Despite the fact that our current culture is tremendously obsessed with food, and fad diets and disarranged eating patterns are exceedingly common, clinically diagnosed eating disorders are less so. Up till this day, myriads of gimmicks continue to arise in the media’s representation of eating disorders. Our culture of misinformation, shame and stigma runs rampant in the stereotypical depiction of what eating disorders visually seem. It is no surprise that these illnesses are surrounded by a multitude of myths and misconceptions. Having said that, the agonizing truth about eating disorders is that they’re not glamorous, they're not a ‘phase’ that one grows out of, and they aren’t privilege for skinny teenage white girls - they are severe, not to mention life-threatening mental illnesses defined by torment and obsession. Individuals with incredibly similar conditions may not show the same physical symptoms - anyone can have an eating disorder, regardless of their gender, sex, body shape or size. Apart from medical complications that result from chronic starvation, binge-eating, purging and over-exercising, suicide is also prevalent among sufferers. Eating disorders deserve to be taken seriously, otherwise the culture of covertness will never be broken.
It has been really challenging for me to open up and reach out for help these past few years as I was terribly afraid that people will see through my façade and judge me for all the embarrassing things I’ve done. Please prepare yourselves as what you’re about to read might change what you think of me completely. So sit back and I don’t know...grab a drink? Because this is gonna be a long one.
It all started in 11th grade, when I was introduced to the world of social media (I came in quite late as I was a total dweeb back then). It would be a daily routine...scratch that...an hourly routine to mindlessly scroll through Instagram and come across thousands of images of other people’s bodies – whether they were my friends’ holiday snaps or my favorite celebrities’ gym selfies. All those ‘fitspiration’ images which feature beautiful people working out (or at least pretending to), and all those selfies of people flaunting their impeccable curves and facial features made me harsher on myself. I’d wrestle with body dysmorphia (an anxiety disorder related to body image) every single day. I’d look into the mirror and cry as I pinched my love handles.
I know this may sound futile, pathetic and vain, but I was just so jealous of thin people and their extraordinary metabolism. They would inhale heaps of tasty junk food and treat themselves to Starbucks frappuccinos topped with a hefty amount of whipped cream and an extra drizzle of caramel sauce, while I miserably sat back and forced myself to enjoy a gigantic kale salad that punched a walloping 100 calories tops (thanks to my discovery that balsamic vinaigrette added flavor but not a single calorie). In all seriousness, I’ve never actually seen a thin person drink coke-zero. Everything was so unfair.
I wasn’t that overweight or ugly or anything, but I just felt like my body wasn’t good enough. Majority of my relatives and schoolmates filled me with a plethora of negative comments about my appearance from time to time, and I was easily hurt by their criticism and rejection. I just couldn’t stop myself from caring so much about what others thought about me. So one day, on my way home from school, I told myself, “Maybe they’re right...I should start losing some weight.”
I restricted calories and obsessively exercised. I banned myself from tasting the forbidden fruit of McDonald’s fries and KFC fried chicken. I even downloaded an app on my phone to track every calorie I consumed. Most days, I’d limit myself to around 1500 calories a day - rather low, but still quite reasonable. However, as soon as there wasn't any progress in dropping my weight and losing inches around my waist, I restricted my daily calorie intake from 1000 calories, to 500 calories, to 100 calories, then to eating absolutely nothing. My world revolved solely around exercise, calories and food. Sh*t got real when I started to painstakingly weigh my lettuce and count my raisins.
My starved brain cut off my spontaneity, flexibility, creativity, and my ability to take pleasure in activities I used to find enjoyable (i.e. drawing, singing, ice-skating, playing the piano and riding my skateboard). When I had free-time, I chose to waste hours on the Buzzfeed Tasty app searching for mouth-watering recipes of food I never intended to eat. Most nights I’d stay up well past midnight googling images of seductive chocolate cakes and watching jajangmyeon asmr videos. On top of that, I exercised five to six times a day (and often ran on empty) and weighed myself religiously. Although it was soul crushing, I didn’t give up. Not even for a day.
At some point, my schoolmates began to notice my weight loss and envied me. Even those whom I didn’t have the courage to talk to in the past approached me and complimented my slim figure. It was that moment when I thought, “My hard work has finally paid off! I’m finally getting noticed!” I know this sounds ridiculous, but these compliments and praises made me feel a sense of achievement, and gave me motivation and a purpose to go on with my life. I eventually gained the confidence to wear shorts and crop-tops and post selfies on Instagram and Snapchat.
The euphoria didn’t last long though, as being praised made me feel better for a few moments before I went back to feeling low. It was also gradually getting more and more difficult for me to spare time for the gym, ergo to keep those unwanted pounds off. When I didn't meet the unrealistic expectations I set for myself, when I ate over my daily calorie goal just by a mere 20 calories, when I ate something with an unknown number of calories, or when I missed a workout, I would mentally beat myself up.
As finals kicked in, I was under immense pressure. I barely had the time to exercise and plan my meals, and I was stress-eating nearly every day. I’d go to the supermarket or a café and stand there in a daze for about 20 minutes, sweating, thinking about what to eat, and then walk out with nothing. But most times I wouldn’t even think - I’d just pick up anything that was in front of me, wolf it down in seconds, and then cry on my way home because all I wanted was for the food to be out of my body.
Consequently, I started gaining all the weight back, reaching my heaviest weight ever at 55kg. I also lost my beloved 6-pack abs which I worked exceptionally hard for. I felt fat, ugly, lazy, stupid, worthless; I felt that didn’t have a purpose to exist. Not only have all my weight-loss efforts gone down the drain, but the confidence I once had vanished into thin air.
As if things weren’t terrible enough, my grades plummeted like crazy due to my inability to concentrate well on my studies. You see, I had been a fairly bright student throughout the previous years (I had been a school prefect, a class monitor and a subject captain; and was awarded third in class by the end of 6th grade in elementary school. In addition, I had maintained a streak of ranking first in Science from 7th to 8th grade, then in Chemistry from 9th to 10th grade), so achieving good grades meant a lot to me, my teachers and my parents. Failing tests consecutively, especially on subjects I used to be best at, made me depressed.
After the 11th grade A-levels were over and upon entering 12th grade, things got a little better...or so I thought. I started working out and controlling my diet again, so I managed to lose all the weight I gained from the previous year. At the same time, I purchased laxatives and forced myself to vomit in secret. But as materials became harder, competition got fiercer, and pressure slowly built up, I began to lose my sh*t all over again, causing me to lose an enormous 15kg in an unbelievably short span of 3 months.
“You seriously need to eat more!”, “How are you even standing?”, “My thighs are literally twice the size of yours!”, “Are you sure you can carry all that by yourself?” - these are a few of the very, very many comments I’d been hearing ever since then. To them, it seemed like I didn’t have a reason to be sad; I smiled when people complimented and envied my thin figure, and I was able to carry out pleasant conversations with my schoolmates. But in all honesty, I felt that going to school was a grueling experience. I had to put on a mask to the outside world while leading a seemingly active, worry and stress-free life. During this period, my parents have been bringing me to countless therapists (who weren’t of much help), and I was officially diagnosed with anorexia, bulimia and depression.
I chose to turn a blind eye to my disease and hid symptoms from my friends only until very recently out of shame and because I was afraid that they would make it stop. But most people, including my friends, family and teachers definitely knew that there was something up with me.
After a formidable 3-week-long deliberation, my parents, doctors and I reached a verdict of arranging a meeting with my teachers to discuss my situation. Therefore, my dad sent an email to my class teacher addressing my condition, and asked for her and my other subject teachers’ availability.
And so...the meeting happened. A combination of intense fear and anxiety washed over me, as I anticipated scorn on my return to school. The idea of facing my classmates (excluding my best friends, whom I’ve already confessed to) and teachers made my blood run cold. I was certain that nearly all of them knew about my condition. And even for those who didn’t, they surely must’ve guessed it. It was ten to one that my friends would be caught off guard at how severe and pervasive my eating disorder behaviors were.
I also feared that people would assume that I was on a fad diet - my eating disorder is not a conscious decision. No one wakes up and says, “Oh wow, I should ruin my life today!”. I was scared that people would insinuate that I could simply just stop ‘dieting’. Sometimes, I identified with my illness so tenaciously that I’d rather cease to exist than be separated from it. Sometimes, the battle was too hard that I wished for a grim outcome. And sometimes, my ultimate goal wasn’t to die, but to instantly diminish to nothing. Likewise, I didn’t want anyone to assume that I was using my illness as an excuse to escape all my responsibilities or to seek attention. That assumption is absolute bullsh*t because honestly, I would rather disappear than be noticed.
Ever since that meeting, my teachers have been acting a bit unlike themselves around me. Math lessons remained more or less the same, minus the fact that my teacher grew a lot more patient with me. As for Biology lessons...not much difference. Our teacher had always been really nice to everyone, anyway. Chemistry lessons had the most dramatic change from last year. It wasn’t the subject materials nor the syllabus, per se, but my Chemistry teacher - there was definitely something off about her.
She acted unusually nice around me, which made me wonder whether it was all just a dream, or whether I was trapped in a hypothetical self-contained plane of existence. There was this one time after school when she flashed me a grotesque, constrained smile...that memory continues to thrive vividly in my head till this very day. I know this may sound like an overstatement, but the thought of it never failed to send shivers down my spine (no tea, no shade).
In 11th grade, during her lectures, my Chemistry teacher would oftentimes call my name, letting me to fall victim to her disconcerting questions. Whenever I took too long to think, or whenever I gave her the wrong answer, I’d be done for. But in 12th grade, every time she asked a question - every time - she never picked me. She wouldn’t even look me in the eye; it was as if she was intentionally dodging me or something. At times when I wanted to raise questions in class, she would totally ignore me even if I’ve been flapping my hands here and there like a deflating human balloon for 10 minutes straight. Although I did somehow appreciate her effort in trying not to pressure me, I didn’t feel the need to be left out during class. Honestly, she just aggravated my already hard feelings towards her.
My Chemistry teacher viewed me as a ticking time bomb; she wouldn’t dare lay a finger on me when I flunked chapter tests, albeit her intentions of roasting me alive were blatantly obvious. It was enigmatic and bewildering because seconds after comforting me and telling me, “It’s okay to fail sometimes” in a honeyed voice, she proceeded to scold my seatmate who didn’t even do as poorly as I did. The special treatment she had been giving me was too overwhelming and didn't do me any good at all. Forgive me for sounding like a total masochist, (sorry lol I can’t find another word) but I’d rather be treated equally like the rest of my classmates and get yelled at for my mistakes.
I have too much shade to throw right now, *sigh*...I think I'll stop here because my emotions are clearly getting the best of me. Cross my fingers that my Chemistry teacher never reads this.
Anyway,
Since my eating disorder thrived on isolation and secrecy, it worked hand-in-hand with depression and anxiety. My mental illness had complete control over me, and all my thoughts and actions were shaped by it. I presume that not many of you get the entire picture of what it’s like to be anorexic or bulimic, so here’s an insight of a day in my life, based on real experience:
(The following may be triggering to some people. Please read at your own risk.)
My alarm goes off and I get ready for school. Then, I try my best not to look in the mirror before I get my uniform on, but inevitably, I do. The voice in my head tells me that I look fat and that I probably gained a f*ckton of weight from everything I binged on last night. But I purged afterwards though, so that gives me a little reprieve from the criticism. I relish the idea of not feeling hungry in the morning, so I pretend to eat my oatmeal in order to satisfy my mom. That way, I’m not taking in any additional calories.
Throughout class, I try to come up with all sorts of creative excuses to avoid eating lunch altogether, because if I can just avoid eating so much, I won’t have to purge again. For instance, I go to the study room and tell my friends that I need to study for an upcoming test. I usually starve myself, but maybe today I can have exactly 14 almonds (thank goodness I had extra calories in the bank from my oatmeal abstinence) and drink gallons of nauseating calorie-free sodas. I struggle to swallow because my throat is sore and my teeth are so sensitive to temperature from my constant purging.
When lunch is over, I feel tired, light-headed and irrational. My eyes are bloodshot, and I’m unable to concentrate and think logically during class. My teacher asks me if I’m okay, and naturally I lie and say that I simply lack sleep just like any other student in the classroom. I’ll only be thinking about how the rest of the day will go. “What is my dad making for dinner?”, “Will I be able to avoid eating dinner altogether? Hmm...that’s highly unlikely, plus I’ll most likely end up overeating instead.”, “How will I get rid of the excess food?”, “How will I hide my purging from my parents?” The stream of questions and concerns surrounding food and eating is unending.
After what felt like an eternity, school’s finally over. I am utterly ravenous and frankly, a psychotic uber-b*tch. Part of me knows that I need to get food into my system, but the voice of my eating disorder keeps criticizing me, convincing me that I don’t deserve to eat as I am too fat already. Despite all the self-degradation, I somehow manage to convince my friends to hang out at the mall without me because I have [to splurge all my money on as much food as possible, so I can eat as much as possible in order to make my binge ‘worthwhile’, then purge all the food I consumed to get rid of the excess calories and to cope with my misery] 'an appointment to attend to'. Spending all my spare-time bent over a toilet seat is one sure way of terminating friendships...
As I arrive home and ask my dad what’s for dinner, he tells me and I groan inwardly as it’s one of my favorite meals. How the flipping hell am I supposed to avoid eating his signature fried chicken!? I sit down for dinner, eat hastily and waaaay too much. My brother stares at me in confusion as I devour practically everything on the dinner table before he manages to take his second bite of chicken.
It isn’t before long when I find myself heading straight to the pantry to finish the box of Oreos, the loaf of bread, the jar of Skippy, the bag of granola and the canister of sour cream & onion Pringles in secret. That way, they won’t be able to tempt me the next day and I can truly start my diet tomorrow. I’m gonna throw up anyway, so might as well eat everything I want.
Moments later, I feel like my stomach’s about to explode, so I rush to the bathroom and throw up till I can taste the bitterness of my stomach bile and see blood dripping out of my mouth, as those generally indicate that my purge is successful. I take forever because the peanut butter and bread clumped together and are impossible to get out. To override the sound of my vomiting, I make sure to blast BigBang’s Fantastic Baby on Spotify. My dad knocks on the door and asks what’s taking me so long, and I choose to lie that I’m taking a huge dump. Being the naive person he’s always been, he obviously believes me.
The next step is to mitigate the crime scene in a short enough space of time so that no one suspects anything (it’s something I’ve mastered over time...not that that’s any sort of aspiration anyone should have). I clean the area intensively and spray deodorant all over the place like a lunatic, as the last thing I want to happen is for the bathroom to reek with the unpleasant smell of my vomit.
I return to my room and pop a laxative into my mouth to help alleviate my stress, only to realize that it’s already past midnight. “Butter my butt and call it a biscuit...I completely forgot about the Chemistry test tomorrow!” But instead of hitting the books, I choose to mentally thrash myself and cry myself to sleep. I don’t want to suffer like this anymore. On the contrary, I continue to bottle up my emotions and turn to food in times of distress, persistently sneaking into the kitchen to gobble up a staggering amount of food, and sneaking whole packages of snacks to my room to resume the endless cycle of bingeing and purging.
~
The bout of anorexia, bulimia and depression left me malnourished and enfeebled. I had to bear a clusterf*ck of unpleasant medical complications in my rapidly deteriorating body: (The extensive use of jargon is pretty mind-boggling, so I attached links.)
My nails went blue (due to poor blood circulation); my hair got thinner (as my protein stores have become depleted); my skin was discolored and dry, my mouth was parched and my lips were chapped (purging causes dehydration); my face was puffy (owing to the swelling of salivary glands on the inner walls of my cheeks); and the scars on my knuckles and around my mouth (which I got from self-induced vomiting) were glaringly conspicuous. I lost my period (due to hormone imbalances) and jeopardized my fertility; my skin was constantly mottled with cold (as a result of low body fat percentage); and people teased me about my lanugo and yellowed teeth (in behalf of the erosion of my tooth enamel). I had difficulty swallowing (thanks to my ruptured oesophagus), and experienced recurrent bloating and abdominal distention (due to specific vitamin and mineral deficiencies). My bones stuck out; my joints were weak (by reason of a decrease in bone density and muscle depletion), resulting in an increased risk for fractures; and I barely had the energy to do the simplest things. Furthermore, because I had been chronically ignoring the importance of meal-timing and frequency, I lost my sensitivity to my hunger and fullness cues en masse.
Aside from all the physical complications, I had extreme mood swings from time to time; I was all over the place. I struggled doing the easiest things, found it extremely hard to catch up in class and didn't have any motivation to do well at school. I became prone to anticipate failure, tended to ruminate about negative situations, and had a difficult time getting over humiliating and embarrassing situations. I was filled with envy and angst and embraced rebellion as a coping mechanism; I thumbed my nose at teachers and broke school rules like cheating in tests, eating during class, getting multiple piercings on each ear, applying heavy makeup, shaving my hair and dying it light-brown...and maybe I should stop here because the list would go on forever. *
Other than that, I stole from big retail shops, tiny boutiques, random bargain stores, street markets, department stores and supermarkets (and got caught red-handed once), so basically you can refer to me as a juvenile delinquent. I felt incompetent, repulsive, inadequate, unattractive and dim-witted; I questioned the purpose of my existence on a daily basis. My obscure mindset, obnoxious demeanor and unfathomable emotions had driven my friends, teachers, parents and brother away as they most probably decided that they didn’t want anything to do with me anymore.
* I can never forget this one particular female chemistry teacher (with initials S.C.) who told me off over and over for my misconduct; howbeit, she normally argued and raised objections about pathetic, trivial matters. For instance, she once hilariously told me off for my square-shaped earrings, because in her world, it was against the school rules if they weren’t circular. There were times when she scolded me for wearing ‘scandalous’, ‘provocative’ ripped jeans to extra-lessons; and when I said ‘ripped’, I meant a single teeny-weeny, barely-visible hole below my right knee. - I know this is completely off-topic, but I just wanted to share this with you because never in my whole life have I hated someone with so much passion.
By the time I graduated from highschool, I was around 32kg - the weight of a typical tween. I surely did want to take a triumphant leap from what I feared was a fat wagon, but my brain just wasn’t too keen on the idea. I had uncontrollable thoughts of emptying my stomach because I was ‘too fat’, didn’t deserve to be nourished, etc. School was over, so my mom had the chance to meticulously monitor my weight and food intake and scold me whenever she caught me purging; she was just inevitable.
Day by day she would force me to eat a massive amount of food, hoping I would magically gain 10kg by sunrise. She consistently doubted and questioned all my actions and whereabouts, and obliged me to send her photos as ‘evidence’ of who I hung out with, where I was, what I ate, how much money I spent, etc. My mom also made sure that I kept my hands off my own credit card. There were even times when she forbade me from stepping out of the house.
Instead of being patient, lowering her pride, negotiating, and setting principles that apply to all members of the family, my mom set unrealistic, unilateral rules and regulations specifically designed for me. I was placed in an authoritarian environment where I was seen as a subordinate, and I wasn’t allowed to question this dynamic or voice out my opinions.
She banned me from exposing my limbs, such as wearing shorts and short-sleeve shirts, and demanded that I cover up my body with jackets and baggy pants - I know y’all are thinking she must’ve done that because she didn’t want people to thin-shame me and hurt my feelings...but well, smack my ass and call me Judy because sadly, that wasn’t the reason. The main reason was that she feared my scrawny appearance would directly reflect on her; my mom didn’t want passer-bys to think that she was a negligent parent for allowing her daughter to walk around looking like Skindiana Bones.
Whenever I pointed out her oppressive behavior or whenever we weren’t able to come to an agreement, she would give me a good scolding. It was unfair because among me and my brother, only I got this special treatment. Despite being an adult already, I wasn’t able to gain independence and make decisions on my own as my parents lacked trust in me. Shunning my mom and steering clear of her eternal bickering was a no-win situation. Arguments within the family progressively escalated in the long run (at times it got physical). I felt like a burden to everyone for being the likely root cause of all the conflicts at home.
Moreover, my brother and I grew apart. We’ve never had a falling-out of any kind, but when I think back, he probably began severing ties with me emotionally when he found out about my illness. I did make a lot of effort to communicate and share my feelings with him, but he never bat an eyelid; no effort was ever made on his part to acknowledge me and do the same. As a matter of fact, there were days when he wouldn’t even spare me a glance or talk to me at all, unless I initiated the convo. Besides, he nonchalantly blocked me on Instagram and lied about not having a girlfriend (I figured out because I had my sources). My brother acted and spoke so differently (in a good way) around his friends and classmates, that it was hardly possible for me to recognize him. I genuinely envied them so much because they regularly got to see his caring, sociable, friendly side; while I, on the other hand, felt like I was testing his patience on a day-to-day basis.
I felt like my efforts were unappreciated, or that having any kind of a relationship with me - his one and only sister - was insignificant to him. I went through a looooong period of heartache. You've got no idea how painful it was to have someone you love become physically and emotionally distant. I reminisced about the laughter, the fun, and the unforgettable memories we shared together as grade-schoolers. Looking back at our old photos (when he was still unaware of my eating disorder and depression) brought on pure nostalgia and had always made me cry my eyes out. Nowadays, though, my (non-)relationship with my brother simply baffles me, and it seems that I've just had to face up to the truth and learn to accept it for what it is.
Slowly but surely, my depression exacerbated, ultimately leaving me binge-purging a lot more frequently - from 10 to a whopping 20 times a day, every day (nope, this isn’t an exaggeration). My abuse of laxatives and forcing myself to vomit to compensate for what I perceived as ‘excessive food intake’ left me severely dehydrated, which increased the likelihood of kidney failure and put me at a significantly high risk of sudden death from heart attacks due to electrolyte imbalances. I experienced severe insomnia every night and periodically came down with night eating syndrome.
The strength that I had to go on with my daily life made me especially vulnerable to carrying out suicide plans; surges of thoughts about ending it all perpetuated inside my head night after night. I googled things like ‘quickest and easiest ways to commit suicide’ and ‘how to die painlessly’. There were multiple times when I found myself in scenarios where I almost slit my own throat and stabbed myself in the stomach (thank heavens for making me such a wimp to actually act on my intentions). Pretty ironic, considering I’d wake up every morning frustrated as I was still alive and breathing.
The siege of anorexia and depression debilitated me entirely. Since there was little else my parents could do, they arrived at a firm conclusion to seek advice from my clinical psychiatrist at UCH and request a thorough examination on the effects of my undermining illness. Upon arrival at the hospital, the nurses brought me to the egregious observation room to have my weight, height, blood pressure, heart rate and SpO2 level measured...you know, the usual. I was then asked to provide blood and urine samples so that they can run tests and detect any possible abnormalities. As soon as the results came out, they were given to my psychiatrist and my parents were led into her office for an in-depth discussion regarding my condition, based on my results.
After dealing with an entire hour of anguish and tribulation in the observation room, all that was left for me was to wait for everyone else. I sat right outside my psychiatrist’s office, occasionally peeping through the blinds that covered the tiny window on the door. Every time I made eye contact with her, she painted a ray of sunshine all over her face, as if she was signaling to me that everything’s gonna be just fine. But I was highly skeptical of that smile...there was definitely a catch. Seconds turned to minutes, and minutes gradually turned to hours; I grew more nervous and fidgety with each passing minute. Goodness knew I did not wish to prolong the agony, but I felt that some careful deliberation between my parents and psychiatrist was needed. Therefore, in an attempt to calm my nerves, I compelled myself to listen to a 1-hour loop of Yiruma’s River Flows In You on Youtube.
After an excruciating 45-minute wait, I was at last called in to join the discussion. There was a sudden change in atmosphere when I entered the room. I reached for the results sheet on the table, albeit reluctantly. At first the expressions on my parents’ faces were incomprehensible; but as soon as I read my results, I eventually understood the meaning behind their sullen faces. My weight had plunged to its lowest at a gobsmacking 28kg on my 151cm frame. That’s right...twenty-f*cking-eight kilograms (sure, even I was dumbfounded). My BMI of only 12.3 indicated that I was dangerously underweight.
“Kathleen,” my mom said quietly as she rested her hand on my shoulder. Her voice was heavy with shame, the same way her guilt weighed down upon her shoulders, “I think it's time.”
The world around me began to crumble; I wasn’t ready in the least for what I was about to hear, nor was my mind in the state to willingly accept my psychiatrist’s decision. I never had the guts to prepare myself for the worst because I was foolish enough to persuade myself that the worst could never happen.
“You can’t do this to me...you can’t just do sh*t like this! I thought you and Dad loved me!” My voice started off sharp as I spoke, but then I broke down; and before everyone knew it, I was on the verge of tears, trying desperately to conceal my emotions and to keep my face and my words straight and stern.
My psychiatrist was initially quite hesitant to admit me to the paediatric ward at my age (I was 17, turning 18), but because my results were evidently unfavorable at that time, she felt that I needed an around-the-clock monitoring of my feelings and supervision of my food intake from the following 2 months onwards (i.e. mid-July of 2019). Hence, she advised my parents to have me admitted. Aside from the results seen on paper, the tell-tale behaviors of depression were present in me, so that led to an additional tick against another piece of criterion for admission. I was lucky enough to board with the little girls in the juvenile unit since I was still a minor.
My dad leaned forward in his chair. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but this is the best we can do. Your health is more important than anything else right now...I hope you understand that.” When he spoke, his voice sounded like it was made of stone. The clarity of his tone was undermined by a choking heaviness, forcing him to pause several times. His teary eyes closed and a single tear flowed down his left cheek. When all is said and done, he stopped trying and lowered his head in a muffled sob.
My heart pounded with intense feelings of anger and betrayal. Unable to hold them back any longer, I flipped out and headed straight to the washroom as my mom followed from behind. “Go...” I said in a brittle voice, shaking my head, “...just leave me alone, Mom.” My heart felt fragile, as if it was about to break; perhaps my heart was already shattered into pieces.
I was told that I needed to stay in the wards till my relationship with my parents ameliorated and till my health and mood stabilized, which my psychiatrist claimed to be approximately a short duration of 2 to 3 weeks. However, things took a turn for the worst and my stay had to be extended to a lengthy 4 months. (That’s almost half a year!) Consequently, I was left with no choice but to take a year-long break from school, albeit painful and unbelievably hard to swallow.
When my psychiatrist rang me up to inform me of the change in plans, I immediately flew off the handle and shouted down the phone, “For the past 2 years, I had been pouring all my blood, sweat, and tears into studying for the f*cking A-levels; I made a sh*tload of sacrifices and had to put myself through an awfully long period of torment, grief and melancholy...and now you’re telling me to take a f*cking gap year?!” I felt extremely devastated and was in literal shreds. I wasn’t even given the opportunity to reap the potential benefits of my 2 years’ worth of hard work. All my hopes and dreams of entering university got crushed just. like. that. Not only had I let my parents down, but all my teachers and friends as well.
The day came pretty soon - too soon, in fact. I got off the taxi under protest and carried my luggage to the ER admissions room alongside my parents. My dad registered my name at the counter as my gaze swivelled over the waiting room, looking for a place to settle. I grabbed a wobbly chair and sat directly in front of the television - it served as an effective distraction to help keep my mind off the harsh reality. By the time all the necessary papers were signed, a matured woman in green (who turned out to be a clinical assistant) took my luggage and walked me through the aisle towards the notorious paediatric ward.
I had absolutely no concept of what a paediatric ward was, let alone an extended stay in one. I wasn’t prepared at all for what I was about to see and encounter. I turned around and waved my last goodbye to my parents as I followed the clinical assistant up a rickety flight of stairs to an enormous, crowded, brightly lit room chock-full of pungent smells of bleach, antiseptic, get-well-soon flowers, blood, urine, faeces, and all sorts of questionable ones. They weren’t pleasant, but they gave me a sense of happiness and sorrow; pain and pleasure; life and death - that room was perhaps the best place for me to smell all the contradictions together.
When I opened the tiny gate and stepped into little-girl territory, I bet dollars to dumplings that everyone had their eyes on me. They were all probably wondering, “What in the world is a fully-grown young lady doing in the juvenile unit?” A nurse then directed me towards my bed and asked me to get changed into an adolescent hospital gown. But since I was super skinny, nothing except the revolting baby-pink gown that was meant for children under the age of 10 managed to fit me. Nothing can be more hideous than how I looked in that miniature, tacky gown. Shortly after getting changed, she taped several colored wires from a cardiac monitor onto my chest and abdomen, and clipped an odd-looking thingymajiggy on the tip of my index finger (pulse oximeter).
“Mew-lah-meh-nuhr Keh-feen Fah-yeeee?? [sic]” A thin, penetrating voice caught me by surprise. “Yeah, it's Kathleen,” I replied, trying my best not to laugh at how the nurse pronounced my name. “Ahhh, sorry Kaaf-luhn. Dong ree-moof dees wires ees okay? When you slee-peng you oso muhs wear. When you pee-pee‘n’ boo-boo you koh our staff foh bedpan ees okay? Bee-kohs you nok allao-duhd to go to wohs-ruhm. Ah, and you ken-nok do dee baa-feng, ees okay rye?? [sic]” She stood there in utter bewilderment as I nodded my head and laughed my butt off at the way she spoke. (Sincere apologies if I sounded offensive and for being such a disrespectful, nasty, foul-mouthed devil...)
I had to spend the first 2 weeks completely bedridden. My doctors restricted me from getting off my bed; no ifs, ands, or buts. They forbade me from walking, running, standing in the shower, and even just sitting down on the toilet in order to minimize my calorie expenditure. Washroom trips were strictly prohibited as it was the most vulnerable point for sabotage. For that reason, I deliberately increased my NEAT to boost my metabolism and burn more calories: I engaged in excessive chewing, vigorous page-turning, animated talking, prolonged Instagram-swiping, intense toe and finger-tapping, aggressive wrist-flicking, unnecessary cleaning, repeatedly hitting my computer keys, and even asked for the AC to be turned down so as to use up my energy shivering. (As I type this, I can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous I was back then.)
Anyway, because of my bedrest situation, I had to urinate and defecate in cold metal bedpans, spit in a small basins when I brushed my teeth, wash my face with an audience of nosy little girls, and dunk my head into large tubs filled with ice-cold shampoo water to wash my hair. Water would always splash everywhere - on the windows, on my table, across the floor, and all over my bed - then I had to clean up the mess by myself. Carrying out my daily washing-up routine felt like a chore and was a huge pain in the ass, considering the fact that I had freakishly annoying wires from the cardiac monitor and a pulse oximeter attached to my body at all times.
Getting a good night’s sleep was beyond the realms of possibility in the wards. I had to put up with an abundance of noises which just had to happen right before I got my ZZs - the sliding of doors, the flushing of toilets, the sound of the intercom, the squeaky wheelchairs, the clacking of keyboards, the distinct chatter from the nurses’ room, the shutting of cabinets, the unexpected arrivals of newly-admitted patients, the beeping of my cardiac monitor, and as expected, the list wouldn’t be complete without the deafening, irksome cries of babies.
As a person who’s had the experience of being surrounded by a magnificent assortment of babies of various shapes and sizes 24/7 for 4 months straight, believe me - never fawn over these miniature demons. Their chubby cheeks, adorable faces and innocent smiles are just attributes that lull us into a false sense of security. Their ear-splitting screams are loud enough to wake the dead! From my personal standpoint, babies are only cute until they open their mouths.
Another thing that had been relentlessly hindering my sleep was my bed. Most days, I’d wake up in the morning or in the middle of the night blessed with a holy trinity of back pain, sore muscles and a stiff neck, thanks to my glorious sleeper-hostile mattress which provided zero support to my bony anorexic body. On top of that, sleeping partners. I’d be sleeping with millions of them every night and waking up with terrible nose allergies and itchy rashes all over my body...that’s right, you guessed it - dust mites (I scared you, didn’t I). It’s a good thing I can’t see them because they’re super gross.
Given that I was the oldest patient in the juvenile unit, it had been incredibly challenging to get along with the younger ones, mainly because we tended to be on completely different wavelengths. Besides, even if some were nearly the same age as me (i.e. 16 or 17), literally none of them understood a single word of English, so they could never make a head nor tail about what I’d be saying. Although I had been repeatedly busting a gut to establish contact with them in Cantonese, my efforts had only intensified the awkwardness of every conversation, thanks to my undeniably kooky intonation and exceptionally narrow range of Canto knowledge.
So after some time, without a second thought, I came to the conclusion that it would be best to just mind my own business, isolate myself, and shut my mouth to prevent everyone from falling ill with vicarious embarrassment. I was faced with thousands of choices, and yet I just had to make such a stupid decision. I never anticipated the consequences of my pure idiocy. In return, I felt extremely left out, unwanted, and suffered loneliness day in and day out; all of which aggravated my existent depression.
Fortunately, upon knowing my situation, one of my closest friends granted me access to her Netflix account so as to keep me occupied whenever I felt bored, and most importantly, to keep me distracted from thinking I was a useless piece of sh*t. So a major shout-out to my friend for her unfailing generosity and thoughtfulness!
Right now I can say that hospital meals were pretty decent and sometimes surprisingly tasty. Per contra, during my stay in the wards, my vision towards food was only black-and-white; food was either really good or really bad, never just average. Being a remarkably picky eater, I obviously had a mental list of the specific foods I enjoyed, and another for those I fervidly hated.
During my eating disorder days, nothing else was in level with black coffee, fried chicken, grilled meat, curry, sushi, kimchi, egg tarts, 溏心蛋, 菠蘿包, Skippy peanut butter, nut bars, Reese’s, Snickers and matcha-flavored Kit Kats, period. I despised noodles, pasta, bread with the crust on, pizza (please don’t hate me), oatmeal, congee, most fruits and vegetables and basically everything that’s green. Except for matcha-flavored Kit Kats, of course. Since I found most foods (the nutritious ones in particular) downright disgusting and my list of ‘appetizing’ foods was only limited to 14 specific items, I certainly had a hard time eating unfamiliar foods at the hospital, not to mention my dietitian required me to clean my plate.
As if things couldn’t possibly get any worse, the menu was on rotation, so it was the same ol’ scraps of unpalatable food over and over again. Though the dishes sounded appealing like ‘garlic soya chicken’ and ‘BBQ pork fried rice’, the actual food was always a pinnacle of awfulness. Vegetables were wet and soggy; fish was cooked to disintegration; chicken came with a pool of unknown brown liquid; ‘fried’ rice wasn’t even fried; boxed natural apple juice tasted ironically artificial; oranges were drier than the Sahara (who knew where all the juice went?); congee looked like Satan’s snot; jam sandwiches consisted of 99.9% bread and 0.1% jam; muffins were cold and stale; scrambled eggs were yellow pucks of sadness; and packaged buns tasted somewhere between cardboard and styrofoam (not that I've tasted either of those, but that's just my imagination).
One of the perks of being anorexic was having extensive knowledge of nutrition facts. It would be a huge advantage for me if i were to study ‘food and nutritional science’ at school, but definitely not during meal times at the hospital. Whenever the clock struck 7:00, 12:00, or 6:00, I couldn’t help but worry about the calorie count, carb content, fat content and sugar content of the food that was about to arrive at my bedside. Finishing off every last grain of rice on my plate (as required by my dietitian) was ergo, without doubt, way beyond the bounds of possibility.
My anxiety around food ultimately drove me to come up with outrageous, ultra disgusting ways to ‘fake eat’ and give an impression to the nurses that I finished my meal, such as spitting food into napkins or paper cups when no one was looking; hiding food in my nightstand or under my blanket; chopping up food into small bits and moving it to the side of my plate to create an illusion of emptiness in the middle; moving my jaws in circular, camel-like motions when I had eye-contact with the nurses; and wiping food around my plate to leave colored streaks of evidence that I’d been eating - just to name a few.
In addition to altering my diet to increase my calorie consumption and fulfill my nutritional needs (a.k.a. the ‘refeeding phase’), the nurses were required to regularly keep my weight in check - I had to stand on the scale twice a week in minimal clothing while facing away from the digital dial. Results were never disclosed to me so as to avoid excessive focus on my weight. Using the scale as a part of my treatment process was vital as it helped my psychiatrist, pediatrician and dietitian identify whether my physical health and body composition had been compromised by my anorexia and bulimia. From this data, they had been able to set realistic and reachable goals for me so that I could restore, manage and gain some healthy weight.
But just like every other individual with an eating disorder, it was natural for me to dread this part the most. The numbers on the scale had been defining my life since forever. If I gained weight, it meant that I ‘failed’ my eating disorder. If I maintained, I was ‘ok’, but ‘not good enough’. And lastly, if the numbers dropped, I called it a ‘victory’...but my weight was still never low enough for me.
Under the influence of anorexia, I resorted to a number of deceptive tactics to falsely elevate my weight in order to create an impression that I had been complying with my treatment: I cached coins and batteries in my pockets; hung tiny weights in the hems of my clothing; wore multiple earrings, bracelets, anklets and rings; gripped the scale with my toes; didn’t urinate or defecate as often; and chugged a bucketload of water in secret right before weigh in. In my experience, intentional bowel and water loading were the most effective; they could usually raise the numbers by up to 5kg!
I cheated the scale and hid my food, thinking I was a genius. I filled doctors and nurses with my lies, thinking I was successful in fooling them...or so I thought. If truth be told, all I'd been doing was fooling myself, because in the end, it was me who dealt with the consequences, me who spent additional time in the ghastly paediatric ward, and me who caused more problems for myself and for everyone who cared.
Throughout treatment, my psychiatrist had been trying so damn hard to tell me that my weight was ‘just a number’, but her words would always go in one ear and out the other. I had been constantly ignoring her and trying to convince myself that the number on the scale defined everything about me, and that it never lied. Sure, it’s true that numbers never lie, but information can lie in the numbers themselves.
I came to realize that weight loss wasn’t a cure for misery, boredom, insecurity, anguish or a spark for ambition. My ‘ideal weight’ represented a bubble of pressure waiting to be burst and disappoint me even if I got there. My obsession to reach it just left me depressed, anxious, isolated, stressed, irritable, domineering, impulsive, and I’ll be honest - bitchy to the nth degree. After years of letting the scale define my self-worth, I learnt to let it go in the long run and began adapting to the sensations in my body, rather than to a mere number displayed on a piece of plastic that held me to the earth.
Being away from home for 4 months surely took a toll on me. I missed my dad, my friends, my laptop, my desk, my soft and bouncy bed, the TV, the couch, the bathtub, my skateboard, my clothes, my shoes, my beloved BTS albums, the train-station, nature, animals, getting a tan, my favorite home-cooked meals, my precious Skippy, and much, much, much more...including my hairdresser because my hair had never been so long in the past 3 years.
During the first 2 months, rules customized by my doctors regarding visiting hours were exceedingly strict - no one except my parents was permitted to visit me, and each day had a limit of only 2 hours (rules were different for the other patients). Furthermore, my dad barely had the time and energy to travel to the hospital every single day after work, and that was mainly the reason why he rarely paid visits to me. With that being said, my mom was the one and only person who visited me from time to time. It would be quite cynical for me to say, but I assumed that she only did so on the understanding that she would get praised by my doctors for being such an amazingly nurturing parent - it’s not like she genuinely wanted to see me. (My relationship with my mom ain’t that pretty, you see.)
Whenever she came, all she ever did was complain about how ‘wearying’ and ‘perilous’ her journey to the hospital was and how my hospital bills were giving her ‘chronic migraines’. Now that’s total bullsh*t 'cause first of all, she was the one who got convinced by my psychiatrist to have me admitted to the paediatric ward. Second of all, if it weren’t for her terrible parenting and her oppressive behavior, I wouldn’t have been where I was at that moment. So how dare she guilt-trip me, and how dare she put all the blame on me.
Feelings aside…
Despite all the above mentioned, my experience in the paediatric ward wasn’t all that bad; there was some good stuff, too. Every night after showering, I hung out with the teenage girls in my cubicle. We normally laughed and talked about anything and everything, albeit the great language barrier between us. Sometimes, I felt like we were one big happy family, but most times, I felt like a normal teenager who wasn’t spending her summer in a hospital for being a depressive-anorexic-bulimic mess; I would think to myself that life was good.
Throughout my stay in the wards, I had two amazing clinical psychologists - one was a man in his 40’s who always looked perpetually concerned, and the other was a beautiful, young woman in her 20’s who was unbelievably compassionate and kind. Every morning they would run through the usual routine of questions like “Did you enjoy your lunch?”, “Have you made any friends yet?”, “How was your sleep last night?”, “How’s your mood today?”, “Were there any arguments between you and your mom last night?”, “Have you had any suicidal thoughts lately?”, and “Is there anything you would like to talk to me about?” Having regular visits from them meant the world to me; I realised how much they cared. Being able to share my feelings and to talk openly and freely about things I had bottled up for ages gave me hope for the first time in forever.
Ever since the beginning of the third month, my doctors had been noticing considerable improvements in my overall mindset and physical health. That being the case, they loosened up the visitation rules, so my friends were finally allowed to visit me….ヽ(゜∇゜)ノ….though they were only given a scanty 45 minutes, max. Nonetheless, it was okay because just simply looking at them made me feel a thousand times better. I sometimes missed them so much that I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
I felt really touched knowing that one of my friends travelled all the way from the tutorial centre she worked at in North Point just to pay me an exiguous 45-minute visit. I bet her travel time was even longer than the visit itself! What’s more, she did this each and every week, late at night. I mean, she must’ve been incredibly exhausted from work already, right? Likewise, my other friend who goes for monthly manicures with me also visited me quite often. There was this one time she visited me despite the fact that she hadn’t even started packing her luggage for her flight to Australia that evening. So once again, a quick shout-out to the both of them!
I was actually granted 2 leaves a week in the last month of my stay, but they each merely lasted 4 hours. As I was given such a short period of time outside, I normally only managed to spend it having lunch at a restaurant with my parents or window-shopping at the mall with a few of my friends. It certainly wasn’t an ample amount of time to return home or take part in activities I’d been longing to do, like skateboarding or ice-skating.
One of the most memorable things that happened during my leaves was when I met up with my best friend and her sister. I was very grateful to them because they tried really hard to squeeze in time for our 4-hour hangout into their immensely hectic school and work schedules. Also, granted that they had to take both the ferry and the MTR from Lamma Island to Kwun Tong in order to see me, it made me realize that there are people who genuinely love and care for me, and that I actually have friends who constantly cheer me on, support me and stay by my side through thick and thin. It’s truly a blessing to have such wonderful friends like them (hope I didn’t give you a cringe attack).
Another memorable moment was when I had my first steps (not as a baby, per se, but as a fully-grown young woman). Considering I had been bedridden for quite some time, walking steadily was something I had to learn all over again. I leaned on objects around me to get into a proper standing position and held onto them for support as I walked. Moreover, I still remember my dad had to grasp my hand and help me walk around for long distances so as to train my legs. After what felt like a decade, I eventually made it to level 2: stairs. It took me a lot longer than I thought to accomplish this level. Stairs were definitely my arch-nemesis. Apart from suffering from everlasting leg cramps, getting a million bruises, repeatedly falling on my face and almost losing my front teeth...I don’t think it’ll be necessary for me to explain to you in further detail.
One last thing I can never forget was my first lunch outside the hospital. Since meals in the paediatric ward were generally bland and hardly had any good left in them, I was on cloud nine when I had my first taste of good food. There was no greater euphoria than that glorious first bite of crispy, juicy yangnyeom chicken. I had been deprived of delicious food for sooooo long that I almost forgot how they tasted. I literally choked on the sweetness of the glucose in my rice, flinched at the saltiness of digestive biscuits, and puckered at the sourness of regular Skittles. 85% dark chocolate never tasted so sweet! However, my trip to dreamland was always short-lived as sooner or later, I had to return to the wards for my long-awaited, scrumptious hospital dinner specialty (sarcasm intended).
To be frank, my daily...scratch that...hourly purging habit (before I got admitted) led to disturbances in detecting the five elements of taste perception: sweet, salty, bitter, sour and umami. This is because purging caused my vomit to be directed towards the roof of my mouth where my palate receptors are located, and apparently, the acid in my vomit damaged these receptors. As a matter of fact, my damaged palate receptors also contributed to the maintenance of my bulimic behavior as a result of a decreased sensitivity to the taste of my vomit (fyi, I totally had to google that). Since I hadn’t purged at all for 4 months straight during my stay at the hospital, my taste buds kind of repaired themselves over time. So after years of forcefully stuffing myself with tasteless food, I was finally able to find enjoyment and satisfaction while eating by utilizing my senses and being mindful of the taste of different food.
Hospital wards are very misunderstood places. I’ve heard a plethora of stories about them online and around me, and I blindly believed some, too. I always imagined a jail-like culture, but I was clearly mistaken - it couldn’t have been any further from the truth. There is a particular stigma not only attached to being an individual suffering from depression or anorexia, but to the entire field of mental health to begin with. The people I encountered during my stay weren’t delirious - they were people who just needed a little extra guidance and a safe, tranquil place to let their physical injuries heal or to recuperate from their psychological problems.
All the patients in my cubicle were perfectly normal, functioning human beings with friends, families, dreams and positive futures. Majority were kindergarteners and elementary school students, a few were highschool students, and there was even one girl who was a highschool graduate, like myself. On top of that, there were a bunch of social workers and volunteers who entertained us and kept us occupied with fun activities, board games, comics, and color books (though I was never entertained by any of them because my friend’s Netflix always came in handy whenever I felt bored). All the doctors, nurses, clinical assistants and janitors were always on hand to help us.
My stay at the hospital was long and rough because of my depression and eating disorder, but it was indeed beneficial for a stubborn person like me. I don’t have any regrets for taking my psychiatrist’s advice to have myself admitted to the paediatric ward. It was the best place for me to be during that time, as medical workers were always there to provide me with the best help possible. Someone had to figure out what was wrong with me, 'cause I clearly couldn’t; and someone had to help me, 'cause I was clearly incapable of helping myself. Being admitted is nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed by, as life can be quite overwhelming sometimes.
During the first few weeks of recovery, there was a void left from where my eating disorder was; I always asked myself, “What can possibly fill that void? How will I live my life without my eating disorder?” I thought that letting go of my eating disorder to reach full recovery was completely out of the question. I also didn't expect that I would fall victim to nostalgia; there was a voice in my head that constantly reminded me of my supposedly ‘good’ times with my eating disorder. My anorexia made me reminisce about the ‘good’ things I had, and how ‘thin’ and ‘pretty’ I was the moment I gave into my disordered thoughts. I couldn't help myself from glorifying things in the past because I wanted to remember the ‘good’ times more than the ‘bad’. As a part of my recovery process, I had to force myself to remember how miserable I was when my eating disorder took over my life, and learn to acknowledge that it's normal to lose a few things while gaining recovery.
Sure, recovery was a pain in the ass; yet, after nearly half a year in treatment, I’ve been weight-restored (I’ve gained 16kg so far, so I’m currently around 44kg) and free from bulimic and anorexic behaviors for 4 months. It took me around 3 years to regain control of my life and body, both of which deserve love and respect after having spent nearly half of my highschool life in a battlefield.
My illness was a nasty b*tch from hell who mistreated me, disrespected me, exploited me and took me for granted. However, I stood up to her and gave her a hug to let her know everything was gonna be alright, because like every other nasty b*tch out there, she just needed to know that she was loved by many.
I also like to think of my eating disorder as a rotary light switch. Personally speaking, I know that I’ll never turn my eating disorder off, because it’s self-evident that it’ll always be a huge struggle. Per contra, I can choose to dim the lights - although I’ll still be surrounded by stigma related to body-size, weight and physical appearance, I’ll still be fighting. I firmly believe that envy is a form of self-pity and can keep one thinking about oneself, but not other people. Because in reality, even the most ‘gorgeous’ woman in the world with the ‘body to die for’ has a struggle. Just because my struggle is more visible and shows up in the form of bigger thighs, a larger waist and a rounder face, it doesn’t mean her life is ideal. It took me years to realize that by envying others’ bodies, I’ll be missing the opportunity to make a friend smile when he/she is down, or to lend a hand when he/she is in need.
I almost lost my life, and my life is way more valuable than how I look in the mirror, what the scale says and what people think about me. Slowly but surely, I’ll learn to convince myself that I’m beautiful just the way I am, and I will do that on my own terms, without the help of compliments and praises.
I chose to share my own story as I believe that it can inspire and offer support and empathy in a way that those without any experience of eating disorders and mental health conditions may never know. I believe that by speaking out, I can give courage to hundreds of survivors; and by openly acknowledging these illnesses, I’m able to contribute to reducing the shame and stigma associated with these illnesses that cause much silent suffering, fear, and isolation.
Despite the adversity my eating disorder and depression had brought me, they had given me a gift; they gave me a chance to recover and learn to accept myself. So April showers really do bring May flowers. I don’t regret my illness as it allowed me to realize that I’m strong, amazing, and worthy of living; it shaped who I am today.
Not only did treatment save my life, but it also changed it completely. 4 months before, I entered the hospital depressed, suicidal, anorexic, and bulimic. However, 4 months afterwards, I came out willing to repair my relationship with food, exercise to feel good, understand my parents better, improve my attitude, make new friends, change my outlook on life, accept my imperfections, be comfortable in my own body, be happy, and last but not least, love myself for who I was.
Kathleen
“You are not a mistake. You are not a problem to be solved. But you won’t discover this until you are willing to stop banging your head against the wall of shaming and caging and fearing yourself.” ~Geneen Roth