I have blogged before about Instagram and L and the endless pictures of meals or snacks. It is a world of recovery in which every meal is colourful and attractive. Rewards are in the form of likes, where other recovering people click on hearts or post encouraging words. No one ever suggests eating more, everyone is beautiful and urged to stay strong.
There are no pictures of tear streaked faces as parents urge them to eat more. No one sees the anguish on a sibling’s face, torn between wanting the meal to be over but also desperate for L to finish. Tonight, as I served baked cheese and potato pasties, along with home made soup, there were no photos. Because this isn’t the carefully controlled, soft focus image of recovery that anorexia uses to keep young women in check, eating certain cereal bars or yogurts, served with artfully placed fruit. This is real life, real recovery, where misery, disgust and revulsion take centre stage. It isn’t pretty, no one wants to click a like button. But it is real. Who on earth wants to see that?