If I understand that my perception can get distorted; and I know that it’s all tied into how I feel about myself; and I have a whole bag full of CBT tricks to prove that no, I can’t possibly be fat with my BMI or yes, the reason I feel uncomfortable now is because I was used to being so unnaturally thin…

Well then, it’s all hunky-dory, really, isn’t it, and there’s clearly nothing to dwell on?

Hmmm.

I think I might have slipped into a bit of self denial. Body image? Not a problem – I just don’t even venture into that headspace. Shape? Doesn’t really matter, cos I can still squeeze into most of my clothes.

Today, I noticed that a sweater which I’d bought a few weeks ago was a few sizes bigger than I thought it was. Okay, the style was baggy and I’d noticed that it was particularly loose – but my stomach tripped into somersaults and the internal acrobatics caught me off guard. I thought that I was beyond numbers mattering – but clearly the message is still stuck.

I have not been able to shrug off the experience.

I have pointed out, patiently, that it was meant to be a throw-on. Reminded myself that I have clearly separated out self – from size. Forced myself to consider the other 99.8% of my wardrobe….

It hasn’t helped and I’m now confused.

There has been a division, in my recovery, between my head’s thoughts about my body and those in my gut, and it’s been a bit too difficult to give the issue any real space.

I am not quite sure how to reconcile the distance between what I now understand about my eating disorder – and the fact that my preoccupation with my body still, to some extent, stands. I know that size is an issue for lots of men and women, and that there’s an emphasis, inherent in the culture, which is often difficult to move beyond. I understand that, in the need to recover, I worked really hard to overcome the fear and impermissibility of weight gain, and that the separation helped me to live –

I just can’t work out where I go from here, nor how to get some sort of balance in my head.

I’ve just had one of those moments.

Post pilates leg stretches, and I was so surprised by the leg that I was stretching that I ended up twisting it back to front and forgetting to follow the crucial

“breathe”….

My legs do not look like my legs anymore, and I couldn’t guarantee that this body belongs to me.

This is, I suppose, what happens when you hit a normal weight after having a good two stone of ‘growing room’ for so long. It takes a little readjusting to get used to the fact that things look a bit different and nothing feel quite the same –

So, there’s a strange emptiness, at the moment, because I’m not sure what I think of this new body; and, there’s a slightly surreal disconnection, because the me that I had become accustomed to no longer exists; and, it’s unnervingly quiet, up there, as my head’s not sure which line to take –

It would like, I think, to shame me in to action; but, after nearly two decades, I am somewhat unmoved by the taunts, and the name calling, and the “come on, fatty, you’re late for work.”

And the softly softly approach seems equally pointless; because, the promise that losing weight will “make it all better, love” and miraculously transform my world, has been proved a lie by all the things that it has made worse –

It is used to me cowering under the charge that I have “let it all go” – and the subsequent sleepless nights, and desperate actions, and the panic that won’t stop until the dial goes back into reverse. Had expected that the fear of “getting fat” and losing control and becoming “normal” or “nothing” would scare me into submission; or, that the repulsion which is, I’m afraid, still instinctive, would overpower any rational arguments –

But it also realises that things are a little different now –

Because, this leg, which feels a little bulkier than the previous version, and makes me look twice when it’s being stretched, can also do a lot more than the old one.

And this body, that has strange curves and takes up a little more space, has opened doors that my previous self would not have imagined.

This stomach, that is present, rather than shockingly concave, doesn’t seem to consume my thoughts and feelings so hungrily; and, the outside, which had been the priority for so long, is contending for attention now that there are a few other things going on inside -

And the hushed silence is a strange sign of progress because my head is no longer sure how to respond.

Contrary to the automatic associations, “fat”, as a “nutritional component” is required for healthy functioning.

In moderation, noun “fat” will not make me adjective “fat”; although it may contribute to an alternative meaning: the “tissue made up of cells that contain fat”. This type of “fat” is normal. It’s what keeps us warm and healthy and offers a little protection from the big bad world.

“Fat” is also a “cooking medium”, derived from plants or animals, and used to make stuff, like cakes, which lots of people consider to be a good thing. In Australia, it is an “offensive term for an erect penis,” to quote my Windows dictionary.

“Fat”, as an adjective, is a common descriptor for someone who is carrying additional weight. It can, however, also be used in reference to something “profitable” (like a “fat pay cheque”), in which case the connotations are more favourable; and, similarly, in relation to things that are “plentiful”.

Interestingly, it can also be used to mean “minimal”, like when something useless is a “fat lot of good”.

There are “fat cats” and “fat chances” and, more recently, “fat farms”, which I am a little unsure about. You can “chew the fat” when you’re talking, or “live off the fat of the land” if you’re a feudal landlord, or “throw fat in the fire” to stir up a little trouble….

One word – that is the subject of so much attention.

One syllable – that seems to cause so much pain.

Three little letters – that hold the power to hurt or insult or embarrass or shame or attack or threaten or judge or control – and are used to dominate or discriminate or manipulate or exploit or vilify – and have reduced me to tears –

and driven me to insanity –

and evoked such a terror –

That I have forgotten that “fat”, as a noun, has multiple meanings; and “fat”, as an adjective, is only a word; and, “fat”, as a feeling, is something different altogether –

We weren’t this disconnected when I was hideously underweight. We may not have been friends but we were, at least, on speaking terms. Now we don’t acknowledge each other.

Up until the past week, I hadn’t been too concerned about the dislocation. I am, after all, far healthier then I’ve been before and nearly up to a normal BMI (which is a good thing); so, surely it was safer to stay away from something that might screw with my head –

And, anyway, I have always been adamant that eating disorders are about far more than how you look (which they are); and taken offense to the misplaced notion that they are driven by “vanity” (which they’re not); and, consequently, been quite vocal in my “please don’t assume that this is about my body, when really it’s about me” message –

Fair enough.

Only isn’t my body part of me?

And is it ever really healthy to neatly box yourself up, regardless of the reasons?

As I have reached the conclusion that it is probably not; and admitted, albeit reluctantly, that my fixation with thinness did exist and could, just possibly, suggest that body image wasn’t irrelevant, I have decided a little probing is in order –

So, with the intention of saying hello to myself, I have knocked on the door of the adjoining room, and tentatively poked my head round the corner – only to recoil in horror, because I can’t quite handle what I see…

This is, perhaps, why we’ve stayed apart, and why I’ve kept my eyes, so firmly, at shoulder level for the past six months. My reaction might just explain why I have found myself, increasingly frequently, arriving at work with the stomach churning realisation that I could well have left the house in mismatching socks or an inside-out jumper, because I haven’t got round to looking in a mirror yet…

I have never been too hot on how I look.

This ‘finding Melissa’ process has, however, been all about doing the things that I didn’t want to do and exploring the feelings I’d rather leave behind closed doors; so, with a big deep breath, I am trying again – and introducing myself, to my body.

Unfortunately, I stumbled over saying “hello”, and my head begun, instead, with a question: “Is this how I should look?”

Interesting.

I obviously assume that there’s a template for how people should – and shouldn’t – look. I’m not exactly clear on what this is (which is worrying in itself); but I seem to subscribe to the idea that there’s a right – or wrong – way of looking, and it’s important to conform and fit in.

This prompted unexpected question number two: “What do other people see?”

Okay, so it’s not what I see that I’m concerned about; it’s how I look to the rest of the world. We’re back to the ‘everyone else’s opinion is far more important than mine’ theme… This, of course, I can never know; however, given that I have a bit of a history of assuming that everyone’s thinking the worth, and never quite feeling that I match up, I can foresee a few problems with the concept of a socially acceptable – or unacceptable – body.

Oh dear

That’s a lot of pressure for anyone to place on their appearance –

So I start, slowly, with my toes, moving up to my ankles –

And, then the inadequacy comes sliding in (I will never look as I am meant to look), and the bitter, tear-swelling, unfairness starts to re-emerge (I will never look how I want to look) and the taunting voice in my head cranks up the volume (I will never be good enough); and, I can see, in a moment of clarity, why we’ve grown so apart –

Because we were intricately and absolutely linked -

And, whilst I’ve healed my body, my mind’s playing catch up.

So, there’s a little more work to do, evidently; because I may not be acting out my feelings, but they’re still lurking there, like poison –

And, I’m yet to move beyond my ankles; but, I know that it’s important to stay on talking terms with my body; because, once I’ve accepted myself on the inside, then it will be easier to make friends with the outside –

And I won’t need to ask whether I am looking the “right way” –

- or checking what other people see.

Because my opinion will be good enough.

People are no longer looking through me or averting their eyes.

I didn’t realise that they were doing this until I had a comparison – but now that there’s a little more skin on my bones, the reaction is a whole lot more positive…

I actually feel quite good.

Even though I’m still readjusting to the slight rounding and some subtle curves, I seem to be getting on a lot better with the world.

Fading away may have featured highly on anorexia’s agenda but, what you lose in physical space is more than made up for in mental attention; and, even when you cancel out your identity totally – if, indeed, that’s the real intention – then you’re only really replacing yourself with a medical name…

So, now that I’ve finally broken through the gaining weight barrier, there have been some unexpected pleasures on the other side. I am beginning to feel like a person, again; and, I obviously look a lot better because the response has been totally different –

For a start, I think the male radar is beginning to pick me up again, which is kind of nice after years of falling below the recognition line. And then, there’ve been far more compliments flying my way which – providing that you take, rather than negate, them –generate an unexpected warmth, the forgotten rush of pride that comes when people notice you in a positive way.

It is a lot easier to make friends with my new body when the feedback is so encouraging. I don’t just feel a little softer and look a little less breakable; I’m also moving into a new social space.

Feeling included is far more fun than hanging around the edge. The stay away signals were clearly doing their job, because people seem to want to spend far more time with me now they’re not so preoccupied with the health implications.

So, I am being invited out for dinner – rather than specially catered for; and, I can take part in the conversation – rather than calorie counting my way through the menu. I have a little more to say now that food has stopped dominating my headspace; and, a little more energy to have fun with –

People are far better friends than an eating disorder; and a life is far more satisfying than the not dead existence of anorexia.

Plus, I can pack more real stuff into a day that is not consumed by binging or structured around rigid meal times. With a little more energy, the things that felt too hard, have been achievable; and, the things that only other people could do, have stopped being so exclusive.

With each step, the possibilities open up further – and, when your head is not hi-jacked by hunger and your body is no longer on the edge, life stops being a fight –

- and starts to get quite exciting

I was expecting the worst. A painful wrenching. A terrifying step in the dark.

It has been like a tick that I have been trying to shrug off.

A recurring theme.

It has been a whole mishmash of emotions. A turbulent and unpredictable journey. A snail’s pace edging towards recovery.

Weight.

It’s ridiculous, even to me, that something so insignificant, so irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, should have such power. Should feel so important.

At least I can recognise the importance now. At least I can see the absurdity in the whole situation.

I’d laugh if it wasn’t so painful.

Getting back to something that resembles a normal weight has been an uphill struggle. It has been the hardest part of my recovery.

My weight – the first thing to break and the last thing to fix.

It’s developed a certain resilience over the years. A stubborn staying power. A parasitical familiarity -that’s now outstayed its welcome.

I have tried to say goodbye. At each new point, after each crucial warning sign, I have said to myself: remember this moment because you can’t go back. Remember these numbers. Remember these feelings. Remember how scared you are. Because you can’t come here again. There’s no going back.

There was, a few times. The boomerang effect. But a cat only has nine lives.

So, I kept trying. Slowly letting go. Step by step, stage by stage. I don’t know if a short sharp jerk would have been less painful – but the slow approach was the best I could manage. And I kept on going.

Until I couldn’t put my fingers round my arm.

Until I couldn’t hold my ankle in my hand.

Until the sharp bits softened and the hollows filled out.

Until size 8 stayed up and clothes started to fit.

And people stopped staring and started smiling.

And I stopped hiding in a haze of sickness, behind a wall of concern.

It’s a strange process, this letting go. A bizarre mixture of guilt and relief. Of sorrow and hope. Of loss and gain.

Not what I expected.

But not the end of the world either.