This appeared last week:
Diary of a millennial anorexic: 5 rehabs and 15 lost years
Lara Bowman reveals how she went from being a happy child from a wealthy background to solitary confinement in a treatment centre.
LARA BOWMAN
20 April, 2025
Three years ago, my befuddled brain decided it wanted a cigarette. I stood up and then came the bark, “Sit down. You aren’t allowed to get up.” I had forgotten I was not allowed to get off the sofa without permission. If I needed a glass of water, I had to ask a fellow inmate in the “semi-acute psychiatric facility” to bring it to me.
I was anorexic, and the few steps to the tap were apparently too strenuous for my flimsy, palpitating heart.
Anorexia is the attempt to deny all needs but ends up making you the neediest of all. I had this realisation fittingly on the loo, trying and failing to relieve myself in front of a male nurse. Dignity long gone and used to this routine by now, I couldn’t have cared less.
I can pinpoint the beginning of my anorexia precisely. I caught the mother of all stomach bugs in July 2009, when I was 14. I was bedridden for a month. I lost about 1st in the first week, partially due to my mother’s misguided attempt to starve the bug out. She eventually succeeded, but I’m not sure she ever got her daughter back.
Emerging from my semi-catatonic state, I felt high, emotionless, untouchable. I liked it. So, I just kept going. Still unaware of the existence of a calorie, I mimicked my mother. Skip dinner; stick to vegetables and fish. Kaboom — I was still high. Like any addict, I spent the next 15 years chasing the euphoria of the first fix, but it was never quite as good. So far this morbid pursuit has resulted in seven years in five treatment centres, about thirty medications and a catalogue of psychiatric diagnoses in double digits. This is not to forget countless broken relationships, three incomplete degrees and a lot of my parents’ money.
In many ways I am an archetypal anorexic: female, privileged, perfectionist, bright and white. In my last stint in treatment, my father wrote me a letter that was read out in front of my fellow inmates. He wrote, “Lara’s childhood wasn’t perfect, but she was never hit, there was love, and she grew up with a silver spoon in her mouth. By any objective measure Lara’s life should not have been traumatic, but it patently is.” This is true. I grew up in beautiful houses in Clapham, south London, that featured in the pages of House & Garden. My mum was alternately an interior designer and a stockbroker and the mother of six children. My dad made Coca-Cola ads before he joined Ernst & Young to pay for the ever expanding family. We went to the best private schools, enjoyed lavish holidays and saw the coming and going of nine nannies.
Grown-ups would speak about my mother in awed whispers. She was the supermum of south London. We were the Clapham Von Trapps, dressed in pinafore dresses imported from Hong Kong. Despite the mob of children, the house was always spotless. Perpendicular family portraits lined the walls, our blonde hair perfectly coiffed, smiling obediently into the middle distance in matching white T-shirts.
Still unaware of the existence of a calorie, I mimicked my mother. Skip dinner; stick to vegetables and fish. Kaboom — I was still high. Like any addict, I spent the next 15 years chasing the euphoria of the first fix, but it was never quite as good.
My mother is a quintessentially type-A personality — like most anorexics, incidentally. Rigid, disciplined, hyperorganised and fundamentally controlled, she ran our lives like clockwork. Every minute was accounted for — six lives managed like well-oiled machines. The problem was that I kept accidentally knocking things over, disrupting our neatly ordered world. My mother was baffled by me. Understandably confused as to why I could read Jane Austen at eight but had a habit of tidying newspapers into the fridge, she got me tested for special needs. The psychologist likened my brain to a wardrobe with the hangers messed up on the floor. He diagnosed me with dyslexia, confirmed that I was bright but said that I had a statistically odd brain. He missed the attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, an omission that is unfortunately common for girls. People with ADHD are four times more likely to struggle with eating disorders.
My mum was an almond mum before the term was coined. One week tuna was in; the next, the mercury-infested morsel was banned. Mary Poppins-style, we would guzzle spoonfuls of various fishy oils. We would be allowed two or three Halloween sweets and the rest would still be in the cupboard the next year. We didn’t use toothpaste, as my mum feared fluoride. On playdates, I would precociously declare that Nutella was toxic and frozen pizza was for lazy people.
Being overweight was a moral failure. My father idolised actors who looked like Keira Knightley. My mother said crop tops should only be worn with a washboard stomach. While I don’t think her approach to food gave me an eating disorder, it helped provide the framework for it. All the children were subjected to the same routine. Between me and my two sisters, we have struggled with the trio of eating disorders: one had bulimia, one wrestled with binge-eating and I was anorexic. However, I am the only one who has been institutionalised.
The less you eat, the less you feel
Over the summer, after my tummy bug, I was just eating boiled vegetables. I famously ate half a raisin and put it back in the cupboard for later. Initially, I was praised for my turbocharged self-restraint. “I knew you’d realise you liked salad,” my mother said. “You’ve lost your puppy fat,” my dad said.
I would stand on one leg in chemistry to “tone” and do laps of Starbucks at lunch as my peers were downing frappuccinos. Initially, I tried to keep my more left-field behaviours quiet. I feverishly watched my classmates munch cookies, overwhelmed with a mixture of disgust and jealousy. “Do you want one?” a disconcerted classmate asked. “No, I’m not hungry,” I replied. That was a lie. An early one of many. I was starving, but I was as jealous of her carefree consumption as I was of that devilishly delectable, sugar-laden bomb passing her lips.
I was ahead of the curve on food porn. My Harry Potter books were replaced by baking books. I drooled over Mary Berry’s brownie recipe so often that dribble marked the page. A pathological people-pleaser, I tried my best to keep the extent of my madness private. The mandatory 50 nightly sit-ups would be done in the bathroom. Tiles don’t creak, you see.
Then one day, Mum walked in on me while I was in the bath, curled in the foetal position. She recoiled and I heard a sob. That night I asked her to give me a bedtime cuddle. My newly protruding spine must have poked her, though. “You’re not very nice to hug any more,” she whispered in my ear.
The school called, alarmed at my weight loss and increasingly eccentric behaviour. We dutifully saw a GP, who weighed me and announced that, while underweight, I didn’t qualify for hospital treatment. GPs receive two hours of training on eating disorders, and thus, while mainly well meaning, they don’t know what they’re talking about.
My mother tried her best. She accompanied me to an endless parade of doctors’ appointments. A weekly charade would ensue. I would chug gallons of water to artificially add the pounds, put on my reasonable face and agree to eat malt loaf. They would warn me of the impending horrors of ill health if I didn’t get my act together: osteoporosis, which my mother already had; heart attacks; flaky skin; infertility; early death.
After the weekly weigh-in, I would try to eat my dinner that night but it would never last. I didn’t want to upset anyone, but I had become possessed. Consumed by the art of not consuming. Semi-starvation dulls cognitive function. The less you eat, the less you feel. What was going on in my brain is difficult to describe, and even to me sounds insane. The wires had sort of got crossed. That homely, safe satiation after macaroni cheese evoked terror rather than pleasure. Emptiness was associated with purity and dignity — even when becoming incontinent.
To eat or not to eat. Simples. This streamlining is wonderfully comforting to a tweeny brain overwhelmed by the idea of the fast-encroaching chaos of the adult world. Problem is, neural pathways have a habit of sticking.
I would eat once every two days
It is common for girls with undiagnosed ADHD to fall apart at university. Outside the strictures of school life, responsibilities and possibilities multiply. This can send the dodgy satellite system of the ADHD brain spinning. I was also burnt out. During my A-levels, I had worked 14 hours a day, timetabling every minute, and had seen so little sunlight that my tennis teacher told me I looked like a vampire and that I was going bald. Having failed to hand in an essay, I left Durham University after a term.
This precipitated a full flip into hedonism. The failed perfectionist era had started. I would rather fail on my own terms. I went on my gap yah. Had a ski season, ate lots of cake and went off to the University of Bristol the next September. I made wonderful friends and we partied hard. The next three years were a yoyo of extreme highs and lows. My chums had now joined me in my fantasy world. We would prance around festivals draped in fairy lights, propelled by a concoction of dreams and drugs until we dropped into a narcotic-induced slump. We were the worst intake that Bristol had seen in 15 years. The chaos excused my tics. I fitted right in.
I’d regularly skip dinner and down copious amounts of vodka instead. One time I met a couple while they were graffitiing on the side of the road and paid them to tattoo me. I wanted Donald Duck on my bum; they kindly suggested my shoulder. I was once interviewed by the passport office having lost five passports in two years in various clubs. They concluded that I was not a criminal but an idiot.
It took a while for this to raise alarm. My weight was propped up by alcohol and erratic night eating. I would eat once every two days and my speech was slurred. My third-year flat was nicknamed “the crack den”. I slept in my ski gear on a sheetless bed — the radiator was broken and the flat was too much of a tip to tell the landlord. Food was becoming increasingly intermittent, and for the first time I called my mother and asked for help.
Unbeknown to me, she had been working behind the scenes on an intervention. “Lara, there’s a place you should go which will help you. You can go to Cape Town over the summer and it will make everything all better.”
The insanity of my illness hit me like a sledgehammer
And so I found myself in a minibus in Cape Town, speeding past the townships to the poshest part. We passed three dead bodies. I’d never seen this kind of poverty before. We arrived at Bishopscourt, a maze of mansions cordoned off in rectangular blocks with 10ft barbed wire fences and private security cars whizzing past. The insanity of my illness hit me like a sledgehammer. Here were all these rich white girls being cajoled to eat by black nurses, and people were starving down the road.
I was stripped, weighed and carted off to the psychiatrist. I confounded the poor man, who flatly refused to believe that I was purely anorexic. He added ADHD and bulimia to my psychiatric rap sheet, despite my complete lack of a gag reflex. The girl in front of him had lost more than 50 phones, dropped out of two universities and was still dressed in wet festival clothes, with glitter in every crevice. A form I’d just filled in asked what drugs I’d taken in the past two days. I couldn’t remember; I didn’t want to be caught lying so I just ticked everything apart from crack, meth and heroin. I’m a good girl, you see. “Your brain must be like oil and water,” he said, perplexed.
This was full-on rehab. I lasted three days before I demanded to come home. Screaming matches adjudicated by my therapist ensued. My parents flatly refused. This was fair. So I just refused to eat. No amount of cajoling stopped my hunger strike.
I discovered my spunk in rehab. Unadulterated anger exploded out of me, seeping out of my pores like the stench of vodka. After a couple of weeks I was put into solitary confinement for three days. No one supervised me. I quickly found the blind spot in the CCTV and started stuffing my food into sanitary bags and hiding them in the cupboard. This was the final straw. After a month, my mother got a call in London telling her I was in the lobby and she had to pick me up now. Difficult to do from another continent.
Then one day, Mum walked in on me while I was in the bath, curled in the foetal position. She recoiled and I heard a sob. That night I asked her to give me a bedtime cuddle. My newly protruding spine must have poked her, though. “You’re not very nice to hug any more,” she whispered in my ear.
I was bussed to another rehab centre in Cape Town. This was less bougie and presided over by a man, now dead, whose therapy style has put three people I know of into trauma counselling. By this point I could not string a sentence together; stress had short-circuited my brain. I was assigned a personal nurse. I was also thought to be a flight risk and banned from having contact with my family.
My eating disorder being challenged head-on was, to put it bluntly, torture. But the carefully constructed narrative of my life and world was also crumbling. For all his faults, this therapist could cut through your bullshit in five minutes. There were a few light bulb moments.
Maybe my childhood hadn’t been perfect? My mother’s favoured form of discipline was icy silence. After her parents’ messy divorce, she had vowed never to shout at her children. I remember wishing she would, to get it over with. Her mother had repeatedly abandoned her for a parade of men. Her response to this was to decide emotions weren’t needed. If we were worried, anxious or upset, she would tell us to get up, move on, that it was not helpful to be upset. This steely approach to life was probably solidified by being one of the few women in the City during the Eighties. The family joke is that no one has ever heard her say sorry. Like most of my siblings, I absorbed this. Hypersensitive as a child, I learnt quickly that this was a weakness to be quashed. Not eating was quite a good way to do it. Problem was, in my attempt to shrink myself into non-existence, my torment had increasingly encroached on other people’s lives. My parents once called living with me Chinese water torture.
Maybe I was a narcissistic, spoiled, selfish mess who needed to take some responsibility for her life?
I gained weight — and dropped it fast
After four months, Mum agreed to let me come home for a visit. I left my visa behind and conveniently got banned from South Africa. My therapist called me the next day; I was already drunk, en route to a rave. She asked me whether I’d forgotten the visa on purpose. I told her I hadn’t, but I would have done if I’d had the wherewithal to think of it.
I spent a year in a ridiculously ritzy halfway house. I had gained a lot of weight — more than I was meant to. My body clung to nourishment after years of famine. This, I decided, meant the shrinks and dietitians were wrong. They had stuffed me up like a battery chicken and I quickly rectified the situation. I dropped weight fast, but had no intention of being sent back to Cape Town, so slipped back into straddling the line of acceptability weight-wise — a healthy weight, but just.
At this point, I was on ten psychiatric medications. The shrinks would ask whether they were working and I would be like, “Which one? I’m on all of them.” I don’t trust psychiatrists. They all have different answers and they can’t all be right. One thing did help though: stimulant medication for my ADHD. Suddenly I could focus. I could finish an assignment. I went back to university, this time in London, and started handing in essays. All was ticking along nicely, in a semi-functional manner.
Here is the link:
I have to say this is a terrifying view of awful personal suffering. I wonder can anyone help her out of the deep hole she seems to have disappeared down? Really a very, very sad chronicle of some awful human suffering!
David.