Skeletons In the Closet

Biographies. There is always a chapter in any life story whereby someone must overcome some sort of hurdle- some would call it the climax of the tale. Each and every one of us is rarely immune to that hump in the road but the enormity of it and the way we navigate ourselves through it changes from person to person. I cannot say that one issue is greater or more worthy of sympathy than another, as we can only judge what we feel is an obstacle by situations we have previously experienced, therefore a problem that may seem quite minor to one, could be a huge dilemma to another. I have learnt through the consequences of my illness not to be so judgemental of people and my primary school motto ‘do onto others as you would have done onto you’, has never held such a strong relevance in my eyes. In my attempt to counteract the constant pessimistic feeling of having reached rock bottom, I try and believe that there is bound to be someone worse off than me. I have advised others many a time with this same overly repeated guidance. In spite of this I am extremely hypocritical in the way that I cannot heed my own advice, as the magnitude of the alien feeling achieved from looking on the bright side of life is just too daunting to me. I therefore am looking back to how far I have come compared to when I was first dabbling in the Anorexia and the potency of its comforting nature by finally admitting to all the embarrassing and terrifying situations it has put me through. I have avoided it up until now, but it is time to bare all the pinnacle moments of my chapter.

Before I begin reciting the physical symptoms of my plight with Anorexia Nervosa, I must emphasise that these all occurred either during my relapse or during my exams in the summer of 2011. I have thankfully mostly recovered from these vicious side-effects.

The very first physical symptom I remember experiencing from my weight loss was the numbness in my hands and feet, as they were constantly cold. I have never had a great circulation in these areas and my dad suffers from a form of Raynaud’s Disease, so I initially pinned the blame on me developing this disease albeit my young age. The weird symptoms continued as my lips would turn bright blue in the slightest cold, which brought about many laughs to my peers who did not realise the true meaning behind this seemingly amusing body defect. In the height of my exams in the summer of 2011 I would boil a hot water bottle to keep myself warm-even to the extent where I burnt the skin of my stomach- and take a daily steaming hot bath, whilst people paraded in short sleeves around me. I now realise that the constant cold was far more serious than I thought, as my heart was beating at a slower rate (not dangerously but significantly as shown by an ECG I was made to undertake) in order to preserve energy. Getting up from a sitting position or from lying down would cause my head to spin uncontrollably, as the blood was not reaching my head fast enough. All over my body, my muscles were deteriorating. When the body reaches the point of starvation when it is not being provided with carbohydrates (found in starchy foods such as potatoes, pasta, bread and rice, commonly ‘forbidden’ in many diets due to their notoriety as being calorie dense) it will seek its energy by metabolising first its fat stores and then more dramatically, protein. Muscle is a primary protein source and my own body had turned against itself in self-preservation by eating away at my muscles. The reason I know this, is that the breath will smell of acetone, which is typically fruity and alcoholic. The cause is due to the over-production of acetone in a process called ketosis, whereby the body breaks down fat stores and proteins into amino acids and expels them via both the breath and urine. Though I could not smell it of course, my mum and dad were very aware of it, especially when entering the confines of my bedroom and their knowledge of the origins of the smell worried them to no ends. The heart is a muscle, therefore the mere idea that I was potentially destroying it by not feeding myself and exercising compulsively was not just troubling but life threatening. It had got to the point where my mum admitted to me that she would- with justification- dread coming into my bedroom in the morning at the risk of finding me dead.

I have always taken pride in my hair and so the changes caused by illness were somewhat distressing to me. On one hand there was the loss of the hair on my head and it became finer as my body was not going to ‘waste’ its resources to produce hair when it could be used in digestion to keep me alive. My mum who would sweep my bedroom and clean the shower would notice clumps of my hair, which I would deny was down to my poor diet and say it was normal because I hadn’t brushed my hair between washes and so it all fell out at once. I was recently told however, that my hair was looking rather healthy and thick again- the physical proof that I AM taking on a healthier diet! On the other hand there was the completely unwanted growth of fine downy hair over my body known as lanugo, particularly over my arms, back and very finely on my face. This is the body’s bid to keep warm, as low fat stores means we are far more vulnerable to the cold and due to poor circulation, which can potentially lead to hypothermia; this can be fatal. I was at my lowest weight during the summer and therefore constantly being in the sun meant this hair was naturally bleached, so it went about virtually unnoticed by me. As we turned to our bitter cold winters however, the lanugo became more noticeable as it darkened and it was embarrassingly more apparent. My continually low weight means that I still have the painstakingly obvious hair, especially due to the very harsh weather conditions we have recently had this winter.

As it is a silent symptom, many people will not be aware that the metabolic rate slows down when you are losing weight. This rate is governed by the speed at which the gut and the stomach digest food and in weight loss due to muscle deterioration and lack of energy to sustain the metabolic process, it will cause the bowels and whole digestive system to become sluggish. This results in a bloated feeling upon any food entering the stomach, causing great discomfort and psychological issues, as a sufferer will see their bloated stomach negatively and as a ‘proof’ that any amount of food will immediately cause you to swell up. As disconcerting as it is for me to say, a consequence of slow digestion will be slow bowel movements, which can lead to constipation. Though I denied vehemently to my GP that I was enduring this, as it is another of society’s many taboo subjects, I must admit that I was subjected to it. I secretly on two occasions took mild laxatives that work overnight that I found in my medicine cupboard in order to relieve my discomfort. I later admitted to this to my parents. I did not use laxatives as many Anorexia sufferers would immediately after all meals, so it was not of much concern to anyone. A sufferer may use them as a way to avoid the body digesting and processing any calories along with vomiting by immediately expelling them via any possible means. However, my parents did worry about the dangers of me taking them just in case, as every calorie counts when you have such a low food intake. I could not afford to lose any of the precious energy I was struggling and fighting so hard to take in.

I am quite certain in saying that at my worst, eating used up a lot more mental energy than I was actually taking in physically, which would leave me and my family exhausted after every tedious mealtime. Effectively this was not at all helped by the fact that I was sleeping very poorly, waking often in the middle of the night drenched in a sweat and struggling to sleep for a prolonged time. Because my mind had led me to ignore any pangs of hunger, I was unaware that I was waking up due to famine. Another contributing factor, is that the brain will fool you into feeling exhausted when you are in starvation mode as a survival instinct, as this will mean you will be physically exerting yourself less and will therefore conserve energy (this feeling was definitely counteracted and over-ridden by my constant need to exercise and the feeling of guilt was far stronger than exhaustion if I didn’t). I would have more or less been able to cope with all of this had it not been for the fact it was right in the middle of my A-level exams. The one factor I had pushed myself so hard to achieve in that it had led me to become dangerously ill as a result and here I was destroying any opportunity of doing well through my stubborn determination for complete control. It was truly ironic, as I had become my own obstacle.  

I distinctly remember the outing to Bicester Village on June 6^th 2011 with my family, before I sought out help from my GP. This was the day my parents counted every calorie I had consumed and forced the information that it was a pitiful amount upon me; I could no longer deny my portion sizes to myself. I had completely lost sense of what a healthy portion was and my inability to judge caused me to automatically size up what I had in my plate to vast and completely ridiculous proportions. It had to be one of the toughest days of my life, as it was also the first time we had decided to eat out as a family for dinner at the village since the realisation that I may be ill. This particular meal is what led to the revelation. My parents were initially dubious to the idea of eating at a restaurant, as they had fears of how far into the Anorexia I had succumbed, though my self-denial led me to be adamant that I would find something on the menu I could eat. I read the menu and immediately went onto my blackberry to search the calorie content of the food on offer. When I could not find the dishes anywhere, a sense of panic shot through me- I was having an anxiety attack. As a consequence the tears came, as I physically could not choose anything from the menu. My dad took initiative and decided to order me a sea-food broth assuring me that it was basically water. When the bowl of food came, its sheer size to me brought about another wave of panic; I decided on the spot there and then that I would not eat it. I must have forced myself to drink one spoonful of the sinful liquid, meticulously avoiding all the meat. The sense of guilt from even drinking that single mouthful was so immense that I could not continue; to me it felt like a horrendous amount of calories that I had just taken in. I had achieved the task of publically humiliating my family and my mum who was incredibly hurt that I could no longer even eat in a restaurant reacted with anger. They should have trusted their instincts that I was too far gone.

After that day, the kitchen weighing scales became my best friend, as I was now on the ‘contract’ I had made with my parents of having a particular number of calories a day. I would weigh out everything that would potentially pass my lips from my morning juice and spoonful’s of coffee to my fruit and vegetables. In hindsight there were positives and negatives to obsessively weighing out my food. It was a necessity as my mind had fooled me on portion sizes and so the only real way I could not lie to myself was by weighing my portions out. However, it has become a comfort blanket, relying on it far too much. It travels everywhere with me, as I will still weigh all my food and drink that is not pre-packaged with exact calorie amount per item. This means that I will now mainly eat ready meals for dinner, which must cost an extortionate amount for my parents, who do not complain because they would rather I eat and stay alive than worry about money. I cannot allow myself to eat any food that has a home-made sauce on it, as I do not know its exact calorie content. This is the main reason behind the ready-meals, as there is the professionally calculated calorie content written on the container and they include all the daily supplements I require in healthy proportions. Initially I was eating children’s dishes, which were specifically targeted for a 5 year olds healthy diet, moving on to weightwatchers and Tesco LightChoices at a later stage. I have now finally made a huge leap and have evolved to having regular dishes with an appropriate fat content and portion. This does not leave me with a particularly varied diet, as the single portion ready-meals are generally ethnic food but eating them feels comfortable to me. Although it is disconcerting never having the same meal as my parents, it means I cannot directly compare my food and portion to theirs and therefore I am able to eat relatively comfortably without feeling the need to make remarks on the fact I am ‘eating more’.

Eating comfortably at meal times is a new notion for me and my family, as they truly used to be a nightmare. Every evening after a hellish dinner, my parents and I would sit down with a piece of paper and plan out everything I would be eating the following day, with me agreeing ( or especially disagreeing) to particular foods and portions. Once it was written down it was as if it was set in stone and I was not to deter from it however much I felt it was ‘too much’ for me. On many occasions I would see the portion I was set weighed out on my plate and deem it as huge, denying the knowledge that there could be so few calories in that ‘mammoth’ amount of food. One such situation occurred where I was served ratatouille (a mixture of courgettes, aubergine, peppers and tomatoes- ALL vegetables) and despite the fact it is an extremely healthy dish, the portion caught me by surprise and I instantly decided I would only eat half of it. I told my parents this, and cut the serving in half with my fork pushing what I would not eat to one side. My parents told me I HAD to eat all of it and so I threw a tantrum screaming at the top of my lungs, shoving the portion I had decided not to eat off my plate and left it lying on the table. I was so deranged it was scary; I cannot bring myself to believe this was me.  Though this was certainly the most horrific meal, this was not an isolated case. To relieve some of the stress whilst I was eating, I would tense up my legs and dig the nails of my free hand into them. In the morning my legs would be so cramped and would spasm from the magnitude of the tension in them the previous evening. I am far more relaxed now, but recently when my mum said ‘I don’t know if it’s me but you ate much quicker tonight’, my arms fumbled in my inability to know how to react to this comment and I hit her. I immediately apologised, as it was a jerk reaction but I know that it still hurt her, maybe not physically but mentally. So I’m sorry.

As awkward as it will be for me to face people I know have read this particular post, in promising myself to be honest to my readers I cannot lie to myself. The whole disorder is not plain sailing whereby you will search for an easy control fix by simply stopping eating and exercising religiously. Anorexia is in your head and therefore knows you inside and out, using any chink in your armour against you, stabbing you where it hurts. It requires immeasurable strength that cannot be exuded from a single person to overcome this dominating possession. I have people behind me who are picking me up and lending me some strength of their very own to fight, every single comment left to me has contributed to my recovery and gets me a step closer to that light at the end. I am overwhelmed by the support I am receiving, as much as I don’t feel I deserve it. After avoiding it for so long, I decided to buy myself a pair of size 6 jeans this week having not tried them on and knowing I had not previously filled out a pair. Up until that dreaded moment when I slipped them on I didn’t have the belief in myself that I’d fit in them… but I did. I am officially on the right track. I will not let myself disappoint all the people who are rooting for me and genuinely believe I can recover by losing faith.