When I was younger, I was picked on a lot. I still don't quite know why, exactly, but I was an outsider from the get-go. I didn't have any friends, I was ignored and beaten up a lot. When I was eight, the situation got out of control, and I had to switch schools. Things were a bit better at my new school, but I was still an outsider. This was due, in part, to the fact that I was good at school. Everybody thought that because of that, I must feel better than anyone else. In fact, the opposite was true. I always felt less than anyone else, after all they were always picking on me and thus made it clear how they thought I was pretty worthless. At home things weren't too great either. My family (mom, dad, younger brother and younger sister) has always been very close, but because of all the trouble at school I wasn't an easy kid to deal with. From the time I went to school until I was about twelve, we were constantly butting heads. I generally felt bad, and that was hard on me and everybody else. Thinking back to this time, I remember it as being pretty much awful, but I know there were a lot of happy moments too. I fondly remember family holidays, family dinners and Saturday nights...
As a toddler, I had been a problematic eater, but I had long gotten past that. I didn't have any problems with eating or with my weight at that time. I have always been small, and for a long time I was able to eat whatever I wanted, without gaining weight. Not that I was paying any attention to that, my appearance didn't matter to me back then.
After moving to another city, things got better both at school and at home when I went to high school. I was picked on less and less, even though the first two years weren't exactly terrific. When I was fourteen, things started to get interesting. I made some friends, and we spent lunch breaks together. I wasn't exactly popular, and I didn't have too much self-confidence, but I wasn't bullied anymore. I felt good, accepted by at least some people. For a long time I hadn't paid any attention to how I looked, it was useless anyway because my peers disapproved no matter what. When I had my first crush, that changed. I started paying more attention to my appearance and felt it was at least somewhat important that I looked good. I was still eating regularly, though, and I didn't worry about my weight, since it pretty much stayed the same anyway.
My eating problems started when I was seventeen. I was really stressed out. It was my final year of high school, and there was a lot going on. There were papers to write, homework to do and exams to study for. A couple of friends and I were planning to have a party to mark the end of our high school career, and there were a lot of activities going on at school. Also, I was feeling quite insecure about going to university. After being at the same school for years, I finally felt pretty safe there, and I didn't have a clue as to what university would be like. I had picked my major, but I wasn't sure about my choice, even though my parents supported me in it. I worried about being in this new city without knowing a soul, studying a subject I wasn't sure I wanted to study. I wondered if people would like me, and if I would be able to do it at all. I was terrified that I might lose touch with my friends, and I knew I wouldn't see the guy I had a crush on at all anymore. At that time, things weren't so great between my mom and me either, typical teen problems I suspect. In addition to this I was nervous about a summer job my dad had gotten me, and about going to see my granddad in Florida, because the relationship with him had been rather strained in the past. All these things made me feel like everything was spinning out of control!
Around the beginning of Spring, I started to watch my weight, as a kind of distraction. I was relatively okay with my weight, I just didn't want to gain any. Or so I told myself. At first it wasn't even really like a diet, it just gradually became one. It started with me not having a cookie every single time one was offered. I also stopped using butter on my bread, since I had never really liked it anyway. I was simply trying to watch what I ate, but I gradually started eating less and less. It made me feel good. After a while I started working out in secret. It gave me a huge rush to be able to wear myself out like that. One time, I guess I overdid it, because my feet hurt for weeks, after that I didn't work out much anymore. Even though I knew I was eating less than I should, I wasn't worried. It was no big deal. I even had a minimum that I felt I should eat each day. I had it all under control. Or so I thought.
After I graduated, I went to Florida with my brother, to spend three weeks with my granddad. By itself, it was a great experience, but in light of the not-so-good past relationship it wasn't easy. I remember him telling me I had better watch my weight, or I would get fat. Afterwards, it turned out it had been his idea of a joke; in fact he had probably meant just the opposite. If I hadn't been in trouble already, I would never have cared so much, but it did really hurt me at that time. I already felt really fat, because there were a lot of fat people around and there was all this food available. I didn't want to eat too much of it. My brother noticed at that time, and commented on it. But since I didn't get the chance to weigh myself, I feared I would have gained loads of weight by the time I went back home if I didn't watch myself, so I kept close tabs on what I ate. During that period, too, it was a distraction. Whenever I felt bad or out of control, which was quite often, I concentrated on what I would or wouldn't eat.
I started at university in September. I enjoyed it, although it took some getting used to. It was a small and intimate group of people and I gradually felt better about it. However, my mom was starting to let me know she was worried about how little I was eating. I didn't agree with her assessment, I just didn't eat as much as she did, what was wrong with that? A part of me knew what the dangers were, but I promised myself I would be careful, and I was convinced I didn't have a problem.
Just when I was starting to feel like I belonged at university, my dad became ill. Pretty much overnight we found out he had cancer. Then of course, nothing was the same anymore. My mom didn't know how to deal with the situation. She leaned on me a lot, told me everything, how bad it was for her, how scared she was... I was the one having to take responsibility, be strong, encourage her and comfort her when she cried. She felt she had to tell everybody who was willing to listen what was going on. By telling her story, she got to vent and she got attention, which she needed desperately. I needed attention myself, of course, it was hard for me too, but I wasn't somebody who easily opens up and talks about her feelings. Also, I found it was very difficult for somebody who hasn't been in a situation like it to understand what it feels like, so I didn't really try to talk to anybody. I couldn't talk to my mom either, though. Whenever I tried to tell her how I felt, she would start crying, and then it was up to me to comfort her. This made me feel very lonely and neglected. I hated how everyone kept asking me how my mom was holding up, and forgot to ask how I was doing. Also, even though it was in part my fault because I tended to keep my emotions to myself, I was angry with my mom for getting so much attention and not giving me any, for leaning on me so much that I didn't get the chance to feel my own pain.
My mom started eating less during that time. This happened without her even trying very hard. She has been slightly overweight for a long time, and has been dieting on and off for as long as I can remember. This time, however, she actually lost some weight, in part due to stress. Her friends noticed this and paid attention to it. I guess this might have made it more important to her. She started to talk about it a lot, kept repeating how her clothes had gotten too big for her, and she could fit mine, and how much weight she lost. She would say this several times a day, and because I was already having trouble eating, I hated how she emphasized her weight loss. It felt like a personal assault, that what she meant was that I was as 'fat' as she was. I felt like what she wanted more than anything was to be thinner than me, that it was some kind of contest. I became convinced that the worst thing that could happen was her becoming thinner than me. The whole thing became a distraction, whenever my dad was doing worse and my mom started dumping all of her problems, worries and feelings on me, I thought about not eating and losing weight and felt in control. It was also a way to voice my anger. I was angry with my mom for letting me down, for getting attention when I didn't, for not being there for me... but at the same time I felt it was unreasonable of me to feel this way. By eating less I could punish her without risking a direct confrontation. It was like a scream for attention. Not eating was trying to regain some control when everything around me was spinning out of control. I didn't feel in control of my world and all that was happening in it, but by not eating I could at least control my weight, and myself, or so I thought. In reality, the Anorexia was controlling me.
By January of 2000 my brother and my mom starting making these jokes about me eating so little and becoming so thin. In jest, they even called it Anorexia. I didn't like that and felt it was totally unjustified, but in a way it was also a rush, some form of attention of course, which I needed so desperately. I had figured out calorie counting by then and kept a precise record of what I ate, trying to limit the amount of calories to about a third of the average calorie requirement.
By March I realized it was increasingly controlling my life and I didn't want to be so obsessive anymore. I understood I wasn't doing well and wanted to quit, meaning that I still wanted to eat little and lose weight, but without being obsessive. I didn't even realize that eating that little was a big part of the problem. And I couldn't pull it off. By May I had started reading books on Anorexia. Until that time I didn't have a clue that I had a real problem, but I recognized a lot and started to see that I was at risk. Still, I was convinced I had it all under control. I didn't realize I was already anorexic.
Meanwhile, my dad was doing worse every day. We still had hope in the beginning, but after the operation in January had failed, things went downhill from there. My dad died in June of 2000. My mom fell apart. It was like she wasn't even there anymore, she did the craziest things, and I was the one who had to keep things together. During all this, Anorexia was my escape from reality. It was always there, it controlled my life completely. I tried to eat as little as I possibly could without anybody noticing there was a problem. I was convinced that all my mom wanted was for me to get fat and I didn't want to let her win. My weight totally determined my mood, gaining an ounce got me depressed, losing an ounce made me feel exhilarated -for a short while, because I kept wanting to lose more. The 'goal' kept shifting downward. I didn't have time to think about anything else, for example how much I missed my dad. As soon as I felt I was getting upset, I started summing up what I ate, calculating how many calories I still had 'left' and what I would have to eat. What saved me, in retrospect, was that I was more or less forced to keep eating dinner. I was terrified that my family would find out about the Anorexia, so I never dared skipping dinner for fear they might realize what was going on and try to stop me. This kept me from losing too much weight, even though I was underweight.
The fact that I was eating so little had a lot of effect on my body. I was cold all the time. I felt hungry and empty almost constantly and was lightheaded. I was always tired, but in a way I felt energetic as well. My nails kept breaking and my hair looked awful. My weight totally determined my mood, I was terrified that if I ate one bit too much, I would start gaining weight and this wouldn't stop until I was really really fat. It was always on my mind. The first thing I thought when I woke up in the morning was what my weight would be and how much I would or wouldn't eat that day. I lived from 'meal' to 'meal' and calculated the amount of calories in everything I ate at least a dozen times. Having to eat something unexpectedly, when I couldn't get out of it, I panicked. Knowing I would have to eat something extra, I compensated twice the amount of calories, just in case. I drank as much water and tea as I could, but that didn't make me feel less hungry. In a way it even felt good to be hungry, it was a confirmation of the fact that I was indeed eating too little and therefore would lose weight. Feeling hungry became an addiction. As long as I got to stick to my schedule, I was all right, but the slightest deviation caused terror, and getting fat seemed like the worst thing that could ever happen.
I tried to stop the obsession in July, September and October. A part of me knew that what I was doing was really dangerous and that my thoughts were off, but I still couldn't do it. For a long time I didn't even really want to quit, I just didn't want to feel desperate anymore. I did want to feel better, but I didn't want to eat more and I certainly didn't want to gain weight. That's impossible; you can't recover from Anorexia without reaching a normal, healthy weight, but I didn't know that at the time. After a while, I wanted to quit for real, but I was certain I never could. I couldn't imagine a life without Anorexia, what it would be like to just eat something without feeling guilty. I didn't have a clue how to fight it. I didn't want to lose it either, in a way, it had become my way of controlling the world, my safe base, my distraction to prevent me from thinking about my dad or anything else that might upset me. What was I to do if I lost that? For a long time I even thought I was just making something out of nothing, calling it Anorexia when there was really no problem. But more and more I recognized myself in the stories on the Internet and I started to realize I did in fact have an eating disorder.
Study-wise, I had switched majors by then, my first choice turned out to be not quite right for me. This new subject was fun, only I was bored. I had too much time to spare, so I used this time to think about not eating.
By November my mom said she wanted to talk to me. She asked me if I was afraid to gain weight. Even though I had promised myself I wouldn't tell her anything, I did admit to that. I didn't let her in on how bad I really was doing, but I did acknowledge I didn't want to gain any weight. She said she felt I wasn't eating enough, but I told her she didn't eat much more herself, which she did admit to. She also said she felt there was some sort of competition going on, which I denied. She had me promise to eat more, and she promised to eat more herself. I did promise, but I didn't mean it. On the contrary, I did worse than ever. Still, my mom complimented me on my eating not much later. I was really proud of myself.
My relationship with my mom was really bad by then. We were always butting heads. We weren't fighting, exactly, but we were assuming things about one another, and acting on them without checking if they were true. I constantly felt like she was mad at me, disappointed in me. My younger sister was 'on my side', telling me what my mom was saying about me, and I believed what she told me. In retrospect, I don't think she meant to lie, but hearing things second-hand is always different, and I didn't know the context in which those things were said. In January of 2001 I had an ear operation. From then on, things were a little better between my mom and me. I was disappointed in her, though, for not being there for me and leaning on me like she was, and for not seeing how much trouble I was in, even though I was the one trying to hide it from her at all costs. Around that time I stopped getting my period, my body didn't have enough reserves for it. It didn't bother me at first, I had never liked it anyway, and besides, I was too preoccupied with not eating. My body was letting me down, I didn't feel well, but I still didn't think it was serious. I had read these horrible stories of Anorexics weighing close to nothing, I wasn't like that. I was still eating after all: it could be so much worse. In reality I was doing pretty bad. A lot of people make that same mistake; they think that as long as you're not completely emaciated and in the hospital, you don't have Anorexia. But it's not about being fat or skinny, it's about what's going on inside of you. There are plenty of people who are very thin, but don't have Anorexia. There are also many Anorexics that aren't all that thin. You can't always tell from the outside.
By April, I finally realized what I was doing. I knew that I could really damage my body. I understood that the fact that I didn't get my periods anymore was a bad sign; it could have serious consequences. I might become infertile. I really want to have children, some day. I saw that I wasn't just destroying my present; I was also ruining my future and that of my potential children. It was only getting worse. And even though it got worse slowly, both my body and my mind were falling apart. I realized I had two choices: keeping this up and dying, or fighting it and living. I didn't want to die. I was afraid. That's when I decided it had to end here.
This didn't mean I was 'normal' from one day to the next. Things all got better gradually, and it was anything but easy.
I slowly quit counting calories, which had become an addiction. I started to realize that my mom is not me, and that her being fat or skinny doesn't change me at all. My body was doing better as well. I wasn't not cold all the time anymore, I wasn't not dizzy anymore, I felt stronger, and my thinking was kinda back to normal. I got my period back fairly quickly, by the end of May, and even though I hated it and it made me feel like I had gained way too much weight back, I was also proud of it. I went back from weighing more than twice a day to only once a week. Also, I started eating more, a little bit at a time. At first I didn't have a clue as to what was normal. Then I got hold of an eating list, like a guideline as to how much 2000 calories a day really is. I tried to follow this schedule for a while, and felt much better, only I felt it was a bit much. So I went back to eating less than what was on the list, because I didn't feel I needed quite so much. Without really noticing at first, however, that was my first step backwards.
There were several causes for my relapse, for example the fact that I had nothing to do and the fact that I got a tooth-infection, which gave me a perfect excuse to skip meals. Then there was my mom, who went on a diet again, including pills and skipping meals, which was and still is a huge trigger for me. I found myself again paying a lot of attention to how much she ate, trying to stay just under that, or at least making sure she didn't know I was eating more than her. It made me feel really weak whenever I ate more than she did, so I ate less. The fact that the self-help group I had applied to by then wouldn't start for another three months didn't exactly help either. At the time I applied, I didn't do so because I felt I was doing badly, I simply wanted help to overcome those final roadblocks, take the final steps. After all, the practical things like weighing and counting aren't the real problem, I had dealt with those, it's the thoughts and feelings that are the hardest to control. However, once I went to a few introductory meetings, I realized I wasn't doing as great as I thought... but also that most of the other girls were doing worse. I think that if the actual group had started right that moment, I would have been okay, but since I had to wait a few months, it was a trigger for me. I felt that if only I lost some weight before we got started, it wouldn't matter so much if they told me to gain weight. It was stupid. It wasn't aware of it at the time. It just happened, but I also let it happen.
During that summer, I got a lot worse. I lost more weight then I ever did, I was more preoccupied with counting calories than ever, I spent every free moment planning my food, I panicked at every meal. I did realize I was doing worse, but I just thought: I have to hold out a few more weeks. Perhaps I felt that at least now I still could count calories, weigh, obsess, use it as a distraction, whereas once the group started, I would have to let go of all of it. All of the progress I made since April year was lost. And that was a real shame!
When the group finally started in September of 2002, however, I started doing better again. I have to say that it helped me a lot to talk to people who knew what I meant, not having to explain why I did something. It also helped to have somebody 'checking up on me', somewhere to go every week to vent.
I started a website when I started recovery, and it has also been a real support through all of this. It got me into contact with others, some doing better than me, some doing worse. It helped me, being to tell my story, and listening to other people's stories. Since nobody knew about my Anorexia for three years, I didn't talk to anybody about it for a long time. That was my own choice; I was and am afraid that whenever I tell somebody, the relationship will really change. I am afraid I will always be watched and judged by the people that know about it. That's why it was nice to be able to talk anonymously over the Internet. By now, some of my friends know, which is a relief –most of the time. Nothing really changed, they are all great about it, believe and accept it because they care about me. The fact that nobody knew had become like a safety net to me, if I didn't make it, I could always get back to not eating and nobody would be the wiser. I had to get rid of that idea, for my own safety. And of course I really wanted to talk about it, too, I wanted to share. When you have a secret like this for three years it becomes huge, and seems almost surreal. It was such a relief to get it off my chest.
Shortly after I started the self-help group, my family found out about my eating disorder as well. I had been a little less secretive for a while, sort of hoping they would figure it out, and my recent weight loss hadn't gone unnoticed either. I was thinking about telling my mom, but before I found the courage to do so she figured it out on her own. In a way, it was a huge relief, not having to hide it anymore, not having to scheme and pretend and lie. It felt right to be able to share this part of me with my family as well. However, we all needed to readjust to the situation, and we went through some awfully stressful weeks. My mom didn't and still doesn't understand and made that abundantly clear. I also felt a lot of pressure, I felt watched and judged. Also, I felt guilty. Time and again my mom emphasized that the situation was very hard on them. Of course I know that's true, and if I could have prevented that I would have. But I didn't just decide one day that I would be anorexic, it developed gradually. It's hard for all of us, but even though my mom might not agree, it's hardest for me. Things got better slowly, and right now we're at the point where we can discuss it if necessary, although we don't often do so.
After finishing the selfhelp group, I joined a relapse-prevention selfhelp group in September of 2003 until the summer of 2004. I found it really helped me to be able to talk about what was on my mind without having to explain every little detail. There was a lot of acceptance and respect in this group, and I found that it made things a lot easier for me.

Since then, things have been up and down. Sometimes I do really well, most of the time I do all right and sometimes I get myself a little too worked up about my weight again. But one thing remains: my determination to never let things get too far anymore. Before, I always wanted to lose one more pound. Now, if I find myself losing too much weight I make sure I gain it back. Weight gain still scares me, though, and I have no intention of gaining more. I am at a healthy weight right now and that is where I want to stay. My eating is much better. At times I don't care at all, and then there are times -usually stressful times- where I find I do care and I watch what I eat a little more. Generally I make sure I at least eat enough to keep my weight and energy levels constant, and most of the time I eat things I enjoy in addition to this -I had never thought that I would do that again.
There are still things that perhaps I should change, but at this moment I am happy with the way things are. I'm healthy, eating well, feeling good... those last few things are for a later time to deal with. However, I made my choice and I'm not going back. My life is so much better now than it was before. I have a boyfriend, family and friends, a job... All these things have greatly improved my self confidence. I'll make it...