"My daily teenage diary entries horrify the 39-year-old me."

Trigger warning: the following content may be sensitive for those with or recovering from an eating disorder.

How confident were you when you were 17? Did you feel liked? Were you happy with your body? Were you in a fulfilling relationship?

Had you asked me last week, I would have told you that my final year at High School was amazing. That it was one of my happiest times of my life.

This is because I was conveniently forgetting a few things. Like how messed up I was as I discovered when I found and read my hand written diary from that time.

My daily teenage diary entries horrify the 39-year-old me.

January 14, 1992: “Did well eating today, except for the steak.”

March 18, 1992: “Today was bad, I ate 2 bowls of cornflakes. 2!”

April 8, 1992: “Lacey told me that she throws up every second meal and that’s how she stays so skinny. I’m not sure I can throw up though (I hate throwing up) but when Mum goes out, I’ll give it a go”

April 10, 1992: “Throwing up was awful but worth it.”

April 17, 1992: “Today I had 2 servings of Lasagne but threw it up when Mum was in the shower so NEGATIVE calories!”

June 28, 1992: “All was good today until I got home from work. Avoid the kitchen Bernadette!”

July 10, 1992: “800 calories today. Luckily I got to sleep most of today so I didn’t even have to try and avoid eating more. Thank you gods that be!”

September 9, 1992: “I’ve eaten so much mashed potato tonight, I feel so sick, seriously, I am such a fat pig”.

To put these endless ramblings about food into perspective, I was – at 17 – in the best shape I ever would be and I looked like this:

In hindsight, I can pinpoint the day that my torment started.

I was at dinner with my then boyfriend and his boss. He was a tradie and his boss was, it has to be said, not backward in coming forward. He was around 60, jaded and basically a sexist pig who wasn’t above slapping my arse as I walked on by. My boyfriend at the time thought that I was a “top chick” for being so cool about that.

I went to grab a second piece of the communal garlic bread and his boss looked at me, then at all our fellow dining companions and said “Oh, I think that arse of yours is big enough already Bernadette, do you REALLY think you need seconds?”.  The 39-year-old version of me would tell him to go fuck himself, that I will eat whatever I goddamn please.

The 16-year-old, freakishly shy version of Bernadette simply put the bread back and tried to blend into the wall. My boyfriend, being eager to please his macho boss, didn’t stand up for me. In fact, he laughed and said to his eager audience that he certainly didn’t want to cross me because (holding up one of my arms) “have you seen the size of these arms?”

I was, more than anything, just embarrassed. There I sat in my best dress, that I only two minutes before believed accentuated my figure, only to be told that no – I was a big fat nothing.

And so it began.

Besides an obsession with aerobics (my diary indicating that I went twice, sometimes three times a day). I often rode up to 40 kms a day. I was vigilant about my calorie intake, allowing myself only half the recommended daily amount. And if for some reason I went over that amount, according to my notes, I was sure to ‘eliminate’ it by throwing up.

What struck me most about my diaries was the total insecurity I was harbouring within myself and the volatile relationship that I had started to have with my own body. How had I forgotten this? What wasn’t obvious at the time to anyone on the outside looking in, was my problem with food and exercise. Or more pointedly, my over-enjoyment of both these.

At the time I couldn’t comprehend that things would get better. That I’d stop regarding myself and my body with such contempt. I also don’t realise that the way that I was thinking was totally messed up. I didn’t realise I needed help.

I’d like to tell you that it stopped pretty quickly, that I discontinued my nonsense and gained some clarity but I can’t do that. There would be some years to get through yet before I became confident in my own body and learned to accept that I was actually, okay just the way I was.

It was only two years later that I met the man who would become my husband. A man who looked at me like I was magical and mythical creature. Somehow I was already perfect to him and because he believed that, I started to believe it too.

I’m not saying you need a partner to gain self-confidence or that one person can take your insecurities away with a cuddle and a declaration of love but it helps if you have people around you, family, friends or a lover, who tell you that you are just fine, just the way you are.

To the 17-year-old I just reacquainted myself with in that diary I would like to say this: Enjoy the now, it is one of the best times of your life and you look amazing, you are amazing, stop beating yourself up and enjoy the life you are so very fortunate to be living.

I only wonder if 17-year-old me would have listened.

For support, help and further information about eating disorders please contact The Butterfly Foundation on 1800 ED HOPE (1800 33 4673) or visit their website at www.thebutterflyfoundation.org.au. 

Have you ever revisited your teenage diaries? What advice would you give to your 17-year-old self?