Skinny Girl: A Journey Through Anorexia

By Susan Brown

Susan's story will be familiar to many readers, not only those who struggle with eating disorders or self-destructive behaviours, but also their loved ones who helplessly watch on. The feelings of anxiety, sadness, anger, shame, secrecy and of being misunderstood are detailed from the perspective of one who has experienced it and not only surviv

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daughters of Love & Light
• Release date: Apr 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9780645252798

Susan Brown

Writer and blogger, Susan Brown, has a passion to see people walking in freedom, identity and purpose. Whether in her work as an occupational therapist, raising her four children, speaking to groups or offering learning support to children and teens, her desire has always been to help people thrive. A strong believer in the power of authenticity, Susan often shares her struggles, failures and learnings with others, offering understanding and support as they work through their own challenges. When she's not writing or working, Susan's favourite way to relax is to immerse herself in a good story, preferably while reclined in a deep, gently swaying hammock. In her more energetic moments, she plunges herself into gardening, cooking, walking local trails with her husband or playing in the waves at the nearest surf beach. After twenty-five years in Launceston, Tasmania, Susan has recently moved to Wollongong, south of Sydney, where she lives with her husband, Mark, and three of their children.

Book preview

Introduction

June 1989

I

never expected a simple decision to lead me to this.

Rain pelted on my window while the wind howled around our house. I hunched over my desk, frowning under the glare of my fluorescent lamp, trying desperately to focus on the assignment in front of me—writing a therapy plan for a stroke patient. My toes rested close to the radiator on the floor under my desk.

Mum was in the kitchen making roast lamb with baked vegetables—one of her specialties, always delicious. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, unwinding from his day at work and drinking his usual pre-dinner beer. My eleven-year-old brother, Steve, was in the next room, watching Family Feud on television. It was a typical night in our Sydney home—settled, comfortable and predictable. On a wild winter night like this there was no better place to be.

Unless you were me. The storm I was enduring—the one inside me—raged fiercer than the elements screaming outside my window.

Gnawing, burning hunger pains made my stomach groan. The bitter taste of starvation filled my mouth while anger and self-hate churned within. Cold, achy and uptight, I knew my body was hurting. Yet somehow that was a triumph. Good. You deserve it, I hissed inwardly. Every pain I experienced was satisfying and I thrilled to think of the weight I was losing even as I suffered. I could almost feel the kilograms burning off.

My thoughts kept darting to our upcoming meal. I’d already made the calculations and planned what I would eat of all that was offered. Over and over in my mind revolved the image of my plate—beans and carrots only, maybe a tiny piece of meat to appease Mum but no baked potato or pumpkin, drenched in fat. I tapped my pen on the desk as I calculated and recalculated what that would make my calorie intake for the day. Determination swelled within me. There was no way I was going over the amount I’d set in my mind.

Mum was a capable, generous cook and did her best to appeal to my appetite, pleading with me to eat more, but I stubbornly stuck to my decisions. I was twenty after all. I hated to disappoint her, but this was a battle for survival. I couldn’t possibly let go of this pattern of living.

To let go of it, I thought, would destroy me.

Chapter One

February 1989 – four months earlier

T

he time on the clock radio glowed in the darkness. Five past eleven. I lowered myself onto the edge of the bed and sighed. What a long day.

My friend, Wendy, and I had moved into our pastor’s house in Engadine that afternoon. We’d chosen our bedrooms and loaded the kitchen bench with groceries. Tom and Naomi were taking two weeks’ break on the south coast with their boys. While they were gone, we girls were savouring some independence in their home.

Closing my eyes, I breathed deep. Finally, I could slow down. Here was a chance to quiet my mind and still my fretting heart. Lately it seemed like changes and demands had fired at me from many different directions. They made me want to run for cover and never come out.

At least during this time—these precious two weeks—I could hide. Here I could grapple with all the bits and pieces of my life and try to gain some sense of order, some form of peace.

I grabbed my journal from the bedside table. This simple, lined book was the place where I poured out my musings, fears and prayers—the only place where I was completely honest. My thoughts began to flow and words took shape on the page.

Father, I’ve let so many things weigh me down with worry lately . . .

I paused and mulled over them—awkward strain in friendships, the pressures of my new waitressing job, university looming, my tendency to over-commit myself. Then there was my sister’s impending marriage—I wasn’t sure I’d ever come to terms with that. I frowned. What had the preacher said at church that evening? Don’t be anxious. Give it all to God.

Slowly I wrote a list of all the pressures I’d been carrying. When I finished, I read through the list and sighed once more. Such a heavy load.

Desperate for relief, I wrote,

Father, I offer them all up to you now, knowing you are mighty and can see your whole plan working out—give me patience and your peace which passes all understanding.

The words were there. Now I just needed to take them to heart. If only I could release these burdens, maybe I’d find His peace.

I put down my pen and stretched. My whole body ached, begging me to lie down and sleep. But I couldn’t. Not yet. One more thing was needed to begin this fortnight well.

I reached for the little book hidden in a pile on my bedside table and stared at it. Three words were splashed in red across a bright green cover. The Calorie Counter. This guide, no bigger than my hand, would become the antidote for my ugliest struggle.

Food had become the remedy I ran to when I was hurting, the medication I threw down in large doses. It offered pleasure and comfort but always left me weighed down afterwards, in heart and in body. Only two weeks earlier, I’d gorged myself at a friend’s bridal shower—to the point of being ill later that night. Disgusted, I shook my head. This pattern had to stop. If I could get my eating under control, I knew everything would be all right.

I hadn’t dared pull out the book at home. Mum would have protested. I could almost hear her. ‘What are you looking at that for? You don’t need to lose weight.’

Doubt scurried across my soul. Why am I being so sneaky about this?

What Mum said was true. Anyone would agree my weight was just right for my height. They’d say I didn’t need to trim down.

But I knew better.

If I could work my way back to the skinny figure I had in earlier years, all would be well. This was my big opportunity—two weeks where I didn’t need to worry about questioning. Excitement surged through me as I opened the book and lifted it closer to my face.

The first page was titled, ‘Recommended calorie intake’. I ran my finger down over the lines till I found what I needed. ‘To lose weight, women should aim to eat 1200 calories per day.’

I leaned back on my pillow and memories drifted through my mind of an assignment I was given in Year 11 Home Science class. For one week, we had to record everything we ate and calculate their calorie value. On that particular week, our family ate battered fish and chips from a local takeaway one night and a delicious Chinese feast another. Most evenings, soon after dinner, I waded through mountains of ice cream with banana, chocolate sauce and nuts.

‘It’s a wonder you aren’t much bigger with the amount you eat, Susan.’

Mrs Dawes peered at me over her glasses as she returned my marked assignment. I stifled a smile as I glanced sideways at my friend, Kellie. Taking a second look at the numbers, I had to agree. Some of the totals were high—around the 3000-calorie mark. I’d barely noticed when I handed in the work. The assignment was done. That was all that mattered. At that age, I didn’t need to worry about calories—no matter how much my teacher frowned.

Now, five years later, things were different.

I lowered the book to my lap. 1200 calories—was that a good target? I only had two weeks to follow this diet. After that, I’d be back home with Mum monitoring my eating. Maybe 1200 was too generous an allowance. Perhaps I could aim lower, just for this fleeting period. Why not 1000 calories?

Suddenly alert, I tore a page out of my journal and began listing what I’d eaten that day. What was a normal day’s eating worth? First came breakfast—jam toast. I flicked to the book’s index, found the relevant page and wrote down the energy value for whole-wheat bread. Next was butter and jam. How could I estimate how much I ate of those? One teaspoon? One tablespoon?

I glanced at the clock. Eleven-thirty. I needed to move faster. My eyes began to sting and I rubbed them gently, willing myself to keep going. Steadily the list of foods and energy values spread down the page. There were so many tiny details to remember. What snacks had I eaten between meals? What did I drink? Little things like a glass of orange juice had far more calories than I expected. Then there were the chocolate biscuits Wendy and I had dunked in our cups of tea that evening—a treat I wouldn’t be repeating.

When the list was complete, I added the long string of numbers, re-counted them several more times and underlined the grand total: 1527 calories.

Phew. I dropped the pen and tilted my head back to yawn. This diet was going to be difficult. Still, it would be worth it.

It was time to get my life back under control.

Chapter Two

I

slept deeply that night, snug and peaceful under heavy covers. The room was blanketed in darkness when I woke. I lay motionless, listening to the rhythmic hum of cars driving past. So many cars. Where were they all going so early in the morning?

Staggering out of bed, I shuffled to the right with arms outstretched, reaching towards the place where I thought the window lay. My fingers made contact with thick curtains and I worked my way along till I found the centre and parted them. Instantly, my room turned from inky blackness to morning grey. When I poked my fingers between the slats of the venetian blinds and prised them apart, slender shafts of bright sunlight struck my eyes. I stepped back in surprise. It wasn’t early morning. Beyond my darkened room the world was wide awake.

I turned to squint at the bedside clock, willing my eyes to focus. Twelve o’clock. My mouth fell open and I giggled softly. Twelve o’clock? I hadn’t slept that late since I was ten years old. Why was I so tired? Through my mind flashed images from the previous night—the darkened room, my journal, the late-night calorie counting. . . A shiver of excitement ran through me and my eyes flew to my bedside table. I was starting my diet today!

I opened the bedroom door and peered up and down the hallway. The house was silent. Wendy’s bedroom door was ajar, her curtains were open and sunshine streamed across her bed. Our conversation just before bed the previous night came back and I recalled her saying she was rostered to start work at eight that morning. Chuckling, I shook my head. While I was peacefully slumbering, my friend would have dressed, eaten and quietly eased her car away from the house. Already, she’d been at the supermarket for four hours. Peering back at the clock, I made some quick calculations. Wendy’s shift usually ended mid-afternoon. I’d have at least a couple of hours alone to work out my plan.

Reaching around the door, I unhooked my bath robe and wrapped myself in its soft warmth. With eager hands I collected pen, paper and calorie book, then padded barefoot to the kitchen. A note lay on the bench: Bye, Sue. Have a nice day. Below her words, Wendy had drawn a happy face.

Smiling, I put the note aside. It was time to eat. Gathering what I needed—muesli, milk, a bowl and spoon—I laid them out on the bench. Another thought came and I rummaged through the utensils drawer. Far at the back, behind the serving spoons and spatulas, I found a bright orange measuring cup. Aha. I lifted it into the air like a trophy. Now I was ready.

With a blue ballpoint pen and fresh zeal, I wrote ‘Monday’ at the top of a blank sheet of paper. Today I would do better than yesterday—I had a goal. My book told me half a cup of muesli had 144 calories. I wrote down the figure, then scooped the cereal out of the packet. It barely filled the base of the bowl. My stomach rumbled noisily and my mouth began to water. One cup of milk had 178 calories. I poured until the milk reached the brim of the cup then doused my muesli in the creamy liquid.

My chair scraped across the linoleum as I sat down at the kitchen table. Spoon in hand, I closed my eyes and prayed silently, Thank you, God, for this yummy food. And thanks for this time out. Please bless it. And please help me with this diet—I really need to be disciplined. Give me strength, Lord. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

Plunging my spoon into the bowl, I loaded it with muesli. The first mouthful was delicious—all fruity sweetness and crunch. I opened the book and began to study it while I ate. The previous night I’d dashed frantically through its pages, but now I could take my time.

The guide was divided into sections based on food types. Each page was filled with many lines of tiny print. Every type of dairy product was in one section, followed by all kinds of meat, then grains and so on.

I raised my eyebrows and breathed deep. There was so much information to absorb. Still, I needed to know the facts if I was going to succeed. Page by page I scanned the lists, noting the foods I would most likely be eating.

When my bowl was empty, I closed the book and studied my food record for that day. Only two items were listed so far yet their energy value came to more than 300 calories. Already I’d used up almost a third of my allowance for the day. I ran my fingers across my forehead. This was going to be harder than I thought.

I leaned back in my chair, pondering. If I wanted to reach my goal, every meal would have to be carefully planned. There was no room for error. Calculations had to be made ahead of time. It was the only way to ensure I stayed within my limits.

I thought back over all I’d read in the calorie book. Fruit and vegetables would have to be the largest part of my diet. I could eat muesli or fruit for breakfast, a salad sandwich for lunch, fruit for snacks then meat and lots of vegetables for dinner.

I smiled in satisfaction as I folded the page and took it to my room to hide. I could do this. I just had to make a plan and stick to it.

Chapter Three

L

ater that afternoon I gazed out my bedroom window. Counting calories was good, but I could do more. If I was serious about losing weight, I had to go all out. Exercise was vital—even more so than usual.

Being active had always been important to me. Like my dad, I could only stay cooped up inside for so long before heading outdoors to let off steam. I rode bikes. I swam at our local pool. I copied the exercises diagrammed in Dad’s fitness book. I even tried running, but never found a comfortable rhythm. Always, I reverted to walking. It was something I could do anywhere.

Tom and Naomi’s house was set on a long hill. From their driveway, the land sloped steadily down before levelling out for a short distance then rising again—a perfect place to burn calories. I pulled on some shorts and a singlet and hurried outside.

The afternoon sun shone warm on my shoulders as I trotted along the driveway and turned left to walk downhill. Sounds of splashing and laughter carried from the swimming centre across the road. I inhaled, filling my lungs, and lengthened my stride. Walking in a new neighbourhood was refreshing.  I studied the houses lining my route and eyed the passengers