It’s been two and a half years since I was discharged from an inpatient eating disorder unit and began my healthy foray into non-policed recovery.  And whilst there are many figures and fixtures responsible for my prosperous recovery, there’s an overarching substance which is undoubtedly due the most credit. Food. All food.  I’d like to take this opportunity – using the annual poignance that is eating disorders awareness week – to profess my thanks to the sustenance that in many ways, brought me back from the dead.  For most, drug treatment to cure near-fatal sickness involves a concoction of sugar coated chemicals or intricate needlework. These, of course, would illicit feelings of thankfulness and appreciation towards the medics and researchers who provided the cure. But, the sensory experience of a chalky pill slipping down the gusset – or the sting of resulting stitches – aren’t exactly pleasurable or memorable.

This is why, as odd as it sounds, I will always hold a unique, unwavering adoration for my medicine. How lucky was I that the chemical combination of my prescription just so happened to be totally delicious.  Before I was admitted to hospital for severe anorexia, i’d agreed (after many arguments) to re-introduce breakfast into my daily diet. Convinced that dairy was brimming with devil sporn (aka fat), I appeased my nurse, mum and boyfriend by managing a morning bowl of porridge made with almond milk and water instead.

For lunch, I wildly jazzed up my regular favourites: spinach leaves and olive salad (it’s not a salad tho) or chicken stock cube soup, by adding an extra helping of roasted vegetables. These were cooked in a little oil, and sometimes clinging to sporadic speckles of cous cous – if I was feeling brave. I’d occasionally allow myself an apple for afters, but only on the days when I’d accidentally-on-purpose missed my prescribed 200 calorie mid-afternoon snack.

My lunchtime saviour was a pathetic Pret pot which did little more than make me fart like someone’s grandad with IBS

Dinner was daunting at the best of times, especially as I was all too aware that mum had, by now, reached peak dinner-table anxiety. Sticking to the well-rehearsed tune of fish-and-two-veg, I grew more comfortable with cod, salmon and chicken (providing they were oven baked) in the weeks before I was catapulted into the NHS ‘system’ and deemed unfit for purpose. The required three scoops of ice cream per night often went unserved as I attempted to substitute the calories for low-fat, low-sugar, greek-style (but not actually greek) yoghurt.

So, it’s hardly surprising that after a couple of months of desperate attempts to ‘do it myself’, I failed miserably and ended up being carted away to a mental health unit 20 minutes down the road from the forgiving safety of my mother’s home.  It was fucking awful. But that’s another post, for another time. For now; the focus is strictly on the food.

Within a day of having the privilege of choice ripped from my fingertips, I consumed seven foods that I hadn’t so much as sniffed since anorexia came clipping my heels the year previously. I was horrified, devastated and totally beside myself as I awaited the expected the seven and a half extra stones to magically arrive on my mid-section.

Obviously, this never happened.  In two weeks I was living off a diet unrecognisable by my pre-hospital self. Day after day chowing down on three meals – and three snacks – which, if my eating disorder was allowed to judge – he’d (it’s definitely a self righteous dude) be horrified.  But as we well know, eating disorders don’t make you healthy.

So, in true foodie Thursday fashion, here is a bonafide tribute too all the bland, bog-standard, available-in-all-mediocre-supermarkets, foods that made me big, strong and bountiful again. Thanks to the below, I was eventually released from a psychiatric hospital; could poo properly; I actually enjoyed a scoop (or three) of Ben and Jerry’s; I threw my mum a surprise 60th birthday party; I could go back to work and write for national newspapers; appear in a BBC3 documentary; have great sex with my boyfriend; meet a wonderful girl called Laura Dennison who invited me to embark on the single most exciting and rewarding journey of my entire life…

Sorry wellness gurus, but you don’t know the meaning of the term ‘health food’ until you’ve literally eaten your way out of near-death, with actual foods prescribed as your medicine – none of which, may I add, come fermented in Mason jars.
To you, my precious, I owe everything…

Full-fat milk (lots and lots of it)

Eat Natural cereal bars (I was only allowed the non-gluten free variety) or Alpen bars (chocolate or strawberry depending on my flava cravings)

Full sugar orange juice

Tinned tuna on Sainsbury’s own brand, wholemeal packaged bread, smothered in full-fat mayonnaise

Sweet potatoes, baked, and topped with (full sugar) baked beans and ready-grated cheddar cheese

 

Spaghetti Bolognese

 

Digestive biscuits

 

Banana-flavoured Nesquick, made with full-fat milk

 

(Sainsbury’s own brand) Weetabix

 

Twixes

 

 

Garlic butter chicken kievs

 

Frozen salmon fillets, served with frozen green beans and white, boiled rice

 

 

Cottage pie, made with beef and WHITE POTATOES

 

Tomato, cheesy pasta bake

 

Full-fat, full-sugar Danone Activia yoghurts (peach flavoured)

 

KIT KAT CHUNKYS

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It must be said that all of the above meals were carefully planned by expert dietitians based on their exact nutritional components in order to ensure our diets were in every sense of the word; balanced. It’s also worth mentioning that as my weight increased, the amount of food – not type of food – increased too in order for me to reach a higher weight goal. Therefore, the foods above WILL NOT automatically equal weight gain. In fact, I became increasingly frustrated when my weight refused to shift above a certain number. It took a great deal more effort to get it to budge – I’m talking two extra chocolate bars each day…

My point?

The ‘health’ properties of any given food is the subtotal of the situation in which the food is eaten. In some circumstances, malnutrition for example, there is such a thing as a healthy Krispy Kreme Doughnut. I mean, those doughy, sugary delights have health benefits for many; they can grant respite from a broken heart, mend a fractured friendship, or even go someway to ease loneliness – which we know can be as detrimental to health as diabetes or heart disease.

In the quest for health I abandoned the trusted, simple ingredients that fed me through 15 years of schooling, puberty, and many a under-18s club night. A health ‘kick’ which made me very, very sick. These days, I’m much healthier than I was back then and I barely ever think about it, let alone actively take steps to improve it. Health – or whatever you call it – means making peace with the real you; all of you. And if that means a diet of chicken kievs, Bolognese and Sainsbury’s own brand bread, well…what can I say, I’m a sucker for a superfood.

NB: This post is not a Sainsbury’s #spon, there just so happened to be a pretty great branch adjacent to my decrepit hospital

 NB 2: We were given a side salad with every meal, but it was optional…