things in order. Faultless. I like things done in a special way, or I get into a panic. It is the way I am. I have always been a person of routine. I am a creature of habit. It makes me feel better. I like to know how my day is planned. I know it all inside out. They don’t like this at all. They want to be part of it and so try and give me suggestions of things I should add to make my life more normal, more like theirs. I think this is their way of dampening their own guilt. It’s like my kind of control isn’t acceptable. You can hear it in the voices of strangers when I tell them I don’t drink tea or coffee and, ‘No thank you, I don’t drink alcohol either.’
They find it too difficult. They can’t understand how I can possibly be so restrained.
‘Don’t you miss food?’
‘Doesn’t this cake smell lovely? It would taste so good.’
No thank you. Blocked out, blocked out.
They convince themselves that I must break off from time to time. I must give in and join them in their weaknesses and addictions. But I never break! Really, never. I never givein. They can’t imagine. They try, day after day, to be like me. That’s the irony. Of course, they don’t admit it, but they are constantly fighting their own battles against the biscuits. It’s what we are told to do. It’s what we should all be doing. I am just doing it to a further degree.
I will stop this when I am ready. I don’t know how, because I don’t really think in that direction at the moment, but I am sure there will be a way out when I am ready. They think I am like other girls and boys who have eating problems, but I don’t see myself like them. I didn’t realize it was such a big thing. I had no idea about anorexia before this or even what it meant. I never aspired to it. I never thought about it before. It is not like I wanted to join this club. Anyway, I am carrying on as normal because I can. Everyone seems surprised. But I have to carry on as normal because that is what I know. This is tiring. Thought is tiring. It is easier to just keep going forward, bit by bit. And to eat my medium-sized tomato to fill me up in the afternoon.
And so the scenario goes something like this.
Dr Whitecoat: ‘How about it if Dad were to make you some cottage cheese on crackers before you go to bed?’
I shrug my shoulders and force a reply. ‘I can’t.’
Mum starts to cry.
Now Dr Whitecoat has made my mum cry and this makes me feel so sick.
‘I can feed myself … you don’t understand … I’m not a child.’
I hardly consent to the words; I don’t like talking to him because then he thinks I am playing along. I hardly move my tongue. I force it back into my throat so that the words get stuck on my lips. My mouth hardly moves.
Dr Whitecoat shifts and smirks. ‘You realize that you won’t be going anywhere if you don’t get better. To tell the truth,I highly doubt that you will get to university this time next year. And to think of applying to Cambridge, that is surely the worst decision! Have you thought of going to a college closer to home? Then you could continue to come here and Mum and Dad could keep an eye on you.’
Bang. Bang. Bang. Degrading, disgusting doctor, white-coat. He makes me explode.
‘I’m not staying in this fucking shithole and I’m sick of your fucking interference. I can sort this out myself. It is so demeaning to sit here while you talk about fucking cottage cheese …’
I stop myself. Who cares about cottage cheese? They think they know my patterns so well that now they are trying to adopt them for themselves. They are trying to talk in my anorexia language. They really have no idea.
Their other tactician is the nice-lady-dietician. She tries a different approach. Dr Whitecoat isn’t very popular, and he only talks about the feelings side of things, whereas nicelady-dietician is supposed to get to the nitty-gritty of the food business. So this time, it is another hospital and another corridor with
They find it too difficult. They can’t understand how I can possibly be so restrained.
‘Don’t you miss food?’
‘Doesn’t this cake smell lovely? It would taste so good.’
No thank you. Blocked out, blocked out.
They convince themselves that I must break off from time to time. I must give in and join them in their weaknesses and addictions. But I never break! Really, never. I never givein. They can’t imagine. They try, day after day, to be like me. That’s the irony. Of course, they don’t admit it, but they are constantly fighting their own battles against the biscuits. It’s what we are told to do. It’s what we should all be doing. I am just doing it to a further degree.
I will stop this when I am ready. I don’t know how, because I don’t really think in that direction at the moment, but I am sure there will be a way out when I am ready. They think I am like other girls and boys who have eating problems, but I don’t see myself like them. I didn’t realize it was such a big thing. I had no idea about anorexia before this or even what it meant. I never aspired to it. I never thought about it before. It is not like I wanted to join this club. Anyway, I am carrying on as normal because I can. Everyone seems surprised. But I have to carry on as normal because that is what I know. This is tiring. Thought is tiring. It is easier to just keep going forward, bit by bit. And to eat my medium-sized tomato to fill me up in the afternoon.
And so the scenario goes something like this.
Dr Whitecoat: ‘How about it if Dad were to make you some cottage cheese on crackers before you go to bed?’
I shrug my shoulders and force a reply. ‘I can’t.’
Mum starts to cry.
Now Dr Whitecoat has made my mum cry and this makes me feel so sick.
‘I can feed myself … you don’t understand … I’m not a child.’
I hardly consent to the words; I don’t like talking to him because then he thinks I am playing along. I hardly move my tongue. I force it back into my throat so that the words get stuck on my lips. My mouth hardly moves.
Dr Whitecoat shifts and smirks. ‘You realize that you won’t be going anywhere if you don’t get better. To tell the truth,I highly doubt that you will get to university this time next year. And to think of applying to Cambridge, that is surely the worst decision! Have you thought of going to a college closer to home? Then you could continue to come here and Mum and Dad could keep an eye on you.’
Bang. Bang. Bang. Degrading, disgusting doctor, white-coat. He makes me explode.
‘I’m not staying in this fucking shithole and I’m sick of your fucking interference. I can sort this out myself. It is so demeaning to sit here while you talk about fucking cottage cheese …’
I stop myself. Who cares about cottage cheese? They think they know my patterns so well that now they are trying to adopt them for themselves. They are trying to talk in my anorexia language. They really have no idea.
Their other tactician is the nice-lady-dietician. She tries a different approach. Dr Whitecoat isn’t very popular, and he only talks about the feelings side of things, whereas nicelady-dietician is supposed to get to the nitty-gritty of the food business. So this time, it is another hospital and another corridor with
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