My Struggle to Write About my Anorexia

As some of you would know, I’ve spent the better part of two years working on a book with my mum and sister.  The book, to detail or respective battles with the debilitating eating disorders that robbed us of great chunks of our lives, has taken me a very long time to put together.  It’s been a real struggle documenting my experience, and more than once I’ve abandoned the project, frustrated and exhausted, telling myself it was just too hard.  Now, finally reaching the end of the manuscript, I thought I’d share with you the reasons why it’s been such a long time coming.  

For years I wondered where the emotions were.  Why wasn’t I suffering, images of my own sickly frame plastered to the walls of my mind?  Where was the torment, the rage?  It seemed I had escaped my anorexia with nary an emotional scar to show for it.  Of course, I was pleased with this outcome, but I was also nervous.  Nervous that somewhere in my mind lurked a big, squishy ball of hurt, just waiting to be burst open.  

And then Mum suggested we write a book about it.  I was wary, of course.  But mum thought it would be a great idea, and friends were encouraging, saying it would be a cathartic experience.  When I first sat down at the computer, I was hopelessly blank.  My words were cold and mechanical, prompting mum to suggest I change tack.  I tried to remember the way it felt, to be cold all the time, to be frightened of meeting up with my friends at meal times.  But it wouldn’t come.

When it did, I wasn’t at all prepared.  Waiting for a tram on sunny Sydney Road, a memory rudely hijacked my mind, demanding attention.  It was me, traipsing up a hill in the rain, cursing myself because I hadn’t done enough exercise that day.  Suddenly there was a car pulled up beside me.  It was Nina, my boyfriend’s sister. 

‘Get in!’  She yelled through the downpour.  ‘You’re soaked!’

Horror filled my chest cavity, freezing my breath so I couldn’t speak.  Stepping silently into the car, my brain searched frantically for an excuse.  There was nothing.  I felt sick as I watched the footpath whizz past me, so many missed minutes of exercise.  

The floodgates had opened.  Every time I tried to write, I was inundated with intense emotions.  They didn’t make sense, just a big mushed up mess of discomfort.  I abandoned the book and went to see a psychologist.

She made me talk about it.  I realized it was the first time I’d recounted my experience without sugar coating.  Gradually, I was able to differentiate and understand my feelings.  It seemed they weren’t willing to be pushed back to the place they had hidden quietly for so many years.  In the safety of the psychologist’s room, it was ok.  I could handle it.

Part of the reason we went to Eden was so I could return to the book.  Free from the pressures of the city, I could dedicate my time wholly to what I now knew would be a difficult process. 

I tried my best to be brutally honest.  I wrote about the relentless calorie counting, the convoluted lies I would tell to avoid being served a meal.  I recounted the sense of power I derived from being the thinnest person I knew; an addictive power that fed the fires of my illness.  Every day, I walked to the library and made myself write it down.

It made me feel disgusting.  Disgusted at myself for doing it, for being proud of it.  I thought for the first time about my friends, watching in fear as I faded away.  At the time I thought that they were jealous.  Embarrassment gripped me as I remembered swanning into parties, thinking I looked great.    

I felt bitter anger.  Anger at myself, but more so at my parents.  Why had they let it continue?  Why didn’t they say anything, like they did when Anna was sick?  Was I not anorexic enough for them?  That question has led to a lot of confusion.  There is a part of me that has always been convinced I made the whole thing up.  That I lost some weight, got a bit obsessive for a while, and then the drama queen in me had the inspired idea to label it anorexia.  Part of me just can’t let go of the notion that the whole damn thing was an overblown exercise in attention seeking.  Out of all the bullshit, that bit is the worst.  Whenever I let myself feel something, a voice inside screams:  ‘Oh get over it!  You never even had anorexia!’

I’ve learned to counter that voice with logic.  On the books, I was definitely anorexic.  My ‘stats’ placed me squarely within the severe group, and my psychological symptoms were classic of the illness.  Still, there’s a piece of me that will never accept that I was sick.  The internal debate is exhausting.

As I’ve gotten deeper into the manuscript, it’s gotten easier.  I feel it’s taken me so long because as I’ve been writing the book, I’ve been working through feelings I’d been sitting on for years.  It’s been tough, but I’m really glad I pushed ahead with it.  I don’t want to be one of those people who are numb to their emotions.  

Excuse me for rambling on with this one!  I guess what I’m trying to say is, write it down.  In the end, it really does help.