My never-again weight, part 9

Today, I weigh 47kg, and I have decided that this is my penultimate post. I am – as I mentioned back in part 1 – not recovered, but I’m a healthy weight, and it’s been over a year since my last binge/purge relapse.

Although I am historically a terrible judge of my own appearance, I like to think that I don’t look ill any more. Hopefully, if you met me for the very first time today, you wouldn’t have any reason to believe I have an eating disorder.

Yet at breakfast this morning, I had a complete breakdown over whether or not we should go into town for lunch.

I’m still scared of eating in public. On more than one occasion I’ve actually choked in the cinema, as I’m so self-conscious about chewing and swallowing at quiet points in the film that my throat seizes up.

In front of other people, I worry that I’m eating too quickly, too slowly, too much, not enough, and that everyone is judging me with every mouthful. I eat clumsily. My hands shake. I dread anyone approaching me. Talking to me. Touching me. Commenting on my choice of food. Add eating in public to my extensive list of fears. It’s right up there with sandwiches and Morris dancers.

I know it’s a cliché, but you never know what battles people are fighting in their own heads. Many friends have reached out to me since I’ve started writing about eating disorders, sharing similar thoughts and experiences, and for the most part I never would have guessed. If you’re not shockingly underweight, morbidly obese, or running to the bathroom every five minutes, then eating disorders are pretty easy to hide. I pride myself in being open and honest with people, but for years I carried this gigantic secret, only ever referring to it to a few chosen people in the most euphemistic of terms. My favourite was “bad food day”. When I told someone I couldn’t come out because I was having a “bad food day” it covered a multitude of hidden behaviours. Fasting. Bingeing. Purging. Laxative abuse. “Bad food day” was wonderfully vague. No one ever asked me to clarify the term, and me and my mess of a head were left alone to torture each other in peace.

After my relapse, I decided that the Eating Disorder service would do me more harm than good, but opted to continue the fortnightly weigh-ins with Simon. The weight gain was frustratingly slow at first. From January to June of 2018 I only went from 38.4kg to 40.3kg. Some mornings I cried at the thought of having to eat again. It didn’t seem fair when I’d only just eaten yesterday. The stress of eating was huge and constant, and the gains felt so tiny in comparison.

I tackled my fears as I went along. I decided that it was okay to be scared, to freak out, as long as I kept going. In my teens I weighed myself obsessively, so I still don’t keep scales at home, but I wrote down my weight after each appointment. By September I’d reached 43.2kg. By December, 45kg. One by one I ticked off the milestones; throwing out my smallest children’s clothes, reaching a healthy BMI, my jeans fitting again, my advent calendar.

I still have mornings when I put off getting in the shower because I don’t want to look at myself naked. I still frequently break down in front of the mirror. On the flip side, I’ve totally mastered eating chocolate.

In addition to sandwiches, Morris dancers, and eating in public, I’m scared of supermarkets, pizza, spiders, pastry, cake, having my photo taken, being called fat, being called crazy, rice, pasta, pancakes, oil, calorie counts, avocados, and other people’s dietary advice. Above all, I’m scared of relapsing.

These are my fears, tell me yours. Or rather, tell SOMEONE yours. I promise it will help. 🖤