During Eve’s illness (left) After
I love clothes. Always have done, always will. It’s not uncommon for me to head to Selfridges Boxing Day sale and end up the only shopper to emerge with a n0n-sale, ludicrously expensive item. If I like it, and I have the money (ish) then I’m gonna bloody well buy it.
My relationship with my beloved wardrobe became somewhat complicated two years ago when I developed an eating disorder. Slowly but surely, the sick garms (sorry) which I prided myself on became yet another reminder of my sickness. Skirts had to be pinned (even the size 6s); turtle necks draped off my sinewy neck and every time I wore a bra it brought on a day’s worth of immense pain. Damn you, underwires.
What’s even worse, is that even at my most unwell, weighing little over five stone, I was still very much Eve Simmons at heart. Hence, I wanted to buy more clothes. And expensive ones, too. Designer jeans, pretty boutique dresses, silk shirts – the lot. Unfortunately, it took me two years, one hospital admission and a shit load of therapy to understand the hidden dangers of my habit. Especially as the items I was buying wouldn’t have looked out of place in Baby Gap. Tiny, tight and with no room for any sort of natural female curvature, these clothes are a symbol of the crippling insecurity that drove me to dedicate my entire life to being something I am not. Even if it killed me.
Now it’s 2017, there’s no excuse. Time for a clear out…
