Fragile

by Nikki Grahame

  For a start, Mum’s first relationship in six years had abruptly come to an end. Although she and the man concerned were friends before they got together, when their relationship ended, things soon turned hostile. I tried to protect her and stick up for her during this turbulent time, telling her ex exactly what I thought of his behaviour. Mum had also been struggling with some legal issues relating to a property she was buying in Dorset. There were endless delays and obstacles, only adding to the stress and strain. On top of all this, the man we called Granddad (a very close family friend) was suffering dementia and had to be put into a home after being assessed as a danger to himself. This also hit Mum hard.

  Inevitably, an argument between my sister and me in the summer of 2011 proved to be the straw that finally broke the camel’s back. We’d all arranged to travel to Richmond together to take her son Sunny to a theatrical performance of In the Night Garden, one of his favourite TV shows. Natalie was driving us there and as I was sitting in the back seat of the car, I asked her if she could close the car windows because the breeze was blowing my hair all over the place. In response to this, she opened the windows even wider. We began to squabble, trading more and more violent insults back and forth. I started to cry. Suddenly, Mum snapped. ‘Turn the car around!’ she demanded. As we had only set off a few minutes previously, Natalie duly obliged.

  When we reached Mum’s house, she got out of the car and headed straight for her own without saying a word. Then she sped down the street, leaving my sister and me open-mouthed. For days after that, Mum left her phone switched off. Natalie and I were frantic, calling her all the time and speculating as to where she might have gone. Eventually, Mum let us know that she was at a family friend’s house in Dorset.

  Later, I found out that Mum had had what she described as a ‘mini-breakdown’ whilst away in Dorset. The combined pressure of her legal worries, the breakdown of her relationship and the emotional strain of caring for me whilst acting as referee during frequent feuds between Natalie and me had finally taken its toll. Mum has always been there for me throughout all my ups and downs but I knew that this was a time when she had to focus on herself and get better. For the first time ever, I was forced to contemplate a life without her continued support.

  I realised that Mum needed her own life and freedom from the constant worry of what my illness was doing to me but the thought of her lack of proximity, either emotional or physically, completely terrified me. At this stage there was no denying anorexia had me firmly back in its grips and the situation with Mum, both worrying about her and what I would do without her, pushed me further down that dangerous path. Once again I’d hit self-destruct mode and what happened over the next few months proved pivotal.

  On 16 October 2011, I visited Barfly in Camden on a night out with some friends to watch Carl Barat perform live. Due to my vulnerability, I was constantly losing things and this made me feel like a liability. Although my friends were concerned for me, I can’t have been much fun to hang out with at that point in my life. On this particular night out, after losing another phone, it was more evident than ever that I was putting a downer on the social occasion. In my mind, I interpreted this as meaning my mates thought they were doing me a favour by spending time with me.

  A comment made by my friend Rachel at the Reading Festival some months back was still haunting me and it was playing on my mind that night, and has done so ever since. ‘It’s not always about you, Nikki,’ she said pointedly. In many ways that innocent remark, playing over and over in my mind that night, contributed to the way I was feeling and amplified my feelings of unworthiness, depression and despair.

  In an effort to block out all the painful feelings I was experiencing, I drank heavily. Of course at such a low weight, my body found it hard to deal with any amount of alcohol. Very quickly I became drunk.

  I decided it would be better if I left. Darren, who is a good friend of mine, made contact with me via another friend at the venue. He told me to get in a cab and go to his flat straight away, and offered me a place to stay. I agreed – too drunk to argue and bereft of a phone to make other plans anyway. When we reached Darren’s house, another friend locked me in a room with a couple of the people I’d fallen out with during the summer, including Zoe and Julie. I’m sure he believed he was doing us a favour and we’d resolve our differences. In reality, we’d all drunk far too much alcohol to have a sensible conversation. I was deeply uncomfortable and remember thinking this was the cherry on the cake of a truly awful night out.

  To my great relief, the door was eventually unlocked. Darren could see the events of the past few months, as well as that horrendous night had left me in a dark place and advised a good night’s sleep. He went to bed, leaving me on the sofa. I waited until all signs of movement had subsided, then raided his flat in search of a blade. At that stage, I just needed to somehow express all the hurt I was feeling; I wasn’t even sure what I was going to do when I found it. Eventually, I discovered an old razor blade and began hacking away, ineffectually, at my arms. Still the emotional pain was there and whatever physical hurt I managed to inflict on myself with the blade, it didn’t seem like enough.

  It was then that the thought assailed me brutally from nowhere: I didn’t want to feel this way anymore and so I must put an end to my misery. With absolute clarity, I knew what I had to do. So I got a rope from a dressing gown that was hanging in Darren’s bathroom. I blacked out.

  I must have made a noise because the next thing I was aware of was being sat between Darren and his friend on his bed. As I regained consciousness so the enormity of what I had just done dawned on me: I had tried to take my own life, I could have died. Shocked, I began hyperventilating. Darren simply cuddled me until my breathing returned to normal. That night I slept in his bed, terrified to the core of being left alone with my own thoughts and what I now knew I was capable of.

  When it comes down to it, having anorexia is an extremely long, drawn-out suicide attempt. If you starve yourself, there is always the risk that you will die but somehow the reality never quite seems to hit home. What happened at Darren’s house that night was more immediate and tangible than anything previously experienced. With an urgency I’d never felt before, I realised how precious my life was; I did not want to die and I needed to get help.

  My first instinct was to be with my mum. When I thought of everything I had to live for, she was the first person to spring to my mind. I went to Dorset with her, thinking it might be beneficial to get out of London for a few weeks. The first day was a disaster. As I sped down the motorway on my way to our family retreat, I realised I’d forgotten to bring my electronic scales. I’m rarely without them and the more preoccupied I am with my illness, the more important they become. At this point in time it seemed vital for me to know (and to as an accurate degree as possible) exactly how much I was eating.

  I knew it was too late to turn back and fetch the scales yet I really wasn’t sure how I’d survive without them. At this point, I began to cry hysterically. I was panicked, unable to deal with the enormity of the situation. Now I know my reaction might seem ridiculous to some people but to them I say, imagine everything you know is crumbling around you and amidst all this uncertainty, the only thing you can ever be sure of is exactly how many calories you will consume in any given day. Imagine even this small grain of surety is snatched away from you and you’re entirely at sea, swimming in your own despair. Now you have an idea of how I felt.

  Arriving in Dorset, I called everyone I could think of to ask if they had any scales they could lend me. When all my efforts proved fruitless, I spent the first night wide-awake. The constant nagging worry circling in my mind meant that sleep eluded me. Breakfast the next morning was an ordeal, as I attempted to guess the weight of cereal. In my frustration, I kicked the wall of the house with my bad foot, setting back recovery by weeks.

  Eventually, Mum and I located some scales and after that, I began to relax. I spent my entire time in Dorset in a track
suit. Mum and me would spend our days talking and walking the dogs. The break became the retreat I had intended it to be.

  When I returned from Dorset, I booked myself into St Vincent’s Square as a day patient. I’d been seeing Kumari, my counsellor (who I continue to see), for almost a year and we both agreed this was the right thing to do. My diary entry for that day read: On the train on the way there, I had all these mixed emotions running through me. Fear, feelings of failure, panic, sadness and even guilt?

  I weighed just 35 kilos, a whopping 11 kilos less than when I left Rhodes Farm, aged 16. It was a relief to have a sense of routine again and the burden of thinking about what I would eat and when it should be eaten was now removed. At St Vincent’s we ate three meals and two snacks a day at designated times and were constantly monitored. After all my former years spent in institutions, St Vincent’s felt like coming home. It was also nice to be around other young women who understood just what I was going through.

  Between the hours of 11am and noon, we’d have group sessions after our morning snack on topics such as relapse prevention or body awareness. After lunch (between 1pm and 1.45pm), there was a community meeting, followed by activities such as art psychotherapy or self-esteem counselling. Some days the food I consumed would feel ‘safe’, but on others I’d feel uncomfortably full and desperate as a result.

  Unlike other eating disorder clinics I’d experienced, St Vincent’s didn’t ‘watch over us’ in between activities. We were given short periods of complete freedom and much more responsibility for ourselves. This gave me the time and space I needed to really take control of my eating habits; this time I had the reins. After all, I’d be on my own again after I left. It was time for me to take charge of my own health and path to recovery.

  I kept a food/emotions diary every day to record how various meals affected me psychologically. My first day on the ‘full diet’ was 31 October, meaning what I ate was completely out of my hands. For breakfast we were fed a large bowl of cereal, a crumpet, half a banana and a cup of tea. The morning snack was Horlicks made with full-fat milk, followed by lunch consisting of fish in cheese sauce, carrots and two scoops of mashed potato. Afterwards there was apricot and apple pie with custard. My afternoon snack was a Lion Bar. On that day I wrote: By the end of all this I was feeling pretty suicidal and completely violated by food. I questioned if this treatment program was actually making me worse??? To feel this full up is the most scary and out of control I have felt in 10 years.

  I’m pleased to tell you that I’ve made some progress since that first horrible day. Other days at St Vincent’s Square were certainly better, although I still found it hard to sit down after meals and recorded in one diary entry that I telephoned a friend after I’d eaten to try and take my mind off the constant nagging need to exercise. When I first entered the clinic I had to compile a list of my ‘food fears’ and ‘safe foods’. What I ate during a typical day tended to be a mixture of the two so I’d have things from my ‘safe’ list like vegetables, fish and baked potatoes but also others that made me feel deeply uncomfortable to eat, like full-fat milk and sauces.

  St Vincent’s Square has been wonderful and the best treatment I have experienced. I’ve made so much progress since that first awful day back in October and have put on two kilos. My stay has helped me to take control of a physical need to starve myself, but I still struggle emotionally. Denying myself food and exercising excessively were coping mechanisms for whenever it became uncomfortable to be in my own head. Now, if I want to keep myself healthy and alive, I no longer have the option to go without food. With the help of Kumari, I am trying to find a more productive and healthy outlet for my feelings of worthlessness and despair.

  Some days, I still find it hard to justify my existence. I have realised that a huge key to recovery is surrounding myself with the right sort of people and I treasure those friends who have been there for me when things really got tough. Darren, who saved me during that terrible night when I tried to kill myself, is incredibly special to me and always will be. Even now, when I am battling with my emotions, invariably the phone will ring and it will be him – it’s as if he knows I need someone to lean on. I feel that we are spiritually in tune. I’m still very close to Nadia, who missed a day of work to come back and get me when I was delirious with heat stroke in that tent at Glastonbury. Also, Carly who, despite battling her own food and body demons, has now met a lovely man and is going to get married. Seeing her reborn and creating a new and exciting life has given me hope for my own future. I also feel that my friendship with Rachel will last a long time, as we have both been through many highs and lows together.

  One thing about which I feel more strongly than ever is that I want to use my experiences to help other people, which is why I’ve updated this book. I want to tell the world that sometimes people with eating disorders do relapse but it’s OK for them to ask for help. In 2011, I was used as a psychologist on the Channel 5 programme Big Brother’s Bit On The Side (ironically, if you think about it). I really enjoyed the experience. Tough as it’s been, I realised that suffering mental health issues myself has allowed me to empathise with others and given me a greater understanding of people and how they tick.

  In December 2011, I left Chelsea and Westminster Hospital to do Panto in Wrexham, north Wales. On the one hand, I didn’t want to leave my newfound and oh-so-welcome safety net, but they promised me that I could return if ever I felt the need and I knew it was important to keep on working and maintain some kind of grasp on the former life I’d worked so hard to accomplish. I played the Fairy Godmother in Cinderella, working alongside Welsh pop star Andy Scott-Lee (who played Prince Charming) and singer and performer Alison Crawford (who played Cinderella).

  Although I formed a good bond with my fellow cast mates, especially Alison, it was unsettling for me to return to the ‘real’ world after the safety of St Vincent’s Square. For me, those few weeks were an emotional rollercoaster. We worked incredibly hard and I was exhausted a lot of the time. I craved my own familiar surroundings back home. It must have been hard for those I was working with – I’d be euphoric one minute, crying the next.

  Then, and to this day, I still occasionally battle with suicidal thoughts and more frequent feelings of inadequacy, failure, terror and uncertainty but for the first time in a long while, I believe I possess the necessary reserves of strength to conquer my demons.

  It would be remiss of me to suggest I’ve entirely recovered now – there is still a huge mountain to climb. However, my experiences over the past few years have taught me one thing: I’m a fighter. Even in my darkest hour, I chose life. Now I know that I have a loving family, many supportive friends and a lot of fans out there. I cannot express how grateful I am to them for making me realise my life is worth battling for. Today, I look forward to a future where anorexia’s voice will be silenced, where I can simply be Nikki Grahame and not be defined or controlled by my illness. In the meantime, I’ll do everything I can to ensure anyone else who is struggling with this terrible affliction knows they are not alone.

  Fragile represents the battle of thousands of men and women, girls and boys throughout the UK and millions worldwide. To those people, I say: Never give up hope.

  FURTHER READING AND RESOURCES

  Anorexia and Bulimia: A Parent’s Guide to Recognising Eating Disorders and Taking Control by Dee Dawson. Vermilion (2001)

  Eating Disorders: A Parents’ Guide by Rachel Bryant-Waugh and Dr Brian Lask. Routledge (2004)

  Eating Disorders: The Path to Recovery by Dr Kate Middleton. Lion Hudson plc (2007)

  Coping with Eating Disorders and Body Image (overcoming common problems) by Christine Craggs-Hinton. Sheldon Press (2006)

  B-eat – leading UK charity for people with eating disorders www.b-eat.co.uk

  Body Gossip – A campaign to promote body confidence www.bodygossip.org

  National Osteoporosis Society – www.nos.org.uk

  Another day of tears and pain
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  Lying here I’m going insane,

  Fighting hard not to be fed,

  Trapped in my body lost in my head

  Feeling fat and looking thin

  Rejecting life my gravest sin,

  Leave me upon my bed,

  Trapped in my body lost in my head.

  I want to be free and seal my fate

  Why is my life all about weight?

  Hope is gone though it’s never said,

  Trapped in my body lost in my head.

  Nikki Grahame

  Daddy’s girl – and blissfully unaware of what I would endure later in my childhood.

  Big sister Nat taking care of me.

  Happier days, before I got ill. The family all together before my parents’ marriage fell apart.

  A bleak day for my family: Granddad’s funeral.

  Fanatical gymnast – as with everything I do, I felt I just had to be the best.

  My ninth birthday – a weekend when I was allowed home from the Maudsley.

  Ready to go back to school after six months at the Maudsley hospital.

  My childhood was spent going in and out of institutions. This is one of the occasions when I was allowed out.

  Wasting away. My tenth birthday, spent at Collingham Gardens – a birthday cake would have been the last thing I wanted.

  At Great Ormond Street – you can see the naso-gastric tube I was forced to have.