Happily Imperfect. Stacey Solomon

learnt along the way, I can help make life a little easier for you too. This is what makes me happily imperfect. Enjoy!

      STAY POSITIVE

      Labels! Everyone knows the stereotype of an Essex Girl – too much make-up, bleached hair, teetering on sky-high heels. She definitely lacks brains. Such a cliché! I could’ve let it hold me back, but I treasure my roots.

      My accent is my member’s card to my life. All my friends and family speak like me. Fundamentally, we’re all good people with huge hearts, and that’s what matters. My accent makes me approachable, and I’ve started to enjoy my label. I’ve embraced the so-called ‘flaws’ of my accent and working-class roots. Italia Conti might not have wanted me, but The X Factor did, and the way I spoke became an advantage: it made me stand out from the rest, and gave me the ‘wow’ factor when I opened my mouth to sing. I’ll never forget the looks on the judges’ faces. It was the moment my hopes and dreams crystallized, the start of everything. Thank goodness I’m an Essex Girl. Would Simon, Louis, Dannii and Cheryl have noticed me if I wasn’t?

      Look at the labels society may have stuck on you. Do they fit? Do they work for you? Do they define you? Can you own it or them, and make a positive from a negative? I’ve learnt that there’s more scope to impress people when their expectations are low, so set out to surprise them. Take advantage of those expectations and have a bit of fun with them, just like I did. Make peace with your labels – they could end up serving you rather than defining you.

      Use this book to look at what might be going on with you, and identify it as a stereotype, a cliché or a label. It can be as easily shrugged off as embraced. You are you, your utterly unique and amazing self, and that is more than enough.

      CHAPTER 1

       Letter to Me (aged fourteen)

      CHAPTER 2

       The Big A

      It started with prickles of sweat on my hands, then something like an electric current turbo-charged up my arms as I clutched my stuffed cat, Tootsie, and listened to the last words of our bedtime story. My older sister Jemma, who was eight, my brother Matthew, four, and I shared a bedroom. I was only six and, out of nowhere, I was terrified. It was a feeling I’d never had before. Because I was so young I didn’t even have words for what I was experiencing but I recognized fear. My body started to shake. My mind started to whirr. I couldn’t swallow. My breathing felt weird, like I had to think about it instead of just doing it. What was going on? I had to force each breath in, and each one out. I was starting to pant.

      ‘Stacey, are you okay?’ Mum peered into my bunk as she closed the book and started up towards the light switch.

      ‘Don’t leave me! Please don’t go!’ I begged, holding Tootsie even tighter. ‘If I go to sleep I might die. I might never wake up again!’

      I don’t know where those thoughts came from, I just blurted them out.

      Mum looked at me strangely. ‘What are you on about, Stace? Of course you’ll wake up again! You silly girl, you’re just overtired. What you need is a good sleep, young lady.’

      ‘No, Mummy. I’m scared.’ I must have sounded so pitiful!

      At that moment Dad stepped into the bedroom. ‘It’s time for sleep, Stacey,’ he said firmly. ‘Come on, let’s leave them and let them get some rest,’ he said, looking pointedly at Mum. Dad was strict about bedtimes, which now I understand. Back then I would never have dared challenge him, so I stayed in my bed, though each second was agony.

      ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Stacey, I promise you. We’re here and you’re safe. Now go to sleep,’ Mum whispered, leaning over to kiss my forehead.

      Usually she was able to soothe me but not that night. I stared after her as she tiptoed out. I didn’t dare to move, sitting bolt upright in my bed, as Matthew and Jemma snored softly in their bunks close by. Our giant teddy, Sylvester – we called him Sylvia after one of Mum’s friends, thinking it hilariously funny – was beside me. I cuddled up to him, dread filling me right up.

      Every night Jemma and Matthew fell asleep before Mum had finished reading, but it usually took me longer to drop off.

      ‘You’ve got a busy head, that’s what it is, clever girl,’ Mum would say, ruffling my hair proudly. I didn’t feel clever. I just couldn’t switch off my head like my siblings did at bedtime, and I wished I could! Mine was always sparking with thoughts and questions.

      I don’t know why I suddenly developed such a terror of going to sleep and dying. What could have triggered it? No flippin’ idea. I was confused as much as scared, and I really believed in that moment that I’d drown in the blackness of sleep, never to wake up. Dramatic but true. The thought makes me shudder, even today.

      ‘Don’t go! I’ll die if you go!’ I whispered, but the door was shut, the room turned black, and I sat there, wanting to scream but instead panting, my eyes as wide as a rabbit’s in the headlights. My breathing was becoming shallower and faster. I’m going to die … I’m going to die … My head was thumping. My body felt numb as I tried to draw air into my lungs. What if I fall asleep and it’s black for ever?

      The numbness spread from my feet into my legs and passed through my small frame. I felt heavy and even more frightened. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t move. For what seemed like an hour, I sat there, my heart pounding.

      Eventually – perhaps only a minute or so later – the feelings began to subside. I lay down, feeling really sick, my eyes eventually closing, but sleep stayed away.

      That was my first panic attack and it was the start of my lifelong relationship with anxiety, or the Big A, as I call it. It was frightening because I hadn’t a clue what was happening to me. From then on, I dreaded bedtime because I was scared it would come back, and it often did. I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, and go back to being the happy child I was before it struck.

      It’s taken me a long time to make peace with my anxiety, to understand that it’s a natural survival instinct, though I’d be lying if I said I’m totally comfortable with it.

      I still experience panic attacks, though they’re less frequent, and at least I now understand what is going on. I can also be open about my anxiety, which means I can share my experiences and, hopefully, help you guys. Worry isn’t a taboo subject for me. I think the more honest we can be about anxiety attacks, the more we can all feel we’re not alone, that we can talk about it and therefore help others who might feel isolated.

      Anxiety creeps up on me when I hear about the death of a friend’s friend or see something tragic