My never-again weight, part 8

According to the eternal horror that is Facebook Memories, this photo was posted a year ago today. The Tank Girl tshirt’s legit, but I’m clearly exhausted. If you look closely, my watch is hanging off my wrist. It was a 30th birthday present, adjusted at the time to fit me exactly. In the photo above, it fell to halfway down my forearm whenever I raised my hand.

This was around the time of my final – to date – binge/purge relapse, caused directly by the Eating Disorder service.

It pains me to say that. I work for the NHS. I’m fiercely proud to do so. At 70 years old it’s a tad creaky in places, but it’s full of loyal, dedicated and selfless humans trying their best regardless. It has also, if you refer back to part 5 of this blog, saved my life twice already, even when I didn’t want it to and was a super-sarcastic bitch about it. I did, however, promise myself to tell you the truth. I refuse to add to the online repository of rose-tinted recovery journey stories. If you want pretty pictures, stick to Instagram.

My first contact from the ED service was a letter berating me for missing my appointment.

This was not the point that I relapsed.

As I mentioned before, I didn’t really want the ED referral in the first place. I was already determined, with the help and support of my husband, friends, family and nurse, to work towards a healthy weight. Having said that, I was scared that if I didn’t cooperate, then the GP would push towards hospital admission.

So, even though the Kafkaesque first letter upset me greatly, I contacted the service by text. I explained that they had probably tried to call me, but I was deaf.

I resisted saying STILL DEAF. I really was trying to cooperate.

I was offered an appointment, but it clashed with training at work. I wasn’t ready, at that stage, to talk openly about exactly why I needed time off for treatment, so I asked for an alternative date straight away. I was given one, a mere two days after the first appointment slot they offered.

Not bad, right? A shaky start with that letter, but resolved relatively quickly and sensibly. I actually had high hopes for that first appointment.

The day before I was scheduled to attend, they texted to cancel due to unavoidable staffing issues.

This was not the point that I relapsed.

I’d been gearing myself up for the appointment, and it was quite a blow, but I took it in my now slightly shaken stride and asked to reschedule.

The answer was no. It had now been too long since my initial blood tests and ECG, and I would need to get them done again before I could be given a new appointment.

I told them politely that I didn’t want to pursue the matter any further. I locked myself in the toilet at work and cried hysterically. I already felt like I’d spent the last six weeks constantly scheduling and attending appointments for tests, results and referrals. I couldn’t face the prospect of repeating everything just to tick their boxes.

This was not the point that I relapsed.

About a week later, another letter from the ED service arrived. It said that I had repeatedly cancelled appointments and was now refusing treatment, and that my GP had been informed.

This. This was the point that I relapsed.

I was so angry that I couldn’t stop shaking as I tore the letter into tiny pieces and buried it deep in our recycling bin. It felt like gaslighting, making me look and feel crazy and uncooperative to cover up their own failings. Quite frankly, anorexia made me feel batshit enough already. I didn’t need any extra help from them.

I binged and purged for six hours straight. I was ill for two days afterwards. I was also £50 poorer.

The shame of the memory is knotting my stomach and tightening my chest as I type. I was petrified that I would spiral straight back down into my old habits. I didn’t tell anyone about the relapse. I couldn’t.

I’m telling you now because I didn’t spiral, either by bingeing again or by running back to the safety of restricting. The binge was an isolated incident. A bump in the road, not a gaping sinkhole.

Life continued around me and, somehow, I gradually rejoined it. The fear and the guilt lessened. Recovery is not linear, but it is possible.

Tonight, Gareth and I are having one of our Chinese Takeaway Pyjama Parties. This is one of my favourite new traditions. I can’t unlearn all my old, destructive thought patterns around food, but I can forge new patterns, create new memories. A year on from my last relapse, I can be proud of how far I’ve come.

I have a new Lilo & Stitch nightshirt. As Stitch – and Gareth – say, our family is little and broken, but it’s still good.