I’ve always had a strained relationship with food. I didn’t fit in at school because I was, supposedly, more intelligent (i.o.w.: less focused on boybands, make-up and boys, the things my peers would rave on about). I had extremely bushy hair, I was constantly reading, and I was extremely introverted. I started my high school career as a real-life Hermione Granger — a social outcast. You could say that I was quite the opposite of my two brothers. I was invisible, whereas they were the centre of attention because of their outgoing behaviour and their hyperactivity disorders. Because they required so much attention from my parents, I (wrongly) felt that my parents didn’t pay me much heed, and I slowly but surely turned into a little mouse — a little mouse who only felt comfortable with food, and around her computer.
Today is my birthday, and birthdays mean joy, happiness, and being surrounded by family and friends… but also birthday cakes and bites. Birthday food blows away all the joy for me at least once every birthday party, as someone remarks that she seriously has to start dieting again the day after, throwing a fearful look at the slice of pie. I’ll tell you something: that one piece is not going to bite, nor will it change you at all.
‘Numbers’ and ‘counting’ are key words in my life as an anorexic. The numbers were something I could count on, and I counted a lot of things in order to make decisions on what (not) to eat. These words became even more crucial during my recovery, especially when I got myself admitted to a clinic. I counted on their help. Suddenly, ‘numbers’ and ‘counting’ gained an entirely different meaning.