Denial, Deterioration, Despair: Recovering from Anorexia and Bulimia

by Lydia Davies

Listen to Executive Director Gabriel Nathan read this post aloud:

Slowly but surely, I found a way to immerse myself in the experience of being a nineteen-year-old uni student with easy access to parties, alcohol, and drugs, rather than standing cautiously at the sidelines. I practiced binge-drinking, smoking cigarettes, and going on three-day benders until I felt like I fit in. I then had a one-night stand and got an STD. The shame and humiliation that ensued sent me into a deep depression. I couldn’t believe my body had let me down, and I grew resentful towards it.

As I underwent agonizing treatment in secret and developed CIN1 and 2, also known as cervical intraepithelial neoplasia (abnormality of the cervix, where cells are considered to have developed into a minor pre-cancerous condition) six monthly biopsies were now yet another thing I had to feel ashamed about and terrified of, I began to lose my appetite.

I had disliked my body since I could remember and always thought I was “too big” in comparison to my slender Mum and sister. I became vegan overnight and began to cut more and more food groups from my ever-decreasing diet. I began to lose weight slowly, and then very quickly.

I started to feel better about myself than I had since I got the STD. I saw my body changing due to the intense restrictions, and I felt a sense of empowerment rather than shame. I returned to university for my second year and continued on my mission to become smaller and smaller.

As people began to notice how much weight I had lost, they made comments that, I suppose, were meant as expressions of concern, but I interpreted these as compliments. I began to weigh myself, and watching the numbers drop was enthralling; I got some kind of high out of witnessing my silent starvation be displayed before my eyes in numbers.

My family began to worry, and I agreed to attend CBT therapy. However, I used these sessions solely to discuss my depression and avoided any mention of diet. I went on holiday with some girlfriends that summer, and all I can remember about that trip is surviving on Diet Coke and cigarettes and having to put thick towels and pillows on the plastic sunbed because my bones were beginning to protrude.

My Mum begged me not to return to University for my final year. She tried to force me to stand on the scales, but I went ballistic, shouting and screaming abuse at my loving family. I don’t remember this at all because my brain no longer had the capacity to be rational due to extreme starvation. I ignored their desperate pleas and I returned for my final year of study, as a skeleton.

Newcastle was bitterly cold. I wore eight layers of clothing, lay in boiling hot baths whenever possible, and clutched my hot water bottle 24/7. I weighed myself up to ten times a day and stared at more bones in the mirror. Moments of clarity would sear through the crack of my disorder, and I would wonder whether I had taken things too far. These moments never lasted long enough before the dictator in my head reminded me to follow the rules, to not turn back, to keep obeying.

By this point, I was extremely ill. My immune system was compromised, and I developed a chest infection so bad that I actually went to the doctor I’d been avoiding for so long. The lady I saw was evidently alarmed by who she saw in front of her, and after several appointments, she breached my confidence and called my distraught parents. The next thing I knew, I was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa, and my parents were already in the car halfway up to Newcastle. I was horrified. I couldn’t believe the doctor had gone behind my back and genuinely considered suing her. I didn’t want my parents coming into my world, interfering with my diet, trying to make me recover from an illness I didn’t believe I had. I was terrified of my control being taken away and felt my life come crashing down around me. Everything became a blur.

I remained in complete denial for some time, manipulating and lying to both the medical professionals and my family. I continued to adhere loyally to the commands of my eating disorder, no matter what. My parents took turns staying in Newcastle to support me as an outpatient, but by December, it was clear that I was only getting worse. I made the decision to take an extended Christmas break at home and return to my studies in January. I had no idea that the average recovery time for eating disorders is seven years and also no idea that I would not be returning.

At home, I continued to deteriorate, to lie, deceive, manipulate, and starve. I resisted recovery with every cell in my broken body for as long as possible, until I could feel myself dying. The eating disorders unit was threatening to section me, and the doctors were telling me that I was going to die.

I was housebound, painfully lonely, barely able to walk, and my soul had drowned; I couldn’t remember who I was anymore. To avoid being sectioned, I began to binge on food before appointments. This worked for a while, until I became bulimic. Suddenly, I was addicted and found myself binging uncontrollably before purging for hours on end.

During an episode, I would completely zone out, eyes glazed over, body in motion, mind elsewhere; an out-of-body experience like I had been taken over by something else. I would consume obscene amounts of food with my bare hands, tear apart the kitchen, spilling crumbs everywhere. I was able to stop only when there was physically no more room inside of me for anymore. I would come back around, barely able to remember what had happened, and I would realize what I had done. The pure horror and shame would set in, and tears would stream down my swollen face. I’d run to the bathroom or dig holes in the garden to bury my vomit.

The confusion, shame, and guilt that came with bulimia were overwhelming. I felt distraught, broken, and completely out of control. I attempted suicide six more times.

As bulimia continued to make me suffer, anorexia began to lose her power. Although not the healthiest route to recovery, replacing one illness with the other, while extremely damaging for both my mental and physical health, did see me gain weight. Weight gain meant that I was allowed more freedom, and more freedom meant that I was able to move from merely existing to actually living.

I decided to move out of my parents’ house and move in with my best friend. Although I was by no means fully recovered, I began to experience what it was to be a twenty two-year-old with independence. I started to get a taste of life, and it was this that made me hungry to live.

As my enjoyment of life began to increase, my binging episodes slowly decreased. I got a job and a boyfriend, and my life started to look semi-normal. My (then) boyfriend expressed his dislike of my illness, and while this may or may not be something I agree with, I stopped the bulimic behaviors overnight. I became stronger and more independent than I had ever been and was able to start doing all the things I loved again. I traveled to different countries, experienced different cultures, and wrote a book about my illness.

Over time, I understood that recovery is a continual journey. While I was living proof that there is a way through anorexia and bulimia, I was always aware of the work required for me to stay well. I have had many ups and downs over the years: relapses, changes in direction, sinking back, rising up, only to fall again. Recovery is not linear, but it is possible. I kept getting back up, over and over and over again, knowing deeply that I could never go back to where I once was.

Yoga is something that has been completely profound in my recovery maintenance. It has taught me so many things, but most importantly, how to accept myself, how to love myself, and how to be myself.

Today, I am more calm, compassionate, and healthy than I have ever been, in body, mind, and spirit. I feel infinitely grateful for my recovery, all of the lessons, and all of the blessings. I know that what I have been through has shaped who I am today, and that is someone I am very proud of.

If you or someone you know may be in crisis or considering suicide, please call, text, or chat the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988.

​EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR / EDITOR: Gabriel Nathan | DESIGN: Leah Alexandra Goldstein | SITE ORIGINATOR: Bud Clayman