I’m thin again. And I fucking hate it. It’s not been wholly purposeful, but I guess my semi-conscious holds a fair share of responsibility. Somewhere between my full time job, part-time website, freelance writing gigs, supper clubs AND often emotionally challenging relationship (put two people with mental health problems in a room for two weeks and you’ll understand), Eve got lost.
In the three years since I was hospitalised for my anorexia, I’ve never once felt that the threat of uncontrollable weight loss – my previous downfall – was a real threat to my livelihood. Until this month. And before you begin sending me care packages of Oreos and emailing messages of condolences, note that the eventuality that scares me most is of course very unlikely to happen. This time round, denial is not an option.
I foolishly presumed that an ‘acceptable’ weight automatically entered me into the ‘well’ category: I was now at full liberty to continue my life as every other free eater would. I revelled in walking distances previously deemed unsuitable or ‘inappropriate’ and gleefully discarded the collection of safety pins I’d relied upon. People told me I looked ‘well’ and mum finally stopped forcing me to take five packets of biscuits home with me every time I came over for dinner. It lasted just under a year.
Because as it turns out, I’m not just like everybody else and to be perfectly honest – it’s unlikely I ever will be. I can’t skip breakfast a few days on the trot, nor can I adopt an exercise-based hobby. Watching fat-shaming, food-phobic documentaries (you know who I’m talking about) prove especially difficult viewing, and a big, chocolate birthday cake – intended especially for me – will always make me a little bit nervous. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want it (it’s my birthday on Wednesday FYI). When I began to merge into the ‘normal’ world of working lunches (I.e sandwich nibble and nothing else), girlish conversation (80% of which revolves around gluten) and fanatical thinness, my self-assured attitude slowly faded in order to fit in with everybody else’s idea of who I was. Under no circumstances did I want my definition to read, ‘girl with the eating disorder’. But my diagnosis doesn’t like to be neglected and it ultimately resurfaces red-faced, incessant and more god damn boring than ever before.
Unlike the bamboozled girl, staggering around in various branches of Tesco, I am now all too familiar with what I stand to lose. The sterile plastic of my NHS mattress and stale, casserole smell of the ward corridor are memories etched in my brain forever – and serve as constant reminders of where I desperately do NOT want to be. For that, at least, my inpatient treatment was helpful.
So, with anxious gusto, I booked an appointment to see my GP. I marched into Tesco, grabbed a tub of strawberry cheesecake Haagen Dazs and whizzed it through the self checkout before my brain could convince me otherwise. I’m avoiding fruit (currently, chocolate is healthier) and every afternoon, at around 5 o clock, I chomp down a calorific cereal bar – a multipack of which has sat untouched in my desk drawer for months. And I’m writing this piece, because at least if you lot all know, I’ve got no where to hide.