Help

When I first sought help for anorexia in 2012, my priority was surface level; doing it for the sake of others, I wanted to appear ok, and quick. I did not lose weight to gain attention - that was the worst part - ironically, knowing I was being talked about only made me feel more insecure. Initially I wanted to lose weight because I had put some on during the first six months of living like a Fresher at University, and it felt like the right and only thing to do to make me feel good in my body when I no longer did. It went deeper than this, though, the more weight I shed; not that I knew what was ‘wrong’ with me at the time. Anxiety was not a word - nor does it cover the magnitude of the feeling. I could barely get my head around what was happening; always a bit on edge, I was not ok but was not sure why; I had no appetite and was insistent in maintaining my new size, and I did not want to be a burden by talking about nothing. Being visibly underweight is not the best pre-drinks chat-up line, surprisingly - and unless you had a ‘problem’, going to therapy was something you just did not do.

In 2019, I was out of my depth and needed help. Running a business threw my life out of control and me feeling inferior once again manifested itself in an eating disorder as a way of trying to reclaim it. My diary entries show as much: “Think I’ve got orthorexia”. No sh*t Sherlock. I am literally binging on nut butter to subdue my cravings for anything else sweet, and brainwashing myself to believe it is working. I knew I was trapped, how I felt nervous about situations that jeopardised my food and exercise routine; I developed a lump in my throat thinking about what would happen if I exercised less than x amount of days per week; restricted by my own beliefs about how I look and the impression this made on others. It scared me that I could live like this forever, in my head more than reality, not really living the life I want - in pause ‘until’ I got to a certain level of self-acceptance. Longing to be the girl in the coffee shop, not on the outside looking in with envy (whilst denying my craving for coffee and cake).

Taking myself back to therapy was my turning point. I appreciate this method is not for everyone, and having access to it is a privilege. Unbeknownst to me at the time, regardless of having done it once before, it is also really hard. Not just an hour long conversation spent talking about myself (sure, how hard can that be?). What should be advertised is, you have to be willing to take yourself on; to break habits and know that it is going to feel sh*t, physically, mentally, for days, months, years after starting the process. It consistently forced me to overthink, analyse and challenge everything I do; at times getting angry at my therapist because simply I could not. Purposefully withholding the truth - lying and hiding, worryingly, is the easy part. Sometimes I just wanted to have a day without leaving my comfort zone, or having to explain why I was afraid to - or feeling judged for not having the courage to try. A lot of the time I felt ashamed and disheartened, like I was letting us both down for not trying harder. Harder still to feel sorry for myself; I am hard on myself because all choices are my own and the only one standing in the way of progress is me. Choosing instead to not take the risk (and skip the gym), to not eat what I really want (pizza), getting so caught up in future unknowns that I end up staying still, stuck, (unsatisfied) and sad. Worrying to myself about who I am going to be on the other side of recovery, surely it can and will only equal weight gain. For it to be noticed, for me to be criticised as a result of it - and fall straight into the category of unlovable; disapproved of by everyone I know and meet - everything in my nature has been built around strict protective mechanisms to ensure I never find out. Fortunately, this is not an advert for therapy. An hour long conversation spent talking about myself - sure, how hard can it be?

There should be a dating app for therapists. In the space of one month, I went to two initial meetings and had two introductory phone calls. Four hours of me explaining my most vulnerable insecurities (again, again, and then again); words I have never said out loud let alone to a complete stranger. After the first two I nearly gave up; it may not sound like a lot of time but exposing my dark side - that a strawberry yoghurt holds more power over me is absurd, that I know I will hate myself if I have some (so I refuse), all because I fear the repercussions (cellulite) and becoming ‘unattractive’ - to confess with no promise of being fixed, or ever finding a remedy, is more disparaging than thinking, f**k it, I have lived with an eating disorder for this long, what is another month (year) or two! (Although I kept this proclamation to myself for obvious reasons). The therapist I eventually saw for over 18 months, initially, I had no desire to work with. Regardless of her being recommended to me, twice, on two separate occasions, the image I saw of her online intimidated me. Unfair judgement, given my own reasons for seeking help; I could not help but think she looked strict, like a teacher on the brink of telling me off. Given the secrets I was about to reveal, I did not want to take my chances.

I persevered because I could not focus on anything else. Stuck in a constant loop, for me food and exercise was all I thought about. I could not even permit myself the brain space and energy food provides - I fed myself so little because that is how little I thought of myself, like food was something I was not worthy of; in no circumstance did I think I deserved any more. But also I knew I should not want to see every bone in my body, I knew I should not enjoy feeling the hollowness of my ribcage, I knew I was not ‘fat’ when my body fat showed under 10% (and still I checked, weekly), and I knew I should not feel good about my life, positive - like myself more as a result of seeing a photo or stealing a glance of my reflection in a shop window. Admiring my tight and toned muscles, seeing my arm definition - and look at that six-pack! Keep it up! Eventually I knew if I did not try and recover with the help of a professional, my eating disorder would take everything from me. But I was addicted. Controlling my body in a society that simultaneously advises and celebrates the rules and restrictions I was abiding to is addictive. A constant rush of validation that I lacked with NB - like I am doing the ‘right’ thing - the only form of validation I knew I could rely on for an instant hit of dopamine. And it worked - until it did not. A high as intoxicating as its low, and I was left feeling just as anxious, lost, afraid, and with even lower self-esteem. Topics that fall outside any friendship-grade. It is all fine and dandy to laugh about dating fails and work troubles, dropping into a friendly conversation that I went home and pinched my leg fat to justify why I am single and alone at the end of every night is probably not the conversation my friends were expecting, or wanting.