It is not an easy battle, nor fought on a single front…

So, in no particular order, these are some of the things that we discussed.

Making the decision

I made the decision to recover on multiple occasions. I decided that it was a good idea time and time again. Each decision, though I didn’t realise it then, was a brick in the foundation; and, I started growing when the emphasis moved from what I would stop doing in relation to eating, to what I would start doing in relation to life. That subtle shift made all the difference. It tipped recovery into the positive, rather than making it all about what I was losing and giving up.

I didn’t make the decision

I’ve written before about ambivalence and waiting for the ‘aha’ recovery moment. It did not come. I don’t know whether it ever does. Right up until the point when I stopped bingeing, the uncertainty hung, and clung, and tempted me back. The same thing happened with gaining weight. I did not wake up one sunny morning and find that it had suddenly become okay: I had to start while I was still clouded with doubt.

Cold Turkey

I went ‘cold turkey’ on bingeing. I stopped, over night, because I couldn’t manage stopping for one day. It was all or nothing and, after years of daily purging, I couldn’t decipher the shades of grey. One day without it was unbearable – so I had to stop thinking about the one day and start thinking about the rest of my life.

I had attempted cold turkey before – but you don’t have to stop trying if it doesn’t work first time.

My ankles did not swell up (even though they had in the past). I did not treble in weight over night. My body did learn, within about a month, how to process food. I did find that one day was bearable and I did break the day down into hours. Oh yes, and I ate.

Recovery involves eating

It took a number of years for this to register. Eating makes it easier not to binge. It’s also a requirement if you need to gain weight. I’ll come back to this one…

Breaking bingeing routines

Going cold turkey on bingeing meant that everything changed. I won’t pretend that it’s easy. The first few months, it sapped my energy in the same way that the illness had sapped me. I made it through by…

• Lowering the bar: I gave myself a break and didn’t expect to feel great. I didn’t fight the days when every minute stretched into an agonising hour, and I didn’t try and plaster over how I was feeling. I just allowed myself to be.

• Distractions: Because there were hours to fill when I stopped bingeing and lonely gaps where other people should have been, I had a long list of basic things to keep myself going. Su du ku, films, magazines, card-making, the internet, walks. Nothing too demanding, but enough to get me through the day.

• Eating: I could not stop bingeing while I still refused to eat. Simple – and yet so painfully hard. The first few months weren’t about weight gain, for me; they were about getting enough inside me to give me a fighting chance of fighting the bulimia. It is impossible to do this if you’re still in starvation mode.

• Shops, reductions and associations: These were everywhere. I had a supermarket on my doorstep and a routine that was etched in stone. I knew the reduction time at every store and had managed to include most foods within my bingeing routine. Planning, preparation and risk management – I thought about what I was doing and put precautions in place long before I actually began.

If, then

We talked about my “if…then” strategy during the vodcast. After so much therapy, it had become second nature and totally ingrained. “If this happens then I will…” got me through some sticky stages and is a way of thinking that seemed to minimise the risks. “If I want to binge then I will remember that the feeling will pass in a few hours time”. “If I feel tempted not to eat, I will remember that I don’t need to feel guilty because eating will help me get nearer to life”. That kind of thing. It goes hand in hand with self talking, which is the other thing that got me through.

Self Talking

I lay in hospital one night worrying about how I would binge on a loaf of bread that had cost me 10p in the reduction bin. This is what an eating disorder does to you.

I reminded myself of this whenever I felt my resolve slipping. That my life was worth more than 10p. That I did not want to wake up and suddenly realise that I’d lost another 10 years. That eating was okay and gaining weight, totally acceptable, because I’d decided that I was going to give myself a shot at life.

And that people were more important, to me, than food.

Loneliness and re-engaging

It is the loneliness that got me – and the loneliness that spurred me onto being well. It could not be undone in a day, nor undone by anyone other than me.

For the first phase of my recovery, I remained alone, both in the long empty evenings, and because my head was in a different space. It was tempting, then, to be sucked back into the spiral – but that would just have kick started the cycle all over again. So I waited, and I talked to a few wonderful people who propped me up, and I started being more proactive when I had moved through the initial all-consuming stages of change.

Telling people

I told people. This is hard. It is particularly hard if you’re ashamed of your behaviour, or if you’ve said that you’ll change so many times that it starts to fall on deaf ears. It is hard if you’re scared that you’re not sure you’re ready to change, and you’re therefore creating a space to be challenged by someone else.

I was surprised.

When I really started fighting the bulimia, the people who were aware of what I was doing completely held me up. They did not judge me and they kept me going; and, a little bit later, when I got cold feet, their support and my gratitude stopped me slipping back.

Gritting my teeth

I am still not very good with certain foods and don’t like being out of control. Over the past year, I’ve got good at gritting my teeth. There are things that you have to do in recovery that are hard and challenging and upsetting – and, sometimes, you just have to grit your teeth and remember that the feelings will pass. So, if I want to spend time with my friends without food spoiling the evening, I need to get on with it; and, if I’m in a meeting at work and lunch consists of a platter of sandwiches, then I have to remember that work is part of my future and push on through. It gets easier, though it starts off feeling impossibly hard.

There is no right or wrong way to recover

I spent a long time looking for this. It does not exist.

Different things work for different people, and different things work at different times. You just have to keep trying, if you can, because however impossible it feels, please don’t give up.

Nothing is impossible

I thought I would never recover. Enough said.

There is much much more….but we only had half an hour and it was hard to jump back. Please feel free to add any other ideas or things that made a diffference – because recovery is a lot easier if you’re not battling alone.

And that stating it makes it real.

During my last treatment programme, I started to notice that I was wary of putting thoughts and hopes into words. It was partly a trust issue (I no longer believed myself); partly because I didn’t want to be accountable (don’t say it, don’t have to do it); but, most often, because it all seemed futile – and what was the point of just words? I was scared of articulating something in case it didn’t work – and, sometimes, in case it did.

What I’m now beginning to realise, is that the articulation – whether in words, or images, or a headful of dreams – is the first, vital step. The destination may remain hazy and the journey, unknown; but putting it into words seems to help me begin.

This is far more subtle, I think, than goal setting. It’s like planting the seeds – giving them room to grow – and allowing yourself to see what happens. No judgements. No internal “all talk and no action” dialogue. No “but I might jinx myself” type thinking. Just the opportunity for a little discussion – and exploration – and the somewhat magical process from abstract idea to living thing.

So all that talk that I did before stopping bingeing and purging? That was intention setting and not, as I worried at the time, setting myself up for a fall. And, the dream diary that I wrote on squeaky hospital sheets and seemed somewhat ridiculous, given the circumstances? Well, maybe the fact that a lot of it came true was not just a bizarre coincidence – but because I gave the vision a place to exist.

The date-setting and dialogue around my last cigarette might have felt a little unbelievable, at the time – but whatever it injected into the process, certainly seems to have made it real. And, the chatter that’s currently going on around my ‘next steps’ is not, as my head likes to taunt, “a waste of breath Melissa, and words without any substance”; but is, instead, the pencil sketch of an ambition that will help me identify where I want to be.

This is, I think, what is meant by intention. Not a list of actions that I will be held accountable to, nor a strategy (yet) that will get me from A to B. Just the planting of a seed – and a vague glimmer of what B will look like – and an idea that your subconscious can mull over and then steer you towards…

Which makes the talking and dreaming part of the process; and takes the hows, and whys, and whens out of the equation (temporarily) -

Because, in the naming of an intention, the answers are already growing in your head.

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.

“Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

Doh. It is, of course, far easier to realise this than it is to change the behaviours, or routines, or thought processes that inform how we behave.

My eating disorder was full of jammed brakes and spiralling circles. It was characterised by doing the same thing, over and over again, and hoping that, at some point, things would change.

That the fear of food would diminish, even though I didn’t offer myself the chance to gather any supporting proof. That the bingeing and purging would cease – without me changing the routine and starting to eat. The loneliness, vanish, without me venturing out; and the OCD stranglehold, miraculously lighten, without factoring in a plan to change, nor building up the evidence that it would be okay.

You get the idea.

A few days, the penny finally dropped and I realised that I have been repeating the same mistake again. That I have been trapped in a situation which makes me feel miserable, and frustrated, and stuck; and I have been hoping that, by returning to the same situation enough times, something will eventually shift.

I think that’s an example of Einstein’s “insanity” –

Which means that I need to create my own change.

My current stuck-ness relates to my working life. It is connected to how I feel when I am at – and leave – work; and the knock-on implications that this has when I finally get home. I am therefore going to see, as I really have nothing to lose, whether it helps if I do things a little bit differently; and whether I can be the change that improves my feelings and mood –

So, today, I am going to take the initiative with relationships at work – rather than waiting for the relationships to come to me. I am going to stop flicking between multiple tasks and leaving with a sense of dissatisfaction, and start approaching them methodically, and ticking them off one by one. I am going to wear something different, to break with the routine; and sit somewhere different, to explore the impact of the view; and drink tea, rather than coffee, to add in a little variety –

I probably have some bigger changes ahead; but, I can start laying the foundations and gather the momentum by rocking the boat a little bit –

Because, I have already proved that I can do things differently – and if I don’t start doing things differently on this occasion, I can’t expect the results to change.

What have you done differently to make things change for you?

Stuff that would suggest the penny needs to drop, for me, on frequent occassions…..Tomorrow; Stepping off the Hamster’s Wheel; Small Steps; and The Yes Once Rule.

Because the week was rapidly sucked into a whirlpool and I have spent most of it trying to catch up with myself, I have only just started to process what we said; and, interestingly – although probably unsurprisingly – the question that arose in each of the groups I talked with was: “what are the things that really helped?”

I have talked, extensively, about what doesn’t help.

I have identified the things that motivated my recovery and started to unpick some of the notions that got me stuck. Have explored sections through to self help – and taken responsibility for my recovery – and focused on the positives, and the positive people, that made a difference along the way –

But I found it really hard to describe the particular things that helped.

So, I talked about taking different bits of help at different times, and learning that things that didn’t help at one stage might still help at another – and vice versa. And, I found myself describing my lovely GP, and the amazing care I received in rehab, and some key messages I’d taken from nutritionists.

I emphasised the individuality and variation inherent in eating disorders; and the impossibility, therefore, of a one-size-fits-all approach. And, I talked about the importance of someone who would keep believing, even when I had totally given up hope -

We talked about pace – and who took responsibility – and how to engage through resistance – and the many different dimensions of recovery -

And, whilst the complexity of eating disorders was certainly clear, I’m not sure about the extent to which my rambling really helped.

So, because it’s all subjective, and as we know that there’s no quick-fix-solution or silver bullet approach, I thought it would be helpful to open out the question and bring some other people’s ideas in by asking:

What are the things – in terms of types of treatment, and approaches, and qualities – that really helped?

I have favourited this tweet. It couldn’t be a more timely reminder, as I am struggling to figure out how life without an eating disorder works, that the words we use to define ourselves might help to change the positioning.

Given the name of my blog and the reason I started it (“this is the story of finding an identity and giving an eating disorder up”), you’d have thought I already appreciated this; but I have focussed so hard on what I’m giving up that I have neglected what I am finding.

It is important, I think, to have ways of describing ourselves.

It is empowering, I am beginning to see, to take ownership of who we are – and realise that we can be more than one thing.

From 3 to about 12, I was the violinist. From 13 onwards, I was the anorexic or the ill one. Recently, I have classed myself as lost -

@thisisMEssy has reminded me that I don’t need to put all my eggs in one basket. And that I can be far more than my eating disorder.

So, I am going to force myself to repeat the agonising process that I undertook when I listed the things that I like about me; and challenge myself, this time, to focus on some of the ways I could describe myself, and the different things that I am. Starting with the obvious.

• I am a woman.
• I am a brunette.
• I am a sister and a daughter; a god–daughter, grand-daughter, cousin and niece.
• I am an English Literature graduate.
• I am a copy writer, an aspiring ‘other types of writing’ writer, and a blogger.
• I am a reader; and, when I’m not too tired, I am a thinker.
• I am the kind of scrabble player that forgets it is a game.
• I am a join the dotter.
• I am, amongst others, a Florence and the Machine, Laura Marling, Amy MacDonald, Lady Ga Ga and Lily Allen fan.
• And a Lost and Family Guy one.
• I am a front crawler when I’m swimming.
• I am uncontrollably creative.
• I am a low maintenance no make-up kind of girl.
• I am a twitterer and an entranced social media explorer.
• I am an early bird, however hard I try not to be.
• I am, in the main, a people person.
• I am a book reviewer and a literary snob.
• I am an introvert, sometimes; and an extrovert, sometimes.
• I am a life long learner.

I am also lots of other not so great things, but they don’t matter quite so much when I don’t have to fit into one neat description….

It is strangely liberating to decide how I would like to call myself (rather than take what I think I have been given), and remember that the definitions are not set in stone.

It is reassuring to realise that I am more than an eating disorder -

and that there is still opportunity for me to find out who else I might be.

P.S. This has been a great exercise for me (so thank you @thisisMEssy!), and I’d love to hear how other people describe themselves and the things they’re discovering – or shrugging off – along the way…

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?

I know that taste is subjective; but there’s no other way to describe it. This dress totally rocks.

It might not be bang on trend as I couldn’t tell you what’s strutting along the catwalk and have never quite got into Vogue; but, it makes me feel a million dollars, and has reminded me of something that gets lost behind the catwalk debate and the size zero phenomenon –

In my recovery, fashion and fabrics were an unexpected friend; even when I wasn’t that comfortable in my own skin.

You could chart my illness in relation to the contents of my wardrobe. In the better spells, it was well looked after and neatly hung; when things were going badly, anything that could be tightly belted and easily washed, went. There is little point in making an effort when everything ends up spattered in sick; and it is impossible to find anything that stays where it’s meant to stay.

Clothes were functional, not fun; and looking good was immaterial, if not impossible. Feeling good? Who cared.

Surprisingly, me.

One day, a few years ago, my Mum took me to a new clothes shop in town. After walking around for months in nondescript outfits that were ‘gifts’ or relics from my teenage years, she was adamant that some ‘nice clothes’ would make me feel better, even if they didn’t quite fit. Whilst I remained sceptical and sure that I didn’t deserve them, “no” was not an option; and, with a little (lot of) coercion, I finally gave in.

Whenever I wear the cream cotton shirt dress that we brought that day, which folds softly around my skin and makes me walk with my head a little higher, I understand what she was trying to do -

The inside often informs the outside, but sometimes, it also works the other way round.

So, whilst I remain adamant that a book should never be judged by its cover and appearances are certainly not everything, I also appreciate that dressing down didn’t really help; and, in the past few years, me and my new clothes have taken a few vital steps together -

Like the pretty blue pyjamas that were a present from me – to myself – to help me sleep through the nights when I was determined to stop bingeing.

Or the brown leather jacket that exactly matched the image in my head and gives me a boost when I’m feeling self-conscious or a little insecure.

The shimmery sparkly skirt that I can accept complements on behalf of, even though I’d argue the point if they were made about me.

The pin-striped suit that helps me stand tall when I’m feeling small at work. The delicate heels that make me feel like a woman when my body seems to let me down. The neat handbags that I couldn’t use when I was hauling around bags of food. The floaty silk skirt that I could afford when I stopped spending a fortune on food. The ribbon-tied bridesmaids dress that made me feel like a princess for a day…

I know that sizes are hard; and I’m not great with mirrors.

I get that dressing up can seem pretty pointless; and there’s no point in pretending –

But sometimes, if I concentrate on enjoying what I’m wearing, then it seems easier, somehow, to be kinder to what’s underneath….

Because there’s nothing like a killer dress to make you feel like a million dollars -

And I think it might be possible for fashion to help me – and my body – to gradually become 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.

You have to do this rather a lot in recovery; otherwise things just stay the same.

You have to start saying “yes”, even if your head is saying “no”; because you don’t find out what you’re capable of unless you take a little risk and give something new a go.

It has taken me a while to realise this. In the absence of a Jim Carey film which manages to make the point in about 90 minutes, I didn’t automatically see the connection between my constricting life and the frequency with which I said no…

I just started feeling a little trapped.

Given that my eating disorder had a zillion rules and assumed the majority of my time, this was probably unsurprising, only –

Sometimes, after the relief of avoidance had worn off, I’d feel a little sad that I wasn’t joining in and wonder what I was missing out on; and, increasingly, as the “no-s” raced past the “yes-es”, I’d get frustrated that my options were so thin; and gradually, because I had no evidence to the contrary, I started believing that “no” was the only option –

So I took out the choice and only said “yes”.

The ‘yes once’ rule was designed to get me unstuck.

I started small (but I’d been saying no to rather a lot) – and abandoned expectation (because it was about taking part) – and, just like in the film, I put a temporary ban on “no”…

And so, when I was invited for a drink, I smiled politely and said “yes”, even if I wasn’t really in the mood or it messed with my routine; and, more often than not, the experience surprised me and I’d find myself having fun.

And if the opportunity to do something different – like Tai Chi, or Salsa dancing, or a new exhibition – was presented, I remembered that I wouldn’t know what I didn’t like unless I gave it a try, and went with “everything once”.

When my head was screaming “but you can’t do that” to a dinner out or a spontaneously proposed lunch, I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I could, at least, try; and, if the occasion was outside my narrowly defined comfort zone, I took a deep breath – and jumped –

Because, when you say “yes” to something that you’re scared of, you can work through the fear, rather than cower under its command –

And, if you explore the things you’d normally say “no” to, you can sometimes find yourself wondering what all the fuss was about; and discovering that you’re far more capable then you might have assumed–

Which you wouldn’t have realised if you’d kept saying no.