When it was first noticed...
It all started when I was in lower sixth, with occasional comments and concerned faces. Then an email was sent to my parents, following this I reluctantly agreed to let the school nurse weigh me to get my parents and various teachers off my back. When the nurse worked out my BMI, she swiftly alerted the Deputy and my Head of Sixth Form, who then decided to tell my parents… behind my back. That’s when alarm bells first rang.
Soon after that I was made to have monthly weigh-ins with our local GP; squirming out of them whenever possible. This went on for a while, I did the usual A-Levels, gap year, uni thing... well, I tried to. Anorexia on the other hand had other ideas.
I completed my A-Levels; pushing myself to achieve grades beyond what anyone expected. But, at a cost, that cost being my health. Year 13 was when I was officially diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa, at Ticehurst Priory. I still refused to believe it to be true, I continued to refuse help, and against advice went off to work as a gappie at a prep school in Hampshire. This job lasted all of three days, by which time the Headmaster called me into his office and explained they couldn't keep me on as I looked too unwell, so my parents drove to collect me, and back home I went.
The days that followed were tumultuous to say the least; a blur of tears. I was forced to become a day patient at The Priory Hospital, Hayes Grove. When I say forced, I quite literally mean it… when I told my psychiatrist that I refused to be a day patient, she simply threatened to section me. So on the 14th September 2015 I began the day patient programme.
At this point it wasn’t only my life that was put on hold, but my parents’ lives too. They would spend four hours each day driving to and from the Hospital which was based in Bromley, for the following four months. As time went on I convinced my psychiatrist to reduce the amount of days I spent on the ward, and without her knowing, I got myself a Christmas job working 37.5 hours a week, commuting daily to Fortnums. I absolutely loved working there, no one knew about my illness, no one knew that the reason I never worked on a Tuesday was because I was attending a day patient programme. I felt free, free to earn my own money, free to run about the streets of London, free to not eat.
Eventually just before Christmas I was discharged. Well, I discharged myself… and went back into the care of my local GP who continued to weigh me every three weeks or so. This went on throughout my gap year, I travelled a bit and did other jobs regardless of whether others deemed me well enough or not to do so. My weight bobbed about the same low mark, and gradually decreased. Then when September 2016 rolled around I moved to the University of St Andrews, where I was offered a place to read Psychology. I convinced myself and my parents this would be a new start, goodbye anorexia. How naive I was… I should have known I couldn’t escape the grips of anorexia that easily. If I look back I know the real reason I wanted to go was to get out of the control of my GP, parents, and anyone else who tried to intervene.
I did as all students have to do, and signed a form to become part of a new GP practice in the area. Many times my parents asked if I had visited the new GP to ‘check in’, I eventually lied and just said I had. Anorexia was now in full control, convincing me that one tiny yoghurt was too much to have eaten for the entirety of the day. I started a diary at the beginning of my Gap year and continued it throughout my time at St Andrews, and I still write it daily now. If I re-read my entries from this university period, it’s pretty shocking to say the least. Over the next four months my weight dropped further and further. I came home for Christmas, after somehow getting through my exams and was met by very concerned faces. But I told my family I knew I needed to improve things, and that I would make a conscious effort to do so over the holidays.
January was soon upon me and surprise, surprise my weight had fallen further. I was due to return to St Andrews at the end of the month. At this point I knew I was ill but was still too scared of medical professionals to get any help. It was only when my parents took me by surprise and made me see our new GP in the new year, that reality hit. I couldn’t return to university, I simply wasn’t allowed. My new GP referred me to SEDCAS. I was petrified, but at this stage knew I wasn’t well, so agreed to go to the initial assessment. Of course it was done on a BMI basis which, by this point, was in the life threatening zone, so I was fast-tracked to a team who have cared for me ever since.
This team, particularly my nurse and therapist, who I see weekly have been beyond amazing. They’ve always treated me with respect, compassion, and kindness, which I will never be able to thank them for enough. They managed to help me regain trust in medical professionals. At times when I’ve lost hope in myself ever beating this, they never have.
So what happens now, when I move to Bath in under a month? Well, my team here will discharge me and transfer me to STEPS who will take over my care. Four years on and I may still be battling this cruel illness, but at least now I can acknowledge that I have it, and can accept the help that I’m fortunate enough to be offered. What’s more, I can now talk openly about my struggle, hence this blog which I hope will enable others to speak out and get help.
