Castel d’Emilio, Italy
In the chilly late January fog, the streets and wheat fields of Castel d’Emilio, a quaint hillside village near Italy’s eastern Adriatic coast, come to life.
Soft light filters through Dalila Brancaccio’s bedroom window, revealing a calendar from 2018— the pivotal year for the Brancaccio family when Dalila, now 29, received her diagnosis of anorexia nervosa.
“Time stopped flowing the way it used to,” reflects Rita, Dalila’s mother and a nurse, as she sits in the family living room with her daughter. The focus of their lives shifted entirely to supporting Dalila on her path to recovery.
Dalila’s struggle with her illness began approximately one year prior. Although she cannot pinpoint the exact moment, she recalls the gradual shift in her self-perception; she became unable to recognize her own body. Weight loss ensued, accompanied by social withdrawal and growing rigidity surrounding food. Family meals became a battleground; Dalila would often decline to eat with them, opting instead to claim she had already dined, sending photos of food to mask her deceit.
Rita, along with her husband Giuseppi, 62, and their son Cristiano, two years Dalila's junior, felt a profound sense of fear. “We didn’t understand what was happening,” recounts Rita. “We were also angry. She was elusive, often absent, and would disappear for hours. Tension permeated our home.”
By January 2018, Rita was acutely aware of the severity of Dalila’s condition and successfully urged her to seek help at a public centre for eating disorders. At that time, Dalila, who stands five feet three inches tall, weighed a mere 31 kilograms (68 pounds).
The specialized centre in Fermo, located an hour's drive away, had initially advised Rita to contact nearby services when she first reached out. In a moment of desperation, she declared, “Either I die, or she dies. You figure out what to do,” demanding the necessary action.
Upon diagnosis of anorexia nervosa, clarity emerged for the Brancaccio family. “When they told us it was anorexia nervosa, I thought: this is an illness, not a whim. That meant there was a cure,” Rita recalls.
The centre implemented a strict meal plan for Dalila, coupled with regular appointments. Initially, the struggle centered around preserving her life, gradually shifting to the broader goal of fostering recovery.
“Each morning, my first task was to light the fireplace because she was always cold. Despite the layers she wore, she remained freezing. I would also prepare a hot water bottle for her,” Rita shares, looking at Dalila with a gentle smile.
Dalila, seeking warmth, would spend hours wrapped in blankets, and Rita never remarked on the increased gas bills incurred from their efforts.
Reflecting on her experience, Dalila states, “My body had disappeared.”
Rita adds, “She grew so thin that even sitting on a chair caused her pain. I had to place cushions on the chairs to alleviate her discomfort.”
The daily routine of the Brancaccio family revolved around meal preparation, purchasing food tailored to Dalila’s limited intake, and making appointments with medical professionals.
“Shopping became a source of anxiety. If I couldn’t locate her specific requests, like rice cakes—her sole acceptable food choice—I would drive for 30 minutes to Ancona, where a store stocked them,” Rita explains.
While they were at work, Dalila remained at home, engrossed in online research about food, calories, and recipes that she deemed unacceptable. She frequently critiqued their meals, insisting they were not appropriate, thus perpetuating a relentless focus on food.
On one occasion, Rita remembers her husband embracing Dalila in a pharmacy to shield her from the judgmental gazes of others.
“Dalila seemed like a child again,” Rita reflects. “At night, I would lie beside her—not only to keep her warm but to protect her from the world and its prying eyes.”
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