My Story
How much time does it take for someone to plunge from the giddy heights of heaven to the bottomless pits of hell? Not long, it seems. I remember flipping through the newspaper one fine morning in 2001. An article caught my eye. It was about young girls starving themselves because they suffered from something called an eating disorder. "That is preposterous," I thought. It was like telling me a prisoner-of-war was foolishly boycotting a feast presented before him just to look good on his deathbed. I could not comprehend why people blessed with food to eat would want to reject it to the point of death? Could they not see how thin they were? I told myself with firm conviction that I would never go to such extremes. I was perfectly fine with my body as it was. At my level of understanding at that time, I reckoned that only vain, superficial girls who had no capacity to think would subject themselves to such self-torture. Never did I imagine that two years down the road, I would be on the other side of the Great Divide that separated me, the one with anorexia, from those without.
The Great Divide
I lived in Singapore until the age of nineteen when I headed for London to study for my degree. I was filled with pride that I was able to land a scholarship to study at a prestigious university there. The prospect of enjoying independence and freedom in a foreign land was certainly exciting. I soon got into the groove of college life, mingling with the international community, getting familiar with the sight of the iconic black London cabs plying along the narrow roads, and hating the unreliable tube services.
The first time I returned to Singapore was during my Easter holidays in 2004. I quickly arranged for a meetup with my junior college pals. I expected nothing less than an effusive welcome, warm hugs, exclamations of "I miss you", and eager curiosity of how my life in London had been like. I couldn't wait to regale all the juicy tales I had accumulated over the past six months. However, that very meetup was the turning point, the trigger that led me to chase after something with a ferocity more intense than anything else I had ever experienced. The minute my friends saw me, strange looks I had never seen before spread across their faces. Was it bewilderment? Horror? Mockery? I do not know. All I received as a fact were the unsavory comments that started bouncing around alluding to my increased weight and fleshier countenance. I was shocked to say the least.
Drowning in the Storm
From that day on, I had only one single-minded pursuit - to lose weight. In my mind, it was only an innocent diet. I planned to start eating more once I returned to the weight I was before. After all, I had always possessed immense self-discipline. I would never allow myself to go over the edge. But soon, things started spinning out of control. I kept revving up my exercise regime to the exclusion of social activities and relationships. Meanwhile, the portions of food I consumed shrunk till even the thought of plain water adding on a gram to the number on the scale launched me into instantaneous panic attacks. I became closely acquainted with the parlance of Ed, my eating disorder. His favourite vocabulary consisted of "calories", "should"s and "must"s. Rigid rules dominated my life and I lived for the sole purpose of seeing my weight going down every morning. At the same time, I was scared - scared of losing my family with whom I was squabbling with endlessly over my reduced food intake, scared of losing my place in university which was all I had ever aimed for, and most of all, scared of losing my life.
Imprisoned
Concerned about my skeletal frame and aberrant eating habits, my family sent me to see a psychiatrist who diagnosed me with anorexia nervosa. Now things were starting to get serious. I was frightened that this illness had crept so surreptitiously into my life without invitation and that I had lost control over myself. At the same time, I was uncannily relieved. At least now I knew what was going on. At least now my condition had a name. At least now I had an identity - the girl with an eating disorder. I felt proud of myself. It seemed like an achievement that would garner loads of attention that I so craved. The diagnosis did not pique a single ounce of desire in me to recover. At that time, recovery meant just putting on weight. How could I allow myself to die that second death again? How could I start losing to everyone else in the only domain in which I could claim victory?
Battle of the Mind
Subsequently, I got admitted to hospital in June, 2006. That was when the real recovery work began. There, I met a treatment team of a dietician, psychologist, psychiatrist and my counsellor, Judy. Through art therapy and journaling, all the emotions that had been numbed and frozen over the past years started thawing. It was excruciatingly painful to face the things I had been running away from for so long. Enclosed within the white-washed walls of the hospital ward, I struggled, I wept, I clung to my father for any tiny semblance of stability, any gossamer thread of hope I needed to pull me through. I began to realize that my perfectionist personality, concealed cracks in my family dynamics, a propensity to hide my feelings behind an inscrutable, vacant face, a previous abusive relationship, and trapping circumstances were among the host of ingredients that contributed to my development of an eating disorder.
Some of my drawings done during early stages of therapy
Self-portrait
Recovery after my hospital stay was sporadic and inconsistent. For almost a year, I made a sustained effort to eat well and regain the weight I had lost. However, I did not cope well with my move back to Singapore after my studies in 2007. Several relapses followed. I restarted my counselling with Judy and together, we began the painstaking task of working through the different issues that came up during our sessions. Recovery has indeed been the greatest overhaul of my life. Since my growth had stagnated at the point when Ed started wrecking havoc, embarking on the journey towards health felt almost like becoming an infant again. I had to relearn the language of body signals - how to tell when I was full, and when I was hungry. I had to relearn the language of feelings - how to put a name to each emotion I experienced and how to express them to the people around me. I had to relearn the language of love - how to give love unconditionally and how to receive love without feeling I had to barter something else in exchange for it.
Step by Step Towards Freedom
Though the journey has been wearisome and arduous, I am eternally thankful to God who has protected me through all the trials and comforted me with His presence. In His word, He said, "No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it." And He did do so for me! He blessed me with the support of my family who said they would run the race with me till the end, and my close friends who never gave up on their constant encouragements even when I got lost in the valley of darkness. All along the way, He also sent me signs that He would be with me as I took every step, leading me with cords of love and wisdom. In every season of my recovery, He has reminded me time and again that He might not take away that thorn in my flesh now, but that His grace is always sufficient, for His power is made perfect in weakness.
Now, I choose to take this path of recovery for there can be no other better way. Recovery is life and I do want to live, not just a meaningless existence of a walking corpse chained to Ed, but a life that is abundant, full, and free to glorify God in His perfect way and timing.
