260//: 100-07-500-44.3/300

To all the new followers, welcome, glad that someone is enjoying my musings. Unfortunately this appears to be guest post/ serious post week. Normal order of business will resume next week, I am collecting useful research material. Moving on....I know people often say this when talking about something difficult, but this really is my friend’s story. She allowed me to share it on my blog (see post-script), but I will write it in first person because that’s easier to understand!

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I checked my bank balance. £260 down. Ouch. That was a lot of money for a student. Oh well, it was for a good cause. I walked back to my room, booted up my computer, transferred some money from my savings’ account into my current account, donned comfy shoes, and walked to ‘Sweaty Betty’. I was getting me some new gym clothes for my new gym. Shopping done, Starbucks coffee and lemon muffin bought, I got back to my room, got changed, and walked down the road. I tapped my back pocket. ‘Phew’. My little black book was present.

‘Hi, I’m here for my induction’.

‘Oh hey, we’ve been expecting you. I understand you want an exercise plan? You look pretty fit, so I guess you’re an athlete or training for a marathon?’ £260 on gym membership for 6 months.

‘Ah yeah, you know, keeping the weight down and all’. Lame joke. Suspicious side-eye.

After a quick tour of the gym, I pulled out my water bottle, filled it with water, and got onto the treadmill. Start. Gentle pace. Daft punk blaring through my head phones. Around the world. Moloko. Time is now. Darude. Sandstorm. Ouch. My ankle hurts.

‘Wimp. You’re ankle’s just getting used to it. You took two weeks off for the last sprain. 3 weeks this time + physio...you’re ok. Keep going.’ I felt my left leg go numb. ‘See, can’t feel it any more. Focus.’

Madonna. Ray of light. There’s the tunnel. There’s the light. Think what you want the light to mean. I felt my left hand move. Quick glance down. Speed up, incline up. Power it up. Come on now.

My iPod detected the increase in my pace. I loved my new Apple plug in for my shoes. Timbaland. The way you are. Keep going. Quick arithmetic tells me that on a bike, this would be 70 RPM. You’re in easy territory now. You’re usually at 90 RPM. Minutes ticked by. Seconds. I looked down. 89. Twinge from my left foot. Music slowed down. John Legend. When it’s cold outside. What a voice. I want to be his ordinary person. 100 minutes. Stop. Hold on to the bars. Inversion posture, quick...downward dog. See, it’s all in the mind. You’re not tired. You won’t pass out. Distance covered: 7 miles. Calories burnt: 500. Well, that’s because the machine thinks I weigh 55 kilos. I walked to the scales. 44 kilos. 44.3 kilos. Crap. 300 grams.

I gulped my water, pulled out my cold coffee and muffin from my bag, and sat, wolfing it down. You eat too much crap. I know. Stop. I will. I binned half the muffin and left. I got back to my room and pulled out my black book. 100-07-500-44.3/300. Buy a new book. Footsteps. I shoved my black book into my bedside drawer. Knock. ‘Hun, are you coming to hall for dinner?’ ‘I just ate, hectic session at the gym. Sorry. Tomorrow, I promise!’ I looked down at my little pot belly, ignoring the lie I’d just told my friends. You’re fat, I told myself.

*Teeet Teeeet Teeeet Teeet Teeeeeet* Crap. 6 am. I threw on a t-shirt, shorts, a hoodie, and grabbed my iPod. I grabbed a spoonful of sugar as I headed out for an early morning road run, where no one would distract me (read: see me). 7.15 am: Distance covered: 4 miles. Scale: 44.2 kilos. I scribbled furiously in my black book: 60-04-650-44.2/200. I swallowed another spoonful of sugar, had a shower and carefully measured out 50 grams of cereal drenched in skimmed milk. Two spoonfuls. Lectures.

1700: gym time.  Come on. Aim today is 100-08-750-44/300. Then we can buy a new book. Blue, this time....

6 months later, I was on my last legs. My muscles hurt. My joints hurt. My stomach hurt if I ate more than an apple. I had constant headaches, and my gums bled every morning. I could only drink 500ml of water at a time. That, and two spoons of sugar. I dragged myself onto my scales one morning, too tired to go for my usual run. 38 kilos for a 5’4” girl was dangerous. Dangerously underweight. Anorexic. My BMI was 16.6. At that my moment, before the panic at missing my run could set in, my door opened. My friend looked at me. She was partly incredulous that I was in my room at 7am and not out running, and that I couldn’t hear my blaring alarm clock. Then her eyes adjusted and she focused on me. She hadn’t seen me in a bikini/underwear in over a year. She shook her head, tried to speak and then started crying. ‘Please...don’t tell...’ She took out her phone and called the third musketeer, who arrived within minutes. They stood at my door...staring at me. Then they walked into my room and locked me in. It was an out of body experience. Here I was, at my intervention, but all I could think about was my sugar and the missing numbers: 90-06-800-38/100. We cried and talked for 5 hours. At midday we emerged, with two emails sent: one to my college tutor to explain what had been going on, the second to a counsellor to book a time slot for therapy sessions. I walked to the back gate of my dorm building, to find my parents waiting anxiously. My mother hugged me for about 10 minutes. My dad grabbed my little suitcase, nodded a silent thank you to my friends, and then we drove home for the weekend.

It’s been two years since I flirted with anorexia. I haven’t joined a gym, I don’t exercise on my own, and I eat at least one of 3 meals with someone: my boyfriend, housemate or best friends. If not, I call my mum and eat with her on the other end of the phone. I wake up each morning and pull out a little pink book from my bedside drawer. I write down something encouraging to myself. No numbers allowed. I still own my running shoes, but as part of my exercise sound track, I listen to classical music or jazz. It’s hard to power up to David Benoit. I remember to thank God for allowing me to sleep through my alarm that morning. If not, I would have gone to bed 3 months later, and never woken up. I still obsess, but now I clean and bake cupcakes. I live in a pretty spotless house as you can imagine.

Ps. only 5 people outside of my immediate family know that I suffer from anorexia: my tutor, my counsellor, BWTB, who found me and who wrote this piece, the third musketeer, and my boyfriend. There are people with far worse disease than I do, but I personally can’t reach them. If you’re a friend to someone and you’re worried, think, act, talk, do something. Remember, boys suffer too. Every day I feel like I have cheated death. I was lucky I hadn’t completely lost my head yet, so my friends could still get through to me, but another few weeks, and who knows. I don’t know if I’ll ever be cured. I don’t expect to be though, that way I can’t be disappointed. Every day, it’s my pink book and I.

*BWTB says thank you for allowing me to share this.*