Please join...

Hello,
I was absolutely astounded and disgusted at the daily mails publication of an article by Samantha Brick. It clearly glorifies an unhealthy attitude towards food and body image. Please join the petition to get the article removed and an apology issued.

https://www.facebook.com/sambrickdelete

A link to the article is also below.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2310797/Samantha-Brick-Joan-Collins-right-Any-woman-wants-stay-beautiful-needs-diet-day.html 

Many thanks 
Maya xxx

Humiliation is never sweet...

I honestly wish I could come to this with a message of success, with the hopeful and happy news that i'm doing much better, that I feel hopeful, that I have been steadily gaining weight. I am humiliated by the truth and i'm sure people must be sick of my moaning. I am sick of my moaning. I want recovery desperately. I want to be happy. I want to be able to eat and not feel guilt. I want to have freedom. I want my brain to be working to its full capacity. I want to have energy. So why the hell can't I just gain weight? Why is the thought of getting on the scales and seeing the numbers go up so abhorrent that I am doing anything I can to prevent it? It doesn't make sense. It's a total head fuck and it is driving me mad. I've been thinking about it heavily over the past few days and i've come to realise something. I am scared, terrified at the prospect of letting go of my 'crutch.' It has become part of my identity, and having lost another part of my identity recently, it all seems too much to lose this as well now. I know I have to, because this is not a good part of my identity, in fact, it is a debilitating and destructive facet, yet, it reflects how I feel. My emaciated body communicates how I am feeling inside. I feel fragile, constantly on the brink of tears. I am terrified, I have no idea where i'm going, if i'm going to achieve anything, if I will get a good degree, if I will get a job, I don't know any of it. I feel vulnerable. I feel disgusting. I feel stupid. I feel I am of little worth. I feel I deserve punishment. My figure reflects all of this. My body screams "I am not coping", and for that reason, I am scared to get bigger. I am scared everyone around me will think "Oh, Maya is fine now, look, she's big again", when actually, I think I will probably feel worse than ever, because I will have lost my security blanket, the knowledge that I am good at one thing...losing weight. Without starvation I will have to be an adult, make decisions. I will probably go back to looking in a mirror and criticising my body for being too big. Look at the fat grasping my hips, the way my thighs curve, no comforting large gap. It will all disgust me. And I am scared I will hate myself even more. Want to lose weight desperately, just like I used to. Anorexia did not just spring up on me. I craved weight loss for years. I wanted to be thin. Every time things were tough and I was struggling, I would set myself a new goal, a lower weight, a new diet, an exercise regime. I just wasn't very good at it. Then some how, something clicked and I became a pro and at first people were telling me how good I looked. And I felt good. I knew I could lose more though and I would be the best and I would feel better. There was always more to lose though. Always the niggling voice telling me that if I skipped lunch, I would feel better, if I pushed myself that extra mile I would feel better, that being thin would give me everything. That people would love me, want to be my friend, I would achieve at school, I would be superwoman...if I was thin. It is devastating to look back over my diaries from childhood, as young as 10/11 I was writing about my weight, drawing pictures of my 'gross' body. I would write about something tough that had happened in the day, something that had made me sad and my solution to this was "LOSE WEIGHT MAYA". Always. This makes me wonder...was I always 'anorexic', just not thin? Impossible, you can't be fat and anorexic? But if you hold the belief that the answer to your problems is weight loss, you strive to be thinner, you obsess over it, what is the difference cognitively? I don't know. I am so scared of going back to that, having all the thoughts, feelings, but being fat. I am scared I will never stop feeling like 'the big one', inferior, less attractive, intelligent, controlled, kind or loveable. Even now, in hospital, I feel like 'the big one'. I feel huge compared to everyone else here. I worry they look at me and wonder why I am here. Discuss me and sneer. I shouldn't care, but I do. My brain is a big scribble. So messed up. I just want to be ok. I don't want to go through the pain of it all though. The struggle of gaining weight. The feelings that will come with it, but with no promise at the end that I will be ok. That I won't always hate myself. I will have lost the comfort of sharp edges and jutting hip bones and had them replaced with soft flesh. At least with anorexia I can blame any rejection on my illness. I is not me they left, it is the illness. What about when it's gone and they are rejecting the fat girl? What if I don't achieve perfect marks? What if I do look chubby in that dress? What if I don't get invited to that party? What if I upset someone? What if people don't want to befriend me....what if I cannot blame any of it on my illness? I look at myself and sometimes I see a thin person, some days I can see how drawn and weak I look. Sometimes, all I see are the bits that I would like to be smaller.

I wish they could cut out a little part of my brain labelled 'anorexia' and insert 'normal cognitive behaviour'. I wish someone could tell me I will be ok and happy, and for it to be the truth. This illness doesn't make me happy, but what if I feel just as awful, but I am big as well? Then no one will help me.  I am scared.

They all fall down...

A grenade, an atom bomb, anything too close it will destroy. That is the nature of this disease. Spreading devastation in its wake. Slowly but surely all those with sense will run, move away from the danger. It is instinct to anyone with sense. I wish I could run from myself. Instead I am sat alone, surveying the mess I have caused. Why was I brought into this World? What is my purpose? This cannot be it. Please God say destruction is not my mission. I did not ask for this, I did not ask to appear; yet I cannot disappear without hurting those around me. There is no solution and I feel lost. Confused. Trapped in this body that does no good. This head that does not work. I have only myself to blame for all I have lost. I am a monster, I should have never been created. I do not deserve love, so what happened was right. I am unlovable.  Hate me. It would be best for everyone.

            I am burning, engulfed by the fire I created, my skin slowly blistering, my body disappearing, but the flames will not stop licking and there is no promise of water anymore. No hope of relief.

            I should’ve known no one loves a monster. Put down the heavy load and run for your life.

       This past six weeks has been tough and testing. I could not hack being an inpatient, being in the land of doom and gloom 24/7, I wasn’t sleeping and spent most of my time crying. Things were basically not good. So I cried for help and in they sent a very nice doctor to speak to me. I explained that I’d really like to go home and that I couldn’t handle any more. He stood, thinking for a bit and then told me that if that was how I felt…he may have to consider holding me under the mental health act, i.e. a section. He went on to tell me that my weight was exceptionally low and he couldn’t be sure of my safety. I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe. I was livid with this man I did not know even suggesting the mental health act and through my cries told him that it would not stand up if I were to argue against it as I was clearly of sound mind, I just have an eating disorder. I doubt my hysterical tears did much to prove this. I asked him to please go and get a second opinion. He did. He spoke to the consultant who knows me and knows eating disorders and I was granted bail. Thank God. I went home to my comfortable bed and slept and was happy…ish. Obviously that could not be it though, I was still not ‘fixed’, so a meeting took place a few days later. In that it was agreed, after much pleading from me, as well as my explanation that I honestly could not cope being there all day everyday, that I would be allowed to be a day patient. This means that I am in the unit 6 days a week, 10am-7:30pm. It is not ideal, I am still having to eat the horrible food. Ironic really, isn’t it? That on an eating disorder unit, we are being fed 3 meals and 3 snacks of hospital food. It is not nutritionally balanced, something that really bothers me, one girl told me that although prior to entering hospital her red blood cell count was fine, since starting the program she now is anemic. Really gives you a lot of faith in the system? I will also soon not be receiving individual therapy in three weeks time, due to the NHS budget cuts. Again, doesn’t seem like the smartest move. Pump me full of 3000 calories a day until I feel like a balloon and don’t help me deal with it? I know I should not complain, the nurses are kind and caring and I’m getting on well with a few of the other girls, but I cannot help it. It is very difficult to put your faith in something that seems to have such gaping issues. But I go, and it is reassuring my parents at least. My weight this month has not actually changed, its gone up, and then down, up and then down, but this is being attributed to stress, it’s been quite a tricky month for many reasons. All I can do is keep on trying. Push on.

For now that is all.

Why?

What does it feel like? What do you think when a big cup of full fat milk is put down in front of you and you are expected to drink it. A plate of macaroni cheese you are expected to eat. Pudding afterwards, ice cream, yogurt, all to be consumed. How does it make you feel? It hurts, God it stings. I am burning when I think about all I have consumed this week. I am panicked, I must be spinning out of control. Bite by bite moment by moment I am being assaulted. "YOU PIG" "WHY ARE YOU SITTING DOWN?" "WHY ARE YOU STANDING STILL?" Then, as if for conformation, I am weighed every morning, 6am, woken and weighed, recorded, the numbers going up. It is terrifying, but it must be done. I am very lucky to have a caring mother at home, someone to look after me, because being in hospital all the time proves to be too much. I beg and plead with the doctor, hyperventilating when he says "You are too ill to go home", I need to be comfortable, I need to sleep, I need my mum. I cannot have those things here. Finally, he goes to get a second opinion from another doctor, I am granted leave for the night, I can go home to my mum and cuddle up and let her hold me whilst I eat. I will be good. It will be hard. 
It's tricky to explain what it's like, half of me is happy that I am doing this, I know I have to, I look and feel like shit. I am exhausted and boney. Poor Jacob was scared to cuddle me too hard, frightened of breaking his girlfriend of fragile bones. I look like hell, yet my fragility reflects my insides. Inside I feel fragile, I do not feel strong and ready for the World, I am in pain and screaming and the lack of nourishment reflects that. That is what anorexia can do, gives you a platform to reflect how you are feeling. To get better, I must disentangle all my feelings of self loathing, disappointment in myself, feelings of low self worth, from my feelings related with food. I must put all of them to one side, and food on another. I must feed myself for my brain to work though. That is what I will do. Bite by bite, moment by moment, things must get better. Please, I beg of you, do not say to me "you're looking well", or "oh Maya, you're looking much better". Not until I am ready. Those throw away comments can throw me into a depth of despair I cannot explain properly, I know it must seem silly, it is the aim of the game to look well, to get better, to move on, but right now I cannot hear those things. Also, until I truly am 'recovered' (in a weight sense) it is not helpful. Hearing how 'well' I look, when I may still have another 5kgs to go will make me feel as if I needn't bother, and I am sure that is not what you mean. Anorexia has the capability to twist anything and make it into a verbal assault. I am hoping that over these next few weeks I will work to restore some of my weight, and work to feed myself, as I am unwilling to relinquish all control. If I give up all control, then I have not really fought the battle, and I have to to recover. I have to look the monster square in the face and say "FUCK YOU-I am worth getting better". So I will. I will munch and guzzle and it will feel crap, but I will do it for me, so that I can get on a plane and use the rest of this year to do lovely things with my mum and friends. I will get over this. I will be proud to say 'I am recovered'. I will listen to what those who love me have told me, that I was so much more attractive curvy. I always wanted to be thin, I always hated my hips. How many young women have struggled with hating their bodies? How many times a day do you hear people making comments putting themselves down or talking about things related to their appearance? Think about it. It's like a girl code, self degradation, I will put myself down to fit in "You look nice", "oh no, I look a bit chubby in this". On my birthday my gorgeous Grace uttered to me "Boobs look GREAT in that dress Maya". Anorexia reared up, ready to whisper about mounds of fat, but I battered her. I took the compliment, I did not shoo it away. "Thanks GC". It felt good. Good to be a girl. I want to be a woman. I want J to be proud of his girlfriend. To not have to hold the hand of an emaciated 8 year old. My big strong man, over double my weight, well over double my weight, it's not right. I truly believe that in order to combat some of the causes of eating disorders, we need to stop putting ourselves down. We need to take the compliments and just say "thank you", or offer one back, if we are being sincere. Why not? It makes you feel good. I must also learn this skill to beat my monsters. 
Along with others.
For now, I will lift my fork and eat.




I'd love to hear what you all think about the way we bash ourselves and about feeling fat/dieting etc. It is estimated that 1 in 5 people are dieting in the UK at any one time, this number is phenomenal, and I want to know why we cannot just have a healthy relationship with food? Please comment if you've got any thoughts, what body parts get you down, if you think we go self-bash and why etc etc. 
Would be really interesting for me and others and you can even comment anonymously now, whether you have an account or not!
Thank you
Maya 

White Walls

“When you're lost in those woods, it sometimes takes you a while to realize that you are lost. For the longest time, you can convince yourself that you've just wandered off the path, that you'll find your way back to the trailhead any moment now. Then night falls again and again, and you still have no idea where you are, and it's time to admit that you have bewildered yourself so far off the path that you don't even know from which direction the sun rises anymore.” 
― Elizabeth Gilbert

I am back in a plain walled room. The tide was too rough for me to steer. Every part of me aches and I am tired. My body is exhausted. I have been plunged into a world that turns skeletons into goddesses, and it is here I must try not to burn. Things were too difficult, I tried and strived to scramble out of my rabbit hole, but it was just too deep. To say I am disappointed would not cover it. I am angry that I was not strong enough, I am sad that I am once again in hospital, I am terrified of what is to come. A little ball of emotions. I forgot that in here, people are not still. We are all tired, exhausted, little bodies under so much strain they are close to giving up, yet there is constant movement. Jiggling legs, rocking bodies, every opportunity to stand, taken. In here, it is these things that mark you out, that mark out those who want to recover and those who are forced in here. This is also defined by the brash question "did you agree to come in or were you sectioned?" "Agreed", I smile. Met with shock. I was clear, always have been clear, I will not be sectioned. This is a chapter of my life, I will not let it define it. A section and half my job prospects would disappear, so I came when I was told to. Like a good girl I shuffled in, with my entourage of mum, dad and lots of stuff. Sunken, hollow faces are real life in here, not only the thing of nightmares. It baffles me, I look at them and I do not find it attractive, I do not yearn to be like that, I want to run away, my response is still natural, yet part of me still wants to lose weight. A bit of me screams "BMI OF 13 YOU PIG, they are all looking at you and thinking fat fat fat". Maybe some of them are, maybe those with a BMI of 10 do find me abhorrent. I spoke to Claire, in despair that I would be the biggest, she laughed "of course not, God Maya". Her American twang makes me smile, makes it easier. I trust her. I will get my weight up enough to be allowed to get on a plane, to go to Australia and see my family, to lie on a beach and bask in the glorious rays and heat of the sun, next to my beautiful cousin, to run by the water and enjoy it like I used to, not just to skip away the calories. I will finish my weight gain there and get back to health, happiness. The truth is, this is not life. This is a surreal parallel universe where starvation is a preference. My brain is not working and tricks me into believing things which are just not true. I must reprogram, reboot, and get back to the real World. Where I can be warm. I do not feel safe. An hour and a half with a doctor when I arrived. A doctor who was surprised I could sit up and do his "squat test". Thousands of personal questions, with the answers they will draw a picture of who I am. Who is Maya? Why does she want to be thin? Is what they mean. I don't know the answer to either completely. I know Maya is a daughter, a friend and a girlfriend. I am a student. I like to play music. I like to act. I like to write. I like to run and dance and play tennis. I often look at my feet. Right now, most people would say "oh, the anorexic one?" This will not define me, that is not all I am. It is just part of me. A part that is too dominant at the moment and that needs to be quelled. I am not the space between my thighs. I am more.

I think of myself like Gollum. Ugly and widened by my addiction. Anorexia is my ring. I am both Gollum and sweet little Smeagol. Completely wrapped up by the pretty shiny ring, that promises so much, but creates and ugly monster in reality. MY precious. It can't be shared. It makes you invisible. I am blessed to have a team around me, ready to take the ring to Moordoor. My mother joked that she is the dwarf, realistically, she is Sam, reliable and faithful and constantly there. I have Jacob, riding strong on his horse, ready to kill anything that gets in my way. I have Grace and Thea, faithful and loving, ready to show me love and make me laugh. I have all my incredible friends, who I have mentioned many times, ready to help me get that ring and TOSS it into Mount Doom, unlike Gollum, I will not jump in with it, because there is too much in my life to fall in with it. Today, my first on the ward is over, i've left the shire and entered into the big scary World, I can hear Awks all around me, but I will keep on going. I have to.

The first meal was Hell. I am on a "soft diet", because my abused body can't take very much. Everything is white. It is meant to be easily digestible. Each bite was a fight. Each mouthful was of shame. Around me are girls and boys all fighting their daemons. Self loathing and pain drips from the walls of the dining room. 45 minutes it takes us to eat. We cut into tiny pieces, mash and fiddle, anything but eat the food. Then it is gone and we all sit together in an awkward room, being watched. The thought of the next few weeks is abhorrent. I know I will feel many things, disgust and self loathing being the dominant emotions. I will want to curl up in a ball and it all to be over, all over seeing the numbers go up on the scales. Why? It doesn't matter. I love people whether they are fat or thin, yet I cannot love myself. It makes no sense. I need to stop trying to understand it, it will drive me mad. I must sleep as I will be woken through the night to check my vitals.

Not here again...

I am trapped in a corner, a cowering animal running from what feels like the inevitable slaughter. Sacrifice the weak. I am most definitely weak, or I would not be in this situation. Today the call came, as I think part of me knew it would "We are highly concerned" they said "No longer medically safe", "high risk of organ failure" all together equals "we want you to come in next week, a bed will be ready, and we will monitor you heavily up until then". I went cold, my entire body shaking. It seems ridiculous, I got myself into this position, I knew it was coming, especially after my weigh in yesterday. My weight is the lowest it was been, even I was shocked as I climbed onto the scales and the number flashed in front of me. A BMI of 13.2 is not good. How have I lost so much weight so quickly? I do not know, I couldn't answer it for you, all I know is that I am drowning. So what am I doing? I am determined to turn it around before they drag me in. I cannot spend Christmas on the ward, I can't think of anything worse than that. Eating the slop they serve. I asked mum to hold my hand and I said I needed to prove to them that I can do it and that i'm safe, from home my blood pressure, blood sugar and temperature can be monitored. Blood tests every two days and re-feeding. How awful does that sound 're-feeding', it just screams of the brutal images of suffragettes with tubes down their throats to me. I can promise you though, re-feeding at home is a hell of a lot better than in Vincent Square. At least from home I can have delicious food, as oppose to hospital food. So what did I do to prove my strength...we went to Carluccios. I ordered pasta. Pasta with butter and mushrooms and herbs. We asked for a kids portion yet when it came it was terrifying. To me it looked huge, beautifully cut ribbons glistening with butter and sprinkled with golden mushrooms and chives. Bite by bite I ate. Slow. Painful. Each mouthful was painful, but I pictured the ward. I pictured Christmas. I pictured my friends, boyfriend, family and for them I ate. Anorexia has taken so much from me, I have had to defer this year at university, I have not been able to move out, I am not Maya. I am not full of life, vivacious and happy. I rarely laugh like I used to. It came in and pillaged and I opened the door. But now I must try, so so hard, to prove to them that I CAN turn this around. I can. I can. I can.

Any words of advice would be appreciated. 

Photos.

Quotes.

Pictures.

Something to stick up in the kitchen as we prepare food.

I must keep going and hopefully keep out of hospital.

Whichever way there's obstacles...

An uphill struggle, a fight with myself, a battle with and for control. I am burning, yet feed the flames. Never at peace. Even in sleep. Scars on my stomach, could the hatred be marking? My own stigmata. These bones are a blanket. Hide me from the real problems. A soft cover can also be a cage of thorns. Do I look in the mirror and see beauty? Never. Failure stares back at me. Ugly. I will never be enough. Zero is the best number. Nothing. Gone. It is an empty shell. Not enough for most. They want more. Appropriate that is me. In tennis, love. I love.

I sit and help feed Lola, my small niece. She can eat much better by herself than last time I saw her. Little pasta shapes on her spoon, flavored with butter. “I ate a hippo” she giggles at me. I smile at her, baffled, but used to her hilarious statements. “Yum Lols, where did you get that?” She looks at me and then points into her bowl. Animal pasta shapes. She carries on eating, happily, until the bottom of the bowl, when things get tricky. I help her get the last few pieces. She needs no coaxing, she simply opens her mouth happily and hungrily, appreciating the help and lapping up her hippos. Doing all I can to help her grow makes me inexplicably happy. I encourage her to munch away “mmm, delicious” I say, once the bowl is empty. She looks at me, perplexed. Then into the bowl, then back at me. “Still hungry Lols?” I smile. This is unlike her, she has already polished off some eggs, now the bowl of pasta, and she is still looking at me expectantly. Yoghurt next. She munches away, making exaggerated eating sounds as she goes and spreading yoghurt around her mouth. More often than not Lola is not a happy camper at meal times, not wanting to eat very much and taking much coaxing and persuasion. This evening however, she is obviously hungry. 16 years my junior, Lola clearly has more common sense than me. She answers to her body’s needs, sensing when she needs a little more. Maybe she’s going to grow. I am hit by the realization that the meal this tiny 4 year old has just finished off would send me into a spiral of panic. Lola is thin. My sister often jokes that she needs feeding up. Whilst some may not even bat an eye lid at this little girl feeding herself, lifting the cutlery up in to her mouth. Smiling with enjoyment, I marvel at her talent. It seems impossible to me that I was ever so happy with food. That I ever enjoyed a bowl of pasta. I loved pasta. Now I am like a small child, learning to eat again. It is ridiculous. I am ridiculous. I cannot get my head around it. I look back at Lola, she is smiling up at me, both of us sitting at her little table and chair set. I get up and take away her empty bowl. Get her off her seat. “Thank you auntie Maya”, she tots, not realizing the wave of love that her little voice causes to over come me. I bend and give her a huge cuddle, unable to believe that I am going to be on the other side of the World from this little girl once again within 62 hours. I can’t bare it. I see my sister watching us, 20 years my senior, but not looking her age at all. I see smiles and worry combined in her eyes. The guilt this brings on is huge. I hate worrying everyone, and I know she is upset after seeing me this trip. We had spoken about it, of course, but sitting with my niece and helping her eat had really homed in what my illness must mean to others. Whilst at that table with Lola, I was able to keep the monster away. All my strength was mustered, although I was not even faced with the challenge of food. I knew though, Lola would not dine with that daemon present. She is a fiercely intelligent little girl, with an incredible grasp on the emotions of those around her. If I were anxious, she would know it, and it might rub off on her. The amount of love and care and protectiveness I feel towards Lola let me quell the monster, if only while she ate. I did not think about calories, I did not feel my stomach to check it was still flat, I did not let it sit at that table with us. I knew I would do anything to stop Lola ever even see the fanged beast, let alone let it anywhere near her. I would wrestle and gauge and batter it if it came near her. I would know if it was going to. However, those who love me could not have had the knowledge I do of how to recognize it sneaking in. My family, friends, incredible Jacob have to sit and watch as I struggle with what has infested within me, polluting. I could not feel worse about what I am putting them through. What this has done to them. The guilt is crippling. I feel that if I were a good person, I would be better. I would eat. I can’t bare making them so unhappy. They try to speak to me about it. They have been trying for so long. At least I accept it now. I am not still denying it.

I remember the first time I was told I was too thin. ‘Too thin’ was not in my vocabulary. The concept was impossible to me. How could anyone be ‘too thin’? However, although I know it was not meant as a compliment, a little something inside of me smiled. Patted me on the back. “See how good that feels?” It hissed. I looked at my dear Thea’s concerned face. Her eyes looked wet. I felt dreadful. Here she was, taking so much courage and care to try and help me, and I am glowing. “I’m just worried Maya, I’m worried you’re losing perspective, I’m worried, you’re not quite you any more. You don’t look right twin”. Her gentle term of endearment had thrown me, the beast was pushed down for a minute, overruled by the part of me that thrived on being considered as close as a sister to someone. Anorexia detected this moment of weakness and quelled it, although I did not recognize it for what it was at the time. “Too thin? Ha, as if, show her your rotund stomach, grab the mountains of flab that prove gluttony on your hips. You stick out in all the wrong places, it’s a deformity, the way your body is formed, why else would you jut out around your middle, then curve back in before the top of your legs. Violin deformity. That’s what they call it”. When questioned, attack. Anorexia leaves no room for doubt. Once it has dug its claws into its chosen body, it will not give up easily.

       I worry that they all think that because I am not better, I do not care about them. The only reason I care about me is in relation to them. I thrive on looking after others. Not only in the ‘feeder’ capacity, traditional of many anorexics, but in many others. That is my role, although anorexia has incapacitated me of this ability in many ways. My mother always says that to look after her, I need to look after me.

       I thought I was more ‘normal’ now. I thought people wouldn’t really notice my odd eating habits as much. Compared to where I was before, I thought I was doing great. Then reality hit. I am still a freak. Puppet to it. It ruins things. I ruin things. A trip with my girls ended only a few weeks ago in a fraught, emotional, teary conversation. I am not normal. They are so worried. I was hurt, I was angry, I was surprised. Couldn’t they see how well I was doing now? Couldn’t they remember me before. When I would only eat green beans? “Are you sure you should be going to uni Maya? It’s pretty stressful?” “But I’m fine, look, I’m coping, I love uni, I love having another focus, otherwise I’m alone with it, left behind completely, I cant let it put my life on hold”. “We’re only saying this because we love you and we’re worried”. Déjà vu. I remembered this conversation. I’d had it so many times, Thea, parents, friends, Jacob, teachers. “Don’t you think youd look a bit better if you just put on a bit of weight”. Slap in the face. Although I know this is all coming from a place of love and care, that statement knocks me. I cannot even speak. I just sob, harder. I try to say it, but I cant. I’m too hurt and battered and angry to even say the words. It is not to do with how I look. I know I look like shit. I hate that I cannot sit and eat bread and butter and cheese with you all. It is not bread I know. It is foreign and scary. If it were to do with how I look then it would be easy. I thought they knew that. People always say things like “but you/she was such a pretty girl”. As if that is what makes the disease confusing. As if if I were the bearded woman, with a monobrow, warts and 3 eyes, then it would make sense. I could look like Cheryl Cole, Kate Moss (whoever is considered beautiful these days), or look like a baboons backside. It would make no difference. There are many different theories about why it happens. Environment, biological, need for control, pressure from ourselves, pressure from the media, pressure from those around us. I think it is a combination of them all. Maybe I am kidding myself and it is simply me striving for beauty. However, if this were the case, then all those afflicted with an eating disorder are vain, selfish and judgmental. I do not measure the value of others on how they look. I have friends of all shapes and sizes and I do not care. ‘Normal’ is not anything to me. Those with disabilities, I still love. My love for them if not effected by what some may describe as an abnormality. I do not measure in physical beauty. Some have argued that I have surrounded myself with a particularly ‘beautiful’ group of friends. This is true, however, I did not choose those girls because of how they look. We do not sit around discussing latest beauty techniques and how to better ourselves in the looks department (quite the opposite, our common room at school was filled with conversations frequently of toilets, our bodily functions, and other not so ‘ladylike’ topics). If it were the case that this is what cemented our friendship, then even if they had once considered me ‘pretty’, they would sure as hell not be friends with me now. Anorexia is not pretty. Yet they still rally around me and I am lucky.  I cannot argue with the fact that societies weight focus has definitely had an influence, however, the cat walk is not to blame for the curse. If it were not through food, then my feelings towards myself would have manifested themselves in another way, I would have chosen another form of punishment. The worry, frantic conversations, tears come from a place of love, I know that. I know I would be just as frustrated if it were someone else. Everyone has different opinions on how to make it better. Uni/no uni.  Inpatient/outpatient. No one knows. There is no clear path. Trial and error. No wonder drugs. Some that can help, just a little. None that can fix it though.

I wish I could sit and eat animal pasta covered in butter with my niece. I wish I didn’t upset everyone. I wish I could be well. All I ever wanted was to be ‘better’.