Eaten Away - Natalie's Memoir
Eaten Away - Natalie's Memoir
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Anorexia captures you and puts you in a little bubble, you become isolated and lonely. Your own company is the only way you can cope, no matter how hard you try to be normal, it can’t be done. Food becomes the centre of your life.
Time spent with other people is painful, it is so much easier to be alone.
Your brain becomes tired and exhausted as it never stops.
You have restless sleep where you toss and turn worrying about the next day- you wish it could all stop.
You don’t feel good, you don’t look nice.
You hate yourself and hate your body for being so pathetic and weak.
It tortures you and wears you down until there is nothing left except bones- no emotions or feelings.
You become like a living skeleton.
Life was going well; I had just received my A level results and was the highest achieving female in my year. I was so happy, I had secured my place at university for the September and could start a new adventure!
I had become interested in exercise and losing a little weight all summer holidays, I would often go for a jog on our local beach and had restricted the amount of sweets and treats I would have to one a day. I was a slender size 8, about 44kg and at just under 5 foot was when I look back now just right for my height. People commented how good I looked, but deep down I wasn’t happy.
Mid September was the time of change. I was moving away from home for the first time and would be living in Halls in Manchester. My emotions were all over the place. I was sad to be leaving behind my mum and dad and Mike my long term boyfriend, but on the other hand was excited to have freedom and be back in the city buzz! The days before the move were a blur to me… Then the day to go came! We loaded up the car, packed to the rafters with all my belongings and made our way to Manchester.
When we arrived in Manchester and saw my room for the first time, my heart sank it was dark and dreary and old, nothing like the lovely bedroom I had left behind. Mum and dad were quiet, we were all dreading the moment when there was nothing left to say except bye. The moments after they left were awful I remember sitting on my new bed and staring around the room I would call home for the next year and wanting so badly to run after the car and go back to the safe cocoon of home.
I ploughed on with the day and in the evening went for a curry organised by the Halls. I felt so lost and alone. That night I lay in my strange room and cried my eyes out.
The week that followed was up and down, some highs and some lows. Fresher’s Week, the week that is supposed to be so brilliant, was to me draining. Meeting new people and constantly needing to be loud and outgoing to be seen and remembered by anyone was hard going. Everyone was out for themselves, one minute someone was your best friend, but the next time you saw them they blanked you. I was upset and lonely; it seemed that everyone was having the time of their lives except me.
The course from the word go, was a farce. I had very few hours in university and very little work to do and ultimately my gut feeling was that I wasn’t going to enjoy it. I had so much free time and nothing to do to fill it. This was where the gym came in. I had already decided to join the university gym before I went to university as I loved the idea of getting fit and toned and the freedom to go when I wanted and do what I wanted was something that appealed to me. It was the top of my priorities of things to do in my first couple weeks of university. By the beginning of October I was a member and the obsession began.
At first I visited the gym a few times a week; however this soon grew to everyday. I would spend an hour in there, working my body really hard. I loved the feeling of pushing my body and the idea that was I losing weight and was getting fit.
At my Halls I was catered breakfast and dinner, Monday to Friday. When I applied for university I thought that this would be good, however the reality was that this became a major problem for me. From the first meals there it became apparent that the girls didn’t eat how I had at home. I had always had good substantial healthy meals; however the girls I sat with hardly ate a thing. They would pick at the food and throw most of it away. This made me quite anxious as I didn’t want to seem odd or greedy by eating too much, so slowly my food intake at meal times decreased significantly. Also not being able to decide what I wanted to eat became harder and harder as the year went on as the Anorexia took control.
Soon the excessive exercise and food restriction became a package to me. It just became normal to me to eat very little and then exercise excessively. To me I couldn’t see I was doing myself any harm, in all honesty I thought I was getting fit. I would keep a note of what I consumed everyday. The food amounts were dwindling as the exercise was increasing.
I began to notice my weight had decreased a couple of months into university. The size 6 and 8 clothes I had brought with me in September no longer fitted and everything looked baggy on me. This was the warning sign that something was seriously wrong, but being at university away from people who really knew me no one really noticed anything.
In the November I went home for a few days, it was lovely to be home and away from the room that had started to feel like a prison cell. However I began to feel out of control, how could I eat and not exercise? I felt I didn’t deserve to go out for nice meals and eat nice ‘naughty’ foods if wasn’t going to go to the gym. The anxiety began to mount; my brain was constantly thinking about food and exercise. Mum and dad mentioned that I looked thin but I brushed it off and took it as a compliment. The night I got back to Manchester I went to the gym for a long session, after I felt much better and back in control.
Breaking News
Exercise and food control began to infiltrate my thoughts more and more. It helped me to pass the time and gave me something to focus on. At times these thoughts felt so good and were like a friend to me. I remember the thought entering my head that the more I exercised and the less I ate, the better I would feel, “spend another 20 minutes in the gym, it will make you feel better”. At times I felt so powerful and congratulated myself in having such strong will power.
There were times however where a little warning alarm went off in my head and I worried that I had a problem. I visited my local gp, unsure of what to say or what was actually wrong with me. I said “I am losing weight.” The first doctor discussed with me was I depressed or missing home and advised that I try and eat more. At this time it wasn’t enough as the moment I left the surgery the controlling thoughts took over and anorexia was back being my friend. In the December I visited the surgery again, by this time my weight had drastically dropped and the doctor could see something was seriously wrong. Again the doctor discussed the possibility with me of depression, but I knew that wasn’t it. Then she said it, those 8 words that were so scary but so true, “do you think you have an eating disorder?” I looked at her and said “yes” to say it felt weird but I knew it was the truth.” do you want help?” I nodded my head, unsure whether that was what I really wanted- could I give up my relationship with Anorexia???
That night I built up the courage to tell my mum, dad, Mike and my only close friend at university, Rachel. I rang up mum and dad and said those words “I think I have an eating disorder”. My parents had been thinking for a long time that something wasn’t quite right, but to hear me say it shocked them. The next 
person I told was Mike; he went quiet and seemed unsure how to react. Rachel handled it well. I went over to her room after tea and let it all out. At first she seemed shocked and went quiet. I left the room but within minutes she knocked on my door, came in and threw her arms around me and said she would be there for me to help me through this time. Knowing I had the support and backing of my family and friends was something I was so grateful for.
My weight was getting lower. I now had to buy children’s clothes and was a size four. It didn’t bother me and I accepted it. I was still going to the gym all the time and walking everywhere. In my head walking didn’t count as exercise. On a Wednesday I would have cereal and toast for breakfast, walk there and back to university, get back to room have a lunch of porridge made with water and then hit the gym for a session. I would some times toy with the idea of not going to the gym, but the little voice in my head overpowered my thoughts, it almost physically felt like I was being forced to go to the gym and work my body to the limit.
Christmas
At Christmas time I was on the one hand looking forward to getting home and being with Mike and my family, but I was also dreading the thought of having limited exercise and having to eat more food to stop everyone worrying.
Other people began commenting how thin I had become and how worried they were about me, but their words made no difference to me, I felt fine and didn’t feel that their worries were necessary. People kept saying that I must eat more, but these comments just infuriated me and made me more and more reluctant to eat in certain company.
The strange thing was that on some occasions my anorexia would let up, over Christmas me and my parents went away to a hotel for a few nights. I enjoyed myself and ate plenty of food and consumed plenty of alcohol. This contradicted everything and all my thoughts, it was as if deep down I knew that I could do this for a couple of days because the anorexia would soon kick in and work me even harder.
The hotel had a pool, mum said did I feel confident enough to have a swim, I didn’t understand what she meant, I was in no way embarrassed by my body, it didn’t seem like a thin body to me. When we got home I asked mum to take some photos of my body to see if it would help me see what I looked like to others and help me to overcome my issues. I looked at the photos but to me they just looked like a thin body which didn’t belong to me.
My relationship with Mike over Christmas was strained; I felt trapped and unsure where our relationship was going anymore. We spent a little time together but it didn’t feel right. New Year was awful for me; I dreaded the thought of going to someone’s house with Mike for a party as he didn’t understand my anxieties surrounding food. When I arrived at the party I straightaway felt like I was a leper with some dreadfully contagious disease. Nobody talked to me; people who had been my close friends at school blanked me and left me sitting on my own. I was so upset and just wanted to go home. Mike offered me no support. As the clock striked 12 I just wanted to cry, when Mike tried to kiss me I turned away. He had no idea what I was going through. He left me at a stranger’s house while he went out into town to the club; I was surrounded by pitying glances from adults. I just wanted to go home and hated every single one of them. People can be so cruel and that has and always will stick with me.
I had decided around Christmas to sign up for the Greater Manchester Run which was to take place on the 17th May. I got a place and was so excited. I was going to run for MIND, I thought it was a worthy charity and very close to my heart. I set up a group on Facebook and asked people to sponsor me. It seemed like such a good idea to do it and was really looking forward to it.
Referral
I began ‘training’ at the gym for the run. I was running 10k on the running machines twice a week. It was hard going, but I had to do it. My mind was telling me that it just had to be done. At the gym people would often look at me, I really didn’t know why they were… what was wrong with me? One morning I went as usual to the gym straight after breakfast, I was the first person there. The receptionist took my pass and put it to one side. He looked shiftily at me and said would I mind just waiting and having a chat to the manager of the centre. I knew what was coming and I just wanted to get out and run away. The manager came down and took me to her office. “Look Natalie, the gym instructors are concerned for your welfare...” I took a deep breath, “I have an eating problem- the doctor is aware of it and I am in the process of being referred to the Eating Disorders Service.” The manager looked relieved; she said to me that I could keep going to the gym if I had a session with “Paul” the gym instructor who could discuss different exercises I could do which would be better for me. I obviously agreed as I couldn’t live without the gym and exercise.
A few weeks later I received a letter for my referral to the eating disorders clinic. I was quite shocked and didn’t know what to do. Based in Chorlton, I was to see an eating disorders psychotherapist the following week. The experience was one of the most draining I have ever had. My appointment was at 11am. I was so glad as it allowed me to go the gym in the morning. I went to the gym, came back and then headed on my own to the centre. I arrived at the building and waited nervously in the waiting room. A man came to get me who looked so sombre and serious. I tried to smile at him, but there was no smile in return. I went into a depressing little office and was offered a seat. I sat down, the therapist sat across the room from me and said to me “what are you doing here?” I didn’t know what to say, I tried to explain my situation, but he cut me short, “no I want to know why you are here” I had no idea what he wanted me to say. I felt so tense and upset, what did he want from me?
The atmosphere could have been cut with a knife. Every comment he made, made me closer to tears. I was expecting him to be understanding and reassuring, but he was the complete opposite, I broke down and the tears just came flooding out. That hour was one of the worst of my life. I was so confused and my thoughts were in pieces. He talked about hospitals, dropping out of university, even death! The way he talked about my problem was as if I wanted this, which was so untrue.
I went home in a daze and rang mum, I couldn’t stop crying all night, all I wanted was to be at home with the comfort of my mum and dad and for things to be okay again. But to be honest, I had gone too far for things to ever be the same again.
Over the next few weeks I began having regular appointments with the therapist, each session was draining and the reality of how much the anorexia was controlling me became more and more apparent. The consideration of a hospital admission was mentioned on many occasions, however at the time it didn’t feel like it would happen to me! I remember some of the conversations we had surrounding gaining weight. “Would you like to gain weight Natalie?” I said yes but inside me my anorexic thoughts were screaming at me, no you don’t!! “What are you going to do to gain weight? Why don’t you eat more and exercise less?” the thought seemed ludicrous! He asked me what I had eaten the day before, I told him, it was toast, bowl of porridge made with water, apple and jacket potato with loads of vegetables. I had also spent an hour at the gym. Just thinking about what I had eaten made me feel guilty and was planning how I could eat less the following day. He said to me that I was having a deficit of calories everyday and would have to literally double my food intake to gain weight. He asked could I eat a chocolate bar on top of my usual food and do no exercise. I broke down in tears, of course I couldn’t. From that moment on, anorexia had well and truly taken its hold over me.
Eating anything that I didn’t think my body needed became a traumatic experience for me and made my life harder. Anorexia said to me that yes, I could eat the cake or the biscuit but I would be punished and pushed further down the line with a gruelling exercise session or harder food restriction the next day.
March
March... what a month. This was the tuning point for me between the possibility of getting better and the path that my life actually took. Mum was ill, one morning I woke up with this feeling that something was wrong with her. The niggling feeling lasted all day. Mum and dad were meant to be coming at the weekend to see me and to spend mother’s day together, I was so excited to see them. We had planned to go for a meal and have a lovely day in town. When they turned up I knew something was wrong. They tried to hide it and say mum just a little under the weather, but there was more to it than that I could tell. Mum said she was having these strange pains in head. Mum and dad were staying in the hotel near me and after the meal, mum wanted to go back and go to bed. She looked really ill. I just wanted to go back to my room way from her; I couldn’t cope with something being wrong with mum.
The following morning I hoped and prayed that mum would be better but I knew that it wouldn’t be the case. As soon as mum came to my room, I knew this was more than a headache. I gave her her mothers’ day present and began crying, this was not how things were meant to be. I wanted things to be how they used to be. Mum lay down on my bed. I told her she should go to hospital and mum agreed. On the way home dad was going to take her to Furness General. The tears just kept coming, I felt so annoyed, upset and scared. I just wanted them to go home and leave me with my best friend- my anorexia. I knew where I stood with it and could control that, Mum being ill, I couldn’t control.
The minute they had gone, anorexia stepped into help me. And I went on autopilot. Go to the gym, exercise. I felt as if by exercising I could somehow combat the reality of what was happening and make things ok.
Mum had been sent home that evening with a diagnosis of migraines. All week she was on my mind.
On the Wednesday night Rachel was holding a bar crawl as part of her charity module for her course. I was looking forward to it. I needed a night out and to try and forget all the bad things that were happening around me. I got so drunk, I had never drunk so much in my life. When I think back now, it was really dangerous with my low weight. I had a great night from what I can remember. The following morning I woke up feeling really awful. If I had been any one else, I would have lain in bed all day to recuperate. But the anorexia wouldn’t let me lounge around. I got up and walked the 45 minutes into town. I felt awful and probably still drunk. I felt so guilty at the alcohol I had consumed and all those empty calories! When I got back to the halls I laid down for the rest of the afternoon. I couldn’t wait for the next day and to feel better again and to get back to my normal routine.
All evening I felt funny, not myself at all. My head was sore, my body aching and was shivery. I went to get ready for bed, whilst changing into my pyjamas I noticed a rash all over my body. I tried to stay calm, but the more I looked at my body the more spots I saw. I rang Rachel and asked her to come over. She walked in and I showed her, she was trying to be calm. She rang the on call tutor who came over. I felt so scared. Rachel put her arms around me and I felt so vulnerable and frail, I thought I had meningitis. Before I knew it I was being whisked away in an ambulance to be checked out at the MRI. I held Rachel’s hand the whole time. As I went to see the doctor, Rachel asked did I want mum and dad to know, I said only if there is something seriously wrong. I didn’t want them worrying anymore about me.
The doctor looked at me all over, and came to the conclusion it was definitely not meningitis but probably the effects of the night before taking its toll on such a little body. He looked at me sadly and full of sympathy, and as I left the examination rule, He said to me, “Please take care of yourself.” This was one of those events that I look back on now as a sign that I was in desperate need of help.
The Easter holidays were meant to be a time for me to recuperate and be looked after. We had booked a holiday to Majorca for 10 nights, to be away from Cumbria and home and just to rest. However things didn’t turn out like that.
Mum was still feeling ill, and if anything was getting worse. I remember the day she rang me. It was a Tuesday afternoon she sounded awful and I said to her that she needed to go back to hospital, and not take coming home as an answer “Do this for me mum please.” I know she hated the thought of being in hospital but it was what she needed. She agreed, she rang dad to come home from work. Whilst waiting for dad, she stayed on the phone to me, she sounded so scared and I just wanted to be with her.
My head was all over the place, I went down for tea but couldn’t eat a thing, I just pushed the usual potato around the plate and then threw it away, I was so scared about what was going to happen.
Dad rang me and said that mum had been kept in hospital, we both tried to keep calm on the phone and stay strong, but the moment we had finished. I just fell to the floor and cried my heart out thinking of what my poor mum was going through and I felt it was my fault. All the stress of having a messed up anorexic daughter was taking its toll.
I stayed at university until the end of the week. Mike came to stay, it was meant to be a really nice couple of days together, but the whole time my mind was on mum. The day we were coming home mum was having a ct scan.
The moment I walked in to the kitchen I knew something was wrong. Dad came into the lounge, “what’s wrong dad?” “They have found something on the CT Scan Nat.” I threw my stuff on the floor, ran to dad and broke down in hysterics.
We got straight into the car and drove the 28 miles to Furness Hospital. The tears began again as I walked on to the ward and saw my mum laying there. She looked so ill and I couldn’t stand to see her like this. She was on a ward full of old women, this wasn’t my mum, she wasn’t like all these old women around her. Mum explained that they couldn’t make out what was seen on the CT scan so she would have to have a MRI scan to find out what it was.
Everyday we travelled to see her, it was so sad to see her stuck in hospital and feeling so ill. The time me and dad spent at home was awful, every time the phone rang we worried that it was something wrong with mum, that she had took a turn for the worse and we were so far away from her. I just went on autopilot. I was like a machine. I cleaned, I cooked, and I ran. My food intake had decreased drastically but there was no one there to really notice. My main priority was to make sure that dad was ok, I didn’t care at all about myself. I literally got up threw on the same jogging pants and hoody and tried to keep busy.
The day mum was due to have her MRI scan; Mike had taken me back to Manchester to get all my stuff for the Easter holidays. The whole journey there and back I sat in silence worrying about mum. When we got into my room I broke down in tears. Mike put his arms around me and tried to comfort me. He said he was so worried about me and needed to take care of myself as that would be what mum would have wanted. On the way home mike dropped me off near the hospital. I had text dad loads in the day to try and find out what was happening and what had the MRI shown but he hadn’t text me back. I was shaking and so tense… It must be bad news. I sent dad a text saying was everything okay and received no reply, it was a sign that bad news was coming. I began running in the hospital up to the ward. I ran to mums bed and grabbed her hand.
The doctor hadn’t been around; I was so upset and angry as I had built myself up for bad news. About half 4 the doctor arrived, he pulled the curtain around the bed, my heart was pumping. The cyst on your brain isn’t the problem. I burst into tears and threw my arms around mum. The feeling of relief was overwhelming. If the outcome had been different I have no idea how I would have coped.
Spring Term
A couple of weeks before the run my uncle came to have a training session with me. He was a keen runner and had run marathons. I was looking forward to it. The day before he rang me up and asked what I was eating to make sure it was enough for the run. I said pasta and he said that was ok but to make sure it was a good size portion. To me 15 shapes was enough with no sauce, only veg.
He told me for breakfast to eat a bagel and a banana, preferably the bagel to have cheese on. I agreed and headed out to Sainsbury’s.
When I arrived at the supermarket the usual feeling of dread entered me. The supermarket was like a nemesis to me, I would often spend hours wandering around it, picking up products studying the nutritional content before leaving with nothing. It was like an obsession, I would enter Sainsbury’s feeling hungry but leave with the feeling that I didn’t need to eat. I looked at the bananas- 100 Calories, I looked at the bagel 250 calories. The thought of eating all this made me feel sick.
I purchased the two items, I felt I had to do it.
The next morning I woke up and reluctantly ate the banana and bagel, it was like torture. I couldn’t wait to run to begin burning it all off.
My uncle arrived and we went for a jog around the park, we talked about fitness and training and he kept emphasising the point that you need to fuel your body and put enough in whilst running. I wasn’t listening though, I understood what I needed to do, I just couldn’t actually do it anymore- the anorexia had control over these rational thoughts.
In my mind I thought we would run for miles, but it felt like no time at all before my uncle said we should call it a day. I was worried that it wasn’t enough exercise for the day- I needed more.
After the run, my uncle asked where we were going for lunch. I began panicking, lunch hadn’t been mentioned! There was no way that I could go and eat. I had my day’s food planned out!
“ I cannot go out for lunch, I am meeting my friends for Sunday lunch at 4” this was a complete lie as Rachel and my friend Anne had gone to Blackpool for the day. I was going to sit in my room alone as that was easier for me. My uncle left and I felt relieved that I could focus again on myself. I began my usual routine of thinking about when I would next eat and exercise. Constantly getting up and down whilst my body and brain were being engulfed with the usual feeling of tiredness which I had come to accept as normal.
Later that evening Dad rang me and asked how it went, I said it went well. Dad asked where we went for lunch, I said my uncle had to shoot off- dad left it there. Something seemed wrong and dad was quiet. About an hour later, the phone rang again. There I was in my room alone and lonely with torturous thoughts of food swimming around my head. Dad said my uncle wanted to speak to me, that he was worried- then he broke down. He had said I looked so frail and in no fit state to run the 10 km, he was worried about what could happen to me. He hated leaving me and regretted not taking me home with him to look after me. That was it, I began to cry and the words came out “I wish he had” I couldn’t cope being on my own anymore, being locked away inside my anorexic body.
The reality was however that no matter how much people warned me against the run and tried to persuade me not do it, I was adamant to go ahead and run it. In a way I saw it as a way of proving that I could focus on something other than my anorexia and that I could be proud of something as I didn’t feel proud of what I had become. I hated myself and felt so pathetic and useless that anorexia could just come into my life like this and take control.
The Run
The following weekend was the run. Mum and dad came up on the Saturday and we went into town. I was so edgy and anxious. All day my thoughts were on food.
In a way some of the comments that my uncle had stayed in my head and the week before the run I had eaten a little more than I had in previous weeks. However this would have made no difference to my actual weight as my training had increased.
We went to an Italian for a meal and I had a pasta, I tried to force it down to prove that I could still eat to mum and dad. Then it was dessert time. They brought over the dessert menus and I froze. The thought of actually putting a spoonful of cake or cream in my mouth and ingesting it made me want to cry- I couldn’t do it. Everyone else sat around me eating and I sat hating myself that I couldn’t be normal anymore- nice occasions involving food were just painful.
Back in my room that evening, I prepared my stuff for the following morning. I got out my vest which had my name on the back and I couldn’t wait to wear it and be part of something special to me.
The next morning I ate a relatively big breakfast for me- porridge and banana. Rachel and mum and dad came to meet me and we all made our way down to Deansgate for the run. I was nervous and excited. Mum took a picture of me standing by the circuit and I felt so proud of myself- I was going to achieve something!
I was in the third wave of runners. I positioned myself. Then things all became a bit of blur to me…
The starting pistol was fired and I set off. I remember running slowly trying to dodge into gaps as it was pretty packed at this stage. People were cheering and there was music playing. I went around the bend and then I fell. The man directly behind me tripped and pushed me. My little thin body went flying to the floor and I hit my head hard on the pavement.
I got up in absolute shock. I saw Rachel running towards me with mum and dad behind. I turned to face the man and began yelling abuse at him. I remember saying “you have no idea what you have done, you have fucking ruined everything. This was my chance to do this for me, you’ve fucking took that away from me.” The man looked bewildered. But I couldn’t stop how he could have done this to me!!!
My head was throbbing, I felt sick and completely inconsolable. I felt completely out of control. Mum put her arms around me as I screamed and yelled. I shouted “mum I banged my head, this is it I am going to die!!” we began to look around for someone to help us. I was crying hysterically and I really thought that I was going to pass out any minute and die. An usher pointed us in the direction to a help stand where me and mum went off on a golf buggy to the st johns ambulance. Dad and Rachel followed. I sat in the van in pieces. I looked at my arms and legs which were cut and dripping with blood and my trousers ripped. The paramedic checked me over, gave me an icepack for my head and bandaged my bleeding knees and arms. I just wept onto mums shoulder.
Eventually Dad and Rachel found us and we made our way home. The weather had turned horrendous, the rain was torrential and it was cold. We were all drenched through. But I didn’t care; I didn’t care about anything anymore. It was like a black veil had been placed over me and I could no longer think about anything.
I couldn’t go on I cried all the way home. I just couldn’t stop. I think that was it- that was the point where my illness had gone too far. I really needed help... or had I gone past help?
On returning to halls, I said to mum and dad that I had to come home. I couldn’t bear to be alone any longer. I didn’t have the energy. I just wanted to close my eyes, not feel the pain anymore, not feel tormented- I actually thought it might be better if I just died.
I sat and cried most of the journey home. Thoughts and memories kept popping into my head about what had happened and it was physically painful for me. I felt so depressed, it wasn’t just that I couldn’t complete the run, it was the fact that it had been so cruelly taken away from me- my moment. My thoughts turned to exercise and food. I was filled with dread at the thought that I wouldn’t be able to exercise whilst so badly injured, at that moment I never wanted to eat again.
Another thing filled with me dread- I was meant to have another appointment with the therapist the next morning. Not only could I not go as I had gone home, but he had said that if I had lost anymore weight at this appointment, a referral for hospital admission would be made. I couldn’t face speaking to him, I hadn’t told him I was doing the run. I made dad ring for me in the morning and lie and say that I had had a fall. I had put off that dreaded appointment for now.
Holiday
All week I felt at the lowest I had ever felt. Mum was at work in the day which was good and bad for me. It meant I couldn’t be forced to eat or relax. But my head was filled with so much conflict and torment; it was like something inside had clicked that if I carried on the way I was going I would die. I so desperately wanted to eat more but the anorexia wouldn’t let me. I spent most of the week locked in the house trying to revise for my upcoming exams. I looked like a skeleton, withdrawn and a mess wearing the same hoodie and tracksuit bottoms everyday, as they covered up my ugly body. I avoided contact with everyone.
We had a holiday booked for the following week which was re arranged from Easter, it was a week in Majorca all inclusive. I was looking forward to it, to get away from it all and recuperate. I saw it as my way to get back on track and pile on the pounds to avoid hospital.
The night before we were due to go, I had my 1st bath in ages- something I used to really enjoy. It was so uncomfortable; every bone in my body was in agony sitting in the bath. My lose skin hung off my skeletal figure. I couldn’t even shave my own arm pits as the skin was too close to the bone. I called mum to help me shave my underarms and hold the skin for me. Just the sight of me made her break down and cry. She said I reminded her of her mum when she was old and frail before she died. The words hurt as it was the truth. I was living in a body close to death.
The day after we got back from our holiday I was to see the therapist again for the ‘make or break’ appointment. I was determined to gain some weight whilst on holiday.
I tried to eat more every day and even forced myself to eat foods that I had avoided for months before in an attempt to put on some weight.
The holiday itself was a strange affair. We all tried to have a good time, relax and enjoy ourselves, but in reality it was hard going for us all.
The meals were all buffet, which was a nightmare for me, I wandered around the buffet tables for ages, piling my plate with food that in reality I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat. I felt stressed and tense the majority of the time. If I wasn’t trying to force myself to eat food I was thinking about it. I felt as if I was constantly trying to battle against my anorexia and it was wearing me out.
It was hard trying to relax. I wanted to be on the go all the time and felt restricted. I would constantly be up and down, saying I needed the toilet or I had left something in the room, any excuse to walk about really.
I had a drink on holiday, some nights consuming far too much wine for my little body, it seemed that when I had had a drink I could forget what I had consumed and feel ok for a few hours.
At times I felt really poorly on holiday, my head felt dizzy and my body ached. I tried to hide it from mum and dad and pretend I was fine. I don’t know what was causing me to feel so bad, I think it was a mixture of physiological and psychological issues. I just wasn’t feeling right.
I was cold all the time. I couldn’t at any time wear just my bathing suit and the idea of going in the pool or the sea was out of the question. All my clothes were age 10, which was embarrassing when I saw children wearing the same clothes as myself.
People stared at me all the time; some looked with pity, others in disgust. It was so humiliating for me and my mum and dad. They also were looked at in disgust as if they had made me like this. It made my dad particularly bitter and he had to bite his lip many times.
The thing that hurt the most was that I was very ill; I could have had cancer or a disease that was causing me to look like I did. I hadn’t chosen to do this to myself. People can be very cruel and unable to accept others, just because they look different and don’t fit in with what is deemed ‘normal’ in society.
The appointment
We arrived home Saturday night and on the Sunday I returned to my Halls of residence. It was my dad’s birthday so we went out for Sunday lunch. I had roast dinner followed by a chocolate brownie. I felt that I needed to eat as much as possible to know that I had definitely put on weight to avoid hospital admission. Sounds strange but it was like it wasn’t really me eating all this food, I had dissociated myself from reality that week to cope with the situation.
After lunch we went back to my accommodation and I thought I would quickly weigh myself after two weeks of not knowing my weight. I stood on the scales, and my heart plummeted. I had lost weight.
I couldn’t understand how that had happened, I had eaten loads of food, I convinced myself that there must have been a problem with the scales and when the therapist weighed me the next day it would show that I had put on pounds.
The appointment seemed more daunting now and I was scared, it was decided that mum would stay with me and accompany me to the appointment- just in case.
I felt so guilty; dad went home alone on his birthday.
That night me and mum slept together in my single bed. She put her arms around my tiny frame and wept silently. We both tossed and turned, the dawn getting closer and the appointment ever nearer, I felt like a prisoner awaiting sentencing. I prayed and hoped that I would be ok, but I knew deep down what was going to happen.
Mum accompanied me to the centre. We sat and waited in silence. The therapist appeared from around the door and beckoned me over. I stood up and took a deep breath. I asked if mum could come in with me. He agreed but said he wanted to see me alone initially.
I walked into the dank little room and sat down. He stared at me. “you have lost weight haven’t you?” I looked down and shrugged. I hated how he spoke to me.
“Take off a few layers and stand on the scales.” I took off my shoes, jumper and hoody and got on the scales. I had lost weight from my last visit. He shook his head.
Hospital admission was now inevitable.
I didn’t cry as he told me, I had prepared myself for the news.
The thing that annoyed me the most was that I had eaten what I thought was loads the week before and still lost weight. I felt defeated and as if my efforts were wasted. I thought back to all the food I had consumed and wished I could throw it all back up.
He explained that at my current weight, it was no longer fat that was being burnt off, but muscle, therefore putting weight on now was near impossible on my own. For the first time I saw a glimmer of genuine compassion from him. He could see I had genuinely tried and this just felt like a kick in the teeth.
He went and got mum. She walked into the room apprehensively and looked from the therapist to me. The news was broken, there was a gasp and then a trickle of tears, mum looked at me and I grabbed her hand. The pain of the news was written all over her face.
I wanted to comfort her and tell her things were going to be okay, but to give her such reassurance would be false as I had no idea how this would end.
There were so many questions spinning around in my head, neither me nor mum had any idea what to expect. The therapist explained that the main hospital in the area was Cheadle Royal. There were different treatment plans available, however he was requesting inpatient care for me and I would be placed on the waiting list.
So that was it- I was to be admitted to hospital. I had brushed off his threats for months thinking that it would never be me and now it was happening and there was nothing I could do to change it.
My anorexia gave a cackle, it wouldn’t let up yet. It had created the illusion in my head for too long that I was invincible and that I could go on forever the way I was. But now it had revealed its true identity and it wanted more of me. The ugly reality of living with anorexia had well and truly been revealed.
Breaking the news
We left the clinic in a complete daze. I remember going to get a cup of tea. We sat in complete silence. So many phone calls needed to be made and people told, but in that moment we wanted to tell no one. Only me and mum knew and that way it felt as if we could still pretend that it wasn’t really happening.
When we got back to the halls, things needed to be done. First I rang dad, there was silence and then tears as he took in what I was saying. I have no idea how it must have felt for my parents to know that their daughter was going to have to do this.
Next was Rachel. I went over to her room; she stayed composed whilst I told her the news. I slipped out of her room and back to mum. A couple of minutes later she ran into my room, we all held each other and sobbed. All the things we had planned were being ripped away from us- nights out, trips, and the biggest worry our flat we were to live in together next year. We had already signed contracts and paid deposits. We were all entering the unknown, we hoped that I would live there at some point but there was no guarantee as we had no idea how long I would be in hospital for. Martin had said anything up to 12 months- this scared the hell out of me!
Later that afternoon I broke the news to Mike. I was so nervous and unsure how he would react. It is not news that many have people have to break to their boyfriends. After I told him, he stayed silent and then put the phone down. I burst into tears, confused as to what he was feeling. 10 minutes later he rang me back and said what I was dreading. “What am I going to do?” I was in utter disbelief, what the hell did he mean by that? “I don’t know if I can do this.”
I gasped, too shocked and angry to even cry. “Mike you are not seriously about to finish with me on the worst day of my life? What are you going to do?? What am I going to do; I am the one who is going to be locked away like a prisoner!!!” I couldn’t cope, I was mentally exhausted. I couldn’t bear to think about losing him at this time- it was just cruel.
I had no idea what I would do without knowing he was there to support me. Maybe I was asking and expecting too much but I needed all the help I could get.
Later Mike spoke to me again. He had had time to digest the news and regretted what he had said earlier. I understood where it had come from- the shock of such news must have been hard. I forgave him, but was hurt and fragile from the earlier outbreak. We both sobbed as we thought back to the plans we had made. It was meant to be a time when we could be together whenever we wanted as the past year we had been apart for so much of it. The pain was unbearable for us both.
I hated myself for being the cause of all this pain that had been inflicted on the people I loved. I looked at my pathetic body and wished I could get rid of it. I could barely stand the sight of myself. I didn’t deserve help; I had brought all this on myself.
Despite everything, my anorexia was already forcing me to think about when mum would be going home so I could return to my regime and lock myself away in my endless downward spiral of restricting and exercising.
I sat my two exams that week. I have no idea how I managed it, but in a way it was like therapy. It took my mind off hospital and anorexia by throwing myself into revision. I ate miniscule amounts and returned to the gym. My weak body was aching and crying out for rest, but I powered on regardless. It was as if I was possessed- a demon inside me who had taken control of all rational thought to push me to my limits. It was as if before I entered hospital my body was to be completely worn out- but I couldn’t stop myself. It was like a cancer gnawing away at my inner thoughts, with each day that passed it was getting closer to consuming the whole of me.
Home
The weekend after my exams I went home. I had no idea when I would be going into hospital or which one- the choice being Cheadle Royal or The Priory in Altrincham. I was on the waiting list, but with NHS beds being at a premium, it was not known when I would be admitted.
Being at home was hard. I couldn’t sit still; I wanted to continue to be constantly on the go. Normal thought processes no longer occurred, I just felt like a shadow of my former self. I could feel the effects of my illness more and more each day and I really wanted to break away from the psychological torment. I longed for the day when I would get the phone call to say that there was a bed for me- I knew it was my only hope of beating my illness- I was too weak to do it alone.
Something inside me had clicked. Even though I continued to starve myself and exercise, my brain knew I shouldn’t do it and I was slowly killing myself. My anorexic brain wanted me to do one thing, whereas the other side wanted me to stop.
Each morning I woke up in anticipation that today would be the day that I would get the letter or call, and each day I received nothing. Then one morning a letter arrived from Affinity healthcare. I remember opening it and feeling relieved that eventually my recovery could begin. I scanned the letter and burst into tears- it was not the news I wanted. I had waited three weeks to receive a letter saying that I must go for an assessment in another three weeks to see if I needed to be put on the waiting list for inpatient care. I couldn’t wait that long, something inside me knew that if I waited until then it could well be too late. I was inconsolable. Mum knew how hard life was for me, she rang the hospital to plead with them for an earlier appointment. After much persuasion we got an appointment a few days later at Cheadle Royal for the assessment to take place.
At the assessment I was terrified that they would not deem me ill enough for hospital admission. We arrived at Cheadle Royal, a strange place for us all as my granddad who had had Alzheimer’s had spent the end of his life in the hospital almost 20 years before. The place was full of sad memories for my parents already- they didn’t need anymore from the place.
I was assessed by a young female doctor. She asked me lots of questions and recorded everything I said. She examined me physically and mentally. I was weighed and my BMI was recorded on that day at 13.8. After my initial private assessment, my parents joined us where she discussed with us the admissions process and the treatment available at the hospital. She informed us that I was to be placed on the waiting list and would be contacted when a bed became available. So again I was sent home to more waiting and hoping that the call wouldn’t come too late.
I visited the therapist on one more occasion, my weight hadn’t dropped again which he said was good, but to me it felt as if I had failed. The anorexia stabbed at my brain, “you are slipping, you are losing, you must try harder!”
Night out
Towards the end of June I decided to go back and stay in Manchester one more time for a night out with friends. The day before I had my haircut into a bob, it got rid of all my long straggly hair which was falling out in clumps. I looked nice-well as nice as I could look.
I got the train on my own, mum saw me off. As the train moved away she broke into tears. I had no idea at the time why she was crying, but looking back the tears were through fear. She was worried for me, as there was a real possibility that I wouldn’t actually make it through a night out.
I got off the train at Oxford Road. My bag was too heavy for my little body and I could barely lift it. I remember walking to the bus stop and my heart beat was erratic. Each beat shocked me, one beat then nothing, then a few seconds later another erratic beat would occur, I could feel it in my throat. I tried to push it to the back of my mind and relax, but deep down it was niggling away at me.
On reaching my old room, the dreadful memories flooded back. My room was more desolate than ever with just a few things left. I lay on my bed and fell asleep for an hour. This wasn’t like me, but I was just exhausted, my weak fragile body couldn’t really cope anymore.
Later that afternoon I met up with Rachel and Anne. They commented how lovely I looked and we all pretended that it was going to be a normal ‘fun’ night out, but deep down I was full of apprehension.
First it was cocktails and food- well food for them. I had eaten a cheese spread sandwich before coming out as the prospect of eating in front of people who I didn’t really know was impossible for me. People stared at me, I felt so separated from everyone- isolated and trapped by my thoughts. I tried so desperately to act normal and put on a brave face, but my stress and tension was rising, with every sip of the sweet drink I took I thought of the calories and fat. I felt sick and wanted to go home.
Afterwards we headed into Manchester, we had planned to go for a meal, then finish the night at a club. We sat in the restaurant. I looked at the menu my heart pounding. I ordered a salad- stipulating that I wanted no dressing. It all became too much, I couldn’t pretend to be normal. I wanted to go home to where I felt safe. I was out of my comfort zone and the anorexia was engulfing me.
My salad came and I sat and looked at it. I studied each item and worked out the calories. My calorie intake each day was between 600 and 800, and I had decided that that was a substantial amount to sustain myself on. As this particular day was a ‘no exercise day’, the calories consumed had to be less. Each mouthful was draining. Each component on my fork was thought about and assessed before consuming. I could never nibble on anything as that would have to be worked into my daily limit. I looked around at everyone else eating normally and enjoying themselves. I didn’t deserve to be there or to have the food in front of me.
Rachel could sense there was something wrong. When we on our own for a minute she asked was I ok. It all came out then, tears began to fall from my eyes, “I don’t know anymore, I think I need to go home.”
I tried to act normal and be upbeat for the remainder of the evening. After the meal we headed back to Ashburne to get ready for the night out. We agreed to meet in an hour, but I knew that I wouldn’t be joining them. Instead all evening I lay in bed, wrapped in my duvet and in a strange drifting sleep. I very rarely slept properly, I woke on many occasions. I went to the toilet, I drank water, I tried to ignore the hunger pains in my stomach and generally worried. My body longed for sleep, but it was the one thing I couldn’t do.
I had secretly put my gym kit in my case. The following morning like all those other mornings I went to the gym. Upon arrival I was informed that new equipment was being installed so there were only a few pieces in use. I toyed with the idea of not going in, but the anorexia forced me to plough on and I did half an hour on the exercise bike and rowing machine. My pathetic body exhausted. This was the last time I entered the gym.
Time Running Out
Back at home I was at the end of the tether. Any thoughts of food filled me with dread. I ate the same foods everyday and had a set routine. I had 1 weetabix with water, a sandwich with cheese spread and a tomato, an apple, a small main meal (for example if it was chicken and potatoes, I would have the chicken and a couple of potatoes) and then sometimes later in the evening I would force myself to eat a cereal bar or rice cake. I loved to make food, I made cakes and always made our evening meals. I would go into the cupboards and fridge and feel, smell and sometimes lick food, just imagining myself eating it. I had become obsessed watching others eat and would even sometimes get angry when they left anything.
Mum and dad just left me alone and no longer tried to make me eat. They were grateful that I actually ate anything. There was nothing they could do or say that would make me be less active or eat more. Anorexia was me, it had consumed me- nothing else mattered or registered with me except food and exercise. It was like having the same awful record playing in my head all day with no stop button.
Most nights mum slept with me. I was too cold to sleep on my own, wearing thermal pyjamas and fleecy socks in the middle of summer. I was also scared at night- terrified that I might not wake up. During the night I noticed that my heart beat so slowly, I was worried it would stop. I would lie there with my hand on my chest urging it to beat again, to keep going and not let me die. In the morning it was as if after some rest, my anorexia grew in strength and would take control again. I was adamant that I was fit enough to exercise and would cycle to the next village and back which was an eight mile round trip up and down hills. Each day mum and dad became more anxious that I wouldn’t come back. I remember on one occasion dad yelling at me that I couldn’t do it, that I could easily get knocked off or suffer a heart attack. I knew it but the anorexia inside me wouldn’t let me stop.
There was one occasion this week that stuck in my mind and always will. Mike had asked me to go round to his house for a barbeque. I couldn’t go for the meal as I no longer could cope with eating anywhere or anything unknown. I didn’t want to go at all, I couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting with people trying to be normal and talking about plans for summer when I was to spend mine locked away in an eating disorders hospital. I began to cry as dad drove me around, I felt I was being forced by mum and dad to go- they said I had to. I had text Mike earlier in the day a few times asking would he come and wait out the front of his house for me as I was so nervous and didn’t want to walk in alone. He wasn’t outside. I opened his front door and walked through his house to the garden. There was silence, everyone stopped and stared at me. Never in my whole life have I felt so crap. I couldn’t believe that Mark or his parents couldn’t have warned people about my illness. I sat down on edge and could see people giving me glances. I wanted to go home straightaway, I felt sick and faint. As I sat there, as I expected the conversation turned to holiday plans. Mike’s Aunty turned to me and asked what I was going to be doing, “I am going into hospital.” She looked shocked. I couldn’t believe no one had told her. I was mike’s long term girlfriend and yet there was no support there from his family at all.
On July 3rd my nana and granddad came to see us as they were over for a week. We were supposed to go and spend a week with them in July and we had the flights booked and paid for, however with my hospital admission unknown and imminent it couldn’t be done. When they arrived they tried to hide their shock and upset. They kept it together until it was time for them to leave. I began crying uncontrollably and nana and granddad cried too. Although it wasn’t said, we all thought that this could be the last time we see each other as I really was on the brink between life and death, any more weight lost and that could be it for me. The unthinkable was a possibility that they could outlive their only granddaughter. It was a poignant moment for us all.
The week after my grandparents visit, my health drastically deteriorated. I had so little energy, it was becoming a struggle to get out of bed and stay standing. Each time I ate anything I began to feel sick and dizzy like my body could no longer digest food properly. I spent my days in the conservatory trying to keep warm.
On the Tuesday I felt awful- I was freezing and in pain. In the afternoon I went back to bed, fully clothed with the duvet around me and a hot water bottle and drifted in out of sleep. Mum made me a doctors’ appointment for later that afternoon. At the doctors I was weighed and checked over. My BMI was 13.2. I was sent for a blood test.
Friday morning I received a call from the head of the practice Dr Jones. She said she was very concerned about my blood results and wanted me to come in immediately to see her. She explained that my blood tests were worrying. My sodium levels were low. I was severely anaemic and deficient in Vitamin B, but never before had my sodium levels been low. She had spoken to the eating disorders consultant at Cheadle Royal and he too was concerned.
I was unsure what this meant and was confused. She explained that she wanted immediate admission to hospital. She was pushing the consultant to find me a bed however it wasn’t looking good. She said that if I couldn’t be admitted to a specialist unit tonight then I would have to go to the local hospital until a bed became available for monitoring and to raise my sodium levels.
She sent me away with the assurance that she was trying everything within her power to get me a bed at Cheadle Royal that night. She was to contact me later with an update.
I left the surgery trying to take in what she had said. It was going to happen- hospital admission was imminent. I went home and packed. I had been slowly getting ready all week, but now it was becoming a reality I didn’t know what to take.
At 4pm I received a phone call from Dr Jones. She had secured me a bed at Bury Hospital! I was completely shocked- this hospital had never been mentioned. I had prepared myself for Cheadle not Bury, I had researched the treatments and the hospital facilities. I was entering the unknown, and I was scared. The hospital was going to ring before 5ish to give details and I should be ready to go not long after.
I rang dad at work and calmly explained what was going on. He was flapping and I just stayed really calm and told him not to rush home. I said that tea would be ready for him when he got home and then we would go. It was as if I was merely saying I was popping out for the evening.
The car was already packed as the following morning we were meant to be collecting the keys and moving my stuff into the flat in Manchester. I sat in the back, surrounded by stuff for the flat which I was not to see or use for the foreseeable future. I sat in silence the whole journey, feeling numb. I couldn’t quite register that I had just had my last day of ‘freedom’. We pulled off the motorway at junction 2. On the 10th of July at 8pm I entered the High Bank Centre in Bury. The next chapter was about to begin…..
Hospital
The centre was a two storey building situated behind an old grand frontage. We entered the building and we were taken into a small room. the depressing room had no windows, a flickering light, 2 chairs and a bookshelf with books about anorexia.
We waited for a long time on our own. There seemed to be some confusion about what to do with me as they couldn’t get in contact with the consultant with it being out of hours. A lady came into the room, she introduced herself as one of the nurses and advised us that it could be a long night. She asked would I like a tour and she showed us around.
The place was deadly quiet. I thought I would see other patients, but there was no one around at all. I don’t really know what I expected but it wasn’t this. It comprised of a kitchen, a large conservatory which had a few sofas and a glass dining table and a room that looked like a classroom. It seemed very small and did not feel like a hospital which in a way was a relief. We returned to the little room and were left alone again. I was so exhausted, trying to take everything in was draining me.
Another nurse came to see us at 8.30pm. She introduced herself as Jane and she instantly had that warmth that helped to put me at ease. She explained that I would be able to go up to my room once I had been weighed. She handed me a gown made of a blue coarse material. I had to be completely naked with just the flimsy translucent gown to cover me. She took my height which was 151cm and weight which was 28.9kg. My BMI was 12.2. I thought my weight might have been less than this and my anorexia wanted more from me.
When I had dressed again, Jane wheeled in a wheelchair which alarmed me- I wasn’t disabled! I was told that I was to be on ‘bed rest’ for now which meant minimum movement on my behalf. I had no idea what that really entailed at the time. I sat back in the wheelchair and was pushed to the lift to take me up to my bedroom. I was wheeled into a small room which consisted of a bed, bedside table, desk, chair and wardrobe. It reminded me very much of student accommodation. Joanne said to me that most girls bring things to decorate the room and make it feel more like home. I was told to lie on the bed, I sat on it but Jane insisted that my bedrest started immediately and I had to lie down. It already felt restrictive.
Another member of staff, a carer called Lizzie came into the room and helped to get me settled. She emptied my bags and searched them for banned items. It felt so intrusive. Paracetamol, deodorant, razor, chewing gum and tweezers were all confiscated along with my straighteners and hairdryer.
It was heading towards 9pm. Lizzie handed me a list of food items. I stared at the list, trying to take in what I was being asked to do. “Right Natalie you need to pick one of these items for a snack tonight.” I gulped; the thought of eating anything of this list filled me with horror. The list included things such as Quavers, Milky Way and jaffa cakes! How on earth could I eat them- the calories, the fat!!! After a long hard think I decided to have an alpen bar with a cup of tea, it seemed the most ‘healthy’ option in my head.
It was getting late, the consultant was an hour away so it was decided my parents should go home. They were stopping with friends in Northenden and looked exhausted. It was a strange departure, even though mum and dad was upset to leave me, there was a feeling of relief. We all knew it was the best place for me and I couldn’t do myself anymore damage.
The doctor arrived and the questions began. The consultant, Dr A bombarded with questions surrounding my illness and my present physical and mental state. I was so tired I just wanted to sleep. My reactions were tested and I was fastened up to an ECG machine and a BP machine to check my blood pressure, oxygen levels and pulse rate. My BP was low and my pulse was fluctuating between 40 and 45 beats per minute. The doctor said that things were ok, but then he said something that stuck with me the whole time I was there. I had to be on complete bedrest for the foreseeable future because the reality was that any stress at all on my body could cause my heart just to stop. This really shocked me. I had no idea that that could happen. I thought back to the past few weeks where I had been exercising excessively with my pulse barely being raised and realised that I was so close to death!
I was getting increasingly tired so the doctor said that he would leave it for the evening and let me get some rest. I was handed a folder with lots of forms to fill out and sign to give my consent to treatment. Even if I had not signed these forms I couldn’t leave the Priory. My BMI was below 15 and that means that if I had refused to go, I would have been sectioned under the Mental Health Act!! I really didn’t have a choice in the matter anymore.
As I was to be on bedrest, I was moved to a bigger room with an en suite that was empty. I was wheeled to the room and placed on the bed like a doll. I got into my pyjamas and put into bed. The place was eerily silent.
I longed to close my eyes and go to sleep and forget that I was now trapped in this place but there were things left to do.
I was thrust a menu for the following day, each evening a menu for meals the next day was to be provided and choices made. The menu was read to me, there was a choice of 2 things for lunch and 2 for dinner. I was to be on quarter portions for meals and half snacks; I had no idea what that meant and entering the unknown was unbearable. I was to have 3 meals and 3 snacks a day at regular intervals all to be taken in bed.
I can still remember exactly what I chose and the reasons behind my choices. I chose for breakfast rice krispies as I knew they didn’t have many calories in them. For my first snack I chose an apple and one jaffa cake, this scared me to death but the other choices all seemed worse. For lunch I chose cottage cheese and toast, it seemed ok and not too fattening. This was to be followed by fruit salad. For afternoon snack I chose dried fruit, this was by far the safest option, however my brain was starting to panic that I was consuming too much sugar now. For tea I chose chicken in a sauce with rice and vegetables followed by rice pudding. The stress was beginning to rise at the prospect of consuming all this food. My last snack of the day was to be an Alpen bar again. I felt sick, scared and wanted to go home. I didn’t know whether I could actually do this.
I tried to settle down and prepare for sleep but I just couldn’t switch off. Not only was I on bed rest I was also on one to one observations until further notice. This was to make sure that I wasn’t harming myself or others. At all times somebody was to be present in my room watching me and recording my activity every ten minutes. I had to leave the bedroom light on. It was very disconcerting being watched all the time. I needed the toilet, I was watched and my urine was collected and measured. All night I tossed and turned, trying to forget where I was, but it was impossible. I felt like I was a prisoner or an animal in a zoo- constantly being stared at.
Entering the Unknown
The next morning after restless night, I was awoken by another stranger in my room. She told me that I had to get up, got to the toilet and change into my blue gown to go and be weighed. I was helped out of bed as I wasn’t allowed to even move on my own due to my fragile state as excess movement could weaken me further. I went into the shower room and was watched. I was parched and desperate for a drink. I went to put my head under the tap for a sip of water, but the carer grabbed me and said sternly “you cannot do that Natalie.” All my liquid intake was controlled and measured out down to the last millilitre and excess water could alter my true weight. I felt so upset- even the right to have a drink when I wanted had been taken away from me.
I was wheeled downstairs like an invalid and was weighed. I found the whole experience daunting. I stood on the scales and my weight flashed up in front of me- 27.8 kg and a BMI of 11.8, my weight had dropped over night! Joanne looked at me and said that she was expecting my weight to drop in the morning; my time on bed rest was going to be a little longer. I had to reach a BMI of 13 before I could go off bed rest, it seemed like I might be bed bound for a long time.
I returned to my room, got dressed as we weren’t meant to stay in out pyjamas all day and got back in bed. I had nothing to do- no books, music and my tv didn’t really work. I just sat and stared. My body was so tired that even to think took too much energy.
It was scary, the routine being unknown. Staff members changed hourly and I had no idea what was expected of me- I just wanted to be left on my own. I was examined by the next on duty nurse and my BP, temperature, blood sugar and pulse were all noted again. My BP and pulse were still very low.
Anxiety levels were further increased by the prospect of breakfast. It arrived at about half 8 on a tray. The contents shocked me. There were rice Krispies in a bowl, a cup of tea, a glass of orange juice and a jug of milk! I began to panic, I could just about cope with rice Krispies- but not orange Juice! I was told that I also had to consume half a pint of semi skimmed milk a day!! It was all too much, the thought of consuming this much food made me wretch. Milk was a food I avoided along with all other dairy products. I looked at the tray and the tears fell. This was going to be a battle- each day I realised I was going to have to face this and that scared the hell out of me.
Each snack and meal was torture and each one harder than the last. I remember sitting looking at the apple and jaffa cake, crying my eyes out and pleading with the carer to let me not eat it. I just couldn’t see how eating ‘bad’ foods could make me better. With each mouthful of food I took, I wanted to hurt myself. I grabbed at my stomach and just saw in my head the fat building up- an ugly mass of blubber. One day in and I felt so restless, I wanted to leave the bed and run around.
Emergency
All day my obs were constantly checked and I kept being asked was I okay. There seemed to be concern regarding my low bp and pulse. I kept saying I just felt tired. I wanted to be left alone and didn’t want to be fussed over. Mum and dad spent the whole day with me. We talked about all sorts and made plans as to what I wanted them to bring to make me more comfortable. More than anything we tried to be upbeat and focus on the positives.
The day was almost over. Mum and dad looked exhausted and I felt awful that they had spent all day locked in this room with me. They were spending the night again with Irene and Dave. I persuaded them it was time to go, they needed a break and a relax. Irene was going to make them a nice meal. I said “go and have a lovely evening, I’m in the right place, I will be fine. Relax and have a glass of wine tonight, don’t worry about me.” They agreed and left. I settled down in front of the tv in bed. I couldn’t wait to get to sleep- I was absolutely exhausted. After a better nights sleep I was sure that I would be fine again.
Another nurse came on duty at half past 8. She came and introduced herself and monitored me again. Lizzie was working again and both she and the nurse were chatting away to me whilst the equipment was attached and then they both stopped and looked concerned. I instantly felt concerned- what was wrong with me?
“Are you feeling okay Natalie? Light-headed, exhausted, achy?” I felt a little of all of these things but had just put it down to being over tired. The machine began to beep really loudly, beep! Beep! Beep! And it would not stop. I looked at the machine confused and very worried. My pulse was dropping below 40 beats per minute. It was fluctuating between 42 bpm to 38 bpm. The nurse took the machine off and left me to eat my snack. An hour later she returned and I was fastened back up to the machine. I was so sleepy and just let her fasten me up as I drifted off to sleep… then the beeping began again and my pulse rate kept falling. I vaguely remember looking over as the nurse and Louise stood in my door way whispering.
I just longed for sleep, I had an overwhelming urge to close my eyes. Each breath was using up what little energy I had left and I wanted to stop. The beeping was constant. I closed my eyes and drifted…
I was awoken by a gentle tapping on my shoulder. I was confused as to what was going on. As Asian male placed his hand on my shoulder, “Natalie, wake up darling. We are going to take you to hospital, your pulse is really low and we need to get you checked over.” I tried to get up, but my body just wouldn’t move- I was petrified. I grabbed the doctor’s hand, his warm fingers encasing my skinny hand. He bent down next to my bed and stroked my hair. I asked him was I going to die- I thought I was about to. He looked at me, a look of sorrow on his face and said “ we need to get you to hospital, we are doing all we can, but Natalie this is what happens when you are this ill. If you carry on like this then, yes, you will die.” I couldn’t believe he had said that. There was a real possibility that I had pushed my body to death.
Two female paramedics came into my room. They stood and talked to the doctor and then came to get me ready. Lizzie wrapped me in my dressing down and got my belongings in a bag for hospital. The paramedic picked me up and placed me in the wheelchair. She picked me up like a child and I felt like a terrified little child, I grabbed my teddy and clasped Lizzie’s hand.
I was moved to the ambulance and Lizzie followed. The doors were closed when I was inside, it was explained to me that they wanted to do some checks then Lizzie would be coming along to the hospital with me. I lay on the stretcher and was fastened up to an ECG machine; my bp and pulse were alarmingly low. It was decided that I would have to receive an adrenaline injection. I was shivering and shaking- I couldn’t believe this was happening. A catheter was fitted to my wristwith great pain and a large injection was administered. I felt a cold sensation run up my arm as the adrenaline entered my body.
Lizzie got in the ambulance and we set off to Fairfield General. I felt light headed and delirious, the paramedic placed the oxygen mask over my face. My pulse had increased a little from the adrenaline.
On arrival at the hospital I was transported on the stretcher to the Accident and Emergency ward where I was admitted by a young doctor. She asked me lots of questions but I was too tired and confused to give comprehensive answers. Again I was fastened up to an ECG machine; the children’s machine was used. The nurse picked up my t-shirt and placed the little sticky tabs on my painfully protruding ribs, tears in her eyes. She put the pulse sensor on my finger, but my pulse was so weak it wasn’t registering on the machine. She tried on my toes, but they were numb so no pulse could be found. My heart was so close to stopping.
It was decided a chest x-ray was needed and blood tests carried out. The doctor came over with her injection needle and containers for samples. She put the elastic band around the top of my arm and pulled it tight. She tapped my arm, asked me to squeeze my hand into a fist- anything to encourage my veins to show. She stuck the needle in, she sharp implement scraping at my paper thin skin and retrieved a tiny sample. She stuck it in another vein, again only the tiniest amount of blood could be taken. My veins were so tiny and thin that taking blood was near impossible. She tried around 8 times in both arms and then tried from my legs. My body was in agony and covered in purple bruises.
As the doctor pulled back the curtain, my mum and dad were standing by the entrance to the ward. Dad ran over to me and stoked my head. I just laid there, staring into space, letting the situation wash over me. Mum and dad were struggling to comprehend that they had left me a few hours earlier feeling positive and safe in the knowledge that I was okay, to my lying in hospital with a potentially fatal pulse rate. I didn’t want them to have any more stress, so I told them nothing about the adrenaline shots to stimulate my heart. Mum and dad held my hands tightly.
The doctor returned and informed us that there had been nothing found on the blood tests or x-ray. I was to be kept in overnight for monitoring. Mum and dad left me. I could see they were trying to be brave and not cry as I’m sure the thought in their minds was that this could be the last time they saw me. I smiled at them- dad said I had the look of an angel on my face as if a glaze had come over me and numbed me. I had come to accept that this could be my time. This thought makes me cry now, but I remember the feeling so well and at the time it was almost comforting. I was willing to let go if it was meant to be. In a way it was like a near death experience. The pain had drifted away, the only thought that filled my head was the longing to rest and feel at peace.
The Ward
I was transferred to the observation ward. I was wheeled into a darkened room, attached to more machines and set up with a drip. Lizzie sat next to me and stroked my hair. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, I curled myself into a ball trying to block out the noises and lights around me.
The strobe lights flickered back on and the morning routine had begun. I had barely slept and felt worse than ever. As the curtains were pulled back from around the beds I looked around the rest of the ward. I was surrounded by elderly ladies, all frail and weak, never in my life had I so much in common with people 60 years my elder. The difference was however that their fragility had come through the natural process of ageing, whereas mine was self inflicted.
I had made it through the night, which was something I suppose. In the night my pulse had dropped to as low as 28 bpms- Scary.
As the morning moved on, it was getting closer to breakfast and the horror of not knowing what I was to eat filled me with dread. Just before breakfast, Lizzie left me and was replaced by another carer called Maggie. The breakfast trolley came and Maggie asked which cereal I would like. I looked at the boxes and felt my panic rising. I chose rice krispies- low in fat and calories. I sat and ate the cereal, willing my brain to forget that I was eating and leave me in peace.
I was emotional and exhausted. I needed the toilet and the effort and energy it took was unbelievable. Maggie helped me out of bed and took hold of my drip. I thought I was going to faint walking to the toilet, my whole body was exhausted like never before. I clung to Maggie’s arm putting all my weight on to her. She came into the bathroom with me holding me up as I sat on the toilet as I was so weak. Never in my life had I felt so useless and dependent on somebody else.
The morning dragged. I had to have a morning snack. Maggie found me 2 rich tea biscuits, there was no choice. With each mouthful, my anorexia punished me, making me hate myself more and more. Mum and dad arrived later; they looked relieved to see me alive after the ordeal of last night.
All around me old ladies moaned and sighed. Some were in obvious pain. Family visited some, others sat alone. I was so grateful to be surrounded by my family at that time.
We sat and waited for the doctor to do his daily rounds. Eventually he appeared around 1pm. He rushed on to the ward, looking rather stressed, picked up the files and began making his way around the beds.
I was left until last. He picked up my notes, scanned it, threw the file down and stared at me.
He got straight to the point, “Natalie, you got brought in for an extremely low pulse. To be honest this is not something to worry about in your current condition, it is very common. If your heart was going to pack up, it would have done so by now, it must be a mighty strong muscle.”
His face became even more serious and his voice abrupt with his next statement- “all these tests have been carried out on you, but the cause is staring us all in the face Natalie- your Anorexia. If you carry on starving yourself and abusing your body in this way you will be in this hospital with major complications, you will need to be on a life support machine as your organs won’t be able to cope under the strain and you will die.”
The words hurt more than a slap in the face. I knew it was the truth, but coming from the doctor it felt even scarier and real. I had to overcome this illness if I wanted to survive.
“I know doctor, this is it, I am at my lowest point. From this day on I am going to get better. I am going to eat and look after myself- I don’t want to die...” I had said these words before, but for the first time I really felt like I meant them and could carry out the vow I had just made.
The doctor said I could be discharged and taken back to the Priory. His words stuck with me as he moved away and the tears fell. I could tell that he didn’t think I could do it, it was almost as if he thought he was wasting his time treating me as he saw me as someone who was on a path of self destruction and would ultimately kill themselves. I am sure he had seen cases like me many times before, many with tragic endings.
As I lay there in that bed, I realised there was something separating me from other sufferers. I was determined, I always have been. When I set my mind to something I will see it through. On the outside I may have been a weak, 28 kg walking skeleton, but on the inside I was strong and was determined that Anorexia would not take all of me. It had taken as much as it could but it wouldn’t take my life. I would prove to all those that think I was a lost cause that I can and would defeat this demon.
My Second Chance
On returning to the unit I just wanted to sleep. I was relieved to be back in my room and able to rest.
The next few days passed with pretty much the same routine. Each morning I was woken up and wheeled down to the weighing room. My weight was recorded and then I returned to my room. I had a wash with a flannel whilst sitting in the wheelchair in the shower room. I was not allowed to have a shower or a bath as it used too much energy which in turn was weight I couldn’t afford to lose. I then got back onto my bed to wait for breakfast. After breakfast I was not allowed to move at all for an hour, I couldn’t go to the toilet or even sit on the edge of my bed. Then snacks would come, again no movement was permitted for half an hour after this. Lunch would arrive and then snack, then dinner and then finally my last snack at 9pm. All day I was monitored and checked. There was always someone present in the room with me. There was never a moment when I could just be on my own. At night I had to sleep with the light on and was not allowed to sleep on my front so they could make sure that I was still breathing.
With each day I was becoming increasingly anxious and stressed. It really began to take its toll on me being constantly watched. I wanted some time alone. One of the most humiliating things was going to the toilet; to not even have that privacy was unbearable for me. In the end it became too much.
The carer stood by the door, I was desperate to open my bowels, but couldn’t in front of somebody else, let alone someone who didn’t know me. I was severely constipated and in pain. I began to cry, I begged the carer to leave and let me finish my business in peace, but she refused to go. I couldn’t stand her stood there watching me, I got up and got back on my bed and stayed silent all afternoon. I didn’t want to talk to anyone; I didn’t want to be nice. I wasn’t a criminal- I was ill and all I asked for was two minutes on my own. I hated this place.
Each day rolled into the next. Mum and dad came to me everyday. They gave me an update on the flat me and Rachel were to share. Hearing what they were up to in the ‘outside world’ was the highlight of my days and I imagined myself with them.
Going into hospital was not what had been planned for my summer break. We had planned to spend a week in Ireland with my grandparents. Then the next week was meant to be spent with my aunt Ali and my cousins. I really missed them and couldn’t wait to have a week with them. However admission put a stop to these plans. The thought that I had ruined so many peoples plans gnawed away at me and made me so annoyed at myself. The family all still came to see me though. They spent the week at the flat with my parents who were using it as home for a while. Each day they would visit me. The whole family would crowd around my bed. We would talk and have a laugh. They came with gifts most days, they brought posters to brighten up my walls, flowers and smellies. They also brought me a Blondie t-shirt. At that time the T-Shirt would have hung from my skeletal figure, but I kept in my drawer, it was like a goal that I would one day where that t-shirt and it fit me.
As the week drew to a close I was getting closer to facing up to two scary prospects. The first was that mum and dad were to go back home and would only be able to come and visit me at the weekends. The other was that my weight had stabilised on quarter portions, this meant that my portion size would have to increase to half portions. It sounds like nothing but the thought of having the amount of food placed in front of me doubled scared the hell out of me.
On the Sunday, a week and two days after admission, my biggest fears both were realised. The food was the first major hurdle I had to overcome. I felt physically uncomfortable with the new portion size. My tummy ached; I had wind and felt sick- my stomach was literally being stretched again. Then it was time to say goodbye to mum and dad, I had no idea how I would cope without seeing them everyday, they literally were keeping me going. As I gave them there last hug, I decided that I could do this, I still had my large roast dinner to go which I was dreading but I would do it for them. Mum and dad seemed quite calm at leaving me and although they were upset, I think that deep down they knew I was in the best place and that it was the only way that they could get their daughter back.
The next few days were hard. The food was unbearable; I felt ill and was really lonely. Before my hospital admission, Rachel had given me a parcel to be opened when I felt like this. I decided that the time had come. I opened the parcel, inside was a heart necklace, a letter and lots of little bits of folded paper. I read the letter and cried my heart out. It was so honest and full of love. I read it a few times and put it in my drawer. The meaning behind the little folded papers was explained. Each one was a motivational quote, some were famous sayings, others made up by Rachel, they were for times when I had had enough and things were getting too much, I was to open one and read it. Over the course of my hospital stay I opened them all, and each time I did I would smile, refocus and plough forward.
Been on bed rest was frustrating and lonely. I was sick of talking to the carers and although some were lovely, I wanted to meet other anorexia sufferers. The girl in the room next to me was also on bed rest. I had never seen her, in the day we both sat in our rooms and we both wanted to meet one another. One afternoon I was allowed to be wheeled into her room for half an hour so we could have a chat. I was very shocked at what I saw. The girl sat on the bed looked excruciatingly thin, I thought her figure was even more skeletal than my own. We sat and talked, she had been on bed rest for nearly a month already. It made my week and a half seem insignificant. Even though to look at her I was shocked, my anorexic brain pounced on me and began the prodding at me again, “look at her, she is thinner than you, she did better.”
Even though it was nice to see other patients, it was also tiring. When I was wheeled back into my room for lunch, I felt exhausted already.
Being in an eating disorders hospital was about more than just re-feeding and getting to a healthy weight. The psychological treatment was of major importance. To overcome anorexia, both the body and the mind have to be treated.
Counselling was one of the main aspects of my treatment. The first time I met Kath the counsellor was a few days into my stay. I had just had morning snack and as usual was in a dark, depressing place, hating myself for eating the usual apple and jaffa cake. A lady of middle age bounded into my room, she was slender and well dressed. She introduced herself and I instantly felt comfortable in her presence. She put me at ease as she sat in the chair by my bed and began to talk to me. The conversation flowed and meandered over many topics, nothing being delved into too deeply, however the dust from the surface of my complex illness was beginning to be brushed away. On that first meeting she left me with 3 tasks to think about: the relationship I had with my anorexia, the positives and negatives of living with anorexia and the future without anorexia. She said I didn’t have to complete the task if I didn’t want to, but I was itching to get my thoughts down on paper. I loved to write and found that whenever I wrote things down I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Each time we met for a session from then on I was set a similar task to challenge my Anorexia and I thrived on this.
I was given a diary and I decided to write in it each day. It became very important to me. I would write about the monotony of my day, but also write about my mood and inner thoughts. On days when I was particularly struggling, I would pour it out in my diary and it helped to soothe me.
I also liked to create my own kind of self help sheets. I wrote key statements on cards such as the importance of food and reasons why I wanted to get better. One statement card which I used like a mantra was a statement that Dr A had said on the night of my admission; it was to think of food as a form of medicine. When I was struggling and looking at a plate of food that I couldn’t bring myself to consume. I would get out this card and mouth the words over and over to build up the strength to do it.
As a child I loved creative writing and I found that my experience was making me have some of the flare back again. I wrote many poems around my anorexia ranging from a few lines to 2 pages. Each one helped me to get out my emotions and make sense of my illness and what had and was happening to me. One day I read one to my mum, dad and Mike, the raw emotional words hitting everyone’s hearts and left us all sobbing. The poem told the painful truth of anorexia and the effect that it had on me.
The days felt never ending on bed rest. I was very lonely; everything seemed harder when I was away from other people. At meal times it was especially hard as there was only me and my own torturous thoughts. I felt I was the only person in the world who was eating this amount of food and that was hard to deal with. I longed to have someone else there to see that there were other people dealing with the same things as me.
About two weeks into my bed rest my weight stabilised on half portions. Two mornings on the run my weight had stayed the same. It was like a constant uphill struggle and I felt I would never be off bed rest. It was quite shocking though to think I was doing absolutely nothing except breathing and yet I still wasn’t gaining weight. A portion increase was inevitable, I was to move to ¾ portions and it felt like a huge leap for me. I tried to keep the thought in my head that if I didn’t do this then I would never get off bed rest and after two weeks of staring at the same walls I was going insane and getting very depressed.
Moving to this portion size was considered the hardest transition to make, and for me it definitely was. Breakfast leapt up to cereal and toast with jam and butter and a whole pint of milk!! Sandwiches increased to 3/4s and potatoes increased to 4. It seemed like ‘real’ portions and I really couldn’t cope. Many times I wanted to give up and let my anorexia rule me again. I felt really fat and despised my body, to me I felt like I had ballooned up, whereas in reality I had gained little more than a few pounds.
After each meal I was so uncomfortable, I was bloated and my stomach was in agony. It was so uncomfortable being in bed all day, my skin was becoming raw and I had to keep moisturising constantly to avoid getting bed sores. I felt constantly emotional and sensitive to the slightest thing. From the moment I woke up I thought about the day ahead and wanted to cry. It was a horrible feeling, constantly feeling anxious. The mornings brought the stress of weighing and the evenings the stress of choosing what I was to eat the following day. There was no let up.
Health Anxieties
Not only was I dealing with my anxieties around food, ever since my night in hospital I had become very concerned about my health. I was sure that my heart was going to stop. I kept most of my worries about my heart to myself as I didn’t want to have a repeat of that night. I would lay in my bed, my left arm severely aching and my chest hurting. I could feel my heart at times pounding and beating erratically. I pleaded with it to slow down and return to normal but it wouldn’t. I was sure that I was to suffer a heart attack. The vein on my arm would stick out and I would look at it, just wondering what was going on inside me and hoping that I wasn’t about to die.
Support and Motivation
For all the challenging issues going on in my head, there were some moments in the day when my spirits were lifted. Most mornings I received a little gift or card from friends and family. These little things really helped to keep me motivated and I really was blown away by the support people showed me.
Each weekend my mum and dad would come and see me. They would spend whole days in my room. Just hearing them talk about the ‘outside world’ made me long for freedom and although it upset me to think I was missing a whole summer, it helped keep me determined to get better.
Rachel came to visit me with mum and dad one weekend. She brought me loads of DVDs and books to read. We sat and had a giggle. She brought in things to show me that she had bought for the flat like a cocktail set and we sat and planned all the drinks we would make and the parties we would throw. I hoped for both our sakes that it could be the reality one day.
Mike’s Visit
The first time Mike came to visit me in hospital was the third weekend into my stay and I was still on bed rest. He came on his own all the way from Cumbria for the afternoon. He was very apprehensive before his visit as he envisaged the place, like many would to be like an asylum.
I was really looking forward to his visit. The carer did my hair, painted my nails and tidied my room for me. He walked into my room, his eyes already filling up. I was tired and in pain after lunch, but on seeing him I tried to be more alert and forget about my discomfort. He took my hand and sat tentatively on the edge of the chair next to me. We talked quietly. We missed each other so much. It was getting close to my snack time and when Mike would have to leave. He hugged me and I whispered to him that he could hold me, I wouldn’t break. He wrapped his arms around me and scooped me onto his knee. We sat in silence, tears streaming down my both our faces, me on his like a little doll curled up and his arms surrounding me. I wiped his tears away and he mine. I buried my head into his chest and inhaled his familiar smell. I longed to be back in his arms for good. I was left alone after his visit for another week locked in this building, but also locked in my own thoughts.
Downstairs
My third week on bed rest and it was becoming unbearable, I felt trapped. Eating was becoming harder, not a meal went by when I didn’t cry and I felt huge. My BMI was around 12.8 and even though it was close to the 13 which was what I needed to be to leave bed rest, it was still going to be another week realistically until I could go downstairs, and a week to me seemed like forever. My Blood pressure was getting really high, dangerously high in fact and the nurses were concerned that my anxieties could become threatening my health. My BP had jumped from being around 70/40 on admission to at times being as high as 145/100!! This was driving me mad as I was adamant that my heart attack was imminent and being alone on bed rest just caused me to dwell on these thoughts.
It was decided that I was to be allowed downstairs for meals to see if it helped my anxieties and mood. I couldn’t believe it!! I was ecstatic. I remember beginning to cry and thanking the nurse profusely. Although it was something so minor, to me at that time it meant everything to me. Just to leave the confines of my room and speak to other people was what I had been yearning.
The first day I was allowed downstairs was terrifying. What would the other girls be like? How would it feel to eat with other patients? I almost wanted to change my mind and stay in my room, my safe cocoon. I was going to go down for lunch. At 12 o’clock the carer pushed me downstairs in the wheelchair. I entered the conservatory, new territory as the only two rooms I had seen for the over three weeks had been my room and the weighing room. To be allowed anywhere else seemed such an achievement.
I had met the other patients briefly, but never really had the opportunity to get to know any of them. It was a mix of ages, backgrounds and ethnicities. The unit was only small, with only 10 females being inpatients at any one time, but being in a room with other people after my isolation was quite overwhelming.
The table was laid and we were called to come and sit down. I was pushed the short distance from the sofa to the table in my wheelchair. I had to sit on a pressure cushion at the table to help give my fragile bones and skin some support. As we all took our seats I looked around the table, it helped to think that we were all about to eat together, we all had to do it. As the food was brought out I was relieved to see that some people had bigger portions than me.
Everyone ate a different speeds and in different ways. You could see in everyone though anorexic traits. Some people wolfed down the food and were finished in a matter of minutes. I along with a couple of other girls took a lot longer. I chopped things into small pieces and ate one thing at a time. I couldn’t bring myself to eat more than a small amount at a time or any quicker. It was a real challenge to eat at all. Most meals took me on average over half an hour.
Before I came into the Priory I had developed a habit of leaving food that was in the let hand corner on my plate. I would move food to that corner, the amount placed there gradually grew with each meal and both I knew that I couldn’t eat that food once it had entered that quarter of my plate. In the Priory you had to finish each plate of food completely so I had to tackle this issue. I would eat everything from the left hand corner first to stop the temptation of leaving things there. I also had a way I liked my plate to be placed down I would arrange my plate so my vegetables were always on the left hand side, meat to the right and whatever was accompanying it closest to me.
After my meal I had to return to my room. I was wheeled away from the girls and back into my little cell. I couldn’t wait to the day I would be allowed downstairs all the time. For a few days the same routine was followed. Then the managing nurse came to have a word with me one morning after weighing. On three quarter portions I had been constantly gaining, and even though I wasn’t quite at the BMI of 13, it had been decided due to my attitude that I would be allowed downstairs all day from then on. I was ecstatic and emotional again, I was so happy. It felt like a giant leap forward to me. The dark tunnel that I was following seemed to be getting a little shorter and a light appearing in the far off distance.
All the other patients were so glad to see me downstairs all the time and it was really nice to see other people cared. The atmosphere downstairs on the whole was supportive. Three times a week ‘day patients’ would come to the Priory and spend the day there; they would have their meals and have therapy sessions. I looked at them and could not imagine that I would ever be better like them. As we spoke, it was almost unbelievable that they were at one time like me, sitting on a pressure cushion on the sofa, being constantly observed and so thin. They all looked so well, their bodies were still slim but looked healthy unlike my own. I envied them in many ways. In the afternoon they would return to the outside world, back to getting on with their lives whilst all us ‘inpatients’ were still locked inside the hospital, our lives on hold. Spending time with recovering patients helped keep me focused and determined to get better, to one day be a day patient and then eventually being completely free of the Priory- I longed for that day.
Activities
On the first Friday I was off bed rest it was an open day at the unit. This was a time for people who provided funding to the unit to look at where their money was being spent and encourage them to provide more funds. The managers wanted as many of the patients off site as possible.
One day a week a trip was planned for the in patients of the unit whose BMI was high enough and had been gaining weight throughout the week and responding to the treatment programme. There were 5 different activities planned- cinema, bowling, shopping, lunch out or evening meal out, they were carried out on a rota. Each activity was about encouraging patients to be able to do ‘normal’ activities when they were eventually discharged. For all the good being in the Priory does, the downside is it causes you to become quite instutionalised and stuck in a strict routine which isn’t really possible to stick to in ‘real life’ therefore these activities I felt were an important part of recovery to take part in.
On the Friday of the open day the trip was the cinema. I didn’t expect to go and didn’t really want to. I had no clothes as I spent all my time in tracksuit bottoms and baggy t-shirts, I wasn’t allowed to wash my hair on my own so it was only washed when a carer had the time to do it and I didn’t feel confident enough to go out in public. From starting my recovery I had began to realise how ill and ‘freakish’ I looked. I didn’t want people to have the opportunity to stop and gawp at me.
The girls were all deciding what to go and see; I just sat and read my magazine. The film was decided and the girls all went to get ready. The managing nurse came over to me and another patient who was at a similar stage of recovery (barely off bed rest). She explained that we just this once were allowed to go on the trip. I was shocked- half of me was so happy, it had been about a month since I had stepped outside the building and the thought of just leaving for a couple of hours excited me, however the other part of me didn’t want to go, I was scared of leaving the ‘safe confines’ of the unit.
Me and My Friend Decided to go
I was wheeled in my chair to my room where I put my jeans, hoody and shoes on. It was the first time I had worn shoes in over a month. I brushed my hair. I had no makeup with me. The nurse came into my room and explained that I would have to go in the wheelchair and sit on a pressure cushion at the cinema.
The taxis arrived. I was taken in the wheelchair. On arrival at the cinema, my carer pushed me into the cinema. I waited in the chair as we purchased the tickets and waited to go in. people were looking at us and I felt so self conscious. We didn’t look normal. We were all skinny and ill looking, we were all different ages and we were accompanied by two people in uniform- I felt like a freak and wanted to cry.
We went into the cinema where I had to sit on my pressure cushion on top of the seat. It was uncomfortable and I felt like I stood out. My chest and arm hurt, my heart beat was erratic- I was sure once again that this was it, that I was about to suffer a heart attack. The film flashed in front of my eyes, but I wasn’t really watching it- I was counting down the minutes until I could return to the Priory and feel safe again.
At 3pm we had to have our afternoon snacks- yet another embarrassment. We were handed our cereal bars and fruit. We looked so conspicuous, ‘normal’ people wouldn’t eat this in the cinema. The whole event drained me.
Ward Round
The days past slowly. Twice a week I would see Kath individually. These sessions were so helpful and helped me refocus. As each session concluded I felt like my anorexia was lifting a little. I was willing to take a lot on board and really try to defeat it- I responded well to therapy on the whole.
Three times a week we had group sessions- two relaxation sessions and one CBT session. The relaxation was helpful for me, I had become highly anxious. It felt as my weight increased, my brain became a little more alert and made me worry about my body’s condition. I tried to using the relaxation techniques to bring down my blood pressure which had become very high.
Each Friday a ward round was carried out. This consisted of Kath, the on duty Nurse and any other therapists who were present sitting around a table and giving Dr A a report of my progress. It was also an opportunity for Dr A to talk to me and ask questions. His questions often felt strange and unanswerable. I always tried to really think before I spoke, unsure what he would read into my answers. It only ever lasted about 10 minutes in my case, but it was daunting and stressful for me.
6 weeks into my treatment a CPA meeting was carried out. This was a more formal meeting and my parents and the therapist who had referred me came to the meeting. I walked into the meeting and saw the therapist who had referred me sat there sombre as usual. The comments made about me were positive and all were happy with the progress that I had made. Even though I was aware I had a long way to go as my BMI was still only 13.8, I could see that I had made progress and was pleased with myself.
The therapist sat and looked at me. He shook his head and said “it all seems as if it is going too well, something is going to go wrong.” I hated him and wanted him to leave, everyone in that room were aware that things could go wrong, but I was in the best place for me and I was a very determined individual who admitted I had anorexia and wanted to get better. He seemed as if he didn’t want me to succeed and get better. I decided there and then I never wanted to see him again- I would prove him wrong.
University was discussed in this meeting. Dr A thought it would be a good idea to defer entry for September. The general feeling was that I would be in the Priory for a good few months yet and therefore would be in no fit state to return to university. This upset me, but at the same time I knew it was for the best. I was unsure what I wanted to do and even whether I wanted to return to do the same course. This way I had time to think about what I really wanted to do with my future now I was going to have one.
Growing Pains
I was restless. The weight was starting to show on me. My stomach had ballooned and I had a little pot belly. I had been told that this would happen. The initial weight gain cannot be seen as it is actually going to the major organs to provide a layer of protection that had been worn away through starvation. Once this had occurred the body begins to create a layer of fat everywhere, however rapid weight gain does not allow for even distribution at first and therefore some areas are prone to become little fat stores, some people develop fat stores on the thighs, bum, chest and tummy. I thought I looked horrendous; a huge stomach on stick thin arms and legs. My t-shirts stretched over my stomach and I hated the sight of it. Eating became hard again, I would try and avoid looking at my stomach at all times and especially at meal times. It was hard to eat when all I could think about was the protruding mass of blubber that had accumulated. I tried to reassure myself that it would eventually even itself out and I would look like the day patient girls. I tried to believe it but I just couldn’t, I would be different, I would be the patient who becomes fat.
Even though it was torturous at times eating and coping with the challenges that I faced everyday in hospital, I never left a meal and never really complained. I realised that doing as I was told and responding well to treatment meant that allowances would be made. Each week at ward round I would be granted a little bit more freedom. I had been taken off one to one observations and placed on one in ten, this gradually decreased through out my stay to once every hour. At my CPA meeting, Dr A brought up the idea of an hour or so out with my parents. I couldn’t believe it… I sat on edge, hoping he would let me feel free for a couple of hours. A deal was made- I was allowed out for 2 hours that very afternoon and as long as I continued to gain weight over the weekend, I would be allowed the same on the Sunday afternoon. Mum began to cry, I was so happy, it really felt for us all that positive steps were being made towards my recovery. Rules were laid out though as to what I was allowed to do or rather what I wasn’t allowed to do. I had to take my pressure cushion and I was to do have no exertion what so ever. Dr A emphasised the point that walking no further than the car to a bench was allowed as anything more than that was not only tiring for me, it also may cause heart complications- my heart stopping still very much a real danger at this early stage of recovery.
The First Taste Of Freedom
I couldn’t wait for the afternoon to come around; I changed into a pretty top and jeans and waited for mum and dad to come and get me. I waited in the foyer, my afternoon snack in hand. They arrived, dad grabbed my pressure cushion and mum linked my arm to guide me to the car. It felt so strange to be out of the centre with no carer, just my parents, it was actually very daunting for me. We drove to the local town, I didn’t care where we went or what we did, just to be away from the centre felt amazing. All those days of sitting in my room for hours on end were behind us now. We sat in a park, I walked about 10 metres to the bench and my legs already felt like I had run a marathon. My couple of hours were over and I was returned to the hospital for my dinner, I was actually relieved to return to the centre, I had become used to the routine and the feeling of safety. I was already looking forward to the Sunday and prayed that I would put on weight the following mornings- some tactical choosing of food would be undertaken.
I gained the following two mornings, my BMI wavering around 14.1 now. On the Sunday we went for another drive and I had an experience which I would never forget. We stopped a pub for a drink. I longed for a glass of diet coke, not being allowed fizzy drinks Priory made the thought of them a real luxury. I took a sip; the taste that hit my mouth was amazing. I took a huge gulp savouring the mouthful. The taste was amazing, it was unbelievable how much I appreciated that one glass of coke, but it was an amazing experience. Mum and dad laughed and said how great it was to see me look truly happy for half an hour. I wanted to be able to do this all the time again, I wanted to be able to drink coke when I wanted, I had had a taste of freedom and wanted more!
As the week went on and Friday was almost upon me again I hoped desperately that I would be allowed out again for a few hours at the weekend.
Ward round on the Friday seemed to be never ending and my turn felt like it would never come. The centre had filled up and for the first time in my stay so far all the rooms were full. It was getting towards 3pm and I still hadn’t been seen. I was very anxious as I had sat in the lounge the whole day just waiting. Friends returned happy that they were going on leave, some were allowed home for the weekend others for a week. I didn’t expect that, but I just wanted a few hours away.
Half past 3 and my time had finally arrived. I walked into the room, sat and was quizzed as usual by Dr A. He asked how I was feeling, how I felt about eating and had my thoughts changed at all. I was honest and said that eating had become a little easier, I wasn’t constantly obsessing over every item of food and ate everything I was given without much fuss, but things were still hard. I wanted to be honest as I didn’t see the point in lying. I wanted to get better and although I couldn’t wait for the day I left hospital, I knew that if I hadn’t tackled the anorexia properly then I would just become ill again- there was no point fooling myself.
Dr A then asked what I wanted to do at the weekend. I looked at him, unsure how to answer… “I would like to spend some time with my mum and dad.”
“How much time?” he said.
I didn’t know what to say, “Well as much time as you are willing to give me.”
He looked right at me “would you like the weekend?”
I was flabbergasted; I was so shocked and couldn’t take in what he had said. I thought that any second he would change his mind, so I grabbed the opportunity with both hands, “I would like to have the weekend at home.”
He asked did I think I would be able to cope. Did I think you will be able to eat and not lose weight?
They were big questions and I couldn’t answer with a definite yes. All I knew was that I would give it my best shot; it was my opportunity to show that I could beat my demons and succeed. “Yes I can do this.”
So it was all agreed that I was allowed to go to the flat in Manchester for the whole weekend. Dr A requested that I did nothing whilst at home, no exertion. I literally was to go from the car to the flat and to the car for my return. My BMI was still only 14.8 and excess exertion was still very dangerous for my frail body.
Weekend Out
It hadn’t quite sunk in that I was to be free for two nights. I rang mum and broke the news to her. She was speechless. It was more than my mum and dad could have hoped for. I felt so choked up and full of emotion- things really felt like they were moving forward and I was another step closer to defeating my illness.
Mum and dad came to collect me at 7pm. I couldn’t wait to go, but at the same time was scared to leave the safety of the hospital. I sat very quiet in the car, I began to feel unwell. It all seemed strange and surreal to be out and I wasn’t sure that I could cope.
The stairs to the flat seemed never ending. I had only been using the stairs at the hospital that week. I walked slowly, petrified that I would exert myself. My heart hammered in my chest, I pleaded with it to slow down.
I walked into the flat, I hadn’t seen it since the initial viewing and I let out a little cry. It all looked so pretty. Mum and dad had worked so hard to make the flat nice for me, they had cleaned it thoroughly and bought lots of things to make it more comfortable and pretty. I couldn’t believe I was actually there, 2 and a half months and I had made it out to see the flat.
I sat tentatively on the sofa looking around trying to take in my surroundings. Mum and dad scurried around sorting things out and making their tea. It felt so strange to be away from the confines of the Priory. I switched on the TV and tried to relax but the whole evening felt abnormal for me.
I watched the clock head towards 9pm. I played with the idea of skipping snack, my anorexic brain teased me, tempting me to not have it. I tried to push the thought out of my head; I couldn’t fall down that path again. I decided to have cereal like I did in the Priory with half a pint of milk. I poured out my portion, anxious to be in control of what I was to consume for the first time in months. I sat at the table and made my way slowly through the bowl of cereal in front of me.
As I changed into my pyjamas for bed I gazed at my body in the mirror. It was the first time I had looked at myself in a full length mirror for months. In the Priory we were only allowed face mirrors and there were no mirrors on the walls. I studied every inch of my body. I looked at my bloated little stomach and skinny arms and legs and tried to work out how I felt about my weight gain- I was unsure what to think.
That night as I lay in bed with mum next to me, I tossed and turned. My heart beat so hard in my chest, my body temperature rising. I was certain that I was about to die.
I awoke at half 7 in the morning after a restless nights sleep. My body had become trained to wake up in time to be weighed. Mum brought me a cup of tea in bed and we sat as we always had together sipping our teas. Mum and dad looked so relieved to have me with them.
It felt strange to get up and not be weighed. part of me was relieved, but another part of me was anxious that I didn’t know whether I had lost weight or gained, even a point of a kilogram to me was significant. This conflicting feeling was there every time I had leave from the hospital.
For my first weekend out I tried to stick closely to my routine and diet that I followed in the Priory as I didn’t want to lose weight and jeopardise future weekend leave, everything was a game of tactics. I had the same breakfast of cereal and toast with jam and butter. Mum laid it all out for me the same as was done in the Priory, preparing my own meals was too daunting. After breakfast I sat, I could feel my heart rate rising and my head feeling slightly light headed. I put my hands on my chest willing my heart to slow down. I hated feeling this constant stress; this should have been a joyous occasion. I should be feeling better, but I just couldn’t let go of my anxieties.
I spent the whole weekend relaxing in the flat; I simply had no energy to do anything. I longed to feel active and full of life again, but I just couldn’t. The more time I spent in hospital, the more I realised how exhausted and worn out my frail body had become. Even climbing the stairs or walking to the bathroom was a major effort and my body needed time to recuperate. The energy I had before admission was only an illusion created by the anorexia to wear me down.
Food wasn’t easy. Away from the Priory those niggling anorexic thoughts preyed on me. I was weaker away from the Priory and the temptation to give in seemed to beckon me. I ploughed on regardless, trying to eat as much as usual but it was a challenge. At times I felt emotional and longed to scream that I had had enough, I had gained all the weight I wanted. But I knew that if I did this I would be back on the slippery slope which I had fought so hard to climb back from and I didn’t want that.
On Sunday afternoon, Rachel came to the flat. We all had lunch together. It was a challenge for me as it was the first time I had eaten a proper meal in front of anyone else for a long time. We talked about our future plans for the flat; they seemed a little closer to reality. I longed for the day I could stop at the flat for good. I knew deep down though that I wasn’t ready, my body was still too ill and my mind still not up to coping alone. I was glad to be returning to the Priory.
As soon as I returned to the Priory it felt more than ever like prison. To go from ‘freedom’ to being back on a secure unit felt strange. I sat and ate my Sunday dinner under regulations. I had to have ‘supervision’ time and half hourly checks were made throughout the evening.
I felt restricted and claustrophobic. Inside the main topic of conversation was food. We either discussed what we were to eat or what we had eaten. We talked about our favourite foods and restaurants, fantasising about Ben and Jerry’s or mars bars. We were all obsessed. At times it felt over overwhelming, especially after being on leave and having normal conversations with normal people. I just wanted to switch off and not think about food for a while.
I slept awfully that night. Not only did it feel strange to be watched, I was so worried about the weighing in the morning. As I waited in the queue my heart raced. I stood on the scales. I had gained 0.2kg! I was so relieved. I hoped this gain was my ticket to another weekend of freedom.
After my second weekend on leave, I was introduced to the dietician. From then on I was to have one to one sessions with her to discuss my food phobias and try and overcome my irrational thoughts and habits.
A lot of what she told me I already knew. I was aware of how much I should be eating and what I needed to eat. Like many anorexics I could plan what other people should eat to be healthy. I sometimes even wrote down eating plans for other people. The thing was though that I just couldn’t bring myself to actually take heed of the information and eat more. I believed that this was what other people should do, I was the exception. The anorexia had warped my way of thinking.
Some of the information she provided me with was shocking though. I remember one sheet in particular, it was all about BMIs and how the affect that low BMIs have on the body both physically and mentally. The sheet was laid out like a timeline, the lower down the page the lower the BMI. In the middle of the page was BMI of 15, this was called the borderline. Above this point the body can just about cope, health problems are common and serious but not usually life threatening. However below the threshold, which was where I had been for months was a different story. The chance of serious health conditions increased drastically, the brain suffers as brain function is severely reduced, heart problems are common and the need for specialised care usually inpatient based is needed, normal thinking processes no longer occur at this point.
I looked a little further down the page. A BMI of 10-11 has a short affect next to it- Death Imminent.
The words glared off the page. I was so close to this when I entered the hospital, a few pounds and I would have entered this category and according to science my body should have actually ceased functioning. When I saw that it hit me hard. I desperately wanted to get further up the page above the threshold and away from death. I was making progress every day and was further from the bottom than a few weeks previous, but I still had a long hard slog ahead of me. These little shocks made the idea that eating was my medicine and my way to freedom began to sink in a little more and I was beginning to believe it. Anorexia was loosening its grip ever so slowly.
Changes
Each day that passed I grew in strength both physically and mentally. The clothes I had arrived in no longer fitted me. To make this transition easier for myself I bought new clothes. It felt good to actually be able to get things that weren’t age 10 for a change.
My personality was slowly returning, I found it easier to communicate and comprehend what people were talking to me about. I could think about other things other than food. I could smile and at times actually felt happy.
I began to take an interest in my appearance again. No longer did I want to leave my hair looking lank and greasy or wear my jogging bottoms constantly. I wanted to look pretty again.
I was allowed out every weekend and soon I would be allowed to spend more nights away from the hospital. As Friday came around again I had a new proposal for Dr A. I had really grown in confidence in his presence, i had gained on every occasion on leave and I felt I could ask outright for what I wanted. My request was to spend the night out in the week with Mike. He agreed and I was over the moon! I was to spend the weekend with mum and dad and then spend the Tuesday night out with Mike- I couldn’t wait.
I couldn’t wait for Mike to arrive. Mike hadn’t seen me in weeks and I looked very different from the last visit. I put on a new top and leggings, straightened my hair and put on some make up. I looked at myself in my little mirror and hoped I looked nice.
When he arrived, he swept me into his arms, and held me. I inhaled his familiar smell and felt safe. Mike couldn’t believe how much I had changed in those few weeks. My body was no longer quite as frail, and that was a relief for Mike who was so scared before that any little squeeze could break me.
It was strange to leave the Priory with just Mike, as usual I felt apprehensive at the prospect of spending the night with Mark alone away from the unit. We went into Manchester in the day. We walked a lot and I felt exhausted as we made our way back to the flat, I had forgotten how much energy being in the city all day uses.
That evening I felt closer to Mike than I had in a long time. We kissed and caressed each other, the desire and love for one another stronger than ever. I had not let Mike so close for a long time, I hadn’t felt physically or mentally well enough, but I could feel myself returning. We lay in bed together, Mike held me and I knew that we belonged together.
The next day the prospect of returning to the Priory filled us both with dread. Before we left to return we both cried our hearts out. We held each other, the thought of being apart again killing us both. I wanted to stay with him, in our own little bubble just for two.
I hated returning to the Priory by this point. I now was allowed to leave for up to 5 days, sometimes I stayed in Manchester with mum and dad, other times I went back to Cumbria. It felt weird being in my old room after so long. The memories of those nights I had spent in there before I had gone into hospital flooded back and I felt emotional. It was strange how the littlest thing could trigger painful memories for me. Back in Manchester every time I passed Ashburne Hall, I felt sick and upset. I could barely stand to look at the place as for me it held memories that I wanted to forget- to me it was the place that almost killed me. Any positive memories from there would always be tarnished in my eyes.
Thinking Time
I constantly challenged myself on leave and in the Priory. I had developed in confidence and had become more assertive. Being in the Priory gave me time to think. I used my time to really think about my future and had made some big decisions. The first being I wasn’t going to return to university to study environmental management, I had hated it the first year and didn’t want to return to spend another 2 years of my life miserable- I had learnt that life was too short. The second big decision was that I had made up my mind that I never wanted to return to Cumbria, even though I wasn’t going back to university I didn’t want to go home to live. I hated the insular village life, most of the people and the isolation. I wanted to stay in Manchester. I broke the news to mum and dad and they at first were a little upset, but they understood and told me that they were seriously considering a move back to Manchester. Some might say that this was madness, but for all of us it felt the right decision. We had done 6 years in the country, it had served its purpose but it was time to return home.
My thoughts around food were changing. The haze that had formed through my anorexia was slowly clearing and I could for the first time see how dangerous my diet and lifestyle was before. I had begun to understand that foods aren’t ‘bad’ and eating anything in moderation would not make me gain weight. The dietician talked me through my basal metabolic rate and the amount calories I needed to consume daily to gain and then maintain my weight.
I was shocked how many calories actually needed to be consumed just for the body to function. I needed to consume around 998 calories a day even if I was in bed with my eyes closed all day just to provide my body with enough energy to breath and my organs to function. It was shocking to think that a few months before I was eating around 600 calories and exercising vigorously. To actually carry out ‘normal’ activities such as walking around the house or going to work would require about 1500 calories. If I was to exercise then this would need to increase to around 2000 calories! A little saying stuck in my head which was whatever you take out has to be put back in. if I wanted to maintain my weight once I was at my target weight then I would have to make sure that the amount of food I was eating coincided with what I was doing. Over time this has been harder than I ever imagined it would be.
My target weight was an area of contention between me and Dr A. As I edged closer to the time of discharge it was brought up regularly. Dr A wanted me to be 45kg, but to me that was far too much. I was willing to possibly stretch to 43kg but no more and I was adamant about that. The prospect of being 45kg filled me with dread, I hated how I thought my body would look at the stage and I truly believed that I would not be happy at that weight. At this point I was around 37kg and I felt ok about my body. I still sometimes found it hard to comprehend that I had gained weight, I would stare at my stomach and pinch it, not sure whether I liked the stomach that had formed. I tried not to dwell on it and tried to associate the weight gain with getting my health and life back, but it was a challenge.
Dr A had advised 45kg to give some leeway for weight loss which in patients was inevitable when they were discharged. I understood where he was coming from but I wasn’t having any of it.
As October edged ever closer, another CPA meeting was organised for the Tuesday 6th October at 11:00 am. I had everything crossed that this could be it; this could be my discharge date. Every time I was on leave I had gained and felt that I could cope without being an inpatient anymore. I knew that I would still have to attend as a day patient a few days a week, but the prospect of sleeping in my own bed every night felt so good.
The meeting went well. As usual Dr A asked me about my thoughts and feelings. I answered truthfully, I felt much better, I was in control and although I still had challenges to face I felt I was a much stronger person than before to tackle issues. I had achieved so much in those months; I wanted to prove that I could do it on my own. My emotion was rising. Everyone around the table looked upon me fondly and only had positive comments to make about my progress and about me as a person. I found it overwhelming how highly thought of I was by the staff. Never before in my life had people complimented me in this way and I wasn’t sure how to react- I think I felt good about myself for once.
I was freed. Dr A discharged me! I looked around the table and said in absolute earnest that I wanted to thank all the staff profusely for helping me overcome my illness. I owed them my life and would be forever grateful. Without their help and support I wouldn’t have been sat in that room with my life ahead of me. Tears were on the brim of everyone’s eyes.
I said goodbye to all the girls I had come so close to, we had spent so much time together that it was emotional to leave them behind. I wished them all the best and prayed that one day they would all be leaving the hospital with a new positive outlook and a better life ahead of them.
I packed up my room, taking down my posters, cards and niknaks. The room had been my home for the past 4 months and in some ways I would miss it. It had been my nemesis and my sanctuary throughout my stay. I looked around the empty room one last time and shut the door behind me.
The Big Challenge
Being discharged from the Priory as an inpatient did not mean I was cured. In many ways I had to face some of my biggest challenges.
Whilst in hospital I had no choice about what I did or ate, but out in the ‘real world’ the decision was mine. I had to take responsibility for myself and that made it hard to do what was best for my body and rest and relax.
For 2 weeks after I was discharged I went home to Cumbria. I stuck closely to the diet and routine I had followed in the Priory. In my head following a set routine felt safe and I could comprehend eating and resting as it was my ‘treatment’, I constantly told myself that I was getting better by doing this. on the whole I felt good, I was on top of things, eating well and was glad to be home.
It was nice to be home but I needed to return to Manchester as I had to attend the Priory twice weekly as a day patient to keep me on track and the journey was impossible from Cumbria. The prospect of living on my own scared me a lot. Even though I would have Rachel at the flat, I was so used to being looked after that I was unsure how it would feel to be alone. It was decided that mum and dad would come to see me each weekend to make sure that I was coping and doing ok. we were all aware how easily I could slip again. I felt a bit pathetic constantly needing my parents, but I knew it was for the best.
During the week it was me and Rachel at the flat and on the whole things went well. We had talked on numerous occasions about my illness and how we would try and accommodate one another. Rachel had returned to university, but she was around the flat a lot which was good for me.
I spent most of my time in the flat resting as I became easily exhausted. Just short walks to the shops and back really took it out of me.
Twice a week I had to attend the Priory as a day patient. I dreaded having to go back there. I had to get to the centre in time to be weighed and have breakfast. I then stayed at the centre until the afternoon to have my meals and see the therapists. My close friend who had been discharged from the Priory a week after me picked me up and we drove together, at least we didn’t have to go alone.
On most occasions I maintained weight, sometimes I gained a little. I was pleased with this, although I knew that I wasn’t at my target weight, not losing weight felt like an achievement for me.
It felt strange following the same routine again, choosing breakfast and lunch from a menu, sitting around the table and being monitored. Even though I was a day patient, the same rules were applied I had to sit in ‘supervision’ after meals and was allowed one ‘walk’ around the building.
New girls had taken our places and the atmosphere had changed. I always felt when I was an inpatient that the cause of most people’s anorexia was deeply rooted in psychological issues and had nothing to do with wanting to be thin like celebrities. Many of the new girls were young teenagers and seemed obsessed with beauty and celebrities, they would sit with their faces covered in makeup, hair done and dressed in fashionable clothes, this kind of anorexia was alien to me and I felt I couldn’t relate to these patients at all.
Existing patients also were harder to talk to once I had been discharged. Our situations had changed. In a way it was as if they felt almost bitter that I had got better and made it through. I had worked hard though and my journey was by no means an easy one. I found it frustrating to see them still so adamant that they didn’t want to get better and gain weight- there vision was still shrouded by anorexia.
The only thing I looked forward to on going to the centre was seeing Kath. We would talk about what I had been up to and what I had ‘achieved’ that week. At times I was hard on myself, and felt pathetic and useless to have let myself be drawn down so low by anorexia, Kath convinced me in these sessions to stay focused and realise that I had been knocked down by a life threatening illness- it wasn’t my fault. She also made me look at what I had done each week and see how far I had come in a relatively short space of time. I left her sessions, feeling lighter and more positive.
My anxiety issues were still playing a major part in my life and I couldn’t seem to shake them off. I longed for a day I would wake up healthy both in body and mind. Each day I would develop tightness in my head, like someone had placed a tight band around my skull and was squeezing my head-I was convinced it was a brain tumour. My worry surrounding my heart was still at the forefront of my thoughts. When I was sat down, I would feel my pulse and became anxious it was too slow. I would time it- 40 beats per minute. For each sensation I found I would catastrophise the situation, convincing myself there was something seriously wrong. In one day I had convinced myself I had a brain tumour, meningitis and an arrhythmia. It was stressful feeling like this constantly and it was draining me.
I talked to the therapists about these issues. They gave me leaflets but I had read them all before. All my life I had suffered with anxiety, I hated it, but it was part of my personality. I knew that there was nothing wrong with me but I just couldn’t stop myself thinking there was. I tried to relax but nothing was helping. The more time I had on my hands the more I would sit and dwell on the negatives.
I tried to fill my days as best I could. I spent a lot of time with my friend from the Priory; we both had a lot of free time and had grown very close to each other in the Priory. I liked to spend time with her as we both understood the problems we both had. She was older than me at 27; however she was tiny both in height and stature and had suffered with her weight all her life. Her anorexia was like no one else’s I had met before. She honestly believed she was ok, she just neglected herself. She was very clever and spent all her time at work or on her own at her rented flat. Her life was actually very sad. She had never really experienced what it was like to be young and fun loving.
I tried to encourage her to try new things with me, we went to the cinema, had lunch out and went shopping. Each time we went out I could feel myself getting better and more like my own self and I could see her changing, she had become more confident and it was lovely to see. I took her out for cocktails one evening, one thing I was so glad to be able to do again. It was something I loved and I wanted her to experience it to, she had a great evening and without sounding big headed I thought that I was actually making a positive difference to her life and showing her there was more to life than work.
My eating was going well. I looked at myself compared to my friend and could see how far I had come. I could decide what I wanted to eat and make decisions. I understood that I needed to make sure that I ate enough each day and had a varied diet. I was pleased with the progress I was making.
I was trying to speed up eating, when I was having snacks or meals on my own I would experiment by putting larger quantities in my mouth and I was gradually getting faster and eating in a more normal manner. My friend on the other hand was still really struggling, we would go out for lunch or she would come round for dinner and the whole meal looked physically painful for her. I hoped that over time she would get better.
Planning ahead
Whilst I was busy I thought less about my anxieties and felt a bit better. When I had time on my hands I would generally feel unwell or begin to think about my eating too much. I spoke to Kath about this and we came to the conclusion that maybe it was time to start thinking about my future and what I wanted to do. This was the perfect time to investigate what really interested me and set myself goals for the future.
I began looking around at different university courses and careers. Each prospectus I looked at offered the same kinds of things, geography, social sciences and the arts… none of these things were for me. I didn’t want to go back to university to do a course with no structure or purpose- I would prefer to work. I had become disillusioned, until I stumbled across a website all about a career in social work. The words on the intro page caught my eye- helping people, hands on, making a difference, rewarding… As I read the article about a career as a social worker I could feel my heart rate increase. Something inside me clicked, it was like some kind of epiphany- I wanted to be a social worker! From the situation I had been in, I had realised that it was important that people have access to help; I wanted to give something back and give others the support to get their lives back on track.
I began investigating what I needed to do to become a social worker and had my path worked out. I wanted to go to Manchester Metropolitan University to complete a degree in Social work. I was itching to get started. Rachel got me some books from the university library and I began reading up on Social work, it sounded challenging, but I thought I had been through so much that I could cope with anything- I was a strong person and I wasn’t going to let my past stop me achieving things.
Low Times
I was restless. The days when I was stuck in the flat seemed endless and lonely, and I longed to do something useful. I wanted to get a job but still being under the priory meant I was tied up twice a week and my family were concerned that I wasn’t well enough to take a job on.
My daily routine was monotonous, each day I would get up, shower, have breakfast, watch TV, have lunch, go out for a walk somewhere, have a snack, have tea, watch more TV, have a snack and then go back to bed. It was getting me down and I began to dwell on my eating.
It was becoming a challenge to decide what to eat. I would sit for hours deciding what to have each day and plan out my food choices. As a ‘snack time’ approached I would go into the kitchen and look at my choices, imagining myself eating each one and then deciding that I couldn’t face eating anything. I forced something down as I knew I had to maintain my weight but it was out of necessity rather than choice.
I also spent a lot of time dwelling on the past. At times I really hated myself for what I had done and felt a real disgust towards myself. I would stare at myself in the mirror and wonder who I really was. Without my ‘anorexia’ I felt empty. I couldn’t relate to the person before anorexia, neither could I relate to ‘anorexic Nat’. I really didn’t know who I was now. I was Natalie with no purpose- I didn’t know where my life was going. Everyone around me seemed to be getting on with their lives, whereas I was still on hold.
As winter took its hold, my spirits were at rock bottom.
I had been to Manchester Metropolitan University Open Day and loved the sound of the Social Work course. However I wasn’t sure whether I would get a place, there were over 1500 applicants for 50 places. I tried to stay positive but I didn’t know whether I would be considered a suitable candidate given my past. My family supported my choice but were concerned for my welfare; they worried whether I would be able to cope with such a challenging course after what I had been through. I hoped that I could prove everyone wrong and that my illness would become my strength, but I didn’t really know.
Volunteering
I realised that I had to get myself out of this negative mindset if I didn’t want to end up reverting to my old ways. I decided to do some voluntary work. Although I yearned for a job and to earn some money, at least with voluntary work I would be under no contract to stay and it would fill my time. I searched the local areas for charities and came across the local Community Centre. I arranged a meeting to discuss what I could do. I wanted to work with the elderly and the centre ran a luncheon club and activities for the local elderly.
I signed up and went to the centre twice a week. I served lunches to the elderly. I didn’t mind this as I had never had an issue with giving others food. Once a week I ran bingo and I really enjoyed it. I liked spending time at the centre- I felt I had a purpose but also nobody knew about my past- I could be Nat of the present.
I would sit and chat with the ladies and they would tell me all about their lives. It was nothing for me to sit and listen but they were all really grateful. At Christmas time I received cards and some chocolates as a thank you from the centre, it really touched me that they thought so much of the little I did.
Christmas
Life chugged along. Christmas was almost upon us. I had decreased my visits to the Priory to once a week and the time had arrived for me to be completely discharged. My funding had run out, the choice was to apply for more funding or for my treatment to come to end. I had already decided in my head that I wouldn’t be returning to the Priory after Christmas as I wanted to look for a job, plus I felt I had spoken about everything I wanted to discuss. I didn’t want to dwell on the past any longer. After a long discussion with Kath I left the Priory and this time it was for good.
I left the flat for the Christmas break the week after my birthday and we made our way home through the blizzard conditions that plagued the winter. The weather was so atrocious that we weren’t sure whether we would actually make it Ireland to spend Christmas and New Year with my grandparents and family. Some how though we made it through the snow and ice.
We had a lovely few days with just nana and granddad and Christmas was a quiet affair with just the 5 of us. Nana and granddad were so glad to see me. They kept squeezing and hugging me. A few months ago it looked unlikely they would see me again, but here I was stood in their kitchen.
Whilst we stayed at their house they never forced me to eat and understood that I was still recovering- I had to do things at my own speed. I was grateful for this; they really seemed to understand better than most people which was unexpected considering their age. Granddad let me put my own food on my plate and control my portion size. I knew what I had to eat and what my portion size should be. I felt much less stressed having this control.
I felt comfortable eating in front of them as that was something that always bothered me. Some people stared at me whilst I was eating ‘normal’ portions, they didn’t do it to be nasty, it just was strange to see me eating again, but it really made me feel ill at ease and made me not want to eat. At times I had taken my food to another room to eat alone to get away from the looks. Sometimes certain people made comments after meals which were really unhelpful and made me feel bad. Comments such as you have eaten loads; gosh you have gotten through all that! Well done for eating all that, were not comments that I needed to hear. I tried to hide my annoyance at these comments but it was hard at times not to cry.
In between Christmas and New Year my auntie B and Uncle M came to stay. I had not seen them in over three years, but we had had stayed in touch and through out my stay in hospital they were always there for me. It was great to spend some time with them. Mike also joined us for New Year. It was lovely to have the best of both worlds, both being with my family and my boyfriend at this time.
Mike and I were happy together most of the time. But my mind sometimes threw up conflicting thoughts and feelings and made me doubt my relationship. Was I happy? Had we outgrown each other? Could our relationship work if we moved from Cumbria? I was unsure where our lives were heading. Mike kept mentioning placements abroad and moving away, it was making me doubt the stability of our relationship. I began to think maybe he thought more of his career than me and that scared me.
New Year and New Beginning
On New Years day I made a speech. It was the beginning of a new year, a time to look upon the past for a brief moment but then to embrace the future. The past was well and truly behind us all now. I read out my speech and brought everyone including myself to tears. I addressed each person sat around the table individually and wrote about how they had each helped me in their own unique way. It was the only time I think that I could honestly say that I loved everyone in the room and was grateful for what they had done for me.
I returned home with a new spring in my step. It was time to get my life in order and move forward. I had a plan and felt good. No longer was anorexia going to stop me.
Falling to pieces
The weeks after returning from Ireland my relationship with Mike fell to pieces. We rarely saw each other and when we did it didn’t feel right. He seemed so different when he was back in Millom, he developed some traits that I didn’t like and I couldn’t stand being with him.
The last straw came when he didn’t invite me to his Birthday party, he was my boyfriend yet he chose his friends over me. We went for a meal and then he didn’t bring enough money- I was being treated second best and it wasn’t fair, I had been through enough. I had had enough. As I lay in bed next to him for the last time, I felt used and hurt. Where had my Mike gone?
I returned to Manchester not sure whether I could stay in a relationship with him. The more I sat and thought about it and talked things through with Rachel, the more I realised we needed to be apart. I could no longer say I loved Mike and mean it, I cared for him a lot but wasn’t sure whether my feelings were true love anymore. We had been together so long that I no longer really thought about the words I was saying and when I took a step back and really analysed my feelings I didn’t know whether I could say I truly loved him. It wasn’t fair on either of us, it had to be over.
I am ashamed to say that it ended on the phone- there was no other way as he was in Durham and me in Manchester. I rang him up, my voice so quiet and said those fatal words- that it was over.
The words were out there. The phone went dead as Mike put the phone down on me. I fell to the floor, feeling slightly light-headed. Everything felt surreal at that moment, my whole body numb, held in a state of shock. In less than 10 seconds my life as I knew it had ended and stopped me and Mike dead. I was not prepared for this feeling of darkness and emptiness that I was suddenly faced with.
I was left alone with my thoughts for a few moments until the abusive texts began from Mike. I was expecting it and took it without retaliation. My phone beeped constantly as he ranted and raved at me through those texts.
The next few days were agony. I slept fitfully at night, constantly tossing and turning. My dreams were haunted by Mike; I would wake up in tears, hating myself and full of regret. Those silent, long hours were when I dwelled on my thoughts, I would stare at the photos that surrounded my room of me and Mike as I had yet to take them down and wonder had I really made the right decision.
Mike’s texts gradually changed from anger to confusion and self depreciation. These texts hurt me more than anything. I cared for Mike still and didn't want to cause him pain. To think of him suffering made me loathe myself.
I didn't want to talk anymore. My mum and dad came to offer me some support, however I just wanted to be left to wallow in my bed full of tissues and tears. Food was a nightmare, I didn't want to eat. I pushed my meals around the plate, forcing down a few mouthfuls before a feeling of nausea swept through my body. I knew I couldn’t stop eating, but it was hard to muster up the energy.
I tried to keep busy and not think of Mike too much in the day, this was helped by the fact that Mum and dad had come to start house searching. The house had been placed on the Market and had had considerable interest so we needed to start looking around. Some times I felt fine all day, however there was always something that brought me to tears- seeing a couple holding hands or a woman wearing a wedding ring caused me to well up.
The house search was hard going. Mum and dad couldn’t decide on the location or property style. We looked at so many houses, each being dismissed for one reason or another.
I was unsure whether I would live back home at this point. In some ways I longed to stay living with friends and having my independence, however on the other hand to move back home seemed the most practical option. I didn’t know what I would be doing next year, would I have a place at university or would I be working full time? I didn’t want to live in a student house whilst working Monday to Friday. Also I knew that moving back home would be easier for me to keep an eye on my weight and eating and I did miss mum and dad a lot, I had always loved home comforts and the thought of returning to a nice, clean home was very appealing. However I couldn’t decide to move back home if the house hadn’t sold and a new one not bought- it was all very stressful.
Job Hunting
During those miserable winter months I began job hunting. I desperately wanted a job, to give my life some purpose and to have some money. I hated constantly living off handouts from my parents and felt guilty for this. I had wasted enough time 'recuperating' from my illness and now wanted to move on.
I applied for so many jobs each with no success. I traipsed around town handing my CV in anywhere that had vacancies. With each refusal my spirits plummeted. I went to the Job centre and began the long, tedious and stressful process of signing on. I eventually got the measly £43.00 per week after some time.
I went for interviews each time to be let down. I was getting depressed and could feel myself slowly dwindling down. During this time I became very angry at myself. I looked at my body and couldn’t believe what I had done. At times I hated myself. Family and friends said I should take it easy and fully recover but I wanted to scream and say I didn’t deserve any more time. This was like a last stab from anorexia- the guilt and self loathing it caused me to feel.
Exercise
As my psychical health was improving I decided to try and up my activity levels a little. I had a lot of free time on my hands with no job and hated just sitting around. I felt so slobbish and lazy and although I knew that I should be taking things easy I didn't want to. Other people liked to lay in bed, slob about in pyjamas and spend the day in front of the TV, whereas this was my idea of hell. I had always been an active person, I liked to get up and have things to do.
I decided that I would go swimming a few times as it was a low impact exercise. I went on my own in the afternoon and swam for 25 minutes. It was tiring and I hated feeling my heart beating so quickly. I was worried that it would cause me damage. Even though my anxiety was increasing I wouldn't stop swimming. I allowed myself 30 lengths of the 25 metre pool. I told my mum and dad this and they were a little shocked and told me to take it easy, but I couldn't do any less. On returning to the flat, my legs like jelly, I knew that I needed to have something substantial to eat. I chose to have chocolate bars or cake. At first it was relatively easy to eat these things. I would text mum to tell her what I was having; it was like I needed the reassurance that I was doing the right thing by eating the chocolate bar.
However as I started to exercise more, what I consumed after exercise began to dwindle a little. I could no longer bring myself to eat a full chocolate bar and would eat three quarters or have something 'healthier' with more calories but less fat like a bowl of cereal.
After a little while and as the weather picked up I decided to try and jog again. This was something that I had enjoyed before my illness and I wanted to get back into it. I knew I couldn't do too much and would have to take it slowly. The first few times I went out I was nervous and took it very slow. I did one lap around our local park and that was enough. I could not believe how tired I became after doing so little.
As my confidence and stamina increased I gradually increased the distance I ran. I did this gradually and knew not to overdo it. After a few months I had increased my jogs to half an hour, running on average 3.5 miles.
I enjoyed running, it was time to be on my own with my thoughts and it helped me to clear my head. I could see then how exercise could still help me when I was stressed, however I had to be careful not to overdo it and enter on that destructive path again.
My issue was not with the length of the runs, but the food I consumed afterwards. Again at first I ate much more after my morning runs, having two pieces of toast and a piece of fruit on top of my usual breakfast. But this gradually dwindled to one slice of toast. I knew it wasn’t enough, but that mechanism of exercising and not eating had hold a little again.
Food worries
Eating had become problematic again at times. There were some abnormal habits that I noticed I had adopted again.
Since exercising again I began to only eat 'treat' foods on the days when I could go for a jog. On other days I felt that I ate enough to 'maintain' myself and stuck to healthy and low fat foods.
I couldn't just go into a shop or cafe and pick what I fancied. I still thought about my daily food intake and weighed up the calories and fat in what I was eating.
On occasions I looked at the food on offer in cafes, my pulse racing and my brain in over drive trying to decide what to have. I would go back and forth, picking up things and then putting them down. Sometimes that old feeling of panic and emotion swept over me and it all became too much. I would doubt myself whilst eating, worrying had I made the right decision, should I have chosen something else. The food churning around in my mouth like an inedible mass. I tried so hard to act normal, but at times I couldn't do it.
I would study food packaging closely in supermarkets. I longed not to but with nutritional information being so prominent I couldn't help it. If a product was high in calories or fat I knew that I wouldn’t be able to eat it. I subconsciously restricted my food intake and choices of food. Things such as cheese had slowly disappeared from my daily diet. I couldn’t bring myself to eat them.
Not knowing when, where or what I was eating also was an issue. I didn’t realise how much this affected me until occasions arose when we went to unknown restaurants where I didn’t know the menu. I would tell people that I was fine with it and not to worry. I hated the thought that people had to fuss around for me, I wanted to be treated the same as everyone else. As the prospect of entering the unknown dawned on me though I could feel my anxiety levels rising. It could almost ruin an evening for me. I would research restaurants before I went, looking at online menus and already planning what I would chose to eat.
I liked routine and felt anxious and upset when I couldn’t follow my set routine. Don’t get me wrong I was a lot better than I was when anorexia had its full hold over me. I always had my meals and ate ‘normal’ portions. But the illness had left its scars and my eating wasn’t ‘normal.’
I longed for eating to be something I didn’t have to think about constantly and plan. To eat what I wanted when I wanted would be amazing, but I knew this wouldn’t be the case. I tried to think of these daily issues as my long term illness. I no longer had the disabling illness, but had the remnants that wouldn’t budge. I doubt I will ever be completely free.
The Interview
On top of the job search I also had another important interview to attend. I had been offered an interview for the social work course at Manchester Metropolitan to start in September. I had done well to get this far, but I longed to get on the course and really get my life back on track.
This interview meant so much to me and I was very nervous...
The day arrived. I had prepared as best I could, I arrived at the university. The interview was a daunting experience. There was a written exam and then an individual interview. The questions were challenging and I hoped my honest answers were what they wanted to hear. I thought it went well but it was hard to know. I was told that it could be up to a month before I have a decision back about whether I had a place or not. I had my fingers crossed, but with such stiff competition for places I didn’t hold my breath.
Later that evening I was sat on the computer when I received an email from UCAS saying my status had changed. I logged into the system my stomach doing somersaults. I looked at the welcome page and saw that I had been offered a place! I couldn’t believe it! I let out a sigh of relief- I had done it!! I felt so full of emotion and was proud of myself. To me it felt like such an achievement to have received this place. I had had such a hard time in previous months with my illness, break up of my relationship and my unsuccessful job search, this was like confirmation that I was worthy and good enough to move on in my life and my past was not going to hold me back. In a way I thanked my anorexia for what it had done as through the experience it had helped me to find my path in life, which was the desire to help others who couldn’t help themselves like I couldn’t a few months previously.
Work
That week was a good week. I had got my place sorted for university and later in the week also received a job offer! Life was looking up.
The job was working full time for a property company doing general administration work. It was ideal for me, I could walk to work each day, it wouldn’t be too hard for me physically and the wage and hours were ok. I jumped at the offer of the job and started there on the 3rd of March.
Work was a shock to the system, going from having nothing to do to fill my time to being at work 10 till 6 was hard going. Each evening I would come home, have tea and literally collapse on the sofa. How I longed to be at home, to come in and have tea ready for me and things like washing and cleaning all sorted.
The thing I loved about work was having my own money. I really appreciated my wage coming in and being able to pay for things myself. It had begun to really get to me constantly relying on my parents for money. Each time I went out anywhere I felt guilty that I was spending money that wasn’t mine and I couldn’t replace it.
Things were also moving with the house sale. The house was sold and an offer put in and accepted on a property in Manchester. Mum and dad were all set for the move and were itching to get back to the city.
The Meeting
A couple of weeks into March I met up with Mike. We planned to meet in Leeds for a few hours. I had no idea how it would go. We had text and spoke a few times, I missed him awfully and my feelings towards him felt strange and muddled. I wanted the day to confirm whether I had or hadn’t made the right decision. My stomach was doing somersaults the whole train journey, I was so nervous and didn’t know what to expect.
As I alighted from the train, I saw him sat on the bench in front of me. I gave a little gasp and walked over. We looked at each other and gave a sheepish wave; there was a moment of uncomfortable tension, neither of us quite sure what to do or say. We began walking from the station and the tension was gone. The whole day went so fast and I didn’t want to go. At many times through out the day our hands brushed or we looked at each other with a longing. As we walked back to the station and I boarded the train I wanted so badly to get off and run after Mike, but I knew I couldn’t. I sat in my seat, more confused than ever and cried. The day hadn’t made anything clearer to me.
Moving On
The week after meeting up with Mike was hard and I noticed that my eating was struggling. My appetite had dwindled and I was analysing food. I thought that I needed to sort myself out and stop dwelling on the past. That part of my life was over and I needed to move on. This was when I met Sam.
The following Saturday I had a date. This was my first proper date really as me and Mike were so young when we got together. Sam was lovely, we had a really great evening and I wanted to see him again. We organised to see each other the following weekend and from then on we went on numerous dates, each time getting to know each other a little better and liking each other more and more. My past was still a secret and it was nice to not have any baggage for a change- I could be the Natalie of the Now, not living in the past. We had things in common and he made me laugh- I was happy.
Things were starting to get a little more serious, but I really liked him and felt ready. He was a real gent to me; he brought me gifts of chocolates and flowers and even made me a meal. I told mum and dad about him and they were happy for me.
As we were spending more time together I thought that it was time to tell Sam about my eating before we got too serious. Although at the beginning I liked not having to tell him, it was getting harder for me. I didn’t always want to eat things like pick and mix at the cinema or ice creams, I tried to go with the flow and eat, but inside my anxiety was rising and was beginning to struggle in these situations.
I broke the news to Sam one evening. It was hard to tell him, but he took it well and I was grateful for that. Telling people about my past could be a daunting experience, as it I hard to know how people will react. Although on the outside I looked better, inside the anorexia still had a little part of me and always will. Some day’s anorexia raised its head and made the day harder for me. It is like a headache, most days I can go without one, but some days it is just there with no warning or way of stopping it. This can be hard for people to get their heads around.
Me and Sam became official. It felt strange to say that I was in a relationship again, but I liked him and there was no reason for us not to be an official item. He met mum and dad and they liked him. He was polite and courteous and they were relieved that he treated me well.
We spent a few days week with one another. Sam asked me at the start of May to go to his home town with him for the weekend. I was looking forward to it. The Friday evening went well, we went for a meal and I met his parents who were really nice. As the weekend progressed although I was having a lovely time with Sam, I was having some worrying thoughts and feelings. The more time we spent together, the more I realised how little we had in common. We didn't like the same music or have the same interests. That evening as I lay in bed, I wanted to go home and dare I say it...I wanted to be with Mike.
For each thing that pushed me further from Sam, the more it made me think of what me and Mike had. I couldn't wait to get home, my mind in turmoil- was it that I wanted to be back with Mike or was it just that we had been together so long that a new relationship was daunting- I was just so confused.
My anorexic head loved the situation. Eating with Sam was becoming harder, I began to realise that he didn't understand my illness at all. This was not his fault and I didn't expect him to understand, I didn't want to pile my problems on him. I realised though that I needed someone who could support and truly understand me and that person wasn't Sam.
After that weekend things weren't the same. I was distant and hated myself for this. Sam was a lovely person and didn't deserve to be treated like this but I couldn’t change my feelings.
Mike was on my mind a lot. Being with Sam had made me realise what I had with Mike and that we had something special. I needed to see Mike to sort things out in my head and work out whether the feelings I had were based on reality or fantasy. We arranged to meet for lunch in Manchester on the May Bank Holiday Monday.
As the day approached, I had this feeling that he wouldn't be coming to see me. The Monday arrived and I was a mess, it was a year to the day that I had been given the news that I would have to go into the Eating Disorders Hospital. I had no idea how much this would affect me. I was a mess all morning. My head filled with memories of the previous year, the old feelings I felt back then pulsating through my body.
I text him and waited for him to get back to me- The message arrived- He wasn’t coming.
I fell to the floor and sat with my back against to the wall to steady myself as the sobs reverberated around my body and my chest heaved. In that moment I knew that I had to get him back. This was something much deeper and I couldn’t ignore my feelings.
We re-arranged to meet the following Friday, I was insistent that we met soon. I didn't tell Mike at the time how I felt as I doubted he felt the same. I had broken his heart and I was sure that he would want to move on.
I hadn’t ended things with Sam- I should have but I had put it off. My family persuaded me to stay with him and not do anything rash. I hadn’t seen him all week, but the weekend was looming and we had planned a party at the flat to mark the end of an era as we would shortly be leaving the flat, I would be returning home to live and Rachel moving in with other people. Sam was coming to the party.
Reunion
The closer Friday came, the more nervous I became. I didn't really tell anyone my intentions for the day- I wasn't really sure what I was going to do myself. On the Friday morning, I was a nervous wreck. I went out in the morning for a jog to try and clear my head and kill some time.
As I got off the train and made my way to Piccadilly Gardens my heart hammered in my chest- how would I feel to see him again?
I spotted him in the distance and he saw me, he looked good, he had lost some weight, had on a really nice shirt and looked healthy. We walked towards each other and all I wanted to do was kiss him, the desire was intense, but we opted for a wave and a Hi instead. That awkward moment was there again- that moment where you are not sure what to do, where to stand or what to say.
We made our way to the shops and the conversation began to flow easily again. He was in good shape both psychically and mentally and he seemed to be back on track with his life. I was glad for him, but a little bit of me was scared- had he completely moved on? It seemed so selfish to be thinking that.
The hours flew by again, each minute that passed I knew my chance to say how I was feeling was passing me by. I had so much I wanted to say, I wanted him to know how I felt, I put on this pretence that everything was hunky-dory but deep down I was still a mess with lots of issues. I needed him to know that I still thought about him.
We had an hour to go; we sat on the grass in the Gardens. Our bodies seemed to get subconsciously closer. It was like we were a magnet, the poles pulling us together. I touched his hand; it was like an electric current pulsed through my body. Our eyes met, Mike asked me quietly how things were going and I told him a bit tough. I wanted to pour my heart out to him and tell him how I felt but words had left me.
Our eyes met, we each had tears brimming. I began to cry and Mike moved me closer to him. He put his arms around me, I tried to stifle my tears but I couldn't stop. Our faces brushed, I looked into his eyes and we kissed. His kiss was warm and comforting- I had missed these kisses. I slowly retracted and murmured "I am sorry."
Those past few months paled into insignificance- I had made a mistake finishing things- I still loved Mike.
We sat in this bubble, softly caressing and holding each other for a few hours. Mike missed his train and it began to rain, but we didn’t care, we were too wrapped up in ourselves in that moment.
I got back to the flat that evening and told Rachel and mum and dad, they were all a little worried, had I got carried away in the moment? But I knew that it was meant to be, never had anything felt so right. I knew we had problems and before entering into a relationship again we needed to talk, be completely honest and work out some issues, but if we could sort things out, we could make it through. Our time apart had made us both grow up and think about what we wanted, things would be different I could sense it.
I had to end things with Sam and that wasn't easy. I didn’t want to hurt him but I inevitably did. I gave him the cold shoulder on the Saturday night. The next morning I went around to his flat and told him it was over. I walked in, said what I had to and left. He looked bemused and hurt, but I could say no more- it was over.
Farewells and Fresh Starts
Me and Mike got back to together. It was inevitable that this was going to happen. We talked things through and cleared the air, both us accepting that we had been wrong about things in the past and we would have to make some changes for our relationship to last. We had been through so much and were made for each other. Mike is my soul mate.
Mum and dad moved from Cumbria in April to Manchester. The house was lovely that they bought. The moment we walked in to view it I wanted it to be home. It just felt right. It felt homely and safe and that was what I longed for.
I left the flat and moved back home in July. It was mixed emotions as I shut the door on the flat. In some ways I was sad to be leaving, it had been my sanctuary and place of recovery. Me and Rachel had shared some great times in that flat and many great memories had been made. However the flat had been the place of bad times too. Both me and Rachel had shed some tears of sorrow in that year and we had more than our fair share of bad luck that year. It was time to move on and start yet another chapter of our lives.
The next Chapter…
It is coming up to a year since I was discharged from the Priory. My life has changed beyond recognition. I have been to the bottom of the gutter and back. I have been on the brink of death, but I fought to stay alive and am still here today. Anorexia almost won, it was so close to consuming me. If it had taken just a little bit more, I would not be here writing this memoir today.
I am not cured. Anorexia never leaves a person completely. I will never be the person I was before the illness again. Anorexia has changed me. I still struggle with my weight and have never reached my target weight. I am currently still classed as underweight. I try to eat healthily and eat enough, but it is a challenge. Sometimes I can feel myself slipping; it is too easy to refuse things. People tell me that I should try and eat a chocolate bar every day to put on just a little weight, but I know I never will be able to; these foods are only eaten on certain occasions. Food still plays a major part in my life and at times is still overwhelming.
I have been on one hell of a journey with anorexia. It has taken me where I never thought I would go and never want to go again. Life is one constant journey with ups and downs. The downs have helped me to appreciate the ups. I look back on the past year and then look at where I am today. Through my personal experiences I have begun to understand who I really am and what I really want from life. I have found the passion I have to help others and embark on my career path as a social worker. I am more confident and determined to achieve my goals. For all the negatives that my illness has brought, I have now been able to find some positives from the experience and to me that it was life is about.
I hope that whoever reads this memoir, finds some help and comfort from it. Don’t suffer in silence. Ask for help and get your life back.
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Poem
Life has stopped; all the things that were once enjoyed have lost their meaning
An emotional barricade surrounds me; it’s hard having people showing affection towards me as I am worthless, Isolation engulfs me…
My only friend, the one I turn to is anorexia, consuming me and filling all the empty spaces in my head, soothing painful thoughts and replacing them with thoughts of food and exercise.
Me and anorexia got along well for a few months, I thought it was a true friend but our friendship didn’t last…
Anorexia has turned into a friend who always takes and never gives, consuming my life, shutting me away, keeping me locked in thoughts and setting me unreasonable targets- punishing me when things weren’t done
I had lost control- Anorexia was winning.
My whole body changed, anorexia had even overcome Mother Nature- no longer was I a woman but a shell of a human being with a childlike figure.
Anorexia was clever, while changes occurred with hair loss, aches and pains and loss of figure and personality; it clouded my vision like being blinded so I couldn’t see the damage it was doing only the deceitful image it wanted me to see.
Sometimes my sight came back briefly and in horror I saw what I had become and tried unsuccessfully to change.
The anorexia was stronger than me like swimming against the tide helplessly drowning in a sea of restriction, targets and punishment
The painful realisation of what had been done came more often.
The anorexia had bullied me into believing that I was invincible, was doing the right thing and was fit and healthy
But…
The harsh reality is that I have damaged my precious body.
Blood tests, body checks and a horrendous hospital visit screamed at me that this cannot go on.
I deserve more than this life, anorexia can’t rule me, I need to control my own life.
It has messed up my life, my conflicting mind thinking anorexia is both my closest friend and my own worst enemy.
It is like a drug- you can’t live with it but can’t live without either.
But it is time to get rid of this destructive demon.
Eating is a constant battle, my brain torn- some thoughts want me to eat, but the anorexia hovers filling my brain with these cloudy thoughts, encouraging me to give in again and refuse to eat and just run.
The cloudy thoughts make me believe I am losing my control, but as everyday passes the realisation that eating isn’t me losing control but the anorexia.
As my bmi rises I am gaining control again and taking steps to release myself from anorexia’s hold and taking back the life that belongs to me.
I can live without anorexia and be the person that I want to be and deserve to be- anorexia has won its last fight.
It’s a long road but I am determined to fight till the bitter end and come out the champion no matter what it takes.
Anorexia will be beaten; I am stronger and can do it.
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