Hello to anyone reading this, I hope you’re doing okay today. This post will probably be longer than most others on this blog, but it’s my full uncensored story.

When my ED became a part of my life, I was 14. I had already been depressed and self-harming for a year, and was in a self-destructive headspace and at an impressionable age – the perfect opportunity for an eating disorder to strike.

Looking back to my childhood, I can see I always had a bit of an atypical relationship with food. I was healthy, but not the thinnest person in my class. I was a horrifically picky eater, and would binge on junk food. I weighed myself every day, but never really knew what the numbers meant (hell, I thought until I was 13 that ‘lbs’ stood for ‘little bits’!).

At 14, I had just entered my first relationship with a guy a year older than me, Danijel, who had anorexia, and spent almost the entirety of the month we were dating with him and his (also anorexic) best friend, Louise. I started to pick up some of their behaviours, such as eating less and skipping meals, and as soon as they noticed this, rather than trying to prevent it, they actively encouraged me.

Most people’s memories of their first love include the first kiss, or the first date, or losing your virginity. Instead, my memories are of Louise holding my hair back as she taught me how to purge ice-cream, and walking for hours with them both, fuelled by sugarless energy drinks. There was even a ‘game’ Danijel played where he would pick me up and try to guess how much weight I had lost. Even years later, I still struggle to be picked up or put my weight on anybody, the feelings of self-consciousness and panic flooding back to me.

The relationship eventually came to an end, but my behaviours didn’t stop there. I continued on my own, until my teachers became worried about my mental health and I was referred to CAMHS, the NHS’s children and adolescent mental health service. The first appointment was a train-wreck; weighed with my clothes on, I was told my weight was still healthy, and was also told that my depression was as a result of “hypochondria” (I had explained that I had researched the symptoms of depression and identified with almost all of them, but the nurse believed I was looking too much into it and just needed “more sleep and less screen time”).

I continued going to CAMHS for a few more years, but never indulged much honest information to them. I felt completely dismissed and un-heard, and believed that until I got worse enough to “deserve help”, nobody would ever listen. So I got worse.

I continued self-harming, ignoring the stares from everyone during PE classes. I tried to kill myself multiple times, yet was always told by the hospital that I was too low-risk to be treated in any other way except with more CAMHS appointments. I once passed out in a toilet cubicle after having a panic attack, and I would argue with my friends constantly about my eating habits. I saw counsellor after counsellor during my time at senior school, and when I did tell one that I had eating problems, they dismissed it because I was still eating one meal a day.

My dad had always commented on my body, and I was never a sporty kid growing up. My mother always told me my thick thighs run in the family, while my dad was adamant it was down to chocolate. He was so proud of me when I started accompanying him to the gym every evening, but didn’t know that I continued exercising in my room once I got back. It was around this time I also started figure skating, a sport that I had always been interested in, although my love of it was often tainted by my motivation to train harder to lose weight.

Throughout the years, I repeatedly lost and gained the same ten pounds. I would restrict and exercise until either my parents began to notice, and I would eat again to get them off my back, or I would break and binge for days on end until the weight I had lost in a month had been put back on in less than a week.

When I was 17 and entered college, my eating habits entered with me. Eventually during the Christmas break of 2015, my depression deteriorated rapidly. My mum called CAMHS and was told there was nothing that could be done except keep an eye on me and wait another three weeks for my next appointment. On New Years Day, I woke up in hospital after my friend phoned an ambulance when I overdosed on sleeping pills. My mother and I begged for me to be admitted inpatient, but we received the same response as every other time: that I simply wasn’t sick enough.

I saw doctor after doctor, tried medication after medication, therapy session after therapy session. Nothing improved my mood, encouraged me to stop hurting myself, or inspired me to eat again. I was convinced that I would be dead by the time I turned 18.

During my second year of college, I met a guy at a party, Jack. We went on a date, and as to not scare him off later down the line, was up front about my mental health struggles. He accepted them and stuck by me, holding my hand when anxiety hit and calling me when I was feeling low. I met and grew close to his group of friends: two girls called Izel and Haley, and a guy called Alex. Although I was in a constant battle with my mental health, resulting in me only managing to achieve one ‘D’ in my exams, I grew closer to these friends than I had done with anyone else before, and shared great memories with them over the next year.

Jack broke up with me in the summer of 2017, due to my drinking habits – I often had depressive episodes where I’d become dangerous to myself and others, and had drunkenly kissed a couple of my friends, which Jack was obviously not okay with. I felt completely hopeless and my self-destructive behaviour spiralled downwards rapidly. I would fuel myself with cigarettes, energy drinks and cereal bars during the day, and go out and drink heavily with my work colleagues most evenings. I loathed myself and became convinced that others did as well, so I would go home with a different guy every night so I would feel like, in that moment, someone appreciated my existence.

In September 2017, I moved into a flat with Alex and Izel, who were both continuing to study at college for a third year, but due to various circumstances, both needed a place to live. I was invited to live with them (most likely as I was the only person in the group with a job), and I jumped at the offer, enthusiastic to be living an independent adult life.

Of course, living without parents also means living without food supervision, and as soon as I moved in, I pretty much stopped eating entirely. I would starve myself for three or four days at a time and the weight fell off. I would go on walks for at least an hour twice a day, and lost enough weight that I hit my goal for the first time in five years. My friends, especially Alex, were worried sick about me, and even my boss and colleagues at work would comment about how little I was eating.

Month in and month out for the next year, I would enter cycles of starving-and-binging that reset itself once a month, drank copious amounts of alcohol, and started taking drugs. I found a job that I loved, and grew closer than ever to Alex. However, one thought constantly worrying me was the loneliness I would need to come to terms with at the end of the academic year when my friends all went off to university without me. The anxiety over the situation lead into the longest on-going period of restricting, and the one that hit me hardest – and which is still going strong.

However, a miracle occurred. Alex decided that university wasn’t something he wanted at that time, and so invited me to live with him in Cardiff, where he was planning to get an apprenticeship with the Welsh Assembly. I was so excited, but my eating disorder still lingered. As hopeful as I felt about my future, my depression suddenly hit rock bottom, and no-one, including me, knew what to do.

I was a huge cause of stress for my friends over the following weeks. Alex had to take me to hospital after finding me drunk in a park and covered in blood, deep gashes on my arm. I took time off work, not being able to do anything except cry in bed all day. My friends wouldn’t let me go to the toilet with the door shut because they knew as soon as I could, I would try to hurt myself. The stress hit Alex the hardest. He was the one who had to clean the blood off me, who had to call the doctors, who held me as I cried over the anxiety of having to eat a piece of plain toast.

Eventually, he couldn’t handle it anymore and gave me the ultimatum: either get better, or he would go to Cardiff alone. I agreed, but like times before, I did it for him, not myself.

As soon as I moved back to my parents, the loneliness and isolation hit me, and I fell right back into old habits. I quit my perfect job to prepare to move, resulting in the feelings to grow. A few weeks later I was raped at a house party, which only caused me to feel more alone than ever.

It was on the third day of a fast that I was sat outside with a cigarette, the guilt about breaking my condition with Alex building up inside me that I realised I was so tired. I was the lowest weight I’d managed to bring myself down to with a BMI of 17.6, yet I didn’t feel satisfied. I had spent so many years trying to get to a point like this and until now, I had nothing to show for it except non-existent self-esteem and scarred arms and legs. So I did the most significant thing I had done throughout my eating disorder history, and messaged Alex, admitting that I needed professional help. I promised him that as soon as we moved, I would find a new GP and would be completely honest, and try to convince someone that although my disorder might not be as serious as other people’s, it was affecting me massively and, for the first time ever, I wanted to recover.

Which brings us to now. The eating disorder part of my brain wants to continue until I move to Cardiff, to make the most of the last time (hopefully) I live with it and to lower my weight so I’m less likely to get dismissed by the doctor. However, I’m counting down the days till I move and get help, and in a way I’m looking forward to that more than actually moving!

It’s been a hell of a journey, but I’m ready to move onto the next step – recovery. I know it’s going to be bumpy and painful, but I want it, not just for Alex and the people who care about me, but for myself and happiness.

I want to get better. I want to stay alive, and I hope you do as well.

Finn x

Picture 1: August 2012, aged 13 – depression had made itself at home, but I hadn’t stopped eating yet.
Picture 2: February 2015, aged 16 – I had placed second in an ice-skating competition, after losing to a nine-year-old.
Picture 3: August 2018, aged 19 – a few days before Alex took me to hospital (Alex on my left, Jack on my right).