by Grace Bowman
When people bring up the subject of doctors and weight I do my ‘What are you making a fuss about?’ incredulous look. I flash some of my dinner in their face. They keep on testing me, of course, but I won’t relent. I keep munching right through the fatty-soaked Chinese food they put in front of me, and the thick and spicy Indian curry and I smile wide and drink another orange Bacardi Breezer. I have abandoned the calorie-counting in public. I reserve this for my private moments – the in-between parts (of which there are many). I fluctuate between control and crazy eating (well, crazy for me, anyway).
Lovely Mum and Dad sit on the sofa and watch me. I know what they are thinking. I am sure of it. They are wondering what they could possibly have done wrong to end up with me in this state. I know that they probably don’t trust me. I know that they think that my food is not normal food. I know their secret conversations. I have a good imagination, a really scary one too.
‘She’s definitely eating more – isn’t she?’
‘That must be a good thing – mustn’t it?’
‘It might even mean that she’s better – right?’
‘Does this mean we don’t have to go to the eating disorders support group one evening a week after a tiring day at work, and listen to more stories of starving, cottage-cheese-eating teenagers?’
‘Please tell me this is true.’
‘I don’t know.’
New people that I meet don’t even know about my eating problems, I think. They treat me like I am completely normal. They think I am shy and curled up, and that I am naturally quiet. I let them think that. I let them think that is me. I don’t wear any bandages so they can’t tell what is in my head. Men start to come closer to me now, like it is acceptable, because I have these little curves. I want them to like me. I want them to desire me. But they won’t like me if I get any bigger. I need to stay small.
In the dark, in the club, I sometimes tell them more than I should. Words spurt from my mouth and I am telling strangers about this little illness I had a few weeks ago, and the feelings I had.
To Boy 1: ‘Hello. We get on but you don’t know me. You can’t really know me until I tell you this thing about me. I used to be anorexic. That means I got very thin – I was five and a bit stone. You seem shocked. Yes, I look OK now. I’m fine now. I decided to get over it. I work in the pub. Things are better; really they are fine. It’s just it is such a big part of me that I don’t want to be your girlfriend unless you understand this. I know we only met this evening, but when I’m drunk I become really honest about things. I prefer it to be that way. Sure, I’ll come outside with you. I’m so flattered that you think I’m gorgeous. No one says that to me any more. I feel really drunk. Let’s go and talk outside. Oh, you kissed me. This is what I should be doing, like a normal teenage girl. Thanks for your number, but I won’t be speaking to you again, or telling anyone about this. God, I shouldn’t have shared all this with you. I can hardly see your face. I can’t even remember your name.’
To Boy 2: ‘Thanks for the cheese sandwich. How did I get to your house? I think my friend likes your friend. They’re laughing in the other room. Oh, you’re kissing me. Look, there is something you need to know about me. Thanks for understanding and holding me so tightly. You aren’t really my type. You’re a personal trainer? You could do a diet plan and exercise plan for me. I think everything would be all right if I had a professional exercise plan, then I could get the muscled, tight legs that I want. Don’t you think? You look like you could take care of me. It is a shame I can’t call you again. Cheese sandwiches at three in the morning aren’t something I should repeat. It upsets my routine.’
To Boy 3: ‘You thought I looked horrible before. I saw you looking at me and wondering how I could have changed so much, so quickly. Thanks for at least pretending you still liked me then with your letters and your phone calls (on and off) depending on how much you could cope with my strangely subdued voice at the end of the phone. I know you didn’t like me, not when I looked like that – who would? When we met I was on the edge of a new life, going to university, and it was all fun. Do you remember kissing me after the office trip to the pub? I was on work experience and I fancied you, and you liked me back. And then the next week you were landed with a new me. It was kind of you to keep in touch, when I was a very different person from the one you thought. Now it’s obvious you like me. Boys seem to like girls who are size eight, even if they say that they don’t. You can’t believe your luck. You tell me you have fallen for me. It sounds so romantic, I think. I don’t feel anything like that, but I accept the nice compliment. Did you see my ex-boyfriend in the pub with his pretty, curvy girlfriend? It makes me sad to look at him. There are silences in our conversation. I can’t think of anything to say to you that you might be interested in, or that I might be interested in – sorry.’
I see my ex-boyfriend. He is driving a blue Fiesta and his new girlfriend sits in the passenger seat. He doesn’t see me because he isn’t looking for me, because I am out of his life and she is in it, but I see him. I see him everywhere, even when he is not there. I catch glimpses of his face on the edge of others. I write about him every day in my diary because I miss him, or maybe I just miss us, and the old me, eating spaghetti at his house and ordinary things I used to do. He looks guilty when he does see me, because he thinks that he let me down. He thinks that he should have helped me more, I know, he told me. But I tell him not to worry because, ‘I’m fine. I’m all better. I’m seeing other people now, so the old story of us is closed. I’m not going to go to the doctor any more, everything is all better. How is she, by the way?’
After I see him I feel a bit shaky. I walk up to my old school to meet my little sisters. I don’t look up in case anyone sees me, and they have heard about my messed-up head. I don’t want to speak to anyone in case they know that I didn’t go to university, and that I am one of ‘those girls’ (which they surely do, because everyone knows everything here). My teacher sees me and smiles. He makes me talk. I don’t want to talk. I want to walk past him so that he doesn’t have to think about me. If he hadn’t seen me, he wouldn’t have had to think about me. He would have just forgotten about me and got on with his day. Instead, he has to make some small talk and look concerned. He says the wrong thing. People always say the wrong thing. He says, ‘You look well.’
He must not have met a real anorexic before.
Well! Well! Fat. Fat – that is what he means. You look well – plump, round, healthy therefore fat, definitely fatter than the last time he saw you.
I wish I hadn’t gone out. I wish I could make them all forget. I don’t think they are ever going to forget, are they? They are always going to remember me this way. I have fought away my fear to make them all happy, and they still look at me in that strange way and try to make nice and caring conversation. For those who know me it may always be this way.
I am moulding myself to fit into the ideal shapes that the doctors and the strangers and the family and society prescribe for me. Then they will let me go away and I can make things the way I want them to. For the moment, I need to curve myself more, so I will. They are all measuring me and sizing me up, so it all has to be as convincing as possible. The nice lady doctor seems to think that if I get to the ‘ideal weight’ my mind will flip over to her side, that I will somehow gain this understanding again. So I push my mind away. I sit in my bath of spiders every day and let them crawl over me. I wrap the snakes round my neck. I stand at the edge of the top of the highest building and let you push me. I don’t fall. I won’t fall.
‘You have been so brave – you really have done so well. Do you think you would like to continue to see me? I’m here if you need me. When you come back from university you should make sure you check in every holiday, so we can monitor your progress.’ Nice lady doctor smiles.
‘That would be delightful. Thank you so much,’ I say.
I glide into the weighing room and nod at the rising scales.
‘Well done,
you! You have put on two pounds,’ she informs me.
‘Yes, it seems that I have put on two pounds.’ I smile back as I say this because it is supposed to be a very good thing.
Thank you, dear lady doctor, I am thrilled. I am truly delirious to have made you happy, and what a great job you have done! Although, surely, you know that I will never be coming back here. I will not be speaking to your busy receptionists any more, ever. I am fine now. There is no need for you, and your scales, and your thirty-minute chats, and my superficial smile as I wait for hours on end to see you. Actually, I need to go. I have bought a new dress, which is a size ten. It hangs off my shoulders, it slips off my arms and you can see my new padded bra underneath. I am going out drinking with my friends. My favourite cocktail is one full of cream. I bet you are very pleased with that. Goodbye, nice lady doctor. You should go, as I am sure there is another emergency right round the corner. You really are so much nicer than Dr Whitecoat. He said that I didn’t have a chance of getting away, and look, I have.
Please don’t blame yourself. I am an excellent actress. Sometimes, you know, I sit in bed and I can’t believe I actually managed to get up and force myself through the day with such confidence. I can spend the whole day lying. I don’t actually tell any lies, I just act out one big one. I feel guilty for that. I don’t want to let you down. I would really like to fold up within myself. Things might be better like that. I should be able to get properly depressed, but I can’t. Sometimes I can’t even make myself cry. Even if I think of the saddest part of me there is just a blankness. I don’t have much to say, so I stare in the mirror until I lose myself. I have lost myself. I have lost what I was. I try and force myself to feel and when I manage to prick up the tears, I watch my reflection in the mirror, tears rolling down my face. I try and see if I can work out what they are doing. I step outside myself.
What am I? What am I, now?
Turnaround
The order of my story now appears to be: child, teenager, anorexic, then not-an-anorexic. As quickly as I was labelled an anorexic, I was no longer one, not an official one, anyway. One day I made a decision to turn things round; it was New Year and so I thought I should make a resolution. My resolution was to end my eating disorder. Just like that. At five and a half stone I simply changed my mind.
I would have expected the story (had it not been my own) to have a more forceful twist. I would have expected somebody to get a proper grip on me and shake things out of my control. Surely, anorexics are put into special centres where a diet is constructed for them, where it is ensured they gain weight week on week and where they are watched and monitored with close scrutiny? This is the case for some, but not for others. Anorexics are often difficult and stubborn to treat; it is not an easy task. Because of this, there is a range of very different treatments suited to the individuals involved, there isn’t a one-size-fits-all approach. Often there is a multi-disciplinary approach, with a whole team of professionals dealing with various aspects of the anorexic’s behaviour, both the causes and the symptoms. This level of intervention may be more the case at the life-threatening end of the scale, but as my weight was not evaluated to be that, this experience was not the reality for me, or for many others. There simply don’t seem to be the resources for those on the cliff edge of severity. I just wasn’t a priority unless I made myself into one. Ironically, I needed to carry on self-destructing in order for me to get more treatment, and for some reason I decided not to do that.
My initial sit-up-and-do-something change was actually filled with the needs of others. I could no longer deal with everyone else’s depression and anger. I could no longer take the transparent stares and the sharp look-aways of the shoppers in Sainsbury’s. In reality, I had no desire to be anything in particular, not well, ill or anorexic; I retained only a reflex response to make other people happy. I needed (wrongly or rightly) to resurrect some part of the good girl for other people. I was embarrassed that I had created a version of myself which was the opposite of the achieving and successful me. I made up stories about how I was feeling to reassure other people, rather than actually experiencing that set of emotions for myself. There were stories about how ‘great’ it felt to be an acceptable weight and how ‘great’ it was to be able to fit into clothes from the shops. There were stories about how ‘fun!’ it was to get so drunk that I couldn’t stand up. Then there were stories about how I was ‘feeling so much better’. These were the things that other people wanted to hear. Everyone around me was cautiously willing to accept my change, because it was the relief that was so longed for and so needed. It was much easier to think that I was fixed. That is, after all, what everyone had been hoping for, for months. As I ate more, and refigured myself ten months after diagnosis, I removed my anorexic label, I dispatched the psychiatrists, I rationalized and objectified my problems and there was a sigh of relief all round.
Anorexics often do depersonalize their actions in this way, as if what is happening to them is an entirely passive experience. They manage to sustain a sense of distance from their body; they tiptoe round the edge of feeling. They can’t be a part of what they are doing because to admit it would mean collapse. So they just look on.
I remember thinking to myself, ‘I must now be on the verge of fainting.’
But I didn’t feel weak or light-headed. I watched myself fall over on the carpet, and then I got up and went to watch TV, and I didn’t tell anybody and nobody saw me, so it didn’t happen. It was simple like that. I just framed myself in different states.
During my decline, I liked to read about all of the theories on the causes of anorexia, and say to myself, ‘Hmmmm, perhaps these things are happening to me. How interesting.’ Then I would get out my pen and underline the relevant bits in the book, and I would write quotes down in my notebook and think, ‘This is really important.’ But I would not know why, and I would not think of it as me, or me as it. The objectification of myself was a survival instinct – it was the only way to survive the self-destruction.
By responding only to the illusion of myself, I was as equally capable of removing myself from the self-starving as I was able to fall into it. I looked over the object of me, and made the decision that things needed to change. Could it have been the willpower that so neatly edged me into my anorexia that was the answer to me getting out of it? It is difficult to explain why this decision couldn’t have been made before. It is frustrating to think that this could have potentially come from within me all along, but I don’t think that is the case. The issue needed to be brought out by other people for me to recognize the seriousness of it. I had to get to a stage where I felt so helpless and weakened to realize that the control that I thought I had was not actually there at all.
But the story does not end because I decided to put my finger over my lip and said ‘shhhhhhhh’ or because I moved the setting of the scene. If anorexia is really defined only by weight – a few pounds here or there – then this would be the beginning of the end of my story and I could stop my secret here. In fact, what can occur is that emotions, feelings and secrets go further in, and become even more closed-up. In the first part of anorexia things are body-side – it is hard to stop the outside world knowing because they can see for themselves. After weight is put on, things go inside, well away from public view.
Part 4
STORIES OF GRACE
Seventeen
‘Hi, I’m Grace. It’s nice to meet you.’
Grace smiles at the girl who is showing her to her university room. Mum and Dad stand at her side. The girl smiles back. She seems friendly, Grace thinks. She is also very small and slim. She looks Grace up and down, registering the new arrival, checking out the competition. Grace weighs seven stone and six pounds. The doctors have said that this is still below the ideal Body Mass Index for her height, but Grace disagrees. Grace has decided that she does not want to lose any weight, but neither does she want to put any on. Gaining weight would not be an easy thing to deal with, and therefor
e it is best to just keep an equilibrium, which will keep everyone around her happy(ish). This is all she can allow them to be.
The thin, pretty girl smiles at Grace as she leaves. ‘We have a girls’ football team. I’m the captain, if you want to try out?’
‘Thank you, yes, that sounds great,’ Grace responds politely.
Grace does not know if she likes football, or if she likes other girls, or if she likes team sports, or if she would be brave enough to try something that she might not be very good at, but she wants the thin, pretty girl to like her and so she says yes.
Mum and Dad decide to leave. Grace watches them out of her bedroom window, which overlooks the river. They stand on the pathway and wave at her. Tears well up.
Mummy, Daddy, don’t go. Don’t leave me. I can’t do it. Maybe I can’t, after all.
Grace waves back and watches them, hand-holding, gripping each other – tightly. Grace thinks of the cigarettes that she can smoke and the exercises she can do in the privacy of her own room, with no one watching her or making judgements and passing comment.
Grace decides that the best thing to do is to try and find someone to talk to and make friends with. She walks up and down the corridors banging the big, heavy doors behind her. She walks round in circles. Everything is silent. She is probably early. She is always early, always over-prepared, always ahead of time. She goes back to the room. She stands in the echoing silence and decides to unpack some cases. There is a big box of food. Grace went to Sainsbury’s with Dad to pick out all of her favourite things – her usual foods so that she doesn’t have to eat the college food if it is not on her accepted list.
