Anorexic And Dying... ...But Look At Me Now

Weighing just 4st, Nicola King, 26, knew she was weeks from death

- Lianne La Borde, Harriet Rose-Gale

Clicking a selfie in the bathroom mirror, I scrutinised my body closely. I must get smaller, I told myself. It was late 2011, I was 19, 5ft 9in – and I weighed 4st. You could see every rib, the bumps in my spine and my hips jutted out so much you could see the shape of my pelvis. But for me, it wasn’t enough, I still needed to see more bones.

I’d started feeling insecure at 14 and began counting calories at 16. It wasn’t long before my size 10 clothes became loose, but even back then it wasn’t about losing weight – and I never once looked in the mirror and thought I was fat. But I was full of anger that I couldn’t explain, and felt desperately unhappy. My eating disorder was about control, and it soon became anorexia.

I told myself that if I could get that bit smaller, it’d solve my problems. Meanwhile, my mum, Cathy, then 55, dad, Martin, 60, and sister, Corinne, 28, were sick with worry.

Taking control

As I disappeared, I was sectioned, force-fed, and made to attend various eating disorder clinics. But nothing could get me to eat or admit I had a problem.

By now, I was desperately ill, my periods had stopped and my hair was falling out. I was in agony all the time. Mum spent her days caring for me at home and each night, Dad would carry me upstairs to bed. Still, I constantly pored over photos of my body wasting away – in competition with myself to be smaller by the next snap.

Yet, the more weight I lost, the more numb I felt. I’d given up and felt mentally and physically dead. It was like being trapped with an abusive partner – only I was my own abuser.