Thin (12 page)

To be honest, it feels like I am wasting her time. I know she has been busy looking me up in her textbook to try and figure me out, but she isn’t going to get me that way. It feels like she is playing a different game from the one I am in. She makes lots of suggestions about the things that I should be eating. She has made her own plans and patterns before our meetings and she talks me through them. Sometimes
her suggestions are just ridiculous. Once she even mentioned cheese. She told me about the protein and calcium that comes from cheese.

‘You need it for your bones.’

‘You need it to be strong.’

‘You need calcium to stop you from getting osteoporosis.’

But I don’t care about calcium; I care about calories. She puts so much work into planning my every mouthful, I feel almost sorry to ruin her plans, but I think my patterns are much more feasible. I nod at her suggestions, and sometimes I think I might even try one of them, just for her. She starts writing in my book. I grit my teeth. I made it look so perfect, neat and aligned, and she scribbles in pencil about full-fat milk and eggs and horrible, impossible big, fat things. I want to rub out her pencil and make it look smart again. She senses my anger and asks if I am OK. I tell her that the eggs and cheese aren’t going to be possible. She looks disappointed and scrambles for something to say. She looks sad. I don’t like it when she looks sad, because it means that she thinks that I am sad. I am not sad. I am taking this all in my stride. I am still striding with some confidence.

‘What about some energy drinks? Maybe you will find it easier to take in the calories that way – in a liquid form. Your calorie intake is dangerously low. You are eating less than a child on a starvation diet.’

It sounds to me like things are being accomplished. What am I to say? I don’t want to refuse her. I don’t want to make her feel even sadder; she might feel that she isn’t doing a good job.

‘OK then.’

She looks visibly relieved and starts searching for a prescription pad. She can go home now and tick me off her ‘To Do’ list. See how easy that was. She seems better already. She sends me off to the chemist. I queue like a good girl
and when I get to the front I politely ask the pharmacist for the drinks. She walks back into her medicine cupboard and comes back to the window. She hands me a huge brown paper bag. It takes both my arms to carry it. I jolt. As I walk down the long hospital corridor, I tear the bag open and pull out the insides. I immediately turn over the silver packs to see the calorie value. One drink contains more than my whole day’s allowance. The nice-lady-dietician doesn’t get it. I don’t follow orders like that. She can’t impose such things on my carefully constructed plans. I don’t eat sugar, glucose, energy – however they try to disguise it – and I certainly don’t drink it. I am shaking with panic at the thought of putting these things inside me. I walk out of the hospital, wrap the drinks back into the brown paper bag and throw it in the bin at the bus stop. I keep a couple of packets to show to Mum, and I have to take a few horrible sips when I get home to show her that I am doing better, then I quickly pour the rest of it down the bathroom sink.

When they weigh me at the hospital, they do it very precisely. Almost too precisely. They have old-fashioned scales with weights, which need to balance out to give you an exact measurement. My scales at home are under my mum and dad’s bed. They are often dusty and the indicator part doesn’t always sit exactly on 0. I weigh myself in stones and pounds, but at the hospital they weigh me in kilograms. I spend ages trying to convert it from kilos to pounds into stones in my head while answering the doctor’s questions at the same time. I am doing sums over and over in my head while they are talking to me about the latest threat to my well-being. Stones and pounds are better, I think. I have always measured it that way, since I was little, so I get a better impression of where I am relative to where I was a few years/days/hours ago. They tell me not to weigh myself, or at least to cut down on the amount of time I spend on
the scales. I weigh myself lots of times in one day and sometimes, if I get panicky, I weigh myself lots of times in one hour, or one minute. I don’t let Mum and Dad know about the scales because I think they would get angry, so I have to tiptoe around the room and try not to make a noise when I get them out. I don’t know if they know that I am doing it, but I am pretty good at hiding it. If I hear the slightest noise I am quick to get myself in front of the mirror and pretend I am brushing my hair. They haven’t caught me yet. At the moment, the numbers on the scales don’t ever go up, in fact, mostly they go down, so now I am below six stone. I wanted to get to six stone so badly. It was a target for a long time. It sounds so much better than seven. And miles away from eight. I can’t believe I was eight. I don’t want to get back near to seven because that is too close to eight, and when I got above eight that is when it all started to go wrong with the fat feelings and all this began. And I know how quickly it could happen. Just a few more calories and my body might go into some kind of state of shock and then, there I am again, back up the ladder. Yes, I think it is important to keep weighing.

When I weigh myself at home, I always make sure I go to the toilet first to get rid of any water build-up, and I undress, so I can get an accurate reading. If I go to the hospital I do the opposite. I pile on my clothes and I drink lots to make them think that I am trying hard. They don’t fall for this often and make me take off the layers, which feels like a bit of an exposure. I am the bad girl who is breaking the rules.

The worst thing is when I am on the scales at home and the phone rings. I can’t ignore it, because whoever it is that is calling me will think I have collapsed or fainted (I haven’t yet). So I pick up, then I hear the loving voice that breaks up at the other end before I have had a chance to tell them, ‘I’m fine. Everything is …’

‘We are so proud of you, we only want you to get well, nothing else. And your mum and dad love you so much – you are trying, aren’t you? We know you are trying.’

Or, ‘Just give the psychiatrist a chance – pretend he’s a filing cabinet or a Dictaphone. Persevere with the help. Do it for me. You would make me feel happy if I knew you were doing all right, and concentrating on getting better.’

I gulp and grit my teeth. They are always like this – swamping me with love and tears and well wishes. All I can think about is the scales.

‘Yes, yes, yes.’

I tell them nice things about my day to distract them. I need to make sure things are still on track.

My friend, I know you think things are bad. I can see it in your face. I can see how you look at me with horror and gasps and you just can’t stop staring. I let it go, I can’t let it interfere. And to be honest, why don’t you pick up some magazines and reassure yourself? I do it all the time. They tell me all I want to know and more. I can spend hours analysing the thickness of one celebrity’s thigh against another’s. Mostly, now, I am not interested in the other contents of the magazine; I just want to know if I am getting to be anything like those skinny women. I scan the pages ferociously, lapping up the information. They talk about which diets they have tried, and their exercise regimes. I am an expert on this. Pick a celebrity woman and I will know what she does and doesn’t eat, and which parts of her body she does and doesn’t like. I don’t really use their diets because they suggest eating too much food. I have my own, anyway. But I do like staring at them, for hours, trying to find some imperfections. It is sometimes easier to see their real shapes on the TV. I know that in the magazines they have been cut round and evened out, to make them even more dimensionless. Still, it is hard to imagine them as normal, with bulky shapes and lines like I have, when you see them like that – seamless, smooth, toned, refined. Perfected.

OK, so sometimes getting up quickly is a problem. I fall on the floor with a dizzy head and things go black, but I haven’t passed out yet (not properly) so I think it means that I am still fine. When you come round to see me, it takes me a while to get to the door, but I make it, don’t I? You
seem very quiet when you say hello. I think you have come back from university just to see me, which makes me feel like I am ruining your weekend. I would like to stay in the house with my hot-water bottle, but you would find that boring, so we decide to go into town. You are laughing and I am trying to keep up with you. You walk so fast and you talk so much that there is scarcely time to breathe. You are a student now and you seem different, more confident. You talk a lot about drinking and new friends, bars, clubs and places that I don’t know, and my legs are hurting and I am so tired. I don’t make a fuss though, do I? I don’t tell you about the pain, and I don’t spoil your day. I just walk round the shops with a fuzzy head. I will make it back to the car, and I will feel fine. You don’t talk to me about my not-eating thing. I think it makes you uncomfortable, and I am glad that you don’t bring it up, because everybody else is always asking and interfering. I wish you were here more often because you are kind to me. Instead, you write me letters, which are funny, and it reminds me of school days, before the summer, before things went wrong. You always seem to sign them off with something worried and upset though.

Dear Grace,

University is fun. I met this really cool boy. We got really drunk …

PS – please try not to lose any more weight.

Lots and lots of love, take care of yourself. xx

Or there are the letters which spell it out loud (when you feel braver), and they make me feel guilty because I have upset you and given you something to worry about, when you should be having fun.

I don’t look at you and see a normal person. This will sound weird, but when I saw you I was so shocked, you look dreadful and you know it.

It may be hard but you must try putting on weight, not just staying the same. Those girls I saw on that TV programme about anorexia look hideous. If you keep losing weight, you will end up like them.

I wish you wouldn’t bring it up; it is honestly better not to talk in that way. I like getting your letters but sometimes they make me cry. I don’t like telling people that I cry, but I do. Actually, your letters always make me cry. I cry a lot these days. But sometimes I haven’t got the energy, and it seems to take less energy to shut down, be silent and not let out any tears.

It is strange watching you eat the cream cake. I buy a Diet Coke and you eat a cream cake. Do you often do that, I wonder? I can’t help but count up the calories and grams of fat you take in, and I am pleased. I find the smells in the bakery very strong. I can taste the smell of the sausage rolls and pastry and cakes and buns and bread and things I don’t eat. I wouldn’t eat anything from that shop. I am glad you do, although I wonder if you are just doing it for me. Are you?

I make sure I have a hot bath when I get home. I need to try and get rid of all the food I have put inside me, and when you are in a hot bath it feels as though you are steaming it out. I even bought some Epsom salts because I read in a magazine that they are good for detoxifying. The woman in Boots looked at me in a funny way. I almost didn’t buy them because of her funny look, but then I thought of my freshly stretched-marked skin and I decided it might help if I scrub away at it. I like to have lots of baths in one day. My family think that this is strange. It’s just a bath. I want
to be clean. I don’t relax in there. Baths are my quick fixes. My back hurts, anyway, against the cold plastic and my veins pop out of my red skin. I like to put my head under the water because it feels like I am weightless. I can forget things for a second. Only a second, though, but a second is a long time for me.

Dr Whitecoat wants to know how it went with nice-lady-dietician. I feign some interest in the conversation. I tell him that the drinks are sickly and sugary, but I don’t tell him that I put them all in the bin. I think he would actually be angry with me for that. So we talk about some mindless issues and he seems to be frustrated. He starts to tell me about what will happen when I get admitted into hospital. I will have a drip and tubes put down my throat so, ‘You’d better start changing.’

If I drop below 35 kilos then he will have to ‘section’ me. He sighs loudly to my silence, and tuts.

I grin. I don’t know why I grin but I do. I almost laugh, right out loud. He makes me giggle inside. He patronizes me in silly ways, so I try and shock him.

‘I’m getting better, that just won’t happen. I’ve submitted some of my essays – my best writing work – to Cambridge, so I will just have to wait and see if I get the interview.’

I steer the conversation off course. But he repeats, as if I didn’t hear the first time: ‘If you drop one more kilogram, if you drop to 35 kilos, then I will put this order on you, then you will be forced to come in here.’

He is on the back foot; he has only one response. I won’t let him win. I will have to change my tactics. I won’t be forced in there, like I am being punished. I wonder if he actually thinks he is an opponent in my game! He doesn’t realize that I gave up challenging him weeks ago. Maybe he knows what I am doing with my avoidances and fobbing
chitchat. I wonder if he thinks that by making me angry with him, I will use the anger to start eating. This won’t work. He doesn’t sit in my head for that long. He is only with me during the time that I sit in his office and I feel sick and degraded and stupid. I can’t afford for him to take me over like that, to have more time with me.

I have decided that I have to get out of his poky room where I sit once a week in silence and then go home and carry on as normal. My current strategy can only really last so long before someone finds out that it isn’t working. I will have to make someone do something else, before they move me in to this old, whitecoated hospital.

‘One hour a week. It’s just not helping and he’s not helping – we sit in silence most of the time, it’s pointless – I need something else,’ I tell Mum.