An Unhappy Birthday

I’ve never really liked birthdays. In fact, I grew up dreading them. My mother almost always forgot the occasion. Relatives I hated swarmed in from out of town. People watching me eat meant I had to eat more. I felt I didn’t deserve any of the presents I received. The passage of time made me anxious about how little I’d accomplished. I frequently spent the day in a hospital of some sort. And then there was the cake.

The cake! Oh god, the cake! The cake was the worst part. I’d spend all year worrying about the cake, planning for the cake, calculating how many calories were in the cake, devising ways to compensate for the cake. A slice of cake had 1000 calories, right? So, if I ate nothing else that day, I could have half a slice and not gain any weight, right? Or I could eat normally and exercise for five hours to burn it off? Or I could purge it? No, that would only get rid of 30% of the calories, providing I did it properly, and I’d still have 666.66 calories in surplus. What if I restricted for two days before? Could I have a whole slice then? Or could I just have a bite? How many calories were in a bite? Or a tiny bit of the frosting? Just a lick! That was my favourite part anyway. But there would be crumbs on the frosting. How would I account for those calories? It wasn’t worth it. I just wouldn’t have any. But I would exercise extra anyway—just in case, to burn off the cake I didn’t eat.

That was my birthday every year, and it was miserable. Like many people, I used birthdays as an opportunity to beat myself up, to get down on myself for all the things I hadn’t done, for everything that I wasn’t. The event emphasised my biggest insecurities—failure and fatness—and I spent the holiday punishing myself for my ‘obesity’ and ‘idiocy’. Needless to say, it was not much of a celebration.

It was my birthday last week, and although my circumstances were not ideal, I tried to make the best of it. I bought myself a book I wanted. I didn’t receive many other gifts, but I’m glad I have this text for my research. I attended two dance classes. They weren’t the challenging jazz ones back home at Pineapple, but they gave me an opportunity to work on my technique. I redeemed my birthday reward for a free drink at Starbucks. Maybe I ordered my hot chocolate with nonfat milk and scraped the whipped cream off in a panic, but at least I challenged my fear of liquid calories. I spent some quality time with my cat Katherine. It was sad not to be in London, but Katherine is so adorable and sweet. I stopped at my favourite bakery. My cake was delicious even though my friends were not there to share it with me. Did I have the best birthday ever? No, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I know that I’m lucky to be alive having this birthday at all.

Birthdays can be hard, I know. You don’t have to like them, and you don’t have to celebrate them. You can treat them like an ordinary day if you want to! Just please, please don’t use them as excuse to hurt yourself–mentally or physically. Acknowledge who you are and where your at. You may not be who or where you want to be, but you are someone, somewhere. I hope you can appreciate that.

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Disclaimer: This cake was from the Saturday before my birthday. I enjoyed a chocolate cake on the day itself, but the icing smudged on the bus trip back to my flat, and consequently I didn’t get any good pictures.

Rebirthday

I died on August 29th of last year. My heart stopped, and anorexia killed me. I was technically dead for three minutes.The doctors didn’t think I would make it. I was too far gone. The defibrillators weren’t working; my heart was too damaged; I would never recover from anorexia. Why bother trying? They called my cardiologist to tell her patient had died; she told them to try one more time.

They did, and that’s when the miracle happened. That’s when my heart started beating again; that’s when my lungs started breathing again. That’s when I opened my eyes; that’s when I learned to see. There were sparkles on the ceiling and jewel-drops in my eyes. There was a buzzing in my ears and a million voices in my head; I could hear them all clearly, and they were telling me the truth–the cold, hard, cement-stairwell truth: They told me I couldn’t go on like this; they told me I had to recover. 

And they were right; I knew they were. I couldn’t go on like this, and I didn’t want to. I had to make a change; I had to do this once and for all; I had to recover. 

And so on August 29th, 2016, after ten long years, I finally began my recovery journey. I sought the help of a dietician, psychologist, cardiologist, gastroenterologist, psychiatrist, general practitioner, and liver specialist. I underwent extensive physical and psychological therapy. I gained thirty-eight pounds. I got in touch with my emotions. I learned to eat and exercise in moderation. I found freedom with food and within myself. I broke away from anorexia, and I came back to life.

I was reborn on August 29th of last year. My heart started, and I beat anorexia. I’ve been alive for approximately 525,600 minutes. I survived. The doctors saved me; my heart conditions are now managed with medications; I am recovering from anorexia. Who would’ve thought? I made it out alive, and you can, too. 

Happy Birthday!

Last year, I was taken to the hospital after I fainted on the way home from a final exam. I spent the day pulling tubes out of my arms. I watched the listless whitewashed walls and listened to them tell me to eat. I ignored their worried voices, shaking my head at the food they brought me, laughing when they told me I was going to die. It was just so funny: Me counting the seconds to death, me laying in a half-dead hospital bed. That was no way to celebrate a birthday, so I got up and left. It’s been a rough year since then, since I snuck out of that hospital on May 9th, 2016. I’ve had heart attack, dropped out of school, left my home, and technically died for three minutes. It’s been–without a doubt–the worst year ever, but somehow, I got through it; I gained thirty-nine pounds, graduated cardiac rehab, started a blog, and quite literally came back to life. I survived; against all odds, I survived, and that’s something worth celebrating.

So here I am, sitting in a Starbucks, drinking free hot chocolate and writing this post. I’ve got some research to wrap up at Senate House, and then I’m off for ice cream with my friends before dance this evening. There’s a ridiculous smile plastered across my face, and as I lick the whipped cream off my chin, I can’t help but shed a tear. It’s just so funny: How much I’ve lost, how much I’ve gained, how much I’ve learned, how much I’ve changed. It’s been one hell of a year (and one hellish year), but I’m so glad I stayed.