I got 20 minutes into watching Netflix’s new movie ‘To the Bone’ and turned it off (and here’s why you shouldn’t watch it either*).
I don’t need a movie to tell me what it’s like having an eating disorder, because I’ve been there done that. To anyone out there who has suffered or is suffering, potentially triggering yourself isn’t worth it. You don’t need to have every symptom portrayed in a movie in order to be a ‘good anorexic’, because the only way to be a good anorexic is to be dead.
Maybe the movie is in fact a good portrayal, unlike many already out there that can act us ‘how to’ guides to young people, or not (I wouldn’t know. I haven’t watched it). But that’s not really the point.
The point is, I don’t think I will get any benefit out of this movie and I don’t think that anyone else who has experienced an ed will either. And more than that, I’m sick of eating disorders. They are BORING. You hear the same thing over and over. One day someone is fine or maybe it’s gradual but then suddenly ‘boom’ and there’s the ed. The lucky people recover the first time. Some never do and most of us spend years in bouts of recovery and relapse. There’s nothing interesting about starving yourself or ending up in hospital.
I’ve had my share of supervised toilet and shower use and I’m not a fan. I didn’t enjoy being forced to eat and swallow when I didn’t want to, and sometimes wasn’t allowed the luxury of tasting my food. Where’s the joy in that? I’m sick of being weighed and pricked by needles. Of never feeling beautiful no matter what any number says. I’m sick of never feeling ‘enough’.
It’s true that the worst day in recovery is better than the best day in a relapse. I’ don’t know about you, but I’d much rather be choosing what I eat because I enjoy it and not because I have to have it. I like that I can spend my days doing things; waking up when I want, going on adventures and spending time socialising and having a life. I like that my cat sleeps on my bed and I look forward to preparing breakfast each morning.
I hope that soon I won’t have to associate with the word recovery because the eating disorder just won’t be in my life.
Don’t watch the movie. You don’t need it to tell you how difficult things have been or how strong and brave you are being for fighting. You don’t need to hear that because you’ve lived it.
A movie won’t tell you that you are beautiful and amazing and so worthy of life and love, but I am. You are wonderful because you are alive, with a beating heart inside your warm chest and not a character in a movie that only exists inside a screen.
* this is especially important if you are or have suffered from an eating disorder in the past, or if you happen to be a teenage girl between the ages of 11 and 18 (adolescent girls are most at risk of developing an ed).
I’m sick of being sick. I’m sick of admissions and appointments and not being able to do what I love. I’m sick of putting hunger and a half-assed life over my own happiness. Of having to enrol and unenroll from university each semester because I’m too ill. I’m sick of denying myself foods that I love so that I can keep my weight at the bare minimum of healthy. None of this is healthy. I didn’t choose anorexia, but now I’m choosing to get rid of it.
It’s not that easy, I know, but I’m determined to beat this. I know it’s not going to be an easy journey and I don’t expect it to go smoothly, but I do believe in recovery. I know it’s possible because I’ve seen it happen for other people.
I’m finally accepting what it means to recover. For me, that’s eating enough food to satisfy myself and my dietician and increasing the variety of my diet. It’s choosing things for taste and not because the bitch in my head says so. It’s facing the thoughts again and again and not giving in. Recovery is going out and eating meals with my friends. It’s going to bed thinking about relapsing but waking up and sticking to my meal plan anyway. It’s gaining weight even though I’m scared of what that will mean, engaging in therapy and taking my medication.
The reality is, I cannot be healthy whilst I am undernourished. And I cannot be happy unless I am healthy.
I want to work and study and be independent. I want to have friends and joy in my life again. And to do that I need to recover.
You don’t have to feel ready to recover because chances are if you wait for the perfect time it will never come. You don’t have to feel ready, you just have to be brave.
Today I am choosing recovery, and not that fake eating disorder turned vegan or clean eating recovery you see on Instagram. I’m choosing chocolate and ice cream and happiness. Today I’m choosing myself.
7 weeks. That’s how long the eating disorder ward was my home, by far the longest admission I’ve ever had. I ate, slept and lived within those walls with no more than 7 other patients at any time. Those girls (and guys) became my friends and my family, along with the lovely nursing staff.
The day I was admitted, I thought they had made a mistake. I wasn’t sick enough and I didn’t need to be there. I didn’t ‘deserve’ the label of anorexic or the privilege of a hospital bed because there were so many people out there who needed it more. But the thing is, that’s how eating disorders work; they convince you that you don’t deserve help when in actual fact everyone does regardless of the severity of their illness.
I sat on my bed and cried. And cried. And cried. I was escorted to the dining room to sit with the other patients. Then began the routine of eating, resting, more eating and still more resting. I began on level 1 of a refeeding meal plan and eventually worked my way up to a meal plan of three meals and three snacks a day. A meal plan that meets my bodies nutritional needs. In the beginning, it was extremely difficult. I spent many a mealtime battling my thoughts and wanting to refuse the meal or supplement. And sometimes I did. But the nurses were determined and week after week it got easier.
My day began at 6.30am each morning when I’d take my first lot of medication, and on Mondays and Thursdays I’d change into a gown and be blind weighed. Breakfast was at 8 am, morning tea at 10, lunch at 12 pm, afternoon tea at 3 pm, dinner at 6 pm and supper was 8.30 pm. For 15 minutes after snacks and 30mins after main meals (also the length of time we had to eat) we weren’t able to move around and had to sit in a living area. Afterwards, we had a little more freedom and could use the toilet (next to the nurses station) or go into one a small ‘quiet’ room, but really we were fairly sedentary. Throughout the day we had regular blood tests and our physical obs taken (anywhere from once a day to hourly depending on our health).
Between 9.30 am and 9 pm at night, our rooms were locked. This was so that it was possible for us to be supervised with fewer staff, to help keep a regular sleeping schedule and to prevent overexercising. It was really hard not being allowed to sleep during the day or to spend time by myself and that’s one of the things I found the most difficult. I’m not a very social person so having to spend all day every day with other patients was a nightmare for me. Or at least it was in the beginning.
As this particular ward was underfunded, there weren’t many activities on. Twice a week, we hard art therapy run by a student and often only a couple of people would attend. I was usually one of them. I made a lot of collages in this time, as well as; watercolour paintings, paper mache type sculptures and journal pages.
Occasionally, though they were supposed to run weekly, we would have a group with the registrar that could involve anything from pros and con lists of our eating disorders to discussing identity or watching a video on the physical effects. We also had a pharmacy group with topics such as bone density, anxiety and sleep hygiene. Out of all of these, the best day of the week by far was pet therapy day. This was when we all got to sit around and cuddle a dog. Because what therapy is better than animals?
Ward rounds happened twice a week and they were the bane of our existence. The night before we would fill out a form with questions relating to what we had achieved, what we were struggling with and what we wanted out of the program including any questions we had. The longer you were in hospital and the more you progressed in treatment, the more responsibility and privileges you would get. Common requests included; downstairs leave, leave from the ward, unsupervised bathroom visits, participation in ward activities such as cooking and take away challenges (a rotation of Thai, Indian and Italian) and the most requested of all; discharge.
During ward round we would go into a room with a whole range of professionals that usually consisted of about 10 people (psychologist, psychiatrist, registrar, doctor, dietician, pharmacist, social worker, nurse, medical students, unit manager and whoever else happened to be there that day) and it is one of the most daunting things I’ve ever had to do. Think of it as a job interview but with everyone prying into your personal life. Not ideal.
The nurses made my experience what it was and are the reason that I progressed as far as I did, farther than anyone had expected. They prepared our breakfasts (toast or cereal), snacks and lunch (sandwiches) every day, but not dinners which were provided by the hospital kitchen. They ate with us, provided meal supervision and encouragement, washed our dishes (low and behold there was no dishwasher on the ed ward) and became our supports. A lot of laughter was had over the dinner table, a lot of tears too but mainly laughter. I become close to a few of the nurses and will always be grateful for them and how they made me feel like a person again.
I’m also grateful for the other patients and the special bonds we formed. Spending weeks and weeks with strangers, it was hard for us not to become close. Some of the girls I met were the kindest and most compassionate humans that I’ve ever come across and they are the reason I got through the admission in one piece. Having that support made mealtimes easier and gave me the motivation to eat so that I didn’t trigger anyone else or make eating more difficult for them. Though over time, it became less about that and more about getting better.
Though I went into this admission involuntarily, I am leaving with hope and desire for a better future. I take with me the knowledge that it is possible to beat this illness and that I possess the strength within me to do so. For the first time in a long time, I truly want to recover. I want my life back. I want to be free. It’s not going to be an easy road but I am finally ready to fight.
I never thought that it would happen, but here I am having just been released from an eating disorder ward. The last three months have been a blur that I would rather forget, but I am sharing my story in the hopes that it may help someone.
My eating disorder has been a part of my life for all my teenage years and now has made its way into my adult life. The two main risk factors for developing an eating disorder, though we know they definitely aren’t necessary, are being a girl and in the early teens. Combine this with being a perfectionist and having a chaotic home life, I never really stood a chance.
My weight fluctuated greatly throughout my teens and I crossed the line between OSFED, anorexia and bulimia nervosa many times. Most of the time I was still able to ‘manage’ it on my own, or at least I thought I could. It wasn’t until I finished high school and turned 18 that things got drastically worse.
I struggled through my first year of university and in the beginning of my second year my weight dropped drastically, to the point where I was physically and mentally at risk. Looking back, I should have been hospitalised at this point, but I stubbornly pushed myself through the semester with twice weekly physical checks and weekly bloods. I was falling down, unable to concentrate, my hair was falling out and I looked awful but I couldn’t acknowledge it. Eventually, as a result of my depression, my eating took on different extremes and I gained a lot of weight back as a result of a severe and lengthy binge and purge cycle.
A year later, in about March of this year things took a turn for the worse again and while in a psychiatric ward; I stopped eating and drinking altogether. Being in this particular ward was traumatic for me for many reasons and I believe was the reason for the severity of this relapse. I still have nightmares about it to this day. My weight once again reached the low it had been the year before and soon the dehydration lead to ECG and blood abnormalities. This is when I was made involuntary, had an NG tube inserted and was transferred to a medical ward.
The week I spent in a medical ward was awful. I was bedridden, had a special nurse watching me at all times, 24/7 nasogastric feeds, daily ECGs, constant bags of fluids and electrolytes and supervision that included toilet visits and showers. The ward was a locked medical ward that meant I could not leave and I was kept awake by the machines beeping and the 5 other patients (many who had dementia) in the same room as me.
During this time I gained a fair bit of weight back and at a rate that was traumatic. My body was changing too quickly and yet I still wasn’t eating. At the same time, my outpatient team were hurriedly trying to get me a public eating disorder bed, a hard feat in Australia as there are scarce few available.
In the meantime, I spent two weeks in a youth psychiatric unit where the non-eating-disorder trained nurses tried to manage my declining mental health and eating. I was given meal support, but usually for only one meal a day (lunch) and by the occupational therapist who had experience in eating disorders. She was my saviour during this time. After two weeks I was discharged and put on a community treatment order so that when an ed bed came up I would have to take it. This was necessary at the time because I was still refusing help.
Barely a week later, and a month after I had the tube in, I gained access to an eating disorder bed in a public hospital which is where I’ve spent the last 7 weeks of my life.
It feels like my life has been put on hold, intercepted by a greater power. As if I am frozen in time and space, existing within this small bubble that I cannot escape. The only way out is via a door that I do not have keys to. I catch glimpses of the world outside; newspaper headlines, family gossip, the sound of rain against the hospital roof, but it’s like trying to put together a puzzle despite missing the pieces that fit in the corners. Everything just feels so far away.
My attention is focused directly on my current situation; what I’m going to have for breakfast tomorrow, what time to ask for medication. Whether I can manage to sneak out and go to the toilet in the middle of the night without supervision, or if the relief isn’t worth the embarrassment. I spend my days crying over plates of food and attempting to comfort other patients but mostly being comforted. I’m trying to work out what the right moves are. What actions I need to take to be deemed well enough to make my own decisions. Well enough to choose to go home.
It feels like all of my decisions have been taken away and I am just a machine going through the motions. My interests, dreams, ambitions- all the things I should be holding onto tightly, I can sense slipping out of reach. None of these things matter here. Not now. Not really.
What matters is the contents of the silver spoon being brought up to my mouth, the empty supplement boxes and white chipped plates being put in front of me. I’ve had so much practice now that you’d think it would be easy but every swallow is a challenge. Sometimes I can do it without thinking, but other times I can spend what feels like hours staring anywhere but at the food until it is taken away. And then it all happens again. Some people go to work, I eat.
It feels like everyone is telling me that my thoughts are all made on false pretence. That the monsters I face daily, are not real. It’s as if my world is being taken apart bit by bit and I am challenged to start again from the ruins.
I am constantly terrified. It’s difficult not having any say over my treatment and to be questioning everything. It’s exhausting. Painful. Endless. But it’s worth it, I know it is.
I am sharp edges that hurt
when they are touched.
A hollow chest
with a heart that thuds
exhausted with each breath.
Numbers are my power source
but like how an electric stove
is never quite as good as gas,
I am a slave to the backup
that threatens to sputter out
when I push too hard.
This second-rate life defeats me.
I am an empty vessel
going nowhere but down
and I have no one to blame
I am counting down days
until my weight equals death
because there is no joy in
learning to fall.
Turns out living without
is not living at all
and those size 6 jeans
were not made to be worn by
Turns out the people who care
about your size,
they’re not worth keeping.
Turns out magazine are not interested
in teaching you to love what you have
who would buy magazines?
Take me back to when my little chubby hands
held ice cream cones on the beach,
to when the best part of birthdays was
digging in to cake.
Take me back to when diet culture
was not a thing,
to when going up a size was exciting
because it meant that you were
Take me back to when food was enjoyable
and not just a source of guilt.
I’m sick of teaching myself how to shrink.
This was not the future I had in mind
when I thought about growing up.
Edit: An alternative name for this was ‘Hollow Bodies’ let me know in the comments which title you prefer
‘Raw this’ and ‘raw that’. ‘Paleo’. ‘It’s not a diet, but a lifestyle’. Blah blah blah. ‘Low carb, fat-free’ 100% chance of unhappiness.
When you disparage your body out loud, you contribute to the culture that it’s normal to hate your body. Bonding over self-hatred of our bodies is not okay and what you say rubs off on other people. Please do not impose your own insecurities on other people. Body size is not a measure of worth and weight does not equate to health.
Diet talk can be damaging to people who are attempting to heal their relationship with food. As someone in recovery from an eating disorder, being around people obsessing about their food makes things infinitely more difficult. It can trigger feelings of guilt and shame to resurface and even point me towards the direction of a relapse.
Food is a lot of things. It’s energy, nutrition, comfort, community. But it’s not good or bad and you do not need to justify what you eat. Food is not the enemy. Yes, it can be an addiction, but unlike drugs or alcohol, you cannot ‘quit’ food. So please stop trying to. Instead of becoming restrictive and denying all pleasure associated with food, the aim should be to eat intuitively.
By all means, go on a diet if you wish, I can’t stop you. It’s your body and you can make your own choices, just don’t expect a ‘well done’ from me when you declare that you’ve lost a dress size. I don’t care about your diet. I. don’t. care.
The question I want to pose is this; Why, as a society, are we so focused on shrinking? Instead of trying to take up less space we should be asking ourselves how we can become bolder, more confident, more intelligent, more.
Please stop talking about your diet. I don’t care. I. don’t. care. There are far more interesting topics. Talk about something else, anything just please spare me another conversation about your own self-sanctioned torture.
,The year. The worst year. The year that was the worst year so far.
My weight has declined rapidly. I am in the depths of my ed but I cannot see it. I feel amazing. Depression is nowhere to be found.
I am forced to have twice weekly physical check ups, weekly therapy and blood tests in order to stay out of hospital. I see a dietician for the first time but don’t stick to the meal plan because ‘I’m not sick’. I struggle with turning 19. I am miserable.
I return to uni against everyone’s advice and do well for a while but it’s difficult and I can’t concentrate. I am isolated from my peers by my illness. Inevitably I gain most of the weight back, leaving me full of self hatred. I stop my meds. Stop talking to people. Stop going to appointments. Start skipping classes.
Depression roars it’s ugly head. I throw everything into study.
I start on medication #2 (escitalopram) and sleeping pills again because my head is too loud. I recommit to therapy. Almost exam time and I become incredibly suicidal. I don’t study because I don’t plan on sitting them. I’m failing my classes. My exams are deferred.
Admitted to an adult psych ward. First time in hospital and I’m terrified. Everyone is so much older and I feel like I’m making everything up. I am kept physically safe but there is no treatment. Out after a week but nothing feels better. July-
I get to vote in an election for the first time. Struggle through exam time. I’m not getting better. A culmination of things lead me to taking a large OD and ending up in hospital. I have a bad reaction to a medication they give me, and hallucinate but then I wake up the next day and I’m fine. Covered in bruises from being restrained, but fine. I’m glad I don’t remember this. Have to have my heart monitored in hospital for a few days. I am angry at being alive. Have to defer uni. The pressure eases.
I spend these months holed up in my room miserable and wishing I was dead.
I am stopped from making another attempt and am transported to a youth ward. The nurses are lovely and the patients are kind but being locked up without my normal coping mechanisms causes me to stop eating. I trick everyone into thinking I am fine. But when I’m allowed out after a week I really do feel good. Strong. Maybe I can do this.
I’m starting to feel better and positive about the future. My meds are working and I’m seeing my friends again. Things are great.
Coasting along. Starting to make plans for next year. Didn’t think I’d still be here. I’ve stopped taking my meds again but I feel happy and stable. For the first time in a long time, I am hopeful that things might get better.
I’ve spent my life chasing goals that were unattainable. There was always something that I needed to do better. Some minuscule mistake that needed to be fixed. Nothing was ever good enough in comparison to the standards I had in my head. I was never good enough. And it makes sense in a way- nobody wants to be mediocre.
It started small. I learnt early on that neat handwriting and higher level reading books meant stickers and praise. I learnt to be quiet and do what I was told. Keep your mouth shut and don’t laugh too loud or you’ll be told off. I memorised these rules and lived by them.
Then high school happened. Straight hair, crushes and lipgloss. Groups of girls laughing in bathrooms. I was alone. An outsider. I didn’t fit in. I started keeping silent unless I was spoken to. I threw everything into my schoolwork and those allusive grades that made me feel worth something. But it wasn’t enough. Grades. Food. The bullying. I couldn’t take it. Soon, I’d started skipping lunches and experimenting with make up. I’d come home and cry, carve the torment into my skin. My face streaked with black pain. Eventually, I don’t know how, I formed a close group of friends and muddled through the next few years.
VCE. I started it early, with a hunger to prove to everyone and myself that I was capable and intelligent and worth something. The high grades felt good but there came a point where nothing short of 100 left me satisified. I couldn’t cope with the pressure. Back to playing Russian roulette with my weight. I spent a year eating nothing that didn’t taste like cardboard. Then another year with my head in a toilet. I sat with my head on my desk in class having not eaten or slept in days. Nobody seemed to notice. I skipped class, came in late and threw my homework in my bag each morning without having opened it. My grades dropped. My self esteem was nonexistent. The teachers went on about how I was being lazy and I needed to work harder. I was already doing my best. ‘What’s happening?’ they’d ask, ‘you’re falling behind’. There was little regard for wellbeing, or if there was -everyone seemed content to watch me fall from afar.
I went through stages of throwing everything I had into school and giving up completely. Somehow, I made it through but I don’t think I’ll ever be the same person that I was before VCE. Maybe that’s a good thing. University has meant less pressure from others but the pressure from myself is still there and sometimes that becomes too much to handle. In hindsight, going to one of the most prestigious unis in the country probably wasn’t the best idea because I didn’t come pre-equipped to deal with the constant competition. Everything fell for me again. I wanted to do well, I wanted to be liked.
I’m learning now, to let go of all these rules that were taught when I was younger. I laugh when I feel like it, say what I want to and read whatever I please. I’m still struggling with my body image though and at the moment, it’s a battle that rules every waking moment of my life. One day I hope to be able to say that I am free from this. That I no longer care about how I compare with others. One day I want to feel important just for being who I am, not for what I achieve.
Perfection. It’s a silly word. Per-fect-ion. Pur-fekt-shion. Perfection is not perfect. It’s misery. Self hatred. An answer to a problem that doesn’t exist. There are days where everything seems futile, but what I’m realising is that the joy in life is not achievement but being happy with the little things. It’s movie nights with my best friends. Warm cups of coffee and hugs. Long walks spent thinking. It’s mindfullness and being aware. Reality, not being stuck in my head. Perfect, and all it’s relatives, need to be deleted from the lexicon. Today I’m dissembling all of my expectations and wiping the sate clean so, that there’s room for me to come up with new ones. Because I am worth it and so are you.