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463 pages, Paperback
First published September 14, 2021
I wasn’t depressed or unhappy during this time; I was just completely driven and completely numb. In some ways, I was the happiest I’d ever been. Maybe not happy, but content, certain. I had achieved some previously elusive anaesthetised state of mental calm.
There was too much potential and too much room to fail so day by day, I chose perfection over creativity. I chose no more creativity, and no more mistakes.
There are things that eating disorders takes from you that are more important, much greater and more profound a loss, and much much more difficult to recover and restore completely than body fat. And that reckless urge to create, just for the pure, senseless joy of it, would become the one I missed the most.
The problem with this chapter of eating disorder memoirs is that it’s very difficult to write about anorexia without bragging about anorexia, and an account of that specific, intense time in the grip of anorexia plays too neatly into the egoic thirst of the disorder—however long it’s lain dormant. It is a condition that is in and of itself a total submission to the ego. And what a lot of people fail to notice about recovered anorexics is that, rather than being ashamed of or horrified about their past, they are often proud. They still get a thrill out of telling you their lowest weight or how many rice cakes used to sustain them for the day, and they might even keep a secret folder containing photos of them at their most impressively sick-looking. So, while my eating disorder has been waiting for years for me to write a book to shock and impress you with her numbers, her regimen, her daily calorie count, the thrilling countdowns the doctors used to pin on her declining life expectancy, while she would love me to include her skinny pictures, I’m not going to give her that. Because this book—spoiler warning—is not about how great I was at anorexia for a while. It’s about how the relentless pursuit of perfection is a sad way to spend a life, and why you should wake up and pull yourself out of that downward spiral as soon as you possibly can. (39)Lynch is best known for her role as Luna Lovegood in Harry Potter. She's probably second-best known for the story of how she wrote to J.K. Rowling when she was struggling with anorexia and Rowling wrote back and encouraged her to get well, especially if Lynch wanted to act.
There’s not much point trying to avoid being triggered in the immediate aftermath of recovery because pretty much everything is triggering. Eating in front of people is triggering. Choosing what to eat. Watching other people eat. TV sitcoms where female characters casually joke about their eating disorders and claim not to have eaten bread in decades. Magazines, obviously. All models, all athletes, all dancers, especially ballet dancers. Naturally skinny people. Lanky children. Malnourished children in third-world countries on adverts appealing for charitable donations. Jesus on the cross with his enviable ribcage. Friends skipping dessert because they claim they’re not hungry. Anyone leaving any scrap of food on their plate as you mentally calculate the calories they’ve omitted. Religious fasting. Animals in hibernation who don’t eat for months on end and live off their fat reserves. Other people’s hip bones, other people’s belly buttons. Cartoon characters with waspish waists. Wasps. People who say, ‘I was so busy I forgot to have lunch.’ Every other person who has an eating disorder. The stories of other anorexics who died from their thinness. Boys with abs. People who run for fun. People who choose salad for lunch. The Olympics. Greyhounds. All of it, all of it, it’s all so triggering, and there’s no way around it, so you better be ready to cry in public and just generally be a human volcano who might blow and spill all your messy, uncomfortable feelings on the floor at any moment. (305–306)It's on point. It's very, very on point in places. (Side note: Lynch's story about hating tomatoes and having to face them in treatment is darkly, personally funny to me—genuine fear of being made to eat tomatoes is one reason I ended up with treatment that didn't involve a residential centre.) I did find the book a bit long—I felt my interest flagging around page 400, though I'm not sure if that's because (ex-anorectic and all) the disorder story felt more engaging than the vaguer walk through Lynch's early adulthood or whether it's more just that the book is, well, a bit long.