I consider myself to be a fairly normal person. I have an amazing boyfriend, family and friends. I have a good stable job, a house I have slowly renovated into a home and lots of fulfilling hobbies. Countless reasons to be happy, content and thankful every day. Despite this, I have still spent nearly two decades at war with myself for a reason I am yet to fathom. I have anorexia – three words I have never been able to speak aloud until recently. A relapse has crumbled my ill informed resolution that I was recovered. I believed I was ok because I managed to keep my BMI just above the minimum weight in recent years.
And yes I do know how ridiculous that sounds.
Food and anorexia have a complicated relationship. Those of us unlucky enough to meet them both get dragged along for the tumulus ride until we completely lose our grip on what life was like without their constant fighting and abuse.
Food is part of all our lives. It is unavoidable and it is the reason why eating disorders are so damn hard. There is a reason why recovery from alcoholism and addiction happen with abstinence. This is clearly not an option for me.
At the age of 20 I reached an impasse – keep doing the job I loved or let anorexia destroy me completely. I was severely underweight. I could barely get through a shift without passing out and it was getting impossible to hide how weak and lightheaded I constantly was. But I was convinced I was fine. I had it all under control and anyone who suggested I did not was met with aggression, hostility and pushed away. They were the crazy ones, not me. Then one day, the reality and tragedy of my own self inflicted torture suddenly and unexpectedly became apparent. I was making wedding favours with my best friends and being the thoughtful human she always is, my bestie brought out a cuppa and a bar of chocolate to thank us for our help. Just a small bar of chocolate but I was terrified. I was angry that she thought this was a nice thing to do. For some unknown reason, in that moment, the absolute absurdity of my own behaviour and thinking suddenly slapped me in the face. I could finally see and accept how sick I was and why everyone was so concerned about me. I still don’t understand why it hit me then but that moment marked the start of a long, uphill struggle.
I didn’t eat that chocolate bar. Things were still not good for a long time, but slowly I did gain weight and life got better. I made peace with the damage I had inflicted on my body. I accepted most of it wouldn’t go away. I kept busy, kept pushing myself and convinced myself the Cornish pixie was back in the cage (Harry Potter reference for any of you that was wasted on).
Then lockdown hit and life became impossible. I started running too much and eating less and less. When life started to get better again, I acknowledged I was slipping back into dangerous habits and I stopped running. Go me, great save. I ended up in a controlling, toxic relationship for far longer than I should have, family stress was mounting and work was becoming intolerable. I blamed all this for the reason I was moody, angry and pushing everyone away. Then, unexpectedly I fell in love with the best person I have ever known. Along with the horrifying realisation I was no longer in control of my relationship with food again. I am not convinced I ever really was.
Relapses are their own special kind of hell. This time I knew I was hurting myself and everyone I cared about. I knew I was a nightmare, lashing out and confusing and upsetting those who cared. But only on the quieter days. Most of the time I was oblivious to this because I was too busy screaming at myself that I was not good enough, never would be and didn’t deserve to eat. All while being surrounded by food and people and the expectation to act normal. I was desperate to keep hiding my secret from the world. The constant headaches and exhaustion came back, I stopped sleeping and it started to get impossible to get through the day. My weight was dropping but I couldn’t go back again, I had found something too precious and wonderful to lose. There I was back at that impasse again. So I ate, but not enough. I treated food like painkillers; just enough to take the edge off and struggle on, but not enough to live a full life. Every time I ate my poor body struggled. Gastroparesis and the bloating that goes with it made my determination disintegrate. Panic would set in and the same sorry record keeps repeating.
This time I want to get better for good. I want to live a full life. I don’t fully believe I deserve it yet but I am putting the work in. So I have been honest at long last and admitted those three terrible words – “I have anorexia”. Maybe not always in the bravest way, but still a massive step towards the life I know is waiting. It was the most terrifying decision of my life. I’m not sure what reaction I expected but certainly not the overwhelming acceptance, patience and empathy that I have received. My boyfriend has not ran away, he holds me tighter and makes me feel more complete than I ever thought possible. I am not what my eating disorder makes me, I am so much more. So now I try to tackle the things that scare me head on. The victories might be small but they are significant. The tough days are still there too when that voice is far too loud and overbearing. Recovery is the hardest thing I have ever done but it is slowly getting easier.
So I summarise my own thoughts on recovering from anorexia in the terminology I know best – Harry Potter references. When the last Harry Potter book was released, my mum read the last line joking she would tell me what it was if I didn’t behave. The last line was “All was well”. The irony in the significance of this line is no longer wasted on me. To get to that point “You Know Who” had to be defeated and the war won. In the wise words of Hermione – “fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself”. So for me, no more hiding behind “He Who Must Not Be Named”. It’s time to win the war. I guess my mum has always been trying to tell me something all along. All will be well.
