My day began at 7 a.m. I never slept late, because I knew that I would burn more calories out of bed than in it. As soon as I was up, had washed my face, brushed my teeth and put in my contact lenses, I weighed myself. The bathroom scales had to be at an exact angle to the wall, on a certain floorboard, as I had worked out that this was the flattest part of the floor and therefore the place where I would get the most accurate reading. What I weighed at this point of the day was very important to my mood for the rest of it. You see, first thing, I couldn’t attribute any weight gain to the weight of food inside my stomach or to water retention. It could only be fat. If my weight was up, I experienced a sense of dread. It was a terrible feeling, like being sent to prison. The rest of the world seemed to be blotted out, and all I could think about was this awful fact. These were the only moments that I really thought about the idea of getting help, because these moments were so terrible.
If my weight was normal, I could cope, and so didn’t consider trying to get help. If it was down, I felt a mild euphoria, which spurred me on to eat even less during the day. On days when my weight was down I almost loved my anorexia, because I felt like it was mine.
Breakfast was my largest meal and it consisted of a plain, low-fat yoghurt and a sliced apple. From peeling off the yoghurt carton lid, and carefully licking off the yoghurt, to finishing the last slice of apple, I would say it took about 40 minutes. By then, my parents were up, and I was ready to make them tea and toast while I washed up my teaspoon and plate. I took the teaspoon and the plate from the table to the sink in two separate journeys, as this burned off more energy. I would do likewise with the tea and the toast, the milk jug and the butter.
When I was finished, I would sit down and join them. With my mug of black tea in my hand, I used to congratulate myself on getting so far without being challenged. At ten to eight I began the walk to school, which took approximately 40 minutes, because I took a very circuitous route. Because I was in my sixth year, I had quite a lot of freedom to come and go as I pleased; I had a lot of free periods, having passed the exams I needed the previous year. This enabled me to escape from people at lunchtime – I simply couldn’t cope with the remarks of my friends, who had become increasingly impatient with me. I would spend lunchtime walking the streets near the school and be back just as the afternoon bell was ringing.
On my way home I would buy a small chocolate wafer bar and eat one half of it with a cup of black coffee. This had a laxative effect. My bowels didn’t move otherwise. Afterwards, I did exercises. This was a routine of running on the spot, followed by sit-ups and upside-down cycling. I would work at it for an hour, with my bedroom door locked and the radio playing. I read in a magazine that you should vary your exercise routine as your body became more efficient at conserving energy when you did the same routine over and over again. This meant that I had to devise new exercises, including running up and down the stairs.
The evening meal was usually WeightWatchers soup. My mother was always dieting, so I could actually eat with her, though I always said that I would get something else to eat later, otherwise she would nag me. After that, I would say that I was going out to visit friends, but I just went walking.
I weighed myself last thing at night, to check that I was on target. I couldn’t sleep otherwise. In bed, I would lie on my back and trace my fingers over my ribs and hip-bones to check that they were as prominent as they had been the night before. Since my periods had stopped I didn’t experience any pre-menstrual bloating, which I was pleased about.