What You Don't See

'This blog is about educating people on anorexia and how by looking at someone, you cannot know what they are going through inside.'

                                                                                                            - Claire McKenna

In my blogs, I have talked about how people’s comments can be so dangerous for those suffering with eating disorders and other forms of mental health difficulties.

The most distressing comments I endure that have the biggest effect on me is on the lines of ‘you don’t look like you have anorexia’, ‘you’d never think by looking at you… you eat enough though don’t you…?”

Yes. You may have seen me eat and it may not have been just a plate of lettuce leaves. You might look at me and be aware that I don’t look malnourished or emaciated anymore.

But, you don’t see the constant battle inside that is happening every day of my life.

You don’t see the struggle and anxiety I feel before facing a meal and how much my head is telling me not to eat it.

You don’t see my terrified thoughts and how daunted I am to put that food near my mouth.

You can’t see anorexia screaming so loudly at me to not eat, telling me I am fat and this next meal is going to make me even bigger and how everyone thinks I am greedy.

You don’t see me after meals hating myself for what I’ve just put inside me, or trying to fight the urge to get rid of it and feel ‘empty’ again.

You don’t see me standing in front of the mirror, hardly able to open my eyes because I’m so mortified, distressed and repulsed by what stands in front of me!
You can’t see how alone and inadequate I feel or my desperation to get rid of the excess fat from every part of my body.

You don’t see me when I feel obese and can’t allow myself to sit down because I know you burn more calories standing rather than sitting or lying down.

This is because anorexia is a MENTAL illness not a physical illness, just like you can’t tell by looking at someone if they have depression, PTSD, OCD, Bipolar etc.

Being told you don’t look like you have an eating disorder just sends the message that one needs to do more to lose weight or that they are ‘not ill enough’ to have an eating disorder or receive treatment/support.

Each time I hear the words ‘you don’t look anorexic’, my instinct is to plan how from that moment on what meals I will skip, how much extra exercise I should do. I can’t put my finger on why it does this, but it just does. That one comment can put a halt in my recovery and send me backwards, upsetting all the hard work I’ve done to get where I am now. This is because eating disorders are fatal mind games.

Therefore, it is so important that people are aware of how comments can create distress and trigger individuals. The only way people will understand this is by being educated on the matter, in which I have created this blog.

Hi, I'm Claire. I have recently just graduated with a first class honours in BA Education at the University of Birmingham. I currently write my own blog to try and raise awareness of mental health and remove the unhelpful stigmas that are often attached. I wanted to share some of these blogs and write for Student Minds as I have been suffering with Anorexia and depression for over 8 years.

If you're struggling with an eating disorder, there is help and support out there. Visit the Student Minds support page where you can find more information and places to go for help.

Visit support page here. 

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Being diagnosed as disabled while at uni

Beth shares the challenges of being diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome while at uni - and how to overcome them

- Beth Wrightson

I'm a realist, so my initial denial of my diagnosis of myalgic encephalomyelitis (aka chronic fatigue syndrome) was quite out of character. I received this diagnosis during my placement year of my Psychology undergraduate degree, and didn’t know where to go from there. I had been given a name which explained all my symptoms, and it placed me in a category of people suffering from an invisible disease. It allowed me to explain to those close to me why I withdrew from going clubbing and university life, but the understanding I had hoped for didn't materialise. People shrugged it off as laziness and just being tired. Time and time again I would be told "I'm tired too". Friends stopped asking me to meet up, as I'd often have to cancel due to a relapse of fatigue. I had never thought my diagnosis would come with a side order of stigma from society.

Experiencing a sudden isolation, I became depressed and stopped listening to the warning signs my body was giving me about needing rest. I withdrew from my placement, work started to pile up and I became increasingly stressed and low. I stopped telling people about my diagnosis, fearing questions and misjudgement.

Shortly after my diagnosis, my estranged father came back into my life for a short period before deciding to disown me, I was helping a friend suffering from PTSD, I loathed the degree which I’d once loved, and my flat-mate suffered from an eating disorder which caused her to withdraw from our friendship. Instead of coping, I withdrew. I used to silently stare up at my ceiling for hours on end. Everyday actions like washing and cooking became too much. Nine months after my diagnosis, I finally went to my university and asked for help. I broke down in my meeting at Disability Assist. I had accepted that I had been diagnosed as disabled and that I felt alone, and fed up with a body I didn't understand. The denial didn't just dissolve from that meeting; it's taken almost two years for my denial to lift completely. Receiving therapy allowed me to discuss my own feelings about my diagnosis and the other aspects of my life which had become overwhelming.

If you feel depressed, whether it's about a recent diagnosis or another factor, I urge you to talk to someone. I was trying to deal with a combination of different factors in one go and couldn't do it alone. After waiting for therapy with the NHS for two years, I finally experienced the release of stress and tension I needed. Sometimes talking to a stranger is better than talking to a friend or family member as you can be more open, without fearing judgement. Looking back, I think ringing a helpline would have allowed me to discuss things I needed to, whilst waiting for the NHS.

Talk to your doctor to see if there are any treatment routes which could help your disability. I went to my GP several times about my depression, and was offered anti-depressants that I declined, due to personal preferences. However, going to the GPs did help me accept my diagnosis; it also helped me improve my condition.

If you have been diagnosed with a disability, tell your university straight away. By meeting with Disability Assist at my university, I was able to get extra time during my final year exams, which allowed me have a few spare minutes to rest throughout the exam. It also gave me a safe place to talk about my symptoms and condition without judgement. Having a friendly face understand my condition helped me and allowed me to realise that, while having a disability comes with its limitations, it won't stop me from reaching my goals in life. I'll never be able to walk up Kilimanjaro with my fatigue, but I never wanted to anyway!

Beth is currently undertaking an MA in Creative Writing at Plymouth University. By being the Editor of the Student Minds Blog, Beth encourages others to talk about mental health openly. In her free time, she writes on her personal blog on topics from disability to beauty reviews.

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Tsunamis and Theme Parks

Pippa talks about her experience of mental illness and the inherent challenges of communicating these experiences to others. 

-Pippa Woods 

It’s not just in my mind. They say it’s all in my mind. It’s not. It has physical implications. When it hits, it feels overwhelming. But it’s not just a feeling. It’s like a wave knocking me down. Except it’s a tsunami, not a lovely little wave you can jump over. It knocks me down and far, and when I surface, nothing looks like it did before. Okay, I’ll admit all I really know about tsunamis comes from the film ‘The Impossible’ (which is great but such a tear-jerker). But this is how it feels when my brain lets me down.

I say let me down because that is how I see it. Some people say I need to just get on with it and it’s all in my mind, others say it is a completely physical thing that you can blame on an imbalance of chemicals in the brain, I’m not sure what’s actually going on. But I do know that it feels like my brain isn’t really part of me when I feel like this. “Feel like what?” I hear you ask. If I could describe it, I would probably have the right treatment, help thousands across the country and have successfully achieved a research breakthrough. I guess you only really know if you’ve experienced something similar.

The trouble with mental illness is that we only know what it’s like to be in our own brain, to experience things from our perspective. This makes it inherently challenging to describe to others how it feels. It’s not like a broken arm, where you can say, “my arm hurts lots” and people understand, because once their arm hurt too. With mental illness they don’t usually want to understand. And even if they want to, they find it really hard to.

The tsunami example is the best analogy I can think of so far for how it feels to me when I’m going down. When it’s really bad, I get washed away. Taken from everyone I love, everything I enjoy and all that I usually find easy. I’m isolated, despite the attempts of others to reassure and support me. I’m far from them, hit by the great wave and pushed miles away. Not physically, but mentally. All my hobbies have ended up surfacing near my family and friends, ages away from me. And I’m not strong enough to swim through the water to reach them. When I try, a secondary wave hits. Everything is destroyed over again, we’re pushed further away. I haven’t yet learned how to find this strength to swim through the debris-full water to reach them, my friends, my family, my life. I’ll be sure to let you know when I do.

For me, mental health is like a theme park. A theme park where my brain is in charge of me. It determines which rides I go on, and when I do so. I’m constantly fighting to take back control of my theme park visit, but my brain has a hold on me and drags me around. I’m blindfolded. I don’t know what’s coming next, maybe the teacups, maybe the world’s highest rollercoaster. It is this, which creates my constant exhaustion. It’s not surprising when you think of it like this, anyone would be exhausted if they had to spend every waking moment, worrying about where they were being taken, how scary the ride might be, how long it might last, if you would get a break after it or straight onto the next. This is how it feels to be in my brain. This is how it feels to be me.

Now of course it seems this is all in my mind, all happening in my brain. Of course it is, my legs work perfectly fine, I don’t have diabetes or cancer. But it’s not only in my mind. Physically I may appear ok, but I’m not ok. I’m exhausted. My appetite isn’t predictable. Sometimes I shake uncontrollably. I get headaches and my muscles tense up. But I don’t have a physical illness, just a mental one.

That’s where the problem lies, ‘just’ a mental one. This isn’t the case. Rarely is an illness ‘just’ anything. If you get diagnosed with a physical illness, cancer for example, it isn’t ‘just’ a physical issue. It affects you, and those around you, both physically AND mentally. The same is true of mental illnesses; they affect those diagnosed, and those around them, both mentally AND physically. The sooner we realise this, and treat accordingly the better.

Not sure how to speak to a friend about their mental health? Take a look at our Look After Your Mate guide for some useful tips to get conversations started.

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