After anorexia: life's too short to weigh your cornflakes | Catherine Pawley | TEDxLeamingtonSpa

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Diagnosed with anorexia nervosa in early 2012 Catherine battled the illness throughout her ‘A’ levels and the first year of her degree which resulted in her taking two gap years to get specialist treatment as an inpatient Eating Disorders Unit. Catherine reveals a deeply honest account into her road to recovery which will hopefully inspire others.

Catherine is a chemistry student at the University of Warwick, a photography enthusiast and a self-confessed perfectionist. While growing up in Leicestershire, Catherine was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa in early 2012 and battled the illness throughout her ‘A’ levels and the first year of her degree. This resulted in her taking two gap years to get specialist treatment as an inpatient at an Eating Disorders Unit.

Catherine has just completed her second year at university, and has not relapsed. She is busy enjoying student life and everything it entails, before entering the 'world of work' when she graduates next year.

I'm Catherine.

I'm a chemistry finalist
at the University of Warwick,

I'm a daughter, a sister, friend,
girlfriend, and recovering anorexic.

I want to give you an insight
into eating disorders and recovery

using my journey,

my journey of pain, tears,
acceptance, and discovery.

Eating disorders do not discriminate:

gender, age, sexuality,
and race mean nothing.

These illnesses are not reserved
for troubled teenage girls

who want to look like models.

They are serious illnesses
with devastating consequences.

Anorexia has the highest mortality rate
of any psychiatric illness.

I suppose the question here is: why?

Why do we choose to starve ourselves,

make ourselves sick,
and exercise to oblivion?

Why do we choose to harm ourselves
and those around us?

The answer is simple: it's not a choice.

Eating disorders are not a choice.

They are a coping mechanism,
a safety blanket, an identity.

They make life simple
by giving you a rule book for life.

Rules that tell you how to live;
what to do, what to say, what to eat.

Rules take away chance and decision,
and they take away risk.

They give you control.

Of course, we all want to feel in control.

But often, demons arise:

alcoholism, drug abuse,
self-harm, eating disorders.

All addictions, all seeking control,
in a world, full of social constructs

set by somebody else.

Seeking escape from the torture
they feel in everyday life.

Seeking peace from
the constant voice in their head

telling them they're not good enough,

seeking numbness

so that they don't have to deal
with their negative thoughts and emotions.

Eating disorders are not
just about food and weight.

They are an addiction, they are self-harm.

Every eating disorder is different

from the way they start
and how they present themselves

to the rules that govern them
and the purpose that they serve.

But that's the common factor;
they all serve a purpose.

Five years ago today,
it was my 18th birthday.

I held all the insecurities

that any young woman holds
about her appearance,

but unlike my peers,
I wasn't excited about turning 18.

I didn't want to go out
drinking and partying.

I didn't feel ready to be an adult.

I was stuck on this unstoppable
conveyor belt of GCSEs to A-levels,

university, and work.

It felt like my life was out of my hands,

and I didn't know what I wanted.

So, I turned to one thing
I knew would make me happy: food.

I wanted to eat more.

So I decided to lose weight

so I could eat more
without feeling guilty about it.

Then came my rules:

don't snack in-between meals,
don't eat unless you're starving,

don't eat more than anyone you're with.

These went unnoticed by those around me,

and I tried my hardest
to keep it that way,

because I was in control.

The plan worked;

I didn't snack in-between meals,
I didn't eat more than anyone I was with,

and I didn't eat unless I was starving.

So, I lost weight.

But I didn't eat more
as I promised myself.

Time passed, life went on.

January exams came
along with all the stress.

I felt out of control again.

So, I made more rules:

never finish a plate of food,
never eat foods high in fat.

Always pick the lowest calorie option.

I was back in control.

I felt safe again.

But little did I know

the rules that gave me safety
were slowly killing me.

By April 2012, I'd lost around a stone.

My ribs began to show,
my hip bones protruded,

and I was a hanger for my clothes.

I didn't think
that I looked any different,

but my family and those around me noticed.

My mother dragged me to the doctors.

I was so angry.

I didn't think there was
anything wrong with me;

I thought it was perfectly normal
to never eat dessert,

take cornflakes to the cinema
instead of popcorn,

and weigh myself
at least five times a day.

The doctor referred me
to a specialist service in Leicester

for an assessment.

At the assessment, I was diagnosed
with 'anorexia nervosa.'

I ticked all the criteria.

One: an intense fear
of gaining weight or becoming fat,

even though underweight.

Two: a refusal to maintain a body weight,

at or above a minimally
normal weight for age and height.

Three: a disturbance in the way in which
one's body weight or shape is experienced,

and an undue influence
of this on self-evaluation.

After my diagnosis, it became
a lot harder to follow my rules.

My family were aware now and plied me
with food at any opportunity.

So I had to get sneaky.

I added more rules to my arsenal:

never eat alone,
never drink calories,

avoid food at all costs.

I had to visit the hospital every week
to be weighed and see my therapist.

I took great delight in seeing
the falling number on the scale

every time I stepped on.

I was getting sucked in deeper
to the anorexic way of thinking.

Home life was getting worse
as I was being increasingly deceptive.

Meal times were horrendous;

an internal battle between not eating,
and causing yet another argument.

I knew, as soon as I put
my knife and fork together,

half of my food untouched,
that it would start.

My sister, running upstairs, unable
to cope with what I was doing to myself.

My mother crying, my father shouting,
asking me if I wanted to die.

I just sat through it all.

It killed me to see what I was doing
to my family but I couldn't stop.

I didn't think that I deserved to stop.

By this time, it was June.

Time for my final A-level exams.

Somehow, I made it through,

determined not to let
my 14 years of school go to waste.

From the day I finished,
I deteriorated rapidly.

Each day, eating less and less,
becoming more and more deceitful.

Rules increasing day by day,
becoming more and more restrictive:

never eat more than 500 calories a day.

never eat anything
that you haven't weighed,

never enjoy food.

That summer, we had
a family holiday abroad planned,

but I wasn't allowed to fly.

At home, I couldn't sleep.

My heart rate so low,
my body scared I wouldn't wake up.

My 15-year-old sister
had to give me a piggy-back

because I couldn't walk up a hill.

I couldn't think straight.

I knew that I couldn't live like this,
but I couldn't eat.

I couldn't gain weight.

Because that would mean losing control.

And that was the strongest rule of all,

the one presiding over
all the others: never lose control.

After one of my weekly appointments,

I was admitted, voluntarily,
as an inpatient

to Leicester Eating Disorders Unit.

I was so confused.

What had I done?

I didn't want to be there,
but I knew that I needed help.

I'd spend my nights lying in bed,
watching Food Network,

gazing at all the beautiful food
that I was depriving myself of.

Food.

One of my favorite things.

Of course, I couldn't admit
that, not to anybody.

Because anorexics hate food, right?

No.

Deep, deep down, most anorexics love food.

They're just depriving themselves
of something they love as a punishment.

Over my five-month stay
on the anorexia ward,

I experienced things
that not many 18 year olds would:

I heard screams

as a girl had a feeding tube
reinserted for the fourth time that day;

unable to leave my room
during ward lock-downs

when somebody on section tried to escape.

Of course, it wasn't all like that.

I made some amazing friends.

For the first time, you're with people

who understand exactly
what you're going through.

We had so many good times:

evenings watching movies,
doing face masks, laughing, and joking.

I felt normal,

albeit in an abnormal situation.

I progressed through the program,

every day challenging the rules
I'd made to keep myself safe.

For every one I broke, another sprung up.

Anorexia is a very competitive illness,

and being surrounded
by other anorexics gives you ideas.

You pick up their habits
and their rules, too.

But I did it; I restored my weight.

I broke my rules.
I ripped up my rule book.

Anorexia was a chapter in my life,
but it wasn't the whole book.

I was discharged, went
to university after my gap year,

and all was good; for about a month.

This story isn't linear,

and the journey from anorexia
to recovery is rarely linear.

I relapsed.

My weight deteriorated again,
albeit not as fast as the first time

as I was eating one or two meals a day.

It turns out my rule book
was still intact.

Walking to and from lectures
became difficult.

Five-hour labs were unbearable.

I was going in and dealing
with dangerous chemicals,

having not eaten for almost 24 hours.

How I didn't harm myself
or somebody else, I have no idea.

I struggled through
my first year of university,

plastering on my fake smile
and pretending everything was fine.

I made it though my exams,
but then I had to move home.

This stabilized my weight loss

as I was being made to eat
three meals a day, plus a snack,

under the watchful eye of my family.

Being at home and eating more meant
I had to be much, much sneakier again.

Crumbling biscuit down
my dressing gown sleeves,

pretending to have lunch,
lying about what I had or hadn't eaten.

I became a lying machine.

I hated lying to my family.

They knew, though.

They knew exactly what I was doing.

Even as I deteriorated, I was adamant
that I was going back to university.

I was not taking another gap year.

I was not giving up.

I met my psychiatrist
a week before term started.

He told me I couldn't go back.

I cried and shouted.

I didn't want to go back into hospital,
but it was my only option.

I gave up on going back to university
that year and accepted a bed.

It took all my strength,

but I had just taken
the biggest step forward imaginable.

This admission was
so much harder than the first.

I had a new desire
to be the 'perfect anorexic.'

This thought kept me
prisoner like no other.

It played on all my feelings
of self-doubt, inadequacy,

fraudulence, and worthlessness.

My weight had plummeted
to almost half of what it is today,

but still, I wouldn't eat.

"Perfect" anorexics do not eat.

I sat through meal after meal,
nurses willing me to eat something,

and I wouldn't.

My blood sugar crashed.

I was so dehydrated,

the doctor couldn't get blood
from my veins for tests.

It was only on the threat
of being 'sectioned'

that I began to eat again.

I began my journey of my recovery
for the second time.

Yes, I had started eating again,
but I was still clinging to my anorexia,

clinging to the rules I'd made
to keep myself safe.

I believed that I was worthless,
and that my life wasn't worth living.

Why would being three stone heavier
make my life any better,

make my life worth anything?

So, I stayed ill.

Safe.

Away from reality, and away from harm.

I was numb, and I liked that.

It meant I didn't have to deal
with how much of a failure I felt.

Recovery was just too risky.

Recovery would mean
finally letting go of anorexia;

letting go of my rules,
letting go of my identity.

If I recovered, who would I become?

What could I amount to?

Recovery isn't just about
wanting it enough:

you can want it more
than anything in the world.

You can have so many reasons to recover,
but you just can't do it.

It is the most terrifying
concept imaginable.

It means letting go of control
and leaving your comfort zone.

Of course, we are all guilty
of having rules

and staying in our comfort zone.

Given long enough,
we find comfort in our suffering.

We stay in the same job we hate.

We drag out a dysfunctional relationship.

I starved myself for days on end,

understanding the consequences
but so afraid to change.

I can't pinpoint the exact moment
that it happened,

but after countless therapy sessions,

a lot of soul searching,
and restoring some of my weight,

I began to properly engage
with my treatment.

I began to believe there was a tiny chance
my life could be better with recovery.

Yes, it would bring scary decisions,

but it would also bring
a world of opportunity.

It was only then when I believed
that the risk was worth it,

I believed I had a chance;

a chance at university; a chance at love;

but most of all, a chance at life.

For me, the path to recovery
involved ripping up my rule book.

The rule book that governed my every move.

The rules that made me feel safe;
made me feel in control;

that caused my weight to plummet,
my hair to fall out, and my bones to thin.

The rules that were slowly killing me -

I had to break these rules, one by one.

It is impossible to recover
from anorexia and keep your rules.

You have to leave your comfort zone.

You have to rip up your rule book.

Anorexia gave me that reality check:

I can't always be comfortable,
I can't always have control,

and there is no rule book for life.

Recovery has brought me so many things.

It has brought me university,
it has brought me love,

and it has brought me life.

I want to reach out to anyone suffering
and say to please accept help.

Without the service in Leicester,
and the support of my friends and family,

I would not be here today.

I want you to believe me when I say

that you are worth recovery,
you are worth a life,

and you are good enough.

The one overwhelming thing
that recovery has brought me is me.

I have got myself back.

And, as it turns out,

life is way too short
to weigh your cornflakes.

Thank you.

(Applause)