Anorexia nervosa and bulimia, impressive modern terms for two supposedly modern disorders, are, I believe, merely two aspects of one disorder. I wouldn't have dreamed in my youth that I might suffer from these in my mid-twenties. I was strong-willed, sensible, independent, intent on gaining knowledge and enjoying all that life offered.
My Uncle Fred used to tease me by saying that he could remember me as a child holding out my empty plate to my mother and asking for 'more sossy, Mammy'. I don't eat sausages nowadays and I was never over-pleased with being told this story.
I have always been finicky about food and I am easily nauseated. I remember my father buying a book called 'Uncle Arthur's Bedtime Stories' from a doorstep salesman when I was five. The story that stuck in my mind was about a little girl who didn't like cabbage. Her parents insisted on her eating what was put in front of her. She sat there feeling ill and unable to eat; she was refused a pudding. Her plate was taken away but it reappeared at meal after meal, growing ever more revolting. Her brothers and sisters, meanwhile, were enjoying lots of delicious treats. It was pure torture! After three days, she capitulated and lifted her fork, slowly and reluctantly, containing a small bit of the vile food, to her lips. At that, her father stood up and took the offending plate of cabbage away and returned to the table with a selection of delicious foods he had saved for her.
There may have been a moral to the tale but I was on that little girl's side. Although I like cabbage, I thought those parents were cruel to torment her like that. I grew up in an age when, if you didn't work, you didn't have any money coming in. Sick pay and income support were unheard of. My father was not only accident-prone, but he was what one might describe as of delicate health. He was, therefore, often out of work. Finding food for eight hungry mouths was a major headache for my mother. Our lives revolved around meals. In the middle of lunch, for example, someone would ask, 'What's for tea, Mam?'
'Hunger is good sauce', was an old saying but it wasn't true in my case. Every morning my mother made a huge pot of porridge and the very sight of it turned my stomach. Thankfully, I was never forced to eat it. I neither expected nor was I offered an extra slice of bread in lieu.
Similarly, at lunchtime the same huge pot was filled with potatoes. I turned against potatoes. My mother, however, was a good cook and she made lots of cakes, scones, and bread. She had a pantry full of home-made jams and jellies. These kinds of food I did like. They satisfied our hunger, so we feasted on all kinds of sweet, sugary, filling, fattening foods. By the time I had ladled nine teaspoonsful of sugar into my nightly mug of cocoa, I was drinking pure syrup! I had acquired a sweet tooth and a podgy figure. I didn't worry unduly about it.
When I grew up and started to go to dances I soon, however, became aware of my appearance. My friends had partners while I was left standing alone. Girls like me were called 'wallflowers'. Looking back, I realise how humiliating it was. We stood there like cattle at a market, being approached and looked over and then passed by. My self-esteem was low. Food still played an important part in my life and I wasn't as yet too concerned about my figure. The idea that I might go on a slimming diet never occurred to me.
One day I paid a visit to the doctor for a minor ailment and he remarked that I was far too overweight. He prescribed tablets to activate my thyroid gland. 'Take one a day', he ordered. 'The pounds of excess flesh will soon melt away.'
It was a slow process so I decided to increase the dose to three tablets a day. I didn't notice any change other than that I was soon losing weight fast but I was also growing hyperactive. I couldn't sit still. I decided to boost the loss of weight by eating less food. The result was fantastic. Once I had been introduced to the idea of losing weight I became addicted.
Soon, what began as normal dieting turned to deliberate starvation. I became obsessed with losing weight.There would be the occasional binge eating followed by guilt and self-loathing and forced vomiting. I lost so much weight that I found it difficult to find clothes small enough. I began to receive invitations to dress dances, to the theatre. I was looking glamorous and could wear off-the-shoulder evening dresses and sundresses. I could appear in a swimsuit and not be ashamed of my figure. This went on for some years. Whenever I ate a normal meal, I felt guilty and bloated and depressed that I was so weak-willed. I grew ever more active, exercising to excess, dancing the nights away. My animation gained me extra admiration and lots of new friends and admirers. It went to my head!
The first signs that something was amiss came after a friend's wedding. The evening celebration was a party in a hotel and drink flowed like water. I downed a mixture of strong drinks. That night I doubled up in pain and all I could think of was gin. If ever I get a whiff of gin now, I am back again in the throes of agony. I thought I was dying. I was so sick and suffering such excruciating pain but I didn't associate it with starvation. I just felt lucky to be alive next morning. I didn't seek medical attention because I put it down to alcohol poisoning and I was ashamed of that.
A few weeks later I was at a dress dance and I felt ill and weak. I couldn't enjoy the dinner or the drinks. My stomach was suffering cramps and I felt as if every ounce of energy had been sapped from my body. The weakness left me miserable. Several photographs were taken that night. I never saw those photographs and years later I found out why. Apparently, I looked like a spectre from Auschwitz!
The following week I was on my way home from work and I was walking from the bus stop when I knew I couldn't carry on. I was suddenly too weak even to mount the pavement, so I lay down on the road by the kerb and just gave up. I thought I was dying and I didn't have the energy to do anything about it. I was just fading away into oblivion and I couldn't care less, lying there in the gutter.
A car stopped and I was lifted into it. My rescuer asked where I lived. I murmured the address. He took me to my home and then called a doctor who immediately drove me to hospital where I underwent tests. I spent the next three months lying in bed, unable even to walk to the bathroom. That first afternoon I was given injections of a newly discovered, experimental drug for the treatment of severe anaemia. This drug saved my life but it was withdrawn later because it was found to cause cancer. (In my fifties I became a victim of cancer.)
I was offered frequent, small meals with lots of foods rich in iron. My stomach gradually adapted to taking in nourishment but it was a long, slow process. It was several months more before my energy returned. I shall never forget the awful feeling of utter weakness and helplessness when even to breathe was torture. I could gladly have closed my eyes in death at that stage although I didn't realise that death was so close.
At no time had I considered the consequences of starving myself. We had learned in school about good nutrition and in later years about things like osteoporosis. Now I look back in horror at those years and realise that the lack of calcium, say, could cause one's bones to crumble, not to mention mental deterioration. I didn't even have the stresses and influences of today's young girls where role models encourage skinny figures. Moreover, I was in my mid-twenties and not a teenager.
I regained an ideal weight of around eight stone that I maintained till I was in my fifties. I never again attempted to shed pounds and I eat healthily. I may binge on chocolates on special occasions but I don't fret about it afterwards. I don't buy chocolate but friends know my weakness and like to treat me. I can confidently say that I learned my lesson about excess dieting. I was lucky to recover. I very nearly didn't. I am truly sorry for today's victims of eating disorders.