Category: Health Foods


Like a 1980s throw back, the pavements are scattered with joggers, clad in fresh neon Lycra. Gyms full of frantic activity. Personal Trainer’s, like tour reps, guiding uncomfortable newbies, as the gym stalwarts look on resentfully, impatient at having to queue for machines they’ve come to call their own.

people in gym

Photo by Victor Freitas on Pexels.com

Me: I resist the magnetic pull of these sports, though my head aches for the hot, dripping sweat of impossibly intense cardio regimes. With every advert for a new workout,  I remember the hours spent pounding the treadmill, ever harder, ever faster. The high of running on empty, breaking through pain. The cycling, competitive climbing, rowing, bench press, skipping, weights…

… and actually, I hated it. Although I’ve always been fit, at 5ft 2″, I’m not a natural sportswoman. Don’t get me wrong,  I used to enjoy a cycle, climbing, a good walk, but in those days, it was a pastime, not a regime.

Why then?  Why did I endlessly punish my body with ever-increasing levels of cruelty? Why ignore the aching, the fatigue, the pain?

Ask the Anorexia.

Without wishing to sound too extreme, I want to warn anyone who has been lured into fitness regimes and fad diets this January.  Being healthy is all well and good, but making it a mission can make YOU a slave.

I write as one of the many who ironically start out flexible and end up rigid.

My illness began with a gym membership, a health kick. I had given up smoking and just  wanted to stay healthy, get fitter. That’s ok right?

But as I was running faster, and swimming stronger, and lifting heavier; the illness was very slowly, very quietly, creeping up behind me.

I had started toning up, losing weight, shaping up. I pushed my regime. Then I noticed that I felt guilty if I ate something ‘unhealthy’. Before too long,  I couldn’t HAVE anything unhealthy UNLESS I’d worked out. I pushed myself harder. I lost weight. The numbers started going down. I pushed myself harder. Then I could only eat on gym days… Before I knew it, I was too thin to exercise. I had the frame of a seven year old girl.

But I was thirty.

And trapped.

Over a decade later, I am still flying round the same old cage. There isn’t a bar which I haven’t beaten and broken my wings on.  I know every trick and trait of my captor and yet I can’t break free.

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I hate the January burst of diets and slimming aids and gym memberships, and new

fitness plans. I avert my eyes and ignore the call…

I know that for most, it’s a positive thing. But I write to make the case that we all need to be careful that a hobby doesn’t become unhealthy. This is especially pertinent if you’re prone to perfectionism, highly competitive and have struggled with eating problems / body dysmorphia. It’s fine to get fit, but be aware that Anorexia and other EDs thrive on seemingly ‘good’ initiatives. Be aware that these illnesses are clever, and pervasive. They take your brain prisoner…

And if you’re reading this thinking you’re immune, think again; because eating disorders tiptoe past your rational mind. You can’t OUT THINK them.

If you’re worried someone is developing an eating disorder or becoming obsessive about their diet, TALK to them. Be gentle. Suggest they talk to a professional. Be aware that they might not believe they have a problem. It’s crucial that they know it’s not THEM that you appear to be so against, but the stranger who is controlling their behaviour.

If it’s your intention to change your habits for 2019, try not to buy into the media hype. The diet and exercise industry cannot and should not promise you a new and sparkling existence.

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It would be so easy for my little blogpost boat to sink in the murky waters of semantics, and without getting too punctured by the range of philosophical angles that one could discuss, i really just want to vent my (ever present) irritation at the language used by the advertising industry; in this case ‘The Weetabix Company’.

In my usual post dinner position at the end of the sofa, I was half watching an action thriller (questionable use of the word ‘thriller’), crocheting a monkey’s arm and sipping a small decaf coffee. The ads came on and I half listened to the voiceover on an advert for Weetabix. Not just ANY old Weetabix though… a NEW and exciting product marketed as ‘Breakfast On The Go’.

Okay so they’ve cashed in on the whole blended drinks craze that seems to have swept over the ever increasing ‘clean – eating- Ella- loving – nutri – bullet – blending’ demographic in our nation. Not a problem. People are busy, time is unfair in the mornings and breakfast on the go is, at least, still breaking a fast.

My problem began when the advert reached its finale and the slightly Cockney, ‘bit of a lad that everyone loves’ male voice declared, “New Weetabix High Protein On the Go…”

and…. wait for it…

“A PROPER BREAKFAST…

BOTTLED”

I know it sounds like I’m splitting sematic hairs here, but honestly, SERIOUSLY, it’s a kind of oxymoronic advertising disaster…

I don’t really want to get into a long debate around the definition of ‘a proper breakfast’ but surely, SURELY if it IS a proper breakfast, it wouldn’t be on a BOTTLE! Not unless it’s for a baby…

An audience of non-eating-disordered folk will probably just shrug at this notion and possibly view it as a somewhat petty quibble, but for someone whose world has been hijacked by a vicious food related illness this kind of bizarre advertising can be a powerful (and potentially dangerous) way of reshaping and redefining what is ‘proper’ and ‘normal’. Although I’m not confident in defining ‘a proper breakfast’, I sure as hell know what is NOT. And a bottle of Weetabix doesn’t cut it.

Rant over.

Apologies to all who remain unconvinced and to The Weetabix Company who, no doubt, worked very hard at perfecting their script. Next time though, try marketing it as baby food.

“Rebel against your own state of mind…”

The background noise penetrates my concentrated, musical rhythm of ‘knit one, knit one below, knit one, knit one below’…

A glance at the TV brings an advert into sharp focus; a sleek grey car wheeling across a dramatic rural landscape. It seems obvious that it was a car ad but really, it might just asRebel well be the Scottish tourist board (or another bloody Party Political broadcast – Please no more!)

It’s not important. What matters is the fact that I’m having to count my stitches again because one sentence has lodged itself in my mind. It’s vying for my attention, playing on a continuous loop which forces me to stop counting and think properly about how this one sentence resonates deep within me, and how relevant it is in the context of my recovery and, perhaps, recovery in general.

My state of mind is founded on a determination to recover.

But it’s complicated.

‘Complicated’ because I swing between an absolute conviction that I WILL beat Anorexia and that I CAN and AM; and the absolute desperation that highlights the impossibility of it all, the futility of trying and the agony of succeeding at weight gain. (Yes, the presence of absolutes is noted).

The twisted paradoxes that lie like fatal, open jaws, are manifold and make the journey towards recovery all the more perilous for those who crawl along the path.

I want to eat, but I don’t want to gain weight.

I want to gain weight, but I can’t let myself eat.

I pick up my food, but I can’t put it in my mouth.

I drool over supper that I scrape off my plate

I eat all my meals, but I can’t keep them in

I cut off my nose…

Irony after irony. Stacked up, an impossible pylon to climb up or climb down.

I’m losing my thread (which won’t come as as surprise). The point is, in order to recover, I have to rebel against my state of mind.

Anorexia has become a default setting, a default state of mind. It is no longer possible for me to remember when I didn’t much care what I ate, when life wasn’t just about food, or no food. Even when I am absolutely convinced that I am going to crack it, determined that I can do it, the resolve can evaporate before I can pull the top off the yoghurt.

Rebel against your state of mind.

This six word commands a practise that might help in the battle towards restoring some of the balance that the eating disorder has stolen. Rebelling against your state of mind means a battle, a defiance, a disobedience.

Making peace with my state of mind will be about as successful as Chamberlain’s approach to Hitler. Appeasement is not an option.

I realise this post is a slightly bizarre conglomerate of thoughts and metaphor. Out of the habit of writing, I am at once struck by how much Iies unexpressed, and how tangled and tangential, my thoughts.

A peacemaker would beg forgiveness but in a spirit of rebellion, I post this anyway and pretend I don’t care.

Advent Calendar Alert

And now

I think

I’ve seen it all.

A Thomas the Tank Engine Multivitamin Advent Calendar.

Somebody shoot me.