My Secret Life (4 page)

The weight loss thus far had been minimal when taking into consideration how hard I had been working. Looking back now, I doubt any amount of weight loss would have proved sufficient at that time. I was nevertheless completely dissatisfied. I never again wanted to feel that way, never again wanted to feel so utterly inadequate. It was thanks to this sense of total incompetence, however, that a new fire was ignited within me. I now had an unquenchable thirst, which completely absorbed me from head to toe. What exactly it was, I couldn’t put my finger on. But its presence created a ravenous appetite, not of my body but of my mind. It could not be satiated by any earthly sustenance. I was not interested in the origins of this hunger, my only concern was how to nourish it.

***

I am ten years old. I play Gaelic football on my school team. I don’t really like it but everyone plays because you’re weird if you don’t. Besides, Mr O’Brien is our couch. He’s also my teacher and the coolest adult I know. He doesn’t talk to us like other adults do and everyone wants to make him proud. That’s why we play. I’m not very good at football; the others can run faster than me and always seem to know what they’re doing when we’re on the field. I always stand near the goalpost and try to avoid getting in the way. I once tried to kick the ball but scored an own-goal for my team. Everyone was really angry at me that day and my other teammates didn’t want to talk to me afterwards. I think they’ve forgiven me now but I don’t want to make such a mistake again.

But this match is important. We’ve travelled all the way to the countryside by bus. Everyone has been singing and chanting all day. Some of the players’ mothers have come along to support us. They’ve made sandwiches for half-time and painted posters to cheer us on with. I feel like I don’t belong here. Everyone really wants to win and I just know I’m going to ruin everything. For the entire journey, I thought I was going to jump out of one of the windows. I also get travel sickness and now that we’re finally in the changing rooms, I don’t feel well. As everyone straps up boots and puts on freshly-washed jerseys, I cower under the pressure of what’s to come. This is always the worst part. The room is buzzing with chatter and the hype of the atmosphere around me seeps inward, manifesting itself into panic. Every vessel and artery is pumping. I can smell the grass outside and the detergent used to wash all the uniforms. I hate these smells purely because they remind me of moments such as this.

‘Are we ready lads?’ shouts Mr O’Brien. There’s a resounding cheer and a clacking stampede, as the studs scrape across the changing room floor. I try to essentially throw myself into the flurry of people in the hope of being swept along and forgetting my worries. I can’t quite get in though and as usual, I slowly lag behind the bustle of players. I take one last look at the changing room and pray that I get a nose bleed to delay my appearance on the pitch. It doesn’t happen and I trot quickly to catch up with the others. I wonder would they notice if I just didn’t go out onto the pitch? Too late. We’re given a quick pep talk before being marched out to our playing positions. I assume my usual spot near the goalpost and hover uncertainly near a member of the other team that I’m supposed to be marking. They have their back turned to me with their eyes no doubt fixed on the ball, waiting for everyone to get going. I awkwardly shuffle a little closer to make my presence known. The player, No. 11, briefly glances at me as if I’m a random spectator who has wandered onto the playing field. It clearly registers with him that I am actually his opposition and he moves a foot or two away. I’m not bothered staying too close to him because I don’t care about this silly game anyway.

At long last, my agonising wait is over and I hear that dreaded whistle blow. The ball is thrown into the air and the roaring and screaming commences. I have never been comfortable with crowds. It’s very overwhelming to hear that many voices joined in unison or, in this case, individually shouting things I can’t comprehend and joining together to form one echoing noise of absolute chaos.
No wonder people think the Irish are mad
, I think to myself.
We sound like escaped mental patients
. I’m suddenly very angry with the mothers screaming their heads off and with Mr O’Brien spitting orders from the sidelines. If they care so much, why don’t they just get on the field themselves and play?

‘Leanne! What are you doing?’ comes Mr O’Brien’s voice. The ball has come to my end of the field and No. 11 is darting after it. ‘Look lively!’ he shouts again. I tremor and run as fast as my sausage legs can carry me. I have my eyes on the back of No. 11 but can’t keep up. He’s about to score and I slow down in pace because I just know I won’t make it in time. I hear my teammates screaming at the top of their lungs because I’m giving up. Then I hear a reverberating ‘YES!’ flush all over the field. Kevin has snatched the ball from No. 11 and is now tearing up the field with it. Our team is saved for the moment.

After what feels like hours, it’s finally half-time. There were a number of occasions when I was required to do something. Each time, however, Kevin or Richie or some other able teammate would step in and rescue me from total disgrace. Mr O’Brien is talking us through our performances and noting a handful of players in particular. He looks at me as if about to say something but quickly brushes on when he sees the look on my face. Poor man. Not only am I ruining his match, but he pities me too much to even tell me so. As the others contemplate the first half, I ask to be excused and plod down to the changing rooms. I feel as if everyone is watching me as I walk by; the mothers, the spectators and all the other children. I’m sure that they either feel sorry for me or are just laughing at me.

When I get to the changing rooms, I feel as though I’m going to burst in some shape or form. My forehead feels ablaze and my temples are pumping with blood. There is a lump in my throat and it takes every muscle to stop me from crying. I pace up and down, filled with a sudden fury, a sudden fire. Eventually I march from the changing rooms back onto the field just in time for the second half to commence. I missed the pep talk. Mr O’Brien shouts words of encouragement to me as I storm across the pitch. I barely hear him. I barely hear anything now. I must have missed the sound of the whistle blowing because the ball is up in the air. With no time for thought, I feel that fire blazing inside me and suddenly I am darting for it. I cannot feel my body, only my mind. I am a racing ball of white heat and air. And then suddenly, there I am with the football in my hands, wet and mucky; feeling has shot back into my arms and legs like a light bulb being switched on.
Too late now
, I think. And with no hesitation I sprint faster than ever before, carried by sheer desperation and the sound of the roaring crowd. I boot the football with a swift kick and it’s soaring before finally it lands in the back of the net.

A moment of silence takes place and seems to cling to the air above us. It weighs down on me like a damp cloth and I shake nervously when I hear cheers and screams of exaltation. I look to the sidelines and Mr O’Brien is beaming, with his hands up in the air and the kind of smile I’d only seen on very rare occasions. I fill up inside. My glory isn’t over and for the rest of the match, I tear up and down that pitch like never before. I feel like a tornado, consuming everything in my path; every time my hands grasp that ball, I feel as if I am going to eat it before finally belting it on. Today, even if just for one day, I am so glad I’m playing on the field. Back in the changing rooms after a knock-out win, everyone is cheering and congratulating me. The assistant coach, Mr White, names me player of the match. As the roars continue, I look to Mr O’Brien who stands in a corner. He is smiling a very quiet smile. The fire that blazed in me is finally starting to fade. I feel the last of its magnificent embers glow inside me. When I look back to Mr O’Brien’s quiet smile, I see them glowing on his face too.

***

What motivates any individual to act in a particular way is often incredibly ambiguous. That fire that took hold of me so many years ago is the same now as it had ever been. The hunger and thirst I felt at the onset of this dark period had been there long before. It still hurts me to know that the fierce zeal which once brought about the happiest memories in childhood would eventually turn my life into a living hell. All that was required by this stage was a trigger.

It finally came on one weekend afternoon. I remember it had been a disruptive week. My confidence had been totally shot of late and, internally, I was falling apart. I had school exams to study for and as I worked hard for my grades, everything else fell by the wayside. I hadn’t been to mass in almost three weeks, had read nothing but class textbooks and had started gaining weight. By the time the weekend came, I was happy to indulge in whatever was left of a silly little romance. When he and I did meet, however, I found he was colder than usual. He carried himself and his conversation in a most detached manner. When I probed about what was wrong, he dismissed it and said that all was well. And so, we carried on as usual, as any teenage couple would. The elephant in the room was ignored and it seemed to suit both of us perfectly. In theory, it was an extremely relaxing day spent enjoying our free time and privacy together. Practically though, something didn’t feel right. When the day was starting to draw to a close, we stepped outside for some air and he moved away from me, his back turned.

‘Are you happy with this?’ he asked.

‘With what, you and I?’ I replied. ‘Yes. Are you not?’

The conversation proved to be a long one. It was carried out through a series of harsh comments and sarcastic quips on both our parts. When I addressed several of the many things that had happened during the course of the romance, he showed little understanding. Indeed, he showed almost no concern for how it had affected me. Of course I can’t blame him. We were just teenagers and this was just part of growing up. Moreover, he was unaware of the consequences of the things that had happened. It was impossible to have predicted such a future and neither of us had any idea of the creature that had been growing inside me for so long. It was this creature that would take every emotion until it was amplified beyond all recognition. Whatever I felt on the surface level, she seemed to feel it tenfold and more. She would take the feeling, magnify it and dwell on it until it would finally resurface under a new manifestation and under a new meaning. When she was through with her interpretations, that new meaning would slice through me until I finally fragmented. I would fall to my knees and sure enough, I would fall at her feet.

Eventually, the inevitable break-up discussion was coming to an end and while I was collected and composed on the outside, she writhed, twisted and fought with me from the inside. I had failed yet again and it tore me up from the inside out.

As I was driven home that evening, a strange transition occurred and when I finally stepped out of the car, I was now someone else entirely. Something had changed profoundly, though I didn’t know it at the time. The conversion was a hushed one; it was delicate and so soft that I had not noticed it. Nevertheless, a metamorphosis had most certainly occurred. It took only moments but in those darkening flashes of time, I no longer stood as a full person. I had evolved into something more complex, something darker. A double-register seemed to form in my mind. From that point on, everything I would see, hear, touch or believe would be registered twice; once by me and then once by her, that darkness inside me.

In hindsight, it had taken many years for my bulimia to develop and it was the consequence of both my personal disposition and a series of rather unfortunate occurrences. Its roots lay in the deepest earth and stretched so far into me that I had grown with it, alongside it, even in it. It did not form in this moment alone of course; let us not lose our grip on reality just yet. No, its foundations had been laid long before this. It would be after this moment, however, that I – that we – would go on to make some of the most devastating choices in my life to date.

The Fast

The process of making the choices I did was an easy one. They were given little thought for consequence and as such were decided upon rather quickly. As long as my goals could be met in a speedy fashion, nothing else mattered. It was a time that allowed little scope for self-reflection. My vision for such things had become greatly impaired; my grasp on exactly who or what I was could no longer be easily defined. Perhaps I just didn’t want to probe that deeply. If I did, I ran the risk of finding nothing. That would have been unbearable.

It is here that I suppose we must ask a most inevitable question: is an eating disorder an uncontrollable disease or is it a chosen lifestyle? This question has been answered in many ways by close companions and by strangers whom I have witnessed debating it through, usually with little knowledge or empathy for the condition itself. I’m sure most would contend the former and so would I to a large extent. It’s difficult for me to believe that I chose this for myself, particularly when it has caused such trauma both to my own well-being and the people around me. At the same time, however, there is always at least an element of choice in such things. Mostly, it feels that though my bulimia was indeed a selected path, it was not I who made the decision. It was made by a determined alter-ego who had by this stage almost consumed me completely. I was at her mercy and as briefly touched upon earlier, I wanted to be. Attempting to for ever control yourself and everything in your life is a very exhausting endeavour. In a sense, I chose to hand over the reins and let her make the necessary decisions that I simply couldn’t bring myself to do. It felt like a wonderfully natural way of going about things and allowed me to alleviate myself from the responsibility of having to ponder over such matters. As a result, the entire transition from the person I’d known before to the person I had become remains a very blurry one and ultimately lost through the distortions of time.

I do, however, remember the day I started a new fad diet. It was only days after the aforementioned evening. More than anything else, I felt an unwavering sense of urgency as if something terrible was sure to occur if I did not begin this diet immediately. To use the term anxious would surely have been an understatement in this case. I was a ball of nerves. The criticality of the moment seemed to swell up inside me until I felt like I was going to choke under the immediacy of what needed to be done. It wasn’t too difficult coaxing my parents into allowing me start it; they had seen me cry over my physical appearance more times than they should have in my life and thought this may finally put a halt to my unyielding insecurities. The diet was simple; I drank three prescribed milkshakes a day and nothing else for a period of two weeks. The challenge of it was less daunting than it should have been, given I had reached a point of sheer desperation. I would have done anything. But by my fourth day of not eating I began to feel the strain of it. It’s around this time that your body slips into a process called ‘ketosis’. I never could get my head around its scientific idiosyncrasies and won’t bore you with them now. What it meant for me, on a very basic level, was that I became extremely lethargic. Though I continued taking the shakes as required, as well as drinking up to two litres of water a day, I just could not find the energy to do very much at that time. My body was heavy and sluggish. I seemed to feel the weight of it more than I ever had before. It was more than just a mere awareness of my own limbs and muscles. It was as if I was trapped within myself. My mind – which before now had seemed capable to venture outside this body and into any earthly or otherwise crevice – was now firmly confined within the boundaries of it. And I thought of nothing else for those two weeks.

‘It will be worth it’, she told me again and again. For the sake of mild discomfort in such a short period of time, I wouldn’t fail so haphazardly. This was easy, I told myself. And I pitied all the people who, like me, were currently endeavouring to lose weight and going about it at a slow or modest approach. I knew that they were doing so because they did not have the discipline I did, nor the commitment. They couldn’t really want it, not the way I did. Otherwise, they would do as I was and would be more successful.

But nobody is like us
.
Nobody can do what we can. They’re just not that strong,
she reminded me.

The two-week diet came and went at an extraordinary pace. In hindsight, it wasn’t even all that difficult to do. Though I wasn’t consuming any food or beverages, I had enjoyed what I came to see as the luxury of those milkshakes. It wasn’t much but it was sustenance nonetheless. I wasn’t aware of what I was capable of doing to my body then and felt a temporary sense of accomplishment. But looking back now, I was naive and in the greater scheme of things, had only just touched the tip of a most complex iceberg. Nevertheless, I was satisfied at the time. In those two weeks I lost in the region of about 13lbs and coasted on an evanescent high of exaltation. It was about more than simply being physically lighter. I felt psychologically lighter, as if someone had finally set a match to all the cumbersome wax in my head and it was melting away, drip by drip. The somewhat superficial benefits helped too. I now had the freedom to dress in a way I couldn’t before, to carry myself differently and to a certain extent, even behave differently.

For that very brief period in time, I seemed to reign as any other Queen Bee. From the inner workings of my mind, a hive formed. It was a sacred place and so intricately enclosed, so meticulously encased that it was my mine and mine alone. No one knew it existed. This was how to best preserve this hive inside me, as I knew that even the gentlest whisper could threaten it and it would surely crumble. Inside this place, in the safety of its impenetrable walls, I came alive and drowned in its sacrosanct honey. I sat on a throne of my own making and she, who had always dwelled in the changing shadows of my life, played the power beneath it. She was happy to do so, as always. While I savoured my time atop this throne and revelled in superficial attention and compliments, she churned and laboured relentlessly. You see, more than anything else, she now saw and understood the greater possibilities. It had only been a mere two weeks. But with those two weeks came new ideas. It was clear to both us after those two weeks that I had potential we’d never dreamed of. Before I could conquer the world, I had to conquer myself. After a two-week fast, suddenly this was possible.

***

I am 13 years old. I know most teenagers are known to have very bad skin but mine is exceptionally horrific. I’ve had acne on my face since I was very young and it just seems to get worse and worse as I get older. When I was ten years old, a boy ran up to me in the yard and told me that there’s a solution for people like me called Clearasil Complete and ran back to his friends laughing. But I’m not sure how long I had acne before then. That’s the earliest memory I have about my skin and I don’t like to think about it all that much anyway. Mum always says that this happens to everyone, but I don’t ever remember this with my older brother or sister. My sister Natalie, in particular, has had perfect skin her entire life. I’ve never seen a blemish or mark anywhere on her face. I got the worst parts of the gene pool and both she and I know it.

I pleaded with Mum to do something to help me. We went to the doctor and I was given Minocin, a prescription drug to help clear my skin. I’ve been taking it for quite some time now. My skin is better, but still not perfect. Sometimes I look in the mirror, very closely at my face, and I wonder what it would be like if I could simply take a few layers of it away. I imagine taking a scalpel to one of my ears and carving a very definite line from one ear to the other, all along my jaw. From there, I would peel back the top layer of skin, then the second and then the third, until all my acne was gone and my face could heal under a new blanket of immaculate parchment. I would never do it though. I get weak at the sight of blood and would undoubtedly faint once the smell of it hit my nostrils. But the temptation is there. Quite often, I get angry at the sight of my own face. In all its hideousness, I think it looks like a mistake and in many ways, I wish I could punish it for looking so grotesquely unnatural. I wonder if other people have these thoughts; if they look at themselves as I do, see a monster looking back at them and pray that one day, they’ll be strong enough to kill that monster forever.

Maybe it’s just my mood. I’ve been feeling terrible of late, like I’ve been sucked into a vacuum of complete sadness and I can’t pull myself out no matter how hard I try. I suppose, I’ve started to give up on trying anyway. My family have noticed it too and keep passing comments like, ‘You seem very down lately.’ If only they knew how bad it has really gotten. Mum is keeping a very close eye on me; she watches everything I do now and I feel like I’m just waiting for one big explosion to happen. I’m not surprised she’s so concerned though. I have been having a lot of trouble with the girls in my class. Mum says they’re bullies and was in the school last week talking to my teacher about it. They don’t understand it’s my own fault though. If I wasn’t such a teacher’s pet and a know-it-all, then the girls would like me. I try really hard to say things I know they want to hear but it doesn’t help make me popular. If anything, it seems to make things worse. They recently found out that I told on them because Mum contacted the school. Last week, a girl hit me in the face and said, ‘Now go tell your mummy that!’ and Mum went back to the school about it. I heard her and my teacher talking about everything that’s been happening. I overheard something about calling the Gardaí into it. I hope that doesn’t happen because I just want to forget everything. But now Mum won’t let me out of her sight.

She can see that something is wrong with me. I always knew that something wasn’t right about me and now everyone else knows too. I am crying in my room and she bursts through the door. She asks me what’s wrong but I don’t tell her because I can’t. I cry a lot now and I don’t know why. When I look in the mirror, I always need to cry even more. She starts going on about the Minocin drug; I don’t know what she’s talking about. Eventually, she says it has a great deal of side effects that she didn’t want to tell me about. She knew how upset I would be if I wasn’t allowed take them and didn’t want to scare me. She mentions something about damage to my liver and other serious sounding things. But what I hear over everything else is the word ‘depression’. The drugs can make you depressed. I was depressed and this was part of the reason why. It was why I had been crying so often and why Mum had been observing me so closely. It can’t be easy being my mother. I would hate to have a daughter like me and I know my sadness and inability to be like everyone else must break her heart. If I could just be normal, her life would surely be a great deal easier.

I cry even harder now, not even trying to hold anything back. Mum fusses and shouts and tells me that I’m not to take the tablets anymore. She tells me I’ll feel better soon, once they’re out of my system. But I don’t think so, I feel like it’s too late now. It’s as if this ‘depression’ is in my bloodstream now and I don’t need the tablets to keep it alive anymore. I’ve seen the monster and now I’m sure of its potential. Had I not seen the existence of that monster in me, I would have never known its many possibilities. But now that I’ve seen it, I know it will be with me for ever.

***

Everyone interprets the word ‘possibility’ in their own distinct way and thus we are all aware of its presence in both our own lives and the lives of others. But it is only when it is cast into the realm of reality that we truly start to believe in its might. The power of possibility champions only when it becomes an actuality in our daily living. As a child, I never knew I was capable of succumbing to such devouring sadness. But once experienced, I knew that such a feeling had the potential to be there always and that even without feeling its existence in every waking moment, it was always possible thereafter. Equally, my bulimia required only the realisation of this word to come to full strength. It was unlikely that I would conquer myself in the manner I so desperately wanted to, but it was now possible. This was all my bulimia needed.

It only took a matter of weeks for this idea to gain authority and I consciously endeavoured to resist food whenever possible. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe I could lose weight through the usual methods of exercise and a modest diet; I knew this to be true, if not by my own standards obviously then by those of others. But the momentum of these tried and tested exertions just wasn’t enough. They couldn’t fill that growing void of nothingness nor satisfy the imposing hunger I felt. Such ventures required endurance, moderation and above all, patience. I seemed to have none of these characteristics. I’m convinced now that I can endure quite a lot but without a visible goal to light my path. More often than not, my commitment will falter and of course, this was the case with most of my weight-loss attempts prior to this time.

Moderation is another facet under which my character falls short. Friends often joke about my somewhat extremist nature. The truth of this only became apparent as I got older. Though it may seem altogether passionate and the trait of a rather romantic individual, my undeniable lack of moderation has proven to be one of my biggest obstacles in life. Whether in relation to my career, my finances, my relationships or indeed my varying pursuits for perfection; my natural tendency to go from one extreme to the other has often left me troubled, weary and completely heartbroken. It has proven to be one of the most self-destructive characteristics I showcase as a person and made the transition into my illness worryingly easy and almost comfortable.

This trait is closely linked with my inability to be patient. Time cannot contend with the speed of the human mind and the rate at which it manifests its brightest and most powerful ideas. It moves too slowly for that. Furthermore, I come from a generation of great velocity, in which everything is carried out at an exceptionally accelerated level. The importance of now is regarded above any other period it seems. Like most of my generation, I have always made huge demands on that ‘now’ and actually go as far as being shocked when such demands cannot be met efficiently. If time wouldn’t wait for me, then I resolved to never wait for it.