This post contains themes that some might find triggering. If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health, seek help from your GP or contact Beyond Blue.
It’s been nearly 20 years since I was delivered an ultimatum that would change the course of my life. Face near certain death. Or eat.
Unbelievably, my 16-year-old self found this to be a preposterous and difficult choice. I couldn’t fathom the thought of consuming food. But I had too much to live for. I was skin and bone. But I felt morbidly obese. I looked in the mirror and saw bulges that weren’t there. I felt the fat on my stomach, thighs, and legs. And I was confused and frustrated that others couldn’t see it too.
Watch: Singer, Kasey Chambers tells us exactly what it was like having a high-functioning eating disorder. Post continues after video…
I poured through my “Thinspiration” scrapbook. My treasured little pink diary, lovingly and carefully crafted with pictures of underweight models, and reasons to push through the hunger pains. And I pondered. To eat, or to die.
I chose to eat that day. 60 grams of whole grain cereal, with half a cup of skim milk. It was a start. The first definitive step in my road to recovery. It took time … a lot of time … and a heck of lot of support from family and friends. But more than anything else, it took money.
I spent a month in a $900 per day clinic on Sydney’s north shore. Fortunately, my family had the means and resources to help me get better. But many others don’t.
The reality is, our public system is failing eating disorder patients. If I had been born into a lower income household, there’s no way my parents could have afforded the psychiatrists and nutritionists needed to facilitate my recovery. I would likely have been wait listed for a bed in a public hospital. And if I was fortunate enough to get one, I would have been treated for my physical ailments and discharged within a week.