Eat your Heart Out

I would like to dedicate this story to my Dad, Will Reid; thank you for staying.

Chapter 1

'No matter how insane things become, or how far from the truth we are led by histrionics and lies, the truly, objectively beautiful remains untainted.’

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 During the period in which anorexia controlled me, the words used to describe me had different connotations; withdrawn, weak, skinny, emaciated, ghostly, and sullen were ones which carved themselves into my skull, ringing in my ears like a toll bell.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.

Chapter 2

'I'm just gonna close my eyes, think about my family

And shed a little tear

Leave me go, Jesus

I love you, yeah I love you

Just let me go

I even love the devil

For yes he did me harm

To keep me any longer

'Cos I'm really tired

I'd love to go to sleep and wake up happy'

I suppose any psychologist looking at this case, would be certain that the cause of my eating disorder was the trauma of my mother’s death. Su Reid died on the 12^th August 2009, aged just 46 years old. My mother was one of the most extraordinary people I have ever had the privilege to know in my little life. She was serene, and beautiful; truly beautiful. I have heard endless amounts of stories which convey her beauty, one of my favourite being when she first arrived in East Sussex, and joined the ‘Young Farmers Society’. She turned up in her flashy car, her hair in a long fishtail plait, her make up spotless and exquisitely in tune with the contours of her face. She turned so many heads, and got so much attention from the allure she projected. I remember her scent of ‘Chance’ by Chanel lingering over me as she kissed me goodnight, her long, chestnut curls, tumbling down over her glowing face. It is a cliché; but any room she walked into would instantly light up, and people gravitated towards her warm nature. Her smile had a contagious power, and her eyes would come alive with love and life. However, there are many beautiful and kind people in the world; and I do not believe that this was why she was special. I believe that she was special due to the fact that despite all the hardships she experienced in her life, she still succeeded in being the most loving person I know. My mother became anorexic when she was 15 years old, as far as I know – it was due to the horrific bullying she experienced whilst at a girls grammar school. She always used to say that it was because of her hair; she was made to have short hair, a ‘boy’s haircut’ by her adopted mother and father. This is the reason why she allowed her hair to grow when she was older, and why she was always so accepting and allowing of my various hairstyles that I have experimented with in the past. She never really told me much of her experiences with anorexia, and I now so regret not talking to her properly about it. Hindsight is a great thing. She had to be admitted into hospital for it, and as a consequence, was not able to sit her GCE examinations. This was another insecurity of my mother’s; she always felt that she was not intelligent enough, especially compared with my university educated father. However, I feel that towards the end of her cut short life, she began to realise that actually, she was incredibly intelligent. Both in academic terms – she was incredibly creative and had a natural flair for English, history and art, but also intelligent in knowing the world, and knowing how to create deep connections with people, and project great empathy. I believe that this is something many people are missing today. I wonder how my Mum would have reacted if she had seen me go down the same path as her. I wonder what she would have said to me.

My mum was adopted when she was a baby, and unsurprisingly, this became a predominant issue in her life. I feel that my mum always had a sense of not belonging due to this, and her desperate need for blood relations; true family, led her to love myself, Sophie and Charles with all her heart. I truly believed her when she told us she loved us. It was visible in her eyes; I could almost feel the love and pain radiating from her heart when she was with us. When she was diagnosed with terminal skin cancer, I simply could not understand why she had been chosen to bear this tragic occurrence, why her? She must be the least deserving person to endure this. But then, no one really deserves it.

My mother had been diagnosed with skin cancer earlier in her life; I am not sure of the exact date, but I was young – probably about 5 or 6 years old. All I remember from this is her telling me that she was ‘going shopping’, and then finding out later that she had in fact gone to London to have the operation to remove tumours. Despite the fact that this is an alarming and fearful event, it was a fairly simple procedure of just removing the tumours; it had been caught early. This meant that she had to go for a check-up every so often to make sure there was no chance of it coming back.

One day, after school, we were all eating dinner as a family, (minus Sophie, as she was at boarding school). Things seemed a little tense between my Mum and Dad, but I thought nothing of it, and ungratefully gobbled down the meal that my Mum had lovingly spent hours preparing for me. My brother and I demanded banana splits for pudding, and my Mum obligingly began to make them for us. I cannot recall what triggered the next occurrence, but I must have aggravated her in some way, and suddenly – without warning, she started screaming, and jumping up and down in angry frustration, squirting the bottle of chocolate sauce all around the room. Rich bullets of chocolate were projected all over the walls, and onto the ceiling. Dropping the bottle, she ran out the room, the slam of the back door was heard, and the wheels of her car. A deathly silence followed, and I looked at my Dad in utter confusion and fear, saying ‘Jesus, what’s wrong with her?!’ My Dad had his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes, he looked at me and my brother, and he began to say, ‘We’ve… had some bad news today.’ I stared in anticipation for the next revelation. ‘Mummy and I have been at the doctors today, and there’s a likely chance that…. Well… they think that Mummy has cancer.’

And in typical Alice style, I nodded, and said ‘Oh. Right. Cool’. I smiled, thanked my Dad for the meal, and went up to my room.

Chapter 3

'Maybe I just want to fly

I want to live I don't want to die

Maybe I just want to breath

Maybe I just don't believe

Maybe you're the same as me

We see things they'll never see

You and I are gonna live forever’

The next few days seemed to pass so slowly, as the news still had not been confirmed. However, on the Wednesday, I got sat down and was told, in a more civilised manner – bar chocolate sauce - that my Mum had cancer.

She was given a prognosis of 3 months, but managed to prove all the doctors wrong, by living with the cancer for 2 years longer than they had predicted. During these 2 years, myself and my family experienced some of the most painful and heart breaking moments of our lives.

One of my first memories of when things began to change was when I came home to find my Mum sifting through a huge box of Cath Kidston pyjamas. She looked up at me, holding up a beautifully embroidered dressing gown, laughing, she said to me ‘Well, I’m going to be spending much more time in my pyjamas now, so why not have nice ones?!’

Su Reid was always one for putting on a good show; a good front. She would not walk out the house if she had not spent a good amount of time doing her hair, make up and decided what to wear. When people came round, she would always have prepared a cake and would have the kettle boiling. When answering the phone – even at her very lowest – her voice would instantly be transformed into a bright, warm tone and she would hold a conversation for hours. Her need to try and prove herself to be coping carried right through to the end of her life. She would spend days lying in bed, unable to hold a conversation without being out of breath, but as soon as anyone outside the family came round, she would put on her mask and cater to their every need for a conversation and their need for her company. She did it all for them. In all honesty, it used to anger me greatly when people came to visit, and did this to her. I felt like they were being selfish; doing it for their own enjoyment. They were visiting because they wanted to see her, not because she needed it. I wanted everyone to leave her alone, why could they not see that she needed to rest? Why could they not see that they were making her tired? There was probably some truth in this, but I cannot justify it, I had a distorted vision of what the truth really was. Each day varied so much at the beginning; it was impossible to know what I would be coming home to each day. Some days, it was like there was no cancer in her body. I would come in from school, to find her in the kitchen, preparing supper, or talking on the telephone, and she would greet me with a heart-warming smile and hug – impossible to recoil from. ‘Hello my darling, how was your day?’. Other days were a different story. The days when cancer decided to bind her to the bed; too tired to raise her head to look at me. These days were dark; and made the cancer valid – as though reminding us, and foreshadowing what was to come. However, despite the joy I felt at seeing my Mum out of bed, and feeling energetic, I could not help but feel like a fraud – especially at school. I almost did not want my friends or school teachers to know that she was ‘okay’ that particular day, as it seemed to invalidate my feelings and actions. ‘Why is she acting like that? Her Mum’s fine.’ I was constantly second guessing; always wondering what people were thinking. I also felt like she thought I was not worth the effort – she was trying so hard with other people, why not us? Why not me? It is really just a privilege to know that she was able to be real, and not pretend with us. We were her family.

The first lump I noticed grew on her chest. It made her alien in some way, it disgusted me. I did not want to go near her. The cancer laughed at her beauty, and insisted on compromising by instigating the growth of these lumps everywhere. It was a physical sign, a physical reminder, of the cancer for everyone. Every time I looked at it, it reminded me that this was really happening. This was real life. However, this did not really compare with the final lump which grew on her head, amidst her now thinning hair. It was bloody, and scabby – absolutely horrific, and frightening. She was not my mother anymore, she was just a house for the cancer to develop and grow. I pretended not to notice the growth, but it stopped me going anywhere near her. I did not want to look it; it made me feel so sick. It saddened me that I could be so selfish and aesthetically superficial, but this is just the truth. It is only the truth.

As a family, we were not particularly communicative with one another; myself especially. I felt like it was weak to talk about things, and ask questions. It made me feel strong and invincible when I saw my brother crying and talking to my mum, whilst I just ‘got on’ with my life, ‘not needing’ anyone to help me through it. It is a feeling I have always, and will always crave; the feeling that I am stronger than everyone else, or better than everyone else in some way. It is one of my many faults. In this way, I shunned any help or guidance offered to me; laughing in the face of any sort of counselling. One day when my mum had been transferred to St Wilfred’s Hospice, as a family we were encouraged to attend a therapy session which had been organised for us. I did not refuse to go, I simply laughed and voiced my ridicule before, during and after the event. I adopted a false swagger and air of boastful indifference to endure this. I had planned how to present myself beforehand. It was my defence. I kept repeating to myself, ‘strength is the ability to hide pain’. I truly believed it. It kept me safe from harm, safe from anyone seeing how truly scared I was. Because being scared is being weak. And Alice Reid is not weak. I am not, I swear.

The bottom line was that I did not want her to leave me. I was so confused, why was she being taken from me? I was not strong enough, and I had not had enough time with my mum yet. She was not finished on this earth. It was a question I used to ask myself frequently. ‘Mummy, why are you leaving me?’ I asked her, genuinely befuddled and disconcerted. I remember her answer so clearly, muted through her tears which fell onto my own tear stained cheeks, ‘Darling, I don’t want to. I don’t want to leave you, I wish I could stay with you forever’. I blamed her for leaving us all; as though in some way it was her own doing, her own fault that she had cancer. Shameful isn’t it?

It has however, made me realise that I cannot, and will not ever have children myself. I have realised that I will die young; how can I not – I smoke like there is no tomorrow, my mother died from cancer, and her biological mother before her died from the illness as well. It is inevitable. It is something I have to accept, but bringing my own children into this world would be wrong and immoral. I simply cannot do that to them. I cannot hurt them like I was hurt by losing my Mother. If hurt can be avoided, then it shall be avoided. No one deserves any of what we have had to go through as a family. It will be me, on my own, who will have to go through the cancer. I will not hurt another family.

Chapter 4

And when it rains

Will you always find an escape?

Just running away

From all of the ones who love you

From everything

You made yourself a bed

At the bottom of the blackest hole

And convinced yourself that it's not the reason

You don't see the sun anymore

And how could you do it?

I never saw it coming

I need the ending

So why can't you stay just long enough to explain?

Fowey, in Cornwall was a place our family holidayed to regularly; it is a beautiful, quaint little Cornish village. It held many memories for us a family. My mum once said that if she ever got better then she would buy a house in Fowey for us. Naively, I assumed that this would happen; because my Mum would not actually die, would she? It would not actually happen. That was only the sort of thing that happened on TV; in soap operas. Not in my little life. Naïve.

So we never got that house in Fowey.

In the summer of 2009, for the first time ever, my Dad made the difficult decision of going for a holiday in Fowey without my Mum. He had already booked the holiday, and when it came closer to the time, she decided that she could not come with us, as she was too weak. I was absolutely infuriated, and raging that my Mum ‘did not want’ to be with us. Well, I was outwardly angry, but really I was just hurt. Wounded; like someone had shot me in the heart. How could she do this? I could not shake the thought that she wanted to stay at home so that she could be with her other friends, rather than with us; her family.

So we set off to Cornwall, without my father’s wife, without our mother, without my mummy. We arrived in Exeter – our half way stop to Fowey, when we got a call from a friend of my mother’s, who was looking after her while we were away; keeping her company, giving her the medication she needed, clearing up her sick, and helping her go to the toilet. She told us that Mummy had suddenly gone downhill quite quickly, and was rapidly losing strength. We had to make a decision, go on to Fowey and risk not seeing her again before she died? Or cut short our holiday to go home to see our dying mother who may or may not die. I again declared my indifference as to what we would do; no one needed to know that I was scared and worried. So in the end, we decided to head home again, having not even arrived at our holiday destination. We drove home, each one of us consumed by fear about what we might be driving home to.

Arriving home, each of us went up to see Mummy, to say goodbye I suppose. That is basically what we were told to do, by our Dad, and by my mum’s friend. They told us that they did not know if we would get another chance. I went upstairs with the others, walking into the room which smelled faintly of vomit and air freshener. The first thing I saw was the magnificent, towering four poster bed, which consumed and overpowered everything. Taking a step closer, I noticed a feeble, wasted body cemented onto the dirty bed sheets. Her once glossy, thick mane of hair was now lank, grey and greasy, clinging to her sweaty chest. The lumps seemed larger than ever now. They seemed to team up with the huge bed; achieving in making in my mum look tinier and more insignificant than ever. Her eyes were like slits, barely open, the beautiful hazy grey blue colour now invisible. Her head lolled to one side, mouth slightly open, and saliva dribbling out. It was disgusting. I was disgusted. I think she could feel our presence in the room, but I am not sure if she knew who we were. We all just stood around the bed, not really knowing what to say. How do you say goodbye to someone? I stood there smiling awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. She opened her mouth to say something, and I heard the faint words of ‘I love...you all. So… much…’ escape from her mouth. They were barely audible, but we all heard them. Charles and Sophie moved closer to her, and replied in soothing tones that they loved her too. I smiled. After that it was difficult. I was waiting. We were all waiting, to put it bluntly; for her to die. There was no factual indicator of when it would happen. We just knew it would. Soon. It was like running a really long marathon, where we all knew what the final outcome would be – how it would end, but we did not know when it would end. My life was on hold, what shall I do? It was like insanely strong boredom, to the point of desperation. I ended up going to bed for the majority of the time. I did not really sleep – just drifting in and out of consciousness, shifting around attempting to find a state of peace and comfort. But it did not happen. She did not die, she just faded, slowly. It was so painful. It was like having half a person existing in the house. Not living, just existing. When it was clear that things were still slowly getting worse, yet it was getting more difficult to look after her at home, it was decided that she would be transferred to St Wilfred’s Hospice in Eastbourne. Before my Mum was so ill, she had voiced her preference for her to be taken here if things got too bad for her to stay at home. It seemed a preferable choice to a hospital. However, I was angry and unsupportive of this decision. I was almost suspicious, and distrusting of these people who were coming to take my mummy away. For me, it was almost more difficult than the actual death of her; seeing her being carried out our home on a stretcher, the last time she would be in this house. She was not coming back. I followed the ambulance worker’s out of the house, with bare feet I tip toed out onto the drive to watch her being manhandled into the ambulance. I felt sharp pains searing through my feet, and through my heart. The doors were slammed on her, and off they drove. Goodbye Mummy. See you around.

Chapter 5

‘It's all quiet on mother's day, this life is a fragile thing, so goodbye, my dear old friend'

So the next few weeks were made up of driving to Eastbourne every day to see her, or to see something which resembled someone I used to know. I absolutely loathed it there. I hated it. Everything about it made me seethe with anger. The patronizing nurses, the way it smelt of old people, the hanging baskets outside the door, the nauseating carpets in the corridors, the dying flowers floating in stagnating, yellowing water. Again, I adopted my fake, indifferent swagger to defend myself. We would go and see my Mum, lying in the bed, full of cards and flowers and wires. Most times we visited she would be asleep, sometimes tired out from having been visited by her other friends, and sometimes it was just the cancer laughing at us. She was on heavy medication of morphine, and one particular time I remember her telling us that Harry Potter had cooked her breakfast. That was interesting. I found that rather funny as you can imagine, despite the fact that I was terrified. She was losing her mind. We would mostly just sit there with her, and sometimes try and have a conversation, but it never went anywhere. It was impossible; talking was just too difficult for her. We sometimes went and sat out in the sad, neglected garden which was supposed to provide comfort. It was dull; the colours were muted and muffled, and pathetic fallacy played its part. No dramatic change, just grey, grey, grey. Everywhere, there was just cloud, hiding the sun from us. There was no wind, the trees stood dead still, and there was no movement, except for when I stooped to pick up pine cones to throw over the hedge and onto the road.

I felt protective over my Mother, and when the nurses shooed us out to tend to her, I felt unjustified anger and jealousy, and felt let down that my Mum validated us to be told to go. One day, I remember I was particularly on edge, making no attempt to hide it; I was giving short answers, and shifting around. My Mum sensed it, and turned to my Dad saying, ‘I think Alice needs to go and get some space, and be outside, she shouldn’t have to be here, because I know how difficult she finds it.’ She smiled at me, and squeezed my hand, using all the energy she had. How could I be so selfish? My mum was lying in bed, dying, wasting away, and I was forcing her to continue being a mother to me. Come on. Grow up, grow up, Alice.

I still felt like I was in limbo, this weird, half way stage between living and death. Because she was not really alive was she? It was just a body, with a mind clinging on. The amount of times I wished that she would just die. Just hurry up and kill her. It’s sick isn’t it? Sick. But you react in strange ways when threatened.

So this became our routine for a few weeks. It was emotionally draining, completely wounding, and I would never wish it upon anyone.

I was seeing a friend one day, and she asked me how it all was with my Mum in the hospice. I told her the truth; it was awful, but I said that I was ready for it. I was ready for her to die. I was ready. I had been holding on for too long.

And then it happened.

The next morning, I phoned my Dad to tell him what train I was getting home, and his voice sounded strangely quiet and broken. He said he did not want to tell me over the phone, but that she had, in fact died. She was gone. I told him ‘not to worry’, and to ‘look after yourself’. So I thought it would be a release when it finally happened. But it was more limbo. I got home, and what do I do? What do I do now? Get on with my life? But what is life? What do people do? I went on my computer and tried to pass the time. I decided to go and get some fresh air and I will always remember sitting on the swings in the park, listening to Sally Cinnamon, by the Stone Roses, ‘Rainclouds, oh they used to chase me, join my tears, allay my fears, sent to me from heaven, sally cinnamon, you are my world.’ I wondered why I was not crying, no tears came. I waited, but they never came. Just emptiness. Just desolation; boredom. ‘I wish I were strong but I’m not. I’m the weakest person in the world right now. I feel like this is the end. Is it? Is it the end? Has my mind finally given in. I feel like I’m dying already. And it’s so painful. I just want my Mummy back again. I don’t care what anyone says. But pressure is not the right word. That’s what they say, -you’re under huge amounts of pressure. – Yup, that’s it, when you feel pressured, you cry yourself to sleep every night, wondering when the right time to kill yourself is. Brilliant. You know just how I feel. No one can explain death. No one can tell me why Mummy is dead. There is no explanation for where that little spark of life pisses off to. We just get that overwhelming grief left behind. My head hurts so much. Feels like someone is hitting me with a bat. Do you know what, when I am older, if I don’t kill myself first, I bet I’m going to get cancer. It is the sort of thing the universe would throw at me.’ That was my diary entry from 23^rd of February 2009.

So I had lost control; there was nothing I could have done to prevent it. I had literally no control over what happened, and it angered me. I was powerless. I like to be powerful.

The next hurdle was the funeral. I had never been to a funeral before, and the first would be my own mother’s. I remember Mummy asking me what hymns I thought should be at her funeral. What a question. It was too much. Terrified, I acted indifference. It hurt her; that I did not appear to care. But she knew. She knew the truth all along. She always had some sort of inner strength which allowed her to see beyond all the superficial issues; like she knew something we all did not. I have been told that one day – towards the end, when she was vomiting all over her, there happened to be a feature on the radio about euthanasia, and between the tragic mouthfuls of regurgitation, she managed to say, shaking her head gently, ‘It’s not right. It’s not right. Euthanasia is not the way. This is all happening for a reason.’ If that is not godly insight, then I do not know what is. It is easy to put her up on a pedestal; I know that, now that she is gone. But right now, I see nothing wrong with that. She deserves it.

Chapter 6

‘You probably don't want to hear tomorrow's another day

Well I promise you you'll see the sun again

And you're asking me why pain's the only way to happiness

And I promise you you'll see the sun again

Come on, take my hand

We're going for a walk, I know you can

You can wear anything as long as it's not black

Please don't mourn forever

She's not coming back

And yes they'll ask you where you've been

And you'll have to tell them again and again’

The funeral was arranged for the Wednesday. What a strange day. I am of course ashamed to say that my reaction to this was not unanticipated. I knew I would laugh throughout, I knew I would not cry, I knew I would be cripplingly self-conscious, I knew I would be worrying how I looked the whole way through. It was a given. My Dad was not expecting it though. I felt light, like I was not really there. I was floating above the ground, and it was not really happening. My heart was fluttering, and I could not control my giggles. Attention, attention, attention. That is all I care about. As long as people look at me, then it will be fine. There were so many people there, the church was completely full, all the pews were full and people were standing at the back. Su Reid was someone who was loved by so many people. My eyes were fixated on the coffin which sat about 2 feet away from me, she was in there. My mother was in there, trapped by a thick wooden lid. Probably wearing her beloved Cath Kidston pyjamas. When I was not concentrating on this, I was looking around at everyone else, trying to look like this was not affecting me in any sort of negative way. I was just worrying about what my hair looked like, and who was sitting behind me, and what they were thinking of me. Of course, no one really cared, no one really noticed. That was my social anxiety coming in to play. When it came to the actual burial, I had another issue; everyone else in the family threw a rose onto the coffin as it was lowered down into the ground. I could not. I refused. Do you want to know the reason why? Because I was scared that I would miss the hole in the ground, and the rose would fall onto the ground before it. I doubted my throwing skills. At a time like this, I was thinking about how good I am at throwing? Ridiculous. I made myself laugh, at least.

And after that, it really was it. We had to get on with our lives. There was nothing left to wait for.

Chapter 7

'I don't know you, and I don't want to

Till the moment your eyes open and you know

That it's a lonely place that you have run to

Morning comes and you don't want to know me anymore

And it's a lonely end that you will come to,

Morning comes and you don't want to know me anymore'

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.

Of course, for a while, everyone was there for us. Making cakes, sending cards, flowers, people coming round to see us making sure we were all okay. It fizzled out within a month or two, and it was back to normal. I was ‘fine’, I was in no danger of doing anything stupid which would affect other people, so there was no need to keep a check on me. I was left to get on with it. And that was fine – I seemed absolutely fine, I was doing well at school, I put all my energy into my schoolwork for a while. To be honest, people should have seen the alarm bells when this happened, since when did Alice Reid do her work?! That was a bit out of character for me. I was on a high, after that huge low we all experienced during the illness of my mother, I reacted by being completely fine. I remember wondering why I was okay, and I knew that I had something big coming. I waited for my low. And it came. And it was a big low. Anorexia.

Before the true beginning of the eating disorder episode, something happened which contributed to my pertinent feelings of isolation, and loss of family. I discovered a secret. It was hidden from me, and my brother, and my sister, and my mum’s friends, and everyone. Yet it was me who found it, and lived with it on my own for those few months after my Mum died. We were in Exeter, visiting Sophie, and my Dad was out the room. We were due to be meeting up with Sophie in town, and she had texted my Dad what time to meet her. I had forgotten, so I picked up my Dad’s phone to check when it was. Scrolling through the inbox I saw message after message from a sender ‘Tess’. Who is Tess? My eyes widened and glazed over when I saw the beginnings of the one of messages, ‘missing you so much…’. My eyes were fixated, fingers frozen. I now know the literal meaning of ‘my blood turned cold’, because at that point, my blood had never felt so cold, with my heart beat fluttering faster and faster like a sudden, violent flurry of snow. The door opened, and my brother walked in, I dropped the phone back onto the table and looked up, the creases of my face forcing a smile, before I got up and went outside. I was completely out of it, had what I just seen been real? I had to just be being melodramatic. It could not have been genuine, could it? That does not happen in real life, only on television. After an hour or so of doubting myself and then reaffirming myself, I decided to forget about it, and not let it ruin our mini holiday. I certainly was not going to ask him about it, or tell Sophie or Charles.

So I did. I got on with it, and as far as I can remember, treated my Dad just the same, if a little more distant than usual – but nothing too noticeable. I cursed myself again for ruining the status quo, and bringing the negativity to what would have been a really enjoyable escape to Exeter. However, it would be fine, because I would keep it to myself.

Life went on, nothing really changed, and still I wondered, was it real? What I had seen, was it true? Or was I just so messed up in life that I was imagining stupid things. I confided in my friend at school about the possibility that my Dad had a girlfriend he had told no one about – so soon after my mother’s death – about 3 weeks. She told me that I was being paranoid, and that they could just be friends. I tried to accept what she had said, but it just made me so angry. SO fucking angry. No one ever listened to me anymore, was it really that difficult to believe me? Apparently so. So I just carried on with… living, I suppose it was. I started to notice that whenever I would return from school at 4-30, my Dad would always be out, or just about to go out. He said that he was going to ‘feed the cows’, so I put two and two together and realised that he was actually going out to see her. I checked his phone again to see if the evidence had been real, and it was. For once in my life, I despised being right. So I was living in a broken house; with my brother, my Dad who had moved on from my Mum, and was seeing another woman, who did not know that I knew this. I was absolutely devastated. I cry writing this now; the pain was so raw. I believed that we were going through this tragedy of grief together; we were sharing each other’s pain. It was just the three of us, with Sophie at university – she was somehow experiencing something different – though equally as difficult. We were the three still living in the house though, the house which had all the reminders of her; her clothes still hanging in her wardrobe, her shoes still next to mine from when they had been last worn, her busting Filofax diary sat on the hall table, all her plans gone to waste; now obsolete. The situation we were in brought us together, made the three of us form one, facing the grief united and there for one another. It was so hard, but at least we had each other. So finding out that it was a lie, broke my heart. It broke it more than it had already, shattered into tiny shards which I could not even find anymore. My Dad, who had been up on a pedestal since the death of Mummy, had been knocked off. There was no longer an adult in my life to look after me. I was surrounded my children who were just out for themselves, and I just wanted someone to care for me. How could he do this to her? How could he betray Mummy in such a way? I felt as though I was letting her down too, as my genes dictate the relations between me and my father. I kept apologising to her, over and over again. I would cry to the sky, that I was sorry, I was so sorry. Once the shock had fizzled out, the intense anger I was feeling became more prevalent. It’s been a month. It’s a been a fucking month. So that’s it, is it? She died, now that’s all fucking over, time to move on, forget. It was just a bit of your past, was it – those 20 years you were married to her? Yes, fair enough, I’ve forgotten about her too. We all have, it’s not like she was my fucking mother or anything. I grew distant towards him, and began to outwardly show my anger towards him – there was no apparent reason why I would be angry with him though, as I ‘did not know’ about his little affair. The atmosphere in the house became tense, quiet, and lonely. I was further isolated, when he took more time out the house, and me and Charles were left. Charles ignorant, and myself knowing the truth. Just knowing what was going on, but not being able to say anything as I was bound by conscience and fear.

I lived like this for about a month and a half, not knowing what the right thing to do was. It was so difficult, living with him when he did not know I knew, he seemed too happily oblivious to everything; obviously happily unaware of how I was reacting. When I finally could not handle his blissful happiness anymore, I made the decision to confront him. I was scared. So, so scared. I tried to imagine what my Mum would have thought I should do. I came up with two conclusions. Either, she would have been her usual saintly self, and told me to accept her, and realise that she had done nothing wrong, and be grateful that Dad was happy, or she would have told me to punch the lights out of the bitch. Probably using different wording to how I have just put it. It is almost as if she knew, though, I remember us all sitting at the kitchen table, and her telling us to ‘look after Daddy when I’m gone.’ But I also remember her looking into my Dad’s eye, and talking about how he would be able to move on, and how he would have a new girlfriend as soon as she was gone. I took this as a joke, all of us three did. But she meant it. She knew.

So one evening after dinner, Charles got down from the table and went upstairs, and my Dad began to walk through to the other room. ‘Daddy, wait. There’s something I wanna ask you.’ I said it before I could think about it too much. I began to regret it, what was I going to say next? I had not even planned how I was going to approach it. But it was now or never, and I throw myself into things, by nature. So I said it. I told him that I knew he had been seeing someone, without telling us. I do not really know how I thought he would react, I suppose. But the reaction I got was certainly unexpected. He did not seem shocked at all, or taken aback, he just seemed tired. Really, really tired. His face seemed to fall gradually, and his eyes became dull. It was the same look he gave when he was telling us that Mum had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. He was pacing up and down, not really knowing what to say, and I wanted to turn back time, so that I had not said anything, but it was too late. We went and sat down next door so that we could talk about it properly. I asked him how he could it? I said that I did not understand how he could have moved on from Mummy so quickly. I simply did not understand. He lost his nerve and snapped back saying that he would never, ever be ‘over’ Mummy. I raised my voice, pushing him to the limits, ‘I do not understand one little bit, how can you be in love two people at the same time? It doesn’t work, does it.’ I told him that I thought we were going through the grieving process together, and that he was not who I thought he was. It was true, it completely shattered my picture of what and who I thought my Dad was. To me, he was a withdrawn, shy, quiet man who got on with his life, and enjoyed looking after his farm, almost slightly oblivious to the real social world. To me, it was the other way around; I always knew that my Mum was a social butterfly, who got on with everyone, who flirted with every man she came into contact with. I always remember my sister and I feeling protective over my Dad when my Mum used to flirt with someone. We used to always stick up for him, and always side with him when there was some sort of conflict between both of them. If I had known that really, they were both the same, then maybe we would not have always assumed that she was in the wrong. Regrets are something I have a lot of. I always felt that when they went out, it was my Dad going along with my Mum and her friends, rather than my Mum and Dad going out with their friends. I related to this in some way, as there is a part of me which is shy and socially awkward, and this made the feelings of protectiveness all the more pertinent. I suppose you find out what people are really like when threatened, or taken out of their usual context. My Dad was no longer a husband with three children, a farmer living in the innocent countryside; he was just a man. A single man.

We talked for a while about it all, he never questioned how I had come about this information, he seemed to just accept that, or ignore it. It was late when we stopped talking, and I felt dissatisfied by the conclusion. Well, there really was no conclusion. I could sense his dislike of me so strongly, as though he had a new world which he much preferred to us. I assumed that it could have been because I reminded him of Mummy so much; I have been told that I look like her, and I am sure I have inherited some of her passion and stubbornness. Or maybe it was just that I could feel his desire to feel young again, when he did not have children, or all the responsibilities. Whatever it was, I felt a burden. And no one likes to feel like they are unwanted. I made it clear to him that I could not stop him from seeing this woman, nor did I want to if it made him happy, or was helping him. But I laid down some ‘ground rules’ which were promptly rejected. I said that I wanted him to be at home when Charles or I arrived home from school, I did not want him to lie to me anymore, and I also said that I never, ever wanted her to set foot inside this house. I said it with such conviction that he looked up at me, he did not take to this kindly. He said that that was a totally unfair thing to say, and that I had absolutely no right to say something as harsh as that. I did not argue back, as arguing was the last thing I wanted to do. I just wanted him to know how I felt; I wanted him to know how angry I was. But anger is not a primary emotion. It all stemmed from hurt.

Life carried on then, my Dad carried on seeing this woman, the only thing that had changed was that he knew I knew about it. It was just the same. I felt so isolated, and that I really was going through this alone. People around me seemed to be okay, they seemed to be coping, was I the only one who had remembered that Mummy had died a month ago? I needed to toughen up, and stop being so weak. It was time to get a grip.

A few days after Christmas, when Sophie was home from university, as a family we went out to Brighton, and went for a family meal. As the end was approaching, the atmosphere changed, and suddenly I realised that my Dad was going to tell Sophie & Charles about everything. By this time, he was no longer with Tess, and was with another woman. He adopted a strange sort of giggly, immature, bashful tone, and I knew what was coming. He started off with, ‘Guys, I didn’t want to tell you before Christmas, because I didn’t want to ruin it for you.. but now it’s over, I thought I’d tell you…’ And there it was. He told the others. I sat there, saying nothing, wondering how the others would react. I felt almost unjustifiably annoyed when Sophie was so upset. Welcome to my world. Welcome to my fucking world, this is what I have been living with for the last two months. Charles reacted in a surprisingly accepting way, asking a lot of questions, but basically being affirming.

I think that this is part of what led me into becoming increasingly independent, or at least attempting to be. Around late February and into March I began to spend a lot of time out the house, down at the park.

Chapter 8

'You've been acting awful tough lately, smoking a lot of cigarettes lately

But inside, you're just a little baby

It's okay to say you've got a weak spot, you don't always have to be on top

Better to be hated, than loved for what you're not.

You're vulnerable, you're vulnerable,

You're loveable, so loveable,

But you're just troubled.

Guess what, I am not a robot'

Things had 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 someone who I became 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. I would not say at all that I used this boy to get back at my Dad – not in the least, I feel like the feelings were genuine, and very real, but I do think that I wanted to show my Dad that I no longer needed him as I used to. 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.

I can always remember ‘experimenting’ with my hair, although it sounds ridiculously aesthetic and superficial, I think that each different style and colour was a way of expressing what was going on at the time. My natural hair colour is a dark chestnut brown – exactly the same as my mother’s. It is a beautiful colour, which goes golden in the sunlight. Around the time my Mum was suffering from the cancer, I decided to get dreadlocks. I loved my dreadlocks; they were a way for me to rebel against the strict public school I was currently at. Everyone looked at me when I walked in, and I was always being called into the headmistress’s office to be told I had to get rid of them. But would I get rid of them? Would I fuck. I liked being different, I suppose I realised that I would never really fit in with any of the Mayfield girls, so if I could not, then why not go the opposite way. I almost admire myself for doing this, as it was obvious people were talking about me behind my back, and people laughed at me when they saw me. The apparent part of me just did not care, it made me feel strong and important that people were talking about me, despite what they were saying. I eventually got rid of them after my Mum had died. I was quite devastated when I took them out, it felt like a part of me was going missing. They had given me an identity, it was easier with them. I did not have to prove myself, because I was just the ‘girl with the dreadlocks’. It was easy to hide behind them. Just like it is now easy to hide behind all my make up and Amy Winehouse hair style. So I then decided to dye my hair dark blue-black. It was just an in between stage really – it did not suit me, as it washed out my pale skin even more. I simply could not bear having my plain brown hair though, as the truth was, it reminded me of my Mum too much, and I had to distance myself from any memory or similarity to her. I had to move away from it, and distance myself from any reminder I had of her. Because it just hurt too much. It was then around February that I dyed my hair blonde… when things began to really change.

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’.

Chapter 9

'Lately I've been hard to reach

I've been too long on my own

Everybody has their private world

Where they can be alone

Are you calling me?

Are you trying to get through?

Are you reaching out for me?

I'm reaching out for you.

I'm just so fucking depressed

I just can't seem to get out this slump

If I could just get over this hump

But I need something to pull me out this dump.’

It is difficult to say where all this started, where anorexia really began to control my life. After the death of my mother, I felt like I was on a high for a few months – around the time of August to January. I began to do well at school and appeared to be manically happy the majority of the time. People began to relax around me, and forget about the fact that I had just lost my mother. Everything was just fine. The extremity of this ‘high’, I think, contributed to the enormity of my low I would be experiencing in the future. I despised the loss of control I felt at the death of my mother, there was nothing I could have done, and I felt that my life was out of control, and I had nothing in my power I could do to change things. Except for this…

Around the time of mid-January I began to skip lessons at school, and go to the park instead. This was a fairly unusual thing to do at the school I was at, I suspect that I was just beginning to grow out of the school, and became bored with the patronizing routine. I would sit in the park and smoke, or go for a walk around the countryside in Mayfield. One day I was in the park just after lunch, and I felt particularly full that day. I remember feeling my stomach, just running my hands over the horrific rolls of fat which hung there. It shocked me that I had let myself become this way. I resolved there and then that I needed to do something about it. I devised a plan to get myself ‘in shape’ for summer. I was so panicked that day, that I did not stop walking for the whole of the time I was skipping school. I just walked round and round the same places, at a fast pace, trying desperately to get rid of some of the rubbish I had just eaten at lunchtime.

I began to think more and more about it, and noticed how uncomfortable I was feeling after eating the school meals. I would sit in my afternoon lessons feeling like a balloon, completely bloated and so full it hurt. I began to think about what I was eating, whether there was something I was doing which was causing this. I came to the conclusion that it must have been because I ate so much bread. At school, there was a basket of delicious white bread rolls, which most people would have; myself included. This combined with the carbohydrate based school meal, as well as toast when I got home from school and then another carbohydrate based meal meant that I was consuming a lot of bread and other carbohydrates. I started to think about how I could cut down. I could begin by cutting out the bread roll at lunch, and then try a few days without having toast when I got home from school. I found the first ever plan I made for myself in my diary, ‘energy pills with breakfast. 3 meals a day. -no snacking/puddings, piece of fruit when hungry. school days - alarm at 5am, 1/2 hrs work out, then 15 jog outside.' It would be difficult, as I always felt ravenous when I returned home, and toast and jam always seemed to be just the thing for satisfying me. But I gave it a go. It was difficult. There were days when I just gave in, and ate a bread roll, and I attacked myself verbally, cursing myself for giving in, when I knew how it made me feel to eat this food. However, my self-control grew, and by roughly the end of April, I had it sorted. I no longer snacked when I got home from school, nor did I eat bread, or have pudding at lunch.

At home, the change was barely noticeable to anyone else. The feelings of self-hatred continued to grow, and I started going for long walks – often gone for 3 to 4 hours at one time. I would just set off one day, and walk until my feet crippled me and my blisters bled so painfully. I did this partly to punish myself, and partly to burn off the calories; however this was justifiable, as I was still eating sensible amounts. As I can remember, I withdrew slightly from my family; and became quieter, as the unhappiness mounted in me, planting itself in my brain, getting ready for a long old ride. Time passed, and I decided just cutting down my food was not enough; I needed to start an exercise regime. I threw myself into it, and began exercising before school each morning. I got up at 6 to do half an hours cardio exercises, followed by 15 minutes running. I did not really enjoy this, I just saw it as something I needed to do in order to be happier. At the beginning, it was not particularly excessive, if I overslept one morning, it was not the end of the world; I would just not exercise that day. However, as time went on, approaching the end of March and through to April, it became more important in my daily routine. I remember not waking up to my alarm, and completely panicking when I saw I did not have time to exercise, what should I do? I decided to exercise as soon as I got home from school. I hated exercising after school, as I was always more tired, and I felt ‘dirty’ or ‘unclean’ if I had not exercised before going into school. It stayed on my mind all day, bothering me, until I had completed my routine.

I soon realised that this was not enough; I still felt like I was exactly the same weight, and it was annoying me. I kept saying to myself ‘it takes time. It takes time.’, and I tried to believe it, but my nature is that of impatience, and I could not accept it. So I introduced more exercise to my day; as well as my morning exercise, I would go for a 40 minute run when I returned from school, or in the afternoon. I absolutely dreaded this one; and it became a horrible part of my day. But I had to do it. I remember one day I was going out, and my Dad saw me and said ‘more running? Gosh, Alice you’re going to run yourself into the ground’. I was surprised that he had noticed, and also a little worried that he would begin to realise what I was trying to do. I smiled and shrugged, before grabbing my water bottle and heading out into the cold.

I began to increase the exercise amount I did in the morning as well – every day I would add 5 minutes to the previous day. This way, I could ‘slowly’ build up the amount I was doing. When I still was not seeing the results I wanted to see, I concluded that it was because I was still eating oversized amounts. Now that I had cut out snacking, I resolved to reduce my portion sizes at meals. I found this incredibly difficult; as I enjoyed my meals, and when there is something on my plate, I tended to just eat it, rather than stop when I was full. I had to have a physical barrier to stop myself. So I began to draw lines in my food with my knife. I divided my portion up to make sections; and one side of the line I ate, and the other side I left. I struggled with my self-control; and there was more than one occasion that I ‘gave in’ and did not stick to the rule; which is typical of anyone on a diet. Once I got this sorted, I began to notice small changes in my body shape. I could see that I had lost a bit of weight; and I was pleased. But it was not good enough. I just wanted a flat stomach; and when I achieved that, I would stop. I even remember saying to myself, ‘I just want to lose a bit, not going to go anorexic or anything’. How ironic.

My first experience of real guilt after not sticking to the plan occurred one day when my Dad and brother were out. I decided to go into town to buy some food which I considered healthy, so I could try some recipes which I felt safe with, rather than the hearty meals my Dad was cooking. I bought all kinds of beans – and chickpeas, rice cakes, vegetables, fruit and snack bars. When I returned home, I made a stuffed pepper for myself with a bean salad. I resolved to start to make my own meals more often, so that I could monitor what went into them. I started to eat my meal, and realised that I felt quite hungry. Everyone was still out, and I looked over at the other food I had bought. Rice cakes, oranges, cereal bars; lay across the table from me. I told myself it would not hurt to have a rice cake to finish off my meal. I ate one. I suddenly felt incredibly humiliated and ashamed for not having the strength to stick to my plan. I had just eaten a meal, why was I still hungry and wanting more to eat? I felt like I had no control over my body, and I panicked. The panic caused me to grab the packet of rice cakes, and eat another one. Before I knew it, I had eaten 3 rice cakes, an orange and a cereal bar. I stood up and grabbed the remnants, throwing them in the bin. I watched myself in my head; aghast at what I had just let myself do. ‘I am so weak. I AM SO FUCKING WEAK’, I screamed. The sound waves echoed through the deadly silent house in which I had just committed my crime. All I had to do was stick to the plan I set myself, and I would have been fine, why, why WHY did I have to fuck it up like this? I was shaking from the fear, hyperventilating and tears streaming down my cheeks. I ran upstairs, and grabbed my running gear. Action plan. I had done wrong, and I had to put it right. I put on a vest top, and looked down at the rolls of fat at which it clung to, revealing my horrific body which was the ‘sole cause’ of all my unhappiness. I punched my stomach hard several times, just to let it know how much I loathed it. I clutched at my wrists, twisting them and pressing them until they were red and sore. I was so frustrated. My 40 minute afternoon run would not be enough to remedy this situation. This was an emergency, and I decided to adjust my route to make it longer; adding an hour onto my run. I had a sick feeling in my stomach; partly from the fear, and partly from the apprehensive dread I felt at having to run. Setting off, the cold air slapped my face, drying the tears, and replacing them with a hard determination to fix this. I ran and did not stop for miles. When finally my body could not carry on; feeling faint and experiencing searing pains in my stomach; my body’s own personal sword, I stopped. I sat down on a fence post nearby, looking down at my still flabby stomach. I had no energy to be frustrated anymore; just fear. I hugged my legs to my chest and buried my head in my lap. Colours dashed about before my eyes, and the blood pumping through my veins was on hyper drive, manically racing to keep up. I felt so lonely and so isolated out here on my own. My Dad had no idea of the events of the afternoon, and he would not ever know. I was on my own.

After about 15 minutes, the fear drove me to run the rest of the way home. Although the burning guilt I had felt before the run had largely gone, I continued to feel irrational fear throughout the rest of the day and into the next few days.

I thought about my next run; and realised I had set myself a new standard. I would no longer be able to do just my 40 minute run without feeling like I was not trying hard enough. So my plan was adapted to include this extended exercise time. This was the beginning of something else.

Chapter 10

'So don't take my photograph

Cos I don't want to know how it looks

To feel like this

As cars and people pass

It feels like standing still but I know

I'm just moving uncomfortably slow’

My GCSE exams were fast approaching and everyone else at school was consumed with worry and fear about how they would achieve. There was no time for socialising with all my friends studying hard; their lives centring around work. I had no desire or motivation whatsoever to do well in my exams, and school became the last thing on my list of importance in life. How could I see this is an item of importance in my life when I knew how trivial it was? The death of my mother triggered the realisation of unimportance of such exams, and I simply could not accept my friends’ prioritisation in their lives. It made me angry. As a result, I felt isolated and detached from my friends. I felt set apart from everyone; and I thought there was simply no point in trying to compete with everyone academically as I was surrounded by the extremely intelligible and hard workers. My confidence was shot down, but my desire to portray a strong image of myself caused my reasoning to appear nonchalant and indifferent to achieving in my exams. Not only did I want this attitude to be conveyed to my friends and teachers, but my Dad as well. I insisted that I was not worried about the exams, or that they were a big deal. I insisted on getting lifts home from them, or catching the bus from Mayfield to Hailsham to get home; where most others in my year would make themselves the priority in their parents’ lives that day; being picked up straight after the exam had finished. By this time, my food consumption had dropped further, and I had set a good routine for the days when I had an exam. I would get the bus to Hailsham, where I would buy an apple for lunch, and then catch the bus to Mayfield. I sat on the same step everyday – out of the way of the main high-street in order to avoid seeing anyone I knew. There, I would eat my apple and smoke; waiting for the time when I would head into school to sit my exam. I had no desire to sit in the canteen with the others; whilst they fretted and panicked.

One day, when my Dad was able to pick me up from an exam, he decided to stop at the baker in Mayfield to buy us lunch. He asked me what I wanted. I surveyed the counter, full of luscious, bursting, home baked rolls filled with lashings of thick creamy butter and any sort of filling you can imagine. I attempted to scan over each sandwich, quickly trying to work out which one would be the least fatty and unhealthy. I felt the pressure of having to make such an ‘important’ decision so quickly. I chose the coronation chicken sandwich. I told myself not to worry, as I would not eat it. We arrived home, and my Dad got out two plates for us to eat our sandwiches. My blood turned cold… I was going to have to eat the sandwich. At this point, I am fairly sure that my Dad had not noticed that I was not eating, he had only really noticed that I was doing quite a lot of exercise. I sat at the other end of the table from him, putting my school bag in front of me to hide the view. I broke off a piece of the bread and put it to my mouth. It tasted so good, the butter was rich and complimented the perfectly fluffy bread so well. I took a few bites of the bread before setting it down on the plate and using every inkling of control I had to stop myself eating it all. I hurriedly put it in the bin before I could give in and eat more. I was pleased with myself for not giving in, and it felt good. I liked the feeling. I could feel the beginning of someone else in my head, congratulating me. A faint sort of voice, I liked her. She seemed nice. I went upstairs to change into my exercise clothes, and went out for a run.

Exams were thankfully coming to an end; which meant the end of term was drawing closer. My time at Mayfield would soon be over, and I could start my new life at college. In order to bring our school year together for the last time before everyone went their separate ways, the school had organised an end of term barbeque. I was going to be staying at a friend’s house the night before, so we could all go together, and I had a free day beforehand, so I decided to go into town. For the first time in a long while, I decided to try some clothes shopping. I was apprehensive, as the thought of looking at my body in a mirror scared me horrifically. I had never enjoyed the process of fitting rooms; as I found it incredibly depressing to see yourself in that high definition – as many women do – but I knew there was a risk it could be worse this time – as I had made so much effort to lose the weight, and if I still felt depressed then it would feel like a waste of my effort. However, it was now or never. I selected the items I wanted to try on; taking a risk by picking up a pair of white size 8 jeans. The way I felt when I put on those jeans I will never be able to describe in justifiable words. They slid on so easily, I could have even gone a size smaller. They fit. I, Alice Reid, could be a size 8. This was something which did not happen to me. I thought about all the times I had so dreaded going running, or had so wanted to eat that slice of bread; yet I had resisted. It was worth it, everything was worth it. I thought I could never feel like this. I was free.

Or so I thought I was. I queued up to buy the pile of clothes I had tried on, no care for the amount of money I was spending. As I began to be able to look in mirrors, I noticed that my face was no longer a ‘pie face’ as I used to joke. It had definition, and my cheek bones were visible. I had cheek bones! I was however slightly apprehensive to see my school friends, as they had not seen me out of my school uniform for a long time and wondered what they would think. Or if anyone would actually notice. This was one of the first times I had eaten with my friends for a fair amount of time, and I was slightly worried as how to I would get away with sticking to the plan. It was pasta with creamy sauce for dinner, and each of our plates were piled high. I did the usual; playing around with the food, cutting it up and repeatedly going to get some more water. I had faith that my friends would not really take much notice of the fact I was not eating much, as they had absolutely no idea of my new thinking patterns in my head. One of my friends was a bit drunk, and kept on piling up her plate with more pasta as a bit of a joke, this was the perfect opportunity to dispose of some of my food without it being too obvious – I jokingly transferred my food to her plate, the fact I had not eaten anything went unnoticed. The plan had worked.

The next morning I decided to wear one of the tops I had bought the previous day, and still on a high from finding that I could fit a size 8, we went into school. I started to think that maybe my weight loss was not as noticeable as I thought it was; as none of the friends I had been with over the night had mentioned it. I felt slightly disheartened, but determined not to give up – I vowed to continue with my new private obsession, and lose more weight. It was more evident than I had realised, however. ‘Alice, you look like you’ve lost a lot of weight’,

‘Have I?’

‘Yeah I’m sure you have, is it intentional?’

‘No not really, it’s probably just the school uniform – makes everyone look bigger than they are…’ One of my teachers had noticed. Does this mean everyone has? I suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious, but with a strange sense of pride. For the first time, I actually felt like I was equal to the other Mayfield girls. Not the Mayfield girl with a fat stomach, but one who is actually just the same as all the others. It did not stop there either, another girl came up to me saying, ‘Alice, oh my god your waist is tiny, you’ve got such a great body!’ My close friend also told me that another girl had said to her, ‘Alice has lost so much weight, she looks so hot!’

So I was being talked about. I was finally being validated. I valued this feeling; I enjoyed the attention.

The next time I saw most of these people I was no longer ‘hot’, or ‘skinny’, I was just ill.

Chapter 11

‘She said you were going off the rails

But that was nothing to what you are now

And I'm not picking holes and I don't want to now

But people are getting scared

We can see your bones, and we were unprepared’

Following this minor milestone in my journey to anorexia, my best friends from university were due to return home. I was excited to see them, and the reception I got from them was not what I had expected. I knew I had lost a bit of weight, but did not ever imagine that it would become a main theme or talking point for my best friends – in spite of the reaction I had got from my school friends. My brain somehow did not process and connect the two factors. Our first trip out as a group was to go to Lewes for a meal at Bills. This was one of our favourite places to go as a group, and so it was to be looked at as something to look forward to. However, how on earth could I fit this into my plan? There was no way I would be able to get away with not eating at Bills. I could still try though.

Seeing my friends again was lovely, I had missed them so much when they all went off to university; leaving me at home. I felt strangely conscious of myself though, I could feel eyes on me everywhere, and I felt shifty. Whilst the others were making a decision on what they would be ordering, I was making a decision on what my excuse would be for not eating. ‘Ali, what are you going to have?’

‘Er I don’t think I’ll actually have anything, I’m really hung over and bloated from the party last night… Think I’ll be sick if I eat anything.’

‘Ali, you should eat something. At least something small’.

‘but guys I’ll be sick I feel really ill’

They were not having any of it, and I did not want to raise any suspicions, so I agreed to order a small bowl of granola with fruit and yoghurt. I tried to work out what the smallest thing on the menu would be; and came to that conclusion. So I ate it. I tried to remain cheerful; but escaped as soon as I could for a cigarette. Why were they doing this? Why were they ruining the plan? My mind was telling me I felt so sick, so nauseous. It was a lie. I was hungry. I was scared.

I continued to run twice a day, and my food consumption was dwindling further. 2 rice cakes turned into one rice cake, a banana progressed into half a banana, and a bowl of muesli turned into a small sprinkling. My second run of the day gradually became harder and harder, my energy levels practically non-existent. I remember saying to myself that I would have to cut out the second run eventually; where before the concept of my ‘diet’ turning into anorexia seemed ridiculous, it now seemed like a reality. I began to realise that my eating habits were out of control; but I could not fight it. The second run of the day got cut.

Chapter 12

'You never know when to stop,

You'll carry on until you're dead and you drop,

You will carry on until you're dead and you drop.

You over did it doll,

Dark rings around your eyes,

Are fashionable until somebody dies.

You're going to shatter, it's not too late to undo'

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 at least 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 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 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 fucking fat as well’, 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.

I heard a phrase someone once mentioned, and I used to motivate myself and justify my actions, ‘Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels.’ It is Kate Moss’s motto; Kate Moss, who young girls look up to, and aspire to be like. It made me think about why I thought I was doing this; I wanted to be thin. I wanted to feel beautiful. And yes, I fit into clothes I would not have fit into before. I wrote it down, or said it aloud whenever I felt the urge to give in and eat. It worked. I used to write down my plan, or routine for the day, which I would stick to religiously, ‘New Plan. College – lunchtime – apple and fat free yoghurt (80 calories). Evening – 1 ‘Alpen Light’ Bar (70 calories) + 60 minutes exercise.’

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. It is 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.

It was during this time I got my first proper 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.

Chapter 13

'You know you look like a faded picture

I see the cracks freezing on your skin

And as the world slowly turns it hits you

That the thieves of the night are coming to take you in

I feel like a force of nature'

In July 2010, as a family we were due to holiday to Fowey in Cornwall. It held special memories and connections for us as a family. 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 vague 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. So there it was; diagnosed on 18^th August 2010. My diary entry for that day read, ‘Anorexic. 372 days after you died.’

Chapter 14

‘Now hush little baby, don't you cry

Everything's going to be alright

Stiffen that upper lip up little lady,

I told you

Daddy's here to hold you through the night

I know Mummy's not here right now and we don't know why’

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.

I kept telling them both that I was not physically anorexic, just that I was experiencing what I thought were anorexic thoughts. They were shocked, how I could be in denial? The answer was simple; I ate. I did eat when I wanted to. I ate my breakfast everyday. The other anorexic people I knew did not eat anything out of choice. To me, this meant that I was not anorexic. I was fine. I accepted that I had slightly disordered eating patterns, but not anorexia. I felt incredibly ashamed that I was supposed to be anorexic when I actually did eat; it made the feelings of greediness all the more pertinent. Interestingly these feelings of denial only came when I started sessions at the Priory. Through the summer – before my diagnosis, I feel like I did know I was ill in some way. The label I was given of ‘anorexic’ somehow put pressure on me to live up to it; which is ridiculous, and obviously not the aim of diagnosis at all.

Chapter 15

'She'd walk on broken glass for love

She thought burnt skin would please her'.

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.

Chapter 16

'Lately I've been hard to reach

I've been too long on my own

Everybody has their private world

Where they can be alone,

Are you calling me?

Are you trying to get through?

Are you reaching out for me?

I'm reaching out for you.’

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.

Chapter 17

'Ain't it fun when you're always on the run?

Ain't it fun when your friends despise what you've become?

Ain't it fun when you know that you're going to die young.'

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?’.

Finally, the doctors at the Priory had had enough of me; as is so common for many when confronted with my stubborn, defensive attitude; they referred me to the NHS. It was around the beginning of November that this referral occurred. I went along to the NHS building called Sturton Place, situated in Hailsham. I was slightly apprehensive, as was typical of such an event, but I resolved to be as pliable as was possible. I was glad to be rid of the Priory as well. We went along, my first impression of the building was that it was quite a modern building; and more welcoming & less intimidating than the Priory had been. As it was in Hailsham, I knew the surroundings well; so that contributed to the feelings of ease I was experiencing. We were greeted by a woman named Denise; who ushered us into a room. If only I had known how much I would grow to despise this woman, then maybe I would not have been so forth coming in confiding my anorexic secrets. I proceeded to tell her my story, from the beginning, with my Dad in the room to hear it all. Hearing myself say all this; I felt like I changed position in my thinking – in that, I recognised an aspect of myself who actually wanted to recover, but could not. It was a brief moment of desire; which was then probably clouded again by my anorexia. Denise seemed to completely understand; extraordinarily, understand. She began to predict what I was going to say, or how I felt about certain things, and I was quite taken aback. I remember thinking that maybe, just maybe, here is someone who can actually help me. Only, looking back now, I realise that she had just memorised all the jargon associated with anorexia – just repeating it blindly back to me, when really she had no inkling of how I was feeling or what I was going through. I should never have trusted her, she used this precious information against me. And I hated her for it. However, at this time, I was still blindly thinking that she understood, she seemed gentle and accommodating. The alarm bells should have started ringing when she suddenly stood up, and said in a business-like manner, ‘Right let’s get you weighed. Follow me!’ I followed her out the room, and to the dreaded scales. Standing on them, I turned my head and looked up at the ceiling; as I never liked looking at the number. She commented on my behaviour, and asked why I did not like looking. I thought it was pretty obvious to be honest. We went back to the room, where my Dad was waiting, and she started to discuss my weight, and retell everything I had heard before. About how I was at a critical state and I had to begin weight gain immediately. I had heard it all before. I was bored. She began to devise an eating plan for me to follow; my horror continued to grow the more words came out of her mouth. She was trying to base the plan on what I used to eat – before all of this started. But if I am honest, I could not, and cannot – even now, remember what I used to eat before, and how much I used to eat. It feels like another life; just a distant memory. My anger continued to grow as she dictated that it was compulsory that I had to have a bag of crisps with my lunch. I did not want crisps. Why should I have them? I genuinely do not like having crisps particularly frequently, as the taste is sharp, and I only like to have them occasionally. This is a tiny insignificant detail; but in my head, at the time, it was a huge annoyance and contributing factor to my anger for her.

I began to really dread these twice weekly sessions with Denise to get weighed, as she always made a huge deal of my weight. Even though she knew I purposely looked away at the number, when she wrote it down she always flashed it in front of me to make sure I saw it. She used to say things like ‘By the time we’re done with you, you’ll look fantastic’. By the time we’re ‘done with you’? What is that supposed to mean? Am I just another one on the list, another job which needs to be completed and then checked off? My feelings of anger and hatred grew, and one week my weight had gone up by 0.5kg. I was completely devastated, completely and utterly broken. I had tried so hard to keep to Ana’s rules, how had I been so stupid and let myself get off track? I was so angry with myself, or rather, Ana was so angry with me. But a little phrase saved me; something I used to say to myself on a regular basis when I had put on a little weight, or disobeyed Ana’s rules. ‘You can get it back.’ You can always get it back, it was a dangerous combination of words, in so many ways. I never really knew what ‘it’ was, at the time. Although looking at it now, I suspect that ‘it’ meant the control – which I had momentarily ‘lost’ by allowing myself to eat, or to do less exercise. Control was the pinnacle of all my problems. So I would continually repeat this sentence until I would find the motivation to spend the next few days ‘detoxing’ – that is, my phrase for eating less than I already was, and exercise more than I already was, in order to lose the weight I had somehow managed to gain.

I continued to go to these weighing check ups twice a week, forcing me to miss more college, which I was so desperate to be at, rather than having to go to see Denise. As we saw more of her, she confided her ‘action plan’ in us. I could feel in the way she was talking how many times she had repeated these exact words; it would not surprise me if it had come straight from a text book. She organised things like home visits; where a lady called Olivia would come out to our house one or two evenings a week, to supervise my evening meal. No one was particularly comfortable with this; it is intense intrusion into the family home; I felt increased guilt for my brother, who did not ask for any of this; yet it directly affected him; being my immediate family. Despite the guilt, I was not in the place where I felt I could escape Ana’s bony clutches. I was desperately trying to think of ways I could get out these meals where Olivia would be present. There was the obvious; not coming home until the meal had been cleared away.. but most nights I was so exhausted, I simply could not face staying upright for any longer than I had to. The first night she came; my dad had prepared plaice, with vegetables and potatoes. I reluctantly sat down at the table; putting up my defences immediately. I decided that I would be polite to her in casual conversation, but that I would treat her the same way as I treated my dad when he tried to make me eat. Manners were out the window. I pushed the food around my plate, nausea swirling round my stomach. I had my bottle at the table; and was taking long intense sips from it, as I usually did. ‘I wouldn’t drink too much water Alice, you’ll be full up before you eat.’ I looked at her. No one, no one should be able to tell me to stop drinking water. ‘But I’m thirsty’, fixing her a glare

‘Alice, put down the bottle now’ I was fuming before I had even begun. Even my Dad had never restricted my water intake. I continued to push the food around my plate, before being asked if I was going to eat it. ‘I AM NOT HUNGRY.’ Olivia replied, ‘of course you are not hungry Alice, but that is not what I asked. I am telling you that you have to eat it.’ For the little amount of energy I had, my body was doing a good job of channelling it into anger. I angrily ate the vegetables and a few chunks of the fish, slamming my cutlery down; downright refusing to eat the potato. Tears glistened in my eyes as I left the table and ran up to my room. The anger had left me temporarily, and I was just left with fear and humiliation.

As I later reflected on this event, I realised I could not let this ruin Ana’s plan, and I resolved to find a way to make sure there was no way I would give in and eat next time Olivia came.

I arrived home from college, knowing that she was coming that evening, and I went up to my room. Sitting on my floor against the radiator – as I was so bone chillingly cold - I had a cigarette – as was usual, and then just sat there, my head in my hands. I sat there for about an hour and a half, as I had no energy to get up. I then heard the door go, and assumed Olivia had arrived. I stayed there, and my Dad came up saying that dinner was ready and I needed to come down. I could tell he was trying to sound positive, and gentle; which I appreciated, but nothing could trick Ana. I half smiled and said ‘I’ll be down in a second.’ which of course, was a lie. Fifteen minutes passed and still I sat there, until my Dad came up again, probing, still gently, for me to come downstairs. I again, smiled and said I’d ‘be right down.’ Another lie.

Eventually, I head my dad talking to Olivia, and then unfamiliar footsteps on the stairs. She came in and sat down on my bed. Cigarette butts, chewing gum and clothes were strewn and stamped all over my floor. I wondered what tactic she was going to try, gently persuasive? Angrily business-like? I was right the first time. She tried to connect with me, as few had tried in the past. She talked about the pictures on my wall; pictures of my mother, asking questions. I answered her questions as was necessary. About two hours had past, and I started to wonder what would happen next. Eventually, she finished with her questions, standing up, saying that I had ‘one more chance to do the right thing and come and eat.’ I nodded, saying nothing. Ten minutes past, and I heard the door go; she had gone. I was once again alone. I had won. I was sad.

I went down about an hour later to fill up my water bottle, and caught sight of the fish and potatoes my Dad had spent time preparing for me; by this time, dried up and stone cold. I blocked the sadness from my heart and went upstairs to sleep.

When I next saw Denise, I was asked why I had not felt I could cooperate with Olivia. Exasperated, I began to wonder why I was there, and if what I had been saying the past few weeks had even been registered. Isn’t it funny that an anorexic girl did not want to eat a meal. Despite all this, another arrangement was made for Olivia to come out. This time, my Dad took me to the supermarket to choose something I would feel more comfortable eating. I wanted mushroom soup; soup – because it felt less like a meal, and I could pretend I was just having a drink. Mushroom due to the low calorie content. Despite my Dad’s unease at my decision of soup, he decided to compromise with me, and allowed me to get it. That evening, I felt more upbeat than I had felt in quite a while. I was still apprehensive at having to eat that evening, but because I had chosen the food, and knew exactly what I would be having, and what to expect, I could prepare myself for it. Olivia arrived and we sat down to eat. I sat in the chair, a small bowl of mushroom soup sitting before me on the table; like a horrendous monster which had an uncontrollable desire to hurt me. I took a deep breath and took the first spoonful. It tasted good. It tasted sweet and warm, although hints of guilt and fear still managed to find their way into the taste. I was determined to finish it and make everyone proud, when Olivia placed a slice of bread onto my plate. I looked at her, and then looked at the bread sitting there so full of contempt for me. It was lathered with rich butter, greasily oozing over the bread. ‘I can’t eat that.’

‘Alice you have to eat it, it’s only one slice of bread, and you need it as you got away with only having soup tonight.’

‘But you’ve put so much bloody butter on it!’ I exclaimed, fear rising up in me. I had not planned this. This was not in the plan. The plan said I could have only the soup. However, I simply could not deal with conflict which would result from refusing the bread, so when she was not looking, I scraped the excess butter off, and took a bite of the bread.

One of the reasons I was so angry that I was being made to put on the weight, is that before any of this anorexia had started, I was unhappy. I thought that I had pinpointed the reason for this unhappiness; my weight. Once I thought I had found the reason, I bloody did something about it. I did not sit there moaning and wishing things were different, I took control, and power, and I changed it for me. In theory, I think that this is a valid point, however, the extent to which I took it was too out of control to be able to be taken seriously.

Chapter 18

'I want to talk tonight

Until the morning light,

About how you saved my life.

And you make sure

I eat today;

You take me walking

To where we played

When we were young'.

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. I also asked her whether she would always eat if she were hungry, what sort of time is a normal time to eat a meal, and whether she would ever skip a meal. I had completely forgotten what was normal, and I had to reaffirm what was the norm. This all happened in the evening, and I decided to start my new routine the next morning, I could not have started it in the middle of the day, as the OCD aspects of me would not have allowed that. New routine, new day. It was too messy otherwise. For example, when I would say, eat some grapes in the morning, and then I would have some more in the afternoon, in my head, it would not work. They clashed, and made me feel all over the place, so I would have to ‘pretend’ that I had these grapes at the same time – so that the grapes were in one section; one group, and not spread out over the day. That is why I found the concept of snacking very difficult; as it was too disorganized and chaotic. Even today, I have to go through what I have eaten during the day, and group it all together into sections, and if it is not neat, then it results in panic.

So I did it. I started eating again. I will always remember my Dad’s face when I came down the next morning, sat down at the table and said, ‘I’ve decided I’m going to get better’. ‘Can I have some porridge please?’ He looked at me, his eyes were glowing with a foreign pride and disbelief. I picked up the spoon, and ate my bowl of porridge. It tasted so good. The warmth of it filled my body, my little stomach thanked me, and my Dad walked over, put his arm around my shoulder, and told me how proud he was of me. We then had to go to a pre- planned appointment with Denise. My Dad seemed really excited to tell her our news of my decision to begin recovery. I somehow knew that she would be able to ruin things for us though. ‘We’ve had some really good news this morning; Ali says that she has decided to get better.’ She looked at my Dad, and then at me, laughing, ‘Has she? Well that is a good step, but you know that this is probably just a phase which will pass. She will change her mind again. That is the eating disorder talking’ At that moment I felt so livid with her, patronizing my Dad like that. She obviously did not know me one little bit, because anyone who does know me, knows that when I commit myself to something real, I will fucking do it. Nothing can stop me. So she succeeded in dampening our spirits again, we walked out of there a little bit unhappier than we had been when we had walked in. But that is Denise for you. Despite all this, I knew that was it, I knew I would get better. The decision itself was the turning point. I knew it would be difficult; so, so difficult, coping with the weight gain, but I knew that essentially I was free from the barrier which was stopping me eating, because I had made the decision. So I went into college that day, feeling like my whole life had been turned around; something was so different, yet so unnoticeable. At 11.00 I had my snack – of an ‘Eat Natural’ cereal bar, and at 1.00 I went to the canteen to buy a sandwich. I was really nervous about this part, as I knew there would be lots of people around, to watch me and judge me. Even though, there would not be people judging me. Because I was buying a sandwich… not the most revolutionary move in the world is it? I had already planned what I was going to buy; a falafel wrap. I queued up to buy it, nervously looking around me to check people were not laughing at me. I then waited until the canteen was fairly empty, and went and found a seat right in the corner, tucked away from anyone’s view. I got out my sandwich, I got out all the notes I had written to myself the night before, which would hopefully counteract any anorexic thoughts I would be feeling. Every inch of my body and mind was telling me not to eat that sandwich. I went against my whole instinct, ignoring the defence mechanism which had kept me safe and given me control over the past year. Things had to change. I ate it. I sat there, with a little full belly. I then texted my friend Sarah what I had just eaten, and asked her what she too had had for lunch. I looked around me; and saw others eating their lunch, the feeling of normality hit me. This is normal. I told myself to revel in the normality, where for so long I had longed to be different and more powerful than everyone else. The mundanity of everyday life events such as eating a meal now seemed like a luxury, and I savoured the feeling. So I continued to do this for the next few days. One good thing to come out of starving yourself is that when you begin eating again, food will have never tasted so good. Each mouthful would make my eyes water, as the perfect balance of sweet and savoury would wind its way down my body’s tubes into my stomach. I ate slowly, to savour the taste even more, and even though I should have been scared, I was not. I was only scared afterwards. The reaction of my Dad and brother was enough to make this worthwhile though. I never did this for myself. When I decided to recover, I knew that I could not do this in order to make myself feel better; the self- hate is just too strong. I did this for my Dad, and for my brother, and my sister, and anyone who got hurt by my selfish acts. I am still doing it for them. Unfortunately, I cannot say that I am still living because I want to. I cannot say that I overcame anorexia because I think that I wanted to. But any reason to get better is good enough – and if you are in the same place, not wanting to recover for yourself; do not do it for yourself. Do not recover for yourself if you cannot see a reason to, but recover for someone else. Because you love them, and what you are doing is selfish. Selfish, but not your fault. You are just ill.

Chapter 19

'A little space, a little time

See what it can do

A little faith, a peace of mind

See what passes through

Come alive, come on in

Here's something that you know

The world's as wide as your life is thin

So entertain your goals

The sun will shine on you again

A bell will ring inside your head

And all will be brand new'.

I carried on like this for a while, taking each meal as it came. Breakfast was not too much of a challenge; as I had always been eating breakfast, even through the worst anorexic periods. I just changed what I would have eaten, to attempt to break out of that dangerous routine. Once I got used to lunch, it became less difficult; as I had a very set plan for it. I would make a pitta bread in the morning before I went into college, and would pack an apple as well. I found pitta breads to be good; as they seem to be not as bulky as an actual bread sandwich, yet they were a satisfying choice for my lunch. It kept me going until dinner time. Supper was a different story however. I found the concept of eating in the evening so, so difficult. I could not understand it; why did you need to eat when you would not be doing anything? What is the point in eating, and sitting in front of the TV and then going to bed? You did not need energy for that. I hated the thought of eating the food, and it just sitting there in my stomach, not doing anything. In my straight thinking state, however, I looked at everyone around me, and saw them all eating dinner, and decided that in order to recover, I had to just do it. Feel the fear and do it anyway. I am not going to lie; it was horrible. I felt so awfully bloated and full – and for what? So I could go and lie in my bed to sleep? Where is the sense in that? I was so frustrated, because it was so normal and easy for everyone else. Why was I finding this so formidable and unyielding? There is no other way to describe it; I felt ‘dirty’, having lived through the day, I felt like I had all the day’s staining clinging to me, and however many times I showered, I could not get clean. I always felt hot, which added to the feelings of panic and uncleanliness. I started to get really hot and sweaty at night as well, while I was sleeping. It was horrid to wake up with my pyjamas sticking to my body, feeling damp all over; it was happening every night. It was just a consequence of putting on the weight, and my body getting used to the extra insulation, where I had been living as a skeleton for so long. It made getting better seem so unattractive, but I just had to remember the fact that I had done this to myself in the first place. And I had to fix it.

Because of the obsession with routine and planning that anorexia provided me with, I also found evenings difficult because of the fact that I would never know what my Dad would be cooking. Breakfast and lunch were my responsibility, so I could plan what I would have, but dinner; it was always something different. And it was up to my Dad. I would have no idea what I would be eating that night, until I arrived home at about ten past six. I needed time to be able to prepare myself. Even today, I find it stressful when I do not know what we will be eating. But I did it. I got through each night just fine. It hurt, and it was scary, and there were nights when I just wanted to be back in my anorexic cage again, safe.

At the beginning, after some of the fear had worn off, the novelty of eating excited me. The times when the weight gain was unnoticeable, and the food still tasted so unbelievably good. I remember the first time I ate a flapjack, I quote from my diary, ‘just took a huge step – ate a flapjack (loaded in fat & calories).. feel so guilty now, but Ana can FUCK right off. I need the calories and fat. No one finds a bone bag attractive. It is a pre adolescent body of a 6 year old. Not a 17 year old.’ I cried it tasted so good. The flavours were so intensely rich and mouth wateringly sweet that it overwhelmed me. The guilt was even outweighed by the novelty of rewarding myself with this treat. This period lasted about three to four weeks. It was when the weight gain began to show, and feel – in my clothes, that I began to panic. I suddenly became so scared, I knew I could not turn back now, and I did not. I would not go down that path again, yet it did not make the feelings go away. In a way, the OCD element of my anorexia helped me in this way; it meant that I could not be anorexic one day, and then eat normally the next, as it was too ‘messy’ in my mind. It did not work. It did not fit together. I had to be consistent with whatever I chose to do; that is why I knew I would never, ever relapse. I had the choice to recover, or remain anorexic for the rest of my life. I was done being anorexic. I was bored. There were times when I would get up to my room and just cry uncontrollably, shaking from the intense fear I felt, breathing faster and faster, breaking things, and hurting myself. It was just pure fear and terror building up and up, until my eyes would go hazy from delusion and I would collapse on my bed. It was all too much. No one ever said it would be easy, and I knew I would experience many more nights like this one. Of course, there was nothing my Dad could do for me; he did not know this was going on for me most of the time. And I was eating again, so of course, everything was fine. I was no longer ‘critical’. Panic over… for you. These evenings were full of hysteria and depression, but I always knew, that I had the ability to wake up the next morning and feel clean. I felt clean in the mornings, and the bloating of my stomach would have disappeared. I always had an escape route. It kept me going for a while.

I carried on going to my appointments with Denise, and each time my Dad would say how well I was doing, and how I had kept to my word with eating. I was putting on the required amount of weight as well; the scales proved it. It was not good enough for her however. She was absolutely convinced that I was ‘water loading’ – which is the act of over loading your body with water (drinking far too much) in order to make your numerical weight increase. It is a dangerous act which can result in ‘Hyponatremia’ – fluid in the lungs, swelling of the brain, vomiting, confusion, and even death itself.

Of course, it is her job to be suspicious – I understand that, but it frustrated me and angered me beyond belief to hear her say these things to me when I had clearly been trying my absolute best to please everyone and recover. I can absolutely say, completely honestly, that I had not been water loading at all. It was not in my interest to do this. I suppose she became suspicious because I used to use the toilet quite frequently when I was there – before or after my appointment. The reason for this I do not know; all I know is that I was definitely not water loading, or purposely trying to manipulate my weight negatively. My Dad used to stick up for me when she said this, saying that I had not been doing this; however, she proceeded to patronise him and told him that he should not trust me. I was seething with rage, and I just wanted to hit her, in all honesty. What was the bloody point? Everything I do… all I have done, it will never be good enough will it? I lose weight, it is wrong, I put on weight, I am lying. However, I proved her wrong didn’t I? I certainly showed her up. Each time I went to another one of her dreaded appointments, the scales displayed a higher number. It filled me with terror when I saw the new weight; but I had to change my thinking. This was good. ‘It is good to put on weight, because I am underweight and I need the nourishment.’ I had to block out whatever Denise said to me, because it proceeded to set me back further. She used to say things like, ‘Blimey, the way you’re putting on weight, you’ll be overweight soon! What on earth are you eating? ’, and ‘I have never seen anything like this before... you are putting on so much weight so quickly…’ Damn right I am, now get out of my way. If I was going to get better, then I was going to do it my way. My Dad always says that one good thing to come out of going to see Denise is that it brought us both together in our dislike of her. He stuck up for me, and I stuck up for him. Part of the reason I held so much contempt for her was her patronising tone she used to address my Dad. She treated me as though I was an eating disorder – right up to the end, as though I was not a person. I could feel myself being just another one of her jobs to get completed.

Nothing ever seemed to be good enough for her; my weight, my mood, this very story. When my Dad told her that I had written sixteen pages about my eating disorder, all she could say was ’16 pages?! That’s not good enough, we need 200 pages!’ There is no point in trying to please someone like her. Well, she is not part of my life anymore; she is just part of my past.

So I did it. I got up to my target weight, without her help. It was me and my Dad. We did it together.

Chapter 20

'I'm just going to close my eyes, think about my family

And shed a little tear

Leave me go, Jesus

I love you, I love you

Just let me go.

I even love the devil

For yes he did me harm

To keep me any longer

'Cos I'm really tired

I'd love to go to sleep and wake up happy'.

Christmas was fast approaching, and my sister and best friends at university were due to come home. I was so looking forward to seeing them again; yet nervous about how they would react to my new weight. I imagined things they might think when they saw me, ‘bloody hell, she couldn’t have been anorexic… she’s fatter than normal people now!’ it scared me, because people can say things to your face, but be thinking completely different things. No one can control their true sub conscious thought process, I know I cannot. Of course none of them are going to tell me I looked fat, of course they would not do that. But they can think it. They can think whatever they want. It is a risk I had to take. The reunion was incredible, not only had they returned from their various universities, I had returned from insanity. I could engage with their conversations again, and as far as I know, they were overjoyed. I suppose it was a weight off their minds, apart from my Dad, sister and brother, those 3 girls are the closest thing I have to family. I am guessing it was just as hard for them as anyone, having seen a few close friends of my own battling the demons of anorexia. It was incredibly difficult to see that my sister had lost weight since when I had last seen her. I know it is common for people to lose ‘university weight’, due to increased amounts of walking and perhaps less extravagant meals, but all the same, I felt almost cheated, and embarrassed of myself. It was just another hurdle I had to jump, and a fact I had to accept.

I could feel people looking at me when I went out with them, or went round to their houses. I had people telling me that I looked ‘fantastic’, ‘healthy’ and ‘glowing’. Harmless in reality, but like a bullet to the head when you still have anorexic mind processes. But I got over it. I learned to ignore them, and ignore my head. I was living off of the notes I had written myself in my times of sanity. They told me on all accounts, to ignore the voice inside my head. I also did things such as writing the word ‘EAT’ on both my hands in black marker pen; this had the effect of making me think that I had to eat, I had no choice but to, as someone else was making me. This made me feel less guilty about doing it. It would not work for everyone, I know, but it helped me. I also had (and still have, to this day) a picture of a disgustingly anorexic girl on my wall – it is horrifically unattractive and tragic, with black writing around it saying, ‘You do not want to look like this, do you Alice? So EAT.’ It is a reminder to the superficial part of me that anorexia is not attractive, and it is certainly not glamorous. Little reminders like these have helped me to try and change my whole thinking, rather than just the act of eating more. I am not there yet, I admit. I still have a long, long way to go in the thinking part of it all. But I am healthy. I am off doctor’s records as unwell. And best of all, I never have to see Denise again. I remember when she discharged me from her services, her parting words being that of, ‘I have never seen anyone in your position put on weight so quickly. It is quite possible that you will go overweight at this rate, so keep an eye on your weight!’ Thank you for that. So I was allowed to exercise again. I had been waiting months to do this. I needed exercise. Although I could not wait to get started again, I was scared. Scared I would fall into the same trap as before. I knew my addictive personality would not allow me to ease myself into it. Yet, I was on my own. No one would keep an eye on it if I was eating again. I was physically healthy again. So, of course, I did throw myself back into it. The next morning at 7.00am, I rolled out of bed, found my running shoes and went outside. I started off by trying to be good. I knew that my anorexic routine had dictated that I do 60 minutes running. So I stopped at 50 minutes. Even though I was not tired. Even though I could have carried on forever, I had so much angst to dispose of. I knew I would be carrying on to burn off the calories, and not because I wanted to run. So I stopped as soon as I started to do it for the wrong reasons. The exercise made me feel good, and the run was amazing. Truly incredible, I felt so much liberty, just running, being able to be free. But the remainder of the day was difficult. I struggled to keep up the positive thinking, and resist counting the calories. I do not know what it is; just a trigger, I suppose, a trigger that reminded me of the days when all I did was count calories. It seemed too easy. I could feel Ana trying to wrap her snaky arms around my mind again, when I woke up the next morning, forcing myself to go outside for a run. I tried to tell myself that it was what I wanted to do, and not anorexia telling me to, but looking back, it was a lie. This time I did the full 60 minutes, and I paid the price. The day was even more difficult to keep up my new eating plan. Of course, no one really noticed my struggle with the exercise. I did not really tell anyone, and it did not seem particularly significant. The only time I remember mentioning it, was the night before I was due to go to back to college, and I had to catch a 7.36am bus – my earliest morning of the week. I asked my Dad and my sister whether I should not run tomorrow, as it would result in me having to get up at four in the morning in order to complete it. Or whether it would be lazy to skip it? This was one time I really did need them to be there for me, and say that of course, of course, I should not get up at 4 to go for a run, it did not matter. At all. But they did not. They were not really listening properly, and they said that it was up to me what I did. That it probably would not matter if I did not do it. Saying all this; I risk sounding like a child don’t I? Well, at this point, I was rebuilding myself, physically and emotionally. And so yes, I think that I was a small child, and I think that my reaction was validated. I just needed justification and help with my decisions. My ability to make my own choices and judgements seemed to have been disabled. So I did it in the end, I got up at 4 to for a run. The next few days I began to run every day again. I was not really enjoying it, and I had to pretend to myself that I wanted to do it, and that is was not Ana making me do it, in order to justify it. No one was worried, because I was still eating, so it did not really matter. I was experiencing great internal conflict though, I had one side of my mind telling me to stop, that I was becoming addicted again, and it was a dangerous path, and the other side telling me that I was eating too much to not run every day, and that I wanted to do it. As usual, I gave in to the latter; and continued to do my 60 minute run each morning. I noticed that I was starting to get pains in my foot, but I ignored them, and consequently they spread to my knee. It was so painful; I could not put much weight on that side at all. To run in this state was absolutely excruciating, and I would come in from my run crying from the agonizing throbbing in my foot and knee. My run would not be compromised for anything though. Because of attempting to shift all my weight onto the other side of my body, it caused my foot to start hurting as well. It was torture running on this. I did not know what to do. I was in so much physical pain… but the thought of not exercising when I was actually allowed to filled me with potential guilt.

What I needed at this point was for someone to notice, and tell me that actually, no one has any obligation to exercise excessively; certainly not every day. I simply could not let myself have a break. I needed someone else to enforce it so that I could feel as if I had no choice. No one had actually told me what a normal amount of exercise is to do per week, I needed to know the normalities of exercise, just as I had with food. I asked Sarah what she thought; and she told me that barely anyone my age goes running every day. She said that she went for a walk every day when she was at home, and that I should just aim to get out the house every so often and go for a walk. So I did this for a while. It helped to realise that I was in the minority running every day, and that it was something I did not have to do. I would like to start running again, or course I would, but while I still cannot trust myself to not become addicted again, I think it is for the best if I give it a break. I believe that there is such a difference in putting on the weight, and actually recovering from anorexia. I have put on the weight, but so much of my thought processes are still of the anorexic nature. I am still fighting that battle. It is just not so noticeable.

Chapter 21

'I noticed tonight that the world has been turning

While I've been stuck here withering away,

Well I know I said I wouldn't leave you behind

But I have to go, it breaks my heart to say

That I can't stop now

I've got troubles of my own

Because I'm short on time

I'm lonely

And I'm too tired to talk'.

It was so horrifyingly intimidating going back to college after Christmas. I had ‘broken up for the holidays anorexic, and I was going back fat.’ - to quote from my diary. What were people going to say? Would people even notice? I just did not know what to expect; it was reminiscent of going to that leavers’ barbeque at Mayfield, when I did not know if anyone would notice that I had lost all that weight. Still, ‘feel the fear and do it anyway’ seems to be the phrase of this story, so, I did it. I went back. And yes, I was self-conscious. Yes I was scared. Yes I just wanted to go home and put on a big hoody. Yes I was completely oblivious to whether people were noticing or not. It is not something you can ask, is it? ‘Excuse me, have you noticed that I’ve put on twenty kilograms in two months?’ No, I thought not.

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.

Quite a big issue I found with gaining the weight was the fact that I have inherited my Mother’s body shape. She was absolutely beautiful – she was, she had a womanly shape – curvy, and she was not very tall. I have this shape – I am quite short, and have curves; this differs greatly to the shape of the rest of my family. Sophie and Charles have inherited my Father’s body shape; tall and skinny. Sophie is also beautiful; she is tall and very petite; with a model’s figure. Without my mother here to represent this body shape with me; I have the tendency to feel left out, and more isolated to the others in my family. My shape reminds me of my Mum so much, and although I know she was a very beautiful woman, I cannot help but feel envious of how the rest of my family naturally look. They eat the same as me; yet I will be the one to put on the weight and show it. It is a different experience for me. It should not be like this; but unfortunately, the world is centred on aesthetics, and I get different treatment to that of my sister due to this.

I never truly realised this at the time, but having looked back over everything I have been through, and my reactions to everything; I realise that so much of this is due to insecurity. It always happens; when I panic, and cry hysterically, the words I always come out with are something along the lines of ‘don’t leave me, why do you leave me here alone?’ Whenever I am drunk, it is always something which comes out – the concept of being left, and I always ask people to ‘stay with me forever’, and never to ‘leave me’ – so I have been told. A drunk mind speaks a sober heart. I always feel that when I see people, I have to have developed in some way. As though there is something new, interesting about me which would give them a reason to stay with me, and not become bored with who I am. I suppose this a reaction to the fact that I feel insecure and anxious about people leaving me; I had my Mum, who died, I have my best friends – Sophie, Susie, Alicia and Sarah, who leave me to go to university for months at a time, I had my Dad, who left me for Tanya, I had my Aunty Claire, who leaves me to go back to Bermuda where she lives, and I had my best friend Kittie, from primary school, who left to go and live in Alaska, who I do not see anymore. I suppose this could a contributing factor as to why I changed my hair style so much, and why I changed my body shape so drastically. I have always felt the need to prove myself to be something exciting, and different. I remember going back to visit my primary school after I had left, and someone saying to me, ‘Oh my god, Ali, you’ve changed so much…’ I could not stop thinking about this comment, and how proud it made me feel - as though I was so much stronger, and had moved on, being more independent and conveyed my apparent progression. It made feel invincible. It is still a feeling I crave. There always has to be something interesting about me; something for people to look at, in order to make myself worth anybody’s time. It is always superficial aspects though, such as my extravagant hair, or my piled on make-up. Or body shape.

I have a desperate need to be perfect; I know that this is a common desire with a lot of people, especially those prone to such disorders as anorexia. I know that during anorexia, many people find that they begin to spend a lot more time on school work, making it absolutely perfect – they are normally very hard workers beforehand. It is like an extreme form of perfectionism, where every little bit of the work has to be without fault. However, I did not find this so much with my experience – the work side of it. I found this in other aspects such as my appearance. I would spend, and still do, hours on getting myself ready in the morning. Normally up to two hours. Every single day. Even the days when I do not leave the house. If something is not right, or does not look good enough, then I punish myself through any way possible. I strive for absolute perfection; it is like a prison I am trapped in. I cannot break out of it; and the idea of going out with any make up on, or my hair done, scares me beyond belief. It is basically a mask; I feel I am not good enough, or worthy enough to go out into the world as I am. Just as I am. I hate to sound like I am always feeling sorry for myself, because I know how lucky I am. But this is how I feel, the truth about what is in my head. It is only the truth, I should not be punished; I am allowed to do this. I suppose I have always had low self esteem issues; my mother did before me, so she knew exactly how it was for me. I think to an extent, everyone suffers with it, but it is something that has plagued me for as long as I can remember. It has got worse; I suffer from extremely strong social anxiety; which prevents me from being able to be out without panicking. On days when it has a more powerful hold over me, I find myself so fearful that I have to get the bus home from college, and just lie in my bed, away from where anyone can see me. I am so ashamed of myself. I know that no one really cares; why would anyone really care what others look like? Everyone has their own problems, and their own worries, and it is completely selfish to assume that everyone would be looking at me. But the hold over me the anxiety has is just as strong as the hold anorexia had over me. It tricks me into thinking that it is real. It is another hurdle I need to overcome. Unfortunately, as it does not appear to affect my physical health, people assume that it is insignificant, and not a real problem. So I am on my own with that one. Of course, that is one of the reasons I was so unwilling to make an effort to recover from the eating disorder. Look at all the attention it got me; people were worrying about me, talking about me, thinking about me, so much of the time. I was so scared that if I got better, then I would be forgotten again, and that would be it. They promised me that would not happen. But I suppose I was right in a way, of course I would not receive the same attention, because I am physically better. But it does not have to be the same for you; and I should not need that extra attention, should I? I should be able to live my life regardless of whether I think people are thinking or talking about me. That is yet another fault of mine I suppose.

Chapter 22

'It's been a ride

I guess I had to go that place to get to this one

Some of you might still be in that place

If you're trying to get out, just follow me

I'll get you there'

There have been so many positive aspects to come out of this whole chapter of my life. Although I would never, ever wish any of this upon anyone, I also do not wish it away from my life. It is all part of me now, and will achieve in building my character up to stronger than ever before. I have intensely renewed empathy for humankind, and anyone who is suffering in the world – it has provided me with the strongest desire to help, to help people who need it. To be there for people who need someone. It has also achieved in bringing my Dad and I closer together. Before the anorexia, great rifts were being created between us – pushing us further from one another. Through this, it took him right out of his comfort zone – my mother was always the one who had tended to our emotional needs, and he was forced to be a parent in this situation. He could not sit back and let someone else tend to me and help me. It was up to him – he was the adult in the situation, and he had no choice but to behave like it. I think it somehow increased his own confidence in being a father, where perhaps before he would not have thought he could cope with being so dramatically involved with such a tragic situation, he succeeded in himself, and he too, has a greater understanding of the world because of it. It gave us all a chance to see the different ways people react to grief, and how everyone is so, so different. It made people realise that I was weak, not as strong as I somehow appeared to be after my Mum’s death. It made people sit up and bloody well listen, I hope it did. In a way, it was just me trying to prove myself – yet again, something to show. Although I would say that I still have far to go in finding myself, as I am still so young, it helped me to understand aspects of myself that I never knew I had. The part of me that insists I am ‘okay’, that I do not need anyone – it is a lie. It is a stupid defence mechanism that achieves nothing but satisfying the craving I have for strength. Even if I have not solved all these issues, at least I can now identify them, and possibly start work on rebuilding myself into a more solid foundation, which can be in tune with myself; my mind and my body working as one, and not so separately. We need to know what really matters; what really, truly means something, not the superficiality which succeeds in tricking the world into submission.

I am going to finish with the most inspiring, beautiful quote from a man who I will always admire for his optimism and ability to see the good in the world despite all the evil which can present itself in our lives.

‘Everything's going to be fine. Stay optimistic. If there are dark clouds coming up, they'll leave again. They always do. The world is round. Everything is round. The biggest invention of all times, the wheel is round. Things pass. Nothing will stay the same forever. No matter in how big a pile of shit you've gotten yourself - be it drugs, financial problems, fucked up relations: you'll get over it. It'll go away just like the weather. The sun is round, so is the planet we live on, marriage rings, and our eyes through which we see the world.’

Thank you, Noel Gallagher.

CONCLUDE

+ poems

‘remember’

Chapter 23

Recovery

For the Sufferer:

There are certain things you as the sufferer can do to help yourself. These are things which worked for me, but every case is different, and I have been told that my recovery in particular was fairly unusual for the average anorexic sufferer.

Of course, there is the obvious detail that recovery has to be your decision. No one, no one can enforce it on you. I had more than one professional therapist and eating disorder specialist say everything to me, everything they had probably been studying for years. None of it meant anything. What meant something was the pain I was causing other people. And the love that I was wasting. You have to connect with other people, and feel what you are doing to them. It will save you. You can have all the therapy in the world; and it might not help you, but to see a single tear rolling down your father's cheek... that means something. I am not saying do not go to therapy sessions; they are so important. Important in many ways, but particularly in helping you to identify the fact that you actually have an eating disorder, and they allow you to work together with your family, and give direction.

I knew, that for me, guilt was a huge issue. I could not deal with the guilt I felt after I allowed myself to eat. The guilt I felt was bad enough with eating alone, but when it was when I chose to eat it was the worst. So I came up with ideas to make myself feel like I was not choosing to eat, but that I had to. Someone else was enforcing it. I put reminders everywhere to remind me to eat, in an imperative way, such as writing EAT on my hands in permanant marker; it did not give me a choice, it was something I had to do. I understand that of course this is too public and on display for many sufferers, and that is fine. By my nature, I am an attention seeking person, so it worked for me, and I was comfortable with it. You could save it as a reminder on your phone instead. Do not give yourself the choice. Just as Ana is a character in your mind, create another 'counter Ana' who counteracts everything she says, and forces you to do the opposite. It is not ideal to live with these voices in our heads obviously, but just to kick start some sort of recovery, I found it helpful. I printed off a picture of a severly anorexic person from the internet, who looks horrendously ill, and unattractive. She just looks sick, and it is not glamerous in any sense of the word. The words next to it read, 'YOU DO NOT WANT TO LOOK LIKE THIS, SO EAT.' This is stuck on the wall next to my bed, even today. It is little gestures like this which I found really helpful in recovering, just filling your life and space around you with positivity of recovery. Make it a more attractive option. Remember; Anorexia is an illness. Not a way of life.

Use common sense. Do not do things which you know will be unhelpful. This is much easier than it sounds though. For example, trying to fit into your clothes from your lowest weight will only make you panic when you cannot fit into them as well. Also, I found going into clothes shops, or clothes shopping too early on in the recovery process too difficult, it is simply confusing, and I found it so overwhelming in the big shopping centres with so many people. Leave it a while until you know you are strong enough, and only then, take it in short periods of time, and have a break, go home, do something you enjoy. I had to resist reading any magazines which I knew would make me feel bad, things like Vogue, - or any fashion orientated magazines which promoted weight loss and aesthetic values over comfort and happiness. I found this really difficult, as I realized how susceptible I was to media pressure and it made me feel weak. But reading this sort of material will do you no favours in recovery. I sometimes bought NME (a music magazine) instead. If you think it will set you back, then resist looking in mirrors, or sight-monitoring your weight gain. It is the doctor’s job to keep an eye on your weight gain, not yours – in my opinion. Weighing yourself, and ‘checking’ yourself will only reinforce and validate any anorexic thoughts you may still have. Resist. I still have to close my eyes when I shower as I am not yet confidant enough to see myself without feeling anorexic thoughts which would trigger negative actions. That is fine. No one ever said this would be easy. It does not mean it is impossible however.

Surround yourself with the right people. People who are good for you, and care about you, but will not tip toe around you either. You want people who will tell you the truth, but not be blunt. I think that the mistake many people make is lying to sufferers. No one who is suffering from anorexia deserves to be lied to; sometimes the truth hurts, and is scary, but withholding the truth from someone is never going to be beneficial. Through this rollercoaster you often find out who your true friends are; the ones who really stick around when you ruin yourself. If you do not want to talk to them and tell them of your vulnerabilities; do not. I know what it is like to have the addiction to show strength. If they are close enough to you, and know you well enough, then they will know that just because you are eating again, does not mean that you are strong. They will know that you are still fragile, and they will not leave you. It will take a while, but it is important that you begin to be able to trust other people again, and not just Ana. Other people are what matter, not that voice in your head. She will give you no love. It is a one way relationship with her. If you keep on giving forever, there will be nothing left of you to give.

I wrote myself a series of pages of notes when I was feeling positive about recovering, all the reasons why I wanted to recover, things to look forward to when I was better, things to say and do when I was feeling down, and other motivational things. I would then read these when I was experiencing negative anorexic thoughts, and they would remind me of reality. They are useful for the times when you experience distorted visions of life and yourself. Here are some examples of what I wrote myself:

'Laugh at that voice telling you that you have eaten too much/ or are fat. It is such a lie. it is a joke. It is all okay. Panic amounts to nothing. Just feel happiness and compassion flood your heart, and enjoy being overloaded with LIFE. Because life can be good. And you have a marvellous future Alice Reid. You don't need to worry. What will happen? Just be. Just live. Feel your connection to the universe, feel the lifesource within you. It will protect you.' Yes, of course these things are going to sound corny and cheesy, but you have to get over it, and remember that no one else has to read it. If nothing else, then it will just remind you that it is possible to feel content, because you have already experienced it.

Take it slowly if you feel that is what you want to do. Write a list of foods that you feel safer with than others, such as pitta bread, yoghurt, cereal, fish... anything which does not fill you with as much fear. It will still seem scary, I understand that, but in order to beat this, you need to do small things that scare you. In the beginning, make yourself as comfortable as possible to eat. The first step is to begin eating, then the anxieties of public eating can be begun to be sorted out. So if you feel most comfortable eating sitting on a sofa, or in your room, or even eating standing up, then do it. As I said, it is small steps. Eventually, these are habits which can hopefully be gotten over, but at the beginning it is important not to pace yourself too fast, unless you feel strong enough. It completely depends on your individual character; for me, it was a case of throwing myself into everything, quickly, because that is who I am. I cannot do things slowly, so I recovered quickly. But you can take it whatever pace you feel most comfortable with. It is the first step in beginning to know yourself again.

At the beginning, when I ate a meal, I got out all my notes I had written to motivate myself and laid them beside me whilst I ate, referring to them, or reading them when I was doubting my actions. It helped me; like I had my own personal trainer next to me, encouraging me and cheering me on. You could also listen to music or have the TV on while you eat. Make it an enjoyable time to be with your family. Eating a meal does not just have to be about the food; it can be an enjoyable social experience for everyone; so make it that. You can make it whatever you want it to be about.

If you think it would help to have the food on a smaller plate, and slowly build up; then do so. It can sometimes look less intimidating. Think of the food as your medicine; you are ill, and this is your medicine. In order to recover from your illness, this is something which will help you. You are not eating the food as a luxury, and you are not treating yourself; it is a necessity. It is also not a punishment however. Treat the bad thoughts you may experience as you would treat flies or wasps at a picnic; you shoo them away. The feelings you feel will have stemmed from the thought process; so try your best to change your thought process; press the stop button on the player. The panic results from a series of thoughts which are happening so fast you feel out of control. Take deep breaths, press stop, and sometimes closing your eyes can help, or focusing on a point in front of you, and be still.

The ‘plan’ is something that eventually you will need to overcome and get away from. But for the beginning of recovery, I suspect it may be to difficult for you to conquer that as well as eating normally again, so I would suggest you buy yourself a small whiteboard. If you think it may help, you can make yourself a loose ‘timetable’ for your day in order to provide structure and give you a feeling of control that you may have felt you have lost. Here is an example: (weekend day)

8am-9am: Get up, get ready

9am – Breakfast with family – bowl of porridge + orange juice

9-30am – 11-30: go into town

11-30am: Snack – cereal bar/bread sticks

11-30am – 1-00pm: do a painting/draw

1-00pm – 2-00pm: Lunch with family or friends – Pasta Salad/Falafel Wrap/Cheese Pitta Bread

2-00pm – 4-00pm: See a friend

4-00pm – 4-30pm: take the dog for a walk

4-30pm: Snack – 2 oatcakes with Philadelphia/hummus

4-35pm – 6-00pm: Watch Skins whilst knitting

6-00pm-6-30pm: Call a friend for a chat

6-30pm-7-30pm: Dinner with family: jacket potato with grated cheese, baked beans and salad

7-30pm-8-30pm: sit with family/watch a film with them

8-30pm-10-00pm: listen to music, read a book

10-00pm: Go to bed

This is just a rough idea of what you could have on your whiteboard. You can really have anything on there; even if it is just what times you will be eating and what you will be having. You do not have to have actual times if you do not need them. Discuss with your Mum or Dad about what will be for dinner before you leave for college or school, so that you can prepare yourself, and you can feel in control. You can also help them do the food shopping if it would help you to know what you will be eating for the next few days. Remember; when you show that you are trying hard to recover, you will gain your parents’ trust back, and then you will most probably be able to buy the food you want and relax your eating routine to make it more flexible to what you want.

Write yourself a list of things you can do with your time, just to get some sort of life back, and normality. It sounds obvious, and ridiculous, but I found that during anorexia I had almost forgotten how to live, and what people do in their free time, as I was so consumed with thoughts of food, and used to sleep all the time. You could write anything; things you used to enjoy, or hobbies you would like to begin. My list looked like this:

Read a book or magazine

Go for a walk

Write

Knitting/sewing

Play with Teddy

Go to a friend’s house

Go into town for a coffee

Phone my best friend

Paint/draw

Baking

Yoga

Listen to music

Watch Skins, misfits, not going out, friends

Play guitar/write a song

Make a collage of things I love (e.g Liam and Noel Gallagher, the Beatles, Jamie T, Pete Doherty etc)

These are all things that you can do to help yourself. Some of them, or maybe all of them you may not find helpful in the least. As I have said; everyone is different. But give things a go, this is all about taking risks, and trying a different thing – changing your routine/plan. You need to try and be open to new ideas. Remember, that you will be okay, everything will be alright.

For the parent(s):

This is a small section for the carer of the sufferer. I am really not the best person to be writing this; as I have obviously had no experience of this side of the issue. However; there are a few things I can say which might allow you to understand what the sufferer is trying to cope with.

First of all, it is important that you understand that this person you are dealing with is not your daughter/son. It is an illness which is attempting to take over their mind; and when they shout at you, or hurt you, in most cases, it is not real. Of course, I cannot speak for every single person with an eating disorder, but I can say that the defense mechanism and instinct of fight will come into play when threatened. This results in a lot of conflict within the family; it is horrible to witness and be involved in, but is almost inevitable. It is imperative that you try your best to not lose your patience and temper, of course, this is impossible. I understand that; and to be honest, had I not seen how much I was negatively affecting my Dad and family, then I probably would not have recovered. So it is therefore also important that you pretend like it does not bother you, because that can reinforce the feelings of isolation and rejection due to the sufferer feeling like he/she is not good enough or loved. Every single case is different, and therefore the sufferer will benefit from different forms of response and support.

During meal times however, in my opinion, the most helpful and beneficial response are the following. Sit next to your child, but give him/her an appropriate amount of space. Hold their hand or remain some sort of closeness/contact to satisfy some physical proximity; this can reinforce and strengthen the idea that the sufferer is not alone, and that you are there for them during the hardest part. Make meal times completely non pressurized, so that there is no time constraint; always make sure that there is plenty of time.

At the beginning, make sure that there is no chance of any guests dropping in to visit, or the phone ringing - this would most probably cause panic and diversion of concentration. It would also make the sufferer feel like second priority in that instance - which is the opposite of the feeling they are craving. Serving their meal on a smaller plate can sometimes help, to make it less overwhelming. I would also suggest that you make sure the food itself on the plate is not 'running' into each other - it should be carefully separated into sections, so it can be clear in the sufferer's mind. You must take the control in serving up the meal and decide on portion size; I found that because I had not been eating normally for so long, I had forgotten or blocked out what was a normal size, and I would either take far too little or too much. You must install the normality to begin with. However, if there is a particular food they do not like, for example baked beans, do not make them eat them. If it is a genuine dislike, why should they have to have it? If you can see that they are making an effort to eat the other food, then allow it. Effort should be rewarded. Gentle encouragement whilst they are eating helps, if they suddenly panic, just talk to them, and ask them what they are scared of. Do not make it a big thing however, by not eating yourself. Eat with them; make it normality, not a huge event.

If he/she does eat the food which is required, show that you are proud of them, but not in an overly obvious way, as this could make them feel like they have been greedy and let Ana down. For example, I was once told after I had eaten a full meal, 'Woahhhh well done Alice, you ate loads!'. This is definitely a negative thing to say; it is obviously meant as a compliment and positive step, but it just reinforces and highlights the huge step they have just taken in ignoring their basic instinct; the sufferer will probably not want to dwell on this. Comments like this usually install feelings of greediness and guilt in the sufferer. In my experience, it is the period of time after the meal that is the worst. It is so, so important that the sufferer is not alone at this time. It is not active company you need to provide, but just passive, casual company that will be comforting to someone who is struggling with the voices in their mind. Anything will do; watching a TV programme with them, playing a board game, going outside (if it is not the evening), chatting or reading a magazine together. It can be anything, so long as your son/daughter is not left alone to dwell and allow the panic to arise. Wherever possible, always make sure you are around for at least an hour after you have eaten a meal.

Although positive reinforcement is a good method, it cannot be stretched to forms of bribery, as I used to find this offensive and a shallow way of trying to get me to eat. There are other, more subtle ways of rewarding your child when they are putting all their effort into recovery. I would say that the most important issue is to reduce the isolation they might be feeling. In most cases, being alone will cause panic to fest itself, and can result in such strong fear. It is a fine, difficult balance of giving space but preventing isolation. Make yourself always available, but not suffocatingly so. Asking if someone is okay all the time is not the way to achieve this. Of course he/she is not okay; they are scared out of their minds. Everything they have been 'taught' by Ana has to be disobeyed. They are being ordered to leave their safety net behind, and it is horrifyingly frightening. They are putting all their trust and happiness in you - by ignoring Ana. Do not take this for granted.

There are obviously certain phrases which are definitely not helpful for a recovering anorexic to hear, the ones which are said most of the time, such as 'you are looking healthy'. It is very difficult to compliment a recovering anorexic without causing panic and Ana to reinstall itself in their head. It depends on each person as to what would be appropriate to say, there really is no easy answer. Someone once said to me that I was 'glowing'. It made me feel proud, and almost animated with happiness. Of course, I could not stop thinking about it for days, wondering what was 'behind' this comment, whether it was meant as a compliment? Was she saying I was fat? Or greedy? In the end, I decided it was a good thing. There will always be second guessing, and over processed thought in these comments. It is another hurdle for the sufferer to try and get over. You just have to hope that he/she is surrounded by the right sort of people.

Unfortunately, no one can force your child to begin eating again. Literally no one. It is completely their choice, and decision, and until this decision is able to be made, it will be difficult. There is really no right answer, or not much anyone could have done for me when there was 'no option' for me. Remember, it is just as difficult for the sufferer, and it feels like they do not have a choice. Until it becomes visible, there is no choice. There is an internal battle going on in their head, and it becomes very confusing and tiring for them; give it time.

When I was recovering, I found it really helpful to know what other people were eating, to justify my decision to eat - to know that it was normal and that other people were eating as well. I used to text my Dad every time I eat something away from home - such as when I was at college, I would say what I was eating. He would then text back, and tell me what he was having for lunch too. This is a really helpful way of gently encouraging the process of eating, but in a very passive, non-forceful way.

One of the scariest things I found with recovery was the thought that as soon as I was better, I would be left alone again; as everyone would think I was happy. It is so important that you realise your son/daughter is not okay just because they are eating again. It is not an instant fix. Of course it will be a relief, but it does not mean that he/she can be left to deal with the emotional side of anorexia on their own. It is just as important, if not more so. Look beyond the weight side of the illness, and consider what they are going through in their minds. It is not any easier just because they are a higher number on the scales. Be there for them, and let them know you are there to provide the care and attention any child needs.

It is never going to be easy; trying to care for someone who has no interest in caring for themselves, but just by being there you are making a difference. Just because your child is ill does not mean they are gone; they are still there somewhere. People with anorexia normally have a lot of willpower – in order to be able to starve themselves – this means that they will most probably also have the determination to challenge themselves to recover. If you love someone; then it is worth sticking around for them; they will come out the other end. Do not give up on them. Never give up.

Chapter 24

The more people I meet in this life, the more people I find who have suffered from anorexia in the past. It is too common; why should people feel the need to starve themselves to feel adequate or to fulfil their lives in this way? Is it peer pressure? Pressure from the media? Severe insecurities leading to depression? Whatever the cause, it is unacceptable and tragic that a case like mine is so usual.

So what are we going to do about it?

Don't Look Back In Anger

Monday 28 March 2011

Saturday 26 March 2011

Thursday 24 March 2011

Wednesday 23 March 2011

Monday 21 March 2011

Saturday 19 March 2011

No more

Wednesday 16 March 2011

Monday 7 March 2011

Eat your heart out

Time/place

Food/drink

Thoughts