dying to be thin

I’m not sure where it all began really; all I really remember is that whatever I did I wanted to be the best at it. Well up to about eight I can remember being in a loving home, nothing out of the ordinary. I’m told that when I was born my dad was handed to him, and mum was taken in to theatre for a routine few stiches. When they wheeled mum back to her side ward, it had gone dark, and dad was still sitting there looking at me, he’d not even gotten up to switch the light on. Dad was at ore with my dark black hair and my chubby little face. From that day on I was to be his favourite, although he wouldn’t admit that to my sister Jane, who was one year older than me.

Popeye Granddad was very funny, nearly as funny as my dad; I can see now where He got it from. Popeye gram’s got his nickname as he was never without a pipe in his mouth, and had just one tooth in his mouth which he could wiggle about. We spent a lot of time with Popeye gram’s as mum and dad work so hard. My Grandmother died the same year I was born aged just 58, so I never really knew her, but there were loads of photograph’s dotted about the house.

“I’m the best” I bragged, the best at running best at dancing, best at just anything, which would infuriate Jane, and Dad would rub my head and say “ Treacle you’re the best.” Jane was Mummy’s girl I was daddy’s girl. No one ever said that it was just an unwritten thing. I loved my dad and when I went missing from playing outside our house, mum would send Popeye or Jane to fetch me from outside the bookies or the pub, my dad was in. Sunday’s were a treat as I would follow dad to the pub, and he always left just in time so as the Sunday dinner was being put on the table. My mum would say “I don’t know why you don’t get a job there; you spend more time at the pub with your dad than I do”. I loved my mum’s cooking she was the best, no one could ever beat her, I ate most things that were put in front of me, and you never heard my mother say I was a picky eater. Jane on the other hand didn’t like this and that, talk about fussy.

I was in the gym class at school sitting on the bench, when Sandra Butterworth sat next to me and said “move your fat arses.”
Looking at my leotard covered bum, I began to wonder if my bum was fat. So when I got home I stood in front of my mother’s long mirror and looked myself closely, did I have a big bum. I held my tummy in and looked at myself every which way. Convincing myself I was slightly overweight, I decided to go on a diet. In the first few months I did well and the pounds slipped off, I was the best I thought to myself.

On the way home from the pub one day dad offered me a packet of crisps, to which I said, “No thanks I’m on a diet” Dad chuckled and said “I was becoming bloody anorexic”.
"I'm not anorexic, I do eat, 3 meals a day, almost every day, breakfast, lunch, dinner. "How can you accuse me? You see me eat, I'm not starving myself."
It's amazing how much lettuce you can eat and keep below 100 calories, the soups you can make at 50-100 calories per serving. The meals you can make and show people you eat to calm them down. I'm a master at these meals.

"I'm not anorexic, I do eat." I'm 5' and 160 pounds, I know I'm skinny. I look at myself in the mirror, find the fat, find the places where more pounds can be shed, tell myself that I'm not unhealthy, I'm still safe, there is no reason to stop yet. I know I'm wrong. I know I'm reaching a point where it becomes dangerous; I know the feeling in my bones.

Some days I try to fight it, force myself to eat. I tell myself off, try to get some sense into my stubborn head. Most times I loose, the food I promised myself becomes a tiny cracker with tomato, tea, a piece of fruit, something like that.
I'm going to start eating, I'm not going to keep on like this, and I am going to find another way of feeling the control. Tomorrow! Maybe but tomorrow never comes.

"I need to lose weight". The only way I could think of losing weight was too stop eating. The first few weeks I starved myself and I lost at least 5-6 pounds. I was happy with myself and that I had great determination in doing this. I thought that since I had lost weight by doing this, I should keep on doing it till I'm down to the weight I want to be. I would nibble on little things like cheese, cereal, and bread each day. To lose more weight, I would exercise the things I ate that day so there wouldn't be any calories left in my body to gain any weight. I had a hunger for food each day, but to avoid it my mind kept saying that I need to lose weight and I can’t just give in like that. The first couple months I ran at least a mile a day and I would do sit ups and a few other exercises. I still ate the same food. By then I lost 15 pounds. Then I would starve myself some more, and eventually I lost another 10 pounds. At the beginning I weighed 160, I now weigh 135.

After months of doing this, my exercising became more and more physical work. Whenever I saw food, I wanted to eat it and taste the food in my mouth because I hadn't tasted it in so long. But I still continued to avoid it. The weird thing is, sometimes when I wanted to eat food, I would, and then after, I would feel so much regret and ask myself why I did that when I could've lost more weight. And just by eating like a little piece of cheese or bread, I thought I gained weight. I had such a fear of gaining weight. I also had a fear of gaining it all back. So if I ate something, I would go out and run and try to burn it off.
All day the word gaining weight was in my head. It was eating me away. I have given in several times to food, and each time I have felt regret by doing it. But I always say "hey I’ll burn it off when I go run" or something like that. But it's a terrible experience to go through. I lied to my parents and said that I eat at lunch and I eat in the mornings before I go to school. But somewhere in their minds they know I have a problem. I know I have a problem, but I don't think it has become that bad to where I need help. I’ll give you an example, once we went out to eat with my family. My aunt fixed all this good food and it was sitting right in front of me. I wanted to shove everything down my throat just so I could taste the food in my mouth. But I sat there the whole time and stared at it with desire. In my mind I kept debating on whether I should eat it or not, or If I would gain any weight if I ate this or that and what would I do if I ate that. Eventually I ended up eating and felt regret after. It was terrible. The bad thing is. You can lose weight fast by not eating, and you can gain it just as fast by eating. You can't go on forever just eating little things like I do, because once you're going to want to eat a lot and you'll gain it all back, and you'll have to live with the regret. No one wants to go through that

The first meal I would skip would be mandatory snack time. This was when all the kids in the school would meet in the dining hall and have an apple or some carrot sticks and juice, generally healthy stuff. I came up with my own plan. I got a hold of some plastic bags and started hiding my snacks in there. Next went half of breakfast. I would only drink a half-cup of juice and half of an apple. I joined the gymnastics team, which turned out to be a big mistake. There isn't much you can hide when you are in a leotard, I worried I was chubby, I worried I had cellulite; I worried that my thighs would jiggle when I competed. I stopped eating lunch. I was twelve years old and counting every calorie that passed my lips. I developed a wild streak and started doing everything I could to get kicked out. I had the idea that if I could go home, I would have more privacy in which to diet in. The day after I turned thirteen I sneaked out of school (to buy brownies, if you can believe my stupidity), and I got caught. I was kicked out the next day for leaving the school grounds. I was thrilled. I thought, "Finally, I can start my real diet". I never counted on the Army sending my dad away again. On to school number two.

I was promptly enrolled in an all-girls Catholic school just outside of London while my father was stationed in Germany. I don't know if any of you have ever gone to an all-girls school, but the bitchiness and cattiness is unbelievable. I sought out a girl whom everyone told me was a diet queen and I made it my mission to befriend her. Lilly was 15, 2 years older than me at that time, and had been in 4 different hospitals for her ED's. With a partner in crime I learned everything I could about anorexia. I did my homework, read all the books went to all the websites, devoured magazines with ED articles, and became somewhat of an expert. I wouldn't say that it was a conscious decision to become an anorectic, but it’s something I had considered. It just kind of happened. Meanwhile Jane had become the blue eyed girl, it was Jane this and Jane that. Dad would always be on my side and say never mind treacle; we’ll get there one day.

I was now a weird about food and to say that I was a picky eater was an understatement I was like Jane when she was younger. When I was little and I had first learned to count over a hundred I began counting food. I ate 200 cheerios at breakfast. No more, no less. If it was fruit loops, it was 180. I counted my vegetables, my fruit slices, my bites the number of chews it took me to chew, the number of sips it took me to drink a glass of water. And that was before I became a serious anorexic.



I joined the tennis team, the gymnastic team and began running in the mornings. I started a more stringent diet: Breakfast: half an apple and a cup grapefruit juice. Lunch: half of a boneless skinless chicken breast and either carrot sticks or a cup of green veggies and I drank 3 cups of water. Dinner: a small salad without dressing and exactly ¹ of a portion of whatever the main dish was. I generally drank as much water as I could with dinner. I was 5 feet tall and 98 lbs. when I got to the London school. I dropped to 90 lbs. after I started my diet and my sports teams.

I began running 10 miles a day in addition to my gymnastics practice and my tennis practice. I would get up at 4:30 a.m. and run 5 miles before breakfast. I would weigh myself, drink a few cups of water and run off to tennis practice. After school was gymnastics, then I would run five more miles, do about 150 crunches, study till about 1:30 a.m. then get up the next morning and start all over again. I managed to keep to this routine (with varying changes) for the next two years. I got down to about 80 lbs. by my 16th birthday. I thought I was fine, I was just being healthy.

I decided to change schools again so I could be nearer to my sister who was attending school in Spain. This time a co-ed school. I had managed to avoid all thoughts of boys in my last school because they were kind of scarce. I was also terrified of them. I was convinced that no guy would want a fat girlfriend and being with a guy was too complicated and I didn't have enough energy to lead my somewhat chaotic life and deal with love/lust at the same time. I simply avoided them.

At my new school, my exercise routine and my diet was making me somewhat withdrawn. I didn't want friends, they were too complicated and they might find out. I earned the nickname the "Ice Princess" and was happy that no one tried to get to close. I got a visit from Lilly who had just gotten out of her fourth hospital and was "recovered". I was thrilled to see that I had finally gotten smaller than her. The student beat the teacher.

I started running 15 miles a day. I quit the tennis team that I had joined only months before and began a more strict exercise regimen. I was running 15 miles a day, working out in the school gym for almost two hours a day and studying the rest of the time. I said I didn't have time to eat, I thought I didn't need to eat, I started eating only breakfast and dinner and drinking gallons of water a day.

I got down to 78 lbs. and passed out in the school library. My parents took me home to England. They put me in a hospital where I promptly lost 6 more lbs. and was put on bed-restriction and an IV. I was threatened, bribed, cajoled, screamed at and cursed at and I still maintained my new weight of 78 lbs. I couldn't walk, my hair started to fall out, I had trouble breathing, I had horrible muscle spasms, a heart murmur and developed pneumonia. After a scary incident where I inexplicably blacked out 3 times in a row, I decided that I wanted to leave this awful place and allowed myself to gain 12 lbs. I was discharged and sent to live with my aunt and uncle in Wales.

I went back to my old ways, lost another 5 lbs. and was visited by my parents. They said they were tired of putting up with my s**t, ( even dad stopped calling me treacle) I was selfish, self-centred, vain, and stupid. I ignored everything they said, told them I wanted to finish school at my first school in Spain and was allowed back in. I gained some weight, got up to 90 lbs. and re-joined the tennis team. I still maintained a perfect grade average as I had always had. I was convinced I was fine. I had one term left before I finished my A-levels and was applying to colleges already. I had always been somewhat unfeeling. I didn't want to have emotions, emotions were for common people and I was better than that. Something of a British stiff-upper-lip.

I was known as the Ice Princess and I was happy that way. I don't know what happened that year but I think I started feeling. I was alternately hysterical and unemotional. Angry and Giddy. Happy and Hateful. I think I gained a new name, "Psycho Girl". I became obsessed with my feelings. Was I OK? Was I happy? Why am I not happy? Is there something wrong with me for not being happy? Look at that girl, she looks happy, why can't I be like her? Why am I not happy, d****t?

I graduated and moved back to Wales. I lived with my aunt and eventually moved into my own apartment courtesy of Popeye grams. I got a scholarship to a college and that autum started my frist year. I did fine the first term, maintain a weight of 85 lbs. Eventually I started getting more and more upset with nothing. I started losing weight again. I got a new therapist, and then stopped seeing her. I started my insane exercising again; I got down to my all-time low of 70 lbs. I went into the hospital again and came out more upset than ever. I couldn't figure out why I was upset, I just knew I was. And I knew that I wasn't really getting better, I just existed, in kind of a limbo.

To make a long story short, I alternately lost and gained about 20 lbs. for a couple of months, finally had a boyfriend, dumped the boyfriend, hit an all-time low depression, got help from a guy I barely knew and finally decided that this was no way to live. This was a way to die. I quit college; I got a real therapist that I could relate to, went into the hospital for the last time and after a long time was finally able to maintain my weight of 99-102 lbs. for a year.

I finally met a man called Steve, who has a great sense of humour, but for some reason I’m off on my diets again. May be it is because Popeye grams has just died of cancer, I do not know, I now take 60-100 laxatives a day, my weight is falling off me and I’m back down to 84 pounds.

Steve is so angry at me the doctors every one. Dad is pleased that Steve is trying to help me, and all mum can do is cry when ever my name is mentioned. He takes my photograph to every chemist in town and explains what I’m doing, and ask them not to sever me I’m cleverer than him, I get a drug addict, or a drunk to buy them for me, I feel it’s worth the £5 just to get the laxatives. Steve begs me to get help, but I’m too stubborn to except.

Gosh it’s hot to night, I ask Steve to just cover me with a sheet. As he covers me I say I am sorry and ask him to tell Dad I love him very much, and with that I close my eyes. I do not wake up the next morning. The doctors won’t say that the anorexia killed me they put it down to heart failure.

Steve still fights on today every time he meets a case like me, often attending meetings telling my story, how I would outwit him, when I couldn’t buy laxatives in my town I got a bus to the next, before Steve covered that town too. He would laugh in annoyance, and said he would cover the whole of England if he had too. He has met girls and boys, who have had my problem, and they are now leading a normal life, with his and others help. It has been known for someone to ring him at 2am in the morning just to talk, so do yourself a favour if YOU see yourself in me. Take the help offered before you end up like me DEAD.

This story was written by a close friend of Julie, with her loving memory’s words form her dairies and with a bit of artistic writing put in words as if Julie was telling the story herself

By steve1958 (tiwix), © 2011, All rights reserved.

Author notes

Julie was one of the unlucky ones, she wasn’t able to get it under control and get her life back in order. I'm here to say to all those people who think recovery is unattainable for them, it’s NEVER unattainable. It's not easy, its hard work. But it can happen. And when it does, it's this huge sigh of relief. It's a whole new lifestyle, but it’s great. It's a challenge, but it’s LIFE. Life as an anorectic is no way to live; it's a way to die. Remember that. And all you have to do is ask for help.