Contents

Introduction

1. Rare
2. Resolved
3. Relentless
4. Ruled
5. Recovery?
6. Religious
7. Relapse
8. Revelation
9. Reflections

Introduction

In my hand I held a sliver of bread. I turned it over in my palms, smelled it, stroked it. I imagined how it tasted. The feel of it in my mouth, my stomach. I traced it with my yellowed fingers. The hands of a skeleton, tipped with blackened nails I hadn’t painted.

My head throbbed and, though it was the middle of summer, I was shivering with cold. I always felt cold, right to the bone. I lifted my T-shirt. Traced the skeleton, so close to the skin. Not there yet, but it was coming. Just a little more effort. Shave a little more off.

Unless, of course, I’d gained weight in the last half-hour. Best to check, just in case. I pulled myself up, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Squashed the bread and smelt my palms. I was ravenous. My head swam, but my stomach, hollowed and hardened, was silent. I’d rather die than eat.

Think of something else. Anything. That’s it – breathe. Now, take a step. You can do it. Stop being so lazy. Count to ten – one, two, three . . .

Moving forward, a stab of pain cut across my chest. Not again! This time, however, it didn’t pass. I felt like I was suffocating and tried to gulp down lungfuls of air. My legs crumpled and I fell, hard upon the floor. Something was bleeding, but the cool tiles felt clean against my face. I wanted to get up, but I was tired, so tired. How pleasant it would be to stay here, forever. But the scales, just across the hall, were beckoning.

Sucking in my cheeks, I tried to pull myself upright. My brain barked orders, but the limbs remained still, twisted and splayed like a rag doll tossed to one side. It was a curious sensation, like seeing myself from a great height. But I couldn’t stay here, flesh spilling across the floor. It had been over an hour since my last run. I had to go to the bathroom. I had to weigh myself.

Using my feet as a lever, I coughed and took another breath. Then I pushed away from the wall. Palms out­stretched, I dragged my torso across the stone. Bit by bit, I inched forward. Fat. Lazy. Cow. A sharp intake of breath as my ribs jarred on the cracks. I paused, then blinked. Outside I could hear traffic and the sound of voices, but they seemed very far away. I brushed a clump of hair from my eyes, watching with mild interest as it came off in my hands. It was still cold, but I’d wet myself and the dampness in my legs felt soothing and warm.

I was twenty-seven years old. A talented student at Bible college. I led a thriving Sunday school. I’d been married for four years to a church minister in training. And I was slowly but surely killing myself.

I blacked out.

* * *

In the face of an eating disorder, one question stands out: Why? Why me? Why my daughter, why my wife . . . my brother, my friend?

As we tell our stories, we naturally seek a villain, someone or something to blame. A school bully, a body-obsessed media, bad parenting or some childhood trauma. These may well be contributors, but if drawn on a pie chart, they would make up only part of the whole. Instead, many factors come into play: culture, environment, physiology, family, personality type, life experiences, even geography. Some can be predicted and managed. Others cannot. Some are a result of the choices that we have made. Others are decisions that have been made for us – whatever their motivation.

As I survey the wreckage from two decades fighting anorexia, I feel like I’m performing the wrong script. This is not where I planned to be. It’s not the romantic comedy I’d rehearsed for as a child – and where’s Brad Pitt? Instead, I’m trapped in a Russian submarine tragedy and I can’t even read the subtitles.

On the other hand, there’s a nagging sense that I’ve stage-managed my own demise. Perhaps the blame is entirely mine. I followed my own directions, even when others begged me to stop. Now the lights have dimmed and I’m left alone in the darkness.

So which is it? Am I a willing perpetrator or a helpless victim? Is this sickness – or is it sin?

As I write my story, I’m pulled in two directions. I want to defend myself and to tear myself down. Sometimes I’ll do both. You may be tempted to do the same, and of course you must draw your own conclusions. But I suspect that the truth – as close as I can tell it – lies somewhere else.

Jesus Christ calls himself a Doctor for sick sinners.

And I am both. I’m sick – helpless in the face of a condition that overpowers me. I’m also a sinner – deliberately choosing my way over his. Despite this, he loves me just the same. So this is not just ‘my’ story. It’s the story of his work in my life.