A butterfly without colour
A song without the words
A shell of what I used to be
Filled with only hurt
A road without a journey
A fire without the flame
A shell of what I used to be
Filled with only shame
A box without the memories
A sleigh without the deer
A shell of what I used to be
Filled with only fear
A life without a purpose
A body without a heart
A shell of what I used to be
Will remain torn apart
The report is long winded and filled with science jargon, but I have always thought I was a bit socially awkward. But don’t many different groups of people behave similarly and react similarly to certain situations? Anorexics may share some characteristics with Autism, but that’s like saying ‘Do Lawyers share the same characteristics as Psychopaths?’……… Interesting all the same though.
Yes, say scientists in the journal, European Eating Disorder Review, published in 2011. Read the article by clicking here. They speculate if anorexia nervosa (AN) a version of autism spectrum disorders (ASD)?
Quote: ….
There are reports of disturbed processing of oxytocin (Odent, 2010) and dysdiadochokinesis (a neurological soft sign associated with developmental disorders) in both AN and ASD (Råstam, 1992; Råstam, Gillberg, & Wentz, 2003; Tchanturia, Morris, Anderluh, Collier, Nikolaou, & Treasure, 2004). Furthermore, AN and ASD appear to co-exist within families (Gillberg, 1985; Comings & Comings, 1991; Steffenburg, 1991) indicating that these observed similarities may reflect a direct genetic link.
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Based on the proposed similarities between the cognitive profiles of the disorders, it was hypothesised that ASD and AN groups would not perform differently across tasks.
…Unquote
Read the article by clicking here.
What were the authors results?
Cognitive profiles of the groups were…
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This does not mean I am thinking about going six feet under, or a post about depression.
I am simply, going down-under, to the Land of Oz! However drastic changes are looming, presenting with them masses amount of pressure on my half. My eating disorder and all its manifestations will be trialled and tested, to the max. Despite the prospect of my bulimic needs being neglected, I see a slither of hope in the sense that my anorexia will prevail and wear the crown. Bulimia has been dominating the scene and hogging the limelight recently, due to university pressures and other factors, so I will be glad to see the back of it. Now I can surely look forward to having my anorexia back to its full capacity, complete restriction with no tendencies to binge….surely?
Having both eating disorders is NOT having my cake and eating it. Believe me. I do not take the normal pleasures in eating like most people, but then casually get rid of the guilt by purging. It’s not about allowing myself to eat like normal people but then want to look ‘pretty and thin’ so vomit violently. I wish that my anorexia would stand up and rule, because although anorexia is a bitch, bulimia is the biggest bully, and once you’ve had a run in with bulimia, you would give anything to just have anorexia.
And that is exactly what I am hoping Australia will bring. If I can beat the binges then I’ll be happy. I know it’s not ‘getting better’ but I’ve already established I’m not ready, but I have beat the bulimia before in the past as these things never go away, so I need to prove to myself that I can beat it on my own without psycho help. Starving myself for days makes me feel so much better and stronger, but of course, the moment I do pop some bread into my mouth, bulimia eggs me on to get rid of it.
But there will be no place for me to binge. There will be no time for me to binge. There will be no room for bulimia in Australia. She’ll be there in my thoughts, but if I can even pretend to be strong, she’ll go away. For a bit anyway.
It seems that behind every person’s eyes is a river of repression. Secrets and memories left to sink to the bottom, hidden thoughts washed away in distant tides. Yet these oppressed memories do not rot or crumble against the aging hands of time, but they grow in strength and influence, giving them the power to swim up the riverbed and manifest your soul. It is easy to repress, but impossible to forget.
Going to therapy last summer uncovered the gate that led me to my own river of repression, unleashing the origins of this mental plague. Although the junior fresh-out-of-grad-school psychologist discharged me after five meagre sessions as I was ‘nowhere near ready for change’, the little time she did have with me, she delved right into my past and asked me questions that forced me to remember. Remember all the things I didn’t even know I wanted to forget. Yet there she was, glaring at me with empathetic eyes, feeling sorry for how I was mistreated; reminding me of the lost cause I have become.
Once this gate has been opened however, closing it is no longer an option. Uncovering the answers as to why I feel the way I do, why my mind is riddled with self-loathing, poses me to question my childhood even more and attempt to understand why it affected me the way it did. I thought what I went through was normal, and that every child spends most of their time crying or spitting the words ‘I hate you’ into their mother’s face. I thought brothers were supposed to beat up their sister, and constantly comment on her horrid appearance. I thought every child got left alone in the house all weekend whilst its father fulfilled his alcoholism. I thought all children got verbally abused by their alcoholic fathers and locked themselves in the bathroom to escape. I thought achieving high grades at school was an expectation, as when I did I received no praise. I thought it was okay to be part of a sports team and to look over at the side-line’s on match day and not see anyone there to support me. I thought every mother favoured their son and paid little attention to their daughter. I thought it was normal for people to turn a blind eye to all the hurt and pain someone is suffering.
Everybody’s reality is different, and what we perceive as ‘normal’ is dependent upon our own experiences. This is my ‘normality’. What I am is who I was destined to be. This is me, dealing and coping with my own reality. Another person may have gone down a different route, stood up tall and used their repression to become who they wanted to be. I, on the other hand, am an emotional wreck who thinks too deeply and daydreams too intensely. I can only blame the voices in my head. God knows who put them there though…
As my face looms over the ruined vessel
Splattered with my purged out sins,
I wonder who I have now become
And where this disease did begin
Was it my shattered childhood
Caused by my lying mother?
A deceit so malicious
She didn’t even try to cover
Was it my intoxicated father,
Who crumbled before my eyes?
So drunk and distant
He didn’t hear my cries
Was it my abusive brother
Who was so cruel with his fists?
The hurtful words have stuck
But the beatings wont be missed
But can I point the finger,
To try and shift the blame?
Away from my own failures
Of which I am ashamed
My desire to destroy my body
Is an animal instinct I can’t deny
My own quest to diminish into nothing
Is somewhat shortening my life
Where this curse came from
Is something ill never know
But ill live as long as it’ll let me
As I don’t think I can ever let it go
Although I can be quite open about my eating disorder, I still like to consider it a personal and private subject, which is mine. Nobody else decides the rules, decides my thoughts, or decides whom I tell. This leads me to the Tantrum aspect of the title.
I am the apple of my father’s eye; the academic A grade child, successful in all of her endeavours. Whenever I achieve a First at University, or inform him of my results, no father could be more over the moon than mine. Gifts are bought, cards are purchased. He is so proud and I know this, hence my reluctance to tell him the extent of my disorder. I haven’t lived with my father since I was 7, and only see him occasionally, sometimes only once a month, dependent upon how busy I am. Why would I present this information to him, which would blur his perfected image of me? ‘Hi Dad, you know how you think I’m so perfect and what not? Well, I have anorexia binge-purge and have done for 5 years, so that’s kind of the reason why I reject all food offerings…’ I do not need to burden him with this information.
However I have several people insisting I tell him, as in a way it is insulting to him as a father to not be involved with this major part of me. Yet I struggle to imagine a conversation whereby I tell my father about how imperfect his daughter is, whilst at the same time admitting to not telling him for 5 years. All I can imagine is shouting. Loud abusive shouting like what I got when I was younger. A lecture about how stupid I am and what I’m doing to my body. A lecture about why I never told him. My father isn’t gullible or idiotic. He knows I don’t eat, so always says something medical like ‘your bones will waste away’ however approaching your daughter who you barely see but yet are so proud of with the accusations of having an eating disorder probably also don’t go down too well in his head either.
Daddy's Little Girl (in a stupid hat)
I feel pressured to tell him, but I really don’t want to. My mother doesn’t talk to me about it and almost refuses to admit it’s happening (that’s her way of coping, to ignore situations) and I’ve been fine with this so I obviously don’t need a parental figure. If I go to him to inform him of my eating disorder it implies I want or need his help, which I do not. Why burden him for no reason other than to just purely inform.
I think my reluctance and determination to not receive help or advice has caused emotions to run high with the other half. Nights out, obviously intended for fun and all round ‘good times’, are not the ideal place to bring up deeper issues, which sparks depressive thoughts inside of me, but may also cause sadness in the other person. On a recent outing, my boyfriend raised the issue of my disorder and thought then was a suitable time to discuss and debate. My refusal to talk resulted in a night where his mind constantly trailed off and I may as well have been dancing with the wall. Once back home in the early hours, he concluded his reasons for non-enjoyment resided in our previous conversations before we ventured out, and for the first time, I saw him cry. I didn’t want my disorder to affect anybody, hence why it remained my secret for so long, however I am made to feel ignorant of how other people maybe affected by my self harming actions. Which in turn leads me straight back to my frustration over being told to tell my father. If there is one man I don’t want to see hurt and upset, it’s him.
Photograph by Jonathan Broderick
I’m like a closed book
I struggle with emotion
But turn me page by page
And unlock my devotion
Try and read me too fast
You won’t know me at all
But read me too slow
And you’ll hit a stonewall
A temper so fierce
I am kind and then cruel
But this is my shield
My weapon, my tool
The words on my pages
Cut deep to the core
But honesty is trust
I do not see it as a flaw
I will love you forever
And showing it is hard
But I hide behind this mask
My soul is badly scarred
My beginning is sad
My end is unknown
But my middle is changing
And through it I’ve grown
I’m an unfinished book
To complex to comprehend
But one day my story
Will be understood until the end
After the recent attacks towards Victoria Beckham after she claimed her size 6 frame is an average woman’s build, it posed me to question societies perception of eating disorders and if people would ever accept smaller women as legit human beings rather than a danger to the general public.
Victoria Beckham
Posh spice has bravely admitted to suffering with an eating disorder in the past, and the courage it must have taken to voice that deep secret is worth saluting. However, did the public and media show any signs of understanding? Did they empathise with her struggles and leave her be? No, they callously comment on her body and aesthetic appearance at whatever chance they can. ‘Posh seen looking scarily thin’, ‘Victoria Beckham skips meals’, ‘Posh Spice is wasting away’. I’ve never seen such cowardly attacks purposely thrown at one particular person, constantly drawing attention to the one thing that she is clearly self-conscious of. Granted, she might not be the best singer or performer, so do not be thinking I am a huge fan of this lady, yet the lack of respect she receives in terms of how she looks is a sad reflection upon our societies way of thinking. Despite her ambitions to succeed in the designing world, the media only notices what she looks like, not her clothing label. It seems to have sadly reached the point where Posh could scream in fear that a fireball is plunging towards planet Earth, yet remarks would cry ‘OH EM GEE, SHE LOOKS SO THIN’ then by which point everyone would be incinerated.
To admit to the world you have suffered with anorexia is a death wish. Social suicide. Nobody understands you or your disorder so the only way people can cope is to distant themselves from you and turn on the defence. Everybody knows about her admission to anorexia, yet the verbal abuse is still given. Eating disorders do not crave sympathy or attention, but they wish to be understood like any other health disorder. If Posh were to announce she has severe dyslexia, would the media mock her attempts at reading at writing? ‘Brooklyn can spell better than his mom!’ ‘Baby Cruz seen reading to his mom!’ The only reason she caved in and admitted her problem was due to countless remarks about her weight and size, so she bravely gave everybody a legitimate reason behind it. Although she claims the eating disorder is in the past, this is somewhat debateable and too uncertain to make any judgement on, however I can understand why she has declared she has beaten the disorder; in order to cease the personal digs that did not stop after her admission. Clearly being an anorexic in the celebrity world brought negative press, so maybe she is just trying to fit into society and mould into what is expected of her. However even this endeavour is proving unsuccessful after the latest scandal about the size of an average woman.
All the columnists and reporters are livid at the notion of size 6 being the average size for a woman, as they sit there trying to shamelessly squeeze into clothes too small, implying they do too, want to be smaller. Jealously, perhaps? Okay, I wouldn’t be that crude to suggest that everybody is envious of Posh’s body, however surely to degrade her in such brutal ways to deem her as less womanly is a catty and selfish crusade? Everybody is so caught up in the ‘real women’ campaigns that they have lost sight of what a real woman is. A real woman is a loving and devoting mother. A real woman is a caring partner who helps their other half in times of need. A real woman is a best friend or a sister who shares her life with her companions. A real woman would go to the end of the world and back to ensure their loved ones are okay. Do you have to be curvy, chubby and voluptuous to be those things? Victoria Beckham is a mother to four children; does her size mean she has less love to give? Victoria Beckham has stood by her man in times of crisis; does her size mean she has less loyalty? It is frustrating to see so many adverts, campaigns and articles fixated with the ‘real woman’ ideology, all concentrating around size and shape, but not one woman has spoke of femininity has a discursive practice, the things we do that make us woman. They speak of the ‘real woman’ as an objectified being, destroying other attempts at breaking that inferior mould.
Posh’s claims at what she personally thinks constitutes the average woman have been tittered over with little insight into the deeper pragmatics of her argument. This is coming from a woman battling with her own insecurities at the same time as fighting a war with the press over whom she should be. If she truly is making amends with her eating disorder, then this claim reveals a woman who is merely trying to be a part of the world as a ‘real woman’. She wants to believe her body is acceptable and wants others to follow suit too. She is not undermining other sizes and saying they’re unacceptable, but craving acceptance of herself. The angry comments from chubby journalists come as a defensive attack protecting their own unresolved image problems, as they see Beckham’s opinion as a personal assault. However even though her claims were not intended to be an insult, it surely wouldn’t be the worst thing Posh could do after all the years of slander she has received about her body…
Confident people are easy to spot. They’re the ones who don’t look in every shop window glancing at their reflection. They’re the ones who don’t keep a mirror on their person at all times. I, on the other hand, am obsessed with sneaking a peek at my reflection at whatever chance I can. Although, it’s not my face I’m concerned with, everyone can deal with a bit of unsightly blusher. I look to observe my width, to see if this outfit really does make my stomach look protruding. I can gather this in all of about two seconds. And those two seconds can either reaffirm me of my ‘smallness’ or contrastingly, install depressive thoughts into my mind. Damn those shop windows.
I tried on three outfits this morning, deciphering what to wear from my ever-increasing wardrobe, but alas, I still have nothing to wear. The skirt made my hips and thighs transform into J-Lo’s. The other skirt made my bum appear to have right angles (although I think this was due to me ironing it when the label clearly states Do Not Iron…) so I settled for a trustworthy pair of thin jean ankle grazer trousers. But this is not a fashion blog. Walking through town I felt…normal, but normal to means fat, big, frumpy and unnoticeable. In my eyes, everyone else is thinner than me. Regardless of your size clothing, I will look at you and feel bigger than you. Guaranteed. Of course I look in the mirror and see my ribs and hipbones, but that’s after really looking intensely. When I initially look the mirror, I see my body is plagued with errors and flaws, the closest depiction to imperfection as you could get. The width of my thighs stretching across so far I wonder how I’m still in view in the mirror. I turn to the side and I’m so out of proportion I look like a play dough model crafted by a three year-old.
It seems looking at myself naked, and then looking at myself clothed, there is a slight difference in my perception. After having changed again after I returned from my shopping trip, into my new clothes, it’s fair to say they emphasised my hopefully petite frame. Pondering the comments about my ‘sexy bum’ from the loving other half, I stood in the mirror, turned sideways and saw nothing but what can only be described as a soggy pancake. Although not a flattering look for the average person, I thrived on the thought of a non-existent bum, however earlier in the day, my reflection didn’t trigger these notions. All I saw was bum, bum and more bum, oh and a lot of thigh. I think this is where the ‘anorexics wear baggy clothing’ part comes in. Yes, the trousers are too big for me, but no, I am not wearing baggy clothes as a deceit to my family, friends and the public, I’m wearing them to hide it from myself.
People wonder how I think I’m fat when I fit into size 4 clothing, but the thing is, I don’t want to ‘fit’ into it. Fitting is filling. I don’t want to fill. If I fill, then that means I’m full, thus, I purge. Simple. There are times when I look in the mirror and notice my smallness, yet it doesn’t satisfy. Eating disorders aren’t about losing weight and getting thin. It’s not a diet. Control, anguish, depression, self-loathing, are all elements which play a part in this mental health disorder. I can’t remember a time when I’ve been truly happy with myself, and this is not just about appearance. I’m talking happy with my achievements, happy with my actions, happy with my personality…just happy with who I am. I expect only the best from myself with whatever I do, so when I achieve that goal, it isn’t a happy experience, it is an expected outcome, and something I should get regardless. However, I’m giving too much of the game away here. Stay tuned folks for The Origins – Revisited, where I unveil the deeper truths behind this eating disorder. Oooooohhhhhhh (be prepared for cliché childhood experiences…you’ve been warned.)
Without sounding like some pro-anorexic who encourages this lifestyle as a commercialised choice, the advertising campaigns regularly thwarted upon us that support the natural curves of women and the embracement of your womanly figure, can be somewhat bias towards the other end of the health spectrum.
An advert came on this morning for a clothes catalogue company, whereby sizes start at 14 and finish at 32. On screen were a trio of curvaceous models, flamboyantly parading around with their size 14 clothes looking happier than Larry. Literally two adverts later, another clothes company advert came on with their clothes starting at size 12 and again, finishing at size 32. Cue the cliché models looking vibrant in their wholesome figures. The point I’m trying to make is that it seems as though there is an element to glamorising fat, saying it’s okay to be ‘Big and Beautiful’. Yes it IS okay to be big and beautiful, the size of a body theoretically shouldn’t determine the soul underneath, but isn’t being big also a health problem the government insist on fighting? Although the models in the ad campaigns are only just the required size for the ‘natural woman’ façade, the mere fact that clothes shop and companies specifically regulate to make the curvy, larger and obese woman feel beautiful so only stock certain sizes implies a certain discrimination towards the other end of the health barometer.
It seems a woman who is size 32 can easily pick up the phone and order clothes (encouraging her laziness and lack of exercise considering she doesn’t even need to walk to a shop) and due to whatever her circumstances of reaching that weight whether it be a medical condition or mental condition, she must be verging on the morbidly obese category. Yet it seems people with eating disorders, a disease of the mind, are limited to high street shops and have to wear baggy clothes or pay A LOT more for smaller clothes (even though smaller clothes use less material so technically I should be paying less.) I can only genuinely pin point two high street shops which stock a size 4, and they can be expensive. Where do I go if a size 4 doesn’t fit me, the children’s section? Why is it okay to essentially glamorise a heavier weight and larger size, but yet you wouldn’t see an advertisement claiming ‘Are you too thin? Can’t stop restricting and vomiting so you’re clothes don’t fit you? Then call now for your free brochure, stocking sizes from zero to minus 6!’
If this is 'real' women then I'm not one, apparently.
The campaigns for bigger and beautiful women and the crude Facebook groups titled ‘Curvy girls do it better, only a dog wants a bone!’ can be degrading. Well, I am truly sorry to infect your sight with my eating disorder riddled body, maybe you’d prefer me if I put on a Mr Blobby suit? It begs me to question my appearance EVEN MORE than I already do. If my boyfriend is genuine when he admits how skinny I am, then that implies I’m a bone, but only a dog wants a bone, right? How can my boyfriend call me sexy and beautiful when it seems to be an unspoken myth in society about what constitutes sexiness. Heck, clothes shops don’t even want me to dress nice! Although being anorexic and bulimic is not a lifestyle I caved into through societies pressures of ‘looking like a model from the magazine’, I still want to be accepted by society but I don’t think us ‘ED’ sufferers are quite there yet. We’ll live in the shadows of the voluptuous woman. Literally.
The Skinny Fat Girl 