“I can’t wait for the day when one day you wake up and all of a sudden you’re a hippo.” Those are the words of my best friend, said to me, aged 19. We were in New York, on the first leg of our east coast american adventure and I was picking at the remnants of my Philly Cheesesteak sandwich. My best friend, as always, had chosen the ‘healthy’ option of chicken salad – she was often a little health conscious – with a regular exercise routine and aversion to anything ‘creamy’. I, on the other hand, never seemed to gain more than a few (barely noticeable) pounds – despite my love of anything creamy and my aversion to exercise.
So, when aged 23 I developed an eating disorder which eventually spiralled into fatal anorexia, no one was more shocked than I was. Like most teenagers, I’d become more conscious of my body as I got older and opted for salads when I thought I’d eaten too much ice cream the week before, or was preparing for a girls’ holiday. Sure, I tried to go to the gym a few times (but spent most of the time in the car park – where there was a McDonald’s) and I tried not to eat Pizza too often, but if someone shoved a cupcake in front of me…let’s be honest, I was gonna bloody eat it.
In the space of just over a year, I went from opting for gluten-free, Leggera Pizza Express pizzas (half salad, half pizza) in a bid to make “healthier choices”, to having a near panic-attack when a colleague asked me to try her home-baked biscuit. Obviously there was quite a lot that happened in between, but in essence, that was pretty much it. A slippery slope in which food became increasingly dangerous and my life, increasingly restricted. Although I’d never had any pre-existing unhealthy relationship with food, I did have a tempestuous relationship with anxiety. Food was my new fear and it was more crippling than any previous teenage anxiety (fear of the onset of schizophrenia, for example).
Propelled by my job in the fashion industry and the constant influx of skinny, beautiful Instagrammers alerting me of another food to avoid “if possible”, I continued to dodge meals and construct my day in order to satisfy the self-inflicted ‘rules’. I’d pick off the topping in my mum’s apple crumble – I didn’t want the carbs, only the fruit – and I’d skip meals throughout the day if I knew I had a big dinner approaching. I’d invite friends round for dinner, to escape going out, and construct a delicious, healthy meal of many different types of salads. With no dressing.
Telling myself it was, “just something I was trying”, as, “no one in fashion eats and they’re fine”, only worked until the doctor told me to stop. Mainly because, I realised I couldn’t. I made an appointment for back pain and left with a diagnosis of anorexia and a referral to the local Eating Disorder’s service.
Over a year later and here I am, about to embark on this delicious chapter and impart all my post-anorexic wisdom to you fine people. I know what you’re all thinking – why on earth should I listen to YOU!? Well, that part is up to you. One thing I am a bit of an expert in however, is f**king up your body. Not only did my self-prescribed diet almost kill me, aged 24, but it made me friggin’ miserable. Through the process of recovery, I continue to be gobsmacked by my ignorance when it comes to food, diet and the human anatomy. It turns out, I don’t know as much as I thought I did and I hate to break it to you all, but that probably goes for you too. What’s more, it’s tough to heed the advice of trained experts and professionals when a handful of squeaky clean, pretty people are advising you to do the opposite – and all your friends are buying their books. Frustrated, I delved into the murky waters of the so-called ‘wellness’ industry and learned that some say it’s fuelled by powerful people, clinging onto no more than a peanut of truth in order to further their own careers.
I’ve spent too long being scared – and I bet you have too. It’s a shame, really, as when you think about it, and analyse all the factual, scientific evidence the thing to fear is… well, nothing. So, get off Instagram and go and finish that slice of cake. It’s MUCH healthier that way, trust me.