I haven't ever had the strength to inform any one about this issue, but I think maybe it is time to bring it to light.
From a very young age, I have battled severe body issues due to being physically and mentally bullied; I suddenly went from eating a healthy 3 meals a day, to maybe 3 meals a week. But I hadn't ever put a label on it because I didn't think anything of it and at that time, I was surrounded by the media who were currently turning the body into a political and fashion statement.
Along with the lack of eating, I had also began self harming and due to masses of insecurity, I dressed my body in such baggy clothes, the differences weren't ever noted.
Even harder times came upon me when my father was diagnosed with cancer, but as well as that my mother suffered high blood pressure, which evidently meant that along with her stress she began to kill herself and her body.
Her body began to suck out so much weight, I started to be physically terrified and I had the job of making sure she consumed enough food to maintain her strength, but how could I help her do this when I myself couldn't manage a full meal?
The answer then was bulimia, and for the period I had needed it to, it worked.
After those horrific battles ended, I left my previous high school and moved to another where I wasn't so known and people weren't aware of anything that went on with me. There I began to enjoy myself and felt almost shocked when people didn't care for bullying me, but actually complimented me.
I had never felt so riveted by it, people actually thought I was pretty and I almost came to be misunderstood by it.
When I think over it now, I almost cry because someone called me pretty. I feel my strength drain away because I was so moved by the comment.
But nevertheless, it didn't erase the problem that I had.
By the time I had reached the height of 5ft 6, my body was a size 8 and I was in year 11; it was only then that I realised just how bad I had gotten: not only was the problem on my plate but it was now deep inside my head.
I had to stay a size 8, it was crucial.
One major problem was, the pressure of what had previously occurred still stuck firmly in my mind, which meant mentally I wasn't healthy: some days I would be capable of eating and not worrying, then others, I would spiral down and hit a massive low.
People had even began to notice 'Oh it's one of those not eating days, is it?'
And I would always nod in response. There was no point in denying, but what rattles me now is that no one really cared to ask why?
The problem increased and began to suffocate me so much that I began to abuse my body whenever I ate too much or perhaps didn't fit into a certain size:
You exceeded 500 calories today?
You deserve to be hurt.
You can't fit into those jeans there too big!
You aren't having a damn fucking thing today.
I daren't ever admit to my friends that half the time I had to cancel seeing them was mostly because I couldn't get myself out the house because I wasn't thin enough. The endless battles with jeans which didn't fit me, the constant vomitting because I drove myself so far into anxiety, my body pretty much didn't have any other choice.
I remember the mornings whilst getting ready and I was so angry I began ripping up my jeans whilst sobbing violently. I had about 8 pairs of them, but after this dark period, I had burned all of them and I hadn't dare wear a pair for over 4 years. The sight sickened me.
By this time my mum was so painfully hurt, she began threatening to take me out of school just in order to watch me eat. My Dad and brother never really understood the point of not eating and in all honesty, my brother wasn't really aware, he just thought I was naturally thin.
I knew everything I was doing was wrong: I knew if you ate correctly, weight wouldn't be gained, I knew if you ate right and toned your body, you would feel happy but that did not matter to me.
Then another turning point fell in when I was rushed to the hospital in my 12th year in Sixth Form. The disease I had suffered was called Viral Meningitis Encephalitis: It is inflammation of the brain and once my brain had reached an overwhelming size, it killed me.
There was a lot going on when I was resuscitated, but what do you ask was my first question when my mouth could finally form any type of words: Did I loose weight?
I am brought back from death and that is the first question I uttered.
I was over the moon, I was so pleased and I was so god damn happy. I remember telling my Mum 'I'm finally a size 6!' By this time I was 5ft 11 and I didn't look pleasing at all.
But god, I didn't care what others thought. I was so bloody happy.
I wasn't entirely aware of what was about to come round the corner, my brain wasn't capable of functioning yet, so all I could do was sleep whilst having my treatment and due to this even more weight was lost. Happy.
However I fell into deep turmoil when my independence was degraded and I returned to College to be greeted by weakness and bullies. It began to ruin me and I fell into such deep depression, I turned suicidal.
With more stress, the weight only shifted off even though I was drinking copious amounts of alcohol and taking numerous amounts of drugs. By this point I can just tell you that I didn't really give a shit about myself, or about my body.
But somehow amidst all the falling, I began to pick myself up and some how, I was so struck with anger that I stopped caring, I didn't give a fuck about what I ate. The time didn't last so long though.
My mother finally asked what had provoked such negativity about my body and even now at the age I am, I still fall to fear. But I told her.
'The kids at my High School used to beat me up because I was fat. Of course there were other reasons but apparently, the main problem was I was chubby.
Three times a day, every day, for the three years I was there. They kicked the living shit out of me.'
She understood then why my mind was a constant battle field about my body. Even now, till this day, I can't take food as it is: a positive strength source.
I avoided weighing myself for my entire childhood and I still can't see my self on a pair of scales because I know for certain if I see a number, I won't eat.
It won't matter how low it will get, I won't eat.
What makes this situation lay even thicker on my head is the people who I have ran into...those who once attended my first High School 'Wow, you got so hot after loosing so much weight!'
I'd always bite my lip and I wouldn't ever respond, because the truth was I actually wasn't ever overweight. I was always perfectly healthy.
Then something else happened this year: August 26th 2014.
I tried committing suicide again.
After this turn, my mother wiped out everything in my bedroom: took away my medication, threw away every drug object I had and emptied every bottle of alcohol.
It's been over a month and I have lost more weight: Of course I'm so thrilled by this.
I continually feel overjoyed by this thought and it almost motivates me, yet I always hate it.
I do eat now, but I'm very back and forth and some days I'm only capable of having one meal. But I'm always frightened by the possibility it'll take over me again.
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