Grief

Nobody can prepare you for the grief that comes with an eating disorder. Time lost to not eating or drinking or doing what I want to, most of the time; spending more time going over every inch of detail and driving myself crazy if what I had was not exactly what I wanted. I grieve the uneaten cookies and cakes, the Pret Tuna Baguettes my 17-year-old self used to have Every Single Thursday (oh the envy!) - all of the above that I still do not have as regularly as I would like to. I grieve the choices I hear myself make in the exact moment of wanting one thing and ordering the other, the ‘healthier’ choice; if in doubt putting my body insecurities and fear of weight gain ahead of what I want really. Telling myself I will do better next time because I am mesmerised, captivated, by the person sitting opposite me ordering so casually and care-free, they just looked at the menu and thought, boom/ I like the sound of that, that is what I will have! Like eating out is not a big deal (because actually it is not). And I miss the unmade memories of drunk nights out and dinners I declined out of fear of disrupting my rules and routine. Often finding comfort in knowing a plan is not going to work out - feeling better, relieved, even, for not having to change my way or compensate for it elsewhere. Once leaving a friend’s birthday party early to go home and cry because all I saw was what I do not have, I could feel myself physically shrinking in their presence. With nothing new or noteworthy - or anything I felt proud of - to talk about, I did not feel good enough to stay nor secure in my circumstances to be seen (and “still” single I imagine they wanted to add). I feel guilty, too, for how my behaviour may have affected those around me, my sacrifices were not always just mine to bear. Removing myself from celebrations that were not even about me and yet I only saw me. I am sorry for being selfish, for them, for us, for how it may have altered our relationship because of it.

Grief is a strange one - I have delayed emotions as it is. Sometimes the urge to cry comes as randomly as watching TV, hearing a song on the radio (or writing this chapter) - getting home from seeing friends and suddenly sobbing on the sofa. Not necessarily because I feel sad at that moment - I feel profoundly sorry for myself. Overwhelmed with regret and self-loathing, angry at myself for putting myself in this situation. Feeling so utterly alone and yet unable if not unwilling to get help from anyone, or change my ways sooner and more drastically - still not forcing myself out of my comfort zone to forge a new, better one. How committed I am to the eating disorder infuriates me, and how I cannot seem to let it go. I am so envious of body positivity, I hate how much I hate my body, then I feel negative for being so negative about my body that has done nothing untoward to deserve it; I would never treat someone else’s the way I tried to manipulate mine. Thinking about the past too much makes me sad. Finding and reading my diary entries was a new low, writing off my Sunday to wallow in self-pity. Sometimes I just sit in the feeling; it is what it is; let it piss me off, and hopefully remembering this moment inspires me to not get caught up in it again (she says, again). Losing my period is the hardest grievance. The health repercussions of going so long without one - and me being actively aware of not doing enough to get it back - stirs up a heat and energy in me that keeps me up. I worry about the prolonged damage I may have caused, the advice I should have taken, and the risk I took for not. Although I understand why I did what I did, all of it makes perfect sense. Acceptance and forgiveness does not bring back time. However well I play the victim - as much as I like to shift the blame from me onto something inflicted on me (diet culture) - results come from actions. Accountability hurts because it makes me realise that this is all my doing. There is power in choice, and mine breaks my heart. A gesture as small as touching my thigh to determine whether my cellulite is subtle enough to grant me love (or permission to eat, or have a day off exercise).

The grief I feel for NB is different. It kills me that the products are not where I want them to be, how I punished myself in the interim because they were failing to perform to my standards, in this imaginary play I orchestrated; how high my hopes were only for them to be crushed by my own expectations. To be honest I cause myself so much grief by mulling over what I do not know and can never change. Plagued by ‘what if’ scenarios that may have led me here regardless; naturally I assume NB would be in a better position today if I made smarter decisions then. Part of me wonders how much more I could have achieved had I never developed an eating disorder in the first place. Time gained to spend on my business, rather than getting beach body ready for a holiday that always in the run up feels more consequential than exciting (there is nothing complementary about a free glass of fizz). Secretly I wonder if I use the eating disorder as an excuse. Like, NB may not be stocked in all of the top supermarkets I want but, G, you have an eating disorder, you have had a lot on your plate (or not) - mind the pun - cut yourself some slack!

Grief and loss are synonymous; finding something worth looking for - letting go of an old version of me is bittersweet. The girl I was when I set up NB, who I became with an eating disorder. Significant times of my life I look back on with both fondness and shame. Almost like I am shedding my identity as I know it, losing a part of me that feels like it has been there forever - that probably has been - and full disclaimer, I am not sure I necessarily want to! I wish I had the same go-get attitude as my 20-something-self, if someone asked me to do something for NB I would turn over my whole schedule to do it; I toy with myself about no longer having the same level of motivation and care. Already I feel like my focus has been distracted; ‘until’ I get a better body (in anticipation of meeting someone) and grow a successful business (that might make me rich and attractive enough for pride) - ‘until’ I get to who I want to be - then I can focus on what I see other people doing, and what I want to do, too. Buy the house, get married (well, meet someone first), go on holiday. Of course time waits for no one; by living vicariously through a future me that may never be me - if there is anything to be grateful to my eating disorder for, it forced me to look beyond my perspective and want to expand my own; it made me see what is important in life (and not). I think I had to let this all-in approach run its course before I realised it is not worth the sacrifices. And as my priorities changed it had a knock-on effect on my personal life, my commitment towards NB was bound to change, too.

The main thing is protecting myself from feeling as alone as I did. NB combined with the eating disorder is one hell of a drug, my best friend and enemy; with grief comes acceptance that I cannot have both and expect to be happy. (Except without one or the other I am not sure I know how to be). On reflection, it was stupid to think that beating myself up was going to improve the situation. More demoralising if anything. To turn on the one common denominator - not only NB’s biggest advocate and champion but also the driving force behind it. As in any job role, you would not employ a bully as your boss or co-worker, and yet I did. Because what NB failed to give me, the eating disorder served on a silver platter. Reward so great, psychologically, the temptation to go back for more - it became the best at what I do.