by Pollen
Robin raises the dish towel he has in his hand threateningly. “Watch it, Pops,” he says.
Dad’s been around more lately. He came for tea twice this week. He even stays over sometimes. (Tonight, Dad and Robin are going to arm wrestle to see who gets my old room. The loser has to sleep on the sofa downstairs.) Don’t get me wrong: Mum and Dad are definitely still off. But, to be honest, they seem happier around each other now than they have for years.
We go through and sit at the table. Robin’s already laid out our plates and cutlery. I asked him if we could serve ourselves. I still find eating a portion that someone else has dished out kind of tricky.
Robin brings over a big pan of Bolognese while Mum pours us all wine. Even me. I drink wine now.
“Wow,” I say, when Robin puts the pan down on the table. “That smells … good.”
“Really good,” says Dad.
“You don’t have to sound quite so surprised,” Robin grumbles.
“It looks lovely, Robin,” says Mum. “Thank you.”
And it is. Spag bol isn’t something I’ve eaten a lot of lately: difficult-to-measure portions plus loads of different ingredients plus a ton of carbs equals an anorexic’s worst nightmare. Okay, maybe I’m not the best judge. But the sauce is nice and meaty. The pasta’s got that little bit of bite it should have. He’s even made his own garlic bread, by cutting up some baguette and rubbing garlic and herbs on it, then grilling it.
It’s really, really good.
I raise an eyebrow at my brother. “Turns out you can cook, Robin. Who knew?”
“Thanks, little bro,” Robin says. He gives me this weird look, then reaches for his wineglass. “Now, I’d like to propose a toast.”
“To Santa Claus!” says Mum.
“To the Ghost of Christmas Past!” says Dad.
Robin looks at me and shakes his head. “Honestly, with these two around, it’s a miracle we both turned out so well.”
Mum sniggers.
“No, Mother and Father,” Robin continues, giving them both a disappointed look. “I think Santa gets enough praise for doing one evening’s work a year, frankly. I’d like to propose a toast to the bravest person I’ve ever met.”
I’m expecting Dad to chip in again, and say something like, Oh, you mean Rudolph. But he doesn’t. He’s beaming at me. And then I realize they all are: Mum, Dad, and Robin are all grinning at me like Cheshire Cats.
“Wait, what’s going on?” I say.
Robin raises his glass, and Mum and Dad do the same. “You kicked this year’s ass, little bro.”
“Right, who wants to see if they can hear the sleigh bells?”
I look up at Mum. She’s wearing a Santa hat, and a sweater that says I WISH IT COULD BE CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY across it in huge letters, and a smile as wide as Siberia. I realize the last time I saw her this happy was last Christmas, before everything got really bad.
“Nope,” says Robin cheerily, without looking up from the Radio Times he’s been reading for twenty minutes.
“Come on, Robin,” says Mum. “It’s almost midnight.” She disappears into the hallway.
“Why do we do this, exactly?” Robin says, to no one in particular.
Dad comes up behind him and grabs the magazine, whips it away in one smooth movement. “Tradition,” he says.
“That’s not a reason.”
“How about Because your mum and dad asked you to then?”
Robin shrugs.
“Cheeky sod,” mutters Dad. He looks across at me. I’m already putting my coat on. Another year, I might side with my brother. But not this year. “Why can’t your brother be more like you, eh?”
It hits me like a sledgehammer. I know it’s a joke, but it’s not a joke Dad could have made at any other point this year. The idea of being more like me being a good thing would’ve seemed too ridiculous.
“Beats me,” I say.
Robin gives me this how-could-you look.
Mum comes back into the room with Santa hats for the rest of us. And a huge plate of mince pies.
I hate wearing hats: My hair is so fine, I end up looking like I’ve been electrocuted when I wear one. But it’s Christmas, right?
“Thanks, Mum,” I say.
I pull the hat on, eventually; it’s so tight I’m pretty sure it’s cutting off the blood supply to my brain or something.
“Mince pie?”
She offers me the tray. And I’m about to take one—really—when Dad’s phone beeps.
“It’s midnight!” Mum squeals. She puts the tray down on the coffee table. “Come on!” she says, frantic. She unlocks the patio door, grabs Dad’s hand, and marches out into the cold.
“She’s insane,” Robin mutters.
“Sultan!” I shout. I beeline toward the coffee table, but it’s too late. Our dog may not walk so fast anymore, but he still eats at a thousand mph. He’s already on his second mince pie by the time I get there—and naturally, he’s managed to slobber all over the rest.
“Whoops,” Robin says.
“Mum’s gonna be pissed,” I say, hoisting the plate away from Sultan. Unperturbed, he switches to hoovering up the crumbs. His tail thwacks the sofa over and over.
Robin shrugs. “She’s already made three batches. It’s like therapy or something for her. Personally, my cooking career is over.”
I take the plate through to the kitchen and put it down on the side. I can’t quite bring myself to throw it in the bin. I’m still not that great with food waste. Maybe we can throw away the mincemeat—I’m pretty sure dogs aren’t supposed to eat mincemeat—and give Sultan the pastry.
I go back through to the lounge. Sultan’s finished clearing up; he’s now slumped in front of the sofa, looking pretty content.
“We should go join them,” I say. “They must be freezing their asses off.”
Robin holds up a hand, like, Wait.
“What?” I ask.
He points at the tree. Specifically, at the presents under the tree.
“When we come back in, I’m going to show you which is yours. It’s technically Christmas already, right?”
“Technically,” I agree.
He puts an arm around my shoulder and guides me toward the door. “I think you’re going to like this one, little bro.”
December 24
Dear Ana,
Lindsay told me about her eating disorder the first time I met her. She had been bulimic for eight years. At the time she told me, I was fourteen. I remember doing the sums in my head. Divide 14 by 8, times 100 = 57.1. Lindsay was bulimic for the equivalent of 60 percent of my life.
It felt like forever.
She said something else, too. Something that haunted me. “You learn to live a normal life around your eating disorder.” I’m probably not remembering it exactly right, but it was along those lines.
I thought she meant that I’d never recover. I figured she was trying to stop me getting my hopes up. “Max, sorry, but there’s no miracle cure. You’ll always be this way. You just need to deal with it.” I could barely breathe after she said it. Scratch the 60 percent: I was going to be ill for the next 100 percent of my life.
I brought it up again this morning. And it turns out I kind of got the wrong end of the stick.
“I’m cured. Of course I am,” she said. “What I meant was, having a normal life is part of what fixes you. When you have an eating disorder, you withdraw from the world. And that makes everything worse.”
It all sort of clicked when she said that.
Lindsay was ill for 60 percent of my life so far. But for the other 40 percent, she was okay. She was just Lindsay.
Funny how that number keeps coming up—60 percent. Mr. Edwards told us that humans are 60 percent water, and afterward, I was obsessed with the fact. In my head, human beings became these giant wet amoebas, rolling around the surface of the globe.
But I was forgetting the other 40 percent. The 40 percent of me that isn’t water. The part that makes me, me.
It’s just like that soup, the one in the story that isn’t really made from a stone. There’s no magic to it. A stone is just a stone. Water is just water. To make a human, you need carbohydrates and fats and proteins and vitamins. You need roast potatoes. You need Mars bars. You need prawn crackers and cheese sandwiches and Kit Kats. And where do they come from?
I always thought the moral of that story was that people are gullible. But this year—the year I didn’t eat—it’s changed my mind. The moral of the story is that, if you ask for help, people will help you. Not definitely. Not always. But most of the time.
And here’s the important bit. The bit I got really, really wrong. Those people who are trying to help you? Those people who end up saving your life?
They don’t need to understand everything.
No one will ever 100 percent understand you. They probably won’t even 40 percent understand you. I know that’s what teenagers say in TV shows, and maybe sometimes in real life, too. “You don’t understand me!” Well, anorexics are kind of like ultra-teenagers, I guess. We’re extra-super-double sure that no one understands us. Not even, like, Kurt Cobain. And you know what? I think we’re right. As Robin puts it, being a teenager blows, and the older you get, the more you forget how much it blows.
But the thing is, it doesn’t matter. Someone doesn’t need to understand you to save your life. They just need to care.
It can be your biology teacher or your ex-bulimic psychologist. Your mum, your dad, your brother, or your dog. It can be a PE teacher you always thought hated you or a girl you want to talk to.
It can be a mysterious stranger who leaves you anonymous notes.
Or it can be your best friend.
I’m not sure why I’m telling you this, Ana. We’ve already established you don’t exist. Actually, that’s a good point. I’m talking to myself again. I’m gonna text Ram instead. He’s probably already opened his presents by now.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
“What does it feel like?”
That’s the question I kept asking myself as I was writing this book. It’s a question without a good answer, because an eating disorder feels like a million different things. Sometimes it’s unbearable, and sometimes it’s barely there. Sometimes, you never want to see anyone ever again; other times, you would do anything—absolutely anything—just to have someone to talk to. It’s maddening. It’s silly. It’s boring.
It’s complicated.
Max is fourteen when he becomes anorexic. Me, I was twelve. It’s taken me almost two decades to organize my thoughts, to try to come up with a better answer to that question than “it really, really, really sucks.” This book is that answer. It’s not a perfect answer, but it’s probably the best one I’ve ever given. I hope it will help some people who are going through it, and the people around them.
Of course, Max’s story isn’t anyone else’s. It isn’t even mine. Every eating disorder is different, which means no one can fully understand what you’re going through. Not even someone who’s been through it.
But that doesn’t mean they can’t help.
This is the mistake I made. This is the mistake everyone who’s ever had an eating disorder seems to make. We assume that we’re beyond help. We assume that all the advice and support out there is for other people. We tell ourselves, This doesn’t apply to me. It’s for someone thinner. It’s for someone who hasn’t been ill as long as me. It’s for an outpatient. It’s something that only affects girls and women, not boys and men.
And that’s all wrong. As Max puts it, “Someone doesn’t need to understand you to save your life. They just need to care.”
So if you’re living with an eating disorder, know this: I don’t 100 percent understand what you’re going through. No one does. Even if you have an identical twin who also develops an eating disorder on the same day you do—they still can’t see inside your head. But let’s say, for instance, that I understand 10 percent. Even 5 percent. Let’s say you read this book and one or two lines hit home. Let’s say your mum gives you a hug when you really need a hug, or a teacher stops you after class to ask if you’re okay. What you should take from that is this: There are people out there who really care about you, who want to help. They might not know exactly how to and they might not even know what it is they’re trying to help with. But still, they want to be there for you. And if you can find a way to let them, things will get a whole lot better.
One time back when I was ill, my doctor said the strangest thing to me. She said, “Once you’ve recovered, you won’t think about food any more than the average person.” It sounded crazy. I could just about get my head around the idea of recovery, but I assumed it would be like turning a stereo down low. The music would still be playing, and I’d always have to worry about it to some degree.
For some people, it is like that. But for every one of them, there’s someone else who recovers completely. Someone whose biggest food worries, once they’ve switched the music off, are whether the milk in the fridge has gone bad, and what time the pizza place on the corner closes.
An eating disorder is not an intrinsic part of who you are. It’s just something you live with for a while—a year, a decade, or even longer. At some point, with the right combination of love, luck, and support, you can turn the music off. You can go back to being you.
It may sound crazy, but it’s true.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Like an eating disorder, writing a book is something you feel like you’re navigating on your own. Then you look back and see just how many people helped you through it. Family, friends, health care professionals, editors—and also strangers. Shop assistants. People on the bus. Those who happen to throw a few kind words your way at just the right time, giving you a little bit of strength, a little boost, exactly when you needed it.
I won’t be able to thank all of these people, unfortunately. But here are a few who really, really deserve a mention.
Thank you to my agent, Alice Sutherland-Hawes, and everyone else at Madeleine Milburn Literary Agency, for believing in this book first, and most fiercely. Thank you to Sonali Fry, Dave Barrett, Gayley Avery, Nadia Almahdi, and Lauren Carr, and the whole team at Yellow Jacket, who took this strange and very British book and remade it for America while still keeping it strange and fairly British. (Sonali: I’m delighted to be the person who taught you what an Arctic roll is!)
Thank you to Sophie Beer and Rob Wall, for a cover that features no apples, no rib cages, no measuring tape, and makes this book feel every bit as optimistic and powerful as I wanted it to.
Thank you to the various irritatingly talented writers who helped me pull this book into shape. To Frances Merivale, Jayne Watson, Daniel Culpan, Jon Teckman, Sara Sarre, and Eleanor Maxfield, for your early comments; to Savannah Brown and Mariah Huehner, for your massively helpful sensitivity reads; to my colleagues, for your endless patience.
Thank you to the people who were there when I was where Max was. To Mr. Tatlock, who let me hang out in his office during PE, and the rest of the staff at Wilmslow High School. To everyone at the Macclesfield Eating Disorder Service—and, more generally, to the National Health Service—for saving my life without fuss or fee, as they have saved so many others.
Everyone who works in mental health care, in whatever capacity, is a saint. To everyone who is there for someone with an eating disorder, who reaches out a hand that they know full well will probably be bitten—from the bottom of my heart, thank you.
Finally, thank you to my family. To Angie and Meurig, the best siblings I could hope for. To my wife, Liv, who did more to make this book happen than she’d ever be willing to admit. Most of all, thank you to my parents. You put up with everything I threw at you without complaint. I still can’t get my head around that.
RESOURCES
National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders
A nonprofit organization working in the areas of support, awareness, advocacy, referral, education, and
prevention. Find support and group treatment, hear recovery stories, learn about grocery buddies, and request a recovery mentor.
www.anad.org/
www.anad.org/our-services/treatment-directory/
Helpline: 630-577-1330
The National Association for Males with Eating Disorders
Established in 2006 by Christopher Clark, M.A., N.A.M.E.D. is the only organization in the U.S. exclusively dedicated to representing and providing support to males with eating disorders.
https://namedinc.org/
National Eating Disorders Association
www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/help-support
Helpline (confidential and free): 1-800-931-2237