by Tara Winkler
I was determined to keep the curves away. The problem was that I couldn’t control my food supply at NEGS. I could only ever count on breakfast to be a reliable source of low-calorie food. ‘No problem,’ said the dysfunctional part of my brain, which was in the driver’s seat by now. It had me eating fat-free cereal or toast at breakfast to kick-start my metabolism and then starving myself the rest of the day. I was also running and riding every day.
This obsessive diet meant that I quickly dropped to a dangerously low weight. The sensible part of my brain knew that what I was doing wasn’t healthy, but by then I was firmly in the grip of anorexia nervosa and had no idea how to free myself from it. Every day became a fierce battle to hide my inner turmoil from the rest of the world.
Eventually, Sue called me from Sydney. ‘Hi, sweetheart . . . how are you?’ Her tone was very gentle—the tone she uses when she’s concerned about me. ‘We got a call from the school. They’re worried about you being very thin . . .?’
‘Huh? Who called? What did they say?’ I demanded.
‘They’re worried you might have an eating disorder,’ she explained. ‘They sound quite concerned about it.’
‘Oh god. They’re such idiots!’ I spluttered. ‘I’m just eating well and training hard and not eating the unhealthy crap they serve up all day long! Just because I don’t eat ten pieces of cake doesn’t mean I’ve got a fucking eating disorder!’
‘Well, it’s good to be healthy,’ Sue agreed. ‘But everything in moderation, okay?’
That afternoon the nurse called me down to her office.
‘Have you been vomiting?’ she asked, as she gestured for me to step onto the scales.
‘No!’ I told her truthfully. ‘Really, I’m fine. I just don’t eat junk food and I get a lot of exercise.’
I pushed aside the anxiety and stepped onto the scales, trying to look like I didn’t care. My weight had dropped even lower since the last time I’d checked. I hadn’t expected it to be quite that low, but I did my best to hide my shock. I stuck to my story about healthy eating and intense training schedules and eventually she let me go.
I decided from then on I’d keep my weight just a little higher, thinking that if I could achieve that, I could prove to myself that I was fine. What I didn’t know was that at that weight, I had already gone way too far. I didn’t get my period for over a year and I’ve since discovered that I was doing irreversible damage to my bones, which would cause major problems later in life . . .
The issue never came up again, but for the rest of that year I lived in fear of being called back to the nurse’s office. The sick part of me craved hearing people tell me I was thin. But at the same time, whenever I heard it, I felt threatened, exposed and defensive.
Poor Sue and Peter were confused and at a loss as to how to help. I was riddled with shame and did everything in my power to keep it all very secret. The only way I knew to help myself was to keep doing what I was doing. As long as I was following the eating and exercising rules I’d set for myself, I was reasonably happy.
I should make it clear that I don’t blame puberty or NEGS or anyone else for giving me anorexia. Eating disorders are complicated mental illnesses with a bunch of abstract social, psychological and genetic triggers that I think were waiting inside me, like a time bomb.
As I moved into my final years of school, I met the pressure to bust my gut studying with an eye roll. I never bought into the stress of the HSC exams and the idea that the set of marks you get when you’re seventeen years old will determine your fate. I believed that a successful life could be made with or without university. And I knew that the well-beaten path was probably not going to lead to the sort of life I wanted anyway. A ‘normal’ life looked pretty boring to me—I craved adventure.
So instead of studying every waking hour like many of my friends, I decided to take up martial arts. I had a great trainer, Anthony Kelly, and eventually ended up attaining my black belt. But I wasn’t particularly interested in belts. I just wanted to learn how to fight. Anthony, who had six black belts and several Guinness World Records, would inevitably pin me every time, but he never went easy on me. Training was always a highlight of my day, and a great antidote to all the crazy HSC-related stress flying around the boarding house. It was also the only thing that helped quiet the voice inside me telling me that I wasn’t good enough until I was thin enough.
As the end of year twelve loomed closer, and after much deliberation about my future career path, I decided not to pursue riding professionally. I wanted to keep horses as a hobby, something I would always love to do, not something I had to do. This meant I’d have to part with my beautiful horse, Theo, after school finished. It was a decision made with many tears, but I knew horseriding wasn’t the right path for me and that he’d bring endless joy to another young, ambitious rider.
In the last few months of year twelve, I had an idea that would make it possible to combine all the hobbies I loved: I decided I wanted to be a stunt actor! I roll my eyes over that ridiculous plan now—I would’ve hated stunt acting—but at the time I thought it would be a great way to combine my skills in martial arts, horseriding and surfing, and spend my life flying to exotic places and jumping off moving trains and galloping round on majestic black horses.
The first step in my plan was to get my foot in the door of the film industry—and I was prepared to do whatever it took to make that happen. So while everyone else was studying, I was making phone calls and sending emails to every film production company in Sydney.
Eventually Rosemary Blight, one of Australia’s leading independent film producers, agreed to give me work experience with her production company. I’d be working for free, but that was fine. I planned to make myself so indispensable that after the production wrapped they’d just have to give me a job.
Graduation Day was great, mostly because it marked the end of my childhood—the end of a chapter and the beginning of an exciting new one where I was in the driving seat. Much to my surprise, I did okay in the HSC—I even topped my grade in Information Technology.
I packed up my life at NEGS, said a very sad goodbye to Theo and to all my friends—who were mostly heading off on schoolies week—and made tracks back to Sydney. I moved in with my grandmother Joan, so I could keep my independence without actually having to pay any rent. (Yes, I know, I’m incredibly lucky to have such a supportive family.)
Despite the generation gap, Joan and I made excellent housemates and fell into a routine like an old married couple. We went to the gym together and to Politics at the Pub and to meetings of the Council for Civil Liberties. But Joan let me live my own life. She never worried about me being out late and gave me the space I needed to do my own thing.
I started working for Rosemary as a runner in the art department on a telemovie they were making called Small Claims. After talking to some of the other crew, I quickly realised that stunt acting wasn’t such a brilliant idea for me, after all. But I was still very inspired by the film industry, especially by the art department and the possibility of using my IT skills in computer-aided set design.
By this time, my weight was back in the normal range, not because I had recovered from the eating disorder but, rather, I had moved into a different phase of it, which my new therapist called ‘disorderly eating’. I don’t think it’s always easy to fit eating disorders into neatly defined categories. At this time I was somewhere between anorexia and bulimia—sometimes restricting, sometimes bingeing, but without the purging. This eating pattern pushed me up into a normal weight range, but at a normal weight I felt disgusting. I found getting dressed in the morning a particularly horrible ordeal and often didn’t want to leave the house. But, with an iron will, I pushed the dark thoughts aside so as not to screw up the exciting opportunity I had landed in the film industry.
The vibe on set was great and I genuinely loved every day of filming. I was working with a great group of people who said they were really impressed by my work ethic and can-do
attitude. The positive feedback I got from them was a great boost to my self-confidence.
After production on the telemovie wrapped up, the art director and art department team bought me a beautiful gift—an engraved Leatherman pocketknife that I’d been eyeing off for a while. And, even better, they invited me to join them as a paid member of the team on their next job. I was in!
Our next job was for a TV commercial. My role was to assist with set-dressing and props-buying. The money was good—great, actually, for someone who wasn’t even eighteen yet. But this job wasn’t as satisfying as the last. In fact, it was unbelievably stressful.
Most of the job involved racing all over Sydney in my little green Mitsubishi sourcing, buying and then returning props. My boss, the art director, would regularly remind me of the grave importance of my role and of the consequences if I fucked up. And when I did fuck up, boy did I hear about it! Oftentimes, the entire crew would also hear about it as I was scolded on set or at a wrap party. As a perfectionist, this was a hard pill to swallow. I would regularly drive home from work in tears.
I slogged it out for a year, working on commercials for things like soft drinks, dog food and incontinence pads. One of the best set designers in the country had also taken me under his wing and was teaching me to use a CAD (computer-aided design) program. But I wasn’t happy and the stress aggravated my eating disorder. I was killing myself over this job and all for the sake of helping multinational corporations to make even more money. It didn’t feel right. Not at all. My great big dreams for my successful career in the film industry felt like they were fading before my eyes.
And then one afternoon Peter called me in a terrible state of shock. ‘Your grandma has died,’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘Nagy has died.’
The thunderbolt of shock was followed by a wave of nauseating despair.
Peter picked me up, his face horribly pallid, and we rushed down the road to her house. The ambulance was parked outside. My Uncle Gil told us she’d just finished getting all dressed up to go to the opera when she sat down to lunch and just . . . died.
I stood next to the ambulance feeling like shreds were being torn off my heart. A warm wash of guilt came over me. Nagy adored her grandchildren and I’d spent so little time with her since I finished school and started working.
The last conversation I had with her was about going to a jeweller together to buy a chain for a special little gold pendant that she wanted to give me. It meant a lot to her. She had kept it since childhood—even buried it in her yard in Hungary during the Holocaust years. It was still sitting in her jewellery box. It was her last wish for me and I’d never made the time.
In a fit of remorse I darted into the house to get it from her room, only to see Nagy lying dead on the carpet. I froze, feeling as if all the air had been sucked out of my body. Then I turned and ran. I wanted to scream at someone for not telling me Nagy was still there. Dead! On the floor! But by the time I got back outside I was choking on tears and couldn’t catch my breath to speak.
Auntie Eva went into Nagy’s room and got the pendant for me.
Losing Nagy was the point where everything finally unravelled. This was my first real experience of loss, and it was awful.
My eating disorder went into full flight. The episodes of bingeing and starving got much worse. I’d go for days surviving on as few calories as humanly possible, but eventually something would snap inside me. I’d lose control and then proceed to consume an obscene amount of food. When I physically could not fit another thing into my mouth, I’d rush to the bathroom and attempt to throw it all up. Sometimes I’d follow up by swallowing an entire packet of laxatives, just in case the purging didn’t get everything. This living hell all happened in a shroud of secrecy and shame. The cycles of starving, bingeing and purging led me to a very dark place.
Being so out of control terrified me. Despite the lengths I was going to, I also wasn’t losing weight, I was gaining it. I felt so utterly hideous and miserable I was often unable to leave the house.
These were trying times for Joan. She had no idea what was going on but was worried about me and didn’t know how to help. Sometimes, in her frustration, she’d fling my door open and say things like: ‘Tara, the state of your room is indicative of the way you’re living your life!’
I’d pull the bedcovers over my head and wait until she left. I knew she was right, but I was powerless to do anything about it. I needed help, but was too ashamed to ask for it. I hated that I’d turned out to be a person who suffered from a ‘body image’ disorder. Even the shame was shameful.
To some, the solution to eating disorders can look rather simple: ‘Just don’t be so vain! Just don’t buy into societal pressure to be thin!’ But, actually, it’s got nothing to do with vanity. It’s the opposite, in fact. It doesn’t represent what I value in life or what is important to me, or even what I consider to be beautiful. It’s an illness, perpetuated by thoughts that I know are irrational, but which I still couldn’t fully control. The actual suffering associated with eating disorders and body image disorders is as horrific as any other mental illness.
As a naturally slim woman I also carry feelings of guilt, knowing that other women sometimes perceive my struggles as a personal slight against them. They sometimes reason that if I think I’m fat, and they’re bigger than me, then surely I must think they’re grotesque? I know this has affected some of my friends over the years, and I’m truly sorry for that.
The truth is, when I see other women torturing themselves over their weight, I just want to reach out and tell them they’re beautiful and to fuck the impossible (literally impossible) standards of beauty that our society demands we meet. But despite everything I’ve tried over the years, I still struggle at times to extend this same compassion to myself. I do better with it today, thanks to years of therapy, a healthy lifestyle, and a daily mindfulness practice that has helped immensely. But when l’m under a lot of stress or pressure, I still put tighter controls around my diet, just to keep the strange cycle of unhealthy thoughts and behaviours at bay.
The main reason I’m airing this extremely personal issue here is because I don’t feel I could’ve told my story genuinely without it. Also because, over the years, some people have told me they see me as a positive role model—particularly for young women. My secret battle with eating disorders has made me feel rather unworthy of that title. So the best I feel I can do to compensate is to be honest about my struggles.
I tried everything to pull myself out of the darkness I had become trapped in after Nagy’s death. I spent more time with my family and friends, more time with the horses. I got a Jack Russell puppy and went back to my therapist, who put me on antidepressants.
Nothing helped. I was in too deep to find my own way out. I needed a circuit breaker.
And then, out of the blue, it came.
As a combined eighteenth and twenty-first birthday present, Sue and Peter gave me a choice of a big party or a trip overseas.
I think they knew full well I’d opt for the trip. (In fact, their tone was: ‘Would you like a (yawn) big party or a (YAY!) TRIP OVERSEAS?!’) This was my big chance to climb out of the abyss I’d fallen into.
Soon, I was bidding a teary goodbye to Sue, Peter and Noni at the airport. As I walked through the departure gate, I felt horribly vulnerable and a little unsure I’d made the right decision. In my hand was the ticket for an Intrepid tour that would take me through South-East Asia—from Thailand to Laos, Vietnam and finally Cambodia.
2
The air in Bangkok in May 2005 was hot and heavy and infused with the familiar spicy scents I remembered from our family holidays to Indonesia. I felt none of the anxiety I’d feared I might about being in a foreign country on my own. In fact, it felt like the ultimate escape.
All that doona-diving I’d been doing was ultimately in search of this exact feeling. No one knew me in South-East Asia. I was suddenly free of all that had been weighing me down in Sydney. I was still v
ery uncomfortable with my body at the size that it was, but here in Thailand, I felt like I was wearing Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak. I was practically skipping with excitement as I wove my way down Khao San Road to meet up with my Intrepid Travel group.
I found twelve people—from Australia, the UK and the US—waiting for me in a hotel foyer. I plonked myself next to a lovely girl with a gorgeous Afro hairstyle from East London named Alicia, who was closest to my age in the group and fast became my new bestie. Our group leader gave us a basic rundown of our itinerary, and then we set off.
Over the next three weeks, we made our way through Chiang Mai, Chiang Rai, then down the Mekong and into Laos. We trekked through forests, shopped the night markets of Luang Prabang, dive-bombed into waterfalls and got riotously drunk together.
Cambodia was the final stop on the tour and I expected it to be much the same as Thailand, Laos and Vietnam. Like so many young westerners, I didn’t know much about Cambodia and was only vaguely aware of the country’s devastating history.
We travelled from Ho Chi Minh City into Cambodia in an old minibus. As soon as we crossed the border, everything changed. Suddenly we were travelling long dusty roads through empty fields, spotted with tall palm trees.
Brown-skinned farmers were hard at work in the midday heat, with red-checked scarves wrapped around their heads to shield them from the burning sun. Young boys tended water buffalo in the shallow canals that ran alongside the road. Tiny rows of crude wooden huts squatted alongside tall, elaborate Buddhist pagodas that seemed to drip with money. It was a strange, almost medieval new world.
The poverty was undeniably in-your-face. I felt slightly uncomfortable about being ‘on holiday’ in such a place. But the attitude of the people made up for it. Everywhere we went, no matter how hard life looked, we saw local people laughing, playing and enjoying life. We started a game—counting how many smiling people we could see from the bus window.