Job #2

Living with an eating disorder is a 247 job, that I never applied for. Both a comfort I take pride in and a coping mechanism I curse myself for; the buzz I get from being ‘healthy’ is relentless - I feel smug, to be honest, like I am winning. An addiction that goes to your head. 

An eating disorder is hard to describe because you can not see or hear it, technically I could be making it up (definitely am not). Equally hard to talk about because there is no rationale behind my thinking; however ‘normal’ not eating lunch is to me (#BodyGoals), to any other ‘normal’ person, why would I skip lunch? “You know - the less I eat the less likely I am to gain weight. Not only do I feel good about this but also the smaller I am the greater the chance of being liked by you, right?” Right. Probably will not be seeing them on the next coffee break. (And do not bother asking if I want a biscuit with mine).

I have been conscious of my body since I was nine years old, I have lived with rules from the age of 15. Including at school and University - including the entirety of running NB; when I am lost in thought especially, wondering what I am doing with my life - impatient to progress and yet afraid of not. Like I am wasting my days away investing in a cause that may or may not amount to nothing. I am no more fulfilled and, in my opinion, no further along than weeks, months, years ago, even. That is when the eating disorder voice gets louder; I watch what I eat because I want to look as good as those I perceive as successful to evoke the same response from someone who looks at me. Like I have got my shit together. Body fraud and manipulation in order to try and hide my actual insecurity of failing to live the life I want (Sex and the City) and expected for myself (13 Going on 30). With NB taking the lead role in this narrative, my motto quickly became: Fail in business, succeed elsewhere. I may be achieving nothing - and feel worthless for it - but at least I look good. (Quite the opposite to Live, Laugh, Love).

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Fear of food is similar to having a fear of spiders - it just sounds bizarre and requires a bit more explanation. That moment of panic - when you see the collision; your heart starts racing, bile is rising; you begin to catastrophise all worst case scenarios coming true - I feel the exact same terror when faced with a cheese sandwich. The unease of what will happen on the other side, I do not say this lightly, really, I know how you feel.

Not to call out the elephant in the room, unfortunately for me, we need food to live. I had to get comfortable with a way of eating that made me feel calm and collected; there is no going cold turkey; eating ‘clean’ became just as much of a safe haven as it did a life-line. Do this one thing and, regardless of how insecure I feel today, I am going to be ok. Gradually pasta became red lentil and chickpea fusilli, courgetti accompanied bolognese. Gluten was gone, sugar is the enemy. Once I gave up fruit entirely - and I only swapped my usual raw-and-organic-date-infused-dark-cacao-bars for ‘normal’ chocolate, willingly, for the first time probably in 2020. I remember sitting on the sofa in a staring contest with a Malteaster, deliberating whether or not I should eat it (but can I?).

I exhaust myself thinking about every morsel of food that goes into my body. Or worrying about being hungry in the afternoon, and how I will get stuff done, because I know I do not want to eat after breakfast and before dinner; I annoy myself in the moment of planning it. If I could have it my way, nothing ‘unprocessed’, uncooked by me, would enter my mouth. Some foods I avoid entirely to protect myself from the panic I feel from even the consideration to eat it; I would rather go hungry than eat something I do not want or like the look of; if I have to (if I fail to prioritise the time), I can run on empty, literally and figuratively. On the rare occasion I do go out for a meal, I make a pact to go to the gym the next day - no compassion for if I do not want to - days off are not to be thrown around carelessly. Although if I feel particularly anxious about eating out, I simply make up an excuse to not go. Missing out on social events is nothing compared to the fear I feel, the idea of ‘unnecessary’ ‘indulging’, and weight gain, the thought of ruining my fitness regime puts me off. Always justifying this decision by throwing in a ‘health’ claim: “you may have not had the burger or Gü pudding you wanted but how great do you feel for having home-cooked miso brown rice instead?” That feeling is like a drug (not that I would know). Until I am at home, alone, not wanting to be on my own but not wanting to make plans if I can avoid it. Swapping selfies at the bar for on the sofa whilst reassuring myself that dunking pecans into nut butter whilst watching a film (and writing about it) is time so much better spent.

Feeling guilty is particularly hard to sit with. I can make a decision about food and regret it almost instantly, consumed by it until I find out if I was right to, and more frequently than I would like to admit. Once I thought my friend’s flat white looked creamier, visually more appealing than mine; the whole time I wondered if she had mine - with the barista’s limited edition blend and oat milk, ofc - and if it tasted better. (Our conversation on the other hand, no idea). Overthinking is painful; so much time has been wasted, lost on reliving the scenes; I drive myself mad, all because this one ‘treat' I permitted was not as good as I imagined or hoped. When any food or drink appears flawed, when it fails to be perfect, my head spirals. I dissect the memory, I stalk the café’s Instagram excessively and beat myself up for not picking the tiffin instead of the cookie (still to date I can tell you where I was exactly and which two cafés I was torn between). You could say next time… there is no next time. Right now nothing matters but my responsibility to make sure this sacred act of going off my safe-food list - undoing all my hard work (and instantly, impossibly, gaining cellulite) - is worth it. 

I wish I could say friends and family override the worry I feel but they do not even come into the mix. I am inspired, in awe of them, most of the time, but breaking rules feels more dangerous than rewarding. Sometimes a catch up is just as much about them as it is about the novelty of eating (bread) out for brunch. Except if it is not a café I know for certain makes a good mocha, regardless of how much I want one - I do not want to spend another evening lost to remorse and regret. (Play it safe and go with a cortado. Play. It. Safe). Compensating is so much easier than compromising. At a friend’s birthday picnic, for example, I pretended I felt unwell, had a tummy ache; really I ate beforehand to stop me from eating the spread of baguette, and cheese, and prosecco, and shop-bought-hummus, anything ‘unhealthy’ to lead me into temptation. Same again in 2017. In advance of trying an up-and-coming ice cream bar, I bought Pret’s boiled eggs and avocado pot for breakfast. Low sugar, tick, nothing processed, tick, satisfying, debatable. (Ironically the ice cream café was closed, not that I complained). 

Dating is a whole new ballgame. I have profound admiration and absolutely no idea how anyone with an eating disorder does it. (It is actually not you, it is definitely me). Alcohol triggers me massively. However much I might want a glass of red wine, almost veering on craving… No. One Negroni is unnerving, two, and the sugar content has undone my gym session; I will make up for it tomorrow - and no drinking for at least a week. Two nights in a row, fat chance (sorry). Eyes on the prize: Better body, better for it. In the past I have tried coffee dates, walking dates, cinema dates, brunch dates, I have turned up to lunch to not eat, and for drinks to not drink (sparkling water on both occasions, please). And if I were to be asked out on a spontaneous night out, I would probably decline. I need at least one day to prepare and psych myself up (figures). Then they ask me the inevitable, “so why are you single?” (red-flag number one). How long have you got?

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As well as convincing myself that I dislike certain foods - pastry, doughnuts, crisps - they no longer sound appealing when, like a cigarette pack, all I see is dimpled skin. I am convinced I am bigger than I am. Body dysmorphia is like wearing constant cellulite goggles. Self-analysis and body checking - and trying on old clothes to see if they fit me still - is excruciating. Standing in front of the mirror for no other reason than to pick, pinch and pull apart my limbs. Measuring myself against other women, mostly complete randomers who to me look like they have it all. I am embarrassed by how many photos I must have taken and deleted on my phone for self-assurance. I am sad that I can tell you (and show you, if you want) every little thing about my body that I believe makes me ugly. Nobody is telling me the contrary, that there is nothing at all wrong with me; of course I am never toned enough, small enough, thin enough, pretty enough, or working out enough to achieve these goals. With my less than chiselled stomach, lack of thigh gap, lumps of cellulite - single because of it - I know I am not fooling anyone; I am not trying to prove I am better than anyone else. For a split second I want to prove to myself that I am better than I believe I am, more attractive than the image construed in my head. Contradictingly the kinder and more forgiving I will be to myself. Look at that smooth skin! You are fine!

My ability to be so cruel surprises me. As the cliché goes, I never would ever talk to a friend or loved one the way I talk to myself. Why do it to myself then, you may be wondering, just stop (good one). I wish it was that easy; I can’t. The pull of an eating disorder is more powerful than me, like going to the toilet when your bladder is full - my natural reaction is to listen and act. Letting it down makes me feel sick. I can feel my cellulite flare up at the thought, a physical ache as though someone has prodded my skin and left a permanent mark (which I will go home and check). Not even a doctor can stop me. Not even the specialist(s) who are trying to tell me to eat more and exercise less (“you should try yoga”) - I literally do not have enough body fat to produce sufficient oestrogen - no wonder I have lost my period for ten years. Regardless of the facts, soz not soz doc, my eating disorder and I know best (f**k yoga).

I resent how much you can get away with an eating disorder, I hate how much I lied to protect mine. I rarely say the label out loud, let alone speak of my experience, I avoid the shame if I can. Perhaps because we all have habits of our own - behaviour so normal it is dangerous, it is not worth questioning; refuse to treat it as a problem and eventually it no longer is one. Not knowing is what scares me the most; sometimes I am tempted to rant as a way of calling it out: Disordered thoughts. Restriction. Rules. Compulsive exercise. Fatphobia. There - thank you, finally - do you feel the instant power you have gained from realising diet culture’s effects? The hardest bit is feeling like if I challenge it I am going to lose my own reputation and shield; nobody knows what you cannot see, and nobody can help you unless you let them in to your calculating mindset. A secret I swore to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.

Most of all I hate that I continue to put my eating disorder first because the idea of being seen as anything less than attractive makes me want to not eat, work it off or simply not be seen at all, not even in photos. Less of a negotiation - I want to follow the rules because if only for one day, hour, minute, even, I feel good about myself - happy about something I am doing - praised for my efforts which are lost on NB - that makes it worth it. To fail in business is one thing, to fail in my body, I may as well stamp a big scarlet letter F across my chest for everyone to judge me for what I really am. I need all the rewards I can get. And if not having a period sounds like a pretty sweet deal, I can assure you that knowing my conscious mind and actions alone have prevented my body from functioning properly, understanding full well the repercussions - I could not have biological children even if I wanted them, a harsh reality I have shed many tears and had many sleepless nights over - and still not putting my health first or being proactive enough to change my ways, impact my future, if I am being dramatic. Let’s just say I have never wanted to bloat and bleed so much.