my secret life: a memoir of bulimia
DESCRIPTION
In this non-fiction story of struggle and grief, 'My Secret Life: A Memoir of Bulimia' details one teenager’s battle with Bulimia Nervosa. After two years of misery and depravity, Leanne Waters explores the development of her illness and looks closely at the psychological bedrock of this ambiguous disease. It is a first-hand account of a secret world that lurks behind closed doors in daily life. A penetrating insight into the mentality of a Bulimic, the story follows Waters through her transition from a high-achiever with tremendous potential to a shadowed breath of her former self.“It gradually became easier and easier to suppress the hunger pains and even tolerate the stabbing intensity of a truly empty stomach. I soon found myself enjoying the pain. It would spark in the lowest point of my stomach, light like a match and blaze until I thrashed in flames. Then it would tear north, shredding my sides and scorching beneath the skin that enveloped my chest. It was more than hunger. My insides screamed at a deafening pitch, unable to fight the devouring emptiness. Soon it was like my body turned against me in desperation. The hollow sting that I nurtured so affectionately began to eat away at me instead.”Available from www.amazon.com and www.bookdepository.co.ukhttp://www.amazon.com/My-Secret-Life-Bulimia-ebook/dp/B00607KSC2/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1320854546&sr=8-2TRANSCRIPT
153 × 234 SPINE: 22.5
Title: My Secret LifeAuthor: Leanna WatersDate: 06/10/11
TPS: 153 x 234mmSpine: 22.5 mmFormat: Crown quarto PBNo of Colours: 4Prints as: CMYKFinish: matt laminateCover Stock: Single sided cover board
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SECRETLIFE
MY
a m e m o i r o fb u l i m i a
L E A N N EW A T E R Smaverick
house
I S BN 978-1-905379-93-4
9 7 8 1 9 0 5 3 7 9 9 3 4
Cover image by Kevin Russ (iStock)Cover design by Two Associates
www.maverickhouse.com
A penetrating insight into the mentality of a bulimic, My Secret Life is a story of struggle and grief. Leanne Waters examines the development of her illness andlooks closely at the psychological foundations of this ambiguous disease.
“It gradually became easier and easier to suppress the hunger pains and even tolerate the stabbing intensity of a truly empty stomach. I soon found myself enjoying the pain. It would spark in the lowest point of my stomach, light like a match and blaze until I thrashed in � ames. � en it would tear north, shredding my sides and scorching beneath the skin that enveloped my chest. It was more than hunger. My insides screamed at a deafening pitch, unable to � ght the devouring emptiness. Soon it was like my body turned against me in desperation. � e hollow sting that I nurtured so a� ectionately began to eat away at me instead.”
MY SE
CR
ET L
IFE
LEA
NN
E W
ATER
S
My Secret Life
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Leanne Waters
My Secret Life
A Memoir of bulimia
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Published in 2011 by Maverick House PublisHers, office 19, Dunboyne business Park, Dunboyne, co. Meath, ireland.
[email protected]://www.maverickhouse.com
isbN: 978-1-905379-93-4
copyright for text © leanne Waterscopyright for typesetting, editing, layout, design © Maverick House.
5 4 3 2 1
The paper used in this book comes from wood pulp of managed forests. For every tree felled, at least one tree is planted, thereby renewing natural resources.
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
all rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a newspaper, magazine
or broadcast.
a ciP catalogue record for this book is available from the british library.
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About the author
Leanne experienced severe bullying as a child, was very reclusive
and quiet, often finding solace in writing. She suffered with mental
illness from a young age, experiencing episodes of anxiety and mild
depression. In her teens she suffered from bulimia nervosa and
underwent several months of behavioral therapy. Her book, My Secret
Life: A Memoir of Bulimia details that battle.
Leanne is now 21 years old and since that period, she has
dedicated her time to her personal development, as well as her studies
and writing. She is currently studying English at University College
Dublin and works for the UCD University Observer. She hopes to
enter into the field of journalism after completing her degree and go
on to write both fiction and non-fiction titles. She lives in Bray, Co.
Wicklow with her parents and siblings.
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To Mum and Dad, who remain the underlying bedrock of
everything I am or ever will be. I love you both.
To my friends Anna, Kate, Ami, Emily and Roisin; without you, I
never would have survived it.
To Nicholas, who kept me sane while writing this memoir. We got
there in the end.
Dedication
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Firstly, I would like to thank Michelle, a wonderful psychologist
and an even better woman. Without you, I never could have made it
through such a terrible time in my young life.
I would also like to thank my Granddad John, who instilled in
me a most devout passion for writing. You have been an inspiration to
me since I was a child and I will never forget all your encouragement
and all your teachings about our shared craft of writing.
Furthermore, I was blessed to have been taught by three very
special teachers throughout my education. Thank you to Mr. Enright,
Ms. Dunne, and Ms. Traynor-Byrne. All of you saw potential in me
when I don’t think I truly saw it in myself. Whatever flair for writing
I had before, it was because of you that I was brought to a standard of
actually being able to publish this book. Thank you for believing in
me. Finally, I would like to thank John Mooney, who took a chance
on me and on my little story.
Acknowledgements
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Foundations 13
The Fast 51
The Binge 90
The Purge 131
Intervention 160
Recovery 201
Regeneration 240
Contents
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13
I have never liked the term bulimia. As human beings, we seem to
feel the need to categorize everything and everyone. In doing so, we
innocently attempt to better understand that which has undergone
our necessary classifications. I, unfortunately, understand this more
than most. But I dislike the term nonetheless. You see, once labelled,
said thing or person must from that point onwards operate under that
register almost exclusively. Like everyone else, I never wanted to be
pigeonholed in any particular way, let alone by something like bulimia
nervosa. Since accepting the reality of my condition, however, I find
myself greatly altered and living what now feels like an accidental
existence. I do not think, feel or behave as others do anymore. Instead,
I think, feel and behave as a bulimic would. The distinction is all
too evident both to myself and to others. Once the term itself has
been applied, you are forever condemned to it. It shapes you, changes
you and worst of all, it victimizes you. And for this, I hate it with a
feverous passion. The problem is, in being bulimic I cannot fully be
me; but without bulimia, there is no me.
And so, I have been seduced into not only accepting the term,
Foundations
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but embracing it wholeheartedly to the very core of my being. I am
bulimic. And everything about me is defined under that term; that
often invisible umbrella which looms over all I do and everything I
am.
Someone I used to love very much once told me that bulimia
was merely an idea and that its existence was dependent wholly on the
strength of mind of the given individual. It’s not impossible that my
pride is what prevents me from believing this argument. As if being
bulimic isn’t ego-wounding enough, am I now to accept that it’s my
own fault and simply a result of my own weak mind? I rather contend
that it is my experience and now educated feelings that cause me to
disagree on the matter.
But I suppose I do bear some of the responsibility, despite others
having tried so tirelessly to convince me otherwise. It’s natural for
most loved ones to entertain the idea that none of this was my fault,
particularly when blame and guilt have been such viciously active
factors of the illness itself. But alleviating myself of all the responsibility
is something I can’t do. Because to a large extent, I secretly wanted
this. Don’t get me wrong, you don’t exactly wake up one morning
and say, ‘I think I’m going to be bulimic from now on.’ But once in
the grip of it, you learn to embrace it like a friend, like your closest
comrade and you would do anything to keep it safe. But we’re getting
ahead of ourselves now.
Naturally, I just can’t bring myself to agree that bulimia is merely
a notion or idea. An idea is something you conceive yourself. I didn’t
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conceive this, or at least not consciously. Nor did I create it. Sometimes
it feels like I was born with it, as if it were an organ in my biological
make-up, inactive until recent years when it decided to make itself
known. Yes, she had always been there; waiting, growing, learning.
I have had no singular trauma in my life to cause her debut. People
seem to think that that’s exclusively why an eating disorder comes
about, but not mine. I once received an upper-cut to the face for not
giving a girl a cigarette that landed me in St. Colmcille’s Hospital, but
that’s about it. If anything, I even relish in the fact that I can now say
very truthfully that I can take a mean punch.
But I won’t insult my bulimia by claiming that this or any other
isolated incident gave birth to her being. You’ll have to excuse my
use of the term ‘her’. I’m not simply addressing my bulimia as a man
would a car, but am referencing it as I have come to know it. She is the
person that lies deep within me; alive, almost fully formed and with
feelings and beliefs as any other person would possess. And without
her, I dare not think what would be left of me. This is part of the
reason I find difficulty warming to the expression ‘bulimia nervosa’.
It’s too clinical and does not give full credit to the weighty person she
has become. She is more than bulimia. She is my other half and the
darkness inside me that gives way to all my light. And for this, I will
endeavour to never insult her. Even still, I sometimes wish I could
protect her.
In order to find her foundations, we must go back to my own.
Though it’s difficult now to think of a time when she didn’t exist, I
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am convinced that at some point in my life I must have been a person
without bulimia. Or else, I must have been a person under some other,
more appeasing, title. Perfectionist, high-achiever, anal-retentive; take
your pick. I was once ranked among all of the above. I no longer
consider myself any of these things but that question remains open
to debate. I suppose, to a certain extent, I never did consider myself
any of these things. If I did, perhaps I wouldn’t have been so hell-bent
in my pursuit of perfection in the first place. Indeed, it was this very
pursuit that often justified my unhealthy habits and even the disease
itself. Let me explain.
I am a person who thoroughly enjoys profiling. Though I don’t
claim to have any academic or psychological understanding to do so,
more often than not, I will take an individual and mentally weigh up all
I know of them to come to a conclusive decision on their character. The
conclusion is subject to the current time and is variable; it can change
with my growing understandings of the person, different experiences
and of course, shifts in the traits of the individuals themselves. Now,
I know what you’re thinking; living with this girl must be hell. And
you’d be right. It is rather excruciating living with me. Unfortunately,
however, I can’t get away from me. That established, you can now
appreciate the agonising scrutiny I put myself under. But don’t give
me too much of your sympathy because as I’ve said, this is something
I enjoy doing; or at the very least, it’s something I’ve always done
and have now just persuaded myself into believing is enjoyable. Upon
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personal reflection, I am no longer just one unit. I break myself into
boxes and when separated, the contents of each may be better analysed
and more closely examined. We’ll take it one box at a time.
I am a very spiritual person. My faith is unyielding and ingrained
so deeply into my very being that it has evolved into an invisible limb
that works with and similarly to all others. Spirituality, therefore, is a
very notable box. To perfect it and all it stands for, I am a practising
Catholic. Despite its apparent unpopularity among my own generation,
I attend weekly mass, say bedtime prayers and every now and again
will even bother to read a particular scripture that my mother has
come across and suggested. Furthermore, I’m proud of this. Though I
make no attempts to boast about something so private, I relish in this
ideal. I am Catholic by chance of upbringing but by contrast, my faith
is something entirely internal and honest, untouchable even. As such,
I am proud of the perfection with which I have tried to facilitate that
faith. This box, consequently, is full. And if such an occasion arises
that calls this perfection into question, the entire box will be upended,
re-evaluated and altered if necessary.
The same rules would apply to my ‘intellectual’ box, if you will.
Being successful professionally, academically and even intellectually
was something I had valued very highly from a young age. It is true
to say, that how we measure the above is dependent on each of us as
individuals. I measured such things through high grades in school,
extensive reading and striving towards what I believed would be a
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financially rewarding job. And I was often triumphant. Your typical
pompous know-it-all, I was the perfect student my entire life. I worked,
over-worked and took independent study as seriously as anything
taught in the classroom. I read everything I could and especially titles
that were known for their notoriety if nothing else. I told myself that
I was bound for renowned glory in my chosen field of work and that
it would, surely, pay me substantially. My parents, who had never
enjoyed the luxury of furthering their own education and whose
pockets were as empty as our fridge at home, nurtured my ambitions.
While they struggled, I dreamed. Pumped with determination, I never
again wanted to feel the heavy guilt of knowing that for the little they
had, my parents gave me everything in their power. As long as they
could provide me with the means, I would work until I could change
our lives. And I did; even if for the worst. For almost the entirety of
my academic life, this box was stellar.
You’re starting to get a picture now, of how I operate mentally.
Apologies for what will appear like a sense of self-importance; I
assure you, it is mere neuroticism and nothing more. But what we are
currently discussing forms the bedrock of the mentality that brought
me so effortlessly and comfortably to the state of dysfunction that was
to dominate such an imperative time in my life.
To further prove this, I will address just one more box, one more
facet of grave significance. This is my appearance. It is here we find
one of the many justifications I invented both to fuel and conceal
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my bulimia and everything she wished of me. It was this box that
contributed to bringing about the extremist methods undertaken in
my obstinate pursuit of perfection. If I could control and champion
all other aspects of my life, this would be of no exception. So you
see, though my aesthetical make-up was always relevant, it remained a
mere factor of a much bigger equation. Therefore, to say one develops
an eating disorder because they are unhappy with how they look or
what they weigh, is utterly invalid and insufficient. Indeed, while in
the heavy fog of my bulimia, a friend said to me, ‘But Leanne, you’re
a really attractive girl. You know you are.’ Perhaps this was intended
to dissuade me from what she believed was a chosen lifestyle. It would
have never worked because this was not the problem in the first place
and my friend could never have understood this. She had never
experienced a friendship like that of mine with my bulimia. All that
said, my appearance does play a huge role in all of this and the issue
of my weight became the target that bulimia would unleash all her
furious wrath upon.
It was an easy target, in hindsight. It had been something I had
always struggled with and was one of my personal failures on my path
to perfection. If anything could damage my flawless mental profile,
it would be my weight. Like almost every teenage girl, I contended
with a negative body-image. I knew all girls of my age harboured
negative thoughts on their own appearances, usually invalid, but I
was certain that their temporary worries could not match mine.
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Mine bore authenticity and a reason for concern. I had somewhat
of a misunderstood-complex whereby no one could have possibly
understood the pain of having to live in my own skin. They didn’t have
the memories I had and surely could not have been carrying the load
that I strung over my shoulders daily. It’s amazing what people can
convince themselves of. To put it all quite simply, I can recall my dear
friend Anna asking me a difficult question. We were mid-argument
about the issue of my weight when she finally yelled, ‘How can you
possibly think you’re fat? Are you gone in the head?’ Disregarding the
latter of her statement, to which I’d say yes, sometimes I wonder if I
am truly ‘gone in the head’, I thought only of one incident from a very
long time ago.
I am six years old. Patrick is the cutest boy in our year; all the girls
like to play kiss-chasing with him. He was very bold to a teacher not
so long ago and left school. But he’s back now and I can see him in
the yard. He is talking to Sarah. She is my best friend in the whole
world and made me a friendship bracelet last week. When she tied the
bracelet around my wrist, she told me to tell her my biggest secret and
that because we know each other’s biggest secrets, we were best friends.
I don’t know what her secret is, maybe I forgot to ask her. I told her
that I liked Patrick and wanted to play kiss-chasing with him in the
yard. And now Sarah is talking to Patrick; she’s asking him to play
kiss-chasing with us. I’m nervous because I can’t run very fast.
I’m standing at the yard gate by myself and looking at my new
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runners. Mum gave them to me on my birthday. She knows I still can’t
tie my shoe-laces so bought me ones with straps instead. Sarah and
Patrick are laughing now, so maybe that means he wants to play. I am
not allowed go over to them until they tell me to so I wait by the yard
gate. The yard is the biggest I have ever seen. Everyone loves this yard.
The boys are playing football and the girls are skipping. I tried to skip
with them once but got caught on the rope and they don’t let me play
anymore. When the teacher found out, all the girls were in big trouble
and were told that they had to let me play. I told them I didn’t like
skipping all that much anyway.
‘Hello there, Leanne.’ Ms Dunphy is standing over me now
with her yard bell. She isn’t as old as the other teachers and always
smiles. ‘Why are you over here by yourself?’
‘I’m not by myself, miss’, I tell her. ‘I’m playing with Sarah.’
‘Where is Sarah?’ she asks.
I point across the yard at Sarah and Patrick. They look angry
with me now and I don’t want to talk to Ms Dunphy anymore. I wish
she would go away.
‘We’re playing a game.’ I tell her. But she isn’t smiling as much
now.
‘What kind of game?’
‘I can’t tell you, Miss. It’s a secret.’ I smile as wide as I can
but cannot look her in the face. I’m angry at myself for lying to Ms
Dunphy but don’t want Sarah or Patrick to get mad with me. Ms
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Dunphy murmurs something to me about how she is my friend. I nod
frantically and eventually she walks away. I’m glad she’s gone but am
scared now because Sarah and Patrick have been watching me. I wave
to Sarah and the two start laughing again before finally Sarah waves at
me to go over. I’m so glad that I don’t have to stand by myself anymore
and tug at my skirt because I know my cheeks are red.
‘Tell Patrick what you told me,’ Sarah orders with a gleeful
smile. Patrick is laughing and I suddenly wish Ms Dunphy would ring
the yard bell.
‘Well, go on!’ she says again.
‘I don’t want to,’ I mumble. I have a lump in my throat.
‘You’re so mean,’ Sarah exclaims. ‘Patrick is our friend and you’re
excluding him. I’m telling Ms Dunphy on you if you don’t.’
‘I....I...I like you.’ The words fumble their way out of my mouth
and I keep looking at my new runners.
‘I TOLD you!’ Sarah screams and the two begin to laugh beyond
all control. I don’t know what to do so I pretend to laugh too. When I
do this, Sarah and Patrick both stop sharply. They exchange looks and
then glare at me.
‘You’re disgusting’, Patrick says with a winced face. ‘You’re so
fat.’
I shrug my shoulders and the pair continue laughing. Ms
Dunphy rings the yard bell and Sarah takes my hand so we can go to
line-up. When I’m standing behind her, she turns around and puts her
finger to her lips. I’m not allowed tell.
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