So how does it feel to be in that limbo of ‘okay’, but not good? In recovery but not ‘recovered’ from Anorexia Nervosa? When nobody can see the struggle because you look well, yet even when you try to explain it or reach out, people turn away. When a world of restriction turns upside down, it becomes a realization that food tastes good, that recovery is worth it, but one does not know how to accept this. Food has been the perceived enemy for so long, the thing that causes the dreaded weight gain. This limbo of recovery provides sudden clarity, that an eating disorder is not about food, weight and shape, but at the same time it is all about food, weight and shape.
Recovery can occur in a variety of ways, it can include one minute of being adamant that one will lose 5kg, but the next decide to eat well, be ‘strong not skinny’. It can include a sudden gorge on all the foods that one has deprived oneself of for so long. It can include this gorge to bring up so much guilt, that one transitions to a diagnosis of bulimia.
I apologize for a more personally written post, but if one person reads it – I hope to feel some relief to finally share my constant whir of thoughts… I am recovering, not recovered.
Every day, I remember lying in that hospital bed, completely confused as to how I got there, but totally aware of my body sinking into the bed. The smell of paper towels, the smell of fortisip supplements staining my mattress and skin as I tried to hide it, the humiliation of shitting myself because I took too many laxatives. An NG thrust through my nose as I screamed and cried. Friends and family visited and left crying, but all I felt was numb. I could not cry, because I didn’t understand. I hadn’t reached my goal weight, so how could I be ill or underweight? The only comfort I felt, was that my heart rate was at 29bpm, I felt like I’d achieved something, in some sick way that I still don’t understand.
The worst memory is seeing my mums face, when she told me I had a month to live if I didn’t accept treatment. That image will never leave my memory, how much I’d hurt her, knowing now the turmoil I put her through. So I was flown to London to an ED inpatient unit. I now cannot stop thinking, how every other weekend she lost her free time off work, to fly to London and take a train to see me just for a few hours. How she lost weight herself because of stress, and how she had no time for herself, yet all I felt at the time was jealously, that I was in a unit to gain weight and she was free to lose weight. How I still returned home and put her through hell, hid food, deceived her, shouted at her, made myself sick in front of her, sat staring blankly as family members cried when I wouldn’t eat, avoided good hygiene, touching toilets in the hope of catching a vomiting bug, all for what? To lose weight. To somehow achieve the unachievable.
The guilt never fades.
Every day I’m so conscious of my body, noticing every jiggle, all the loss of muscle because my weight goes up and down like a yoyo, muscle is the first to go so I never sustain it… constantly comparing myself, never being thin, but not even looking slim because I’ve lost the muscle. Depression sinks in. I just sit or lie in my bed for hours. Even though my bmi remains on the cusp of healthy – I only see the fat I’ve obtained from lack of activity, so I just look a normal size, leaving everyone oblivious and confused by my distress.
Nearly very night for the past 3 months, I have binged and purged. Purged so violently that my throat has not stopped burning, I have grazes on my knuckles from my desperation, burst blood vessels around my eyes, under my tongue and down my cheeks and neck from the straining to get out every last morsel… my teeth are starting to recede as the acidic vomit has worn down my gums. My fingers are stained with smell as I’ve pawed through my vomit just to make sure I’ve purged everything. Further memories are triggered of going into every food shop in a train station, spending over £50 on food because my friend hadn’t turned up, knowing full well I was going to purge it all in the station toilets.
I hate myself every day. Not just for looking the way I do, but for not being strong enough to recover, for having 5 years of my life taken from me and ruled by thoughts and calculations of calories, weight, shape and body.
For what I’ve put my mum through.
I have remained a healthy weight for a large percentage of this time, yet these times have been the worst – because everyone thinks you’re over it, that you’ve come out the other side, but it’s just a hidden demon. A dirty secret that nobody wants to hear, because loving food is normal, but having a life ruled by it’s dictatorship is not. A life where the number on the scale or the reflection in the mirror each morning, is what defines whether a day is good or bad.
Each day, my thoughts are about food, weight, calories and how I look. I wander around food shops the majority of the days, just to look at food I wish I could eat, trying to tell myself I can do it but if I do, I know full well I will throw it up. In the eyes of the unknowing, I am healthy, I look like a normal 20 year old. Yet I cannot concentrate, unless it’s about what I have eaten or what I will eat that day. I cannot shift the memories, I cannot let go. Oh I so want to let go, if only my eating disorder would let me go.