The obsession with food started, because I needed control over my life, over something. Step by step I started to control more and more, until my mum booked me in to an eating disorder psychiatrist. But I wasn’t sick? Or at least I wasn’t dying? The thoughts started spinning. What would people think in the waiting room, when I come in and I’m not really REALLY skinny? I’d take up time from someone who is really sick. I felt nauseous. The meeting wasn’t until February 14. That was one month away. I had one month to get skinny enough for the waiting room to the eating disorder psychiatrist.
I got skinny. And more unhappy. At the same time I got more calm. I had control. I had control over something uncontrollable. That year I lost 17kg of me, and with that went happiness, freedom, love, reason to live and self-respect. Just like that. I was skinny and cold, with no energy to do anything. I look back and I care for me. Every morning I made hot milk in a baby-bottle and I sipped it bed. How can there be any self-respect left when you are 13 and drink hot milk from a baby-bottle in bed every morning? (To be honest, I still like the idea of it. Doesn’t it sound super cozy?).
The lack of food intake made me more and more obsessed with food. I read recipes like novels and I could wake up in the middle of the night with panick “I NEED TO BAKE BLUEBERRY MUFFINS!” So I baked, but never ate.
Every day I started to prepare dinner around 3pm. I cooked and stirred. Smelled but never touched. My favorite time of the day was dinner, because I lived on watching other people eat.
The year of anorexia came to en end when I learned how to vomit. That is the worst that has ever happened to me. The most self-destructing lesson in my life. It’s worse than everything. But my control thrived, and I have never been so clever and creative. I was on a strict diet, which meant that I basically did not eat. Until I was alone. Then I ate everything. Chips, ice-cream whilst I was cooking pasta, oats, toasts, everything my conscious couldn’t bare, and then I went to the toilet and flushed it down. Back to the kitchen I went and did it all over again. Maybe five or six times or until someone got home… my throat was burning, my self respect was non exciting. I saw myself in the mirror and knew that if anyone knew they would look at me and think that I am the most disgusting person in the world. Six years went past. And like seasons bulimia came and went, but the confidence was always absent.
I had enough, and I can now say that the bulimia is forever in my past. It ended when I told people. I told people arround me to stay with me after meals, go with me to the toilet etc. People not knowing made it possible. Them knowing was me loosing control in order to get my life back. For three years I have built up my confidence, love and finally have a peace of mind. Back then I never thought I would feel like this. Happy with my body. Happy with my life, and just.. being able to breathe.
This is not going to be a place where I’ll pity myself. But for me this is a important part of my life (basically all my teenage years) and it can be interesting to know. Something good have to come from it, otherwise there would have been no point. I share this, so that I can genuinly share my journey back. This is new me, breathing.