An ordinary morning, for me, I suppose. I was taking Benny for our customary walk, along the country lanes near my home. It was autumn and the leaves were falling from the trees - dazzling flashes of colour that swirled and soared their way elegantly to the ground, as free as birds upon the wing. I felt like that, too. Walking with my Benny, I always felt a sense of glorious, sweet freedom. Out here, there was nothing and nobody I could compare myself to, The world of Trinity was a distant speckle at the back of my mind. All that mattered here was the feel of the ground beneath my feet, the gentle kiss of the autumn sun on my face, the sweet twittering of birdsong, the whisper of the breeze in the branches of the trees.
Finally, my pockets now completely devoid of dog treats for my beautiful soft-eyed spaniel, I clipped the lead on Benny and turned around to head back home.
And it was then when I realised...that something was wrong. There was a twinge, an ache in my right foot which hadn't been there before. My fluid, swift movement suddenly turned into one which was bordering on a limp. I felt confused. What had I done? perhaps it was just a minor strain. It would probably be gone by the time I reached home. Arming myself with this confidence, I fearlessly strode on.
But by the time I got home, the ache was still there. In fact, it had got worse.
I ignored it for the next two weeks, hobbling around Trinity with my books and other essentials in my arms; sneaking around the house at home in the hope that Mam wouldnt notice my visible limp, Finally, I broke the truth to my Mam and she encouraged me to go to the doctor's at Trinity, which was free for all students. I didnt want to go, of course, but one Friday I finally plucked up the courage and dragged myself down to the small clinic at the further end of Trinity. I was reluctant to go, I suppose, because I suspected the doctor would advise me to rest and curtail my walking for the time being. Something I - or perhaps I should say my eating disorder - wasn't prepared to allow me to do.
A few hours later, I emerged from the clinic with tears streaming down my face. Blindly I stumbled out of Trinity and off down Dame Street, heading straight for the station for the 16.25 train. I only just caught it, because I was alot slower with my aching, sore right foot. I found myself a seat at the back and wept, silently and bitterly, immersed in my own melancholy, oblivious to everyone and everything around me.
It seemed like my whole world had come crashing down.
The doctor had said that I was very underweight. That he was almost certain that I had an eating disorder. I had got blood tests done and had been weighed as well...he said he would have the results of the blood tests for me in about two weeks time. I felt confused, frightened, and utterly wretched. No, he is wrong, I whispered to myself defensively. That's not me. I dont have an eating disorder. I gained weight over summer, all by myself. I eat regularly and I only walk around, I'm no anorexic. He is wrong, he is wrong. I lost my eating disorder months ago. That was the past. It is no longer part of me.
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