A grim spell in the eating disorder wing of a psychiatric hospital has only raised more questions about ignorance of the disease
“You haven’t scooped all the butter out. Finish it all.” The nurse’s stare invaded from across the table, and her words continued the assault. She had finished supervising my breakfast, but was hell-bent on discovering any trace of leftovers, any hint of my illness now showing its mark in the almost empty flora pat beside my sticky fingers. They were sticky because – bowl of full-fat milk-soaked cereal, cup of tea, glass of water, glass of orange juice, two pieces of toast with butter and jam down – I had not been allowed to wipe my hands. Or my face for that matter, which was now sopping wet with tears. “You’ll just try to secrete your food in the napkin. You can clean yourself later.” Good bloody morning to you too, Nurse Ratched II.
As far as life ambitions go, this wasn’t one I had ever had in mind. Achieve highly at school, get that much-toiled-for degree from Cambridge. Add to that the all-important master’s in journalism, which with luck led to a job as a reporter at a local newspaper. In that world – my world – where grades, words and bylines meant absolutely everything, things were going swell. But delve between the lines, and under the increasingly baggy clothes I chose to hide my shrinking frame, times were getting tougher. Edith (as I came to call my illness), was growing inside me as I lessened in her presence. And before I could hear the alarm bells myself, I heard instead my friends, family and colleagues screaming in fear. I was pulled away from my path, and, before I knew it, had been pushed down the rabbit hole of recovery. First stop? The eating disorder wing of a psychiatric hospital in central London.
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SOURCE: Eating disorders | The Guardian – Read entire story here.