by Pat Barrow
It sounded fun but I didn’t feel in the party mood and what would I eat? How would I cope with a massive Christmas lunch and then the endless food and drink throughout the day? I felt a familiar rising panic and as my stress levels rocketed, I felt completely out of my depth. I knew I really couldn’t just keep opting out of everything when Mum was trying her best. So feeling cornered, I reluctantly agreed I’d go. I’d solve the food thing nearer the time. Mum could sense my dilemma so she suggested that I offered to make the pudding one that I could eat and take it along as an alternative to the Christmas pudding that was sure to be on offer too. At least I could eat some turkey and vegetables and just push everything else around my plate – no one would notice. So phew, it should just about be okay.
My mind invariably turned to Dad and this aching void, this endless emptiness. How could I miss him and need him so much? I’d never had a Christmas without him. My mind raced back to relive all the Christmases we’d had together. I blotted out the bad stuff remembering only the fun we’d had and in particular those that last few Christmases when we’d been with our cousins and Uncle and Aunty. Was all that gone forever? No one had contacted me since I’d been at Mum’s. Didn’t any of them care about me anymore? Had the relationships we’d had all been superficial and controlled by Dad? Was everyone so loyal to Dad that they couldn’t break ranks with him and maintain a relationship with me? On reflection, I realised the reality of that sobering thought. Dad dominated our family and everybody knew that unless they kowtowed to him, they would be discarded just as it had been for Mum and now for me.
Chapter 41
The next few weeks were something of a blur. I sort of limped through Christmas and tried hard to join in the festivities and not to be too miserable. I perked up a bit because Suzie came to stay for a few days just after New Year but all the time, I wrestled with see-sawing emotions, one moment elation and enormous relief that I was no longer trapped on the wrong career path and then the awful realisation of what that had cost me. The wretched, desperate, desperate longing, ache for my dad. How could I have just vanished from his life? Had he really erased all memories of me? In my occasional conversations with Jonty, he was guarded and made it clear he couldn’t afford to get involved in my issues. He inferred that he and Dad were okay and seemed to want to reassure me that they weren’t close but that I was just never mentioned. That hurt. A deep aching hurt. The realisation that I had lost everybody else in my family too, just like Mum had. Although I had never appreciated her isolation before I suffered the same punishment. The only card that had come from any extended family had been from Aunty Nicky and Uncle Colin enclosing a brief note hoping that Mum and I were well. It seemed so tragic that my previous life, my childhood, everything had just gone. I was left with these impossible, unfathomable emotions.
Mum understandably was exasperated by my refusal to eat. Controlling food dominated my life but I knew that I wasn’t really in control – my obsession and my need to deny myself was an unrelenting addiction. Whatever Mum cooked, I would pick and play with, eating the minimum amount. One day she just snapped, “For God’s sake, Hetty, I can’t just watch you shrivel up and die. I thought it would all be so much better once you’d given up uni and come back –” she started to say come back home. But she didn’t finish her sentence. The look she gave me was one of desperation and fear. I burst into tears; I was overwhelmed but flounced out of the room more like a stroppy teenager I suppose because I didn’t know how to change anything. I couldn’t eat even if I wanted to. I was just obsessed with the need to keep control of that tiny bit of my life because, let’s face it, I couldn’t control any other part of my life. What a sad mess I was.
It was towards the end of January when Mum casually remarked that Si’s receptionist was going on maternity leave and the person booked to replace her had dropped out. He was desperately looking for a replacement and had realised how difficult it was to fill a temporary vacancy. She looked quizzically at me. “I don’t like to mention it, Hetty, but is it something that perhaps you could think of doing?”
I looked at her in amazement and then found myself saying, “Well, yes. Why not? I can’t just sit around here doing nothing for the rest of my life. I don’t know what job I want to do, I don’t know what career I want, but yes, it’d be something.” And so, I met with Si and it was all set up. The following week, I was there at the builder’s yard doing a handover with his current, very efficient, receptionist and thinking, Oh my God, I can never fulfil the role as well as she does.
But then, there was another stroke of luck. I had enjoyed occasional rides at the riding stables just outside Whitley Bay. Suzie and I had been up a couple of times and got to know the owner. We had exchanged phone numbers and she half-jokingly had said she’d ring me if she needed any help. Then out of the blue she rang suggesting that maybe I’d like to come and help with some of the young riders. It would be purely voluntary but who knows? And so, I started going there on Saturdays and before long it included Sundays as well. I loved it. I experienced a sense of freedom and at last, I could be myself.
With such dramatic changes in my life, I did begin to feel a bit less despondent. Having some money in my pocket and being able to contribute towards my upkeep and help Mum out gave me a sense of independence. But still food, or rather the lack of it, dominated my existence. I didn’t take too kindly to Mum’s suggestion that maybe I should seek counselling. I didn’t want to talk to anybody, especially about food. Truth be told, I was scared of opening up a can of worms and so I sort of muddled on knowing full well that my tiredness, pale complexion, lack lustre hair were by products of my scanty diet.
In spite of that, I began to experience a happier, more settled life, even building a new friendship group. Although they were older than me, the two secretaries at the builder’s yard were really nice and great to chat to about mundane matters. They didn’t probe and dig into my past and I felt relaxed and comfortable with them. The staff at the riding school were a great bunch and we seemed to have so much in common. We had a good laugh and again, they didn’t want to know about my past life. I just wished I didn’t feel so exhausted all the time. I had to face it – not eating controlled my life. I’d replaced Dad’s control with an equally powerful control which jeopardised me ever reclaiming my own destiny. In those dark months, I was too scared to even contemplate making any changes.
Charlotte, the owner of the riding stables, and I became firm friends. She was in her early thirties and it was her suggestion that maybe I could consider becoming a qualified riding instructor. She surprised me by saying I showed such natural ability that if I was really committed, she would help me to achieve the necessary qualifications and practical experience saying, “And then who knows? Once you’ve qualified, I may be able to employ you.” I looked at her in amazement. I’d never really thought of horses being my career, but yes, I’d always had an affinity with them and it was something that I knew that I actually did want to do and could do well. Her next suggestion took me by surprise. “Look, I know you’re working part time at the builder’s yard but that’s only, what three days a week? How do you fancy coming here for three days and I’ll pay you to help out with the horses, mucking out, grooming feeding and general stable work. You’d have to do everything, but yes, you could get some practice helping with the beginners classes too. And if you fancy it, there’s a bedsit over the stables. It hasn’t been used for ages and it probably wants a bit of a clean and tidy up but it’s warm and cosy and you’re welcome to stay there for the days that you’re working here if that suits you.” I was over the moon. Of course, I’d loved being with Mum and in the early days I’d needed her, but now I wanted my independence and autonomy. After all, I had been denied it for so long – I had a lot of time to make up for. And, well, Mum, she’d got her own life, Si seemed to feature quite a lot in it and I wanted to give them space and time to develop any relationship that might be in the offing. So staying for part of the week in a be
dsit at the stables just seemed, well, absolutely perfect. I had a moment’s panic when Charlotte suggested that I could have meals with her. Oh my God, how was I going to cope with that? She’d already sussed that I had an eating problem. She was a bit like Mum, she didn’t lecture me about it but equally, I could see that she struggled to make sense of how I managed eating so little food.
As winter gave way to spring and then to summer, my days were full and I felt happier than I had done for years, probably forever, I can see that now. I was beginning to be myself, except I still had this awful cloud hanging over me; the rejection by my dad was still incredibly raw. He never got in touch; he continued to block my calls. Jonty remained reluctant to disclose anything about him. I resented that at the time but I can see now that Jonty just wanted to ensure that his relationship with Dad wasn’t jeopardised whilst he was financially dependent on him.
Jonty had shared his plan to go to uni and how he was looking at various options and that Durham was one of his favourites. He hadn’t seen Mum for a long time but they remained in touch by text and had occasional chats on the phone. Like he said, “I just have to keep my head down, Hetty. It’s just best if I don’t get involved and then I can get where I want to go. I’m different than you. Dad doesn’t control me in the same way.” Of course, he controlled Jonty – Dad controlled any relationship he had, but Jonty was more resilient than I had been and not so emotionally enmeshed.
It was towards the end of summer, almost a year since I’d first gone to uni. What a lot had happened in that year. I had at last plucked up courage to stay with Suzie in Welshpool as I was pretty certain that Dad no longer visited the area. We were wandering through the town together planning to go for a coffee after we had done some shopping when who should I bump into but Carol? She’d just been to a hearing at the Welshpool court. She smiled and for an instant, I feared she wasn’t going to stop, but when I said ‘Carol’, she did. I remembered then that she’d always said that whilst she would always acknowledge me, that she would not initiate a conversation once she no longer worked with the family. Carol and I agreed to go for a coffee together and Suzie tactfully went off to do some shopping telling us that she would come back later. We were around the corner from the Royal Oak pub by the traffic lights and so drifted in and found a corner table. I filled her in with what had happened. I struggled to hold back the tears but of course Carol listened intently like she’d always done and was genuinely pleased when I described curtailing training to be a doctor because I’d realised I was fulfilling Dad’s dreams not mine.
She didn’t seem surprised that my relationship with Dad had broken down when I’d left uni and she was clearly delighted but not at all surprised that Mum had been there for me and that I was beginning to rebuild my life in an entirely different direction. But of course, she couldn’t help but notice how thin I had become. She suggested that we had something to eat and I made some lame excuse. She looked at me quizzically remarking, “I think eating’s always been a bit of a problem for you, Hetty, hasn’t it?” I burst into tears and she listened as I told her how not eating was something that I’d got no control over. I was a prisoner of it just as I’d been Dad’s prisoner and I couldn’t see any way of escape. I was better than I’d been but I was still rigid about what I allowed myself to eat and what was taboo. It frightened me sometimes how much of my life it dominated. Carol sat thinking for a while and then said. “Oh Hetty, from what you’ve told me, you feel as though your relationship with your dad is over, but I wonder if you’ve actually resolved all that happened during your childhood? Whether there’s still unfinished business and that that’s playing a part in you not eating? Think about it.” Of course, I didn’t want to think about it, it was just too painful to even contemplate. I still had this deep longing that Dad would one day want me again. That it was really me he wanted, the real me. I clung to that pipe dream, that fantasy and that meant I couldn’t bear to face up to the damage he had caused me. Carol knew that but she was encouraging me to find my own way forward and I just wasn’t ready. I couldn’t go there yet.
In spite of that, it was absolutely delightful catching up with Carol and I told her how much her involvement had meant to me and how she had helped me to make some sense of what had been going on. She agreed to my suggestion that we should stay in touch and I hugged her goodbye knowing that she’d been the catalyst for me to find the strength I needed to begin to be me.
I met up with Jonty that holiday too – he was staying in Welshpool for a few days. I hadn’t seen him since I’d gone to uni and a bit of me was nervous. Had he changed? Would he still care about me? Of course he looked taller, broader and more mature but it was such a relief to realise that the natural easy-going relationship we had was still there. We hugged each other warmly when we met. Later over coffee, he told me that he and Dad had been talking about the future and Dad had been enthusiastic when he’d said he wanted to do an MPharm honours degree on his way to becoming a pharmacist. He was doing chemistry, maths and biology at A level and Dad had just naturally assumed he’d go to Cardiff. According to Dad, it had the best MPharm degree course. But Jonty knew that he needed to break free and go further afield. Durham University was his firm favourite. He planned to apply and to come up and visit in the autumn and he would catch the train on to Newcastle to meet me and Mum. “But won’t Dad be coming with you?” I queried.
“Nope,” said Jonty. “I’m doing this on my own. If I don’t go to Cardiff, I’m not sure Dad will even fund me. He hasn’t refused but Hetty, you know how angry he gets when life doesn’t go his way.” I pondered, so just as I knew in spite of Jonty’s denial, Dad had indeed got a hold over him and so far Jonty was sticking to his guns. But would he cave in or was he stronger than me and not so emotionally entangled with Dad as I was? “I’ll do it somehow, don’t worry. I’ve got my whole life in front of me. I can pay off any debts I accrue,” Jonty insisted.
Jonty made it clear that he knew just how much I longed to still have a relationship with Dad. “But Hetty, he’s just not worth it. He’s so shallow. It’s all about appearances and about worshipping him. Can’t you see that? It can’t ever be for you. You have to be an extension of Dad that’s how his relationships are.” He went on, “I can see that now, Hetty, and I’m sure you can, but I think you’re scared, you don’t want to admit it, do you?” I shook my head in denial but deep down that little voice persisted ‘yeah Jonty’s right, he’s got it right, he’s got the guts to get it and you haven’t, Hetty, and that’s why you can’t beat your obsession with denying food’.
It was late autumn when Jonty came up to Durham and Mum and I met him at Zizzi’s in Newcastle city centre. My eyes were glued on Mum as Jonty strode towards our table. Her eyes were full of tears which spilled down her cheeks as she and Jonty hugged each other. I guess for a moment her memory was of her little boy that had struggled so hard with her break up from Dad. But in spite of that, he had developed into a fine, young man and was fiercely independent. I’d chosen Zizzi’s knowing they did a salad of prawns and crayfish which I would eat so nobody noticed that I didn’t tuck into those mouth-watering pizzas.
How delightful just the three of us being together. The years melted away, we were happy and carefree for that brief time. Nobody mentioned Dad or Cardiff or Amy although Mum did ask how various aunts and uncles were and Jonty gave us the news on them and our cousins. Jonty was clearly delighted to hear that I’d embarked on training to be a riding instructor and how living in the bedsit at the stables was working out really well for me. Mum told him about Si, although she still insisted that it was early days. Jonty and I exchanged smiles, both wishing more than anything that Mum would find the happiness she deserved.
As Jonty hugged us both at the station before boarding his train, I felt this gnawing, aching emptiness. After all this time, I still craved for my dad’s arms around me. How ridiculous, I told myself; that love he had for you it wasn’t real, you know that, why do you still keep hankerin
g after him? I didn’t want to face up to the bad bits of my childhood, glossing over them was a way of managing and of coping and still idolising Dad. But of course it meant there was so much unfinished business and that meant I remained a prisoner to my anorexia. Carol had sussed it – she was right, but I knew I wasn’t ready yet.
Chapter 42
As we sped northward that early spring evening and I watched the dark silhouettes of the countryside in the fading light, I finally summoned the courage to relive my childhood and adolescence. To analyse with adult eyes those events which had generated a whole raft of conflicting emotions. As I sat there, a sense of relief washed over me but it was short lived and I experienced an overwhelming sense of sadness and loss. I focussed my mind on more recent times. Here I was edging towards 21 and only just beginning to make headway towards being a qualified riding instructor. Yes, it was no longer a pipe dream but reality and a path I wanted to travel. But what a struggle it had been to get there and, if I was honest, my life was still hampered by my anorexia. It controlled me. It scared me by its power. I knew I had to resolve the deep-seated reality of my childhood if I was ever to be free. Just like Carol had hinted. But did I have the courage and the strength to do that now that he was dead? Dad’s fatal heart attack had been an unexpected and dramatic end, but had it changed anything?
My thoughts went back to my childhood experience of him. He’d always been such a charming, successful, loving dad, always there for me. I’d adored him, he’d been my hero, my protector, charismatic, popular, the life and soul of any party. Oh yes, I’d grown up watching him relishing being the centre of attention and realising early on that was what he demanded. He was an amazing storyteller and kept adults and children alike enthralled but one thing I learned very early on was that you couldn’t disagree with Dad. Well, only about non-threatening stuff, nothing personal or deep. If you dared to, then he flipped into an unbelievable rage, a real, scary anger. His emotions would become disproportionate just like his hatred of Mum had been. That hatred had become unreal, so intense and had fuelled his path of revenge. And I knew that he had encouraged, no Hetty be honest, he had demanded, that Jonty and I shared that intense burning hatred of Mum and then it was as if all of us were totally justified in making life difficult for her because she’d deserved it. I wondered now if he had been jealous and threatened by our relationship with our mum? Did that drive his possessiveness of us? His insistence that we loved only him? Was he scared we wouldn’t love him too? He’d shown no empathy with me or with Jonty, no understanding of how we wanted and needed both of them and couldn’t bear the thought of losing either of them. He just couldn’t, or wouldn’t, operate on our wavelength. He denied our own expectations of having two parents and refused to accept that our experience of our mum could possibly be any different from what he wanted it to be. The more I thought about it, the more I realised that my purpose in life had been solely to fulfil Dad’s needs. He’d failed to fulfil his ambition to follow a medical career and so selfishly he’d set his heart on me making his dreams come true. It was nothing about me or what I wanted and of course his hold over me meant that I just rolled over and did his bidding contributing to my vulnerability and perpetuating the endless cycle of him living through me. I’d grown up always expecting relationships to fail so avoidance had been a lifesaving tactic protecting me from the hurt of rejection. Now it was so plain to see Dad had been threatened by my early bids for independence and autonomy. He’d denied my budding development and so I couldn’t be me, I remained his puppet just so he could satisfy his own unmet emotional demands. I wasn’t a separate person. I was an extension of him. He’d sung my praises if I mirrored his views about my career as a doctor and about Mum and so of course I developed a false sense of myself, knowing that the only way that I could retain my dad’s love was by denying myself and denying my own needs. The cost of that was a perpetual cycle of self-hate and slowly I became a victim, utterly and completely dependent on my dad just as he wanted. As I had struggled to cope, my denial of food gave welcome relief at first empowering me in a world where I was powerless but then it conquered me and took over my life.