by Sandy McKay
Dear Jo,
You are NOT a big girl, that’s the whole point. Sorry I didn’t mention the school stuff. I just forgot and really, it’s no big deal. I couldn’t tell that tale about you going off with your mum on a cruise because Miss Haddock beat me to it. She told the class you weren’t well and were spending time in hospital. That’s all she said. Honest. And when Gemma Scott and Zoe Barker came up at the end of period to ask how you were I just played dumb and said the doctors weren’t sure but were putting it down to some kind of mystery virus.
They were both sweetness and light. Gemma said she thought you hadn’t looked well for a while and Zoe even asked if you were allowed visitors.
But don’t panic, I said the doctors had you in quarantine to prevent cross-infection and I must have been convincing because they both jumped back like I was contagious or something. I guess all this bacteria stuff has everyone worried and Donald Dingley’s mouth swab hasn’t helped matters, either. Also, there’s been heaps of stuff in the paper about bird flu pandemics and the teachers have even been showing us how to sneeze properly. (To prevent the spread of germs you have to do it in your elbow – sneeze, that is!)
Anyway, there’s no need to worry because no one is talking behind your back. I promise!
School is just as boring as ever. We are doing Pilates for PE with Miss Rainer, which is kind of like yoga. We have these dinky little mats and do lots of focussing on our epicentre (whatever that is!!) and being aware of our breathing. (In, two, three, four – Out, two, three, four …) Trouble is, with Oliver Preston in the room, it’s difficult to be aware of anything except his latest fart. There is something fermenting in that boy’s gut, I’m sure of it.
For English we are doing transactional writing but don’t ask me what that’s about because I spent the whole period working on my maths homework.
Luv,
Issy
Dear Issy,
I think it’s isolation, not quarantine. Isn’t quarantine where Pavlova and Sushi will have to go when you and I do our OE? (Is that still a date, by the way?)
About Miss Hughes, I’d have to say I’m still not convinced, Issy. In fact, I reckon those school counsellors would spill the beans at the first sign of trouble. I bet they don’t know the meaning of the word ‘confidential’. Luckily, I didn’t divulge all my worldly secrets. Maybe that’s being paranoid but that’s the way you get with this much time to think. The days all wobble into each other, like jelly.
Sometimes all I do is lie here looking at the curtains, which might not be quite so bad if they were decent curtains – these ones don’t even meet in the middle. (Things like this take on great significance in a psychiatric ward.) The curtains dangle like limp dishcloths. Pull yourselves together, I tell them. Smarten yourselves up, for goodness’ sake. But it doesn’t make a scrap of difference.
The only interesting thing is that a spider is building a web in the corner. Which reminds me of the story Charlotte’s Web, which Mum read to me when I was little. It was all about a spider called Charlotte and a pig called Wilbur and how the spider tried to save the pig’s life by making it famous but in the end she died herself. Well, I think she died. We never made it to the end because we knew what was going to happen and neither of us wanted Charlotte to die – so we made up our own fake happy ending instead. We were good at that. Fake, happy. Happy, fake.
Anyway, just to be breathtakingly original, I’ve called this spider Charlotte.
Lots of love,
Jo
Dear Issy,
I haven’t had a letter in days. God, I hope you’re not getting sick of writing. Please tell me you’re not getting sick of writing. I know my last letter was a bit manic and I shouldn’t unload on you like that.
I’ve been told I have to start group therapy tomorrow, so I hope that’ll help. I had a session with a different doctor yesterday who gave me this lecture about anorexia. She talked about it like it was cancer or something and if I didn’t respond to treatment I’d die. Talk about dramatic and over the top! Talk about scare tactics!! She said if I didn’t put on weight I’d be put on something called bed rest, which sounds like totally out of the Dark Ages.
Apparently, I’ve been diagnosed with both anorexia and bulimia. Lucky me. I didn’t know you could have both at the same time. The staff here seem hell bent on tagging us all with something.
I looked up ‘anorexia’ in the Scrabble dictionary yesterday. It said ‘absence of appetite or desire’. Well, so what? There must be worse things. I mean, what’s so great about appetite and desire in the first place? And haven’t these people got better things to do than muck about with the likes of me? Because really, when you think about it, there must be loads more interesting heads to read than mine. Like psychopaths and rapists, for example, and people who can’t stop nicking stuff (like old Mrs Ramsay down the road who took to shoplifting after her husband died, even though he’d left her pots of dough). Those people need help more than I do. Since when was not eating against the law?
And what’s the cure, anyway? Stuffing macaroni down our throats and banning physical activity? Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. Exercise is a privilege in this place. Like going to the shop, having visitors, peeing in private and just about every other normal endeavour.
Have to go now.
Please write soon.
Your friend,
Jo
Dear Jo,
Lucky old you. Wish I didn’t have to do exercise. Miss Rainer has just announced that from next week on we’ll be in training for the school formal, which means learning all those stuffy old-fashioned dances. One – two – three – twirl… Ha! (Stomp – stomp – stomp – clunk… more like.) I think I can feel a doctor’s appointment coming on.
Luv,
Issy
P.S. Please find enclosed this photograph of me and Pavlova. Sorry about the blurry bits – I used the self-timer. My technique obviously needs practice.
Dear Issy,
Thanks for the photograph. You and Pavlova now have pride of place on the cabinet, beside the long-suffering pot plant. This afternoon I had my first group counselling session. The doctor thought it’d be a good idea and I couldn’t be bothered arguing. Not after last time. Besides, I am bored shitless on my own all day.
Actually, I’m glad I went because it was good to meet the others properly. There were six of us today. According to one of the nurse aides, most of us have some kind of eating disorder. (I guess that includes me.) There are other problems too, she says, but most are eating related.
I am definitely the fattest in the group.
The therapist’s name is Veronica Brown. She looks about the same age as your mum and quite pretty in an arty farty kind of way. She wears interesting jewellery – like curtain rings in her ears and a large turquoise snake on her pinky. She doesn’t say much but nods a lot and sometimes she looks at you so hard that you wonder if you’ve got a pimple on your nose or perhaps you haven’t washed your face properly or maybe there’s a booger dangling somewhere gross. A bit off-putting.
There’s only one guy in the group. Leon. He has dark floppy hair and green cat eyes like your Pavlova. There’s a girl called Tegan with bad skin and frizzy red hair. And another called Ingrid, who has long blonde hair like someone out of a shampoo ad except that she looks like she’s going to burst into tears all the time. Actually, she has a Britney Spears look about her. There’s also a girl called Kara who’s Asian. And then there’s Caroline who I already told you about. She seemed a bit more relaxed today. Maybe her bowel movements are back on track.
Because it’s my first time, everyone introduces themselves.
‘Hi. My name’s Tegan and I love horses. My favourite horse is called Bianca but she died last year…’
‘My name is Ingrid and I’ve been here six months…’
‘Hi, I’m Kara–’
‘I’m Leon, King of Trivial Pursuit.’ (Is he for real?)
‘Caroline.’
The
session goes for about an hour. At first I am pretty nervous, hoping I’m not expected to tell my life story to six strangers. They’d die of boredom anyway.
We all sit in a half circle. As it turns out most of the session focuses on Kara’s hand washing techniques. Yes, Issy, hand washing. The poor girl has some issue related to the washing of hands. It’s called an obsessive-compulsive disorder. Leon told me, afterwards.
Anyway, her problem is that she gets hysterical about germs and is obsessed with everything being clean and perfect. Her room is absolutely mega tidy and she has a thing about not liking uneven numbers. She even had to change rooms when she arrived because they’d put her in room seven. And there’s other stuff too, like Leon says she won’t touch money that hasn’t been soaked overnight in Janola. (Maybe she did NCEA Level 1 Science at school and freaked out.)
Leon is proving to be a mine of information once he gets going. He says Tegan is okay in small doses and Caroline is nutty as a fruitcake but not too bad when you get to know her.
Ingrid sounds the most interesting. Apparently she is a talented runner who made the New Zealand Athletics team. But then she started training too hard and not eating right and the coach got worried and refused to continue coaching until she’d put on weight. That was almost a year ago and she missed out on getting picked for the Commonwealth Games and got really depressed. The coach visits her quite a lot. According to Leon he’s an old guy, in his sixties, who still runs a million miles a week himself and looks like Mahatma Gandhi. Remember we did him last year for Social Studies? He used to wear that loincloth and go on fasts all the time. (So how come he stops eating and becomes a hero while I get banged up in here?) Leon doesn’t say much about himself except to warn me that if I hear strange sounds coming from room 19, not to worry because that’ll be him practising guitar. He’s teaching himself from the Internet and although he really likes Ben Harper (he’s got the Diamonds on the Inside CD) his favourite musician of all time is actually Bob Dylan. This week he’s learning ‘Blowing in the Wind’.
Letter 2
Have just realised that I forgot to post my first letter so I’ll post them both together. It’s now Wednesday and I’m relieved to report that I survived another group session. Far out, Issy. Group therapy is so not me. You know how I hate all that touchy feely stuff. Well, that’s what group’s like. We sit in a circle (because it’s less threatening, according to the therapist) and we’re supposed to ‘share’ stuff – like feelings and problems and that.
So, it’s pretty hard going most of the time and there are truckloads of silences. Veronica usually tries to get the ball rolling. She’ll say something lame about some problem she has at home. Like, today she told us about this argument she had with her partner over the remote control on the TV set. Then she asked how we felt about our own remote controls at home. No kidding, Issy. Your relationship with your remote control may be more revealing than you think!
At first I wondered if she was having us on but no, she was totally serious, and then I figured that discussing my feelings about remote controls couldn’t hurt too much so I said, ‘I don’t really care who has the remote because, apart from Shortland Street, I don’t watch much tele.’
‘Thank you for sharing that with us, Johanna,’ she said, as if I’d just revealed my most intimate secret. Leon was next. He said he was the only one in his house who watched TV because his mum was never home and his dad moved out last year. He watches Shortland Street too. (Had a good conversation about Hugo the other day.)
Then it was Kara’s turn. ‘I think remote controls are breeding grounds for germs and should be disinfected daily!’ Hmmmnnnn… I see what Leon means.
I can’t remember what Ingrid’s contribution was but Tegan said something like she had no time for TV because she was always outside with the horse. Weird, huh. Once she gets onto the horse subject, there’s no stopping her. She reminds me of Heather White back in Year Seven, who wouldn’t read a book unless it had a horse on the cover. (Remember? She wore her hair in plaits and had two apples a day for play lunch.) Anyhow, Veronica finally managed to get a word in and we moved onto a new topic.
Today it was goals. You know, like things to aim for – (not as in soccer!)
I must confess, Issy, I quite like goals. So I put up my hand and said, um, yes, I did have a goal. Then Veronica said would I like to share it with the group. So I said my goal was to lose three kilos. Dumb, I know, because obviously you’re not supposed to say stuff like that in here and Veronica flashed me this look, which translated into ‘Let’s try and think of something more sensible, shall we?’
So then I said the next thing that came into my head, which was something to the effect that I wanted to beat Leon at Trivial Pursuit. Where that came from I have no idea. But now I’ve opened my big gob and I haven’t a hope in hell of beating Leon because he’s like this absolute general knowledge freak and I know bugger all. Any suggestions?
Write back soon,
Jo
P.S. Practice Trivial Pursuit Questions:
How much Monopoly money do you collect for finishing second in a beauty contest?
Who’s the orphan in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer – Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer or Betty Thatcher?
What country is Tobruk in?
P.P.S. Do you have anything interesting you could send me to read? All they have here are some ancient Woman’s Weeklys and two National Geographics. (Good photos but not much of a plot.)
Dear Jo,
‘Whatever the challenge, whatever the test, whatever you’re striving for, give it your best.’ That’s Miss Haddock’s latest school motto.
P.S. Sorry, can’t help on the general knowledge front.
P.P.S. I’ll see what I can do about books.
Dear Issy,
The answers are – $10, Tom Sawyer, and Libya.
I’m slowly getting to know the staff here. There’s a Samoan nurse called Bruce who whistles all the time and another woman called Morag who has such a strong Scottish accent that I can’t understand a word she says. Leon calls her ‘mean old Morag’, which kind of suits. I like the nurse aides best. They’re more down to earth. My favourite is Dot. Remember how I told you about the accident with the pasta? Well, that’s her. She doesn’t seem to hold that against me though, which is a relief.
And then there are the counsellors! Veronica is the one we have most often. Some of our discussions get pretty weird. They must have a laugh thinking up stuff. Like, yesterday Veronica had a copy of Dolly magazine and there was a photo of some girl in a bikini. The title of the article is ‘I Think I’m Fat, Do You?’ and what you think is supposed to reveal stuff about your personality.
Hmmnnnn…
Of course, it’s obvious that the girl in the photograph IS fat and shouldn’t wear a bikini but you’re not supposed to think that because you’re supposed to think there’s nothing wrong with being fat. It’s part of the therapy. Like, if they convince us there’s nothing wrong with being fat we will all turn into dumplings and roly-poly happily home. Fat chance!
Anyway, Veronica uses the bikini girl as a discussion topic.
And the discussion goes like this.
Tegan first. ‘That girl looks just like Amanda from pony club and she –’ Blah, blah, blah completely off the subject…
Then it’s Caroline, who studies the photograph for a moment before saying exactly what the rest of us think. Namely, that the girl has two chins, no waist, poxy thighs and would be miles better off in a kaftan than a bikini.
Ingrid (who is one of life’s genuine sweet people) says good luck to her and people should be able to wear whatever they like. Kara says nothing, just sits there, picking some imaginary fluff off her jumper and being careful not to touch the pages of the magazine in case of contamination.
When it comes to Leon he just rolls his eyes and says personally the woman in the photograph doesn’t do anything for him, bikini or no bikini. Then Veronica says that personal attraction isn’t the obje
ct of the exercise here, Leon, and poor Leon goes bright red.
Interesting.
My guess is that Leon’s probably gay. (He’s definitely got the voice for it.)
Anyway, then we get onto an article about friendship, which sparks off a miserable discussion because no one seems to have a friendship worth talking about. Except for me, of course.
Do you realise, Issy, that we’ve known each other almost half our lives? And in all that time we’ve only had one argument (well, one bad one), which we both promised never to mention again. I think that must be some kind of record.
And to celebrate I have written a poem. Well, actually, it’s more of a work in progress because as you can see, there are still a few gaps.
Luv from,
Jo
P.S.
Ode to my Best Friend
She’s always there to lend me gear
And tell me what to wear
If my hair’s not great
She tells me straight
We’re such a crazy pair.
Though I bore her with my letters
She’s one of life’s go-getters
Still working on this line!!
She picks me up when I am sad or when
I’m feeling down
She never blabs or gets too mad or
runs me out of town. (Nah, maybe not!)
A bit corny, I know, but I’ve been feeling a bit corny lately. Must be this place.
P.P.S. Veronica has this thing about writing. She reckons it’s therapeutic. So … well, the thing is, I’ve decided to have a go at writing to Mum.
