Hiding in Plain Sight

Prior to going into hospital, my parents had moved to another home within a National Park on the north side of Sydney. It was much more secluded than our apartment in Queenscliff; much easier to hide away amongst the enclosing native flora, fauna and winding waterways of Pittwater. I liked the isolation and craved the solitude. Returning home and re-entering society felt like a tremendous adjustment to me. Just like physically leaving work did not provide a true escape from the lingering emotional trauma of working; so too, leaving the hospital (following regaining some weight and receiving counselling) did not provide a resolution to my issues with body image, weight and food. The only two things which truly seemed to help me were self-reflection and time.

In the first two weeks after leaving the hospital I lost another three kilograms, taking me down to 45kg. That is the lowest that I ever went again, as following those two weeks of reducing my intake, I’d had enough. My parents took me out on the day that I began eating normally again and I remember having the most beautiful large milkshake, with milk and ice-cream – artificial flavours and everything! Apart from returning to a vegetarian diet (which I later added seafood to), I didn’t deny myself after that, and over time I slowly crept up to my minimum normal weight and even a bit beyond. I never reached overweight, however I felt overweight. I felt ashamed to see anyone who had seen me before as thin and model-like. I felt that I would be judged harshly; that they would think that I looked very different to the usual me.

I had seen a couple of the other girls after they had returned to within their normal weight range and BMI, and they did look different. Although they looked better to me, they did not believe that they looked better. I understood this. Putting on weight and accepting the weight are two different things. It seemed that the whole of Western society idolised thin; and while I felt happy to be eating like a normal person again, I didn’t accept myself. So, instead of starving myself again, I basically hibernated. I told myself that I would see the people who knew me outside of my family when I felt comfortable with myself again. I didn’t even want the girls from the hospital to see me in my new body. Everyone put this it down to anxiety, which I suppose in some way it was. However, I did not develop agoraphobia in the sense that others believed that I did. I wasn’t having panic attacks at that stage – they emerged later – I simply couldn’t face the world as I saw it. B and I seemed to follow the same path on these things, and she also gained weight alongside me and felt the same panic that I did with her new body. Hence, she also didn’t leave the house.

During this period, my parents must have felt like tearing their hair out at us not leaving the family home. My mother was ridiculously loving and understanding of us, and so this was about the time that I started becoming much closer to her again. I had been very close to her as a young child, when I would get up early to be with her – having a cup of tea with her at 5 am in the morning before she went to work (as a nurse at the time) and while everyone else was still asleep. It was our time. I also remember feeling terrible anxiety at around the age of 10; worried that she might die – which may have been a remnant, subconscious fear following her cancer when I was a toddler. However, from that current age of 18, I finally started having an adult relationship with her. My father – well, he dealt with it differently. He stormed, brooded, yelled and threatened – which is what he’d always done when he didn’t feel that he could control something. We were too big to pick up or hit with his hands or belt anymore. He saw T and me as uncontrollable, and probably as disappointments as daughters as well. I can’t really blame him. This went on for more than two years.

Over this time, our weight fluctuated by about 5 or more kilos – up and down, up and down – until I finally settled on a weight that I felt suited me: 52 kg. Underweight for me? Yes, but I liked my body at that weight and it was a weight that I could successfully maintain without complete starvation and yo-yo dieting. I liked having that long, graceful-yet-strong ballerina body – I just couldn’t let it go – it was a part of my identity. Over the years I have maintained my preferred weight, or close to it, by a variety of methods – but mostly just healthy eating and food restriction combined with exercise. Over time, I became much more knowledgeable on fitness. So, fitness became much more important to me, and I grew strong again in swimming (which led me to become a lifeguard in the future), as well as many other athletic activities.

While I never outwardly criticise my body, I have quietly struggled at times with my ongoing battle with food – it can be emotionally exhausting. However, I have never lost control and been overweight nor had anorexia nervosa again. I have also never tried to reduce my weight by becoming bulimic, and I have only taken diet pills on two short occasions – with the last experience producing almost-disastrous results. The one long period that I did not have to actively restrict my kilojoule intake was when I was breastfeeding years later. It was a dream being able to eat anything that I wanted and not gain weight. After breastfeeding my first and second children for 1.5 years and 1 year respectively, I briefly went down to 45kg again after a viral illness. However, I genuinely didn’t like seeing myself as that thin again and returned to over 50kg a little while after the children were weaned and my metabolism began returning to normal. I feel guilty that most people who have surrounded me over the years have believed that I am just naturally thin, and for the most part I have allowed them to maintain this misconception of me. Not via lies – simply via silence. If only they knew.