i remember

i remember my daddy telling us mummy had cancer, and her getting angry and took it out on the banana split she was making for me.
i remember mummy buying ridiculous amounts of cath kidston pajamas because she said that she would be 'spending all her time in pjs, so i might as well have nice ones'.
i remember all the lumps which started to grow on my mummy's body.
i remember when mummy told me she only had 3 months to live.
i remember when i would get home from school and mummy would be alseep.
i remember refusing to talk to mummy.
i remember mummy not being able to breathe when she talked.
i remember mummy not dancing with me because she couldn't stand up. 'i can't, darling. im so sorry'.
i remember mummy being sick all over her bed.
i remember when mummy asked me what hymns i thought there should be at her funeral.
i remember mummy saying that she wanted to write us letters, but could not hold the pen.
i remember when i first saw the scabby, bloody lump growing on her head,which made me not want to go near her.
i remember mummy telling us she loved us more than anything in the world.
i remember mummy saying that if she got better, then she was going to buy a house in cornwall.
i remember mummy shouting at us when we didn't tidy the kitchen.
i remember when mummy did not have the energy to talk to me
i remember when mummy could not walk
i remember when they carried mummy to the ambulance on a stretcher
i remember when mummy cried
i remember when mummy could not hug me.
i remember when mummy told me to always try my best
i remember when mummy could not go to the loo by herself
i remember when mummy could not brush her hair.
i remember when mummy said she was sorry for leaving us.
i remember when mummy died.

haven't stuck to the 'plan' and now im freaking out a bit...
fuck i hate evenings. just guna have to use the old anorexic phrase.'you can get it back'.
:/ tomorrow is a new day.

arghh my dad thinks im having a relapse just because apparently i havent been eating as much in the past few days. i am NOT having a relapse. i will NEVERRR go back there. it was fucking shit, and i wouldnt do that again to the people i love. annoying that he doesnt trust me though. after everything ive done, and every effort ive made to get better, there will always be times when its just not good enough. fuck this shit man.

so my grandad died the other day. pretty shit really. he was a total babe - only words which can describe him haha. his mind was totally there, just his body that let him down. still, he was doing exactly what he wanted to be doing right up until he died, it wasnt like he was stuck in a mental home for 5 years. written part of a poem which hopefully i might read at the funeral.
another funeral. YAY.

we all wonder
we all sit and wonder where you've gone
and why you go
why you've closed the door on us
but somewhere distant from this fault filled yet beautiful existance
a door will open
a door will be flung open
and you will run in; his body now longer lets him down
he is young.

we know nothing
we do not know anything
we can just make make assumptions
based on the love we have been handed down from those before us
love to fill the gaps
love can fill the holes in our hearts
love is abstract;
it may be whatever you want
in order to cease the aching in our souls.

its not finished yet.
goodbye

YOU THINK YOU'RE COOLER THAN ME

you got designer shades,
just to hide your face and
you wear them around like
you're cooler than me.
and you never say hey,
or remember my name.
its probably cuz,
you think you're cooler than me.

you got your hot crowd,
shoes on your feet,
and you wear them around,
like they ain't shit.
but you don't know,
the way that you look,
when your steps
make
that
much
noise.

see I got you,
all figured out,
you need everyone's eyes just to feel seen.
girl, your so vain,
you probably think that this song is about you.
don't you? don't you?

YOU AIN'T COOLER THAN ME BITCH.

s.a.d

i hate that i had to do that myself to feel adequate. it makes me so sad that i am this way...

standards are too high; i will never be good enough for myself to accept.
i smoke when i have a sore throat, i eat when im not hungry; i dont eat when i am hungry, i run like theres no tomorrow when i have painful feet and knees. i find a reason to be depressed when i am happy.
man im fucked. fucked fucked fucked.
(hello sophie, my only reader!)
still, im looking forward to seeing my old mayfield girlies tomorrow, should be good. although i don't want to see... her. for several reasons. firstly, she sets me back; makes me feel weak for giving into food. secondly, i have a feeling she does not like me at the moment, possibly bitter, possibly feeling that i am a fraud, or maybe even that i have left her behind. thirdly, i do not think its good for her to see me; as any incentive to recover will be destroyed when she sees how fat i have become.
i JUST WANT TO FEEL HAPPY; more importantly, i want to feel AT PEACE. at motherfucking peace with myself; why cant i accept who i am and how i am? other people manage. why dont i? can;t i be content with what i have been given? some people have it so much fucking worse. I have a fully functioning body; no physical disibilities.. yet, i choose to disable myself by insane self destruction.

i got the most beautiful letter today; one phrase stuck in my mind... I 'actively chose to live'.
yes, yes i did actively choose to live. when i read it, it made me proud and happy. but already the pride is wearing off, and i am left with just the hate i feel so strongly for this body i was given.
i am so blessed, and so lucky.. but my selfish mind will not accept that. it will not accept anything its given.

I AM COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOK!




classic.. watched skins all afternoon and its fucking brilliant. best fucking ending ever. loooooove it
holy fuck im depressed though! hopefully i'll feel better in the morning... Please?

coming back fat

it's really fucking weird breaking up for the christmas holidays a fragile anorexic shell - chronically underweight, and coming back fat. So difficult to know if people have really noticed, or whether it's just me being paranoid and self obsessed? Guess I won't ever really know... just have to keep telling myself that no one really cares. People are so wrapped up in their own lives and problems; me included. If it was someone else I don't know if I would notice.
Okay, so I've put on the weight.. and I am better physically, but it doesn't mean my head isn't stilll fucked. I do sometimes wish people wouldn't assume that I am absolutely fine now. Because I'm not really. Yeah, you can read this and you'll probably think ooohhh shes feeling sorry for herself bla bla bla but maybe I am.. I don't really give a shit. But I do wish sometimes that people would appreciate how much of an achievement it is for me to actually face the world every day. La la la. deep shit man.

yoga

just had my first yoga lesson. It was amazing. I love it... I guess I just want to feel more in tune with my body, so I can feel when it needs nourishment. So that when I'm hungry and know I need food, I will eat, but when I am not hungry, I won't eat. Because I don't need it. Or when my body needs a cigarette to relax, I'll have one.. but when I don't need one, I won't have one. I want to feel like my body is actually attatched to, and working with my head and mind. Rather than complete separation. That does not make any sense, does it? It makes sense to me. Hopefully I'll continue to enjoy it. It reminds me of my mum a lot; I can imagine her doing it. I wish she was here so we could go together. I miss you Mummy.

They all leave me in the end

I feel as though I should apoligize already for that dramatic title; it's very adolescent - feeling sorry for myself type thing.. but if you don't like it, to be honest, you can close this blog right now & fuck off:)
Sophie has gone back to university, Sarah and Lis go tomorrow, and Susie goes on Friday. They are my best friends; my true best friends - who have stayed with me through everything, when others abandoned me when I fucked up my life and body..
I hate them all being so far away; I'm stuck hereeee with the boyyyssss hahah. Still I love my Dad, and Charles is alright I suppose.

You've probably guessed by now that this is not a formal blog at all, because I do formal writing like poetry & shit in my notebook. It's not just that I'm really bad at writing. Sophie recoiled in horror when she saw I hadn't put a capital letter at the beginning of my sentence in the previous post haha. Hello Sophieeeeeee you're probably reading this. wooop.
Oh yeah, and last night I felt really lonely & depressed & wanted to kill myself. BUT I DIDN'T. hahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Goodbye.

ahhh identity criiisis ahaha

had a proper fcking identity crisis earlier hahaa, so i made a list of all the things which i think IS ME. or relates to me in some way. when i read it to my sister she laughed because some of this shit is so random.


alice lavinia harriet reid.
born 29th october 1993, im a smoker, recovering anorexic, have a brother & a sister, my mum died of cancer, i wear a fuckload of makeup, i wear hair extensions, i have dyed blonde hair, naturally have brown hair, i used to have dreadlocks, had blue hair, i love morrissey & the smiths, i love oasis, i love music, i play guitar & sing, i am not a virgin, i think i've been in love, i am very insecure, i have low self esteem, i have a sense of humour, i love my friends, i love my family, i love the colour pink, i can't drive, i love misfits, i like baking, i go to park college, i love yoghurt, i draw & paint, i knit & sew, i love katie price, amy winehouse, bridget bardot & cher lloyd, i like to appear strong & tough, i write poetry, i am sensitive but don't like to show it, i worry a lot, i hate middle class snobs, i am not interested in politics, appearence is important to me, i am stubborn, i have run away twice, i have taken a pregnancy test, nostalgic is my favourite word, i feel guilty a lot, i love attention, im always late for everything, i like routine, i like public transport, i have a good memory, i have very bad depressive episodes, and i have manicly hyper episodes, i love the north, i have a vivid imagination.

eat your heart out

this is my story... although it is incomplete. got loads more to do:)

I just wanted to be thin; I just wanted to be beautiful.

      I thought I had found a way to solve all my problems, letting my new 'friend' anorexia, ‘Ana’, find secure residency amongst the turmoil of my thoughts. She stayed with me throughout it all, never once letting go. What a wonderful time we had together; the one sided relationship lasting for the majority of my 16th year of living.

      Having just spent the last two years of my life having cancer dictate everything in view; my mother eventually passing away on August 12th 2009, you would think that I would have had enough of unhappiness, and dictation of the way I live my life, but no, I let her in. I let this twisted, sick tangle of evil into my head; hammering lies into my brain. Leaving me just a fragile shell. Nothing but a disease. Consumed and defined by it; Anorexia Nervosa.

     

Stubborn, destructive, determined, aggressive, proud, strong, caring; a range of words which have been used to describe me in the past. They seem to sum me up, as I'm sure you have a fairly clear picture of what I am like as a person after seeing that most of those descriptions are in the same vain. They seem to revolve around my strong willed, tenacious nature, a hard-boiled mask for a softer side I revealed only to those I trusted. During the period inwhich anorexia controlled me, the words used to describe me had different connotations; withdrawn, weak, skinny, emaciated, ghostly, and sullen were ones which carved themselves into my skull, ringing in my ears like a toll bell.

       I shunned convention, and got on with my own life; living like a hurricane; swirling my way through the tribulations of everyday life. Life was too slow for me, I wanted more, and more. Nothing ever seemed to be enough for me. I was hungry. Hungry for success and hungry for the future. Little did I know that hunger of a different sort would become such a predominant theme in my life. I can recall many times where I would wish and wish for time to fly, and I would be an adult, living in the adult world; completely free and independent. I hated being held down by society, and I despised the role of the 'child' I was being forced to play. I wanted to burn the script, and tear up the stage directions; I wanted to write my own. I should really say I regret spending my time wishing I was grown up, and independent - because of course now, all I want is someone to care for me, and help me write my future, walking with me every step of the way. But I don't regret it. It would not have been me if I had been content with the way things were. All my shortcomings, faults, strengths and wishes have helped shaped me into the person I am today, and the person I am destined to be. I will not erase my past, neither should you wish to; the secret is learning to accept it, and use it to gain knowledge and empathy for humankind. Feel and relish your connection to the universe, and whatever you do, enjoy the feeling of your beating heart against your chest. The moment you begin to despise the life source within you, is the moment you are in trouble.

For a while the idea of ‘life’ was some sort of abstract concept, which seemed so far away. Of course I did not realise this at the time; I thought I was happy. Anorexia told me I was happy. It was a never-ending cycle of waking up at 3 in the morning, going running and exercising for atleast 60 minutes – fuelled only by energy pills I would take as soon as I woke up. Then attempting to live through the day, running on nothing but my determined spirit not to collapse. I have always been a person who enjoys exercise; I used sport to help me channel my nervous energy and anger, and I enjoyed my running routine for a while. But after a few months my body was beginning to pay the price; overdeveloped muscles in my legs, sprained ankles, callused and sore feet, losing feeling in my arms and sometimes my legs, and terrible neck ache. None of this I ever told my Dad, as I did not want any further reason for him to stop me doing my deadly, extreme routine, which was slowly eating away at me. In the early days; for the majority of the time I was plagued with this intruder in my mind, she would allow me to eat breakfast. This being the only thing I was allowed to eat during the day. It was ‘alright’ though, as I would burn it off during the day, walking around, and any excess I did not manage to burn off, I could always add an extra 10 minutes to my run the next morning. My breakfast consisted of the same thing everyday, which I would prepare after my run at about 5am, in secret, as I was ashamed, and assumed my Dad would think I was being greedy for having breakfast. I would then put it aside and have it a few hours later, so I could enjoy the feeling of hunger and emptiness, coupled with the accentuated weakened feeling in my legs due to my gruelling run. If I stood up and felt like I was going to faint, it was a treat. It seemed the best possible outcome of standing up. I had done well if this occurred, and the feeling I got was my reward. If I did not feel light headed, then I was immediately bombarded with insults and guilt provoking comments, forcing me to prepare a smaller breakfast, and add an extra 100 press ups to my routine.  My breakfast consisted of a sprinkling of muesli, slices of banana and apple and sometimes melon, and 2 spoonfuls of fat free vanilla yoghurt. I would then allow myself a ¼ of a glass of orange juice and as much water as I wanted. I ate it in the same way everyday, always the banana pieces first, then the apple and melon, and finally the raisons from the muesli. I always made it last as long as I could, prolonging the whole experience for sometimes up to 2 hours. I would have a cigarette before it – I had a strange need to ‘bookend’ my meal – having a cigarette before and after my breakfast. I would then eat as slowly as I could, savouring each and every mouthful and taste. I would often read a book whilst I was eating to make it last longer. I ate this in my room, as I could not bear my Dad or anyone else in the family see me eating or watch me, as I thought I could imagine what they were thinking about me. Things like, ‘she is such a fat pig, she’s eating so much,’ or ‘why does she do everything so particularly and eat so slowly, she is such a freak, and a fat one at that’, crossed my mind.

      The morning was my favourite part of the day – not least because it was the only time of day I was ‘allowed’ to eat, but also because it had so much structure, and routine. It did not scare me, because I knew exactly what I was meant to be doing. The rest of the day I would just float through, my emaciated self-only half present. Anorexia had taken my hobbies, my social life and my happiness. I still saw my school friends, but it was not the same. I had no energy to be myself, I was a former shadow of a person, disappointing my friends that I had seemed to forgotten how to be a teenager, let alone how to have fun. So I would just turn up trying to summon the energy to atleast be able to hold a conversation, but it was a struggle. I usually ended up leaving them to shop whilst I went for cigarette after cigarette, then claiming I had to go home early; when in reality, I had no desire to go home, nor did anyone want me at home. I just could not hold myself upright, let alone hold a conversation with these people who I used to be so close to. I retreated into my shell, my fragile anorexic shell, a feeble, flimsy layer of glass; fragmented, broken.

Through the summer, no one really seemed to comment on my new ‘body’ or my new routine, or if they did, I was completely oblivious to it. My family – who were bewildered more then anything I think, allowed me to not eat my dinner – in order to avoid conflict – I would sit with them at the dinner table, and try desperately to keep the conversation going and be as upbeat as possible to prevent any comment coming up as to why I was not eating. I would often insist on doing all the tidying up after the meals, like loading the dish washer and taking their plates, as I thought it distracted them from the fact I was not eating, and it made me seem helpful so my Dad could not be as angry with me. I also had to tidy everything up in the same way, and make sure the table was laid out as neatly as possible; and things were in a fitting position; another OCD part of the anorexia which consumed me. I then dragged myself up to my room, collapsing into bed normally about 7pm to 9pm, preparing myself for my run the following morning. Later on, when I was told that no exercise was allowed, I adjusted my routine – to wake up at 3am for my run, in order to avoid my Dad catching me running. I would creep downstairs and silently open the door, going out into the freezing blackness accompanied by my ipod, my water bottle and my anorexia. I was doing this right up until the day before I decided I was ready to leave my anorexic self behind and recover. Exercise will always be an important aspect of my life, and I cannot wait until I am allowed to begin it again. It’s funny how anorexia can take something you enjoy and turn even that into an obsessive, extreme torture. Of course, I was told I was enjoying it - anorexia told me it was a treat and that I should be grateful. So I listened. And I was grateful.

      I felt so superior to everyone else, not having to rely on food to keep me alive; whilst everyone else had no choice but to eat 3 meals or more a day, I was a superhero, with supernatural powers which meant I could survive without food. I revelled in the contrast and dissimilarity, which set me apart from others around me. It made me special. During my time at college, whilst everyone else would finish their lesson and go to the canteen, I would go to the college gym. I would be there everyday without exception, I got to know the gym staff well; they were always friendly and their comments about exercise being healthy encouraged me further that this was the right thing to be doing. Of course, they had no idea I was so ill, I would certainly not have been allowed to use these facilities if they had known. I would pound my little legs on the treadmill – doing a further 60 minutes of running, in addition to my morning run. It was then time for my next lesson, and I would hobble in, dragging my feet behind me, relishing the loss of feeling in them that I was experiencing. My head would be on the desk for the entirety of the lesson, taking in nothing, as well as isolating myself, and cutting off any chances of making new friends, as who would want to make friends with a girl who does not talk or seem to be alive? Boring.

      Everything was falling to pieces; I had forgotten how to look after myself. I hadn’t showered for months, or washed my hair for weeks, and it was stuck to my scalp with sweat and dirt. Not to mention the fact that great handfuls would fall out whenever I put my hands through it. I had not brushed my teeth or changed my clothes, and my bedroom was a pit of rubbish; cigarette butts and chewing gum stamped into the carpet. The main reason for not showering I suppose was that I just could not bear to look at myself; it made me feel physically sick to see the ‘rolls of fat’ on my body. It scared me. I had no pride and had lost all dignity in the way I looked or felt. I deserved to feel this disgusting. Even today I close my eyes in the shower, as I am not yet strong enough to be able to look at my body and feel proud. One day it will happen though. It will be a liberating moment that I can look forward to.

A common occurrence among anorexics is to excessively weigh themselves; I never did this to begin with; the number on the scales scared me too much, and I could not deal with it. However, towards the end – when I was attending the Priory Outpatient clinic, and the village doctor – I was being weighed constantly, and this prompted interest in what the number on the scales was. So I started to weigh myself at home, atleast twice a day. The number dictated how my day would be – if it had gone down, it would be a good day, but if it had gone up, I would become hysterical; and would most likely end up going to bed for the rest of the day. So there, sometimes even the professionals get it wrong; their obsession with my numerical weight caused me to become obsessed by it as well.

The death of my mum caused us all as a family to have to grow up fast. Sophie went off to university; beginning her life without a mother away from home. I will always admire her for her amazing strength she showed, by continuing her life and taking the big step from leaving home and placing herself in an unfamiliar situation – with the added burden of having just lost her mother. It made me so ashamed that I could not follow her and be strong. Instead I allowed myself to become weaker and weaker; letting an eating disorder control me. My brother Charles – having been incredibly close to our Mum struggled with her death (as we all obviously did). He had counselling for awhile, and conveyed his emotion through talking and crying. He allowed himself to feel the emotion he so desperately needed to express. Whereas I bottled it up, through fear; I hid it in my head, and waited for it to go away. But this small box of secrets and weakness in my head was eventually found by anorexia; forcing me to express my own grief in a dangerous and cowardly way. I envy Charles for the strength he showed in admitting his feelings, and not pushing people away; as I did. This remarkable inner strength I was surrounded by through my families’ behaviours added to my own feelings of shame and self-hatred. I built walls, and pushed people away. Despite all this, we carried on with our lives. What else could we do? The world does not stop for anyone. Things changed; I was forced to grow up, and I embraced it unknowingly. I started smoking – something that may be common in the real world, but to our little country life – my little quaint family and high achieving siblings, it separated me from the others. This made my feelings of isolation more pertinent. Later on, in the depths of my eating disorder, smoking became a way to curb my feelings of hunger – a replacement for food. It also fed the feelings of self-harm, which I so desperately craved. I wanted, I needed to hurt myself in some way. During this time, I also met the first boy I was ‘involved’ with. He lived near me, in my village just up the road, and I adored this newfound independence and attention I was receiving. He came round to my house nearly every night. It started to cause rifts between my Dad and I, and the communication between us was dwindling even further. It pleased me that he did not like it. It made me feel grown up, strong, and I felt like he needed the punishment. In reality, none of us needed punishing, we just needed to communicate and be closer than ever now that we were down to four. It was to this boy that I lost my virginity – my innocence. I did not really think about it much at the time, just grateful for the attention, which I always desperately craved. There were various dramas with pregnancy scares; it provided a distraction for me to forget about the huge hole that had been created in my life from losing my mother. People started to notice me growing up, what with this boy, smoking, clothing, changing my hair colour – and my general ‘style’. This boy became such a huge part of my life, I had not realised how dependent my happiness was on the situation with him, that when it eventually fell through I was completely devastated. My main trigger of unhappiness was the worry that I had pushed my family away in order to accommodate this new ‘friend’ in my life, forgetting what was important, and throwing everything I had into this new relationship. This was something reminiscent in my later relationship with anorexia – pushing my family away to make space for this new ‘friend’. It was during this time I got my first job – I was a waitress at Herstmonceux Castle, which is about a 20-minute walk from my house. I was so excited to have my first job, and loved it to begin with. I felt proud of myself that I was the first person in our family to have a job, and make a small start at financial independence. It made me feel adult, and strong; like I was getting on with my life, instead of ‘wasting my time’ grieving my mother’s death. As time went on, I began to find the work increasingly physically and mentally demanding; as it was fast paced – silver service waitressing at weddings and other functions. I was running on nothing. The hours were quite long, and it was mostly non-stop. It took all my energy just to stand up, let alone running around carrying heavy trays, as well as the extra energy needed to make friends with the people I was working with. As always, I would have my breakfast in the morning, and then just before I walked to work, I would normally have an orange, or an apple to give me the extra energy I so desperately needed to get through the shift. This extra piece of fruit was however not in my ‘routine’, and I would be plagued with guilt throughout my work shift, for allowing myself to eat this piece of fruit. When the shift finished, I would psyche myself up for the walk home, by this time I would be literally shaking with fatigue, and I would have to lie down for five minutes on the way back home, even the times when it was dark and freezing outside. It would take all my strength to get up again, and finish my walk home. I would always collapse into bed when I got home, and sleep through the rest of the evening and the night. Often, I would wake in exactly the same position I was in when I fell asleep; my legs would be swollen with pins and needles, and my arms would have no feeling. My body could not summon enough energy to move even in my sleep. 

      In hindsight, the combination of factors causing me to grow up too fast in such a short space of time made me crave innocence again, longing for the times when our mother was around during our childhood. The body of a child is a body of innocence. No curves, no breasts, no menstruation, generally quite a skinny build. Since I longed for this innocence again, I subconsciously attempted to rewind, and achieve purity and simplicity. So a 16-year-old had the body of a 6-year-old.

In July 2010, as a family we were due to holiday to a quaint little village called Fowey in Cornwall. We had been here before and it held special memories and connections for us as a family. I have memories of my mother saying that if she recovered from the cancer, one of the first things she would do would be to buy a small house in Fowey. She never got the chance to fulfil this dream. I was slightly apprehensive of this holiday however, as I knew my routine would be affected significantly; where would I run? Would my Dad make me eat? Or, more importantly, would my ‘weak’ side give in to all the delicious food which would be on offer? Anorexia planted a firm tree of angst in my head about this holiday, even though normally it would be the highlight of my year; I loved family holidays, and escaping from usual home life. It is about a 5 hour drive down to Exeter, and a further two hours to Fowey, so we had to set off in the early hours of the morning; already my routine had been interfered with, as my alarm was set for even earlier – 2-45am, so I could complete my exercise routine. I then had no time for my usual breakfast, so I altered my plan to include two pieces of fruit later on in the day, instead of one. To give my Dad a break from the drive, we stopped in Totnes – which is where my uncle and aunt live. We got there for lunchtime, and met up with our Aunt and Uncle. Totnes is such a lovely place; it felt wonderfully fresh, and organic, and I had faint memories of visiting when we were all much younger; a twang of nostalgia visited me in that instance. I moved away from my family to light up a cigarette, and when I returned, my Uncle said, ‘Ali, I barely recognise you, your body shape has completely changed, completely.. Have you changed your diet?’ It felt like he was asking more out of interest, than out of parental worry – which was what I was used to, but all the same I felt completely and utterly humiliated, in front of everyone. The anorexic side of me was of course satisfied, and pleased that it had now become noticeable. But it was not enough. It was never enough. My Dad then proceeded to explain the fact that I ‘ran round the tennis court every morning’, which was true, but I do not think he quite knew the extent to which I carried this out. At this point, it was noticeable that I was not eating the usual amount, but in order to avoid conflict and due to general misunderstanding, my Dad had not really spoken to me about the issue. After my Uncle bringing up the issue, I tried to avert the conversation, and kept my head down for the rest of the visit, to avoid attracting any more attention. I did not want to attract my Dad’s attention, as he would make me eat if it was on his mind.

We arrived in Fowey a couple of hours later, and I felt so unwell; incredibly cold, I could not move without my body aching terribly, and my head was burning; whilst my body shivered uncontrollably. It was probably a combination of extreme fatigue, and worry. And of course the eating disorder continuing to affect me. Despite the initial worry about my routine, I soon established a procedure deemed acceptable by Ana. I would go for a 40 minute run – round the windy streets of Fowey, ending up back at our rented house. I would then do my press ups and sit ups before getting ready for the day, and meeting Sophie and my Dad at the breakfast table. I reduced the size of my breakfast, as I knew due to the fact we would be eating together for every single meal this holiday, I would simply not get away with not eating any other meals. So I compromised with anorexia; saying that I would greatly reduce my breakfast, and eat the minimum amount at other meals; like salads, or granolas. Even though I had a new set up, I still began to feel increasing amounts of guilt, which plagued me throughout the day; and attempted to persuade the family to go on lots of long walks to burn off all those ‘calories’ from the salads I’d been eating. I remember lying in the bed one night, and I could not get comfortable because my knee bones were digging into my leg. Every position I moved into I could feel the discomfort of bones digging into me. I remember thinking how much had changed since we had last been here, since I had last been in that bed in Fowey. The last time we were there, I still had a mother, I could order my favourite food on the menu in my favourite pizza restaurant – a place called Red Herring – with incredible ambience, I did not have protruding bones causing me such discomfort, and I would not have even dreamt of wasting my time exercising on holiday. It made me sad. A deep sadness I cannot forget.

People were beginning to get seriously worried with the amount of weight I had lost, and eventually my Dad told me he’d made an appointment with the doctor for me. We both went along, and the doctor assessed me and asked a few questions, but the outcome was fairly inevitable. ‘You are showing all the signs of anorexia. You are anorexic.’ The words rang in my head like a great big church bell, and continued to do so for the next few weeks. I simply could not believe it. I had known something within me had changed, and I knew my eating patterns were disordered. I had even researched about eating disorders on the Internet when I had suspected I had succumbed to it, but for some reason, hearing it from a doctor and actually being diagnosed seemed completely surreal and unbelievable. I experienced intense feelings of denial – but not until later – when I became a patient at the Priory.

Before any of this happened, I was a (fairly) normal teenage girl with things I loved and things I hated. One of the most significant aspects of my life during these years was music. As with so many people of my age, music provided an escape; becoming especially important during the times when my mother was fatally ill. I also played guitar – it kept me alive for awhile during my mother’s illness. It was so important to me, as I was struggling to do well at school at this time, I put all my efforts into my guitar and singing. I usually played for 1 to 2 hours every night when I got home from school. It was my haven, my heaven. Playing to myself, filling my room with the sound I was creating. Making music being one of my most enjoyable pastimes, it was taken from me by anorexia. I started playing my guitar less and less, and listening to music much less frequently than I used to. At times when I would attempt to play my guitar, my arm strummed mechanically at the metal strings; the crass, icy chords bluntly filling my room with sound. My eyes were empty as I played, and my previously powerful singing voice was no more than a rusty whisper, struggling for breath. I had no energy to play with any feeling or power. I felt as though my fingers were lead; losing all sensitivity making my playing rough and heavy. So I stopped. The eating disorder destroying yet another aspect of my little life. The diminishing amount of hobbies and pastimes I had caused me to have to think about other things and find other things to fill my time with. It was not my time anymore though, it was anorexia’s time; anorexia’s life. She filled my mind with food – every single second of the day and night. Whether it be calorie contents of food, recipes for meals, angst about having eaten something not in the plan, dreaming of foods I used to love, or extreme interest in what other people were eating. I would spend hours poring over recipe books we had in the house, just reading them again and again. I would wander around supermarkets, looking at all the millions of food types on the shelves, selecting items and turning them over, looking at the ingredients and fat content. It gave me such intense pleasure that I could do this, without having to buy it and eat it. The pleasure in denying myself something I knew I wanted and needed was so strong and supreme; making me feel contented.

      The doctor referred us to the Priory, and my dad took me up there for my first appointment with a woman called Dr Kenyan, for an initial assessment. I was completely shocked as to the price of this simple procedure - £215 for her to ask me a few questions, and then proceed to tell us what we already knew. It seemed ludicrous to me. The ambience of the place was eerie, a huge boxy building, with Georgian style windows, all painted cream. As it did not specialise in eating disorders specifically, there were patients wandering around with all sorts of mental illnesses. This added to the uneasiness of my Dad and I. Being surrounded by people not of a sound state of mind is unsettling, and makes you feel so cut off from the rest of world. Like everyone who was not deemed respectable by society were locked away on the edge of the world; imprisoned by their own instability and the Priory’s thick white breeze block walls. I wore my baggiest clothing to this initial appointment; which is a symptom of anorexia, although to be honest, I have never particularly found it to be a big part of my response. Looking good is incredibly important to me; such a huge part of my life and where I am at this stage of my life; it is shameful and vain, but my nature is susceptible to weakening to this. So it was fairly unusual for me to be wearing baggy clothing outside my house; if I recall correctly, I think I was just cold that day and needed the extra warmth! I became increasingly defensive throughout the appointment, pulling my legs into my chest creating a physical barrier between Dr Kenyan and myself. She furiously scribbled away on her clipboard, whilst I relayed the nonsensical insanity of my mind, betraying my secrecy oath to anorexia. My Dad was called back into the room, and my head was elsewhere whilst Dr Kenyan firmly dictated that I ‘needed to begin putting weight back on immediately’, ‘begin by drinking a pint of full fat milk every day’. I felt betrayed… the intensely personal information I had just confided was being used against me, and pulled to pieces in order to make me ‘fat’. The blunt nature of what she was saying overwhelmed me a bit; I was not used to it. If only I had known that I had worse to come and that I would get used to the business like manner so many doctors would be adopting.

      Something that would trigger negative anorexic thoughts would be something I call ‘body checking’. When I felt worried, or panicked for some reason or another – or even just absent mindedly, I would ‘check my body’. First I would check that my hand could fit round my wrists easily, and then I would fit my hand around my upper arm – the part between the elbow and the beginning of the shoulder. I would do this more than several times a day. Cheekbones were another one; I would trace my finger along the protruding outline down my hollowed face, and then check my hip bones – check that I could feel them sticking out of my body. The effect of this checking would be to make me relax – it made me breathe and reassured me that I was doing well. It almost had the same effect as taking a drag on cigarette had; making me stop, inhale and exhale slowly; calming me. Later on, I added another checking ritual – clasping my hands together and coiling them around my upper leg. Matchstick body. When I was in the recovery process, I took a lot of willpower to resist checking myself, as I knew it would trigger negative thought patterns. It was a difficult habit to break out of.

      Now that I was under close observation by various doctors and eating disorder specialists, my dad was under strict instruction to make sure I was eating substantial amounts. This is where the serious conflict began; now that I was being forced to eat, my eating disorder was fighting back as much as was possible. I began literally barricading myself in my room as soon as I got home from college; putting chairs against my door in order to stop my Dad being able to enter my room. More techniques ‘Ana’ employed, were to pretend to be asleep when supper was being served, to fake illness to avoid food consumption, to not come home until supper had been cleared away, and to programme my phone to start ringing whilst at the dinner table, avoiding eating the rest of my meal whilst I answered this ‘very important call’. One particularly fraught night, after refusing to come down to the kitchen for supper – not an uncommon occurrence – I verbally abused my father and my brother, before taking the plate of creamy lasagne and slowly tipping the contents onto the tiled floor; a tragic smile creeping its way onto my sunken face. Fury poured from my father’s wide eyes; so intense I could feel the rage radiating out his body, refracting off the walls, filling every inch of the room with hostility and resentment. Tiny, hidden globules of tragedy and helplessness trickled out from his heart under the anger, falling to the floor; unseen and unnoticed. He grabbed my arm and shoved me towards the door, yelling at me to ‘Get out… GO!’ And I laughed. Still too ashamed to cry.

      After having seen Dr Kenyan, she referred us to a psychiatrist at the Priory called Grainne. Same as always, I was very defensive at the first appointment, assuming the enemy position. However, over the next few sessions with her, I grew to like her, and not completely dread the appointments. Again, I had to be weighed each time – increasing the amounts of times I was being weighed to several a week – which I absolutely despised. She herself had the same problem as me when she was younger, and this helped me, as I knew that she could envisage as to how I was feeling; and why I seemed to ‘resisting’ all the help that was being thrown at me. As time went on, I think that Grainne began to realise that what she was saying just was not getting through to me; I had not put on any weight – I remained at a dangerous weight of 40 kg, which is about 6 stone. I had a BMI of roughly 14.5. She continued to attempt to help me; asking me to write food diaries for each day – which I hated, as I always thought I’d eaten far too much, & felt incredibly ashamed when I saw it all written down. I thought that Grainne would be confused as to why I had been referred to her if I was eating so much. However, looking at my food diaries now, it is completely irrational that I thought she would be thinking this. Here are 2 examples of my food diaries:

Food Diary example 1:

Time/place             

9.00am, bedroom  

Hunger level

2/10

Mood

Fed up

Food/drink             

Muesli with ½ a banana ½ an apple

Thoughts

Been to doctor for weight & blood pressure, feel completely fed up of being weighed all the time. Also very guilty as Charles was very upset last night.

Food Diary example 2:

Time/place

8.00am, bedroom

Hunger level

0/10

Mood

Panicky

Food/drink

Muesli, ½ a banana and ½ a peach

Thoughts

Did not sleep last night, still feel ill, stomach bloated.. cried all night. Pissed off & scared.

Time/place

7.30pm, kitchen

hunger level

0/10

mood

ANGRY

Food/drink

Tomato soup and a slice of brown bread WITH MOTHERFUCKING BUTTER ON IT. ARE YOU HAVING A FUCKING LAUGH.

Thoughts

Why do I have to do this, I can’t do it. Feel sick, angry. Started cutting again. AM GOING TO FUCKING KILL MYSELF.

My relationship with my Dad continued to dwindle, and each week I am sure Grainne could sense the growing tension between us. My sessions with Grainne were completely focused on food, and trying to get me to put on weight; talking of eating plans, reasons I should get better, eating rules and looking at my general eating patterns. I was getting so fed up with this, as I knew that I could not begin putting on the weight until someone paid some attention to what was going on in my head. But no one listened to me. Nothing I said seemed to mean anything. I understand now that the main priority was getting me out of the ‘critical’ zone, and making sure this was not going to end up in fatality, before they could start getting to the root of the problem. However, I maintain to this day that the psychological help is just as important as the physical aspect of this illness. I know that I could have possibly recovered more rapidly if someone had paid attention to my psychological issues. I despised the term ‘critical’ – it was commonly used to describe my state, by my Dad, the doctor and Dr Kenyan. I did not understand it, what is critical? What makes someone in a critical condition? I had not yet collapsed; I was still going, so what made it urgent? It used to frustrate me beyond belief. In a way, I needed something to happen, in order to make me realise the seriousness of what was going on. All the while I was ‘okay’ I would carry on with this insane self-destruction.

  It was time for another check up with Dr Kenyan; which I was not looking forward. I absolutely hated going to see her; I found her to be rude, business like and stern. I felt like she was ‘taking us for a ride’ with the amount she charged us just to be told what we already knew; what had been drummed into our heads over and over. The threats began to shower; in the form of admission into a hospital. It seemed pretty unrealistic to me; I assumed it would never actually come to that. I was told that the next appointment with her, I would be assessed and she would make the decision as to whether I was to be admitted. The next few days were an absolute personal hell; one of the lowest points during the whole episode. I could not stand not knowing what lay ahead of me. I just wanted to know what the next few months of my life would involve – they could be so different; either spending my time in hospital, or at home with my family. The feeling was reminiscent of how I felt in the days before my mother died; feeling like I was on hold. I could not continue properly with my life until I knew what was going to happen. So I floated around the house, absently, barely uttering a word to anyone. I spent the majority of my time lying in bed, chain smoking. Curtains closed, and lights out. I was out of touch with living. I did not know what it was anymore. Excuse the cliché.

Finally, my appointment with Dr Kenyan grew closer, and I could hear what my future would be. If I am honest, I had a lot of doubt that I would actually be admitted anywhere, so the words, ‘You have not put on any weight, I have no choice but to put you in hospital’ were quite a shock for me. She then turned to my Dad, saying that I should be on bedrest effective immediately, no more college. ‘Are you having a laugh?!’ I exclaimed, a strange kind of light feeling coming over me; similar to that I had felt at my mother’s funeral. Slightly hysterical – giggling and defensively tough. Bed rest? It seemed completely and utterly irrational to me, had she never seen an ill person before? Because I bloody have, I watched my own mother fade away in her bed; weak from the cancer, which robbed her. That is true illness. Bed rest is justifiable in that instance, but not for this. Not for me… I was fine! Or so my anorexic self told me. Yet another silent car journey home, the words ringing in our ears. Okay, so at least now I knew what was going to happen; even if it was something as unappealing as hospital. Anything had to be better than the limbo I had been in for the past few days. So I began to mentally prepare myself for becoming an inpatient. I thought of the practicalities; what would I need to take with me? How am I going to tell my friends? What shall I do about college work? Needless to say, I had absolutely no intention of obeying Dr Kenyan’s absurd instruction of bedrest, so the next day I got the bus up to see my school friends; thinking it would be the last time I would see them for a considerable amount of time. It felt strange that something was actually being done; after months of nothing happening, just words and abstract ideas floating around, but no real action. As the days went on, and the next week came ever closer, cold dread began to flood me; endless questions piercing my brain about how much weight I would put on, and what people in the hospital would think of me. I knew that seeing other anorexic people would make me feel like I did not qualify being there, as I would be ‘so much bigger and fatter’ than all the others. I voiced these concerns to Grainne, but she reassured me that it was very probable that all the other patients would be thinking the exact same thing. The feelings of denial about my disorder had rooted themselves firmly in my mind over the past few weeks, whilst being seen at the Priory. I do not know what prompted them, as I had not felt this way when I had initially been diagnosed. I just simply could not see what everyone else saw; I looked the same as everyone else, didn’t I? There were people far skinnier than me, and I simply could not comprehend why I was being told I needed to put on weight, it seemed so unfair and unjustified. It made me feel such intense anger, that people were not listening to me, or would not believe when I said that I had friends who were far smaller than me; I wanted to prove to them that it was the truth. I had to. Nothing anyone said could make me change how I saw my body. I had a complete distorted view of the world; I was blind when looking at my body; the word ‘skinny’ never even crossed my mind. Even today, having not fully left anorexia behind, I maintain that I did not look any different to a lot of people; I do not think I looked any skinnier than any the other girls I knew. Maybe one day I will be able to see the truth.

One afternoon after returning home, I walked into the kitchen and saw my Dad standing up by the table. He began to direct words at me about the supposed hospital admission; saying that he had spoken to the village doctor, and the fee for an admission into the hospital the Priory had referred us to was extortionately high. There was absolutely no way we could afford this sort of money without insurance. He was talking too fast, too muddled. I could not understand what he was saying, my mind was struggling to untangle the words being bulleted in my brain. ‘Wait, wait, slow down. I don’t understand..’ I complained as I scraped back a chair and sat down, head in my hands. Eventually, the words became clear in my mind. I was not going into hospital anymore; it was simply impossible – our insurance did not cover anything. It was obvious to me that going into hospital would be a horrid outcome of all of this; yet for some reason, I felt like a bombshell had hit me. I had mentally prepared myself for this admission, and now… now it was not even going to happen. Please, everyone, feel free to mess around with my life, it doesn’t really mean anything after all, don’t worry about me. I felt oddly deflated, whilst relieved. And confused. Always confused. There was a turbine in my head constantly rotating, pushing my thoughts round and round; never ceasing. Never allowing me to rest. I sat there for about an hour, when my friend’s mother arrived to pick me up to take me over to my friend’s house. By the time she arrived, I was practically hysterical. Tears glistening in my eyes, whilst delirious laughter sprouted from my mouth. Laughing at the tragic hilarity of it all. Regrettably, I allowed my mouth to open, and the words came tumbling out; the anger, the confusion. My head retired to my hands in fatigued relief. Between the efforts of my father and my friend’s mother; I was calmed down, and with it, my thoughts slowed down, and stopped spinning. We talked for a while, all three of us. Caroline spoke my language – knowing what to say, and gently and cautiously explained to my father about the guilt I experienced when I ate, as well as the crippling self-consciousness I felt when there were people around me. I noticed my Dad really listening to this, and I felt comforted that I had these two strong people with me, who could look after me forever. Just before it was time to set off to my friend’s house, Caroline tenderly suggested that it might be a good time to have a snack before supper. I said I had a cereal bar in my bag, and both my Dad and Caroline thought this would be good. She asked me if I wanted to eat it in the kitchen, or if I would prefer to eat it in my room, by myself. I had never before been given this choice, and this trust. I knew I would feel so much more comfortable eating it in my room, so I asked if I could go upstairs, and they both said that would be fine. I could see my Dad was surprised by this approach Caroline was using, as he had been told – and learnt, not to trust me with anything. However, I ate the cereal bar. And I enjoyed it.

So hospital was off the cards for a while. It was just a question of continuing with this life. 

I would literally do anything to burn calories at this point; I refused to sit down on the bus, as standing up for the 45 minute journey to college would burn more calories than sitting. I would hold my breath as much as was possible when I was baking any sort of cake, as I did not want to ‘inhale calories’ and put on weight this way. I would also wash my hands obsessively after baking, so as not to accidently get any food on my lips or near my mouth. I got into a routine of baking quite frequently. There were a few weeks where I would return from college on my shortest day – Wednesday, and spend the afternoon looking at recipe books and then baking different types of cakes and treats for my brother and Dad. It satisfied the anorexic part of me, as it allowed me the pleasure of denying myself a treat – which fulfilled the need to punish myself. Due to the deprivation of food, my mind was constantly on anything related to it; so baking allowed me a reason to think about food anyway. I could sense my Dad becoming slightly confused as to why I had suddenly taken up baking; especially as I had stopped eating. I assumed it was because he thought I was being incredibly greedy – even though I was not eating any of it- so I stopped doing it.

 I continued to research ways to lose weight using the internet, taking the tips to the extreme. I would spend hours just sitting there reading information about different types of foods, and exercise facts. ‘Calories in an apple’ became my ‘most searched’ webpage, and I was spending all my money on weight loss tablets and magazines with articles on weight loss in them.    

I have always felt that self-destruction has been an issue for me; I risk sounding like a typical teenager; feeling sorry for myself, but it is all part of my story – you do not have to read it. Reading back through diaries of my younger self at primary school; I realise that depression may have even plagued me back then. I have inserted a few extracts from my diary from the year 2003, so I must have been about 10 years old.

‘I spent the night crying about how crap I am at everything - pretty true! So, as you can tell, I’m feeling really depressed. Help... make me happy.’

'...I felt really depressed again when I realised that I had to get through the next day. I’m scared, really, really scared. I’m asking for help, please be with me, I need you.’

'School is so horrible, sitting on my own, nobody to laugh with, no one to be partners with. I hate it! I kept on crying throughout the day, it’s horrible. I feel so alone. I hate it all so much. I HATE it. I just want to leave. I want everything back as it was. Help me, I hate it.'

These are not the sort of things a young child of 10 years old should be writing about. This self-hatred and self-destructive attitude only intensified as I got older. One night; being forced to eat a bowl of tomato soup, I put the spoon to my furiously chewed lips and swirled the thick red liquid around my mouth before swallowing; tasting the sweetness, consequently causing nausea to begin to plague me. A bread knife lay in front of me; I picked it up and pressed the blade against my skin – so driven with hatred for these strangers who called themselves my family for making me eat this junk. Sweat forming on my face, I forced the blade to pierce my skin; tiny velvet bubbles of blood bursting from the safe duvet of my skin. ‘Daddy DADDY make her stop make her stop PLEASE’, my brother’s cries of panic were a muffled insignificance to me, I barely noticed the scraping of the chair as he ran out the room. I could feel my body absorbing the complete fear and trauma, which he had left in his trail. My mind was shutting down. For me, this self-harm in the form of cutting was not particularly unusual. I had been doing it for years; and although it is a tragic thing, and not a good habit, I maintain that I have never done it to a significantly dangerous level; so to me it was fairly normal. I did not feel shocked at myself. It only occurred to me afterwards that this was probably the first exposure to this sort of self harm that my Dad and brother had experienced; hence the extreme reactions which had been portrayed.

I was anorexia’s puppet; a way for her to exist, so she could project her evil ways onto the world.

I was so confused; a brittle, skeletal hamper of emotion; grief, anger, depression, hunger, fullness, sickened, and hysterically delirious at times. One evening, after having been taken to the doctors to get weighed for what seemed like the a millionth time, the doctor told me I had put on weight. It was dark outside, and pathetic fallacy was playing its part; with the rain hammering on the windows. I felt completely and utterly defeated, so depressed and hopeless like never before. My Dad and I shared a silent car journey home and I went straight up to my room, tears glistening in my eyes. I decided there and then that I had to get away; I could not take any of this anymore. The conflict I was being surrounded by – and creating – was too much; and I thought that running away would solve my problem. 11pm at night, I searched the Internet for a cheap hostel I could stay in for a few nights. I managed to find one in Brighton, which had a spare bed and booked it. I packed a small bag with just my essentials in it and went to bed; my thoughts racing about what the next few days would bring. At this point I did not know if I would be killing myself during this time or not. I told myself that if I felt brave enough, or hopeless enough, then I would do it. I took paracetamol with me just in case. And a gram of weed to let me out my head for awhile. Waking up the next morning, I set off for ‘college’, whispering a vacant goodbye to my Dad, who I assume, suspected nothing – even with the backpack I was carrying. Instead of getting the bus to college, I got off at the station, and got the train to Brighton. Tears were welling up in my eyes as I watched the world whizzing by me on the train. I realised the desperate, hopeless and isolated situation I had put myself in. I began to truly feel that there was no point in anything.. What else is there but routine? And when you take yourself out of a normal routine of living at home surrounded by family and friends, have nothing, do nothing, talk to no one: it all becomes just a desperate wait until the day ends and you can sleep. I was so scared.

The idea during these few days away, was for me to able to ‘detox’ – as I called it – and lose the weight I had somehow managed to gain. So I increased my exercise routine; running around the streets of Brighton; no one to stop me. Each day I was there, I ate 1 apple midday and ½ of a low fat cereal bar in the evening. I felt in complete control of my eating habits again; ironically I was at my most out of control. However, it felt good to cut down my food intake even further; as I had been forced to eat more food at home in the recent weeks. Feeling so weak on this even smaller amount of food, made me feel so much stronger. I had nothing to do during these few days, my head was not functioning properly, and I would feel so vacant at times that there would be no thoughts at all circulating my mind. Blankness. My phone would be constantly ringing, text messages building up rapidly from people who loved me, and just wanted to know I was safe. It broke my heart that I could not answer my phone, and have the strength to face these people. I turned my phone off after that. I cut off my emotions, it was just too hard otherwise. I would wander around Brighton for a few hours, or go and sit on the beach; the biting wind slapping my face in hatred. At about 3-30pm I would go back to the hostel, dragging this little body into bed, taking sleeping pills in order to make sure I could fall asleep. The biggest relief was sleeping. The best painkiller; when you are unconscious. I could feel nothing. Pain free.

 On my second night, as I was just getting into bed to go to sleep, I heard the door open, and a voice, ‘Is Alice Reid here?’. I froze, and slowly turned my aching neck, to see 2 policemen standing there. Caught. They were actually very kind, and did their best to help, and make me feel relaxed. They asked me a few questions as to why I had run away, and said how worried everyone was about me. It all went straight over my head, and they left again; making me promise that I would go home the next day, or at least let my Dad know where I was and that I was safe. Being 16 years old, they were not legally allowed to force me to go home, they could only advise. I felt a strange longing for them not to leave. I felt so alone in that room. Self imposed loneliness and isolation; I had created the barriers myself, so why did I hate it so much? Policemen are the typical symbol of safety; and for those few seconds they were in the room, I felt safe again. The next day I took the train back to Polegate and got the bus up to Mayfield – my secondary school, to stay at my friend’s house that night. I could not face going home that night; although I desperately needed my own bed. I felt like my brain had fallen out somewhere along the way; I could not think, speak, or hold back the tears, which were forming in my eyes. They were not tears of sadness though; they were tears of absolutely nothing. I felt nothing. I could not explain myself; so I just sat there, silently, offering a weak smile when eye contact occurred with someone. I will always be grateful to my friend for letting me stay that night; I was barely human, barely muttering a single word to her or her parents. She had every right to completely ignore the vacuous caverns, which was my body and mind. Despite all this, my routine was not compromised for anything, and I set my alarm for 4am the next morning so I could do my exercising. I tip toed downstairs in these unfamiliar surroundings, and searched around for the door key so I could get outside. To my complete horror I could not find the key for the life of me. I spent about 2 hours looking for it - I was so desperate. I was completely hysterical, feeling trapped and claustrophobic. The insults from Anorexia were beginning to bombard me, ‘not exercising today will make you fucking obese you FAT CUNT’, ‘you will have to make up for missing your exercise routine today by not eating breakfast, and by doubling your exercise tomorrow’. At about 8am I went back upstairs and slipped back into my sleeping bag; the others still fast asleep; knowing nothing of the past few hours.

      Being back at home again, my brain was in baby mode. I followed my Dad around like a poorly puppy who needed attention. I felt ill; ill in my head; peering at everything through stained and grimy glasses. I felt like the world had sent me home with a sick note; under strict instruction to take a break from life. I felt only very simplified thoughts; everything had slowed down in my head. Sometimes I would just sit, and feel very, very empty. Nothing going on in my head. Not even sadness or despair, just a desolate nothingness. I remember my mother telling me a long, long time ago, that ‘Feeling sad is okay. It is when you feel absolutely nothing that you should worry.’ It made no sense at the time; I could not imagine feeling nothing, surely you would not be alive if you felt nothing? That is exactly the problem… I was dead. A walking dead person. I remember sitting on the wet grass in the garden, and just looking at the amber gold leaves lying on the ground; having fallen from the cherry blossom trees. I looked at them, and I looked for a long time. I forgot about everything; my eating disorder, my family, my mother’s death, my friends, my past, my present, myself. I just suddenly felt a huge pull towards the earth – through these dead leaves. I felt a force radiating from the leaves towards the centre of my heart. I hate to sound so melodramatic; you can laugh if you like. It was not some sort of epiphany, or a religious experience, because it was not at this point that I decided to get better. But it restarted my brain; the rusty cogs began slowly turning again.

     

      Time went on, and things stayed the same. I attended my session with Grainne; my Dad explaining to her about my little ‘trip’ to Brighton; but nothing really changed in the way I was treated. It was still all focused on food consumption and my weight. It was still the same. An ‘off the scale’ BMI of about 14.5.  I began to grow incredibly tired of the conflict, and some nights I simply could not face starting an intense argument with my Dad over food; so occasionally, I would ‘give in’, and eat a tiny dinner. I would spend the night paying the price; crying, and promising anorexia that I could make it up to her by doubling my exercise regime the next morning. It made me incredibly angry that everyone could see how much pain I was being put through when I was forced to eat, yet they all insisted I had to do it. Why did everyone want me to be unhappy? The million dollar question which was so inaccurate.

Starving myself had several effects on my personality; not only the obvious lack of energy – deflating myself, but at times it made me hysterically manic. It felt like true insanity – acting as though I was completely ‘off my face’. I remember demonstrating this behaviour on the evening of the 28^th October, the day before my birthday. My brother, Dad and I were sitting at the dinner table; there were the usual conflicts about what I would be eating, and I could feel the mania bubbling up inside me, and I just started talking and talking. Talking about anything which came into my head – the censoring filter had completely disappeared, allowing anything out. I remember my brother and my Dad just sitting there, looking completely bewildered, and fearful as they could not identify this behaviour with anything they had seen before. My senseless words were intertwined with hysterical laughter, asking a lot of trivial, purposeless questions, and sarcasm. The way my Dad was looking at me is a look which sticks in my mind, haunting me. It was one of complete denial; as though he had absolutely no idea who this person was who was sitting at the table with them. He said nothing, trying to ignore the nonsense draining out my mouth. My brother spoke to my Dad as though I was not there, asking what on earth ‘she’ was talking about, this spurred me on more to carry on with the meaningless drivel. But of course, I was not there, the words I was saying were formed out of the dense nothingness in my head. It was just an attempt to fill me with some sort of emotion or feeling of humanity. A ridiculous defence mechanism. As soon as I was alone again, in the confines of my room, I broke down - the out of control mania was replaced by out of control sadness and loneliness. Sad that I had managed to build such a brilliantly strong wall between myself and my family. Barricading myself in. Barricading everyone else out. Just me, and Ana.

It just so happened that this particular incident occurred on the day before my 17^th birthday. I had no idea how to behave on such an occasion. Typically a birthday is a ‘designated fun time’ – where you are expected to be happy due to the cheerful connotations of such a day. I find these times difficult in normal circumstances, let alone in this one; where I had completely abused my family the previous evening. Do I pretend last night did not happen, and be normal and loving? Do I carry on with the behaviour I had been consumed by, and treat it no differently to any other day? Do I acknowledge my faults and apologize for it? Apart from all that, I was not sure how my Dad would be either; was he going to pretend it never happened and spoil me like he usually does on our birthdays? Or would he keep his distance? Unsurprisingly, he chose the latter option. I was not angry with him for doing this, I was an appalling excuse for a human being, and I knew it better than anyone. I never pretended I was any better than that. I tried my best that day to be happy and cheerful, but it was not fooling anyone. I went to Brighton that day with my school friends. My Dad was undecided as to whether he should let me go, suspicious of my claims that I was meeting up with friends. In the end, he decided it was better to let me go, rather than ground me at home, making the atmosphere even worse. So I went, and it was the same as any other day I had had with my friends; my lack lustre persona bringing everyone down. This strange ghost following me around; so real to me, but so imaginary to everyone else. My Dad had told me in the morning that a few people were coming round in the afternoon to see me; the mums’ in our close home group. I accepted this, despite the fact that I knew it would be a sorry, perplexing affair. Awkward attempts at trying to keep the atmosphere upbeat and merry, when really we were all just hiding the same worries and fears. It was not that I did not want to see them, in any other life it would be have my ideal way to end a birthday, but the horribly conscious state I was in, meant I could not cope with social situations. I will never underestimate everyone’s kindness that day; I just simply could not understand why people wanted to see me, when I was so clearly not enjoyable to be around. It was not only me who thought this, I had been told by my Dad, ‘I don’t like being around you at the moment. No one enjoys being around you.’ It was said like a bullet to my heart, even though I knew it better than anyone. Still, it is me, so naturally, I pretended I did not care and that I was of course fully aware of this. The huge, beautifully calorie laden chocolate cake was being cut and handed out, and my Dad instigated a heart breaking moment as he was tucking into his chocolate cake by asking me quietly if I would like a cereal bar. I could feel my heart breaking in two; he was trying so, so hard to help me, and to understand. I did not even understand myself; the old Alice would have laughed in the face of someone who turned down chocolate cake. What had I become? One of those ridiculous girls who actually cares about what other people think of them. A joke. It was one of the more interesting birthdays I’ve had in my life.

 Despite the amounts I was eating were still very, very small, and nowhere near the amounts that Dr Kenyan was insisting I should be eating, I slowly began to feel a slight difference in my head. It was almost as though a light was flickering, on, off. On. Off. One second I would be feeling entirely ‘anorexic thoughts’, and the next, the light would flicker on, and I would feel incredibly ill, and hungry. SO bloody hungry. What was I doing this for again? Why was I starving myself? A moment of clarification. But then it was gone again; as soon as it came, and anorexia answered the question with her sweet smile, ‘so you can be beautiful. You want to be beautiful, don’t you Alice?’.

Towards the end of October, and through November, these ‘light flickers’ were happening more and more frequently. I have never been more scared in my life than these moments. In the moments when I would feel rational, normal thoughts, I would feel so hungry that I would eat – almost binge on anything I had around me; cereal bars, bread sticks, hummus, oat cakes, apricots, yoghurt – they would be consumed quickly, without any thought…until I could feel it all bloating my stomach, and the light flickers off, and suddenly my anorexic self is back – recoiling in horror at the huge abundance of wrappers around me. Evidence of all that I had just devoured. The panic and distress then set in. Hyperventilating, a sweaty forehead, getting uncomfortably hot very quickly, and shouting abuse at myself – all nonsensical insanity. I suppose a small part of me always hoped that someone would find me in this state; maybe hear me crying and come and comfort me, but no one ever walked in. These situations would always occur up in my room, when I was by myself, as I was always incredibly ashamed and mortified that I could be so ridiculously greedy. I created my own isolation, and hated it.  Sometimes it takes the worst thing to happen to make you want to solve it, and for me, it was these moments I was experiencing. I had never been more scared in my life, and the confusion of who to listen to in my head, and what was real and what was a lie was making me experience unbalanced lunacy; it was killing me. I always made sure I would burn off the calories I had consumed with my exercise routine the next morning. One night; the 28^th of November, I had had a particularly bad binge, and was feeling quite depressed and panic ridden. I was in my room alone, as I tended to be during these circumstances. I was crying and shouting at myself uncontrollably. It just so happened that my phone started ringing; it was one of my closest friends who is at university a long way from home. I began the conversation managing to keep my voice steady, but at the question of how I was, I could not hold it in. My voice cracked and the tears came pouring out whilst I tried my best to explain what I was going through. It felt like the floodgates had opened, and the more I tried to explain the easier it became to talk. I had not told anyone about the binge episodes I was experiencing as I was absolutely mortified, and simply could not deal with the humiliation of anyone knowing. My friend was incredible though; her response was nothing like what I had been expecting. The irrational side of my brain told me that people would be shocked and appalled. The reaction I got was that of simple acceptance. I was so scared of the consequences of exposing the truth, but nothing happened. That was it, it was anti climatic; as though I thought that by confiding this information, a huge explosion and domino effect of reaction would occur, but nothing did. It did not matter. I received great empathy from my friend, who talked me through everything I was feeling, and asked me questions; not intrusive questions, but ones which provoked helpful analytical thoughts of my behaviour. The ever so simple words of, ‘Ali, it will be okay’, seemed to go so far; where I had not been able to believe them in the past, they suddenly seemed full of meaning and conviction. Whilst I was calming down, and the previously magnified issues became more irrelevant, I impulsively said, ‘Shall I just do it? Shall I get better?’ I do not know where these words came from; I suppose the recesses of my mind which had been buried for so long. My friend was remarkable in succeeding in doing something which no trained psychiatrist had done; getting me the stage where I was choosing to recover, myself, without any sort of enforcement from her. She told me to ‘give it a go, try one day at a time’. She suggested that instead of doing my usual gruelling morning routine, I could adjust it a little by setting my alarm for a few hours later, and using the time I would be running and exercising, to take care of myself, and give myself a treat; showering, brushing my teeth, painting my nails, and putting on my favourite perfume. Because I had been eating abnormally for so long, I had completely forgotten what was normal and what was a typical eating routine, so I asked her what she ate every day; in great detail. I asked what she would eat if she were to go out for a meal, whether she usually had any pudding, and whether she snacked when she was hungry between meals. I used this information to begin to form a new plan for myself; just a beginning basis to help me return to normality. I then discussed with her what I should eat tomorrow, and we decided on porridge for breakfast, with a mid-morning snack of a cereal bar. Then for lunch I would choose a sandwich at college with a yoghurt and an apple, and a mid-afternoon snack of a flapjack, followed by a supper of whatever my Dad had made – which would usually be something like spaghetti bolognaise, jacket potato, or salmon pasta. Because of my determined nature, and my appetite for a new ‘project’ or challenge, I felt energized, with slight apprehension for the next day. It would have been the first time I would not begin my day with a run for a long, long time, and the change made me unsettled, but also slightly excited. We carried on talking for about an hour, just about how things were going in general, and she said that if I would find it helpful, then I could text her every time I ate something, and she would reply with what she was having for her meal.

Identity is a peculiar concept; I would say that on one hand, I have absolutely no idea who I am, and who I was. Throughout this time, I certainly lost aspects of my identity which made me feel even more lost. Typically, adolescence is the time when most people have some sort of identity crisis, trying to find out ‘who they are’, so I suppose this all coincided with this episode of my life. This accentuated the loss of identity I was feeling. However, on the other hand, there is a part of me who knows exactly who and what I am. This is a very purposeful side of me, the determined side – where I can predict exactly how I would react to certain occurrences. One thing I knew, and something which was a contributor to the resistance I showed to the help people were trying to give me, is that I am an ‘all or nothing’ type of personality. It can be a good thing, as it makes me a very passionate person, and if I believe in something, I will do everything in my power to help it, justify it, or enforce it. The negative aspect of this is that I take things too far, as seen in this instance, where I only wanted to lose a bit of weight. But that was not enough for me, I could not just lose a bit, I had to lose a lot. It was the same with smoking, I could not be social smoker, I had to take up smoking, and smoke a lot.  Because I was so aware of this aspect of myself, I had a true fear that whilst recovering from anorexia, I would go completely the other way, and become overweight. The fact that I realised this was a possibility humiliated me; as I knew it had the potential to happen. So I was careful with who I entrusted this worry of mine with. The reactions I received when I told people this were superficial and unhelpful; I had people laugh in my face. They said it was impossible that that would happen, and that it was just my eating disorder telling me I would become overweight. Looking back on it, I understand that it seemed like just the sort of thing an anorexic girl would say; but I felt like it was a genuine worry of mine; of Alice’s. Not of Ana’s. And no one believed me, so I had to carry this worry by myself.