It all started out innocently enough. I was training for a high school triathlon one Easter break and I was determined to do well, to be perfect. I learned everything I could about calories and weight loss.
It struck me one day that if I ate less and less every day, I would be lighter and faster in this competition—and experience the added benefit of being more desirable to the few guys who attended my school. What a great, foolproof idea. Once I lost that weight I was sure that life would finally be perfect.
As time progressed with this wonderful plan of mine, I would eat because I was starving, but afterwards I would feel tremendous guilt. Every time I ate food I had failed in my plan to become desirable, my plan to fit into the perfect dress, my entire plan to succeed and do well in life.
The feeling of fullness in my stomach became unbearable. Every time I ate I had to do something about the horrible full feeling. I would throw up. About one hour later though, that insatiable desire for food would return.
It soon occupied every thought. It came to the point where I would spend whole days in a rapid cycle of bingeing on cookies, chicken, candies and other food, only to throw it all up 20 minutes later. I would go through this cycle at least four times a day. With my 5’7” frame, I weighed about 100 pounds.
I also started to hate what I was doing. I hated eating, I hated throwing up. I hated not being able to concentrate on anything. I hated having cuts on my hands from sticking them down my throat, and having a constantly sore throat. I felt like I was the only one raging a fight against my body.
I felt like no one could understand the extreme hopelessness I was feeling. Those beautiful girls on campus had “perfect lives.” I was sure they all had wonderful families, were doing perfect in school, and had individuals lining up to be with them. Meanwhile, I was losing my hair and falling deeper into despair.
I would have loved help—but I felt as if I couldn’t ask. My parents eventually found out through my endless stays in the bathroom and falling weight from excessive exercise and skipping meals.
Once they found out, I felt like our whole relationship changed. I was stressing them out and simultaneously was stressed out by what I felt was “the food police.” I couldn’t tell a friend or teacher—their behaviour would inevitably change around me.
The cold, hard fact is that a lot of people don’t know how to deal with mental illnesses. I felt that telling people would garner one of two responses, neither of them good. They would either go silent, not know what to say and distance themselves from me, or they would become overly protective, not leaving my side and policing every move I made. Either way, I felt like I would lose a friend or a mentor.
I felt like telling people would leave me tainted in their eyes. I would no longer be “Miss Bubbly” (which could not have been further from the truth of what I felt inside)—I would be someone who was troubled and needy. I would become no more than the eating disorder that I had now been diagnosed with. There was nothing I could do, no one to turn to, no way to get better, I would forever be “Bulimia Nervosa.”
Looking back on this from where I am now, I realize I was both right and wrong with my assumptions.
There was help and I could (and did) get better. Six years have passed since the first time I threw up after a meal, and I wouldn’t say that these years have been incredibly easy. I was aided by the help and support of a great mental health professional, as well as my parents. You don’t recover overnight, and I still worry that I could relapse.
I was partially correct in other assumptions. There was—and continues to be—a large stigma against those with mental health problems.
People can be reduced to solely a disorder they were diagnosed with. Having depression, anorexia, or extreme anxiety is not a sign of weakness. It is a sign of strength and great character that one is willing to work to overcome such a difficulty.
One in four Canadians will have a mental health problem at some point in time during their life. Mental health problems are not rare—so why does the stigma continue?
I was also quite wrong in my assumptions of how people would react if I told them. While there are a few people who react by distancing themselves or becoming overly concerned, there are a large number who just want to know how to help you best.
If a friend approaches you about such a concern, or you are concerned about yourself, there is an incredible support system here at Queen’s for you. I wish everyone was so lucky as to have access to such great resources. You can schedule an appointment with a psychologist or psychiatrist at Heath, Counseling and Disability Services (533-2506).
There are also a number of other therapists in the community. Youth Alliance Kingston runs a support group on campus every Wednesday night (e-mail youthalliancekingston
@hotmail.com if you’re interested). The Mental Health Awareness Committee (heathpromotion@ ams.queensu.ca) and the Food, Weight, and Body Image team (533-6712, bewell-dowell.org) work tirelessly to distribute resources to students about mental health issues, and about maintaining one’s mental health to try to prevent any problem from occurring.
If I can give you one bit of advice about my experience, I want you to know that no one is alone in this. These concerns are common, there is help, and no one is just a disorder.
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Heather Fulton is the Social Issues Commission’s deputy of Education Awareness. She is featured in the Green Ribbon campaign to celebrate beauty, strength and talent in all shapes and sizes. The Green Ribbon Walk, a walk/run/roll to support the campaign, will be held on Oct. 1 and will begin at the JDUC at 1 p.m.
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