Perran Moon

Meur ras, Mr Stuart; thank you for your chairship. I thank the hon. Member for Bath (Wera Hobhouse) for securing this important debate. I declare an interest: I am also a member of the eating disorder APPG. As has been mentioned, recent data suggests that one in eight 17 to 19-year-olds in England have an eating disorder—a massive increase from fewer than 1% in 2017. On average, young people are now waiting for almost three and a half years to get treatment. My relationship with anorexia began nine years ago. It is a story that I am sure resonates with many thousands of other parents the length and breadth of Britain; frankly, it is a massive part of why I became an MP. My story began when I took a phone call from a teacher at my daughter’s school. She asked me to come and collect her, as she had passed out, having not eaten breakfast or dinner. Over the next few months and years, my daughter, whose relationship with food had already become terribly distorted, unbeknown to me, was clutched by anorexia. Its claws dug deeper and deeper into her as she slipped into a desperately poorly state. She became too unwell for school, and the pressure of her exams was like a ton of bricks on her as the anorexia gave her a cruel outlet for the control—something that sits behind so much of this—that she sought in her life. As parents, our most solemn undertaking is to protect and nurture our children. Against this terrible illness, I was utterly useless. As my daughter’s illness took hold, I became more and more angry: first with her, then with others, and then with the system. It was only years later that I had to have it explained to me that that anger was actually driven by fear. I was impotent to support my daughter. Worse still, I was incapable of finding anyone else who could provide her with the care that she so desperately needed. Here is the killer blow. The only way she could qualify for lifesaving support was if she became critically ill—so ill that she was staring death in the face. Imagine sitting at the kitchen table for hours, watching your emaciated child looking terrified at a small plate of food in front of her and hoping that she does not eat it, so she becomes so ill that she qualifies for the support that she needs. Those truly shameful thoughts are etched on my conscience and visit me every single day. They have left an indelible stain on my soul. For having those terrible thoughts, to my daughter, wherever she is, if she sees this speech, I want to say, “I’m sorry, my lamb.”