How would you feel if the school nurse called up to say, “I think your 11 year old daughter might have an eating disorder.”?
I’m now 23, and have battled with anorexia nervosa, EDNOS and binge eating disorder since aged 11.  I only found out this year that my parents had the tiniest idea about my condition back at age 11, but like most parents were in denial.
According to them I was a normal, healthy, well brought up, “happy” 11 year old.  I didn’t look “anorexic”, so how could I possibly have an eating disorder.

To have an eating disorder, you have to be thin, your periods need to have stopped, you will have lost a percentage of your body fat, you will have developed downy hair on your body and spots on your skin, and of course you will have a fear of food.
If you meet three of more of these criteria, then it is fine, the GPs might take your condition seriously, but what if you don’t?  What happens if you are so desperate to lose weight, and starve yourself through the daytime, only to find yourself snacking on the way home from school?
I was teased about my weight when I started secondary school, also teased about my last name.  I desperately wanted to be popular, and to fit in with everyone, but instead the opposite happened, and I felt isolated.  I was in the position that I’d started puberty early, and my body shape was more developed than the girls around me, but instead of feeling excited about my womanly curves, I felt fat.  Much fatter than the pre-adolescent girls around me. 
I always hated P.E, because I hated getting changed where everyone could see my body – when we had swimming it was even worse, because people had to see me waddle along in my swimming costume.

There were a couple of particular stand out moments, 1st when we were doing gymnastics at school, and 2nd with a boy I fancied. 
I had been really looking forward to gymnastics, because I was good at it, I’d done gymnastics before, won a silver medal in a gymnastics competition, and had all my BAGA badges.  In the first lesson, our teacher had us doing positions (yes, there is no innuendo meant here at all), the heavier person on the bottom, and the lighter on the top.  We’d all been discussing our weights beforehand, and I was shocked at how much heavier I was than everyone else.  I felt enormous, and suddenly felt like I was obese compared to everyone around me.  It was horrible.

In year 7, there was a big thing about having relationships.  By relationships I mean, holding a boys hand in the quad, and then sitting with them through class.  And writing notes over their books.
I really wanted a boyfriend, and had a crush on a boy called Paul.  I guess I set my sights too high, because it all backfired with him turning round and saying (in front of a lot of mates) that I was too fat and ugly to have a boyfriend.
Rejection, or what?
It was from here onwards that I decided I needed to do something about my weight.
I was aware of anorexia.  We’d already had the PSHE talk about it, and I knew of a family friend who’d been in hospital with it.
I came home from school, wanting to change myself.  I wanted to diet, and diet fast.  Even before I asked my mum, I knew what her response would be “you're a growing girl!”  Right, so no luck with a diet.
I tried exercise, getting up early on a Saturday and Sunday morning, and going for a jog.  I'm AWFUL at getting up early, I hate spending money, so really could not get myself to the swimming pool.  Besides, the thought of people seeing this vastly ballooning body was a scary prospect.
The jogging worked, and then when Dad got up the exercise bike (his bike fixed to some pedal thing), I had a secondary route.  Things were going well.  Until I weighed myself.
I hadn't lost weight at all.  How was that supremely possible?  Isn't exercise supposed to solve everything!  I should at this stage point out there are probably lots of explanations for this e.g. I could have weighed myself after eating, it could have been the time of the month, muscle weighs more than fat...etc.  You just don't factor this in.  You panic.

I panicked, exercise was NOT working, and I needed to take more drastic action.  The number of times I have tried to make myself sick in these circumstances is unbelievable.  Somehow, I've never been able to.  But the mental pain at not being able to rid my body of its emotional weight is not pleasant.  Neither is being crouched over a toilet, feeling enormous, depressed, fat and a complete failure.  Later on I turned to laxatives, and it took me a long time to be able to get over my dependence.
My plan was to starve myself of all fat so that the pain would go away.  I hated this blob I would wake up and see as I tried to make myself look presentable each morning.  I hated myself even more at the weekend, when I tried to fit in in unfashionable clothing, because I was already adult range.
I would try and restrict all through the day.  A day at a time.  But as soon as I came home from school, I caved.  I'd make myself a cup of tea, but I couldn't wait for the kettle to boil, I couldn't sit/stand still.  I couldn't wait, the fridge, and the cupboards, everything became hate foods because I would binge.  I'd binge on anything I could find, because my starved body wanted food.

It was horrible, and then because I couldn't fight the thought of having failed, I'd try and exercise, I'd try and make myself sick, and then I'd weigh myself only to find that I'd failed again.  You don't get results overnight.
All this time, I'd continue to eat my evening meal, as if everything was normal.

But things were far from normal, I was becoming more and more depressed, lonely, and hating myself even more day after day.
My saving grace was my music.  I am good at music, and am proud of what I have achieved as a cellist.  In 1999, I successfully made it into the National Children's Orchestra of Great Britain, and when I was 12, I was made leader of the cello section.  NCO host residential music courses (once you're in, you also get to go to monthly regional orchestras, which is great, because its more opportunity to see friends).  I had some of the best weeks of my life with my friends at NCO, because I felt accepted, I was popular and I also hung out with the popular people.

Between the years of 11 and 14, NCO actually kept me going.  I felt so low that I almost contemplated suicide on a couple of occasions.  One occasion occurred on the way back from school, and I received a text (on my Nokia 33.10!) from one of my best friends Vicky saying she'd got back in to NCO (you have to re-audition each year).  I suddenly veered away from my thoughts and turned to a much happier place, because I was really excited to know whether I too would be successful...which I was.

During this time, my life is littered with countdowns to NCO courses, diaries recording my food intake, followed by notes telling myself off, timetables detailing exercise routines only to be not stuck to, charts of when I was going to lose weight by.  All marked by a big F -word.  Failure.
I left Kingston Grammar School at the end of year 9, having persuaded my mum that I wasn't really making friends.  It also marked an end of an era with NCO, as you have to “retire” at 14.  Having played in some amazing concert halls, had some incredibly solo opportunities and some memories I'll never forget, I was leaving on a high.
Perhaps my start at Sir William Perkins' would be a new beginning, and I'd leave it all behind.
I loved the school.  The people at SWPS were incredibly friendly, and the staff going out of their way to help me settle in.  The problem was me.  I arrived at SWPS full of hope, but carrying the weight of the last 4 years.  Add to that GCSEs, A levels, a perfectionist and someone still not happy with their body image and self esteem, and its not difficult to see how I spiralled downhill.
The yoyo effect continued for a while, but in my anorexic head I was beginning to take greater control, for example skipping evening meals if mum was out, and coming up with an excuse here and there.  It may not seem much, but it was practicing me for what was to come.
I sat my GCSEs, achieving well, although perhaps not as many A*s as I would have liked.  I was also disappointed to only get a B in my music AS module I sat early.  Perhaps this was a sign of things to come.
In my L6, there was a turning point.  I struggled to grasp the jump from GCSE to A level, and whilst my teachers continued to predict excellent mock grades, I was failing in all areas, including music.
I struggled to be motivated with my cello playing, the task of sitting my post-grade 8 exam (DipABRSM) seemed very daunting, and I was well below par.  I was desperate to go to Manchester University, as I'd rather fallen in love with the idea of going to Manchester, but getting AAA seemed impossible.  Why was everything going wrong?

I sat my L6 mocks, and the results reflected exactly where I was at.  I couldn't believe it.  For the first time ever, I'd failed an exam...more than 1 exam. 
The teachers called my mum in for a chat, more out of concern than anything else, was something worrying me?! 
I should at this point note that I had confided in 1 or 2 teachers in the past about my struggles.  They listened, and were understanding, but it was never taken further, because it wasn't needed to...because it hadn't got serious.  And I made it very plain that I was paranoid about my parents finding out.
The result of the meeting was that I was to give up Biology, and focus on my 3 A levels, Music, Psychology and Philosophy and Ethics, allowing me more time to devote to these areas. 
The teachers maintained my confidentiality, and what is more, it gave me further opportunity to achieve the “plan”.  I'd ask to eat dinner alone, because I'd be in the middle of rewriting an essay, I didn't want to be distracted from what I was doing because the family would be watching tele, so I'd have dinner upstairs.  Of course, I never ate my food, but my parents weren't aware of this.

The months went by, and I continued to lose weight.  At the same time, remarkably, my grades went up.  I suddenly felt in control.
It was also at this stage that I was working in a local pharmacy, a placement I'd secured as a result of my work experience week.  I was putting away the order, when I completely innocently stumbled across constipation relief.  On my lunch break, I researched these further.  I thought it was something you needed a prescription for, but here I could buy these without any questions being asked.  I should point out that there is a campaign to change the state on this.  If laxatives are a problem, please seek help.
Because I worked there I felt I couldn't just buy them, so I'd shop around, going to supermarkets and different pharmacies.  It wasn't difficult. 
I'd have to live with a constant bitter taste in my mouth, the feeling that any moment I might soil myself, as a 16 year old in school, all I could ever smell was diarrhoea, a permanent aching in my side, continuous thirst, and the feeling of falling, ALL THE TIME.
My heart would pound as soon as I'd taken them, and each time, I wondered if I'd actually wake up.
I'd write in my diary, “I love you” to my mum, dad and little brother, just in case I did die.
It was clear that the staff at school were getting worried.  They'd try and corner me for a “little chat”.  I'd find plenty of excuses not to be there.  But then I'd worry that they'd ring my mum if I wasn't.
During the summer, I went away on a music tour.  I'd been involved with the London School's Symphony Orchestra since leaving NCO, and enjoyed it, though nothing is ever as good as NCO.
Walking into rehearsals, I couldn't realise why everyone was staring / talking about me.  Was there something wrong with my face, had I got bird crap on my hair? It was really embarrassing.
I had become used to the empty feeling that accompanies anorexia.  I had also become used to the dizziness caused by fatigue, but also the abuse from the drugs.  I became reliant on caffeinated drinks to survive the relentless rehearsals that week, managing to find an excuse for every day that week for meals.
My problem would be the following week when I went to Italy.
Over the two weeks, my intake decreasd drastically.  It is no wonder that my body crumbled, so much that I struggled to climb stairs, I was cold in 35C heat, had no idea where I was half the time and failed to enjoy Rome's architectural wonders.
I was unrecognisable when I returned home, and even my mum noticed, but still the lies continued.
“It's my vegetarian diet and my epilepsy medication.”
It took me weeks longer, when I'd pushed my body to its absolute limit, to bottle up the courage and admit I had a problem.  If I hadn't told, my Head of Year certainly would.
When I was referred to hospital, my consultant told me that had I continued in this way for another couple of weeks, my organs would have shut down.  I also had to deal with the prospect of infertility.
But its more than this.  It's the holiday I was robbed of in Rome, because I was so wrapped up in my anorexia.  It's the years at Sir William Perkins' School where I should have thrived, but didn't because I was still fighting a losing battle.  It's that money spent on laxatives – drugs that go in and straight out...what a WASTE of money.  It's those hours spent crying over scales and the bathroom, because you hate your legs, face, chicken wing arms, stomach and the rest.  It's not being able to LIVE life, because life always has to revolve around food.  It's living with regret.  It's a constant battle, and one very lonely battle, because no-one really understands but you.

What is harrowing, is that it could have ended.  Either in year 8 or if I hadn't been treated when I did.
Eating disorders have the highest mortality rate of all mental illnesses, and one of the hardest things is admitting you have one.  If I had had treatment early along, I may have recovered earlier, and been able to enjoy more that I ended up missing out on.

Fortunately, I've been lucky to have some treatment, and the opportunities that I have had since then have been incredible.  Recovery has given me strength to volunteer overseas, and travel the world.  It's improved my self esteem no end, encouraging me to take on management roles whilst at University.

I'm not recovered, but in recovery, there will always be ups and downs, but I'm in a much better place than I ever was 5 years ago.