This guest blog is written by Meg, an ex-client and great pal.
Meg is an incredible artist (some of my previous blogs feature her doodles!), co-founder of @meerchatter, and seemingly, a very talented writer.
The following short piece of writing is her reflection on the difference 18 months can make.
I went to a café with my mum yesterday.
It was the first time I’d been to this café in a year and a half, and a lot has changed since then, when I ended up in tears over a slice of chocolate cake. I hadn’t planned to order it, but the words just tumbled out of my mouth, pushed by my growling stomach. By the time it arrived I was having a mild panic attack whilst my mum, who had abandoned the buttering of her scone, tried to console me. I remember she looked sad. I was sad too. So sad.
I ate that cake as quickly as possible so I could get the initial panic over with and start to deal with the hours of guilt that would inevitably follow such a ‘crime’. I sat in silence for the remainder of the trip, resisting the urge to run away and hide. I did a lot of hiding back then. It was easier than having to pretend that I wasn’t in such utter turmoil.
After several failed attempts at initiating conversation, my mum resigned to quietly sipping her tea and staring out of a window. As soon as her cup was empty I was on my feet ready to leave, declining her suggestion of having a mooch around some more shops. This trip was over in my head; I wanted out of this stupid town with its stupid café and stupid cake. Once again, anorexia had won. Another trip ruined.
I’ve left those days behind me.
Yesterday, at that very same café at that very same table, I enjoyed a gorgeously gooey brownie. I didn’t care what time it was when I ordered or look at the price or compare the nutritional quality to the other options available. I chatted with my mum before, during and after eating, putting the world to rights like we used to. It felt strangely nostalgic as I scooped up those final crumbs, just as I did when I was a child and eating was easy. It’s been many, many years since I’ve felt so ‘normal’.
Once we’d finished, we carried on mooching and got on with our day. The only time I thought about that brownie again was whilst describing it to my sister (another chocolate lover) later that evening. Relaying the detail of the crispy chocolate top and chewy interior bought a smile to my fact, the only guilt I felt being over not bringing one back for my sister to try. Oh well, there’s always next time! And there will be a next time. I’m done with stupid anorexia and its stupid rules and stupid deprivation. It’s no way to live.
It took a lot of work for me to get to this place. If you’d have told me 18 months ago that I’d be able to enjoy myself again, let alone when food was involved, I wouldn’t have believed you. But it is possible. There is a life beyond.
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