like people on rations
throats parched
guts contorted
Meals stretch out
and contract
like an endless labour
with no birth
In the playground
when I collect our younger daughter from school
I want to join the bright purposeful chatter
with other parents
But even when things improve
it is hard to block out the white noise
of clinking cutlery
on untouched plates
a hundred and twenty miles away
In the night
I wake
fear clutching at my stomach
my head giddy
my thoughts running in loops
my heart thudding
I open our bedroom window
and look into the dark
at the big lime tree
swaying in the wind
breathe
and try to close the vast crater
that has opened up
between me and the ordinary world
Every few days I haul my bike onto the train
pedalling urgently through London streets
feeding on sights and sounds and smells
inviting bricks and tarmac roads and buildings
to imprint themselves in my brain
and be a map of solid things
while tiny white lights
constellations of shock and terror
dance behind my eyes
Each time I visit my daughter
I have to leave her
have to leave her
Goodbye, I say
feeling angry with the nurses
for keeping her
Goodbye, goodbye
sickened by needing
to need them
Goodbye, love you
My reflection in their eyes as I turn to the door
a hideous cartoon of mother, mum – who’s she?
a fake, playing along and acting normal
any decent Mum would have
any decent Mum
Goodbye, goodbye
love you, love you
love you, love you
There is a boy on the unit
who has the same dark granite gaze
as our daughter
He has drawn a beautiful swan
in pencil on white paper
which they have framed on the stairway
I see it on the way up
and I see it on the way down
Every few weeks there is a meeting
Hospital staff sit in a circle
with papers in their hands
and we sit, feeling small
Their reports are dry as toast
laden with meal plans and routines
and minutes and hours and calories
and numbers and amounts
and things that are wrong
portions that have been missed
weights
dates
It sounds like somebody else’s girl
a girl we don’t know
there is nothing about how she climbs trees
to the very top
giggles infectiously
sucks lemons
or sings
but they sound so convinced
we nearly believe them
Half way through the meeting
someone fetches her
and she appears at the door
an elfin creature in a world of giants
No-one mentions the forest of family trees
the desert of white noise
the child whose eyes change colour
from blue to cold granite grey
Our guides are in the dark too
For this is dancing on the edge
and who can say they understand the brain
or the mind?
Who can say they know where the beginning is
or where the end?
Who can say where mind meets body
and how they dance together?
This is dancing on the edge
and who can describe
the movement of a thought?
Is it a wave, or a river?
Is it fibre optic or digital?
How can anyone describe the birth of a feeling?
Mappers of the brain’s intricate pathways
are just setting out
into uncharted territory
with a backpack
and pencil and paper
in shorts and big heavy boots
The multi-coloured rainbows of an MRI
promise gold
but cannot tell us where the mind begins
or why some pathways lead helter skelter
into the dark forest
and anyway who cares
when half the world is starving
and right here in front of you
this child has plenty but won’t eat?
I think of my daughter as an honest person
but anorexia lies
it’s a masterful liar
It lies to you in the mirror
makes a reflection a distortion
twisting everything from true
When you’re thin
it magnifies you
to monster proportions
You can be fading away
and it makes you see a giant
looming back at you
It teaches you not to trust anything
except what it shows you
- very convincing lies
with perennial cheerleaders
Ballooning celebrities
Skinny celebrities
Lose a stone a month!
How I got back into shape super-quick
after my baby
Innocent playground games
star-jumps
cartwheels
skipping
turn into instruments of death
Frenetic exercising
calorie burning
sit-ups counted
running on the spot counted
star-jumps counted
calories counted
counting counting counting counting
counting down to zero
Our daughter starts checking
the circumference of her wrists and thighs
over and over
over and over
The more she checks
the less she is sure
It’s like an itch
getting stronger and stronger
They have tried to make the unit homely
with sofas, TV, bedrooms, kitchen
but we are utterly lost
Parents wandering helplessly
in a looking-glass world
where our children trade tricks
so they won’t have to eat as much next time
Lighter, they want to appear heavier
it’s all topsy turvy
drinking water out of hot water bottles
hiding jewellery, pebbles, batteries
in upturned hems, armpits, anywhere
We are the innocents
cumbersome ignorant idiots
and they are the wily magicians
I dream of mirrors
a looking glass world
of opposites
The pull of my daughter’s feelings
makes me want to be invisible too
She runs repeatedly on the spot
and I am a hamster on a wheel
walking, pedalling, catching trains
repeatedly rushing to her and back
I wake in the night
spiked by fear
I learn the next day
she woke at the same hour
the umbilical torturer
won’t let me rest
Being separate from her
and separating from her
is like tearing off skin
/> like her ripping herself away
from her compulsions
to risk eating again
Who knows if either of us
can do this?
If she won’t eat
can I at least feed her appetite for life?
In the specialist unit they keep pets
There used to be a rabbit on the roof, they tell us
but he died
now there are giant snails
the size of clenched fists
living in a huge glass tank
in a jungle of earth and leaves
That’s good, we say
allowing ourselves the faint hope
that children feeding giant snails
might become children feeding themselves
or at least that having a pet
will bring our daughter a little joy
When the snails lay eggs
they are collected
and put in the freezer so they can’t hatch
in case the whole place fills up
with multiplying snails
One day after visiting time
I am cycling away
with my head crammed to bursting
and the sick feeling in my stomach
I cycle through some red lights
Can’t you see the fucking red?
yells a taxi driver
I can see red
but I don’t care
I wish he had run me over
The next morning
I find a bench
in a London square
I start thinking
I will sink without trace
I will disappear
It will be a relief
The flowerbed in front of me
is packed with yellow and purple pansies
moving slightly in the breeze
I stare at them for a long time
They are ordinary
and bright
and very real
With effort
I make a pledge
I believe in love
even when
there is only emptiness
and crying into dark lonely tunnels
where I can’t find it
however hard I look
I try saying it to myself
I choose to believe in love
Who would think
a crowd of yellow and purple pansies
could bring life and love
to the wastelands of the heart?
Out of the physical
comes the intangible
Out of genes, molecules, neurons
come desire, loathing, hope, love
But does it work the other way round?
Does the intangible
return to physical?
Do desire, loathing, hope, love
shape the geography of genes, molecules,
neurons?
I don’t know
It’s beyond me
It’s beyond her too
the consultant in the hospital
who has written all the books
and knows so much
Even if we could see every little neuron
on an MRI scan, she says
we still wouldn’t know how to cure your daughter
I am not upset by her honesty
I am happy with her humility
and her kindness
She isn’t doing what anorexia does
she isn’t hiding
she isn’t lying
I trust her more
not less
for telling me
how little we know
When you don’t have answers
and you don’t have tools
and you don’t have a cure
and you don’t have research grants
from pharmaceutical companies
and you don’t have a popular cause
that the public will give generously to
when you are with children
who are choosing not to eat
and your guts are churned at the very thought
and you can barely stomach it
and it is easier to turn away
it is hard to hope
it is hard to trust
and to believe there’s a way through
Anorexia rears up like a many-headed monster
Each time one head is cut off
another grows in its place
You’re in for the long haul
they say
It’s a marathon not a sprint
It’s several marathons
in a pair of lead boots
that are far too big
without a following wind
in sweltering heat
My friend makes me keep
a tally of ‘brownie points’
She texts me every week
What’s your brownie point score?
I get brownie points for looking after myself
a good cuppa, a swim, rest, a stroll in the woods,
seeing friends
Someone needed to tell me over and over
that by caring for myself
I am caring for my daughter
I would never have believed them
before it all began
whenever that was
I don’t know where the beginning was
or what the ending will be
But I know our daughter is alive and her sparkle...
she sings
makes things out of colourful materials
and her laugh is infectious
She could climb a tree right to the top
but she has to take things steady
because anorexia keeps promising
to show her the perfect self
behind the self she sees
and anorexia keeps threatening
and bribing
and promising
to give her perfection in return for starvation
to show her the way to be light as air
and free from ordinary sadness
and how to take off the heavy boots and float
but anorexia wrecks ya
and is lying
and I think she knows
When anorexia gets your child
it’s hard to take your own mirror
out of your pocket
hold it up with conviction
and meet anorexia with its opposites:
its meanness
with abundance
its despair
with hope
its po-faced self-satisfaction
with humour
its isolation
with sociability and team-work
its rigid monotony
with a dance of life
its ruinous destructiveness
with imperfect
ordinary
everyday
irrational
rational
passionate
tender
gentle
firm
strong
yielding
love
But this is the best you can do
Acknowledgements
A huge thank you to everyone who has helped this book
into being.
Friends, colleagues and others who read a draft and gave their responses.
Sarah Bird, Jean Boulton, Chris Seeley and all at Vala.
Clare Short for seeing the potential on and beyond the page.
Philip Gross for his kindness and words.
Laila Diallo and Helka Kaski for dancing on the edge.
Jitka Palmer for responding from the depths as human being and as artist.
Alyson Hallett for attention to every little word.
Jonny Glasson and Jamie Lake for a safe haven.
Anna Farthing and Pameli Benham for theatre expertise.
Janie and Chris Grimes for an empowering ‘yes’ from the beginning.
Tom for livi
ng this experience alongside me and showing care and love every step of the way.
First published in 2014, 2017
by Jessica Kingsley Publishers
73 Collier Street
London N1 9BE, UK
and
400 Market Street, Suite 400
Philadelphia, PA 19106, USA
www.jkp.com
Copyright © Fiona Hamilton 2014, 2017
Foreword copyright © Philip Gross 2014, 2017
Front cover image source: [iStockphoto®/Shutterstock®]. The cover image is for illustrative purposes only, and any person featuring is a model.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form (including photocopying, storing in any medium by electronic means or transmitting) without the written permission of the copyright owner except in accordance with the provisions of the law or under terms of a licence issued in the UK by the Copyright Licensing Agency Ltd. www.cla.co.uk or in overseas territories by the relevant reproduction rights organisation, for details see www.ifrro.org. Applications for the copyright owner’s written permission to reproduce any part of this publication should be addressed to the publisher.
Warning: The doing of an unauthorised act in relation to a copyright work may result in both a civil claim for damages and criminal prosecution.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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