Sophie's Story

A bullying victim's battle with anorexia.

My name is Sophie Sheridan. Mine is a story of a battle for perfection. I never used to worry about my weight. I never worried about anything really; I was happy. I had friends. My home life was great. Primary school was great and I was doing well.

Then I started high school and things changed. Her name was Melissa Sharp, the class’s role model, an extrovert, a big-headed bimbo who aroused envy and admiration in equal measure. She had the looks: long golden tresses flowing and resting lightly on her shoulders and her back, framing her pure swarthy complexion which enhanced her sparkling sapphire-blue eyes. And teeth emanating an effulgence intensified by their contrast to her skin. Her slender, dainty frame (albeit a little underdeveloped around the chest area) was at an ideal height and build. She was elegance defined.

Her popularity was unequivocal, like a magnet. But the sad thing was the ingratiation methods classmates engaged in to gain acceptance into her circle of friends. Backchat directed at teachers, pranks on other pupils and theft were all included in their attempts to impress. There was even some imitation occurring occasionally �" same hairstyle, same clothes, and their introduction to cigarettes and alcohol, sometimes consumed on school premises. I mean peer pressure is an understatement; Brown-nose would be more apt, for they simply allowed influence to exceed assertion. I wasn’t as weak. I had no urge or desire to become acquainted to such extroversion simply because I was so unlike her. I was content with the friendships I made during primary school �" Laura and Anna. But even their loyalty to me began to languish as they, too, eventually succumbed to Melissa’s charms. I regarded their companionship as tenacious, everlasting. However their sudden desire to seek friendships in abundance rather than ones of value prevailed, and before I knew it I was isolated.

But my problems worsened when my isolation made me a target for mistreatment. I remember one morning in class when Anna and Laura sat at the same table as Melissa and a few others. I tried my best to hold back my tears, although I was sure the anguish was displayed on my face. They could see it, and it prompted them to hurl derisive glances at me, followed by screwed up paper and erasers, with Melissa being the impetus behind the attacks.

Physical abuse proceeded in the school yard, with the addition of verbal alternatives taking place also. The emptying of my school bag escalated into slaps and punches, and insults were accompanied by expletives at high volume. Comments referring to my face being beyond repulsion and constant reminders of the repellent odours emanating from me were included in the firing line. My initial responses of condemnation depleted over the period of this incessant torment simply because it made no difference; in fact it fuelled their rage, and compounded my isolation. I asked myself the same question over and over again: why?

I put this question to Anna, Laura and Melissa repeatedly, often through tears, but the reply was usually to challenge my audacity and impertinence. But one day the reasons for their campaign of bullying became crystal clear; my question was finally answered. I was wearing a skirt for school. My legs were bear, as were Melissa’s. And she took pleasure and excitement from making me realise, through comparison, how abnormally fleshy mine were. And she was right, and my battle began.

 

Looking in the mirror, my reflection offered me no opportunity to alter the sentiments of my body image I had developed over the course of the bullying, for fragments of their comments flooded back to me to form a vision confirming their accuracy. I attempted a smile, but my reflection refused to cooperate. My stubborn analytical tendencies failed to subside and I found myself staring, just staring, scrutinising every inch of flesh constituting my repellence. Every glance at the mirror empowered a growing sense of melancholy. But I couldn’t look away.

                The accumulation of extra flesh around my neck amalgamating with that comprising my double chin, making it difficult to discern whether a chin actually existed at all now fat had exceeded bone structure. Eyes which appeared to be buried deeper and deeper into my moonfaced skull, ever-expanding cheeks and jowls, scraggy wavy hair bereft of volume and shine despite repeated cleansing hanging loosely above my chunky shoulders. Legs resembling tree trunks, having no definition, no shape, so big they touch at the thighs. I would drum my tummy with my hands, only for it vibrate with ripples, with my waist hanging over my skirt. I furrowed my brows, generating creases on my forehead. But elements chiefly associated with old-age were additions I could do without, so I relaxed my features back to normal. It was best, I thought, to maintain an expression of impassiveness.

                I considered applying make-up, but a combination of a blemished self-confidence and knowledge that it would contribute nothing to correcting my flaws prohibited any attempt.

                Looking at this lump of lard in the mirror made my eyes glisten with tears, a lump in my throat, until the moment came when I just couldn’t keep it inside me anymore, so I wept and wept. But, deep inside, I knew the fat could be shed, even if weight-loss gave me just a little boost to my attractiveness. My ugliness, I thought, could then maybe be reversed to some extent, although I knew I couldn’t banish it entirely.

                So then I undertook a strict dieting and exercise regime comprising salads, fruit and cycling. I fooled my mum into providing me with the relevant foodstuff (packed lunches and a new diet plan for home meals) required to assist me in my routine. She agreed, more for financial benefits on her part, but she agreed nonetheless. I walked to school at a brisker pace, cycled for hours at weekends and so on.

                I weighed myself frequently every day. However, although the digits on the scales seemed to reduce day by day, my reflection in the mirror communicated information to suggest the opposite; I was still buried in pounds of flesh; my waist still wobbled, my face still like a ball of plasticine with chin and neck a single entity with no indications of parting, and legs like stumps. Confusion began to settle in because of these mixed messages and I didn’t know what to believe. So I decided that as the excess flab was still visible, proceeding with the weight-loss plan was indispensable for the cessation of its existence. Therefore, to speed up the process, I started missing meals. The contents of the lunchbox I took to school were discarded frequently and the hours I would spend cycling proliferated. The figure on the scales continued to fall, but I just couldn’t seem to rid myself of the fat.

                Meanwhile, the teasing at school carried on, no worse, no less, but still it contributed significantly to my dejection and subsequent withdrawal from activities and other social recreations. Melissa was, and always will be, a downright b***h.

 

Over the coming weeks, my energy levels began to diminish, and this manifested in the form of fatigue and lack of motivation. I thought maybe I took an over-industrious approach to my cycling programme, and now I was beginning to feel the consequences. But my determination to lose extra pounds, though, never faltered despite this because evidence that more work was needed to accomplish my goal was still present. I knew because the flab told me. And so I carried on exercising, missing meals and weighing myself.

                Then things took a turn for the worse one evening at home. I was in the bathroom, examining the progress of my course of diet and exercise, unsatisfied, as usual, with the lack of positive results when I noticed a few too many strands, a small clump, of hair in the sink beneath the mirror. They were long and dark, just like mine, but surely I couldn’t be balding, I thought. I knew the hair wasn’t my mum’s because her hair was blonde. The discovery prompted me to inspect my hair, and I was unable to confine my distress and panic when another small clump came off in my hand. My breathing became ragged and I was expelling short but heavy gasps. I whimpered, which transformed into an uncontrollable shrill. More hair became loose and then I screamed.

                My mum banged desperately on the bathroom door.

                I screamed again.

                The knocking became more desperate, more impulsive.

                But I couldn’t let anybody see me like this, too ashamed. Besides, there was only one way out of the room and mum wasn’t going anywhere. So I unlocked the door, and mum placed a hand over her gaping mouth following a shocked gasp upon entry. And that announced the end of my regime.

 

It was inevitable for mum to seek answers as to the origins of my obsession, and I gave her the information. I told her all about Melissa, the teasing, the bullying, the loss of friendships and the gaining of none, and, of course, the impulsive desire to shed fat. Naturally, concern overwhelmed her, compelling her to contact the GP �" a kind of nip-it-in-the-bud attitude of which I failed to comprehend. All I wanted was to look normal, and I didn’t achieve that because I knew that from this moment on I would continue with life under the watchful eye of not just my mum, but authorities at school. Nevertheless, I reluctantly agreed to attend the appointment at the surgery, only for the doctor to tell me which completely contradicted what I believed for so long �" I was anorexic, and my life was under threat should I proceed along the path I have been undertaking. My heartbeat intensified, my mouth became dry, I began to shake. Most of all, disbelief overshadowed me, and I cried and cried, not only because the doctor told me what I didn’t want to hear, but because, despite everything I have endured, I wanted to embrace life, not end it.

                Ultimately I was detained on a psychiatric ward- the options presented to me being come in voluntary or under the Mental Health Act. The word “section” was a word of entrapment, enclosure, a stripping of my freedom as a punishment for pursuing what everybody else already had. By going in voluntary, a level of entrapment would still come into force, but it would be curtailed by the choice to leave the ward occasionally, even though I would be accompanied by a nurse. Either way, it was argued that treatment such as this would be essential for my mental health to progress positively, to eradicate my delusions, to diminish the frequent urge to pursue activities that would prove detrimental to my sanity, as, it seemed, transpired to be the case.

                On my first night there, the nurses on the ward kept looking at me from the office, and I felt as if they instantly regarded me as a stereotypical nutter, an easy target for mistreatment. The obvious subject matter being discussed among the staff was me, for they occasionally hurled gazes of condescension and amusement at me. My suspicions debated on whether I sensed a potential conspiracy transpiring within those walls, or whether my instincts were mere bullshit. After all, I detected a hint of superciliousness radiating from them, and I responded to this with sheer inner contempt, although I was able to restrain myself from physically displaying these feelings. Nevertheless, I soldiered on.

 

As time passed, I slowly but surely began to see how drastic my weight loss had become, for my experience on the ward eventually became a positive one. The nurses turned out to be some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. But, having said that, I was too busy comparing them to the b*****s I was forced to tolerate at school, who made me lose faith in humanity for a short while. Anyway, after a few sessions of therapy, I would look in the plastic mirrors situated on the ward and notice the emaciated, almost moribund sadness gazing back at me. So it seemed the therapy worked because I finally saw the extent of my obsession, I finally believed that I had lost too much weight. But now I’m recovering steadily. I can now look in the mirror with a smile guaranteed to be returned, I can see normality, healthiness, beauty. The satisfaction and being proud of myself and my achievements are the stepping stones I continue to tread upon leading to me embracing the happiness I truly deserve.

 

The headmaster at school became aware of Melissa’s bullying, although I’m not entirely sure what was done about it, because I changed schools once I was discharged from the ward. I made some new friends at my new school, I’m doing well and my weight has returned to normal. I still see a therapist once a week after school, just to ensure the prevention of a relapse, but I’ve grown stronger as a person now, both confidence-wise and emotionally and I’ve even started dating. So, yeah, I can truly say I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.