The 26th February to 3rd March marked the annual National Eating Disorder Awareness week. I'm three days late posting this.
I can recall the day very clearly. I woke up at 5am, for the seventh day in a row, with my heart beating so fast I could feel it in my cheeks. Wracked with anxiety and nervousness, my cramping stomach ached so much I was running back and forth from the toilet, gripped with nausea. It took me hours to fall back to sleep and even then it was restless, fitful and unsatisfying. I had been exhausted for a week, my appetite had entirely diminished and my mind – that I appeared to be ever-so-slowly losing - were utterly consumed with the people and memories that I had lost.
Suddenly, my social life is lacking in exciting things to do, I have nothing to look forward to and the lonliness I’m feeling is taking over my life. That morning, I found a carton of milk in one of my kitchen cupboards where I keep my mugs, warm from where I had distractedly misplaced it hours earlier. An all-too-familiar feeling began to overwhelm me. My brain feels likes it been poisoned. And I realise that, once again, depression has taken over me.