decisions about what to study at school had been easy, but now things were getting serious. I felt like I had been at school forever and I wanted a break. I wanted to go and travel the world. I wanted to explore. I was curious and eager for more but I didn’t know what I wanted more of. I didn’t really want to go and get a degree, but it felt like the next logical step. I can see now that the traits that make me a coach, an entrepreneur, a creative consultant were already there, but at that time I didn’t have a clue.
I enjoyed art and was good at it, but I didn’t want to be an artist – there was no money in it. I enjoyed sociology, but again I couldn’t see how I could make a living from it. I enjoyed painting, and I liked being given a brief. I loved the history and narrative of theatre and the phenomenal storytelling capabilities and technology of film and TV so the logical argument won and I applied to three universities to study courses in Theatre and Film design.
Going on to study felt safer and more responsible than just doing whatever I felt like and drifting.
Once I saw how much the train fare to Nottingham was I decided it was too far; I still wanted to be able to come home to Brighton at weekends. When Rose Bruford wanted me to pay a fee to come to for an interview, – I spent it on new shoes and decided that they weren’t for me. When Central School of Speech and Drama in London said that they only took on four or five students a year for Scenic Art on their Theatre Practice course – I was sold. Either I’d be in, or I’d take a gap year and go and live somewhere exotic. Having never been, knowing no one else who had ever been, and not having Googled it (since Google still didn’t exist) I decided that if I didn’t get in, I wanted to go to Bali1 or go and live in a tipi somewhere and smoke pot.
I got into CSSD with an unconditional offer based on my portfolio and interview, so I moved to London and embarked on adulthood.
Two distinct parts of me arrived in London: the gypsy artist hippy girl, and the ambitious scenester.
When I left home I felt like I had a chance to reinvent myself. Again. In the big city I could be anyone I wanted. I could have trusted my intuition and learned to love my misfit-self but the truth is I was not confident enough in my weirdness then. I wasn’t there internally, I wasn’t ready. You can’t make yourself be ready. I hadn’t learned to value myself at all. Externally it may have looked like I appreciated my weirdness and had self-confidence: I had pink hair, wore whacky clothes, and was really OK with being ‘different’. But inside I wasn’t content or confident. I was OK with living a caricature of the real me, but not OK with looking at anything about myself that made me feel discomfort.
I really believed that things were one way or another. I hadn’t identified, let alone accepted or made peace with, my idiosyncrasies and paradoxes. I got how we all present different faces in different situations, but I was incredibly controlled about what I showed the world and had very clear ideas about what parts of me other people would be OK with and what they would reject. I made huge assumptions. I had never really tested my theories out but I was very sure of what people would and wouldn’t accept and love about me.
I was consciously never vulnerable. I projected strength as best I could at all times. I wouldn’t even allow myself to be privately vulnerable.
I found it much easier to compartmentalise the different ‘me’s and play the roles rather than ever just be. I’m sure that some of you can relate. I took the things I felt others might tease or make fun of and I would do it first.
My time at Central School of Speech and Drama was incredible. It set me on a path for a fantastic career in the film industry by providing me with skills I still use to this day. I met some amazing people. I forged friendships, pushed boundaries, explored my creativity and playfulness. Theatre and film and being self-employed were all huge unknowns and I had no idea who to ask for help. I had no idea what a mentor was. There was no one in my family or sphere who had ever done anything quite like this before and as I set out on my dream of having a career in the TV and film industry, my only real objective was never to get a real job and to make enough money to have fun and keep a roof over my head.
As far at the relationship part of my life was concerned, I saw romantic relationships as a way of achieving social kudos. I was clear I was never going to fall in love and let my feelings control or rule me. I was never going to be a romantic fool. I was going to be independent and look after myself. I was determined never to be a weak and needy woman. Unconsciously, unsatisfied with the female role models in my life, I looked around me for women to admire and model myself on. I chose Madonna, Marilyn Monroe, Shirley Manson and Skunk Anansie.
I slept with men as if they were trophies. I collected ones that other people would think were an accomplishment. I rejected all whispers from my innate feminine wisdom. I made myself as ‘sexy’ as I could, but not soft or yielding. I wanted connection, but not love. Falling in love would mean letting go and that was never going to happen. My worth and value were determined by external things – what I looked like, what size I was, who I was with, what shoes I was wearing, what I had collected and achieved. On the outside it may have looked like I was a risk taker, but inside I was all about playing it safe.
On a scale of 1–10 my physical, intellectual, emotional and spiritual health2 was a two. I was using food again in a way that I hadn’t since I was 15. The jump from college to university was HUGE academically. I remember hearing an urban myth that they expected to lose 20 per cent of us in the first year and I remember being determined not to be one of them. Whilst other people I knew were enjoying one or two lectures a week at their university, I was on campus five or six days a week from 8:30 to 5:30 every day. The adrenalin buzz of being part of a theatre family was immense. It ticked a whole load of boxes for me, but I still felt that everyone else was sharing some ‘in joke’ and I had blagged my way into somewhere I didn’t really belong.3
The stress triggered my need to be in control and I started to binge and throw up again. There was always a part of me that wanted to be healthy and happy, and I knew that this obsessive behaviour was no good for me, but I felt that if I just achieved a little weight loss, everything would be better. I also wanted to ask someone for help but I didn’t know how. That might sound silly but I genuinely just didn’t have the vocabulary. I didn’t know who to go to, I felt if I told anyone what was going on inside my head they would think I was insane and lock me up.
When we need help, it shows up. Not necessarily how we think it will. I was introduced to a guy about my age who was struggling with a gambling addiction and I heard that he was finding attending GA meetings really useful. One day not long after my encounter with him I found a leaflet for OA4 and decided that it wouldn’t hurt to go to one meeting. I went to my first meeting alone and sat at the back. I didn’t speak to anyone or join in, I just listened. I genuinely felt that my weight and size were the root of all my problems. I felt sure that if I could just control myself more I would be a better person. I also knew that something that felt so bad couldn’t be the answer. Attending OA was great for me at that time. It gave me a structure, it gave me the words to begin to share what I was going through and it allowed me to see that I wasn’t alone.
I also saw how OA and all the Anonymous meetings were often used by addicts as a replacement for their addiction. I didn’t feel that I had an addiction, and I certainly didn’t want attending meetings to become a part of my identity. I was lucky; I also had a great group of housemates. The four of us all started out at university in shitty accommodation and by chance in our first term we found each other and decided to get a house together. They were fun and kind and supportive
