The first memory I have of disordered eating was when I was about 12. My mum had cooked dinner, and we planned to eat it on trays in front of the TV. It was chicken. I cannot remember exactly how I achieved this, but I managed to hide some of my food in the bathroom. After the meal, I disposed of it. That is the first real event I can recall.
After that, it gets a bit hazy. The demons must have taken years to fully grab hold. Suddenly, it was the MySpace and LiveJournal years. I had a secret LiveJournal account under the pseudonym Katie (herwords_kill). The first entry is dated 14th September 2008, but reading the post, it is clear that I was already fully immersed in the disorder.
Day 3 of fast. I finished the fast by having one mouthful of crispy seaweed, two Kettle Chips, and a swig of Frijj milkshake (purged). Funny how even though that's every calorie I've had in three days I still feel disgusting. I plan to eat dinner tomorrow, because I have to. My mother has this crazy idea that I have to cook a meal for the family once a week. This sucks, as it means my fasts can't last more than six days. Am a bit worried about my bulimarexic friend R. She just text me telling me that she's purged dark red blood. I told her to call NHS direct, because they'll tell her if it's a stomach rupture & she needs to go to hospital, and if it gets too heavy, she can just hang up. Man, I really underestimated the power of cigarettes. During the first day of my fast (the hardest) they completely numbed my hunger. Thank heavens for all the chemically goodness.It goes on, that first entry, but that's the crux of it. By this point, I had started smoking (it's an appetite suppressant) and purging (making oneself sick.) It's sad, really.
I continued down that path of self-destruction for years. The aforementioned friend R and I continued "supporting" (read: encouraging disordered behaviours) each other. I got to my lowest weight, 106lb, and spent a lot of time online on "pro-ana" blogs. These blogs were a haven for people like me - they didn't realise they had a problem, or if they did, they had no plans to recover. The blogs told of ways to lose weight and keep it off, how to hide food, and listed goals and calorie counts. I created a book filled with "thinspiration," pictures of skeletal girls, weight loss quotes and mantras, and motivational tips. One of the most memorable pieces of media was an essay entitled "How to be a better anorexic, baby." It became my bible. There was just so much media. Films, blogs, even songs. I consumed it all.
Eventually, I told my parents. I used a line from "Sharing the Secret," a film about a bulimic girl, and told them the same way the main character in the film told her mum. Something along the lines of "I make myself throw up sometimes." Interestingly, while they were shocked, they were not surprised. My dad explained how the bathroom had smelled unusual. (Vomit odour lingers, it would seem.)
As my weight when I told them wasn't in the "cause for concern" bracket, I did not require immediate medical attention. Instead, I got therapy.
I'm fairly sure I only had three therapy sessions in my teen years. One was at my local GP (perhaps referred by the doctor who told me to "just sit down and eat a good meal.") This therapist quit over a voicemail she left on my phone. After that, I was referred to CAMHS (Child & Adolescent Mental Health Services), and with that referral came a brand new therapist. The meetings were held in a dilapidated office-style building, and in my first meeting with the new guy, I confessed my little heart out. The following week, I lost all hope. I went to the appointment and was greeted with a "Hello, uh... Lily," as he read my name from my file. In those few short seconds I felt like he did not even give enough of a shit about me to remind himself of my name before our appointment. I never went back.
After that, I took recovery into my own hands. I didn't do anything tremendous to make it work, but with the support of my parents and my own determination, food stopped taking over my life, and became less and less of a deal until it wasn't at all. (Side note: This process took a very long time. I'm not going in to detail because there was no therapy, no meal plans, no hospitalisations or doctors or anything. Nothing that would be of any value to share.)
Fast forward a few years and I began to hear the whispers again. I started restricting my calorie intake. I began going to the gym. And that is where I met a new friend. She was suffering too. We became gym buddies and fast friends. I During my previous recovery phase, I had developed a fear of knowing my weight. If I had to be weighed, for medical reasons, I would be sure to reiterate that I did not want to know my weight. And even as I began to restrict again, I did not weigh.
Around this time, I moved in with a boyfriend. I stopped going to the gym with my new pal, and we fell out of touch. In love and happy, the disordered thoughts faded again. Then, out of the blue, my gym buddy, S, and I reconnected. Where my food thoughts had tapered, hers hadn't. When we met, I was struck by how emaciated she was. Her organs had begun to fail and she had to drop out of college. She stayed overnight at my place, and as the night drew to a close, she had a bath. She called me in to the bathroom and showed me her naked body. I had never seen anyone so fragile. She asked me if I would massage her before she went to sleep, to keep the blood flowing as best we could. I was alarmed, and jealous. I supported her through the recovery process and was so incredibly proud as she began to do better.
Surprisingly, seeing her like that did not trigger me. In fact, if anything, it made me more resolute to not relapse. She had shown me the bottom, and it was death.
Time passed, and nothing happened. Then, the dark days dawned. Work was bad, and I became very depressed. Not long afterwards, my relationship started to break down. At one point, we had such a severe argument I stayed with a friend for a week. My emotions were clouded, and so I did something I hadn't done in years. I weighed myself. It seems that the bubble of comfort I had been living in had caused my weight to balloon. I stopped eating that day. I didn't eat for a few days, in fact. I just got drunk. A lot.
My boyfriend and I set aside our differences and I returned home. I didn't share my recent food-thoughts with him, but they in no way subsided. They sat, festering in the back of my mind, until finally they were released.
I bought a scale. I kept it hidden in my wardrobe and would sneak it out to weigh myself while my boyfriend slept. I documented my calorie intake and weight. I decided that I would become a vegan in order to further restrict my food groups.
Then, just like that, my relationship was over. I moved back in with my parents and got lost inside my head.
Much of the next few months are entirely blank in my memory. I stopped eating completely. I lost 20lb. I joined communities of like minded, eating disordered folk. I met A at this time. She was suffering, like me. She was a great rock for me during this time. She was my first port of call when I self-harmed. I only wished that she lived closer, as her being on another continent proved infinitely frustrating.
I was also, during this time, providing recovery advice to another friend of mine, who, while away at university had managed to drop down to a meagre 6 stone. The irony of being supportive while actively suffering was not lost on me, and I was plagued with guilt.
S & R were not oblivious to my sudden relapse. We had stayed in touch, but I had not let on about my newest struggles. But they had been tuned in to that station for too long to miss the signs.
From the time I bought the secret scale, a small part of my brain knew that I was relapsing, perhaps to a worse state than I had ever been in. The sensible, rational side of my brain knew that I had a brief window to fight before I was consumed by the disorder entirely.
I made the choice to tell my GP. Even though I'd left the county, I had not told my GP I'd moved. It wasn't with malicious intent - when I moved in with my boyfriend there had been so much else going on that it didn't even cross my mind. I called to book an appointment, but was told that since I'd moved, I couldn't be registered to that surgery any more. I begged them to let me have that final appointment, and then I would change GPs.
The doctor at this surgery was truly lovely. She understood my situation and promised to write me a letter to take with me to my new GP. She did, I read it, and it was accurate.
My new GP was not as empathetic. She received the letter and I went in for an appointment with her. She referred me to the Whiteleaf Centre in Aylesbury for an assessment with an eating disorder specialist.
My appointment with the specialist lasted for a little over 90 minutes. We had a chat about my entire life, my eating habits, and my weight. Ah, my weight. Since my BMI was weight outside of the diagnostic criteria (at the time, my BMI was 20, which is considered medically healthy) I did not 'qualify' for any kind of specialist support. She referred me back to my new GP, who, in turn, never contacted me again.
I took the appointment with the specialist personally. I had gone through the right process for getting help, but since my body did not reflect my disordered mind, I was left to fall.
My disorder took the assessment as "proof" that I was not sick enough. Negative thoughts would tell me that they didn't care. That what I was doing wasn't wrong.
And so just like that, I let it take over my life. I surrendered to it, giving up the fight. I refused to continue reaching out. Not until I was "sick enough." But I knew by then it would be too late - for I would be the puppet, telling those lies to keep my weight loss hidden, inconspicuous.
My BMI dropped to 17. Well, 16.7 at my lowest recording. Honestly, I don't remember much about this time. The brain fog was strong. People started commenting on my weight loss, but didn't know what to say or do, especially since I gave them plausible enough reasons: "It's just the stress of the breakup."
And then, I met my new boyfriend. We'd known each other since school, and had even dated a few times, but as the years passed by, we fell out of touch.
We discussed getting a place as roommates (since we were both so desperate to move out). We found a place, moved in, and started.
The relationship made me happy, and because of this, the disordered thoughts began to cease without realising. However, the emotional damage from the last few years still remained, and as soon as I realised that the thoughts were waning, they came back in full force.
It didn't take him long to realise I had an unusual relationship with food. We had a big fight about it. About my eating. I ended up agreeing to try reaching out to my doctors again.
I registered with a different surgery, and was referred to the Eating Disorder Service in Welwyn Garden City. I'm with them still, working with a therapist through the CBT-E program. I'm currently on week 3. I still restrict. I still engage in very disordered behaviours. I'm still underweight. But I'm trying. I really am trying.
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