When I found out I was pregnant, I stopped drinking booze, cut down to one coffee a day and submitted with relative ease to the idea that all fun was over for the foreseeable future. I also started coming off antidepressants, at my psychologist’s suggestion, and only made myself vomit after eating around twice a week—always when my husband was out.
I’d had a miscarriage at seven weeks the year before, so I was nervous. Not that nurses or doctors then had told me that my eating disorders and the miscarriage were related. But, then again, they hadn’t asked about my general health, so I hadn’t offered it. Dr Google made it pretty clear they could be, though.
At my first midwife appointment for this pregnancy, the lovely young nurse with an admirable manicure, reeled off a series of yes/no questions. Diabetes? Thyroid problems? Anxiety or depression? Yes, to both, I said firmly. Stopping, obviously a little surprised, I told her that I’d also been bulimic for the last three years. ‘But before that?’ My husband interjected. ‘I’ve always leaned more towards anorexia and over-exercising; but since my mum died, it’s been bulimia.’
Feeling intense shame doesn’t stop someone from having an eating disorder. If anything, it just makes it worse.
The kind, but clearly uncomfortable midwife said, ‘Right… It’s completely natural to put weight on during pregnancy, though?’ The upward inflection at the end of her sentence revealed what she really wanted to say: How come you can’t accept that? Yes, of course it is, I said. But I’d still really like to some extra psychological help to try to cope if it’s available.
I’d been asking for help in dealing with my eating disorders for years. Perhaps because I don’t look visibly ill, doctors and psychologists of all stripes have never taken me particularly seriously.
Years earlier, I’d been sent to a specialist because my early-onset osteoporosis had gotten worse. The head of rheumatology asked what the lowest weight I’d ever got to was. When I told him, he looked at me and scoffed, “well that’s not very thin”. Why would you say that to someone who has clearly shown a predisposition to self-flagellation? I thought.
When instances like this have happened, I’ve mostly just felt like a failure: I could have done better, could have weighed less. I’m undeserving of help. Never mind that my kidneys had started to shut down, I’d fainted on the treadmill more than once and had the bones of an eighty-year-old in my mid-20s.
I’ve mostly just felt like a failure: I could have done better, could have weighed less. I’m underserving of help.
This year, I was referred to a new psychologist, who sensibly explained where my eating disorders and depression likely came from: a combination of genetics and upbringing. The implication being, these are explicable disorders and, therefore, manageable. But, like so many psyches before, how I was meant to do that was never expanded upon.
My problems with eating, exercising and body image only came up once more, in our last session. When I told him I was pregnant, I said, sheepishly, that I’d had trouble stopping myself from vomiting. He looked utterly shocked. Written all over his face was what I feared most: How could you do that to your baby?
He responded by telling me the importance of connecting with my baby and protecting its psychological development. I left feeling like I’d already given my baby a future eating disorder. I’ve already ruined her.
But feeling intense shame doesn’t stop someone from having an eating disorder. If anything, it just makes it worse. I stopped seeing this psych, and became more depressed, more anxious.
I’ve made a promise to my unborn baby girl to get better.
As my body has changed, feeling out of control and the urgency of needing to address my relationship with food—for my baby; for myself—has intensified. Most of all, I’ve felt confused. I love having this little person inside me, especially feeling her move, but I’ve been terrified of putting on weight, despite knowing that it is ‘completely natural’, and what she needs.
Very recently, a family friend who’s a GP intervened. They arranged for me to be admitted into a program specifically for eating disorders and body image problems. After a lengthy assessment, I was diagnosed with atypical anorexia, with binge-purge subtype. According to the Eating Disorders Victoria, atypical anorexia is ‘where all criteria is met for anorexia, except significant weight loss.’ I guess that’s why it can be tricky to diagnose.
I’m now seeing a new psychologist who didn’t flinch when I told them I found it hard to make myself eat as much as I know I need to for my baby. My baby is completely healthy, by the way, and growing perfectly. Right now, that’s all that matters, of course. But, I know, too, that me getting the help I need to finally recover from what has been a 24 year-long eating disorder is perhaps the most important thing I will do for her. Because, whether we mean to or not, children learn how to relate to themselves and to what they eat very directly from us.
I’ve made a promise to my unborn baby girl to get better. With the right help, I finally feel like I will.
*name has been changed
