#if i fail the pgce one month before the end i will actually lose my shit. i am NOT retaking this year

[charlottebent-blog]

My Story

Today marks a year since the eating disorder services attempted to section me. It may seem like an odd thing to commemorate. Although the day itself was extremely daunting, it was also a victory in a weird way. So here's my story, the story that led up to the very moment they attempted to detain me.

I'm 19, and I'm the happiest I've ever been (at this point in my life I'm at university in Kent, where I've made some amazing friends plus I'm in my first serious relationship - yes miracles do happen). With it being reading week (one of the many glorious holidays of university) I decide to attend a family gathering. On arrival my Nana hugs me so tightly I can feel my ribs cracking. She then holds me at arm's length before saying 'you look very womanly, look at your curves'. I awkwardly chuckle, before thanking her for what I can only assume she meant as a compliment. At the time I told no one, even now I know she meant no harm by it, however that comment changed everything. I remember almost immediately going to the bathroom, I required some reassurance and I honestly believed the mirror would provide this. It's safe to say I was absolutely horrified. Suddenly I was seeing this different Charlotte. A Charlotte who no longer looked slender but padded. A Charlotte who had thighs and a flabby stomach. And as if this wasn't proof enough, I later discovered the weird marks around my middle were in fact stretch marks.  In fairness it was naive of me to assume my weight would stay the same when I was drinking heavily every other night and living off a diet provided by Iceland. But what terrified me was that others were able to detect this change in me, yet I was oblivious (perhaps something to do with excessive amounts of vodka). I saw this as my wakeup call and made a pact to get healthier.

I stuck to my pact. I took up running again, and, much to my disappointment, stopped scoffing oreo's at 3am. It did the trick, I trimmed down as my Mum called it and I was content. I stayed this way for about a year. Then, during my second year of university, I got  a new job. I was thrilled to say the least and, here is the irony, I became an activity leader at a camp for overweight children. Yes readers, it is here that I developed an interest of food content. Part of the training involved learning how many calories were in my dominoes pizza and how much sugar was in my beloved innocent smoothie. It's safe to say I was disgusted with this new knowledge and suddenly the weight I gained during first year made sense. Having learnt that almost everything delicious was calorific, I began to check food labels using my job as an excuse. Plus, on one occasion I had been caught secretly inhaling a pile of jaffa cakes whilst the children weren't looking and got told I needed to practice what I preached. Despite the energetic and long activity sessions, I denied myself the tasty treats my body craved. And, although my body objected, I felt powerful in being able to ignore the cravings. It was then that I began to weigh myself at work to see if my willpower was paying off. To my delight my weight was decreasing, along with my body fat percentage. The feeling of this was like nothing I had experienced before and the dangerous part is that I never wanted it to end. To ensure that each week I had the same result I had to push myself further. I was content with my diet, therefore the only other method I knew for weight loss was exercise.

I went into my third year of university with a new exercise regime to ensure I stayed trim. I ran every day, giving myself one 'rest' day a week. Rest days made me feel anxious and guilty, therefore they gradually become fewer and fewer until I was exercising daily. I began to refuse myself nights out due to the fear of getting drunk and having a snackaccident (accidental snack) that would sabotage my weight loss. I struggled to explain to others why I couldn't go out so I gave lame excuses. Consequently, I lost a lot of the amazing friends I'd made. I began to recognise that my diet and exercise routine was very rigid and anything that deterred away from it resulted in a panicked frenzy. I developed a knee injury, but despite this I continued to run, with the addition of swimming and knee strengthening exercises, in hope that my knee would heal. When it rained or snowed I ran up and down the hallway of my student house. Yes, it's as nutty as it sounds, but at this point I had no idea I was spiralling into anorexia. I just told myself and my bewildered housemates that I loved running.

People began to comment on my weight loss, but in a more concerned manner than before. I remember sending my sister a photo of me in a new outfit. Thinking I looked toned and healthy, I was surprised when she replied saying I looked disgustingly thin and iller than Victoria Beckham. My boyfriend at the time reassured me that I looked nice. It was that moment that my sister predicted I'd get anorexia. 'Absolute bollocks', both my Mum said, 'people with anorexia just don't eat, whereas you do'. That was always my excuse.

With university soon coming to an end, I felt lost and confused. Friends around me had direction and aspirations, whilst they planned their futures I put off making important decisions, instead occupying myself at the gym, athletics track or swimming pool. Exercise gave me a purpose and sense of control, something I failed to achieve in other aspects of my life. Regardless, I worked hard for my degree but rather frustratingly graduated 1% off a first. I managed to gain a place on a PGCE Primary Education course in Kent and felt obliged to take it. I moved to a different part of Kent and reluctantly started teaching. I enjoyed living with strangers and away from my boyfriend. I was free to organise my time to suit me without judgement from anyone. However, the teaching degree was full-time, and I became increasingly anxious that I was losing valuable exercise time. Even though I would plan lessons and mark work whilst on my exercise bike it didn't feel like enough. The fear of becoming the fat Charlotte once again crept into my mentality more and more. With no other option, I began to restrict food. I studied food labels carefully, checking over and over again in case I'd misread them. I bulked up on vegetables and stopped eating anything remotely high in fat or calories. Whenever the opportunity arose I ran. I had entered a half-marathon, which gave me the excuse to run 10 miles often. I would wake up every night with agonising leg cramps and although I knew I was damaging my body, I couldn't stop. My anxiety around food and exercise became overwhelming. It was here that I ended my first serious relationship. At the time it seemed so easy, I didn't feel sad or heartbroken. Although rather selfishly, I felt relieved, purely because it gave me additional time to focus on exercise.

Despite living 250 miles away from my parents, my stress levels didn't go unnoticed. With my teaching degree becoming increasingly demanding, I was extremely anxious. I couldn't cope with being tested and criticised daily, and consequently I spent a lot of time crying down the phone to my Mum. Having lived away from home for almost 4 years, I was starting to experience the misery of homesickness. It was around this time that I had to significant wakeup call, whilst I was out running. Having ran every single day for the past 3 months, my body was knackered and my legs burnt in protest, however this pain didn't compare to the guilt of having a 'rest' day. I don't remember exactly what happened but suddenly I wasn't running and I crashed to the floor (to my embarrassment right in front of a group of French tourists, who spoke no English and appeared to be more concerned by what they'd purchased from the chocolate cafe than my accident). Everything stung and my inability to stand up panicked me. As I rolled myself onto my back I could see my skin and blood grazed on the pavement. I tried to calm myself with deep breaths, but quickly tears brimmed my eyes and my body began to tremble. I did the only thing I know what to do in a crisis: call my Mum. I clumsily tapped away at my phone, whilst picking myself up. With sore knees and a throbbing hip, I didn't dare check the damage. Typical that usually I can't get my Mum off the phone (usually riveting topics, such as the Council replacing the lampposts with weaker bulbs) yet, when I desperately require her to answer, I get her voice message. I dial my sister who, much to my relief, answers almost immediately and consoles me whilst I gently jog my battered body home.

After this incident my Dad came to Kent to intervene. My parents were growing more concerned about my well-being and encouraged me to see a doctor. Conveniently neither of them were there for the actual appointment. I didn't see much point as I was convinced there was nothing medically wrong with me. However, I reluctantly attended just to get my parents off my back. The doctor was nice enough. She asked me some lifestyle questions, weighed me and then handed me a leaflet on anorexia. 'Your body mass index is within anorexic range. Along with your feelings towards food and exercise I'm diagnosing you with anorexia. I'll put through a referral to the local eating disorder services'. I thought nothing of it at the time, this doctor didn't know me. I eat the same amount of meals as everybody else, plus I don't look like a skeleton. She'd obviously misdiagnosed me. My Mum cried when I called her. Although I didn't agree with the diagnosis I certainly felt like this gave me the excuse I so greatly needed to move back home. I told my parents I would suspend my teaching degree and seek relevant medical help in Manchester.

I was delighted to move back to Manchester. I felt elated and motivated to change my life for the better. However, my freedom was limited due to my parents keeping a watchful eye over me. I was so overly cautious that they were trying to fatten me up that whenever they left the house I went on my exercise bike for as long as time allowed. My food restriction habits also worsened, and although I had been referred to the eating disorder services, I was still losing weight weekly. I acted oblivious to this and continued to spiral further into anorexia. After a couple of months, it was clear I wasn't getting better. I got told my weight was now dangerously low that an inpatient admission was advised. It was a trip to this eating disorder hospital ward that triggered my recovery. Seeing the shells, of these sad, hollow beings frightened me. When I got home I binned my exercise bike and created a food plan with my Mum which I stuck to. I gained weight. I'm not going to say it was easy. It was so incredibly tough and like nothing I had experienced before. However, I was enjoying having a social life again and began working at Waterstones. I even had a fantastic holiday to New York with my sister. I could feel the old Charlotte emerging.

A few months down the line and I was struggling. My discomfort meant I refused to gain anymore weight. I was feeling extremely self-conscious about my body and found myself missing my anorexic tendencies. I longed to feel hunger. I ached for the achievement of exercising. I was at a crossroads and I chose the easier path. My downward spiral into anorexia happened so quickly, I didn't even realise I had relapsed. Within two months, I was being threatened with hospital again, only this time I accepted. I figured hospital was the answer to my recovery, and was admitted onto the Oaktrees Ward.

Hospital was more daunting than I'd remembered it. From the second I stepped foot on the ward I thought 'I'm too fat to be here'. Everybody was so painfully thin it was distressing. A few days into my admission and I learnt that my Grandad had died. I cursed myself for being stuck in hospital unable to comfort my family. To add to my upset the hospital was just outside of Liverpool and therefore 45 miles from my. It didn't take long for the homesickness to kick in. I longed for a hug from my Mum and my dog. The days were never-ending and it felt like all I did was continuously ate. But I followed my Grandad's instructions and I did what I was told when I was told. They were often short staffed, so I didn't receive the support I so greatly needed to cope with the weight gain. When my parents visited I'd cry and beg for them to take me home with them. I had never felt so fat and disgusted in my entire life. Furthermore, being on a ward surrounded by severely anorexic people made me feel like a fraud. After 4 months as an inpatient, I discharged myself against medical guidance.

Once back home I wasted no time in ensuring that I got rid of what I felt was excess weight. I spent my mornings hopelessly crying as I tried on multiple outfits, all of which I deemed too fat to wear. I'd reached such a point of desperation and despair that I attempted to take my own life (and obviously failed). I distanced myself from the services and didn't trust my parents as I felt they lied, repeatedly telling me I looked thin. I threw myself back into work, doing whatever hours I could get. I constantly distracted myself from food, walking my dog and taking up indoor exercise. Furthermore, having spent so much time surrounded by extreme anorexics I had learnt the tricks of the trade. I spent hours eating one meal, cutting it into tiny pieces and claiming I was full, despite my gurgling stomach. I hid food and discretely binned it when my parents weren't about. This time my relapse was severe. I recognised I was poorly, however, just like before, I couldn't stop. One night I ended up at A&E with my Mum, where a doctor told me my heart was wasting away. I still couldn't stop. The services had detected my decline and arranged an appointment which I was forced to attend. They told me I could agree to go back into hospital, or they would request a section and force me. I refused, how could I bring myself to return to the place that mentally worsened me? I cried and shouted and begged, but they went ahead with the section.

13th May 2016 will go down as the most frightening day of my life. I remember pinching myself, convinced it wasn't real. How had my weight gotten so dangerously low that I had to fight to claim my sanity. I didn't feel mentally deluded, surely I was still Charlotte? So there I was, 24 years old, sat in my family home at our kitchen table between my Mum, grasping my hand tightly, and my Dad, on guard, ready to fight for me. In that moment I have never felt so much love and affection towards my parents.  Opposite us sat a panel of medical professionals who had been sent to deem me mentally unstable and detain me. It was daunting to say the least. But we fought and argued for what felt like forever. Eventually, they came to the agreement that if I were to start a refeeding programme immediately and my parents were to take responsibility for my mental well-being, I would be allowed to remain at home. We all sighed with relief and hugged victoriously.

Although I am not always proud of my decisions and often doubt whether I am doing the right thing, I am proud to still be at home. I am proud to still be here and I am proud to still be fighting.

(Apologises for the blog equivalent of War and Peace, congrats if you actually made it to the end!)