Social media is notoriously bad for your mental health: endless scrolling, curated perfection, unrealistic comparisons. But what I experienced was something a little different and a lot more dangerous.
CAMHS – the Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services – is part of the NHS, offering support to young people struggling with eating disorders, anxiety, depression, self-harm, and a wide range of other mental health difficulties. It provides care through community teams, outpatient services, and inpatient wards. Like any service, it’s not perfect. But for many, it is a vital and sometimes lifesaving first step.
In February 2021, I was admitted into the CAMHS eating disorder service in the Royal Free Hospital. Prior to this, I had been receiving private care; however, it didn’t help. Despite the threat of long NHS waitlists, I was given an appointment in four days.
After being assessed by the team, I was treated by a multidisciplinary team of dieticians, psychiatrists and nurses. I was treated with equity, and everything was done in my family’s and my best interests.
Despite being resistant to help, the whole team pushed through, and I ended up in a stable position, returning to school part-time and moving on to Adult Services when I turned 18.
I can comfortably say without my CAMHS treatment, I probably wouldn’t be here today. But if you turned to TikTok, you would think I was making this all up
Before I started at CAMHS, my entire TikTok feed was flooded with distressing stories about CAMHS. In my eyes, everyone was treated with disrespect and essentially traumatised into never accepting any help. All I saw for weeks were tales about being neglected and being told “they were too fat to receive help”. Which convinced my brain that I would be in the same position. This in turn caused dangerous behaviours, such as the days before I started at CAMHS, I refused to eat, primarily so that the number on the scale was low enough to meet the social media criteria.
Once I started, every small decision from the staff felt threatening, because I was primed to expect the worst.
Lottie Cannon
I am aware of the fact I was lucky for a few reasons. First and foremost: I did fit the stereotype. I’m white, middle class and was a teenage girl in a competitive private school.
Despite having had body dysmorphia my whole teenage life, I’ve never been big, so it didn’t take a long period of restriction to tip me into the danger zone. Because of this, when I was assessed at CAMHS, I was “their ideal candidate”. And I know that many people that aren’t given the same care I was did not fit this (hypothetical) stereotype. That shouldn’t matter, but it does, and I recognise not everyone receives the same level of care. My experience is not universal, but I’m also not the only person who had a positive experience at CAMHS.
That’s why how we speak online matters. It’s easy to post something dramatic and let it spread, especially on platforms like TikTok. But when someone in crisis sees that, it might convince them that no one will help or that help is always harmful. We have a responsibility to be careful with what we share and how we say it. Instead of letting algorithms dictate what we understand about mental health services, we need to talk to each other — honestly.
Not in viral soundbites, but in full sentences.
With care, with nuance, and with the understanding that sometimes, things are better than they seem. Sometimes, help really does help.
• Parents can access help and advice for children struggling with an eating disorder HERE
