I left Twitter a couple of months ago. I didn’t really want to leave and had enjoyed getting to know so many people as Bambam. However, I had some problems at work because my account wasn’t anonymous. Initially I’d attached my real name to the account (not thinking that I’d ever have more than 2 followers) and I’d also used a photo of my face. After a while, my team at work all started following me, and there was lots of chatter about my account, not all of which was discreet. Given that I work for the Local Authority and in a children’s home (and staff discussed my account in front of some of the children), it seemed best to kill off Bambam and take a break. I had tried blocking everyone, but let’s face it, that doesn’t really mean anything. You don’t even have to sign in to Twitter to see a profile. I’d also tried having a private account for a short while but that was no fun and to my mind, not really what Twitter’s about.

So anyway, I’ve come back. With a new handle and a photo that’s not my actual real face. Smart huh? 

I’ve tried to follow everyone I followed before (I hope I haven’t missed anyone), and it’s funny, some of you (and not the people I thought) guessed instantly that it was me from just the first few tweets.

It’s possible of course that if any of my colleagues were to stumble upon my account they would make the same deduction, but the point is that the are unlikely to stumble upon it as there’s nothing to lead them to the account in the first place. None of them know I’ve come back.

Anyway, I’m glad to be back, because I genuinely have missed you all. 

The other day at work, quite unexpectedly, one of the young people with severe autism put his arms round my neck, his head on my shoulder, and hugged me for what felt like ages. In case any of you were wondering if this is a big deal… I’ve been working with him for 6 years now. That was the fourth time he’s ever hugged me.

I was just a girl when it started. I can’t remember how old I was or even what must have gone through my mind the first time I did it. I just remember that almost immediately, I was making myself vomit up to eight times a day… and I couldn’t stop.

It had nothing to do with models. It had nothing to do with movie stars. It wasn’t about magazines either. But this is just my story.

I’ve never really talked candidly about the bulimia before, and I’ve never really been encouraged to - which is probably why I felt unable to type “my”. Once I finally admitted it all, albeit some years later, it would only take one “stupid” question from my concerned mother to send my into an absolute rage. So naturally, she stopped. After that, it seemed to become a secret again. Except it wasn’t just my secret anymore. My family now kept it with me.

Till this day, neither my father nor brother have ever mentioned it to me. Not once.

On reflection I can see now that I was scared a lot as a kid. Scared because my mother was ill with depression and I didn’t know how to help her. For some reason I allowed myself to feel terribly responsible for this, which of course I wasn’t, and neither was she.

I believe that my mother feels guilty for the eating disorder. I feel guilty that I’ve never really been able to help her get better. In case you were wondering, feeling guilty hasn’t helped either of us.

But this is not a sob story. I was and am loved very much. I have always known this. I have never questioned this. I am grateful for this. The eating disorder carried on into my adult life, and as an adult I take responsibility for the choices I make. I am almost 32 years old now, and I am responsible for the relationship I have with food, not a beautiful woman on the cover of a magazine, and not my mother.

There are so many things that I’d like to be able to share about the experience to try to help some people to understand. Ultimately though, if you haven’t been through it, then I don’t think you ever will. Also, the more I tell someone, the more I fear becoming less of a person in their eyes. Once that happens, you can never undo it.

I will never, ever, be able to find the words to tell anyone just how deeply ashamed of myself I am. That’s the part I hate the most, and it never gets any smaller.

If people ever do ask me why I did it, I tend to say I don’t know. Because even though I have theories about how and why it began. It’s all too complicated and personal to explain. Particularly when I think about why it continued into early adult life, and then came back again a few years later. I hope it’s just enough that I tell people that I felt as though I would die if I didn’t do it, and hoped I would die when I did.

Whatever you think about this, or about me now… do remember that I was just a girl when it started… and I was terrified. So please… don’t make jokes about eating disorders.

Thank you.