Thin (10 page)

Sometimes the memories I am unlocking are viewed from such a distance that the scene is shown and the faces of the characters are visible, but only certain colours are clear. I am in a pub, sitting with my friends, and all I can see is a bright striped cardigan that I am wearing, and a grey-looking smoky surrounding. I am listening in on the conversations but my hearing is impaired by the noise I was then making to block things out. Characters enter and converse, but what they are saying is muffled. I wasn’t really listening to anybody else – not properly – so nothing registered. I was held fast in my own world and all entrances were blocked. It is frustrating. The colour of my cardigan diverts me off course; it is blinding.

I can only build the scenes in my memories from the fragments of senses to which I am allowed access. The cold is always there. Real chilling-to-the-bone cold. The cold that comes when the circulation is motoring so slowly that it barely moves; instead it conserves the energy it requires and it reduces and reduces more. The painful cold is the only thing I can really feel, apart from the noisy, unremitting, whirring inside voice, which speaks so quickly and constantly that it leaves no room for analysis. It is all about action. People aren’t even recognizable as individuals. They are simply voices which ring with no particular accent, just one of intrusiveness. They are always interrupting because my inside voice seems to be in permanent conversation. Outside voices want to talk about their angle on things and whatever they want to say is always wrong, always out of time.

My memories are not one voice. When we listen to or
watch our memories they come back in different ways. Stop and listen to one. Furrow your brow and go deeper. Sometimes it is a voice or a sentence that repeats itself over and over. Sometimes you are part of the action, sometimes you are watching through your own eyes. Sometimes there are pictures and no words at all – flashes of things, which pass over space and then disappear.

Putting these memory-stories down on paper gives them a firm reality. Things have come to light in the writing. Emotions that weren’t accessible then have begun to live. The very act of telling this secret story has sparked the regeneration of lost thoughts and feelings.

I can now hear my voice.

When I wake up in the morning I think
today is going to be a better day
I can look after myself
Sorted.
But bed is relief away from taste and body
until I wake again with fresh intentions
and broken calorie counts.
My heart is pushing down on my ribcage
in between bouts of hysteria my mind
is so quiet
that it feels as if it no longer
exists?
The lyrics of their tongues seem so out of tune
and pound against my head.
Leave.
You are crushing my skull and there is no
direction left to fight.
You want answers, emotions, feelings –
hissing reverberations of your endless questions.
I clasp at a fistful of air
a cigarette
lines of reasoning
Diet Coke.
You are unconvinced.

‘Why do you think this happened?’

‘What are you angry about?’

‘Is it something from your childhood?’

‘Stop closing up.’

‘Are you making yourself sick?’

‘Are you taking laxatives?’

‘What are you really upset about?’

‘You are projecting.’

‘Who are you, really?’

Whitecoats. You do wear white coats. But I can see that underneath you are wearing real clothes. In the meantime I am wearing white all the time, because everything is fine. Surely your theories are wrong. There are no bad memories. I’m not a victim of abuse/bad parenting/neglect. I feel guilty taking up your time. This NHS treatment isn’t easy to come by. Please take it to someone who needs it. I’m sure you can see that I am handling this. It can’t always be to do with beginnings, like you think. Sometimes things just happen, people are just made that way, it is a matter of personality. I will work it out. Thanks, anyway. I have read all the books and the leaflets, please don’t patronize me by telling me why I am here. Your psychoanalysis doesn’t work with me. I am a typical case. I’m well educated, well loved, a high-achiever. That’s why. I get it. It’s all so obvious to me. You don’t need to explain. I know you like the textbook cases. It must make you feel like you are on top of this whole thing. I’m not so sure you are. I think you are beleaguered by the fact that I am not going to let you in.
Please don’t devalue me by comparing me to the others. Their stories are different. Your white coat doesn’t make you an expert on me. You will never be that, because I won’t allow it. I know how you like me to go back and talk about my childhood. I just shrug my shoulders. I can’t help you. You’re getting colder and colder. Not a very good detective, are you? And, by the way, the books you gave me to read have been most helpful. I have seen where the others have gone wrong. They give me the insider tips. I won’t let those kinds of mistakes happen to me. I have a huge knowledge base. What about you? I can tell you the calorie content of any food and any drink. And I am exact about it, I don’t round things up or down. It’s all very precise.

You know, it’s funny because I actually like white. It’s pure and clean and empty, but the way you wear it! Oh, you make me laugh. But seriously, I do need you to get out of my space. I’m starting to feel really claustrophobic. I keep running but it doesn’t seem to make things better. There is you and your white coat, and then there are the others, in their white Fiestas whistling at me through their car windows, blasting their music out, piercing my ears. I can’t stand the intrusion of them, you see – the way they look at me (or used to) – not any more, thankfully. I am just trying to push myself a bit further and you are all distracting me. And, of course, there are my lovely, loving parents. Who, in their own unknowing ways, are trying too hard to play me at my own game. They buy me whatever I want. I could order any food from anywhere in the world, and they would make sure I had it. I hate that. I hate the fact they think they know what I will eat, and what I won’t. I am an adult! They even buy me rice cakes. I don’t like it that they know that I eat rice cakes. It was my secret. It’s like I am giving the game away. I need to change tactics. We all have to sit at the table eating together. They, with their Sainsbury’s
ready-made Indian meals, and me with my pile of lettuce. What a charade. Let’s not sit here, pretending this is normal. I know what they are trying to do. It’s what you have told them. I can see you coming through them. They are just the bodies to carry your message home when you are not there. It is all so damn facile. I have seen your ideas in my house. Mum returns from the supermarket with every lowfat/low-calorie dish on offer. ‘Count On Us’ – I would rather not! I can’t believe people actually trust these products. How can you be sure that they have counted every calorie correctly? I see how you are attempting to shape me again. You may try, but I am the artist of myself.

And now you have got another of your cronies on board. A lady who makes me write down everything I eat. She makes lists of things that I should eat, and I don’t eat them. What is the point of that? To make me feel humiliated? Well done. You have humiliated me. I don’t think anybody is laughing. The worst thing is that the lady is so nice. I don’t do nice at the moment. I’m sorry. So you are all there, looking at me, observing me, trying to work me out and I’m not really interested. I can’t look at any of you any more.

Everybody stares, and sometimes I don’t even notice. People are always around me; they don’t dare leave me on my own. They watch me sip my soup, looking on and devising ways to try and feed my little body. I am seeing only inwards. Inwards is absorbing. Outside there is nothing for me. Nobody gets it, only the insides understand. They are not even being nice to me, you know. A lot of the time there are people screaming at me. They tell me that I have messed everything up. I have caused this big dent in the family. I just want them to ignore it. Why can’t they just ignore it? I will get it fixed for them. OK, all right, sorry. Yes, I take the blame. Just don’t bring it up, please. Don’t mention how you can’t work, think, sleep, even eat, for
God’s sake, with this on your mind. I am not used to this. I am a nineties child. I don’t expect to be fed; I opened the door with my own key when I came home from school. Can you believe it! I made my own meals. And now I cut and chop in meticulous detail. Everything I make is quite beautiful.

The highlight of my week is going to the supermarket. It is a frantic, heart-pumping experience. I am on a high. If only I were let loose on my own, then it would be uncontrollably good. I could spend hours finding out more about my specialist subject. Put me on
Mastermind
. I would memorize the contents of the entire supermarket. At the moment I am forced to rush around and pretend I am not interested. Do you know what it feels like when the extra low-fat cottage cheese is missing? They don’t think of people like me and our needs. My stomach rolls. And the trouble with the supermarket is that I have to bump into people I know. There is no room in this squeezed-up town. More starers. Last week someone hurtled up to me with her trolley, her face full of pity.

‘How are you feeling?’ Head tilted.

I hate the concern. It’s so embarrassing. They seem to think I have failed. I reply mechanically, I project what they want to hear. I don’t want to make any more people worry than is necessary. I disconnect from the thought.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

Mum strides up behind me and pounces. ‘No, you’re not. What are you talking about? She’s not fine and she’s not OK.’

Lady with trolley looks taken aback. She didn’t need to hear. People don’t. Not when they are in Sainsbury’s. They don’t know what to say. Embarrassed well-wisher has not expected this response and says her pitiful farewells. It is really humiliating. There you go – I have engaged with a
feeling. You must be pleased. My eyes even heated up so much I almost cried. I never cry in public. I almost exposed myself. I almost let them prick me. And I don’t fight back when they shout at me because I can hardly open my mouth any more – words slice through my throat.

I cried today. I won’t tell you I did, like I won’t really tell you what I think, but between me and me, today I really cried. I don’t cry because I am not sure I will be able to stop. Like if I lie down, I might not be able to ever get up again. Like if I eat … well, you know … where are the limits and where are the edges once you decide to let go?

So, Dr Whitecoat, what do you make of me?

This is I.

I have seen the photos of me. They show me them, to help me see better. All I can see are the fat bits. Their mouths fall open.

‘How can you?’

How can I? That’s what I see. I suppose the rest of me doesn’t look particularly pleasant but that is why I cover it up. They don’t usually take photos of me, anyway. They probably don’t want to indulge me, not in any respect. The other day I found some trousers that actually fitted me. Mostly things are hanging off my hips, which is annoying because I can’t really go shopping, but these size six trousers were perfect. I couldn’t believe it – I had halved my size. Size twelve made me feel far too big. Not allowed! But six! Even though I bought some nice trousers, Mum wasn’t happy which is unusual because we have always loved shopping together – but not any more. They are some black, thick, velvety trousers. I will have to wear them every day because I do not have any other ones. Size six!

I stare at photos of me aged six years old. I was so pretty then, and so thin. I wonder if I was always going to have fat thighs and hips, or if I could have avoided it. I turn the photo all around to look at the different angles of my childhood body. If only I could have made myself eat less, or exercise more, then maybe I would have had thin thighs now. I should have tried harder in PE, like my teacher said. I should have tried harder at cross-country running. In fact, maybe I should do some running? If everyone stopped watching me for a second, then I would get some space to
run. I would like to run long distances, so I could forget myself.

I can’t really find a proper image of me, which is frustrating. Every mirror seems to tell a different story. In the changing rooms I shrink and grow from shop to shop. They are trying to fool me. I know their tricks. They make me appear taller and thinner, longer, more stretched out. I like to look at other girls in the changing rooms and examine their shapes, so that I can compare them to mine. It helps me think about how I must work harder to be more like them. I am sure that my real, true, perfect shape is out there somewhere, and one day I will get it, and fit into it, and be happy in it, and things will feel better.

It is just better to be lighter. I am sure that many people feel this. You feel so much clearer, as if nothing weighs you down. You can almost stop the thoughts of anything bad or scary (except the food, of course). You float along, and all the other silly fears evaporate around you. I know I don’t entirely see straight, but it’s the clearest sight I have had for a long time. It’s unimpinged on by other things – there is one direction and one focus, and everything else has sort of melted away.