Men and women develop skin cancer in different parts of the body
cancer
vary between men and women, research has found, as cases of melanoma are expected to rise this year.
According to analysis by Cancer Research UK (CRUK), four in 10 melanomas in men are found on the torso, including the back, chest and stomach, the equivalent of 3,700 cases a year.
More than a third – 35 per cent – of melanomas in women are found on lower limbs, from the hips to the feet, and account for 3,200 cases every year.
It is thought the variations are due to differences in behaviour, with men more likely to be in the sun without a shirt while women might wear shorts or skirts as the weather gets warmer.
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The study found that 87 per cent of melanoma cases, the equivalent of 17,100 in the
UK
each year, are caused by overexposure to UV radiation.
Last year, rates of melanoma skin cancer reached an all-time high in the UK, with new diagnoses increasing by a quarter from 21 to 28 in every 100,000 people between 2007 and 2009 and 2017 and 2019, according to CRUK figures.
There has been a 57 per cent rise among the over-80s and a 7 per cent rise in those aged 25 to 49. The charity has also warned that melanoma cases are expected to rise again this year, with 21,300 cases.
Michelle Mitchell, CRUK chief executive, said: 'Improvements in skin cancer survival rates highlight the remarkable progress driven by our research. But the growing number of people diagnosed with melanoma is still concerning, especially when we can see that rates are rising faster in men.
'If you notice anything different on your skin, like a new mole, a mole that's changed in size, shape or colour, or any patch of skin that looks out of the ordinary – don't ignore it, speak to your GP. We want to beat skin cancer for everyone, no matter who they are or where they're from – early diagnosis is key and could make all the difference.'
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Sunbeds, melanoma and me: 'I knew the risks but thought it could never happen'
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Fiona Osgun, head of health information at CRUK, said: 'As the weather gets warmer, it's really important to look after yourself in the sun. Getting sunburned just once every couple of years can triple your risk of melanoma skin cancer, compared with never being burned. And it's not just the hot, sunny days you need to watch out for – UV rays can be strong enough to cause skin damage between mid-March and mid-October in the UK, even when it's cloudy or cool.
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Nine in 10 with melanoma skin cancer survive at least five years
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'That's why we encourage people to take some simple steps to stay safe. Try to stick to the shade between 11am and 3pm when the sun is strongest, wear clothes that help cover up your skin, with a hat and sunglasses, and use a sunscreen with at least SPF30 and 4 or 5 stars.'
Professor Peter Johnson, the national clinical director for cancer at
NHS
England, said: 'Prevention is by far the best plan with skin cancer, so avoid the sun when it is at its hottest and ensure you use sunscreen. For skin cancer, as for any cancer, it is vital that you are seen and diagnosed as early as possible, so people should come forward if they are concerned about symptoms. Getting checked saves lives.'
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Irish Times
9 hours ago
- Irish Times
Drugs like Ozempic aren't changing negative narratives around diet and weight
Friends keep asking me what I think about Ozempic . I know they're asking because I've written about food history, gender and eating disorders, but until recently I wasn't sure what I thought, wasn't sure that someone who has never had metabolic disease or lived in a body that attracted comment had any business having opinions about the drugs called GLP1 agonists. I support any development that undermines the idea that bodyweight has a moral aspect, or that individuals control the size of their bodies. We are shaped in every way by environment, society and genetics far more than by the small scope of personal choice within those determinants. Health is mostly determined by heredity and wealth. So if the new drugs stop people insisting that self-discipline and self-starvation are the answer to fatness, all to the good. [ Sarah Moss: 'I'm a classic first child. A driven overachiever. Slightly neurotic' Opens in new window ] But I'm not sure they're generally helping us live better lives. I gather GLP1 agonists are good as diabetes medication – not an area in which I am qualified to opine. Their rising use for other purposes seems to be correlated to increasing media excitement about extreme thinness, particularly in women, which is demoralising to those of us who grew up with heroin chic and the worship of emaciation and have lived in the shadow of those ideals ever since. If the drugs are changing narratives about diet and weight, I'm not seeing it. There's no decline in mindless writing about and advertising of 'guilt-free' foods and 'guilty pleasures'. (What you put in your mouth has no bearing on your moral worth. The only sinful foods are those harmfully produced.) READ MORE I understand that these medications work by depriving people of pleasure in eating. I'd argue that pleasure is politically and ideologically important as well as nice, that without pleasure we fall prey to the idea that life is nothing but scarcity and survival, which leads quickly to the idea that life is a competition and weakness is failure, at which point you're well down the road to dark places we don't need to go. Taking expensive drugs to make daily life less fun so you take up less space doesn't sound to me like the kind of choice made by happy people in a functional society, though you could argue that unhappy people in a dysfunctional society – for example, fat people hoping to be paid, promoted and desired as much as their thinner colleagues in Europe today – might perfectly sensibly make such decisions. Getting thin to succeed in a fat-phobic society is still an understandable individual solution to a structural problem. And it seems to me that the big structural problem here is not that people are fat but that we have created and continue to promote a food system that makes most consumers unwell, and are now creating and promoting a regime of medication that, at great financial and personal cost, claims to counteract the effects of that food system. We're all being sold ultra-processed, intensively farmed food that makes us and our planet sick, and then being sold drugs that moderate the effect of that food on individual bodies but compound the harm to the environment. I am certain that the same shareholders profit from the manufacture and sale of the food that causes the problem and the drugs that treat it. Ozempic's popularity is a symptom and driver of social and economic injustice, and I wish we could spend some of its cost on systemic change instead None of which means that I blame any individual for making whatever decisions seem necessary to cope. I only note that the troubles that show up in our bodies rarely began there, and therefore the sustainable solutions won't begin with injections. There are countries that have been able to reduce the proportions of intensively produced and processed foods consumed by their populations, especially by children. There are examples of local, regional and national governments creating and sometimes imposing healthier and more sustainable environments, but it can't happen without at least some popular demand, and the established interests and beneficiaries of harmful systems will never want such change. So what I think about Ozempic is that its popularity is a symptom and driver of social and economic injustice, and I wish we could spend some of its cost on systemic change instead. We could subsidise the production and transport of a lot of fresh local produce and build a lot of playgrounds, sports facilities and bike lanes for what we lose paying pharmaceutical companies to heal us from their absence. And it would be much more fun.
Irish Times
a day ago
- Irish Times
Death Cafes: ‘It's a privilege to talk about death and dying with people, because you learn a lot about living'
'Are you interested in talking about death?' It was this small ad in a London newspaper about 12 years ago that caught Bernie Folan's attention. 'I've always been interested in the big stuff, not the small talk,' says Folan, who was brought up in London but whose family is from Connemara. 'The ad said: 'Phone this number.' And I did.' It brought her to a house in Hackney, East London, where she and five other strangers gathered at the kitchen table of a man called Jon Underwood. She didn't know it then, but she was attending the second-ever Death Cafe – Underwood was in the process of founding what has since become a global movement. His objective was to increase awareness of death, and so help people make the most of their finite lives. READ MORE Folan was intrigued. 'I said: 'I'm not really sure why I'm here, I haven't had a huge amount of death in my life,' but for some reason or other, I kind of got hooked,' she says. Soon she was hosting Death Cafes herself. Living between Yorkshire and Connemara now, she hosts a Death Cafe in Galway about every six weeks. 'I posted a 'Meet-up' yesterday, and already we have 15 people signed up. It's often oversubscribed – there is a real willingness here,' she says. With Death Cafes popping up in recent years in Dalkey, Dundalk, Belfast, Bantry, Waterford and Wicklow, there is no shortage of people who want to talk about death. Those who attend meet simply as people who are going to die – so all of us qualify. Anyone can meet to talk about death, of course, but the meeting can only use the social franchise name Death Cafe if it follows certain principles outlined by Underwood, setting out what a Death Cafe is and what it is not. In short, there is no agenda, and no set themes or guest speakers – the group directs the discussion. A Death Cafe doesn't lead people to particular products, conclusions or actions either. Bernie Folan listens to a participant during a Death Cafe meeting at the Victoria Hotel in Galway city. Photograph: Joe O'Shaughnessy End-of-life care, eco funerals, musical choices, is there an afterlife – individual participants might end up talking about these things, but a Death Cafe is not about persuading anyone, agreeing anything or selling something. It is about growing social impact, not profit. It helps to have a good facilitator. Death Cafe organisers, or 'hosts', must be able to listen and talk about all aspects of death with equanimity, and make others feel safe and comfortable to do so too. Oh, and there must be tea and cake, that's in the principles too. Eating cake, especially with strangers, can be a comforting and social activity. This can make it easier to discuss a potentially sensitive topic. The Hook & Ladder and Jack Monday's cafes in Limerick city don't bat an eye when the Death Cafe people arrive. 'We have to give the venues a lot of credit for embracing this,' says Jennifer Moran Stritch, co-founder of Limerick Death Cafe, which will mark its 10th anniversary in November. 'Every event we've had has been a 'sell-out' crowd. It's part of the community culture in Limerick now,' she says. Attendees have included college students, octogenarians, neighbours, mother-and-daughter duos – 'We've had a couple of first dates too,' says Moran Stritch who hosts three a year including during Limerick's Halloween festival, Samhain, and in Holy Week. [ How to 'die well' in today's Ireland: It starts with living a good life Opens in new window ] 'There is laughing, and people leave feeling more connected. There is a real sense of connection, respect and lightness among people.' Moran Stritch, a lecturer at the Technological University of the Shannon, is a thanatologist – that's someone who has an academic interest in all aspects of death, dying and bereavement across cultures. She has taught at the Irish Hospice Foundation and as part of the Masters in Bereavement Studies at the Royal College of Surgeons Ireland. She is clear about what a Death Cafe is. 'It's not an educational opportunity, so it's not me lecturing people – but if you don't learn something from other people there, I'd be surprised,' she says. It's not religious either. 'We're not proselytising anything. Like, here's a way to think about death that's much better. But if you don't walk away feeling a bit spiritual, I'd be surprised,' she says. Importantly, the Death Cafe is not a therapy session or a bereavement support group. 'But if you don't walk away having been able to share what grief feels like for you, or support someone else in that, again I'd be surprised,' Moran Stritch says. There are too many stories of people who say they wish they were better prepared when a loved one dies, she adds. 'You hear: 'I wish I had talked to my mam about what she really wanted,' or 'I wish she had been willing to talk to me about what she wanted.' A participant at the Galway Death Cafe meeting at the Victoria Hotel in Galway city. Photograph: Joe O'Shaughnessy 'Those conversations are about developing a comfort and openness with being able to talk about all aspects of life, and death is part of life. For me to be able to say I can go some way to be able to provide a space for people and myself to talk about those things, that's a real benefit to me.' Underwood had been inspired by the work of the late Swiss sociologist and anthropologist, Bernard Crettaz, says Moran Stritch. On a mission to liberate death from what he called 'tyrannical secrecy', Crettaz had held a 'Café Mortel' in Paris in 2004. 'The assembled company, for a moment, and thanks to death, is born into authenticity,' Crettaz said. Cake was important to Crettaz too. 'His thing was it has to be a celebratory food. Celebrate your one finite life, taste the sweetness of it, even while discussing the fact that you won't be here some day. Celebrate that,' says Moran Stritch. Underwood met Crettaz in 2014, and Death Cafes credit his influence. There is value in confronting death frequently, Moran Stritch believes. 'The word that comes up for me is 'microdosing'. A way to build up against an allergy is to do small, safe exposures with some frequency. You are never going to be able to grieve sufficiently ahead, you are never going to be all right with it, you are still going to grieve and feel those not-nice emotions that the death of others or our own imminent death brings up for us, but at least this can normalise it.' The Death Cafe in Galway attracts a mix of people, says Bernie Folan. One of the attendees at the Galway Death Cafe meeting at the Victoria Hotel, Galway city. Photograph: Joe O'Shaughnessy One of the people attending the Death Cafe meeting at the Victoria Hotel in Galway. Photograph: Joe O'Shaughnessy 'There may be people who are actively dying, they know they are dying. Well, we are all dying of course, that's what we have in common,' she says. Some are dealing with the loss of partners or parents. 'When listening to people's stories, you can see that they are living their lives and it is very instructive and it's a privilege,' she says. 'It's a privilege to talk about death and dying with people because you learn a lot about living from doing that.' Some are very fearful of death. 'There is one person who is terrified, she has a real fear of death. And I said to her, the fact that you are here is really impressive. A lot of people would run a mile from something called a Death Cafe and you are here talking to other people. That might not feel like progress, but it probably is.' A Death Cafe won't prevent or cure fear, but it can be cathartic for attendees, says Moran Stritch. 'If there are things inside me that are upsetting, or that I think I shouldn't be thinking, I can chat with other people and not feel embarrassed or ashamed or feel I'm being silly by bringing these things up,' she says. 'I'm sure there are personal benefits for me too in terms of my ability to think and feel about my own mortality, but also the deaths or potential deaths of people I'm close to.' Talking about death hasn't protected Folan from grief. 'When my father died, people asked, was it easier for you because of all the work you do on death? And I said no, you can't inoculate yourself against grief – and why would you want to? Grief is normal,' she says. 'But if we pretend that death is not going to happen, it can really disarm us.' Talking about death can instruct how we live. She refers to the work of 16th-century philosopher, Michel de Montaigne. 'He says something like, think about death for five minutes every day and then get on with your life, get on with living.' A Death Cafe meeting participant at the Victoria Hotel, Galway city. Photograph: Joe O'Shaughnessy A participant at the Galway Death Cafe meeting at the Victoria Hotel in Galway. Photograph: Joe O'Shaughnessy It's about understanding viscerally, as Underwood did, that time isn't forever, she says. Your life is finite, so make the most of it. 'It enables me to keep from straying too far from spending too much time doing the wrong things, from wasting time. It's really hard to get angry about waiting in a supermarket queue if you think 'I'm lucky to be alive'. Not everyone is,' she says. Patricia O'Sullivan hosts a monthly Death Cafe in the side room of the community hall in Ballydehob, Co Cork. 'There are no experts at a Death Cafe,' she says. 'We are all equal. It's simply people talking and being heard on the subject of death.' O'Sullivan arranges the tea and cake. She has lived in the area for 34 years, attending the Death Cafe events in the village for years before taking on the hosting duties herself. 'I just think it's an excellent idea. Any subject that is difficult to speak about for people, I just think, what a beautiful idea to gather and talk about it.' Ballydehob's Death Cafe attracts all ages, some regulars and some new joiners. Some will be well known to each other, but it's unlikely they have ever spoken about their feelings around death to each other before. [ The things I've learned about living from dying Opens in new window ] 'In the olden days people gathered a lot more easily, but in this day and age we have to make it happen. To be sure, it brings a closeness and a connection when you hear people's really authentic expression about something that is so important for all of us. It brings connection.' The Death Cafe enables you to hear people's experiences. It might not change how you feel about death, but listening can open new ways of thinking, she says. 'If you think about death, you also inevitably think more about life.' For her personally, the meetings have brought a sense of 'spaciousness'. 'Now, when I imagine the moment of death, rather than feeling fearful, it brings a feeling of spaciousness. Hopefully, I'll be more able to deal with it, to be in the moment. That's what I would hope for.' Jon Underwood died suddenly of an undiagnosed leukaemia in June 2017, aged just 44. His invitation to talk about death and dying over tea and cake has led to more than 20,000 Death Cafe meetings in cafes, homes, at festivals and in universities in 93 countries. His mother Sue Barsky Reid and sister Jools Barsky continue his Death Cafe work as he requested. Before the longest day of the year in June, the Ballydehob Death Cafe took place outside at the nearby graveyard of Kilcoe. The oldest legible headstone there dates back to the 1820s. Still standing inside this graveyard are the ruins of a church from the 1400s. The dead have been buried there for centuries. 'It did feel different,' O'Sullivan says. 'In the beauty of the sun, this graveyard was gorgeous.'
Irish Times
2 days ago
- Irish Times
How eating disorders are changing: ‘I'm not the stereotype. I'm a man, I'm plus-sized'
When William Dwyer Joyce was a teenager, skinny jeans and Indie bands were what was cool. To be slim was fashionable. As a someone who didn't fit into that stereotype, and who was always 'plus-sized', Dwyer Joyce turned to food as a coping mechanism. The now 32-year-old was diagnosed with binge-eating disorder when he was 21, though he says he struggled with mental health difficulties long before that diagnosis. 'For me, my binge eating was very secretive. It was going to the shop, getting large amounts of things like chocolate, crisps, cookies, whatever. And going home and secretly eating it to the point where I could not eat it any more,' he says. 'It created a coping mechanism that was quite harmful because my body image was very poor. It was about numbing. In a sense it was self-harm. If you eat to the point of pain, it's not a nice thing to go through.' READ MORE Compounding this difficulty, Dwyer Joyce also struggled with alcohol addiction and drug misuse issues. These challenges, he says, all came from the same place: a desire to be able to exert control. He is now five years sober. 'When I got sober, it was like I was in a house that was on fire. Sobriety put the fire out, but now I'm standing in rubble and I have to build the house again,' he was when he seriously sought help for his eating disorder. 'In April 2020 I got sober for the last time. A year after that, in 2021, I had a year of sobriety under my belt. My 30s were knocking on my door and I thought, I cannot live like this forever and the only person who can change this was me.' One difficulty he found when seeking help, he says, was the questioning attitude and scepticism he faced by some healthcare professionals because he doesn't fit the common eating-disorder stereotype: a young woman or teenager with anorexia. 'I am the opposite of the stereotype in that I'm a man, I'm plus-sized, I wasn't restricting food,' he adds. 'There is all this messaging around fatness or plus-sized people that if you're fat it's a moral failing or you're lazy or you don't care about how you look. But that's just not true.' William Dwyer Joyce: 'I am the opposite of the stereotype.' Photograph: Dara Mac Dónaill This stereotype is beginning to change, according to Laura Casey, director of services at Lois Bridges, an eating disorder treatment centre in Sutton, north Co Dublin. The number of young men seeking help at the centre has increased in recent years, she notes. Casey attributes this rise to the increasing gym culture seen online – in which men are constantly fed images of bodybuilders with very little body fat – combined with the masculine tendency of men to keep their feelings to themselves. 'But when they do go and reach out, they're not heard the same. Their voices can be dismissed a bit easier,' she says. Another changing trend is the prevalence of a condition known as avoidant/restrictive food intake disorder, or Arfid, which is often diagnosed among people who are neurodivergent. 'It's sometimes called the beige diet; they eat a lot of chicken nuggets and chips. But we're moving away now from language that describes these people as being a picky eater, and acknowledging in many cases they have a sensory aversion to something.' Laura Casey, director of services at Lois Bridges eating disorder treatment centre in Sutton, Dublin. Photograph: Dara Mac Dónaill According to Casey, Arfid can have a significant impact on an individual, particularly in a social setting. 'Sometimes a person's diet is so restrictive they won't eat. There is a lot of shame and stigma if all they are able to eat is a chicken fillet roll. So, nutritionally, they can be at the same risk as anorexia. It affects their vitamin intake and electrolytes,' she says. When it comes to certain foods, some people with this diagnosiscan have a panic attack or feel like they're choking. 'They can only eat yoghurts and drinks,' she adds. Awareness of eating disorders has increased since the Covid-19 pandemic, when there was a rise in the number of referrals for treatment to HSE eating-disorder teams, who provide specialist treatment. HSE data shows there were 894 referrals to such teams last year, a 33 per cent increase on 2023. There was also a 24 per cent rise in accepted referrals, where patients proceed to treatment after an initial consultation. A total of 562 patients were assessed last year, of which 90 per cent were female and 59 per cent were children under the age of 18. One-third were teenagers aged between 15 and 17. Still, the service also saw the number of adults accessing treatment increase by 51 per cent. You're either too sick for the psychiatric hospitals or you go into a general hospital and there's no help there for these things — 'Rebecca' Of those assessed, 503 had an eating disorder, 118 more diagnoses than in 2023. Some 63 per cent (318) presented with anorexia nervosa; 18 per cent (97) with an 'other specified feeding or eating disorder' (OSFED); 8 per cent (42) with bulimia nervosa; 3 per cent (16) with Arfid; and 2 per cent (10) with binge-eating disorder. Many eating disorders begin the teenage years. But disorders often don't end there. Rebecca, not her real name, was first brought to Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services ( Camhs ) at age 15. However, she believes this 'did a lot more harm than good'. Although she acknowledges there are many good people working in the service, she was unhappy with the attitudes she faced in relation to her anorexia. Then the coronavirus lockdown happened, shutting down vast swathes of regular life. 'Everything was gone, and I deteriorated very rapidly.' Following this, she underwent a 'string of hospital admissions and A&E presentations' to help with her diagnosis, but she says it was like a 'revolving door'. 'You're either too sick for the psychiatric hospitals or you go into a general hospital and there's no help there for these things. You're stuck between nothing that will help,' she says. 'When you go into a general hospital, it's really only for one thing: to be fed against your will. But it's so important to get to the root cause of it. It was very difficult to find help that suited me. And then when people do offer you that help, it's hard to accept it if you've had bad experiences. I'm still struggling a lot.' The almost 21-year-old makes a comparison to alcoholism: relapse can be a common challenge for people, and oftentimes the difficulties of the illness are persistent. 'But there's no AA meetings [for eating disorders] around the country that you can pop into. You're kind of just left alone,' she adds. Dr Art Malone, a consultant psychiatrist and chair of the eating disorder specialist interest group at the College of Psychiatrists, says one of the biggest challenges is that some areas of the State have inadequate access to the necessary specialist services. 'Not all areas that have a specialist service are fully resourced to deliver the sort of service they would need to do. The biggest one is probably the lack of higher-level care needed for severe cases, so the lack of inpatient treatment is something all teams have to contend with,' he says. Dr Malone says that for the 'very small minority of patients' who have very severe, acute illnesses there is 'no higher-level care available in the way that it should be'. 'What ends up happening is there can be funding sought in other places such as private places or abroad but there can often be fairly lengthy delays in arranging that and then even when it is arranged – because it's taking people out of their home environment – it can be quite tricky then to transfer their treatment back to their own home set-up,' he says. 'Body positivity was such a thing, but now we've gone back almost 20 years,' says Alicia Woods, clinical nurse specialist at Lois Bridges. Photograph: iStock Dr Malone says there's a big push to try to make early intervention a priority, as this can prevent people from needing inpatient care. He cites international research that found the relapse rate for people with severe illness who receive inpatient treatment is around 50 per cent in their first year. 'But it's important to note that services where they do exist are extremely hardworking. Things have come on such a huge distance in a very short time, but it's coming from such a low base in terms of service accessibility that there is still a way to go.' [ Eating disorders: 'I wouldn't speak to my worst enemy the way I talked to myself' Opens in new window ] In recent years, the Government has taken steps to improve eating-disorder services. Currently, 14 of the 16 specialist eating disorder teams recommended in its internal plans are funded. Minister of State for Mental Health Mary Butler says no patients have been treated abroad this year so far for specialist eating-disorder care. 'I'm very proud of the progress we are making in establishing a full suite of services to support people with eating disorders, from early intervention in the community to the development of specialist inpatient beds for acute care,' she says. However, things are far from perfect, those working in the sector say. Figures from the HSE show that one-third of funded posts at eating disorder regional specialists teams are currently unfilled. In the adult eating disorder team in the Sligo, Leitrim, South Donegal health area, there are more vacancies than people in post: 3.2 whole-time equivalent staff are in place, with seven unfilled posts in the area. Furthermore, there are only three adult specialist eating disorder beds in the country, all of which are in St Vincent's hospital, Dublin. The rules for these beds, which are for those who are acutely unwell, require patients to be within that hospital's catchment area to be treated there. As a result, people with eating disorders outside that area who go into public hospitals for treatment are typically referred to a general psychiatric unit. Often they are unable to access specialised care in such settings. However, The Irish Times understands a plan has been devised by the HSE to increase the number of public eating-disorder beds nationally. Minister of State for Mental Health Mary Butler says no patients have been treated abroad this year so far for specialist eating-disorder care. Photograph: Brian Lawless/PA Wire At least 20 new specialist beds will be established in the coming years, under proposals submitted by the HSE for Ms Butler's approval. The beds will be spread between Dublin and the rest of the country, but all of them will have a national catchment area. For some people, recovery feels impossible. Aoife, which is not her real name, developed eating disorder behaviours when she was 12, after she sought to lose weight for her Confirmation. 'My family weren't very nice about my body. But also society. You'd be in drama class and I was the biggest so I would have to try on the costume and if it didn't fit me then nobody would get it. Then there were things like the Special K diet, or Kate Moss's saying about skinny being better,' she says. The 32-year-old Cork woman says she was diagnosed with anorexia at the age of 15, and went into hospital when she was 16, which she describes as 'the worst point in my life ever'. 'I couldn't control anything. I had a tube in my nose, I wasn't allowed to walk anywhere. I basically just lay in bed. I soiled myself because it would expend too much energy to go to the bathroom. It was only about weight restoration, not about treating the eating disorder,' she says. She struggled through college but was determined to continue her studies. I've been told I'll never recover. I have chronic anorexia. So you ask yourself, what's the point in trying? — 'Aoife' After graduating as a teacher, she realised she needed to get better before she could work full-time. In 2016, she returned to inpatient care. She improved somewhat, she says, but was not in recovery. She was admitted again two years ago, but had to leave early due to panic attacks. For her, she says, a history of trauma is playing a role in her current condition: her sister died when she was very young. 'I overate when she died; that was soothing myself. My life felt out of control, I didn't know who would die next. Food was something I could control,' she says. But it is 20 years since the onset of those challenges. These days, she feels quite hopeless about her current trajectory. 'I've been told I'll never recover. I have chronic anorexia. So you ask yourself, what's the point in trying? Normal eating is no longer normal for me. This has become my normal and it's very hard to see outside of it,' she says. [ Eating disorders in later life: Some of my peers have had teenage weight levels for decades Opens in new window ] 'It's pointless to be here every day. I keep wondering, how did things come to this? I'd love for someone to tell me what to do because I just don't know where to go or what to do. I look inward wondering what I could do differently. What did I do to deserve this?' Trying to find somewhere to go is something many patients experience. Alicia Woods, clinical nurse specialist at Lois Bridges, says the centre is a private facility, but they receive 'phone calls everyday of the week from people who don't have private health insurance'. 'We treat a range of eating disorders. And in terms of age, we've treated from 18 up to people in their early 70s,' she says. 'The majority of older people with eating disorders have had it their whole life but they just haven't had the information, education or support to seek help. Some people do develop it later in life.' Though Woods says the reasons why individuals develop eating disorders are complex and nuanced, she believes social media is playing a role. 'Body positivity was such a thing, but now we've gone back almost 20 years. The videos on social media, encouraging people to obsessively run 5K a day, or the 'what I eat in a day' videos [and the food quantity] is not enough to feed a toddler,' she says. She is also concerned about the potential impact the widespread availability of weight loss jabs like Ozempic might have on vulnerable individuals. 'We know that people can put in fake weights and get these prescriptions. If someone already has a low [body mass index] ... the potential of that is frightening,' she adds. But even when people can access treatment, often recovery is not linear, according to 38-year-old Edel Higgins. She was diagnosed with an eating disorder when she was around 25. She didn't know much about such disorders at the time, but says she had 'always tried to change my physical appearance'. [ Families: the untapped superpower in eating disorder recovery Opens in new window ] It took four inpatient stays before she reached a point where she sees herself as being in recovery. She says: 'It doesn't just take one go. People often feel guilty when they have to go back. But it's such a complex illness.' The Tallaght woman is four years in 'proper recovery', but she says for her that doesn't mean the eating disorder is 'completely gone', but just now she has the 'resilience' to acknowledge and challenge those urges when they arise. She writes poetry to help her cope. She looks at inspirational quotes hung up on her wall. 'Sometimes I wish I could wake up, go about the day, not having all of these overwhelming feelings – the eating disorder and mental health [difficulties]. But it doesn't work that way. It can be frustrating. But it's about findings ways to deal with it.' Bodywhys (The Eating Disorders Association of Ireland) – – (01) 210 7906 – alex@
