My Battle With Anorexia

Monica knows some women consider her the height of gorgeousness. Think again, she begs…

Telling my story is terrifying. Yet death stand behind me, tapping me on the shoulder, I know I must speak out. What scares me the most is the thought you might look at photographs and envy me.

Does this sound crazy? Well, believe me- there are women out there who’d hail me as a role model for beauty. And the last thing I want is to encourage anyone to follow in my footsteps.

I was 14 when it started. And the ironic thing is, I wanted to be healthy. I loved athletics; I was a highly competitive showjumper.
I loved food too – at 5ft 8in, I was 8½ stone, a normal weight for my age. Yet I was a real perfectionist, convinced myself I needed to lose five pounds.

“If I’m thinner, I’ll go faster,” I thought.

And that simple, innocent thought was how it started.

I switched mums hearty Italian food for low-fat meals. Within weeks, I’d dropped the five pounds, and the buzz I felt was fantastic, euphoric. I never wanted to gain weight again. Instead, I instantly wanted to lose more.

“Just another pound,” I fooled myself.

That’s anorexia for you. For some people, it’s as easy to catch a cold.

At 17, I left home in Chicago for a seasonal job grooming horses in Florida. And I started exercising excessively, surviving on the bare minimum of food.

When my parents came to collect me… “You look like an anorexic!” Mum gasped,

“I’m not,” I retorted. “I eat!”

But she was right – I looked awful, by now I’d dropped to 6 ½ stone. My parents raced me to the hospital; here doctors confirmed what Mum feared.

“We need to admit you for treatment,” they said.

“I don’t ant help!” I said my heart racing with panic. The idea of gaining weight made me feel sick now. I only agreed to have weekly counselling sessions.

Yet after six months I hadn’t gained a pound. “Just eat,” Dad pleaded. But it wasn’t that simple. I couldn’t just be fixed.

Then my counsellors came up with a radical approach, tough love. “Kick her out if she won’t have treatment,” they told me parents. So my weary mum and dad made a tearful ultimatum- treatment or leave. They weren’t being mean; it was just too painful to watch me wither away.

“I’ll move out then!” I said.

I got a flat in Chicago, started waitressing. But my life was lonely and empty. My new friends from school had dwindled away. And boys? A rare man would look twice at my skeletal frame but I’d push him away. How could anyone find me attractive? Besides, they might nag me to eat. I’d only allow one relationship in my life- my abusive love-hate affair with anorexia.

By the age of 21, hitting a new low of 5½ stone, I’d developed osteoporosis. I couldn’t walk without pain searing through my body, every tortured joint creaking. “Your bones are starved of nutrients,” my counsellor said. “It’ll only get worse.”

“But I’m like a 90 year old women already,” I said.

That’s when she gave me the killer blow… “Keep living like this, and you could die,” she warned.

It terrified me so much that, for the first time, the message sank in. Mum and Dad cried with relief when I was admitted to hospital. And I did everything asked of me – ate peanut-butter sandwiches, biscuits between meals… But as I put on five pounds, and flesh filled the hollows of my rib cage, I loathed myself. I didn’t feel fat, because I wasn’t. I as just so uncomfortable in my plumper body, I craved my starved, emaciated one back again.

That’s when I realised… anorexia has won. I’d rather suffer the physical pain of malnutrition. It was the lesser of the two evils.

But leaving the clinic, I felt shame. I’d failed.

I quickly returned to my ‘safe weight’ of 5½ stone- the lowest I could sustain a basic existence on. Too weak to work, I had to claim disability benefits. And my whole body throbbed. I couldn’t sit on a sofa for more than 15 minutes without my bony bottom becoming agony.

It’s hardly the glamorous existence people imagine when they idolise stick-thin fashion models.

I spent the rest of my twenties like that. And while my old mates from school travelled, fell in love, had babies, I filled the hours exercising, planning meals, knitting, drawing, going online. The isolation led me to develop strange compulsions, like having specific places for everything in my flat, or doing exact numbers or exercise every day. And I grew so afraid of dying.

Thinking they were protecting my frail body, I took a few aspirin each day. But aged 29, I woke with crippling stomach cramps. I was used to pain, but this was unbearable, so I phones Mum. She drove over, raced me to hospital. “The pills have ulcerated your stomach,” doctors said.

Now I needed emergency surgery. But I was so weak, the anaesthetic might kill me or leave me in a coma, we’ll tube-feed,” they said.

“No!” I replied. “No tube-feeding, even if I’m unconscious.”

My parents blanched in horror. “Please don’t die!” Dad cried out as I was wheeled into surgery.

Waking eight hours on, I was so relieved, but then… “We’ve been to court to take guardianship of your medical rights,” Mum said. “We can’t let you kill yourself.”

“I’m not a child!” I sighed, frustrated. But I had to accept it.

I’d only sip water, and as my weight plummeted to 4½ stone, my parents transferred me to an eating disorders clinic. Hysterical, I kicked and screamed, begged not to go. “It’s for your own good” they wept.

Hearing I’d have to eat three meals a day, plus snacks, I went berserk. “I hate you!” I yelled at my parents.

“We’ve ordered them to tube-feed if you won’t eat,” they said, they’d trapped me. So I dutiful ate everything. Biscuits, cheese, bread… And I actually enjoyed the delicious flavours, but I loathed how the food changed my body.

“Let me out!” I kept begging

It took months but finally, reaching seven stone, I was allowed home. Of course, I instantly cut back on food, soon returning to 5½ stone again.

I’m still that weight now, six months on. I survive on fruit, veg, nuts… My BMI is just 11, well below what’s normal for my height. And I suffer regular stress fractures because of my osteoporosis. The doctors say that one day soon my organs will probably start to fail. When that happens, there’s little they can do. But I’ve finally accepted my fate- the anorexic life is all I’ll ever know.

Although my mum is 55, she actually looks younger than me.

“Can we go out for the day?” I asked her recently.
“Yes,” she smiled, looking pleased, “where?”

“The funeral parlour,” I said gently, “I want to pick my coffin.”

It was something I’d already discussed with my counsellor.

“I know I’m going to die before you,” I added. “It’s better that we do this together now than you face it on your own.

“If you think that’s best,” she agreed miserably.

We inspected the coffins in a strange calm. I was so matter-of-fact; Mum could only follow my lead. She didn’t cry.

“I want that one,” I said finally, pointing to a simple wooden coffin with a gold plaque. “Then after I’ve died I want you to go on holiday, have fun,” I joked to Mum. It was either laugh or cry.

So here I am now, aged 30, preparing to die. I’ve never been in love, never made love. I know I won’t have children or a career, or travel the world. Apart from my family, my only company is my pit bull dog Niblet.

And that’s why I’m so angry at the glamorisation of ultra-thinness. Even I find pro-anorexia websites repulsive. Girls boasting about starving themselves, and posting pictures or razor-thin anorexics as ‘thinspiration’. They make me furious. How could anyone try to drag young vulnerable girls into this living hell?

The catwalk shows make me just as mad, glorifying malnourished models as sexy. There’s nothing desirable about being this thin. When I step outside, people stare in disgust.

I try hard to make myself look ‘normal’, but even my few remaining friends prefer to phone than see me in the flesh.

That’s why I’m sharing my story with you. Some people are predisposed to anorexia. It’s like a loaded gun inside them. All it takes is one diet to pull the trigger.

So please, now you’ve read this, sit down and eat a healthy meal. Take it from me – being skinny doesn’t make you happy.