5

BREAKING NEWS: a wild appointment appears!

Not long after privately booking my private appointment with a private therapist in Southampton, April House phoned me to say there was a slot and did I want it. So I bailed on unfettered neoliberalism (£30 per appointment for students), and fell back on the NHS a week later. This place is light years away in Bitterne, and as I’ve mentioned, there’s no direct bus service from Portswood, which is really handy given that probably a damn fair amount of disordered eaters are at Southampton Uni. However, my wonderful housemate offered to give me a lift in his superb yellow car, and upon arrival I was greeted by a girl who looked both smaller and younger than me who turned out to be my clinical psychologist;  her first week on the job. I was asked to fill out the same crazy-measuring tick sheets and was asked again what I Normally Eat. After a year and a half of la folie, I have finally begun my treatment.

Between this and my initial Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, I went along to one of Student Minds’ ED group therapy sessions I’d spied on the student union calendar. I met some wonderful people and although it’s not there to replace treatment it was great just to get a load off my (flat) chest, reassured by the presence of SUSU the cat. I highly recommend these sessions to those looking to meet others sharing the same unfortunate mentality.

Cycling over to April House that Friday I had absolutely no expectations, high nor low, as a CBT newbie. I’ve regrettably been one of those people who believed in independent ‘rationalising-away’ of psychological disorders, but being in the clutches of a hunger-obsession has made me re-evaluate. With my pint-sized therapist I basically mapped out my thoughts, behaviours, feelings, and physiology and then made a timeline of important events in my life. From my childhood shame at swimming lessons to my recent breakdown at a bowl of intolerable noodles in Chinatown, my eyes were opened to a whole canister of potential underlying causes I had completely overlooked. My ‘homework’ is to record everything I eat in the coming week and my subsequent feeeeelings, a task I am throwing myself at with extreme gusto. If only I had the same gusto for actual ingestion.

4

The jury are in and it’s a resounding reaffirmation of anorexia nervosa, meaning I have reached round 3: The Waiting List. On asking for clarification all I got was “well it could be a few months, depending on cancellations and reshuffles”, basically meaning my treatment depends on other debilitated people not getting worse. She also told me to read about it in the meantime (obviously unaware of the fact I have academic shit to read) so I did, and this is what I found.

Beat is an eating disorders charity which has a website running forums, pdfs, discussion groups etc etc which whilst not providing any direct treatment does virtually everything else. I read some blogs and forum posts and what made me the most sick is that despite having a 20% mortality rate, anorexia’s treatment on the NHS has absolutely no maximum waiting list time. For physical ailments it’s usually a maximum of 18 weeks. Hilariously with ED, the longer you leave it gnawing away, the more difficult it is to shake off so it makes twat all sense to delay treatment. Some of the girls (although please remember it’s not just us) wrote they were actually denied referral by their GP because “you’re just not ill enough”. Are you taking the bloody piss.

I idiotically lost a kilo in a week and the physical effects on my body have taken their toll, which would be a disaster if I wasn’t me and actually wanted babies someday. Of course it still IS a disaster regardless, and the fact that a plate of spaghetti can send me cowering shitlessly to a corner of the room means it’s time to go private. This puts my disorder in direct conflict with my inner leftie who wants me to eat for social liberalism.

I’m off to Paris tomorrow, land of mardi fat, carbicidal baguette frites and that pain o'chocolate. Let’s see how all that goes down.

3

So I’m still the same, sorry.

I finally got to see the dietician, who, after telling me about what is likely to happen if I don’t gain weight (osteoporosis and an incomplete university career) gave me what is essentially a list of what to eat. I was ecstatic because after virtually shitting myself over what I’d just been told, I needed someone to lay down some rules, plus I got to play with some preschool-esque plastic veg and carbs. These eating guidelines became my sanctum. Until I got lazy again.

Lazy because actually something as simple as eating more and increasing portion size is a monumental effort, like fighting Goliath every day. I just ran out of rocks.

Back in Southampton.

My family are essentially on tenterhooks, how the hell am I going to cope etc. Gladys said it felt like leaving a toddler out in the Amazon to fend for itself (except toddlers are generally chubby). I got referred a couple of times and was sent to yet another assessment, this time in the Southampton ED service (“April House”). They had a last minute cancellation so rather than waiting 3 weeks I was allowed to dash over the same morning I called, power-walking the hour’s distance in true anorexic style (there’s no direct bus service).

I was asked to fill in about a million forms which included those lurid psychoanalytical Yank statements to which you like, totally agree or not at all. “Since I am so superior, I am entitled to special treatment and privileges”, “I am needy and weak”, “People will get me if I don’t get them first”. Your ‘score’ is then totted up so that hey ho, you’re an NHS priority or hard luck, try again next time. I also had to tell the lady my life story in an effort to pinpoint when I started malfunctioning. This cheerful discussion taking place, ironically, on my first love’s birthday. I’ll get my verdict in a week or so, and if I am considered a real menace, I can be put on a six month waiting list for treatment.

Until then, I probably will keep eating my bananas in halves and counting my potato wedges. Because I’m lazy like that.

2

Coming back from China I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect in terms of corporal growth.  I hadn’t weighed myself for six weeks and the closest I had had to a mirror had been passing glass, and as for eating itself, my sacred routine had been altered so much it had left me in nutritional bewilderment. Rice every single day, for every single meal, is not exactly my idea of paradise, to the extent that the dinner men and ladies saw my daily “bu yao mifan” as a canteen wisecrack: “no want rice” is like the equivalent of refusing a cup of tea in England, or saying you don’t like gravy on your mash. But it was so, and as such, tofu and mung bean soup provided my basic sustenance.

Little surprise then that I had in fact lost a couple of pounds. Luckily it wasn’t more, had it not been for my eloping to distant lands in search of dumplings and dragon fruit, but at least I am not in dire straits; I like to think that my rationality is still hanging about somewhere. Nevertheless I thought it was probably a good idea to follow up my previous appointments and see the dietitian. As I couldn’t get through to the service by phone, I went to the clinic myself, waited in the waiting room which was aptly playing Coldplay’s Fix You until the secretary lady came along to tell me that “no one from THAT department is back until next week”. I didn’t really mind, just thought it a bit odd since as lovely as it would be, anorexia doesn’t take a holiday.

Even though physically I feel (and pretty much look) fine, I know that psychologically I still have a bit to go, but it’s hard to imagine a life in which food does not occupy a huge part of my thoughts. It’s sad to say it seems to have become habit rather than body image that keeps me in this adverse cycle. Writing it down helps break out of that loop a little and look at things from the outset, but there is no more futile a struggle than one with yourself.

Anyway I’m still happy

1

I recently lost 19 kilograms in the space of 7 months for probably an unlucky combination of genetic and historical reasons which I won't get into today. As much as shedding pounds is all the rage these days, it wasn't all that healthy, and as it so happens I am clinically a crazy lollipop-shaped lady. I am writing this not with the intention of creating awkwardness (although sorry if I do), but to shed a bit of light from the perspective of someone who a year ago would never have thought she'd have any light to shed.

I'm not entirely certain how many people discuss this sort of thing, but having just returned from a year abroad I cannot stress enough the importance of company in the process of recovery. The frustration of feeling unable to express myself linguistically, despite several kind ears and open minds, is self-exacerbating and ultimately detrimental, developing into an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. It is ridiculous that this should manifest itself through eating habits, which is why I often have a go at myself for what I consider to be almost akin to religious fundamentalism; an absurd irrationality that denies me basic comfort and, to put it mildly, pisses off the people around me.

I suppose what I'm trying to gain from this is your understanding that an eating disorder isn't always flat-out denial or an "I'm-fat-can't-eat" starvation mentality propagated by The Media (a more and more slippery term these days), but often a permanent inner conflict that can only begin to be quelled by companionship and, yes really, platonic love.

So my upcoming trip to China has been a bit of a gamble decision-wise. I am still in recovery (put on 5 kilos since my lowest point in November, though despite common assumptions the physical difference is not the be-all and end-all) and I hope that being away from home again won't induce a relapse. Of course this sounds retarded: how can I hope for something I should have full control over? Even I don't get it.

If you have been affected by any of the issues raised in this spiel, I'd advise above all to embundle yourself or the person concerned with Home: friends, books, childhood, nature, small comforts. And not to leave it until sanity is fully restored, regardless of how long it takes. Perhaps I should follow my own advice, but I've never been good at that, and besides, seeing the world takes precedence over a pitiful psycho-miscorrection. Time can only tell.