One time I consumed an entire bar of laxative chocolate. The subsequent stomach cramps (bang in the middle of a busy train station) had me doubled up in agony before spending the whole day on the loo feeling wretched and full of self-loathing. It wasn’t long before I looked half dead.
My knuckles were calloused from making myself sick, my teeth were yellow, my complexion spotty and hair lanky. My periods had long stopped, and a doctor warned me that my fertility might be affected. I’d just turned 18 in Australia so I wasn’t planning on babies, but I knew I had a problem.
Six months later I landed back in the UK and my mum cried when she saw me. My straight talking sister said “what the hell have you done to yourself?” I cried and told them everything. It was a relief. I rang my modelling agency and quit.
Back in 1998, mental health and eating disorders weren’t talked about like they are today, so seeking medical help didn’t even occur to us. I realise how lucky I was to have a family who provided the love and support I needed.
Recovery was a slow process, but I just wanted to be normal. I got a job as a receptionist and started doing regular things like having pub lunches with colleagues. It was a year before I stopped counting calories.
Aged 20 and a size 14, I was offered work as a “curve model” for fashion brands including Marks & Spencer, Evans and H&M. It was time to embrace my boobs and hips. But you don’t shake off eating disorders that quickly. Of course I had confidence wobbles, especially when my then-boyfriend commented on my “saddlebags”.