The Backstory: Starting a PhD ...and crashing out

Going to Sheffield to take up a PhD was meant to be a fresh start. No one would know my past and I could finally rid myself of my 'Anorexia' label. For the first time I would also be free from the stress of exams and I would even escape the stress of college catering. A whole new life was waiting for me, if only I could seize it.

But I wasn't in the best state when I arrived. I was still very underweight and preoccupied with exercise. While other new students were checking out the best bars and clubs in town, I was trying to work out how I could keep up my exercise schedule during a busy PhD. I didn't want to have to run around the streets at night in a strange city, so I made up my mind - I would join the University gym. I had always been sceptical about the gym culture but I soon realised that the treadmills could give me a very efficient workout . I experimented with different fitness classes and was quickly drawn to spinning (indoor cycling). It gave me just what I wanted: a high-intensity workout where I could push myself to the limit until I could hardly walk afterwards.

One of my leaving presents - a box of shortbread biscuits. Slightly ironic..

Whilst this kept the exercise demon in my head happy, it made it difficult to fit in my meals. I would exercise first thing in the morning as soon as the gym opened, then go straight to work in the lab without breakfast. At this point, I had been eating so little for so long that I was terrified that eating any more than this would make me pile on weight. So 'lunch' was typically a yoghurt and a handful of dried fruit, then I would have nothing until my evening meal, which was mainly vegetables with some sort of protein. I honestly don't know how I was able to keep going for as long as I did. My body was visibly unravelling: going up stairs was a real struggle and I started to have heart palpitations when I exercised. Trips into town were tortuous as I couldn't bear to be confronted with the sight and smell of rich food all around me. I could hardly sleep at night as I kept waking from the pan of my limbs digging into the mattress. This was the lowest point I ever reached: I had never been so weak, so thin and so afraid. I knew that something had to break - either the demon, or my poor body - but I was powerless to make the change myself. All I could do was wait and see what would happen. Each day when I walked past the hospital to work, I wondered whether I would end up in there that week.

My lowest point

The crunch point came when I had to take a trip with my supervisor to a lab we hoped to collaborate with on my project. I knew I wouldn't be able to exercise so I made a plan: I would eat nothing during the trip to compensate for the calories I wouldn't burn. The first evening I pretended to be asleep in the hotel room while the others went for dinner and at breakfast the next day I claimed that I "had a bad stomach and couldn't possible manage anything". When we were taken on a tour around the labs, I could barely keep up; my legs felt like two pieces of sponge and I had to physically haul myself up all the stairs. On the way home, there was a mistake with my train ticket and I completely went to pieces; I couldn't cope with the thought that it would take even longer to get back, to where I could eat again.

Not surprisingly, my supervisor noticed things had gone too far. The next day back at work, she called me into her office. I thought we were going to discuss my latest results but instead my world was torn apart. I had to leave the lab. I had no choice in this and the only way I could come back was to go to the doctors immediately and follow their advice. I knew the game was up and part of my body was relieved. The choice had been made for me. It wasn't how I wanted it to happen - I wished I had had the mental strength to take myself in hand - but I knew things could not have continued as they were.

Taking my pills and potions in the Northern General

 At the University Medical Centre, my GP made it clear that I was well below the threshold for hospital admission. She made an appointment for me to be assessed the next day at Northern General. There was no question about what the outcome would be. I went home to pack. Just as for my hospital stay in Durham, I couldn't bear to tell my parents. My supervisor drove me to the hospital and waited with me in the drab reception. I felt so guilty for dragging her away from her work, all because of my 'stupidity'. Yet she was so patient and didn't accuse me in the least - and I will always be indebted to her for that.

A few hours later, I was put in the Hadfield block; a mixed ward containing patients who mainly had diabetes and heart problems, plus one other patient with anorexia. I felt completely abandoned and out of place - it seemed farcical that I should be in here, among patients who were in so much pain or needed acute physical care. I was mainly left to myself during the long, empty days where the routine was only broken up by meals and blood tests. It drove me mad to have so little to do; I could feel my mind rotting with so little stimulation and I mourned the life that was passing me by. I still wouldn't tell my parents, so had to gloss over it all in false, cheery emails. But most nights either my supervisor or one of my colleagues from the lab visited, which helped to keep me sane.

My world for all those long weeks...

I could hardly complain though, when I had effectively landed myself in there. And I knew what my exit ticket was - weight gain. So I tried to learn to eat again, with the help of a dietician and a sympathetic cook. I managed to impose some sort of routine - three meals a day, two snacks and supper - but it took my body a while to adjust. Sometimes I felt like I had eaten an obscene amount, only to find that I had lost weight the next day. I slowly began to trust my body and let go of the fear that my weight would run away from me like an express train.

I was in there for about four weeks - it is difficult to remember exactly how long it was now. It seems that my mind has done its best to erase that time. I set myself the target of getting out in time for my mum's birthday and even made the consultant sign a 'contract' that said I could leave when I reached a certain BMI. I eventually made it and was allowed to call a taxi to take me home.

I spent Christmas with my parents, who were still in the dark about my time in Northern General. I was hoping to be allowed back onto my course in March. But then disaster struck in January; a blood test showed that my neutrophils (white blood cells) had plummeted to 'dangerous' levels, lower even than those of a cancer patient on chemotherapy. I was told I had to go back into hospital immediately. They even put me back in the same ward.

The view from my window...sunrise over the Northern General car park

 It was very frustrating as there didn't seem to be anything I could do this time but wait - and I had no idea how long it would take. But even when my neutrophils improved, the consultant decided I needed to put more weight on before I could be discharged. Every day it seemed that the goal posts had shifted and no one would give me a straight answer about when I could go home. If I asked to discharge myself, I would be threatened with the Mental Health Act again. So I would escape from the ward in the afternoons, saying I was "going for a walk around the hospital" but roaming the streets instead, browsing the ethnic food shops nearby. I even visited the local library a few times! It felt completely ridiculous. Three or more weeks went by until I couldn't stand it any longer. In the end, I cheated and drank a litre of water before my weigh in. It did the trick and I was let out.

By now it was too late for me to return to my studies in March and it was decided that I should re-enrol on my PhD the following September. It was a bitter blow - what would I do in the meantime? In the end I was fortunate to get a media internship with a learned society to write press releases for their annual conference. It was wonderful experience and cemented my desire to become a science communicator.

Working at YHA Edale as a kitchen assistant - all that food!

I also volunteered to work as a kitchen/domestic worker for the children's summer camps at YHA Edale in the Peak District. I hoped that the hard physical work would demonstrate that I was fit enough to do a PhD full time again. Although it was menial work, I found it very rewarding especially because I could see how much the children were enjoying themselves. Some had come from inner city London and hadn't even seen a green field before. I particularly enjoyed serving meals (ironic I know!) and I was very patient with the 'fussy' eaters, remembering how I was at University.

The work proved to me how much physically stronger I was now, and that I did much better on a good meal routine. But had anything really changed? I was still avoiding starchy carbs (bread, rice, pasta, potatoes, etc) and felt nervous around high-calorie foods. And although I had vowed to take a better approach to exercise when I came out of hospital, it had quickly become a compulsion again. Even at Edale, I went for a long run over the hills each afternoon before the dinner-time shift. It's a wonder I didn't break my leg coming down some of those rocky paths... In my mind I was still a prisoner to rules and fears. I knew that going back into the lab was going to be a challenge. The only difference this time was that I simply had to make it work.

There would be no other chance this time.