charlottebent-blog

[charlottebent-blog]

My Story

Today marks a year since the eating disorder services attempted to section me. It may seem like an odd thing to commemorate. Although the day itself was extremely daunting, it was also a victory in a weird way. So here's my story, the story that led up to the very moment they attempted to detain me.

I'm 19, and I'm the happiest I've ever been (at this point in my life I'm at university in Kent, where I've made some amazing friends plus I'm in my first serious relationship - yes miracles do happen). With it being reading week (one of the many glorious holidays of university) I decide to attend a family gathering. On arrival my Nana hugs me so tightly I can feel my ribs cracking. She then holds me at arm's length before saying 'you look very womanly, look at your curves'. I awkwardly chuckle, before thanking her for what I can only assume she meant as a compliment. At the time I told no one, even now I know she meant no harm by it, however that comment changed everything. I remember almost immediately going to the bathroom, I required some reassurance and I honestly believed the mirror would provide this. It's safe to say I was absolutely horrified. Suddenly I was seeing this different Charlotte. A Charlotte who no longer looked slender but padded. A Charlotte who had thighs and a flabby stomach. And as if this wasn't proof enough, I later discovered the weird marks around my middle were in fact stretch marks.  In fairness it was naive of me to assume my weight would stay the same when I was drinking heavily every other night and living off a diet provided by Iceland. But what terrified me was that others were able to detect this change in me, yet I was oblivious (perhaps something to do with excessive amounts of vodka). I saw this as my wakeup call and made a pact to get healthier.

I stuck to my pact. I took up running again, and, much to my disappointment, stopped scoffing oreo's at 3am. It did the trick, I trimmed down as my Mum called it and I was content. I stayed this way for about a year. Then, during my second year of university, I got  a new job. I was thrilled to say the least and, here is the irony, I became an activity leader at a camp for overweight children. Yes readers, it is here that I developed an interest of food content. Part of the training involved learning how many calories were in my dominoes pizza and how much sugar was in my beloved innocent smoothie. It's safe to say I was disgusted with this new knowledge and suddenly the weight I gained during first year made sense. Having learnt that almost everything delicious was calorific, I began to check food labels using my job as an excuse. Plus, on one occasion I had been caught secretly inhaling a pile of jaffa cakes whilst the children weren't looking and got told I needed to practice what I preached. Despite the energetic and long activity sessions, I denied myself the tasty treats my body craved. And, although my body objected, I felt powerful in being able to ignore the cravings. It was then that I began to weigh myself at work to see if my willpower was paying off. To my delight my weight was decreasing, along with my body fat percentage. The feeling of this was like nothing I had experienced before and the dangerous part is that I never wanted it to end. To ensure that each week I had the same result I had to push myself further. I was content with my diet, therefore the only other method I knew for weight loss was exercise.

I went into my third year of university with a new exercise regime to ensure I stayed trim. I ran every day, giving myself one 'rest' day a week. Rest days made me feel anxious and guilty, therefore they gradually become fewer and fewer until I was exercising daily. I began to refuse myself nights out due to the fear of getting drunk and having a snackaccident (accidental snack) that would sabotage my weight loss. I struggled to explain to others why I couldn't go out so I gave lame excuses. Consequently, I lost a lot of the amazing friends I'd made. I began to recognise that my diet and exercise routine was very rigid and anything that deterred away from it resulted in a panicked frenzy. I developed a knee injury, but despite this I continued to run, with the addition of swimming and knee strengthening exercises, in hope that my knee would heal. When it rained or snowed I ran up and down the hallway of my student house. Yes, it's as nutty as it sounds, but at this point I had no idea I was spiralling into anorexia. I just told myself and my bewildered housemates that I loved running.

People began to comment on my weight loss, but in a more concerned manner than before. I remember sending my sister a photo of me in a new outfit. Thinking I looked toned and healthy, I was surprised when she replied saying I looked disgustingly thin and iller than Victoria Beckham. My boyfriend at the time reassured me that I looked nice. It was that moment that my sister predicted I'd get anorexia. 'Absolute bollocks', both my Mum said, 'people with anorexia just don't eat, whereas you do'. That was always my excuse.

With university soon coming to an end, I felt lost and confused. Friends around me had direction and aspirations, whilst they planned their futures I put off making important decisions, instead occupying myself at the gym, athletics track or swimming pool. Exercise gave me a purpose and sense of control, something I failed to achieve in other aspects of my life. Regardless, I worked hard for my degree but rather frustratingly graduated 1% off a first. I managed to gain a place on a PGCE Primary Education course in Kent and felt obliged to take it. I moved to a different part of Kent and reluctantly started teaching. I enjoyed living with strangers and away from my boyfriend. I was free to organise my time to suit me without judgement from anyone. However, the teaching degree was full-time, and I became increasingly anxious that I was losing valuable exercise time. Even though I would plan lessons and mark work whilst on my exercise bike it didn't feel like enough. The fear of becoming the fat Charlotte once again crept into my mentality more and more. With no other option, I began to restrict food. I studied food labels carefully, checking over and over again in case I'd misread them. I bulked up on vegetables and stopped eating anything remotely high in fat or calories. Whenever the opportunity arose I ran. I had entered a half-marathon, which gave me the excuse to run 10 miles often. I would wake up every night with agonising leg cramps and although I knew I was damaging my body, I couldn't stop. My anxiety around food and exercise became overwhelming. It was here that I ended my first serious relationship. At the time it seemed so easy, I didn't feel sad or heartbroken. Although rather selfishly, I felt relieved, purely because it gave me additional time to focus on exercise.

Despite living 250 miles away from my parents, my stress levels didn't go unnoticed. With my teaching degree becoming increasingly demanding, I was extremely anxious. I couldn't cope with being tested and criticised daily, and consequently I spent a lot of time crying down the phone to my Mum. Having lived away from home for almost 4 years, I was starting to experience the misery of homesickness. It was around this time that I had to significant wakeup call, whilst I was out running. Having ran every single day for the past 3 months, my body was knackered and my legs burnt in protest, however this pain didn't compare to the guilt of having a 'rest' day. I don't remember exactly what happened but suddenly I wasn't running and I crashed to the floor (to my embarrassment right in front of a group of French tourists, who spoke no English and appeared to be more concerned by what they'd purchased from the chocolate cafe than my accident). Everything stung and my inability to stand up panicked me. As I rolled myself onto my back I could see my skin and blood grazed on the pavement. I tried to calm myself with deep breaths, but quickly tears brimmed my eyes and my body began to tremble. I did the only thing I know what to do in a crisis: call my Mum. I clumsily tapped away at my phone, whilst picking myself up. With sore knees and a throbbing hip, I didn't dare check the damage. Typical that usually I can't get my Mum off the phone (usually riveting topics, such as the Council replacing the lampposts with weaker bulbs) yet, when I desperately require her to answer, I get her voice message. I dial my sister who, much to my relief, answers almost immediately and consoles me whilst I gently jog my battered body home.

After this incident my Dad came to Kent to intervene. My parents were growing more concerned about my well-being and encouraged me to see a doctor. Conveniently neither of them were there for the actual appointment. I didn't see much point as I was convinced there was nothing medically wrong with me. However, I reluctantly attended just to get my parents off my back. The doctor was nice enough. She asked me some lifestyle questions, weighed me and then handed me a leaflet on anorexia. 'Your body mass index is within anorexic range. Along with your feelings towards food and exercise I'm diagnosing you with anorexia. I'll put through a referral to the local eating disorder services'. I thought nothing of it at the time, this doctor didn't know me. I eat the same amount of meals as everybody else, plus I don't look like a skeleton. She'd obviously misdiagnosed me. My Mum cried when I called her. Although I didn't agree with the diagnosis I certainly felt like this gave me the excuse I so greatly needed to move back home. I told my parents I would suspend my teaching degree and seek relevant medical help in Manchester.

I was delighted to move back to Manchester. I felt elated and motivated to change my life for the better. However, my freedom was limited due to my parents keeping a watchful eye over me. I was so overly cautious that they were trying to fatten me up that whenever they left the house I went on my exercise bike for as long as time allowed. My food restriction habits also worsened, and although I had been referred to the eating disorder services, I was still losing weight weekly. I acted oblivious to this and continued to spiral further into anorexia. After a couple of months, it was clear I wasn't getting better. I got told my weight was now dangerously low that an inpatient admission was advised. It was a trip to this eating disorder hospital ward that triggered my recovery. Seeing the shells, of these sad, hollow beings frightened me. When I got home I binned my exercise bike and created a food plan with my Mum which I stuck to. I gained weight. I'm not going to say it was easy. It was so incredibly tough and like nothing I had experienced before. However, I was enjoying having a social life again and began working at Waterstones. I even had a fantastic holiday to New York with my sister. I could feel the old Charlotte emerging.

A few months down the line and I was struggling. My discomfort meant I refused to gain anymore weight. I was feeling extremely self-conscious about my body and found myself missing my anorexic tendencies. I longed to feel hunger. I ached for the achievement of exercising. I was at a crossroads and I chose the easier path. My downward spiral into anorexia happened so quickly, I didn't even realise I had relapsed. Within two months, I was being threatened with hospital again, only this time I accepted. I figured hospital was the answer to my recovery, and was admitted onto the Oaktrees Ward.

Hospital was more daunting than I'd remembered it. From the second I stepped foot on the ward I thought 'I'm too fat to be here'. Everybody was so painfully thin it was distressing. A few days into my admission and I learnt that my Grandad had died. I cursed myself for being stuck in hospital unable to comfort my family. To add to my upset the hospital was just outside of Liverpool and therefore 45 miles from my. It didn't take long for the homesickness to kick in. I longed for a hug from my Mum and my dog. The days were never-ending and it felt like all I did was continuously ate. But I followed my Grandad's instructions and I did what I was told when I was told. They were often short staffed, so I didn't receive the support I so greatly needed to cope with the weight gain. When my parents visited I'd cry and beg for them to take me home with them. I had never felt so fat and disgusted in my entire life. Furthermore, being on a ward surrounded by severely anorexic people made me feel like a fraud. After 4 months as an inpatient, I discharged myself against medical guidance.

Once back home I wasted no time in ensuring that I got rid of what I felt was excess weight. I spent my mornings hopelessly crying as I tried on multiple outfits, all of which I deemed too fat to wear. I'd reached such a point of desperation and despair that I attempted to take my own life (and obviously failed). I distanced myself from the services and didn't trust my parents as I felt they lied, repeatedly telling me I looked thin. I threw myself back into work, doing whatever hours I could get. I constantly distracted myself from food, walking my dog and taking up indoor exercise. Furthermore, having spent so much time surrounded by extreme anorexics I had learnt the tricks of the trade. I spent hours eating one meal, cutting it into tiny pieces and claiming I was full, despite my gurgling stomach. I hid food and discretely binned it when my parents weren't about. This time my relapse was severe. I recognised I was poorly, however, just like before, I couldn't stop. One night I ended up at A&E with my Mum, where a doctor told me my heart was wasting away. I still couldn't stop. The services had detected my decline and arranged an appointment which I was forced to attend. They told me I could agree to go back into hospital, or they would request a section and force me. I refused, how could I bring myself to return to the place that mentally worsened me? I cried and shouted and begged, but they went ahead with the section.

13th May 2016 will go down as the most frightening day of my life. I remember pinching myself, convinced it wasn't real. How had my weight gotten so dangerously low that I had to fight to claim my sanity. I didn't feel mentally deluded, surely I was still Charlotte? So there I was, 24 years old, sat in my family home at our kitchen table between my Mum, grasping my hand tightly, and my Dad, on guard, ready to fight for me. In that moment I have never felt so much love and affection towards my parents.  Opposite us sat a panel of medical professionals who had been sent to deem me mentally unstable and detain me. It was daunting to say the least. But we fought and argued for what felt like forever. Eventually, they came to the agreement that if I were to start a refeeding programme immediately and my parents were to take responsibility for my mental well-being, I would be allowed to remain at home. We all sighed with relief and hugged victoriously.

Although I am not always proud of my decisions and often doubt whether I am doing the right thing, I am proud to still be at home. I am proud to still be here and I am proud to still be fighting.

(Apologises for the blog equivalent of War and Peace, congrats if you actually made it to the end!)

[charlottebent-blog]

Reluctant Recovery

From a young age I had fear instilled into me. My Mum is a self-confessed scaredy cat. Just the sight of a bridge or slight decline sends her into a panicked frenzy (imagine a hyperventilating hyena). Even my Dad fed me pessimism, always assuming that I would be robbed or abducted whenever I left the house after 5pm. Even at the age of 25 he still feels the need to remind me to zip up my handbag. Despite their concerns, I developed two entirely different fears. The first: sick. Being sick, feeling sick, basically anything remotely related to vomit and I'm a goner. There's a certain vulnerability and unpredictability about being sick that terrifies me. To the extent where I implement a sort of restraining order, which allows me to remain at least 10 metres away from anybody feeling mildly queasy in case they're contagious. My second fear is pigeons a.k.a flying-pastry-loving-rats. Although this fear is slightly less irrational, I have been known to walk into oncoming traffic just to avoid the path of a pigeon (in my defence it had one leg and was hopping towards me in a rather menacing manner).  

What plagues me is not sickness or pigeon related, but weight loss. This is something I would never have dreamt of fearing. As an anorexic, weight loss is what you strive for. I would welcome weight loss with open arms 'please please come in, don't bother wiping your feet, don't even take off your shoes, just get the hell in'. Losing weight was an achievement, along with a sense of control and accomplishment. Now a loss in weight drowns me in dread. It's disheartening. It disappoints the people I care about the most and takes away the little independence I've fought so hard to regain. It's a step backwards, towards blood tests and hospital threats. But what scares me most is what it signifies. A continual downward trend in weight in an anorexic patient indicates a slippery slope into relapse. And the more weeks that pass where I lose weight, the harder it is to programme my mentality into refeeding mode. The familiar pattern of restriction and exercise slowly creeps in, and before I know it I am once again engrossed in anorexia.

Fighting anorexia is gruelling and testing and tougher than a dehydrated turd. To be completely honest, the last few weeks in particular have shown that I currently lack the strength and confidence needed to recover. With motivation at an all time low, I struggle daily. The energy I require to get changed in the morning is overwhelming. I'm so fed up of my own reflection that I've given up on mirrors and consequently wearing make-up. (However, I may be reverting back to make-up soon as it appears wearing no eyeliner either a) prompts people to ask me multiple times whether I'm ill or b) means I can't buy a pritt stick without getting ID'd). The dark thoughts that whirl round my head occupy me constantly. My poor concentration means I can't distract myself with reading or watching TV. Conversation is forced and difficult, therefore it's easier to just avoid social situations. I feel emotionally vulnerable, I cry at anything and everything. Just someone reorganising my Peppa Pig display at work transformed me into a blubbering wreck (if my love life wasn't so tragically non-existent I'd think I was pregnant).

When I am feeling uninspired I find myself googling eating disorder recovery for some reassurance and guidance. Whilst doing so, I came across a quote that captioned my difficulty with anorexia recovery perfectly and it was this: 'You don't just choose recovery. You have to keep choosing recovery again and again'.

Regardless of the misery and pain that consumes me, I must continue. I know I must choose to ignore the voice.. I must choose to eat and fuel my body adequately. I must choose to overlook the guilt, the doubt and the fear. If I am not fighting,

I stand no chance of winning.

[charlottebent-blog]

Farewell Dr Manwhore

'Where have the last two months gone?!' I find myself wondering as I'm sat awaiting my CPA meeting to begin. Usually in times like this I distract myself by sticking my head in a book, however with my parents either side of me I feel the need to appear social, even if I'm as verbally as responsive as an intellectually delayed donkey. With my Dad having a coffee-related strop (yes I have inherited his stubborn sulkiness) the waiting room is painfully quiet, giving me time to reflect on whether I have actually made any progress over the previous two months. Having asked to not be aware of my weight, I can only map my progression using examples of when I have pushed myself out of my comfort zone. My diet has been increased and I am making conscious efforts to leave the house (mostly to escape my parents tendencies to obsess over the dog. I agree she is cute, but discussing the consistency of her stools and eyeballing her whilst she sleeps is creepily unsettling).

Dr Manwhore appears through one door, then comes out another like a Britain's Got Talent magic act. Amazed by this, my Mum and I begin a game of 'which door will she come out of next?' when Paula (my keyworker) and Mother Mary (actual name: Laura the psychiatrist) lead us into a room. Taking a seat I notice a purple haired woman has sat herself opposite me. Clearly able to read my confused expression, she introduces herself but without actually saying her name. As a result of over-watching Toy Story I feel the need to give everything a name (I was that weird child that even named their favourite spoon), therefore I make a mental note that she shall be named Dr Vimto - on account of her purple hair.

We get the usual 'how are things?' niceties out of the way and quickly move onto how to push forward. To my relief nobody suggests increasing my diet, however there is talk about returning to work. At the mention of work my Mum, my Dad and I freeze. I glare at my Dad, hoping that he has the psychic ability to pick up on my 'play it cool' subliminal message. See the thing is I have been going to work for the past two months. Work gives me purpose and a sense of accomplishment. It allows me some normality, in my otherwise messed up life. However I'm hardly going to admit this to the services as they would disapprove and condemn it.

Up until now, Dr Manwhore has been quiet,  only occasionally glancing up to take a break from admiring her split ends. As the meeting draws to a close we discuss planning the next CPA meeting, when she suddenly pipes up. Normally when she begins talking I sigh and roll my eyes (like a disgruntled teenager) as whatever she has to say is usually brutal, impersonal and inaccurate. However to my delight she explains that Dr Vimto will now be responsible for my medication reviews and overall care plan, thus meaning I NEVER have to see Dr Manwhore again. Never will I be exposed to her atrocious outfits or have endure her patronising and demeaning comments. I am flooded with relief and pure, utter joy. I imagine this is the kind of happiness people experience from eating pizza or holding your baby after a traumatic labour. For once I leave an appointment, not only with a smile on my face, but also feeling ever so slightly hopeful that there are better things to come.

[charlottebent-blog]

Competitive Comparisons

I never imagined I would still be plagued with mental illness 3 years post-diagnosis. A mixture of naivety and general stigma led me to believe that I'd eat, put on weight and be cured, left to continue living my life happily and care-free. There is a misconception portrayed, particularly in the media, that anorexia is a physical illness and an extreme diet. I have genuinely heard people say that they had anorexia once because they lost weight when they didn't intend to (the only thing that stopped me beating this person with a stick was the fact I felt sorry for her because she had a horribly pretentious accent and was clearly thick as pig shit). Eating disorders derive from mentality and are so much more than a physical state. Mental illnesses are deceiving, it is assumed that you have to appear unwell to be ill. But happiness is not a size. Smiling and being sarcastic doesn't mean you don't have depression. Eating does not cure you of anorexia. These things we use as indicators are just one barrier to a very complex issue.

We have been genetically programmed to hide and not openly discuss negative feelings and emotions. There's these expectations that you should be ashamed of anything that isn't positive or progression. It is expected that in your early twenties you shouldn't live with your parents. You should be climbing the career ladder whilst holding down a committed, long-term relationship. If I had a pound for every time somebody has asked me when I'm going to leave my job at Waterstones to begin my 'proper' career, I'd be able to afford to ship Amanda Holden off to the moon three times.

These days I try and steer clear of the internet. I have developed a tendency to compare myself to others and social media is TERRIBLE for this. People feel the need to boast and brag about their well-balanced, fun lifestyle. Maybe I don't want to see photos of you (and your generous cleavage) on nights out with immaculate hair and make-up drinking pompous cocktails. We should be encouraging people to use twitter and facebook honestly, so we can relate to each other rather than compare. Why not tell everyone that you've had a shit day and cried because your printer broke and you ran out of teabags? Nobody's life is as perfect as it seems (regardless of how many likes someone's selfie gets).

[charlottebent-blog]

Battling Boredom

I've always considered myself somewhat of a loner. I shy away in large groups, and I'd rather gargle cold sick  than speak in front of a crowd. For years I would long for some time and space just to be alone. To not have to be in the company of others and endure the awkwardness of small talk, was such a comforting idea and one I never thought I'd tire of. I can do what I want, when I want and how I want. When I had to sign off sick I was disheartened, the situation was far from ideal. I thrive best when I'm hard at work and helping others (even if this help only involves recommending Thomas the Tank books and realigning plastic animals), it gives me purpose and worth. However time off allowed me to have some me time. Time I could spend rewatching classic Disney films, walking my dog to the park and starting a new colouring book (actual age = 24, maturity age = 7). As you can imagine 6 months of sick leave is too much alone time. Furthermore, the time off I had envisioned was far from reality. Rather than being tucked up in bed chuckling along to Lilo and Stitch I was having blood taken. Being in a wheelchair meant walking the dog was hardly an option. Time allocated to colouring was spent hopelessly sobbing, wishing my life would end.

Recently I tire of my own company and long to be around others. I have reached such a level of desperation that I wait for my Mum to return home from work and linger in the kitchen itching to hear her enticing stories, that mostly consist of car parking tactics, the bin schedule and how hideous her work colleagues sandals are.

My motivation for recovery is dwindling. This is the longest I've endured a refeeding programme and my anorexic voice refuses to let me forget this. The daily struggles are painful and every step forward triggers thoughts of food restriction and exercise (along with constant reminders that my weight is no longer in my control). However, a step forward is a step towards being able to work. A step towards returning to running and my beloved athletics club. But most importantly a step forward is a step towards leaving the insanity of this house (if I have to listen to my Mum complaining about my Dad dropping biscuit crumbs one more time I will personally offer to hoover them up using my nostrils if it shuts her up). As mentally and emotionally draining as eating is, I need to remind myself that my freedom has to be earned and all the efforts will one day be worth it.

[charlottebent-blog]

Compelling Compulsions

'Can you pass out from anxiety?' I type this into the google search bar before I'm even aware that I've switched my laptop on. My finger hovers over the enter key as the rational part of my brain kicks in. Granted this is a teeny part (rational brain percentage = 3%, irrational brain percentage = 97%), but one I rely on heavily to compose my sanity. With one mental illness, comes a series of symptoms from others. Having experienced depression, emetophobia and anxiety, I figured I was done. Enter OCD.

There are different components of OCD: obsessions and compulsions. The obsessions are the thoughts that never stop. It's a voice in your head that tells you to keep thinking about a thought, it may appear absurd and irrelevant to other people, but to you it is absolutely vital. These thoughts stem into deeper ones, until they become obsessive. The compulsions are acting on the obsessions; routines and rituals that keep everything in control. A voice in your head telling you that if you don't do these things your obsessive thoughts will become reality.

My obsession is illness. I focus and feel the need to attribute every single sensation in my body. Every stomach ache, every shiver, every feeling of thirst or weakness, I believe that I am developing some unknown illness. An illness so unpredictable and mysterious I fear that my body will be out of my control. I believe that doctors will never find the cause and it will never go away. It'll be debilitating and will ruin my life. Writing about this now, I can recognise that this is illogical, as I have no evidence to prove that this will occur (excluding feeling queasy after eating soup too quickly).

Due to the severity and anxiety surrounding these thoughts, I do whatever I think is necessary to keep this fear at bay. I have multiple compulsions. Sometimes I have to check that plugs are off multiple times before I can go to bed. Sometimes I have to rearrange toothbrushes in order of age. Sometimes I have to check my dog is still breathing. Despite the fact that these tasks are completely irrelevant to my health, my brain tells me that if I do these things I regain some control and reduce the chance of the mystery illness. The fear outweighs the rational thinking. My current irresistible compulsion is memorising song lyrics. Regardless of where I am, or who I am with it appears I can't even listen to music now without my brain prompting me to google the lyrics (I justify doing so by telling the rational part of my brain that I'm training up for Ken Bruce's popmaster quiz on Radio 2).

Methods to avoid obsessive thoughts about a mysterious illness consuming your life: - Binge watch the Rugrats (Tommy Pickle is wise beyond his years)

- Play dead with dog and see if she responds like Lassie. She's so fed up of this now she actually leaves the room, god help me if I actually were to die in front of her.

- Teach yourself (unsuccessfully) how to do a forward roll using youtube tutorial videos.

- Check the kitchen cupboards for tinned goods that might have gone out of date. However, if you discover gone off custard do not let curiosity get the better of you. Bin immediately, do not under any circumstances attempt to smell and/or eat it (it looks, smells and tastes like cow sick and could potentially put you off custard for life. NOTHING is worth that risk).

[charlottebent-blog]

Prospects and Progress

All of my anxiety has led up to this day: my care plan assessment. The dread of this derives from having to sit awkwardly in a room, whilst healthcare professionals and my parents dissect and judge everything I have done over the past 2 months. As if the pressure of this wasn't enough I have to endure the presence of Dr Morgan i.e. Manwhore. A consultant with the empathy and emotional capability of a spoon.

Attending appointments with my parents is always an embarrassment, but particularly so today as my Dad chooses the waiting room of an eating disorders clinic to loudly discuss the McDonalds menu. Luckily it isn't long before Paula, my keyworker, takes us into the appointment room. As soon as Paula starts to make comparisons between me and my Mum, I disengage from the conversation. Yes I am a mini-me of my mother and yes I have unfortunately inherited her Dumbo-esque ears, I need no reminders of this. It is 3 painfully long minutes (consisting of the only small talk known to Britons: the weather forecast) before my anorexia arch-nemesis arrives - enter Dr Manwhore.

I spend majority of the meeting thinking  'what the fuck is she wearing'.  She may have an undeserving amount of power and a hefty wage that pays for her pretentious car, however her fashion sense is severely appalling (it provides me with comfort that I could wear a potato sack complete with a drawstring belt and look more coordinated than her). Apparently no amount of medical training provides an education in 'not wearing a ghastly metallic floral dress with tights covered in dominoes and tasselled shoes'. As a general rule if just looking at an outfit makes you queasy you definitely should not, under any circumstances, wear it. You should in fact vomit on it, burn it then bin the ashes.

From the start, it's quite obvious that she's more concerned about her manicure than my mental health, admiring her nails for quite some time. The only time she pipes up is to ask me what I'll be ordering from McDonalds for my lunch (although the combination of her hideous outfit and greasy hair is seriously putting me off the prospect of a crispy chicken wrap).

Conversation proceeds. I'm out of the red danger zone, I no longer require hospitalisation or a wheelchair. Still, I haven't made any progress weight wise since September. The BMI I'm currently at is still unsafe and not maintainable from a physical health perspective. They go through the support they have provided and explain that they have exhausted every option. Whether they are doubting my competence or confidence, it soon becomes clear that they are unsure whether I can recover.

They ask both me and my parents 'what if this standstill continues, what will happen if there is no change in another couple of months?'  However, we don't provide them with the answer they expect as this is asked repeatedly. Unsure of what I should be saying, they suggest that if I have gained no weight by March the services will back off. 'How would you feel about that Charlotte?' I'm not going to lie, a few months ago I would've jumped at the chance to not be mentally prodded and probed several times a week. No food diaries, no blood tests. Freedom. But now I'm frightened. Left to my own devices, god knows what I'm capable of. I can only guess it will involve relapsing and although the idea of weight gain is daunting, it's nothing compared to another mental and physical deterioration. I've not come this far to give up. For the remainder of the appointment I tell them that there will be an improvement. Not arsed whether I've convinced them or not, I leave feeling a new determination to fight. I can and will do this.

In the words of Bruno Mars - don't believe me just watch.

[charlottebent-blog]

Teary Tension

As I sit rigidly in a cramped, sweltering room I begin to wonder when I became so emotionally weak. A question as simple as 'you don't have any confidence in yourself to recover do you?' has formed a lump in my throat. My eyes quickly flood with tears. My heart thumping to such an extent I have to look down to check it's not visible. I'm crumbling and I fear my quivering chin will give the game away. Regardless of what I say I know that any words that come out of my mouth will open the floodgates and set me off. I detest crying, more than I detest Lords of the Rings (short-arsed, manky-footed men in robes hunting some jewellery = serious snoozefest).  Crying entices the bad thoughts. Pathetic, childish, vulnerable. So loud and distressing, I can see from Paula's lips that she is still talking but all I hear is the noise in my head.

Feeling horribly uncomfortable, I use what little courage I have to hold it together. The lump in my throat is swallowed and I breathe the tears away. I don't have the words or expressive capability to tell her how I really feel. Shaking my head is the only response I can manage and I pray to baby Jesus (despite the fact I'm not religious much to my Mum's disappointment. For some reason she believes if I discover faith I'll start to heal and love myself. Personally, I would rather bathe in cold vomit) that there is no more emotional interrogation. Almost 3 years of therapy means I am equipped to combat the bad thoughts (although granted some days it is easier to do so than others), by challenging them. When my head bullies me into thinking I'm worthless and would be better off dead, I tell myself that I have purpose. I have a family and friends (not to mention an adorable dog) who believe in me and want me to live, even if I don't. There have been some failures and disappointments, things haven't always met expectations. But there have also been achievements and happiness.

Often when I'm giving myself permission to eat I think about food as physical fuel, giving my body strength and energy. However maybe it's fuel for my mentality too. Fuel to fight the bad thoughts and teary moments. Fuel to boost my charisma and character. Fuel to contest the anorexic thoughts and give her an almighty kick in the crotch.

[charlottebent-blog]

Terrible Troubles

I spend approximately 85% of my appointments moaning about how I don't want to eat or gain weight, yet I still expect to recover. Despite going through this on a biweekly basis, I'm always hopeful that each time I'll get an actual answer like 'here's your own personal genie complete with 3 magic wishes', or 'I think it's time we gave you this' *slyly passes me a book under the table* 'this is the secret recovery manual with a step-by-step guide on how to kick anorexia with guarantee happiness and life satisfaction'. Of course I know this is utter bollocks as the only response I ever get is 'I know you don't want to put on weight, none of you anorexics do', to which I stomp my feet like a spoilt snotty toddler having a tantrum in the middle of Toys'r'us.

So my dilemma is how does anyone actually recover, when the main thing needed to achieve recovery seems impossible? I would do anything to recover from anorexia. Oh, except eat more food, of course. My overwhelming and irrational fear means that weight gain doesn't appear to be an option.

Things I would rather do than gain weight: 1) Have tea with Amanda Holden. The woman has the personality of a bucket and is without a doubt the most annoying gobshite on TV.

2) Wear wet socks. There is NOTHING more depressing than having cold wet feet (with the exception of watching someone kick a puppy...)

3) Get a tattoo with some shitty, cringy quote like: 'live every moment, laugh every day, love beyond words'...vomit.

4) Stepping in dog sick (the kind where you can identify regurgitated fish in it).

5) Listen to a Robbie Williams album. He is  essentially the Amanda Holden of the music industry (and a general dickhead) with the musical ability of a disabled donkey.

6) Piss in the bath.

For me gaining weight is the most TERRIBLE thing in the entire whole world. I truly believed that there was nothing worse. Until, that was, I was compiling the list above and realised that there may in fact be far more dreadful things than having some extra padding. When put into perspective could putting on a few pounds really be that bad?

Things worse than weight gain: 1) Proudly owning a pair of crocs. Anyone who owns a pair of crocs should be deeply ashamed, regardless of whether they are used solely for gardening or hanging out the washing.

2) Being a paedophile.

3) Having no Mum. She may be a painfully energetic morning person with a tendency to burst into dance spontaneously, but (soppy slush alert!) I rely on her more than I care to admit and truly do not appreciate her enough.

4)  The discontinuation of Coronation Street. I genuinely would have no incentive to live without my tri-weekly dose of Roy Cropper.

5) Having chronic anorexia.

Maybe it's the anorexia that has created this fear that makes recovery seem unattainable. I am of course petrified, however I have no solid evidence that this is true. Having attempted to recover a few times, I am yet to fully recover and therefore can't know for certain whether being a healthy weight is as impossible as it seems. Perhaps, just maybe, it is time to stop being afraid of what could go wrong.

[charlottebent-blog]

Unhappy New Year

With my recent development of panic disorder (which isn't half as fun as it sounds. I imagined it involved sirens and flashing lights, rather than ongoing nausea and breathing like an asthmatic hyena) and general inability to cooperate with food, Christmas was about as successful as a UK Eurovision entry.

I endured the festivities the only way I know how to in difficult situations - by acting like a complete and utter prick. I cried at the sight of presents, refused to pull a Christmas cracker and spat out pieces turkey at the dinner table claiming they were unchewable. Essentially I was Scrooge, only with a slightly higher pitched voice and psychiatric tendencies. Similarly, I entered 2017 being the same miserable cow I was throughout 2016.  Each new year I convince myself that this is MY year (yes cliché crap, I know). A new year marked with fun and laughing and overall happiness. However, my expectations have not been reflected in reality. Each new year has overtaken the preceding one in shitness i.e. 2014 was shit, 2015 was shitty shit, 2016 was the shittiest of shitty shit. Based on this theory, along with my general pessimistic approach to life, I am expecting the next 365 days to be a total shitstorm. I do this in hope that: a)2017 proves me wrong and gives me some happiness (preferably in the form of Rick Astley tickets, or a puppy) and b) if I have negative expectations any enjoyment I do experience during 2017 is a bonus. A fail-proof plan, I'm sure...

But it's not all doom and gloom. One of the benefits of the festive period is NO APPOINTMENTS (insert celebratory jig here). No blood extraction, cognitive behavioural therapy and general reminders of my deteriorated mentality. I was giddy beyond belief with the prospect of 16 days of freedom. I visualised relaxing days with dog walks, cosy afternoons on the sofa and reading. Obviously anorexia had alternative plans, which primarily involved preoccupations with food (including a 3 hour period spent obsessing over a mini mince pie), unbearable levels of anxiety and anger episodes that make the Hulk look like a pansy. If I wasn't 98% sure that I had already, I would claim to be losing my mind. Please, send help (failing that I will accept Benedict Cumberbatch and the complete DVD boxset of Sabrina the Teenage Witch).

[charlottebent-blog]

Hell or Hope?

My early twenties have been tarnished with mental illness. Ironically, I realise this in a session with my psychologist. These appointments are designed to get me thinking and to challenge my mentality. Majority of the thinking I do whilst in there, is about how I can politely point out that she has some snot dripping out of her nostril (she may have a doctrine in psychology but she has yet to discover kleenex). If there is no snot in sight my thoughts turn towards yawn prevention tactics (such as using my tongue to count my teeth) and blinking rapidly so my eyelids stay awake. Not exactly how I envisioned my twenties.

I see (and bitterly hiss at) people the same age as me who are going travelling, becoming home owners and parents, getting engaged etc. Whilst I spend my days reading, attending pointless appointments and faking my own death to see how my dog reacts. Anorexia has been in my life for a number of years now, it's difficult to imagine a life without it. When people separate the illness from me I get defensive. I hear things like 'that's not you it's the anorexia talking' and 'you're only saying that because your ill'. That's the difference between physical and mental illness. Mental illness is so personal, it consumes your thoughts, feelings and personality. It magnifies the smallest of problems (I have genuinely spiralled into a suicidal episode just because I got on the wrong bus) and torments your confidence. It's doubt and worry and anxiety. It sucks the life out of you leaving a hollow, empty shell.

People don't choose to have a mental illness, just like people don't choose to have cancer. However, what isn't spoken about is the reliance of a mental illness, it's there for a reason. I developed anorexia at a time in my life when I felt isolated and unsettled. It gave me a sense of worth and control. A mental illness isn't just an illness, it's a coping mechanism for life. The only problem with this is that the illness aspect of this is damaging. People just assume I want to recover. And a part of me does, but there's always a niggling part of me that is scared that it's all too overwhelming. That it'll spiral out of my control. That I'll get to a healthy BMI and still feel lonely, depressed and worthless. For this reason I struggle to use the future as an incentive.

The only thing that keeps me going is hope (and my dog and the latest Rick Astley album). Hope that one day my recovery voice will override the anorexic. Hope that I can become healthy once again and have a world of opportunities. Hope that I'll be bright and bubbly, and proud of myself and my own skin. Hope that one day this will all just be a blurry memory.

[charlottebent-blog]

Dear Bitch,

Dear bitch (a.k.a. anorexia),

It’s difficult to separate your identity from my own. How can something as strong as you be such a big part of me without being me? I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve you. You automatically make me feel like an unworthy person,  surely a nice person wouldn’t deserve to endure such a frustratingly painful and suffocating illness like you. However I know this is one of the many lies you feed me, for I have met others with you. And these others are the most caring, thoughtful and kind people I have and ever will meet. I know now that you seek those who lack self-compassion and confidence, ones who already view themselves as weak and inferior. You latch onto those insecurities and deplete them, like an invisible parasite.  It’s your invisibility that gives you strength, you creep and crawl your way into lives often undetected until it’s too late.

You are the voice that fills me with anxiety and doubts. You make uncertainty and change fearful. You make me bang my head and scream with vicious anger, often at people I care about most. You isolate and dishearten me. You make me feel pathetic, useless and worthless. Every time I put food in my mouth you remind me that I’m not invincible, that I have no control. You put body image and weight in the forefront of my mind, so much so that it’s difficult to imagine a time when I don’t prioritise eating. You question everything and make my own eyes deceive me. I change my outfit at least 7 times a day because of you. I have lost jobs and friends and happiness because of you. I deprived myself of basic human rights because of you - and for what? I sacrificed everything for a piece of mind that I never got. The goalposts are always moving. I’m not sure why I’ve kept you. I don’t want you, but you make me feel like I need you. That without you I’d be an unidentified big fat nothing. But I was me before you and I’ll be me after you. You’ll never be happy, nor will you ever make me happy. I wish I could remember what fun was like, I wish I could work and laugh and run. I wish more than anything that you would go away without the mental battles and depressive episodes. But if you won’t go down without a fight then neither will I. Game on, bitch.

All the hate and swear words in the world,

Charlotte

[charlottebent-blog]

Black Clouds

I don’t want to live, it’s as simple as that. You might be thinking well she’s clearly writing this when she’s having one of those I-live-with-my-parents-I’m-afraid-of-food-and-the-love-of-my-life-is-a-dog low moments, and that I don’t always feel this way, but I do. Melodramatic, may be, however it doesn’t make my feelings any less valid. Going about my day to day life, nobody has a clue, how would they? When people ask how you are the default answer is ‘fine, you?’ a response that differs from this goes against every conduct of British social interaction. I give my standard reply and disguise any hint of misery with a smile.

Since making a promise to recover and regain my life, I feel the need to prove to the world that I am making every effort to, even if it means pretending to have fun. What I hadn’t accounted for was depression overtaking my anorexia. Yes, my low mood has always been somewhat of a battle, but never to this extent. I’ve never been one to laze about in bed, yet it’s never been so appealing to remain in hibernation under my duvet. I have nothing to get up for. I spend my day counting down the hours until I can once again be alone. I don’t have the concentration or mental capacity to maintain a conversation or watch Coronation Street. Bad thoughts leave me so preoccupied there is little room for anything else. My energy and drive is non-existent. I find enjoyment in nothing and I have no interests or incentives. I understand that to experience this is not normal, however this does not ease my condition. There is only one idea that comforts me and that is the prospect of being able to leave this place.

They say being suicidal is wanting to die, but with this I would disagree. In all honesty I am terrified of death and I do not want to die, I just don’t want to live anymore. Besides all the obvious signs of being a living human aren’t there. I don’t feel hunger, or pleasure or emotion. I don’t sleep properly. I can’t engage or interact. Socially and physically, I am completely numb and blank, yet at the same time heavy with exhaustion, shadowed by a constant cloud of dread. I experience pain and worry, not life. My not wanting to live is outweighing my fear of dying. Just one wish that you could just not exist. That you could will yourself to evaporate into nothing and leave without a trace. That is the other thing. Love. If so many people weren’t putting all their time and effort and energy into me, then maybe I wouldn’t feel so guilty that I have wasted a life and could be left alone to stew in pity. You see I don’t want the luxury of happiness. I see no hope, no future, therefore I have no use for happiness. What I do want is the absence of mental and emotional pain, but the chances of that are unimaginably slim. I feel trapped and tortured - the only escape is death.

When people talk about being suicidal you think of one key moment where the person just puts their hands up and says 'that’s it, I’ve had enough’ and does it. For me this is not the case. There was no event or trigger that made me feel like this, it was a slow fall. The thought of suicide doesn’t just occur, there’s a trickle of thought: wouldn’t it just be easier to not be here. It seeps into your everyday. It starts with the bigger things, like when you have an argument or upset someone. Then before you know it even the tiniest of things can tip you. When your hair looks like Bob Geldof’s, or you make a terrible cup of tea: just die. You research ways to do it, thinking of every possible outcome. Who will find me? Will I be successful? How long will it take? People who have committed suicide have not done it in a moment of haste or selfishness, they have put a lot of thought and debated their worth and life. I think people are sometimes indenial about this. As a parent, or sister, or best friend, surely you’d know how they were thinking, surely you’d be able to persuade them that living is the obvious answer. But if words or medicine can’t fix you, the light at the end of the tunnel seems out of reach. If the pain exists in this life then maybe the right answer isn’t the most obvious one.

In all honesty I don’t know why I’m still here. Several times over the past weeks I have found myself in situations where I’ve convinced myself 'just do it’. Whether it be a razor to my wrists, or half-way to an overdose of aspirin, I have found myself chickening out. Maybe it’s because I don’t have the guts to do anything about it, or maybe it’s because I’m holding out for a lifeline, or a glimmer of hope, or purpose. At the moment I’m trapped here by love. Suicide isn’t selfish, it isn’t selfish to want to not feel internal agony or not experience anxiety so excruciating you can’t function. However, sometimes you have to take into consideration how your actions impact others. Although I feel like a constant burden and failure, I know that if I ended my life my Mum would be inconsolable and only blame herself. What I am feeling now is nothing compared to the loss of someone you love. And if the roles were reversed I would plead the person to remain - so I shall. I may not have any self-compassion, but that doesn’t mean people feel the same way about me as I do. I will continue to exist through love and guilt and fear and whatever else it is I’m supposed to be holding out for.

[charlottebent-blog]

Home Sweet Home

So, 16 traumatising weeks later and I’m finally home. Although discharging myself wasn’t quite the original plan, it was a decision I was confident with, due to a number of reasons:

1) After a weekend of refusing to eat due to dread of feeling like a heffa surrounded by skeletons, I decided I needed some positive influences. Being on a ward amongst the worst eating disorder cases in the North West was not providing me with any reassurance or motivation.

2) Seeing so many malnourished bodies each and every day only worsened the body dysmorphia that anorexia gave me. I believed an intervention at this point, such as discharge, could reverse my distorted view. Any longer and I’m certain the damage would have been permanent. I was not willing to take that risk given the 3 years of life that I have already sacrificed for this illness.

3) I was horribly homesick. Well not so much homesick, more along the lines of I miss my dog so much I felt nauseas. It’s not exactly a secret that the love of my life is the OAP equivalent of a dog and if that isn’t tragic enough I’ve recently learnt that she has more Christmas cards than me, which leads onto…

4) I need to be at home so I can receive more Christmas cards than my dog (even if I have to claim the ones addressed to my parents ’& family’).

5) It was in fact one conversation that made my decision to leave final. I’d like to think I’m a nice person and that I try my best to be at the very least civil to people, however there was a patient in particular who I struggled to exist beside let alone attempt a friendship (who am I kidding, I’m not exactly a people person anyway, she was a whiney spoilt Daddy’s girl with the personality of a sponge). During this conversation precious little whino claimed that One Direction were better than the Beatles. Even writing this now I have no words and her saying this just confirms that she needs some serious, in-depth treatment. I may feel invaluable and worthless, but even I don’t deserve to be surrounded by divs like her.

6) The only support I was receiving was from my teddy bear, granted it’s a pretty fab teddy that has knickers that matches it’s t-shirt and sings, however I figured I’d feel more comforted being at home (and not be judged by others for being 23 and having a cuddly toy that has coordinated underwear).

The excitement of discharge meant that I’d put little thought into what would actually happen when I arrived home (other than force cuddles on my dog and replenish my body with diet coke having been deprived for almost 4 months). By taking myself out of an environment I considered to be unhelpful, I assumed that returning to Manchester would be a doddle. Through not witnessing anorexic behaviours and seeing starved figures all day every day, I truly believed my struggles with body image and my desire to be thin would disappear. This is not the case. I’m so preoccupied with my body size that I cannot recall a single conversation I’ve had with my Mum since I’ve come home (although generally my Mum’s conversation topics revolve around the neighbours waste disposal habits and inconsiderate parking, therefore forgetfulness could be a result of deadly boring conversations rather than poor concentration due to having more wobbly bits). My daily routine at home is significantly more stressful now that I have the responsibility and freedom. Furthermore, I have been exposed to mirrors and now feel overly aware of the changes to my body. Without the safety net of hospital and the urge to lose weight, I’m constantly battling between what my head is telling me to do and what the anorexia is - the difficulty in this is that it’s hard to differentiate the two.You’d think I’d have learnt by now that no part of recovery comes easily, and although I still feel horribly uncomfortable, I’m still very much under the belief that with time average sizes will be once again normalised and that I will feel no shame, and wear my new healthy body with pride.

[charlottebent-blog]

Changes

I can no longer kid myself that I am the size I used to be. I can physically see my weight restoring i.e. rice pudding thighs, jaffa cake tum etc. My ribs are becoming less visible. A pair of jeans that used to fall off me now don’t. And my body checking routine just confirms this. Prior to admission I could fit one hand around my thigh, rather than two. This is the highest my weight has been in years. I no longer have the reassurance of a low BMI to rationalise my discomfort and self-consciousness. And to top it all off I’m constantly trying to battle off the urge to be skinny, whilst the painfully thin people that surround me claim to be overweight. They say eating disorders come in all shapes and sizes, however they primarily exist as skeletons. My current struggle with how I perceive my body makes me believe that I am a fraud. I am the black sheep in the flock, the square surrounded by circles, the minority in the majority. All day, every day my internal critic reminds me I do not belong here. And all I feel is disgust and self-hatred.

It may come as no surprise to you that my usual coping mechanism in times like this is to refuse food and compulsively exercise. Despite the temptation to refer back to these, I am fully aware that it is a slippery slope back to severe anorexia - both my family and body cannot endure with another relapse. Furthermore, falling back into my old tricks will only keep me in this confinement longer (I already miss my dog and diet coke horribly, additional time in here is essentially clinical torture). Without my usual de-stressing methods I find myself in a difficult predicament. As a general rule of thumb, I do not do emotions or verbal expression. It usually takes a death or a close apocalyptic event for negative feelings to be discussed within my family home.

I worry and over-think everything, therefore by admitting my own vulnerability I am unable to predict how others will respond and could potentially create a situation which is ridiculously awkward or upsetting to others. I descend from a long line of strong characters who refuse to show weakness. Furthermore, I’d rather bathe in my own sick than endure a socially awkward situation. So it’s essentially a game of continuing recovery out of politeness, rather than accepting my appearance.

[charlottebent-blog]

Pipe Down

The constant struggle that I face on a daily basis to remain in this hell hole is unimaginable. I have never experienced homesickness like this. The feelings of grotesque fat and disgust never shift. I get dressed, on average, 7 times before breakfast, with my thighs and stomach appearing to grow with each outfit change. Every day my depression reaches new lows. I tell myself ‘this is the most depressed I have ever been; the lowest of the low. It can’t get any worse than this’, only the very next day, without fail, it does. I didn’t know it was possible to exist with so much sadness weighing you down. I fight to keep a smile on my face and withhold the pretence that I am coping. However, some way or another, my interior seeps out. Weak, vulnerable and pathetic.

Today I learnt that I am an incompetent verbal communicator (on the contrary my non-verbal communication skills are excellent. My strops are notorious, with the ones towards the psychotic end of the tantrum spectrum resulting in plaster and a curtain rail being ripped off the wall. I generally hold a grudge for a minimum of 3 weeks. However, I can also write ridiculously soppy letters and birthday cards). My ongoing struggle is verbal translation.

I very rarely vent my frustration and voice my opinion - unless absolutely necessary i.e. if someone expresses a like for Mariah Carey or owns a pair of Crocs. The few times I have spoken up I have felt unheard, and therefore tend not to. What I have to say is of no importance. I genuinely believe that I am unvalued and dismissed, continuously.

In keeping quiet I aim to reduce any fuss, upset and worry to others, instead I cause frustration and anger and anxiety to myself (due to having next to no self-compassion whatsoever I would choose people pleasing if it meant jeopardising my own happiness). I can’t be 100% honest with anybody because of how they might judge me, or the risk of them seeing my true emotions and then leaving me vulnerable and hurt. Emotions are unpredictable, scary and confusing. By expressing these I don’t feel more important or loved or reassured of my existence. I feel isolated and worthless and pitied. Taking all this into consideration remaining unspoken is more sufferable.

Today I learnt that if I don’t overcome this I will never achieve the happiness I so desperately want.

[charlottebent-blog]

Ticking Time

They say time is a healer, but for me it’s a chore. I use time as a marker, from the second I wake up I’m on  countdown until I go to bed at night. What I do in between those two points is merely a filler of random and, what seem like, pointless activities. But I’m told that’s the depression. Lack of enjoyment, reduced motivation and blah blah blah. I ticked so many boxes on the mental illness criteria that the psychologist did that thing they do when you know shit is serious i.e. raises both eyebrows, simultaneously lowering her spectacles to the end of her nose and glaring at me like I’ve just trodden on a puppy. Turns out I probably should’ve been in a place like this sooner and, considering everything, I’m lucky that my personality and sense of humour is fairly intact.

I’ve done a tedious amount of checklists and worksheets (one of the many peeves about being on an inpatient ward, along with: disgusting amounts of milky drinks, having to brush teeth with hot water and a nurse who serenades patients into the day room, insisting that we’d all benefit from a group sing-song - as if we are the Von Trapps and not a room full of eating disorders with faces liked a slapped arse miming the lyrics to ‘Wonderwall’) mostly to indicate exactly how screwed up I am and how to undo this. I’ve been asked several times what I want from this admission, where I want to be and what I aspire to do. My answer is not a specific goal, or something that can be achieved solely by gaining weight, but my answer is always consistent; happiness.

I want to reach a point where I don’t always have to strive for perfection and I am comfortable to settle for less. I want to have confidence in my own skin and voice my opinion, without feeling childish or pathetic. I want to accept my flaws as a part of who I am. I want to be able to justify doing things for myself and not be ridden with guilt or selfishness. I want to find enjoyment in life again  and do nice things because I want to, not because I have worked hard or feel like I’ve earned it.  I want to be free from anxiety and worry and obsessions over food and weight and body image. I want to believe that I deserve happiness.