Without a Filter – The Story of My Body | Felicia

The music is pounding.

Another festival.

Front row.

Hi, I know the DJ.

Hi, I know that guy.

Cute guy.

Hi, I know that guy too!

Another vodka orange, please.

Can I buy you one?

Hell yes, it’s a party!

Want to dance?

I’m in!

Want something?

Vodka orange.

Can I get your number?

Sure!

7562.

Facebook friend!

“Sweetheart, are you coming home this weekend?”

“Yes, Mum, but only Sunday early afternoon. There’s a party Saturday.”

“Again? You didn’t come last weekend either because there was a party. Will this ever end?”

“Never! I’m young now!”

Then I saw him.

He was sitting on the edge of the group and suddenly jumped in front of me.

“Buenos noches!”

Oh my God, I know him!

HE is that guy from the bus.

Why is he greeting me in Spanish?

That’s so cool.

And wow, branded cap.

Great shoes.

Good style.

Muscular too.

So relaxed.

I want him.

“Felicia, don’t do this.”

“He doesn’t want you.”

“He’s playing with you.”

“He doesn’t want a serious relationship.”

I was blind.

Completely blind.

For a very long time.

Felicia — Monday:

I do not exist.

Tuesday:

Nothing.

Wednesday:

He writes.

Thursday:

He loves me.

Friday:

He fucks me.

Saturday:

Hangover.

Sunday:

See you.

For two years.

Where was my brain?

Nowhere.

I was in love with every part of me.

I wanted him.

Really wanted him.

Was I actually in love?

Back then, yes.

A girl who cared more about appearances than inner values.

A girl who had to be at every party because otherwise she felt she did not matter.

A girl who believed the most important thing was to have the coolest possible boyfriend.

Yes.

That girl was in love.

Friends and family warned me.

I did not hear them.

I will change him.

He will fall in love with me once he sees the real me.

One day…

One day…

One day…

“You won’t listen to anyone, Felicia?

Fine,” Life said.

Then it taught me a lesson.

I had always exercised.

Even while everything around me was collapsing, I kept exercising.

My desperately desired love casually moved abroad to try his luck and build his future.

Naturally, there was no role for me in that future.

Never mind.

Summer was coming.

I was in the best shape of my life.

Hot Iron twice a week.

Running.

What could possibly go wrong?

I partied.

Went to festivals.

Went on canoeing trips.

Dated men — none of whom were good enough, of course. I could always find something wrong.

I did absolutely everything except face the real problem.

Then summer slowly ended.

We partied less.

There were more quiet moments.

More moments when I caught myself remembering “the good old days”.

Then my body began sending signals.

I believe every illness has an emotional origin.

But when you are inside the situation, hearing that sentence is like somebody telling you green is a colour.

Who cares?

Everybody knows that.

The first thing I noticed was that I had lost a few kilos.

Great!

I thought.

I do weight training.

I run.

And look — results.

Then my lower back started hurting.

Probably too much training and running at the same time.

It will pass.

At first, only my lower back hurt.

Then my whole back.

Initially the pain came only occasionally.

If I sat down and rested, it improved.

Then it became worse.

Sitting was no longer enough.

I had to lie down before my back would calm.

I had never had a panic attack.

But that is the closest comparison I can make.

It became a vicious circle.

My back started hurting.

After a while, I could no longer calm myself.

I panicked because it hurt.

And there was no medicine I could simply take and make the pain disappear.

So it hurt more.

I panicked more.

Eventually I had to ask someone for help because I could not continue like this.

I did not trust my GP.

So I went to a naturopath.

Treatment began.

Then suddenly I caught a vomiting-and-diarrhoea virus.

That happened about once a year, so it did not seem extraordinary.

This time, however, it was different.

I could not recover for three weeks.

I lost six kilos.

I was down to 48 kg at 158 cm.

The naturopath kept reassuring me.

It was part of the cleansing process, she said.

I would gain the weight back.

And my back pain?

Stress.

Try to relax.

Thanks.

As if that were so fucking easy.

Fine.

Let’s try.

Calming tea.

Which I immediately vomited.

Never mind.

Here is another one.

This one will definitely work.

Okay.

It did not.

By then, I was barely sleeping properly either.

During the day my back hurt so badly that I could have cried.

At work I became impatient.

I could not concentrate.

My closest colleagues tried to help.

They could not.

Some other colleagues watched me with hawk eyes, waiting to see what I did wrong and what they could report to my manager.

Obviously that added no extra stress at all.

The only time I felt relatively calm was when I was horizontal.

I was moving deeper and deeper into a pit.

And I had no idea where the bottom was.

I survived the first “problematic” Christmas by lying down whenever I could.

I saw worry in the eyes of my parents and relatives.

Still, I did not take any of it seriously.

I felt enormously sorry for myself.

But actually lower my pride and confront the real problem?

Hahahahaha.

No.

That winter I still went snowboarding.

I live for it.

Every year I wait for that one week when we go to France and simply ride.

Through snow.

Through happiness.

I love standing on top of a mountain and looking at snow-covered peaks.

It calms me.

Everybody hoped the ski trip would be “the cure”.

“You’ll get out there and forget all your problems.”

“You’ll be fine once you’re there.”

“It’ll do you good.”

It was a disaster.

I could not sit through the bus journey because my back hurt.

During the day, I could not snowboard as much as before.

In the past, you could barely get me off the slope before closing.

Now I physically could not continue.

I did not eat properly.

I did not sleep.

I exercised.

So naturally I lost even more weight.

When I came home, I was 43 kg.

Never mind.

Those few kilos disappeared because of snowboarding.

They’ll come back.

They did not.

And from there, the real downhill slide began.

At work came the first slaps in the face:

“You can go snowboarding, but here you complain that your back hurts?”

“Pull yourself together. This isn’t you!”

“What is wrong with you, Felicia? You look terrible.”

Fuck you all.

You are not living in my body.

I don’t need your help.

Especially not from you.

Leave me alone.

But by then, it was no longer really a life.

They sent me on three weeks of sick leave.

Rest.

Get yourself together.

By then, I had symptoms I would never have imagined existed.

My palms hurt.

The soles of my feet hurt.

Even the skin hurt.

I ate.

But I had no appetite.

I ate because I knew I had to.

Mum cried.

Dad cried.

Would I survive?

Fine.

Let’s see doctors.

For the next year, I went from doctor to doctor.

“Oh my God, Felicia, you’re terribly thin! Get on the scale immediately!”

“Jesus. You’re practically grey.”

“The corners of your mouth are drooping.”

“Your eyes are bulging.”

“Complete blood panel and thyroid tests.”

Everything normal.

Fine, genius.

What next?

My palms hurt.

My soles hurt.

My back hurts.

Rheumatology.

Congratulations.

Obviously I must have rheumatism in my twenties.

I went.

Rheumatism ruled out.

Psychiatry.

I do not want to see a psychiatrist.

I am not crazy.

Still, I had to go.

Something had to help.

So I went.

“Tell me about yourself, Felicia.”

For the twenty-fifth time.

Everything is already written in my medical notes.

Read the fucking file and prescribe something that makes me feel better.

Fast.

To be fair, he was a kind doctor.

Very thorough.

He genuinely considered my interests.

He listened.

Wrote down the diagnosis.

Prescribed medication.

Then sent me to a psychologist for psychotherapy.

Anxiety depression.

What???

I am not anxious.

I am not depressed.

Is everybody here stupid?

My brilliant colleagues — under the headings HELP and CONCERN — suggested I go to a sanatorium.

A SANATORIUM.

They were all insane.

They should go themselves.

I started taking the medication.

I do not know whether readers realise this, but if you need antidepressants and sedatives, you do not immediately become calm, optimistic and unbelievably happy from one minute to the next.

The next period was a catastrophe.

I thought there could be no lower point.

There was.

I was under 40 kg.

I lay down anywhere I could.

Even on a five-minute car journey, I lay across the back seat.

My friendships gradually disappeared.

The old party Felicia stopped existing.

I did not write.

Did not reply.

I did not care.

I had some SERIOUS ILLNESS.

Doctors simply could not find it.

Every doctor was incompetent.

According to rumours, I had anorexia.

Bulimia.

Cancer.

People can be shameless.

All they want is juicy gossip.

After a while, I stopped telling anyone anything.

I assumed the worst about everyone.

I would not allow people to help.

I cried constantly.

Partly this was a side effect of the medication.

Until the doctor found the right dose, I was on an emotional roller coaster.

I cried.

Mum cried.

My sister tried to remain strict and not baby me because she hoped that would motivate me to stand up.

Dad escaped from the entire situation.

I understand.

Was I alive?

This was not life.

I spent almost the entire summer in my room at my parents’ house.

The only reason I did not give up my rented apartment was because I knew I needed some thread connecting me to ordinary social life.

Every time I had to return to the apartment, I cried.

But I went.

Because I knew it was one of the only things still connecting me to the outside world.

That summer I still kept telling myself I must have some physical illness nobody had discovered.

So I went back to doctors again.

Check everything.

Thyroid.

Stomach.

Digestion.

Absorption.

Everything.

And every single time, every result was normal.

Impossible.

In autumn I was transferred to another department at work.

My manager was deeply humane.

He said he would move me to a less stressful area where I might have a chance to recover.

My new colleagues already knew who I was and why I was coming.

They were incredibly helpful.

But because they helped with everything and often took tasks away from me, I slowly became comfortable in the role.

I am SICK.

I need HELP.

Poor me.

That was how the first six months passed.

I felt slightly better.

I attended psychotherapy.

We uncovered many things.

But there was no dramatic breakthrough.

I was still losing weight.

And throughout it all, I kept receiving brilliant advice and jokes.

“It would be great if I could give you ten kilos! I’d lose weight and you’d gain it.”

How hilarious.

I heard that one about five thousand times.

“Felicia! You’re not like this! How did you get here?”

Fantastic question.

Do you think I would be here if I knew the answer?

“Pull yourself together! You’re such a strong girl!”

Leave me alone.

“Are you actually eating properly?”

That was my favourite.

No.

Of course I’m not eating.

I’ve become a breatharian.

At the second “problematic” Christmas, I caught the vomiting-and-diarrhoea virus again.

I could not eat any of the good food.

Then came the real crash.

There is a full-length mirror in my room at my parents’ house.

When I was strong enough to stand again, I was getting dressed and stopped in front of it.

I would not wish that moment on anyone.

I looked like a skeleton.

My hip bones stuck out not only in front but behind too.

Ribs.

Collarbones.

Cheekbones.

Everything.

No breasts.

No bottom.

Nothing.

My face had collapsed inward.

Oh my God.

Is that me?

It cannot be.

IT CANNOT BE.

And that was when a sentence my beloved mother had been trying to push into my consciousness for a year and a half finally reached my brain:

“Only you can help yourself.”

I was at the bottom of the pit.

34 kg.

There was no farther down.

I had reached the bottom.

I was the solution.

“Do what you love. Do what can push you beyond the dead point.”

What do I love?

Sport.

I am going back.

Whatever happens.

I went to a personal trainer and told him everything.

He said we would proceed in very small steps because I had lost not only fat but muscle.

First, we would strengthen my back and core.

Then we would build upward.

I cried the first time I saw myself in the gym mirror.

Pelvis tilted forward.

Rounded back.

Shoulders pulled in.

Was that really me?

Pathetic.

Where was the old strong, athletic Felicia?

She was still there.

Deep inside.

My only job was to begin believing in her.

For several months I trained only in a sweatshirt and long trousers, with my back to the mirror, so the sight of myself would not shock me.

My trainer supported me completely.

From the very first sit-up to the final squat.

He listened to plenty of tantrums.

But he never allowed me to give up on myself inside the gym.

Fortunately, muscles remember.

I progressed relatively quickly.

Soon I could use weights again.

I loved going to the gym because there I felt that I was doing something actively to get better.

Not lying on a couch having world-changing conversations about why the problem existed.

Still, I did not stop psychotherapy.

I even tried hypnosis more than once.

I slowly began making peace with the situation.

I no longer spent all my time crying about how terrible things were and demanding pity.

I began looking for practical solutions.

It was fucking hard.

One of the first things Mum and I did was go shopping for new clothes.

I did not want to live permanently in tracksuits.

I wanted clothes in which I could feel good.

The first time we went to the shopping centre, we entered only two shops.

Then I cried.

Too many mirrors.

Nothing looked good.

My back hurt.

Let’s leave.

The second time, we managed three shops.

Same story.

Nothing fits.

Look at me.

Let’s go now.

But I did not stop trying.

Every time, we entered one more shop.

Today, I can shop alone again.

For a long time, I could not.

The friends who remained accepted that something was wrong.

They let me decide when I wanted to begin going places again.

Until then, if they felt like it, they came to me.

Or I went to them.

But we always stayed somewhere where I felt safe and could lie down if I needed to.

They did not harass me.

They simply waited patiently.

I can never thank them enough.

By summer I had pretty clothes again.

I learned how to dress from the children’s department at H&M.

I started enjoying my work again.

I dared to go to more places.

With more people.

At first I stayed only an hour.

Then a little longer each time.

In September I received another opportunity.

I could return to a department similar to the one where I had worked before.

At first, I was frightened.

My back pain had not disappeared completely.

Sport had improved it enormously, but in some situations I still tensed up.

Eventually I told myself:

It will work.

I can do this.

I will be capable of it.

And I was.

Again, I received two wonderful female colleagues.

They did not allow me to collapse into self-pity.

They supported me.

But they did not do my work for me.

I began collecting more and more experiences of:

“Wow.

I can do this too.”

In sport, I kept moving upward.

I fought.

I fought unbelievably hard.

And now I believed.

I believed I could climb out of the pit.

By myself.

---

Because I was capable of it.

1 January 2018.

I weigh 43 kg.

Forty-three kilograms of pure strength, determination and faith.

The edge of the pit is no longer far away.

And I am no longer afraid.

I am getting out.

Felicia

More “Story of My Body” posts can be read here.

Event photography – details.