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When I was at the lowest point of my life, about ten years ago, I said to myself ‘It can’t get any worse.’ It was that bad. However, I realised that this was a positive statement. If it can’t get any worse, that means it can only get better.
Completing my A levels was hard. I soon became obsessed with revision and control, not feeling like I had ever done enough or was enough.
Going to my GP in March of last year was something that I knew I had to do. Don’t get me wrong, I was so scared and nervous about how I would tell someone I didn’t know that I was struggling with eating and coping with social occasions which involved food.
It’s been fourteen years. Ten of which have been filled with numerous psychological treatments at four different eating disorder services. Now it’s time. Time to finally say goodbye to you.
'No more, thank you'As she piles my plate high'Mum, I’m not hungry'That’s my favourite lie
For a long time, I struggled to accept help because I didn’t believe I deserved it. I didn’t agree with my diagnosis and I thought I was attention seeking. When I finally started attending therapy, I felt like an imposter.
For me, that first step was admitting I had a problem. For months, my friends, my family, and my colleagues all voiced concerns over my appearance and my condition, which of course I duly ignored.
I guess the turning point for my recovery came after a long battle with my identity. Who am I if I’m not what anorexia tells me I am?
As I eat and function normally and crave that as a healthy human, this demonic part of my brain still pulls me back like an annoying toddler craving attention.
My battle with anorexia and bulimia made me lose my identity. Recovering from an eating disorder seemed very daunting and overwhelming but I knew it was something I had to do.
I had never done anything like this before in my life and knew that it would be so rewarding to push myself while helping others.
Shifty and devious anorexia is a master at disguise. Slotting itself nicely into societal norms, the morning gym session or missed breakfasts go unnoticed or are glorified by others in pursuit of aesthetic perfection.