As I sit here now at my milk bottle white (though slightly coffee stained). Desk at university, I can’t help but get imposter syndrome. Imposter syndrome because this time five years ago I was told I was going to die. I would never fulfil my dream of going to university, never drive, never have children, never cook, never go out alone, never enjoy anything ever again. Yet here I am, and I want to talk about it. I want to talk about the devil on my shoulder, anorexia nervosa.
I hate her. She took my teenage years from me, some of the supposed “best years of your life”. And I now think that it’s important to warn every young person that she is a demon, the worst baddie in any life story, ever. I wouldn’t wish her presence upon my worst enemy. Anorexia nervosa has the highest mortality rate of any psychiatric disorder. I am lucky enough to have made it out of her chains, just in time.
I was successful. Until I was freezing, crying, screaming and dramatically collapsing on the polished concrete floor in the local Lidl
I started exercising in my bedroom at first, with the occasional YouTube dance workout or Chloe Ting ab session. I had never been an overly active or sporty kid, but I did feel extremely isolated, unkempt and lazy – stuck inside the house all day, every day. I have always been somewhat of a social butterfly, so I found keeping in touch with classmates and friends via social media very difficult – and very toxic. We slowly started to compare our routines, compare our lives, compare our bodies, by posting them ALL over social media. Everyone seemed to be getting better at something, improving themselves somehow. I thought that I was doing this too. Until I knew I wasn’t.
I became obsessed with the number on the scales, trying my best to lose as much of myself as possible. It was something to focus on, something to distract myself, and I soon discovered that it was something I was really, really good at. Quickly my odd behaviours and baggier clothes became the topic of conversation, the words on everyone’s lips were “she’s nothing but skin and bone”, which only fuelled me more. I was successful. Until I was freezing, crying, screaming and dramatically collapsing on the polished concrete floor in the local Lidl.
My world very quickly came crushing down on top of me and reality smacked me across the face when my mum took me to the GP, the most upsetting harrowing look plastered across her sleep deprived and tear-stained face. It was that day that my illness was confirmed. It was that day that I was referred to CAMHS, the Child and Adolescent Mental Health Service.
Anorexia made me an awful person
For the next two years, I spent every Wednesday in a tiny lime green vanilla and death scented appointment room. At the time, I hated it. My therapist Lynne was the most unhelpful, unsupportive, unkind person ever. I would tell my friends how much I hated her; I hated everything she did and everything she said and everything she wore. But now I realise that she was not the enemy, she was my biggest supporter. I wish it was appropriate to find her on Facebook and message her, apologise for my attitude and thank her from the bottom of my heart. She was a crutch, not just for me, but for my wonderful family, who I ruined and tore apart in every direction for those nasty years.
Anorexia made me an awful person. I became a compulsive liar, constantly hiding things from my mum, who was trying her best to feed me, to keep me alive, for just a little longer even just to next week. At the beginning, I was working five days per week in evenings in the local corner shop as well as weekends in a hairdressing salon. This was epic for my disorder, as I was never at home, so nobody could watch me or pry or force feed me.
One day all of this stopped, after my mum conducted her daily lunch break check in call, asking if I’d ate my packed lunch. I spun her a web of lies better than Charlotte, telling her it was so delicious and I had enjoyed it “SO much”. I remember spinning the story so well, I had described every element of it, things I really enjoyed and things not so much, but “I still ate them, Mum!”. Little did I know she was on the other side of the staffroom door, tears in eyes as she witnessed me squish and bin the sandwich she had made, open the crisps and tip them in the bin, crush the biscuits in a way that looked like I had eaten them and then open a box from a shelf to destroy and place on top so nobody could see the uneaten tower. She saw it all. By that evening, I was unemployed, having quit both my jobs following the realisation that I couldn’t eat alone. My life was going to shit.
A week later I had left school – doctor’s orders. I could do nothing until I was recovered. The following week my blood pressure was dangerously low, and I had to cancel my upcoming driving lessons. Another week later and I was told that my heart was failing, that I would die soon if I didn’t get a grip.
The month following the dreaded ‘you are dying’ conversation was the worst one. I couldn’t go a day without uncontrollably crying, shouting or screaming. My mum couldn’t go three hours. I was ruining my relationship with her, whilst my dad tried to pick up the pieces in the best way he could. My little brother, twelve or thirteen at the time, was shut in his bedroom, locked into a video game to drown out the noise. I wish I hadn’t put him through that.
Then one day, waking up on a fresh summer’s morning, I felt the sun shine on my face and heard a bird tweet for the first time that year. I realised I had had enough. I’m not sure why I suddenly developed this strength, it might’ve been the secret group chat I found between my mum and my best friends. They would tell her if I’d ate, everything I’d ate, and she’d thank them, with love. They were sixteen. My friends are awesome people. They really are my rock – or maybe I’d just had enough of the dictator and decided to live.
It’s the best decision I have ever made, and probably will ever make, in my lifetime.
I have now recovered and fully escaped from the grasp of my eating disorder. I am studying in my dream city, just a little later than originally planned. And that’s okay. This is not my sob story, it’s my mission to raise awareness, and to stop this killer in its tracks.
If you or someone you know is struggling with an eating disorder, please contact BEAT on 0808 801 0432 or visit their website https://www.beateatingdisorders.org.uk/
