My Secret Life: A Memoir of Bulimia

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Title: My Secret LifeAuthor: Leanna WatersDate: 06/10/11

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SECRETLIFE

MY

a m e m o i r o fb u l i m i a

L E A N N EW A T E R Smaverick

house

I S BN 978-1-905379-93-4

9 7 8 1 9 0 5 3 7 9 9 3 4

Cover image by Kevin Russ (iStock)Cover design by Two Associates

www.maverickhouse.com

A penetrating insight into the mentality of a bulimic, My Secret Life is a story of struggle and grief. Leanne Waters examines the development of her illness andlooks closely at the psychological foundations of this ambiguous disease.

“It gradually became easier and easier to suppress the hunger pains and even tolerate the stabbing intensity of a truly empty stomach. I soon found myself enjoying the pain. It would spark in the lowest point of my stomach, light like a match and blaze until I thrashed in � ames. � en it would tear north, shredding my sides and scorching beneath the skin that enveloped my chest. It was more than hunger. My insides screamed at a deafening pitch, unable to � ght the devouring emptiness. Soon it was like my body turned against me in desperation. � e hollow sting that I nurtured so a� ectionately began to eat away at me instead.”

MY SE

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LEA

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My Secret Life

MySecretLife.indb 1 05/10/2011 16:15:47

Leanne Waters

My Secret Life

A Memoir of bulimia


Published in 2011 by Maverick House PublisHers, office 19, Dunboyne business Park, Dunboyne, co. Meath, ireland.

[email protected]://www.maverickhouse.com

isbN: 978-1-905379-93-4

copyright for text © leanne Waterscopyright for typesetting, editing, layout, design © Maverick House.

5 4 3 2 1

The paper used in this book comes from wood pulp of managed forests. For every tree felled, at least one tree is planted, thereby renewing natural resources.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

all rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a newspaper, magazine

or broadcast.

a ciP catalogue record for this book is available from the british library.


About the author

Leanne experienced severe bullying as a child, was very reclusive

and quiet, often finding solace in writing. She suffered with mental

illness from a young age, experiencing episodes of anxiety and mild

depression. In her teens she suffered from bulimia nervosa and

underwent several months of behavioral therapy. Her book, My Secret

Life: A Memoir of Bulimia details that battle.

Leanne is now 21 years old and since that period, she has

dedicated her time to her personal development, as well as her studies

and writing. She is currently studying English at University College

Dublin and works for the UCD University Observer. She hopes to

enter into the field of journalism after completing her degree and go

on to write both fiction and non-fiction titles. She lives in Bray, Co.

Wicklow with her parents and siblings.


To Mum and Dad, who remain the underlying bedrock of

everything I am or ever will be. I love you both.

To my friends Anna, Kate, Ami, Emily and Roisin; without you, I

never would have survived it.

To Nicholas, who kept me sane while writing this memoir. We got

there in the end.

Dedication


Firstly, I would like to thank Michelle, a wonderful psychologist

and an even better woman. Without you, I never could have made it

through such a terrible time in my young life.

I would also like to thank my Granddad John, who instilled in

me a most devout passion for writing. You have been an inspiration to

me since I was a child and I will never forget all your encouragement

and all your teachings about our shared craft of writing.

Furthermore, I was blessed to have been taught by three very

special teachers throughout my education. Thank you to Mr. Enright,

Ms. Dunne, and Ms. Traynor-Byrne. All of you saw potential in me

when I don’t think I truly saw it in myself. Whatever flair for writing

I had before, it was because of you that I was brought to a standard of

actually being able to publish this book. Thank you for believing in

me. Finally, I would like to thank John Mooney, who took a chance

on me and on my little story.

Acknowledgements


Foundations 13

The Fast 51

The Binge 90

The Purge 131

Intervention 160

Recovery 201

Regeneration 240

Contents


13

I have never liked the term bulimia. As human beings, we seem to

feel the need to categorize everything and everyone. In doing so, we

innocently attempt to better understand that which has undergone

our necessary classifications. I, unfortunately, understand this more

than most. But I dislike the term nonetheless. You see, once labelled,

said thing or person must from that point onwards operate under that

register almost exclusively. Like everyone else, I never wanted to be

pigeonholed in any particular way, let alone by something like bulimia

nervosa. Since accepting the reality of my condition, however, I find

myself greatly altered and living what now feels like an accidental

existence. I do not think, feel or behave as others do anymore. Instead,

I think, feel and behave as a bulimic would. The distinction is all

too evident both to myself and to others. Once the term itself has

been applied, you are forever condemned to it. It shapes you, changes

you and worst of all, it victimizes you. And for this, I hate it with a

feverous passion. The problem is, in being bulimic I cannot fully be

me; but without bulimia, there is no me.

And so, I have been seduced into not only accepting the term,

Foundations


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M y S e c r e t L i f e : A M e m o i r o f Bu l i m i a

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L e a n n e Wat e r s

but embracing it wholeheartedly to the very core of my being. I am

bulimic. And everything about me is defined under that term; that

often invisible umbrella which looms over all I do and everything I

am.

Someone I used to love very much once told me that bulimia

was merely an idea and that its existence was dependent wholly on the

strength of mind of the given individual. It’s not impossible that my

pride is what prevents me from believing this argument. As if being

bulimic isn’t ego-wounding enough, am I now to accept that it’s my

own fault and simply a result of my own weak mind? I rather contend

that it is my experience and now educated feelings that cause me to

disagree on the matter.

But I suppose I do bear some of the responsibility, despite others

having tried so tirelessly to convince me otherwise. It’s natural for

most loved ones to entertain the idea that none of this was my fault,

particularly when blame and guilt have been such viciously active

factors of the illness itself. But alleviating myself of all the responsibility

is something I can’t do. Because to a large extent, I secretly wanted

this. Don’t get me wrong, you don’t exactly wake up one morning

and say, ‘I think I’m going to be bulimic from now on.’ But once in

the grip of it, you learn to embrace it like a friend, like your closest

comrade and you would do anything to keep it safe. But we’re getting

ahead of ourselves now.

Naturally, I just can’t bring myself to agree that bulimia is merely

a notion or idea. An idea is something you conceive yourself. I didn’t


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conceive this, or at least not consciously. Nor did I create it. Sometimes

it feels like I was born with it, as if it were an organ in my biological

make-up, inactive until recent years when it decided to make itself

known. Yes, she had always been there; waiting, growing, learning.

I have had no singular trauma in my life to cause her debut. People

seem to think that that’s exclusively why an eating disorder comes

about, but not mine. I once received an upper-cut to the face for not

giving a girl a cigarette that landed me in St. Colmcille’s Hospital, but

that’s about it. If anything, I even relish in the fact that I can now say

very truthfully that I can take a mean punch.

But I won’t insult my bulimia by claiming that this or any other

isolated incident gave birth to her being. You’ll have to excuse my

use of the term ‘her’. I’m not simply addressing my bulimia as a man

would a car, but am referencing it as I have come to know it. She is the

person that lies deep within me; alive, almost fully formed and with

feelings and beliefs as any other person would possess. And without

her, I dare not think what would be left of me. This is part of the

reason I find difficulty warming to the expression ‘bulimia nervosa’.

It’s too clinical and does not give full credit to the weighty person she

has become. She is more than bulimia. She is my other half and the

darkness inside me that gives way to all my light. And for this, I will

endeavour to never insult her. Even still, I sometimes wish I could

protect her.

In order to find her foundations, we must go back to my own.

Though it’s difficult now to think of a time when she didn’t exist, I


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am convinced that at some point in my life I must have been a person

without bulimia. Or else, I must have been a person under some other,

more appeasing, title. Perfectionist, high-achiever, anal-retentive; take

your pick. I was once ranked among all of the above. I no longer

consider myself any of these things but that question remains open

to debate. I suppose, to a certain extent, I never did consider myself

any of these things. If I did, perhaps I wouldn’t have been so hell-bent

in my pursuit of perfection in the first place. Indeed, it was this very

pursuit that often justified my unhealthy habits and even the disease

itself. Let me explain.

I am a person who thoroughly enjoys profiling. Though I don’t

claim to have any academic or psychological understanding to do so,

more often than not, I will take an individual and mentally weigh up all

I know of them to come to a conclusive decision on their character. The

conclusion is subject to the current time and is variable; it can change

with my growing understandings of the person, different experiences

and of course, shifts in the traits of the individuals themselves. Now,

I know what you’re thinking; living with this girl must be hell. And

you’d be right. It is rather excruciating living with me. Unfortunately,

however, I can’t get away from me. That established, you can now

appreciate the agonising scrutiny I put myself under. But don’t give

me too much of your sympathy because as I’ve said, this is something

I enjoy doing; or at the very least, it’s something I’ve always done

and have now just persuaded myself into believing is enjoyable. Upon


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personal reflection, I am no longer just one unit. I break myself into

boxes and when separated, the contents of each may be better analysed

and more closely examined. We’ll take it one box at a time.

I am a very spiritual person. My faith is unyielding and ingrained

so deeply into my very being that it has evolved into an invisible limb

that works with and similarly to all others. Spirituality, therefore, is a

very notable box. To perfect it and all it stands for, I am a practising

Catholic. Despite its apparent unpopularity among my own generation,

I attend weekly mass, say bedtime prayers and every now and again

will even bother to read a particular scripture that my mother has

come across and suggested. Furthermore, I’m proud of this. Though I

make no attempts to boast about something so private, I relish in this

ideal. I am Catholic by chance of upbringing but by contrast, my faith

is something entirely internal and honest, untouchable even. As such,

I am proud of the perfection with which I have tried to facilitate that

faith. This box, consequently, is full. And if such an occasion arises

that calls this perfection into question, the entire box will be upended,

re-evaluated and altered if necessary.

The same rules would apply to my ‘intellectual’ box, if you will.

Being successful professionally, academically and even intellectually

was something I had valued very highly from a young age. It is true

to say, that how we measure the above is dependent on each of us as

individuals. I measured such things through high grades in school,

extensive reading and striving towards what I believed would be a


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financially rewarding job. And I was often triumphant. Your typical

pompous know-it-all, I was the perfect student my entire life. I worked,

over-worked and took independent study as seriously as anything

taught in the classroom. I read everything I could and especially titles

that were known for their notoriety if nothing else. I told myself that

I was bound for renowned glory in my chosen field of work and that

it would, surely, pay me substantially. My parents, who had never

enjoyed the luxury of furthering their own education and whose

pockets were as empty as our fridge at home, nurtured my ambitions.

While they struggled, I dreamed. Pumped with determination, I never

again wanted to feel the heavy guilt of knowing that for the little they

had, my parents gave me everything in their power. As long as they

could provide me with the means, I would work until I could change

our lives. And I did; even if for the worst. For almost the entirety of

my academic life, this box was stellar.

You’re starting to get a picture now, of how I operate mentally.

Apologies for what will appear like a sense of self-importance; I

assure you, it is mere neuroticism and nothing more. But what we are

currently discussing forms the bedrock of the mentality that brought

me so effortlessly and comfortably to the state of dysfunction that was

to dominate such an imperative time in my life.

To further prove this, I will address just one more box, one more

facet of grave significance. This is my appearance. It is here we find

one of the many justifications I invented both to fuel and conceal


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my bulimia and everything she wished of me. It was this box that

contributed to bringing about the extremist methods undertaken in

my obstinate pursuit of perfection. If I could control and champion

all other aspects of my life, this would be of no exception. So you

see, though my aesthetical make-up was always relevant, it remained a

mere factor of a much bigger equation. Therefore, to say one develops

an eating disorder because they are unhappy with how they look or

what they weigh, is utterly invalid and insufficient. Indeed, while in

the heavy fog of my bulimia, a friend said to me, ‘But Leanne, you’re

a really attractive girl. You know you are.’ Perhaps this was intended

to dissuade me from what she believed was a chosen lifestyle. It would

have never worked because this was not the problem in the first place

and my friend could never have understood this. She had never

experienced a friendship like that of mine with my bulimia. All that

said, my appearance does play a huge role in all of this and the issue

of my weight became the target that bulimia would unleash all her

furious wrath upon.

It was an easy target, in hindsight. It had been something I had

always struggled with and was one of my personal failures on my path

to perfection. If anything could damage my flawless mental profile,

it would be my weight. Like almost every teenage girl, I contended

with a negative body-image. I knew all girls of my age harboured

negative thoughts on their own appearances, usually invalid, but I

was certain that their temporary worries could not match mine.


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Mine bore authenticity and a reason for concern. I had somewhat

of a misunderstood-complex whereby no one could have possibly

understood the pain of having to live in my own skin. They didn’t have

the memories I had and surely could not have been carrying the load

that I strung over my shoulders daily. It’s amazing what people can

convince themselves of. To put it all quite simply, I can recall my dear

friend Anna asking me a difficult question. We were mid-argument

about the issue of my weight when she finally yelled, ‘How can you

possibly think you’re fat? Are you gone in the head?’ Disregarding the

latter of her statement, to which I’d say yes, sometimes I wonder if I

am truly ‘gone in the head’, I thought only of one incident from a very

long time ago.

I am six years old. Patrick is the cutest boy in our year; all the girls

like to play kiss-chasing with him. He was very bold to a teacher not

so long ago and left school. But he’s back now and I can see him in

the yard. He is talking to Sarah. She is my best friend in the whole

world and made me a friendship bracelet last week. When she tied the

bracelet around my wrist, she told me to tell her my biggest secret and

that because we know each other’s biggest secrets, we were best friends.

I don’t know what her secret is, maybe I forgot to ask her. I told her

that I liked Patrick and wanted to play kiss-chasing with him in the

yard. And now Sarah is talking to Patrick; she’s asking him to play

kiss-chasing with us. I’m nervous because I can’t run very fast.

I’m standing at the yard gate by myself and looking at my new


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runners. Mum gave them to me on my birthday. She knows I still can’t

tie my shoe-laces so bought me ones with straps instead. Sarah and

Patrick are laughing now, so maybe that means he wants to play. I am

not allowed go over to them until they tell me to so I wait by the yard

gate. The yard is the biggest I have ever seen. Everyone loves this yard.

The boys are playing football and the girls are skipping. I tried to skip

with them once but got caught on the rope and they don’t let me play

anymore. When the teacher found out, all the girls were in big trouble

and were told that they had to let me play. I told them I didn’t like

skipping all that much anyway.

‘Hello there, Leanne.’ Ms Dunphy is standing over me now

with her yard bell. She isn’t as old as the other teachers and always

smiles. ‘Why are you over here by yourself?’

‘I’m not by myself, miss’, I tell her. ‘I’m playing with Sarah.’

‘Where is Sarah?’ she asks.

I point across the yard at Sarah and Patrick. They look angry

with me now and I don’t want to talk to Ms Dunphy anymore. I wish

she would go away.

‘We’re playing a game.’ I tell her. But she isn’t smiling as much

now.

‘What kind of game?’

‘I can’t tell you, Miss. It’s a secret.’ I smile as wide as I can

but cannot look her in the face. I’m angry at myself for lying to Ms

Dunphy but don’t want Sarah or Patrick to get mad with me. Ms


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Dunphy murmurs something to me about how she is my friend. I nod

frantically and eventually she walks away. I’m glad she’s gone but am

scared now because Sarah and Patrick have been watching me. I wave

to Sarah and the two start laughing again before finally Sarah waves at

me to go over. I’m so glad that I don’t have to stand by myself anymore

and tug at my skirt because I know my cheeks are red.

‘Tell Patrick what you told me,’ Sarah orders with a gleeful

smile. Patrick is laughing and I suddenly wish Ms Dunphy would ring

the yard bell.

‘Well, go on!’ she says again.

‘I don’t want to,’ I mumble. I have a lump in my throat.

‘You’re so mean,’ Sarah exclaims. ‘Patrick is our friend and you’re

excluding him. I’m telling Ms Dunphy on you if you don’t.’

‘I....I...I like you.’ The words fumble their way out of my mouth

and I keep looking at my new runners.

‘I TOLD you!’ Sarah screams and the two begin to laugh beyond

all control. I don’t know what to do so I pretend to laugh too. When I

do this, Sarah and Patrick both stop sharply. They exchange looks and

then glare at me.

‘You’re disgusting’, Patrick says with a winced face. ‘You’re so

fat.’

I shrug my shoulders and the pair continue laughing. Ms

Dunphy rings the yard bell and Sarah takes my hand so we can go to

line-up. When I’m standing behind her, she turns around and puts her

finger to her lips. I’m not allowed tell.


My Secret Life: A Memoir of Bulimia

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