followed by the bitter after taste of self-disgust and a dribble of rage.

Jealousy is never pretty.

Envy eats you up, from the inside out.

Together, they reek of desperation and the deep yellow of the acidic bile that I used to wretch up in an attempt to expel the emotions. They are linked, I am beginning to see. The eating disorder and jealousy and envy. They have been dancing around in my head, egging each other on; or, else, tangled together in a kind of grotesque hold.

At the start, I think I thought the eating disorder would stop the emotion or, at the least, provide a means of punishing myself for it. This is how the cycle began, I think. Emotions – then guilt – then punishment – then lower self respect – then more emotions – then guilt – then punishment – then lower self respect. The further you sink, the higher up the rest of the world begins to appear.

And so we start again.

Later, the eating disorder became a substitute; a stand in for all that was lacking. The gnawing subsided, here, for a moment; or was, at least, subdued. I do not care that they have more friends – or a better wardrobe – or higher grades; because I can, at least, be thin.

There is, of course, a fundamental flaw in this line of thinking, and a twist that you only appreciate near the end: you’re running in the opposite direction from your aspirations; moving further from, not nearer to, where you really want to be heading.

And now? Now, it is back with a vengeance and a fiery twist. The more I engage with life, the harder it pushes and pokes and surges and urges me – not on, but away; not forwards, but backwards. Backwards. Again.

Which is why I have realised that it is time to stop. Now. And work out what is going on.

Because the only advantage of my position is that, when the grass is always greener and the black cloud never seems to shift, I’m sure the jealousy begins with me –

Which means I can stop and look at what I’m craving for – and running from -

And therefore, I hold the key.

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.

The stuff that I thought I’d sorted out years ago has made a reappearance; and, without the crutch of an eating disorder, I have been caught off guard.

This was not part of the deal and I am beginning to feel a little cheated. “If you lose weight then it’ll all be okay” has turned out to be a mixture of illusion, and blatant lie.

You would have thought, given all the therapy, that I would have been prepared for the re-surfacing of some not very nice feelings. That, with a recognition that the eating disorder was often a coping strategy, I would have stopped and asked what, exactly, it was that felt so hard–

Only, the solution became a more immediate problem; and, as the years went by and the concrete began to set, the root of it all got buried somewhere; and I wasn’t sure how to break in.

This has not been very hard now that I have displaced the crutch. A little tap, and

ouch, there it is.

And so, I find myself, 20 years down the line, feeling exactly the same way that I felt as a child; and, experiencing the same emotional volatility that anorexia promised it would save me from. And, despite the detour, and in spite of the helpful stuff that I inadvertently picked up along the way, I feel like I’m struggling, because the feelings haven’t lessened and the ‘solution’ was only a concrete-over-the-cracks fix that still tempts and teases and taunts –

I have proved that giving in will not resolve the situation.

I know, too painfully, that the ‘solution’ is only pretend.

So I am struggling, at the moment, with a head that feels out of control, and emotions that seem to shoot off left, right and centre – and then to places that I wish they wouldn’t go to. And I am not doing a very good job of behaving how I would like to behave, or making any logical sense of my thoughts – and actions – and feelings –

Because the baggage I thought that the eating disorder had taken care of has turned out to be a ticking timebomb that has been thrown back, as a passing farewell, by what has proved to be nothing more than a temporary – and ultimately ineffectual – eating disorder shaped pin.