Eating Disorder recovery. (Part Two).

Arriving at the decision.

Time and time again I started out with good intentions to get rid of my anorexia and bulimia, but subconsciously I wasn't entirely committed to giving up all I had known and I inevitably chickened out after only a couple of days, thankfully returning to my security blanket and the familiarity and safety of the toilet bowl.

I'd tried and failed many times to break free from my crappy disordered eating patterns but I was so scared of the weight I would put on, or that I'd never be able to stop eating once I had started. Deep down I knew those weren't the real reasons but I didn't want to - or maybe wasn't ready to contemplate those.. 

The fear of the unknown was overwhelming and I would do anything rather than face up to this. 

But things were gradually starting to change. It was getting harder and harder to be anorexic. When I started out, it was exciting to see how far I could go with it. Initially it was very easy to lose weight, but as the years went on, it took me a lot longer to lose the weight. My metabolism was completely fucked up. 

Once my doctors latched on to what I was up to, they were much more vigilant and hospitalized me sooner and sooner. Eventually I was tired of the slimming down/fattening up drama in hospital. What was the point in going to all that pain and effort in getting emaciated if I was just going to be stuffed up with food yet again?

Latterly I noticed a shift in my attitude towards my eating disorders. In the beginning I had enjoyed the rebellion, the challenge, the excitement and the sense of achievement, but later on I began to feel a huge sense of guilt over it. I'd pushed my family to the limits. My friends had all but deserted me and I knew from my medical results, seizures and irregular heartbeat that I was killing myself and that it could happen at any time. Dying was and still is one of my greatest fears. This sounds weird considering I tried to take my life many times, but I guess with the suicide attempts I was "in control" of my life (or death)..but the thought of a heart attack or ruptured stomach, when I later knew deep down I wanted to live? It was frightening and I lived in constant fear.

My anorexia was once my identity..a thing that belonged to me which made me stand out from the crowd. A thing which few people had. I used to believe people looked at me and think "what strength!" But later I got uncomfortable with this and developed a paranoia about people staring at me..and when they did stare at me..I saw pity in their eyes..or anger. I'm not sure why people were angry with me..but it was deeply distressing. Those looks were probably there right from the beginning but I never noticed them..or maybe I chose not to notice them.. 

I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. And cold..lonely..miserable and broke. I had wasted so much money on binges..frequently to the extent of having just £5 a week to live on. I wanted to be able to afford nice things. I was sick of a life of poverty. Bulimia got me in to serious debt which I'm still paying the price for now..

I started to yearn for a normal life. I hated the life I had and I wanted more. I had punished myself long enough and I wanted to be free from this crippling illness. After being banged up in an institution on and off for a decade, I wanted to travel the world. I wanted to see places that people talked of. I wanted to be free.

I wanted to enjoy food..to experience foods I had never tasted before, and I wanted to be able to enjoy a cup of tea and a cake with my friends without the fear and panic and the obsessive calorie counting that went with it. 

I wanted to be able to go out where no-one would stare at me or look at me in pity. I wanted a normal body with boobs, hips, and an arse you could grab on to..and so that I could buy a pair of jeans without having to hunt for hours in the children's clothing section in department stores. 

I envied women who were so obviously women..

Finally, I wanted a partner. Somebody to share my life with and who found me attractive. And maybe have children one day. The longer I went without periods, I knew I was significantly reducing my chances of the possibility of that happening.

Spring 2008. I was back in hospital. Again. But somehow it was different this time. I just had a feeling deep down that this would be my last admission. 

The week leading up to my final discharge I mulled things over. It wasn't exciting any more. It wasn't a challenge any more. What was the point of it if you never ever achieved what you set out to do? My ED made me hate myself and I felt like a total failure. 

If I wanted a better life, only I could do something about it. And that's when I had this thunderbolt moment and realized I couldn't go on like this and that I'd have to give it all up. It just wasn't worth it any more.

Around the same time as this, I received the news that a friend I had lost touch with years ago had passed away. She had been bulimic though I never knew. The cause of her death had been a heart attack due to an electrolyte imbalance after a binge. She was in her 30's.

I went round in a stunned fog for days afterwards. This was real. It wasn't just some distant person that you have no connection with..I knew her. If it happened to her, it could happen to me. This fuelled my determination to finally recover and for the first time, I felt excited about the prospect of recovery. The world was out there, waiting for me! There was so much I wanted to do!

Ironically, my final hospital admission was also my most violent. I won't go in to the gory details but I absconded as much as ten times in a day and ended up attacking a member of staff. I've deeply regretted this ever since, but at the time I felt threatened and vulnerable and justified in my actions. 

I've thought often about the aggression and violence during this last admission and wondered if it was my final rebellion against the mental health system. Yes..I know..that sounds totally bizarre! But looking back, it's the only explanation I can give..

Despite all this, I complied with the diet plan and put on the weight they asked. An Occupational Therapist suggested I sign up for a 2 year carpentry and upholstery course, which I did.  

It was a start anyway.

On my discharge, I told them this would be my last admission. I don't think they believed me.

This time there was no going back. I knew I had a very difficult journey ahead of me..

Kerry.