A new drama, To the Bone, will be released on Netflix tomorrow, a story focusing on a girl struggling with anorexia. I'm in two minds about watching it, simply because I know it's going to hit close to home.
And before you read, be warned, this isn't pretty.
Today is the 13th of July 2017. This day one year ago I was at the lowest point in my life to date.
I call it many things, the black hole, the end, rock bottom, all of them pretty accurate summaries of where my life was heading.
Last year I was a second year journalism student, in a flat with friends and strangers and living with a mental illness.
When people think of mental health generally depression springs to mind, not because it's a cliché but because of the recent publicity it's received through social media and campaigns launched in an effort to push people to talk about it, get the help thousands need every year.
But my mental illness wasn't depression.
I wasn't suicidal.
I didn't have OCD.
Or bipolar disorder.
I had anorexia nervosa.
Harsh word isn't it. It's sharp, clinical, sterilised.
I had been going through fazes of disordered eating patterns for a large chunk of my teenage years with yoyo dieting and restrictive eating stemming from insecurities founded in my childhood. From comments made by jealous girls on the playground to adults I trusted making remarks about my stomach and thighs as I stood vulnerable in a pink ballet leotard at the age of 12.
Before I share my story I want to put out a disclaimer and say this isn't an 'instruction manual' for how to have an eating disorder. As we should all know mental health problems come in all shapes and sizes, there is literally no one size fits all. It is not a choice, as eating disorders are sometimes made out to be and it's not something you should have to explain or justify to anyone.
And just to set the record straight, not that it even matters, but I grew up always being one of the smallest girls in my year simply because of my genetics. When I hit puberty and actually started growing up I also grew hips, and a figure (no brainer really). I also grew a little extra puppy fat, something no one even noticed. But for some reason people thought it was okay to tell me I was getting chubby straight to my face.
Since then body image has always been at the forefront of my mind.
When I began my first year of study I gained weight, all the alcohol, McMuffins on hungover Sundays and flat nacho nights had to go somewhere I guess.
When I realised, I was horrified and on the eve of 2015 I made a promise to myself to 'perfect my look', to lose the seven kilos I had gained, to get fit, to have a toned stomach and fit only a size 6.
And when 2016 kicked off so did my New Year's resolution and I became the loneliest girl I knew.
Now when I confess to people that I was treated for an eating disorder I find myself brushing over the details, touching only lightly on my situation to the point where I hear myself saying "it's fine, I'm fine, it wasn't that serious" or "I wasn't as bad as some of other girls I saw".
I wasn't fine and it was serious.
I joined the gym, made "meal" plans (if you can call them that) and refused to cook with my flatmates, out of total fear of certain foods and lack of control over the exact measurements of every ingredient. I increased my intake of diet drinks to fill up my empty stomach. My food pool consisted solely of rice wafers, apples, green beans, eggs and sugar free jelly.
I'm lactose intolerant and would drink coffee to make myself feel sick so that I wouldn't want to eat.
I compulsively counted my calorie intake, decreasing it every week till I was lucky to reach 700 in a day (the average woman needs 2000 a day just to maintain her weight).
I would force myself to run at least five kilometres every afternoon on the treadmill, often feeling lightheaded and dizzy. On a few occasions I would have to run to the bathroom to vomit because my body couldn't handle the strain. I could never bring myself to tell anyone about this.
An old classmate once told me if you wriggle your toes it stops you from fainting, so every time I ran and felt like passing out I would wriggle them and clench and unclench my fists until I hit my goal. That's pretty fucked up.
People started to notice and it wasn't long before peers asked close friends if I was okay saying I looked very thin and tired. I saw the shock in my parents eyes when I stepped off the plane during my Uni break. My aunt, who's a doctor, took me out for the day and told me I needed help.
I was in complete denial and it wasn't until I had a breakdown one day in class after a story fell through that I had to admit to my tutors that something was wrong.
I was told that I would have to take time off, put my internship on hold if my health didn't improve. Don't get me wrong, the people around my gave me more support than I could have ever hoped for, but in my ill state I just felt like the entire world was against me.
So I reluctantly went to my GP, who referred me to a specialist and it took two months on a waiting list to get an appointment with a clinical psychologist.
Two months...
If that isn't a sign that mental health is seriously underfunded then I don't know what is.
In that time I'd also lost more weight, weighing in at a mere 43 kilos. The last time I had weighed that was when I was in that pink ballet leotard. I was now almost 20.
After my initial assessment I was officially diagnosed with anorexia through diet restriction and compulsive exercise. I was medically monitored on a weekly basis and had blood tests once a fortnight until the crooks of my arms began to look like pin cushions. There was a strict meal plan to follow and a weekly goal of a 1kg weight gain until I had gained at least 10 more.
I didn't take it seriously and ignored the food they advised me to eat, I still ran everyday and thought that by allowing myself a biscuit once a week I was making a 'real recovery'. After two months of this it was discovered that the lack of oestrogen in my body had caused brittle bones in my back and parts of my legs. I was diagnosed with early onset osteoporosis after a bone density scan and also the possibility of infertility if I didn't get my act together. They told me this was my body slowly shutting down.
The bottom line was if I didn't gain a kilo that week, and consistently kept it up, I would be put in hospital on 24 hour care, bed bound and force fed.
I guess it was only then that I realised this wasn't just about me anymore, it was about my future and my children. Being a mother is something I've always seen for myself and the idea that one day I wouldn't be able to hold my own child in my arms absolutely broke me. I suppose you could say that in that moment recovery started becoming a reality (very slowly) for the first time.
In November after spending years with symptoms, five months struggling on my own and six months as a patient at the South Island Eating Disorders Clinic I was officially weight restored.
Mentally I still have a long way to go. I've had to accept that this is something I'll live with for the rest of my life. There will always be room for guilt over meals and in the back of my mind I'm probably always going to be aware of every single piece of food that passes my lips. I could tell you the amount of calories in your meal in a heartbeat and will likely never being able to enjoy a soft drink that isn't diet. How sad is that?
But I guess what I've learnt and what I'm still learning is that although the thoughts are there it's the way you treat them that makes all the difference. In recovery I was taught to externalise the eating disorder. One of my biggest supporters through this called my ED 'ED'ith and would refer only to it as Edith, not as Lizzie. It was Edith that said I had to go to the gym and it was Edith who said I can't have dinner because I didn't run off my lunch.
This experience isn't something I ever thought would be shared on my blog but I've come to learn that this isn't something to be ashamed of. Yes, I had anorexia. Yes, it was by far the hardest thing I've ever had to overcome. Yes, obviously I never thought it was something I would have to deal with and I'll always wish it hadn't affected me. But, dealing with it has made me stronger than I ever knew I was and knowing that I have come out the other end in one piece, smiling, and no longer a shell of my former self makes me damn proud to be Elizabeth White.
I thought control over my weight would mean control over the rest of my life. I couldn't control my future, what would happen next week or in a year, so instead I controlled the one thing that only I had the power to control. I thought being thin meant success and opportunity, I thought it meant I would be more loved. Even vanity took over and I thought being thin meant I would be more attractive like the models we all follow on Instagram.
And although I reached my goals of having a size six figure and having thighs that didn't touch and hip bones that jutted out, in the process I completely lost myself. I was miserable and anxious and unrecognisable.
Fast forward an entire year and to be honest it feels like a lifetime ago despite the memories being crystal clear in my mind. I've had good times and bad. I've learnt to find a healthy balance between being active and eating a bowl of fries and I've also learnt (possibly the most important lesson) that you can't love anyone else if you don't start loving yourself first.
I can only hope To the Bone's portrayal isn't glamorised and what is expressed truly shows the isolation, loneliness and debilitating state that eating disorders leave you in.
Eating disorders don't always look like you might imagine. Just because someone doesn't physically look like they have one it doesn't mean they aren't suffering. In the end it's a really horrible mind game and nothing makes me angrier than to see weight loss products and fat burning tools promoted by people online, specifically targeting young and impressionable girls. Eating disorders are glamorised all the time but let me tell you this, there is nothing glamorous about supervised meal times with your parents, both of you stubbornly arguing until it turns into a screaming match. There's nothing glamorous about feeling too weak to get out of bed in the mornings and there's nothing glamorous about crying in the bottom of the shower wishing you were a different person.
Anorexia has the highest mortality rate of any psychiatric disease per capita and is the third most common chronic illness in women aged between 15 and 25 years in developed countries.
As many as 1 in 4 women can suffer from an eating disorder.
15% of cases are fatal.
I thank my lucky stars everyday that I had the amazing support network that I did. Without them I can honestly say I would not be living the life I am now.
And although I'm nervous about To the Bone I'm in support of the way this particular mental illness is being brought to light as it's often one that slips under the radar.
For anyone out there battling with mental disorders on their own, I hope you too have people around you to help and if you don't I pray that somehow you find the courage to make the first move.
Believe me, recovery isn't easy, it's actually really hard - but it is single handedly the greatest thing you will ever do. And on those dark days where it feels like the end remember why you started. Remember that recovery is that pizza with friends, it's sharing that slice of cake with the person you love, it's toasting to your family with champagne. Ultimately, recovery is freedom and it's those times that you're missing out on now and the times you will remember for the rest of your life.
If you take nothing else away from this know that you are more than your illness and the number on the scales.
You are beautiful.
And irreplaceable.
And worth every drop of blood, sweat and tears that it takes to overcome it.
You are so loved,
Elizabeth.
