“Stalked by Demons, Guarded by Angels: The Girl with the Eating Disorder” is now available on Amazon, Book Depository, Angus & Robertson, Barnes & Noble and practically anywhere you can think of! You can also ask your local bookstore to order it in. Go on – give it a go!

REVIEWS

An inspiring and timely story told with honesty, humor, and a generous heart. Everyone knows someone—or is someone—who battles with the issues Simone explores. Here is a book to shine light on your journey.

I was awestruck by the honesty, humanity, vulnerability and humour of this book. I can’t imagine the bravery it took to write. It was hard to put down, completely absorbing, and ultimately inspiring… I thoroughly recommend it!

I was instantly drawn into her story. If writing is her second choice of a career, she must have been an exceptional musician.

Her honest look at her struggles with her demons deepened my understanding of mental illness, disordered eating, and family disfunction. It made me ache for her, cheer for her, and profoundly respect her. Whether or not you know someone who struggles with disordered eating, this book is worth reading. However, if you do know someone who struggles, it is a must read.

This is a book for all people. A brutally honest, raw and vulnerable tale of mental dysfunction and the desperation that comes with living with an eating disorder. And yet, Simone’s penmanship is delightfully witty and the words will have you feeling as though you’re sitting down with an old friend having a chat over a cup of tea. This book is one of its kind and should be read by everybody to invoke more empathy in this world.

This memoir is honest, intelligent, and generous. I felt the heartaches and hard-won triumphs to the point where, after surfacing from an hour or two of reading, I was surprised to find I was someone else entirely. How do you make such raw, complex, personal material feel like a cozy chat over a cuppa? I’m not sure. Magic, I suspect.

SAMPLE CHAPTER

When I was born I had a body.

It was white and soft and squishy, filled with all the things I need to survive. It cleverly provided the functions required to grow and develop outside the comforts of my mother’s womb. What my body didn’t know when it was born, was that it wasn’t considered the right shape or the right size. While it functioned in a beautiful, healthy and practical manner, aesthetically it didn’t conform to the ideal of beauty espoused by those who raised me and the society in which they lived.

My parents marry in 1964. As is so often the case in the island state of Tasmania, they meet through mutual friends. My mother is just 20-years-old, beautiful, petite and working at LJ Hooker as a receptionist. She has a fractious and difficult relationship with her parents and is desperately seeking a way to leave behind a world of inconsistent affection, financial struggle and her drunken, adulterous father.

My father is 31-years-old and very close to his identical twin brother and adoring parents in Melbourne. A flautist in the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra and professional runner, engaged twice before, passionate about music and sport, tall, dark and handsome.

In their wedding photos, my mother has a radiant smile on her face. She’s young, in love, marrying a handsome man and making strides up her all-important social ladder. She’s in the prime of youth, has a love of arts and literature, a discerning eye for beauty, a keen ear for nuance and a prodigious memory. My father is comfortable and familiar in the spotlight, with a beautiful young woman on his arm, his gentle and friendly nature loving the warm circle of affection from family and friends. Life looks complete with a successful career in music and athletics, and an adoring wife by his side.

Together they seem ready to conquer the world and the next step is to start a family.

The newlyweds buy a tiny little cottage in Jenkins Street, in the riverside suburb of Taroona. It’s on a long, steep, narrow block, with a creek trickling down to the Derwent River. It’s lush, green and overgrown. Most of the land is unusable for building purposes but wild and tranquil when the newlyweds look out the sunny kitchen window in the white weatherboard cottage at the top of the block. The sounds of cockatoos, kookaburras and the pink and grey galahs, fill the little cottage with a symphony of nature’s works. This is the first of many homes they will own. In this house, I’m conceived.

On Friday 25 February 1966, I’m extracted from my petite mother’s womb through a high forceps delivery, weighing in at 10lb 10oz – a big, fat, healthy blob of baby girl. This scares (and disappoints) the living daylights out of my mother. For a beautiful young woman deeply concerned about physical appearance, a fat baby (and a girl no less) is not good news. She tries putting a positive spin on my weight problem after four weeks with her first entry in my baby book:

And she spends the rest of her life trying to slim me down.

My father beams with pride as he drives from the Queen Alexander Maternity Hospital to the little cottage on the overgrown block, his delicate wife beside him and newborn daughter in a wicker basket on the back seat of the old Mercury Monterey. In his customary absent-minded manner, he loses his grip, drops the basket and I roll out onto the doorstep of the sunny cottage.

Dad adores me, with my double chins and soft red hair. He’s away a lot – rehearsing, performing, training and racing – but when he’s there, his face beams with pride and love. After more than half a century, I can still see it in the old black and white photos.

It’s only a year before my parents and their itchy feet sell the little cottage and move across the river to build a new brick home. On Tuesday 07 February 1967, Hobart city and surrounds are devastated by bushfire. While most of the fire rages on the other side of the river, even in Tranmere the embers of burnt stringybark eucalypts and Tasmanian bluegums float through the air. My mother and I are safely ensconced in the newly constructed house, sweltering through the 39c day, while dad joins a host of other residents stamping out spot fires as they appear.

When the day is over 2640 square kilometres have burned, taking 64 lives, 62,000 livestock, innumerable native wildlife and 1293 homes.

My great grandparents lose their family home, burned to ashes on the lower slopes of Mount Wellington. But the Eastern Shore is safe and our new home unscathed in the aftermath of the Black Tuesday tragedy. For 18 months family life is without incident – simple and innocent with my mother planting herb gardens, making jam and trying to tame her unruly daughter, while dad performs with the orchestra, appears on television and radio, and trains at the North Hobart Football Oval. But soon, their young family is irreparably changed.