My Battle With Anorexia And Drugs
Cocaine and starvation at 16 years old
At sixteen years old, I stopped eating. My mandatory education had just finished and I was thrust into pseudo adulthood at a far too young age.
For a long time, I had wanted to escape childhood. Home was never a pleasant place to be. As I got a bit older, I spent as little time there as possible, but rarely did I have anywhere else to go. The parents of the few friends I had were not keen on having a scruffy, naughty little scoundrel like me corrupting their own children, and the streets are no place for a lone young girl when the sun goes down.
Still though, it was the streets where I elected to spend most of my hours. Eventually, much of that time was spent with older boys. From when I was about twelve, the boys began to provide alcohol. Usually cider, it could be bought very cheaply and succeeded very well in quickly taking a child to the state of intoxication.
The boys usually wanted something in return and more often than not, they got what they desired. I won’t dwell too much on this period, but needless to say, you can imagine why I grew up desiring the perceived safety and freedom of adulthood.
Childhood’s End
And so, I found myself suddenly at age 16. No qualifications, no true friends, a mother who didn’t care, no career prospects, and a misplaced love for alcohol.
I entered into a relationship with a man of twenty-three. I did not love him and he did not love me, but he did have his own apartment. A one-bedroom, seventh floor flat in Northampton. He wasn’t always nice to me, but he was better than my mother. I moved in.
About a week later, I found myself staring into the mirror. There was a dark blue bruise on my cheekbone and bags under my eyes from late nights spent drinking, but neither of those things were what concerned me.
What I hated most was my double chin. I despised the fact my stomach protruded slightly. That bruise on my face sat on top of a chubby cheek, the fractured bone that caused so much pain hid beneath a layer of fat. I was repulsive. That’s how I felt anyway.
I wanted to look like the women on TV. I wanted to look like the women on magazine covers. Successful women, powerful women, respected women. Beautiful women.
I didn’t eat for 3 days.
Cocaine And Anorexia
The starvation continued. It was interrupted by necessary, minuscule portions of food. I regularly found myself weak and prone to bouts of lightheadedness. The hunger gave me something though, not happiness, but a certain level of twisted comfort.
I never looked how I wanted though. No matter how little I ate, I was never perfect. You are what you eat. I was nothing.
Initially, my boyfriend was pleased with my more trim physique, however, it quickly turned to disgust. After two months, he made me eat. I was miserable.
The week before my seventeenth birthday, he had friends around the flat. I was strongly encouraged to take a line of cocaine by his best friend, a local dealer. I didn’t need much encouragement. It was magic.
I felt like a goddess. For the first time in years, I had confidence. I was the life of the party and for once, I didn’t hate myself. I never wanted it to end.
Eventually, of course, it did. I knew I needed more.
Coke isn’t something that usually gets you instantly addicted, but considering my complete lack of self-esteem, I was immediately hooked.
I didn’t have money of my own, but I soon came to an agreement with my new dealer. For a while, I was happy and for the first time, I even felt loved. People were attracted to me. This attraction was different to usual though, it wasn’t just men preying on an easy target, people gravitated towards my electric personality. They enjoyed my company.
It didn't last long. The more I snorted cocaine, the more it stole from me. I became aggressive and overly emotional, this was not wise with my boyfriend. I became desperate for more, I needed it, I would do anything for it. This was taken advantage of in ways I am not ready to discuss.
Before I knew it, it was more than cocaine. I would take whatever I was offered. Whatever numbed the pain, whatever scratched the itch and whatever I could get. I moved in with my dealer and immediately stopped eating again.
Two Years Later
Stories like this should have a happy ending. Too often they don’t have one though. Unfortunately, I haven’t quite found mine yet. I’m getting there.
I have starved myself to the point where my skeleton was a mystery to nobody, I only wished my bones were skinnier. I have made some progress recently though. I’m on a liquid diet, but it’s an improvement.
I’ve kicked most of the drugs, at 18 I only have the heroin left to banish. It controls more of my life than I would like, but I have found my way into a loving relationship, he’s a good man. I try my best to be good to him too. Heroin has no place here.
I have an interview at a warehouse next week, £9.37 an hour. I have my outfit picked out already. I will do my love proud and I’m going to turn my life around. For us.
One day I will be a mother. I had never dreamed of such a thing, but with Ashley, I know I can get there.
Special thank you to Agatha Hesketh for sharing her story with me whilst she had the chance.
RIP Agatha L Hesketh 2001–2020
Heroin overdose.
