Who am I?
I feel there was a time I wouldn’t have been able to answer that question; that period of my life, not so long ago now, when I was entangled deep within the mental illness known as anorexia nervosa. For much of that time, my identity was so deeply embedded within my eating disorder; almost totally consumed by it. Years of being unable to consume adequate amounts of food, directly linked to, and driven by, my eating disorder’s consumption of my sense of self and my identity. And very little it would have left if I hadn’t made that crucial decision to fight back and recover. I reclaimed my identity and my life, and the person who is really me finally began to resurface. Like sunshine nourishes the budding spring flower, recovery allowed my real self to finally emerge, burst forth and shine.
I’m 27 now. Exactly fifteen years since the year that I first developed anorexia. Fifteen years of illness and it’s only now that I’m starting to become aware of who I really am.
I’m a writer and I am a nature-lover. I am a baker and a home cook who can now eat the food – and treats – she prepares with pleasure, and not cut corners in a bid to reduce the calories of her creations. I am a daughter, sister, granddaughter, friend. I am a somebody’s someone. I love, and am aware of how much I am loved. All of these things – these roles, relationships, identities – were more or less invisible to me when I was hostage to my eating disorder. Back then every day was just acting out a set of motions; dictated by a Voice in my head who made me wholly oblivious to the others in my life, my relationship to them, and all the things in my life that I loved and held dear.
And fundamentally, I can say now that I am a woman – not the child that my eating disorder forced me to remain as. I was barely more than a girl when I became ill; and girl, I remained, for years upon end, even when the dates upon my birth certificate declared me officially a young adult. I remained my eating disorder’s obedient, compliant daughter; unquestioning and ever ready to please. Until slowly but surely, that child became aware of just how unhappy she was. Unhappy, lost, and alone. She was trapped within a darkened cell with only a tiny slit in the wall to admit any light.
But light did pour in through that slit; and she wondered. Where did that light come from? Somewhere…out…there...? Out there was a world of beauty and light and possibility; so close, but yet so painfully out of reach. And then she realized that it was she who had locked the doors of her cell with her very own hands. Anorexia had guided her, and had constructed those walls so thick and tall to make it seem like escape was impossible. But it was she who had trapped herself; it was she, who had locked that door and shut the world out. But if there was a way in, she knew, there was always, always a way back out. And she began to climb upwards with trembling limbs toward the shaft of light. Many falls and slips she would have, but each time she would dust herself off, and resume doggedly the gruelling, sweaty climb. The climb to the beautiful light. The celestial light of fully recovered.
It was only when I started to recover, and after many years of working hard at my recovery, I realized that I no longer wanted to remain a child. My illness had rendered me afraid, terrified even, of responsibility. The pressures of the adult world appeared too immense and overwhelming for me to face every day, and my eating disorder seemed to provide an easy escape route from them. Staying ill, being so close to death, I believed would make me exempt from having to manage the terrifying pressures inevitably involved in becoming an adult.
Overcoming that desire to remain ill and therefore, being spared from making the transition to maturity was difficult, intensely so, but in time, that drive to maintain my illness started to wane. Staying with the illness was so comfortable, reassuring, familiar. But yet it was also suffocating. I felt I was literally and figuratively being strangled of air; that my growth, both physical and personal, was being stifled and stilled. And in time I realised what I wanted the most. To be free and let myself grow and become the woman I was meant to be; to fight for and achieve my dreams and my full potential.
For years I had been the illness’ fragile little flower, so easily effected by the slightest change in her environment: a single touch, the merest puff of wind, would have been enough to make me crumple and fall to the ground. But recovery enabled me to recast myself. Now, I can liken myself to a strong, deep rooted, resilient oak tree; one that is strong enough to withstand the greatest of storms. Life is never quite as rosy as a flower studded garden; and there will inevitably be the occasional storm blotting the horizon. But through recovery I developed a robust and sound resilience. I now possess a palpable inner strength which I know will always be there with me, to help me manage and overcome the storms and challenges of life.
How I started to get help
For eight years since I first became ill, I was completely unaware of there being anything wrong. It wasn’t until my second year at university a change occurred that would become what I now refer to as my recovery. I found myself in a very dark place and no longer able to cope with the pressures that my fellow students all seemed to take very much in their stride. A tiny part of me knew deep down something was wrong. But whenever my mind tried to linger upon that thought, attempted to consider whether something needed to change, I quashed it, ruthlessly and unhesitatingly. There was danger in the unknown, it seemed, and to contemplate change felt dangerous, threatening, and terrifying.
It was the love and concern of my mother which finally cracked the ice in my heart. Though I loved her deeply, for years I had been oblivious to the worry, fear and pain in her eyes as she witnessed me slipping backwards while simultaneously being told repeatedly that everything was just “grand”. But one day, finding myself in a despair so deep I felt like I was going to drown in its black waters, I found myself suddenly unable to repeat the lie I had told her for years whenever she asked whether I was eating properly. I broke down, and told her everything. She held me close as my body trembled with grief, and told me everything would be alright. Then she made me a cup of hot chocolate and sat with me as I drank it down to the very last sip. A relief so immense washed over me, as sweet and as beautiful as the first rays of sunshine felt on the skin as the clouds part away to admit the sun. And that was the day that I always see as being the start of my recovery.
It was the start of what would be a long and very difficult journey. A few months later, I commenced inpatient treatment, and remained there for a total of three months. This, however, did not serve to particularly help me. I went back to uni a few months later, weight restored but with anorexia still very much alive and kicking within my mind. The love I bore for my mam was enough to keep me going, but not quite enough to make me commit to full and complete recovery. I had not yet found what would later prove to be the key to unlocking the door to complete and unconditional freedom.
That came, several years later, when I met the boy who would become the love of my life. For a while, I felt like my recovery efforts had a fresh new incentive: it wasn’t solely for the love of mam, now; it was for the love of this boy, too, that I needed to eat well and be healthy for. But then I realized, once again, this wasn’t quite, quite enough: there was still yet a missing piece to my recovery, without which I was unable to reach a place of full and complete freedom in body, heart, mind and soul. But down the line something clicked deep within me and I realized that I had found that missing piece. That desire to recover not just for them, but for myself. I had found my reasons to recover, thanks to the love of those who cared about me the most. It was they who taught me that I was worthy of true recovery; and that I deserved to grow and flourish.
What I wish I knew back then..
Well, the first thing that springs to mind I suppose, is just how much damage I was doing to myself through the restriction I engaged in; the devastating toll it was taking on my body. It was only when I entered hospital the full extent of the damage anorexia had reaped upon my health became apparent. The customary checks the hospital did on their patients forced me to confront what I had been blind to for years; that in starving myself, I had come harrowingly close to destroying myself. I had the bone mass of an old woman; my malnourished state had led me to develop severe osteoporosis which, unbeknownst to me, was unreversible. I had had no idea that a young woman my age would be able to develop osteoporosis; I had always naively believed that it was an old woman’s disease. And that is a regret I will carry for the rest of my life. If I had realised sooner, if I had become aware back then that something was wrong, I could have saved my formerly healthy bones and got them back to a safe place before going beyond the point of no return. But regret serves nobody. I know now that all I can do is to use this knowledge to inform others and prevent anyone from making the mistake that I made.
What recovery is bringing to my life…
So much has changed, so much. In broadest terms I feel like a different person, inside and out. My body feel stronger, mentally and physically; a safe haven in which my soul and spirit can reside. Now I have the strength and the energy to do the things that my illness rendered me too weak to engage in – or, on the other hand, had turned into a compulsive activity in which there was no joy or pleasure; just a means to keep my weight down through calorie expenditure. Rambling hikes in the mountains, long cycles in which I lose track of the time; swimming in the sea and feeling my limbs pushing against the currents swirling around me. And then there are the internal and psychological changes. I am no longer the anxious, irritable, nervous and tense person that I became when I was very ill. Anorexia caused not just my body to shrink and my weight to fall (though it’s important to note here, eating disorders don’t cause weight loss in everyone); it caused the very person that I was to shrink and diminish, too. And when I chose to recover it wasn’t only my body that grew and developed. My personality burst forth again, and I now feel like I could fill an entire room with the energy and light of my presence.
I can concentrate again now. I’m currently writing my own novel and can sit for hours upon end typing away sometimes without any thought to what calories I am or am not burning. Once that would have been impossible – focusing that long for one thing; and sitting for more than a few minutes, being the other! And socially I have changed, too. I can now eat out with my boyfriend and not have a mental breakdown in the restaurant trying to decide what to eat. I can meet with a friend and get a decadent hot chocolate with all the trimmings and not feel guilty if my companion decides to get one with me or not. I no longer fear things that involve food, whether that be Christmas, meals out, or just a family dinner with my loved ones. True recovery gives you a beautiful mental freedom which extends to all the different parts of one’s life.
My advice
Never, ever feel ashamed. Having an eating disorder is not your fault. It’s not a choice, but it’s important to remember that recovery, is. You can choose to recover, and making that choice will be the bravest and best decision you could ever make. It’s not going to be easy, but just know that you can do it; you can never be too old, too weak, too sick or too engrained in the illness to recover. Just remember that, though the fear inside your head seems so overpowering and cripplingly real, that it is, after all, simply that: a fear. An emotion created by your own head. Though the thoughts and the fears generated by your illness may seem so tangible and forceful, just remember that, in truth, they are not. They exist only within your own head, and you have – difficult as it may be – the power to go directly against those thoughts, and recover.
You have to find what works for you. I always think, and this is what helped me no end, you have to find your own reasons to recover and be prepared to fight for them whenever the road gets tough. At the beginning I was only recovering for my loved ones, and though this worked well short term, its true to say that down the line I realized that it wasn’t quite enough to get me through to full recovery. More importantly, you need to try to develop love for yourself. A love for yourself and a desire to recover for you and for the things that matter for you. For me, it was realizing that I wanted to be well enough to have children, and become an advocate for true recovery, and help others. You have to look deep within yourself, and find what is truly important to you. Find it; and realise that what you want the most out of life will never be possible unless you fully recover.