My trainer said she was happier than she’d ever been. I wanted that.

The Sunday Essay is made possible thanks to the support of Creative New Zealand.

Illustrations by Matto Jennings

Note: This essay discusses and describes disordered eating. Please take care.

Just 10 burpees to go.

I threw myself against the carpet. Tried not to make too much noise as my body thumped against the floor. 

It was 7am and soon, my friends would wake up in a sticky hungover haze. I didn’t want them to catch me, in my flannel nightie, burning through burpees in secret. 

I peered around the door, saw my friends still tangled in crocheted quilts, fast asleep. Good. Enough time for a hundred mountain climbers. I assumed the plank position and drove my knees into my chest. Squeezed my eyes shut. Imagined the fat on my stomach melting away. 

—

I was 22. A group of my high school friends hired a bach in Hanmer Springs. A cosy girls weekend away, snuggled inside a log cottage, hiding from the winter westerlies, drinking cheap wine and reminiscing. 

In the days leading up to our holiday, the group chat exploded. The girls planned out the grocery shop, checked whether the bach had towels, tallied the number of wine bottles we should buy. With each message, my resentment grew.

This trip was an annoying disruption to my eating and exercising regime. I’d recently started working with a bodybuilding coach. Her name was Jenny*. She was Insta-famous, known for her “Booty Bible” that promised shapely glutes to anyone with $15.99 to spare.

I didn’t necessarily want to be a bodybuilder. I did, however, desperately want abs. So, I bought her “weight loss and toning journey” programme, and sent her an enthusiastic email detailing everything I wanted to change about my body. Attached photos I’d taken in my underwear, using the self-timer on my phone. Front, side, back. 

I would love more ab definition (especially lower abs) and to grow my back to create the illusion of a smaller waist.

After I spent four days obsessively refreshing my inbox, she responded. 

Jenny prescribed me a strict diet, with no sugar, no sauces, no slip-ups. Chicken, broccoli, repeat. Lots of sugar-free gum to manage my cravings. Extra cardio to speed up my “progress”. 

Each morning, while my flatmates slept, I’d sneak out of our apartment, and sprint up and down the fire break stairs to meet my daily cardio goals. While we all binge-watched Orange is the New Black, I’d scroll through endless photos of chiselled abs and tiny waists and tight glutes. At night, I would fall asleep dreaming of the crispy M&Ms my flatmate snacked on while she studied. The growling in my stomach became a bedtime lullaby. 

I was also in therapy for an eating disorder. Bulimia. And in the eyes of my psychologist, I was on the road to recovery. We’d recently celebrated a significant milestone – I hadn’t made myself sick for a year. My family and my psychologist were all so proud of me. But, I wasn’t proud. I was scared.

So I clawed at a new way of restricting, clung desperately to Jenny’s advice, all under the guise of getting #strongnotskinny. I made up new food intolerances to explain why I only ate five different types of food. I showed my friends videos of me squatting 90kg at the gym, proving to them that I was strong, well-fed, nourished. 

Jenny didn’t bother to screen for possible histories of eating disorders or body dysmorphia. She didn’t see the warning signs in the paragraphs I sent her about how much “leaner” I wanted to be, or in the progress photos I sent her, my ribs visible. Or maybe, she chose not to notice. Maybe, she chose to see another over-eager girl, ready and willing to pay her $69 a month for a new body.

I didn’t care, though. I felt euphoric. As the scale weight went down, I was high; soaring above the miseries of my former bulimic self. Existing in a sacred, superior space where I didn’t lose control, force a finger down my throat, do it all again tomorrow. No more acidic backwash, no more cleaning up the splashes of sick on the toilet bowl, no more lying on the cold lino of our bathroom, the voice in my head callously pointing out my lack of discipline. Bulimia was pathetic. 

I’d risen above all of that. Now, I had an eating plan, daily calories prescribed in neat little boxes, meals perfectly timed to “kick start my metabolism”. Now, I knew exactly how many stair sprints I needed to do in order to maintain my calorie deficit. Now, I had a coach that would keep me accountable, and she had a banging six pack so I knew I could trust her. What a relief. I had a plan in a PDF, and that PDF would make sure I didn’t gain weight. 

My plan didn’t allow any “cheating”. Jenny didn’t want me to eat at restaurants. Subway was OK, but only once a week, and strictly no sauces. After all, one small deviation would undo all of my hard work. She was strict, and I fucking loved it. 

Remember even cheating once will totally mess up what I am trying to achieve with you. Doesn’t matter if it’s one peanut, one M&M, one skittle, it all matters. Prove to yourself and me you are stronger than this, and when we’ll get you down to a weight or BF % you are happy with.

And so, I’d shown up at the airport with a Lululemon tote bag filled with Tupperware containers. Checked my sulphury chicken and bitter-smelling broccoli through security clearance. Carefully weighed out my protein powder into a mason jar. Stuffed my expensive fat loss pills into my carry-on. I couldn’t really afford all of these supplements. Thankfully, Jenny understood. 

I unfortunately couldn’t quite afford all the supplements – I am a student so have to be on a budget sometimes haha!

She referred me to the supplement brand she was sponsored by. Jenny10 for 10% off. 

That first morning of our trip, I got away with my 50 secret burpees, and a hundred secret mountain climbers. I was focused. Ready to prove that I was stronger than my cravings. I didn’t need bulimia’s dirty work any more.

I could hear the girls clanging in the kitchen. Someone screeched about making mimosas with last night’s leftover prosecco. I reminded myself, alcohol was a barrier to progress. It said so in my PDF. Was written in capitals and everything. 

ABSOLUTELY NO ALCOHOL WHATSOEVER.

At last month’s check-in, I admitted that I’d slipped up, had a couple of Saturday nights where I smashed back vodka sodas, stuffed a greasy burger in my gob on Courtenay Place at 3am. Jenny was unimpressed, using a passive aggressive bookend of “xx” that stage whispered “it’s OK you slipped up”, but really meant the opposite. I didn’t want to let her down again. 

Naughty girl! Try not to do this hehe. Alcohol will affect muscle growth remember that xx

I remembered. 

So when the girls sloshed pulpy orange juice into champagne flutes, I refused to join in. 

One of my friends was stationed at the toaster. She slathered pillowy slices of bread with butter and jam. My mouth filled with saliva. The air was sticky with a warm yeasty scent, and I let myself be suffocated in the smell. It flooded my senses, stirred up ravenous feelings of hunger in my gut.

Everything around me came into sharp focus. The scrape of the butter knife. The bubble and pop of the fizzy prosecco. The way my friends rolled the chewy bread round their mouths. The silky sheen of the jam. A hot, sticky fever dream. 

I thought of my coach’s abs, accentuated in her Insta photos with a greasy lick of orange tan. Must. Not. Mess. Up. Must. Not. Fail. I sat on the edge of my seat, determined not to relax and let my lower body fat roll over my waistband. 

Remember even cheating once will totally mess up what I am trying to achieve with you. 

Instead, I imagined what the bread would taste like. It was a brioche loaf, the crusty edges a beautiful, burnished mahogany. I thought of the fresh loaves Dad and I would buy from the corner bakery after my dance rehearsals. We’d claw at the middle with our fingers, not bothering to slice it. By the time we got home, all we had left was a brown paper bag and a hollowed-out loaf, all crust and no doughy middle. That used to make Mum roll her eyes. It also made her laugh. 

The girls piled their plates high, and I watched them with resentful awe. They ate with reckless abandon, joy in their jaws as they teared at the buttered brioche, pausing only to heap more jam on the bread, or heap playful insults on one another. I pushed my oats around in their Tupperware container. A grey gluey goop. My microwaved berries bled through the oats. The texture, like wallpaper paste. I chewed, winced, swallowed. 

I felt like I was sitting at a different breakfast table, living alone in a world separate from my friends, in an invisible prison of my own making. 

Dishes were thrown in the sink, dirty bread knives clattered against the breakfast plates. When no one was looking, I swiped my finger in the leftover butter on the back of a knife, popped it in my mouth. Mentally added five calories to my daily total. Rushed out of the room to avoid the allure of leftover crusts and the open jam jar.

I’d survived meal three. Only three more meals to go before we’d leave this speck of a town and I could go back to my neat little routine at home. Halfway there, halfway there. 

That afternoon, we visited Hanmer’s one and only attraction – the thermal pools. I eyed the different bodies lounging about. Love handles and beer bellies and rolly-polly stomachs and cellulite and caesarean scars. Bikini tops straining to hold the weight of sagging boobs, one woman breastfeeding a babe at the side of the pool. Faces sweaty with sulphur fumes, couples canoodling in the corners of the rock pools, a gaggle of women in their 40s straddling floating tubes, giggling like teenagers as they floated down the lazy river. 

I watched the group of women. Wondered whether I’d feel at home in my ageing body, or whether I’d despair over my dimply derriere. One of the women caught me looking. She winked at me as she arched her back, stretched her arms out wide, and shouted at her friends “oh to be young! Never want to do that again!”

—

The changing room was a hive of activity. Hairdryers buzzing, mums shouting at children to slow down, brushes untangling waterlogged hair, hairy muffs and thick thighs on display for anyone to see. 

We all turned away from one another, suddenly shy and unsure. I draped my towel around me. Did an awkward jiggle to remove my g-string over my recently waxed vagina, its surface covered in raised bumps, like a freshly plucked chicken. Poured my boobs into the bikini top. Noticed they’d shrunk, the fabric gaping slightly. 

As we strode towards the hot pools, I pinched my belly fat between my thumb and my index finger. Felt how taut the skin was. Grazed my fingers along my hip bones, comforted by the way they jutted out. Good. 

Your goal is to build muscle and lean up. This is my speciality. I changed my whole lifestyle to get what I have today – and I am the happiest I have ever been! 

The opening sentence of Jenny’s first ever email to me. Happiest she’s ever been. I wanted that, so badly.

To my right, a group of guys shuffled towards one of the rock pools. A few of them were pretty hot. One had a tattoo snaked around his bicep. 

I tensed my stomach. Threw a coy look in the boys’ direction. 

We clambered down the stairs, exhaling sighs of relief as the thermal water warmed our skin. I strained to hear what those boys were talking about, wondering whether they’d noticed my existence yet.

The girls threw around dinner ideas. Everyone agreed on takeout pizza. Everyone, except me of course. I had my chicken and broccoli meal prep to get through. 

I thought of the gooey, mozzarella-laden pizzas from Tommy Millions, the pizzeria kiosk around the corner from my first uni flat. My flatmates and I battling to carry the enormous pizza box home after drinking boxed wine on the waterfront, our oily fingers hanging onto the precious cargo for dear life, trying to steady the pizza box, terrified that the molten lava cheese would cause a landslide with one wrong move. 

I thought of the giant sheet pan pizzas we made at birthday parties as kids. We were given our own precious square of pizza to decorate with our favourite toppings. Mine had fistfuls of deli ham, globules of barbecue sauce, crumbly bits of cheddar.  

I thought of my last email to Jenny. 

I have to admit I struggled a little more this month with my food. I feel like I’ve been super hungry a lot of the time, and my energy levels have been quite low. It’s tricky because I want to continue to lean out, especially in my core area. 

I thought of her reply. 

You are looking lean and mean! Look so awesome in your IG photos babe omg xx I’ve added more carbs to your plan but you must work hard with your weights in order for this to work ok :) 

I wanted to unzip myself from my skin. I wanted to take a break from my body, eat pizza with my friends, burn the roof of my mouth with molten lava cheese, drip tomato sauce on my white t-shirt, laugh at the glorious messiness of it all. 

My delicious daydreams were interrupted. One of the girls was running towards the pool, my phone ringing in her hands. 

It was my aunty. Her voice was muffled. I wondered if she had her finger over the speakerphone again. 

“Blair. It’s Nana. She’s, she’s left us. She went peacefully, in her sleep. About an hour ago.”

She cleared her throat.

“Your mum’s out of service in Rarotonga. I’m so sorry. I know you’re away with your girls. How quickly can you get to Nelson?”

My guts twisted. Knotting and unknotting. I felt water rushing in my ears, wanted to drop the phone, throw myself underwater, drink in the sulphur-laden water, fill my lungs up with the dangerous amoeba. 

I thought of what they might serve at the funeral. Nana would have wanted us well fed, flaky pastries and cream buns, biscuit-lined tins and limitless cups of tea. I thought of Nana’s marshmallow slices and chocolate eclairs and preserved jams and her soft, cuddly belly. 

I wondered how I might avoid the sugar cravings, whether I could get to a supermarket in Nelson, buy some more oats, some more chicken. I had to make a plan. I had to get through the next few days. 

Remember even cheating once will totally mess up what I am trying to achieve with you. No slip-ups.

No slip-ups. 

Where to get help

Eating Disorders Association of New Zealand (EDANZ) – 0800 2 33269

Canopy eating disorders support service

Youthline – 0800 376 633