In the beginning, however, I was smitten. We were in many ways an unlikely match and as is natural for most after the passing of time, it’s difficult to recall what caused the initial attraction. But it was there nonetheless. Friends and indeed family could not understand it but were nevertheless encouraging to anything that would promote my own happiness. It did this for a very brief period of time before turning sour.
I cannot blame this boy for what later happened; much of why the romance darkened was down to my own dependency. I needed the reassurance of him, an emotional home for my feelings to bed down in. I think I would have taken this in any way he gave it. Over time, as is natural, he decided to move on. My confidence deteriorated while his flourished. And yet as the dynamic shifted and solidified, my dependency only proved to grow needier and my insecurities consumed me. With each measure of my worth I gave to him, I took it away from myself. Eventually, I imagine, there was nothing left and I – the person I’d known before this – was gone. Something or someone had to fill the void, the emptiness. Thank God she was there, I once thought to myself. Thank God for her readiness, for her willingness.
***
I am a teenager. My boyfriend and I have been together for almost two years. I’m certain that I will never love anyone as much as I love him. I look at older couples a great deal and always note how they don’t behave as we do. They don’t laugh enough, or play or act in a silly way with one another. Apparently they take themselves far too seriously for that kind of nonsense. Or perhaps they just hide it all better. We feel no need to hide though. In fact, we hide nothing. I have never been this open before. I feel no need to keep any secrets anymore. I doubt if I’ll ever have to keep another secret again.
Sometimes I wonder why on earth he wants to be with me. But the reassurance he provides is all too overwhelming and the thought is fleeting and never lasts very long. Now, more than ever, I think back on that day it all really kick-started. He knew how much I cared about him. Yet, being unsure of his own feelings, went abroad with family after telling me it was over. It had felt so final and I’d never been that upset before. Despite the temporary heartache, it didn’t take long before I was seeing someone else. That someone was, in theory, everything a girl of my age should have wanted. I tried to put him to the back of my mind. It wasn’t long however before he heard of these new developments. After receiving a rather frantic mail from him entitled ‘Please’, how could I not resume thinking of him? I’m not sure I’ll ever forget the day he flew home; sitting together and talking about silly things that only we could talk about. He had come home for me and me alone. I had a clear choice and the question was all but answered before he’d even asked it.
People make this stuff out to be so complicated. Yet here I am still riding this perfect wave with the person I most want to be with. I’m not sure how anyone could think love is so difficult. This is love and it couldn’t be easier.
***
I loved him as much as any teenager could love someone. The love was youthful by definition and my perceptions on it have changed greatly over the years. Still, it was a happy time and marked one brief interval in my young life with a most glossy polish. This new romance, however, could not have been more different to what I had known before. Throughout the affair, I committed ardently to bettering and ultimately perfecting myself. If I could do just that, then perhaps I would not feel as I had come to since it had all started. Perhaps some of that confidence could be regained and that self-worth be dug up. But it didn’t work.
I began exercising at night, long after the house had drifted off to sleep and I could be alone. It was in these hours that that familiar voice was at its loudest. I didn’t just hear what she had to say, I felt it. I felt it in my skin, in my bones, in every strand of hair and eventually I would feel it so hard that my stomach would wrench itself up and hurt with each thought. Maybe I thought if I moved fast enough, I wouldn’t hear or feel all those thoughts. Maybe if I made myself hurt in some other way, I wouldn’t feel those pangs as my stomach curdled in disgust. So that’s what I did, moved as quickly as possible until a muscle would ache, until my sides would feel like they were tearing and until I had caused just enough physical pain to mask any other. Oftentimes, the best thing to do would be to take some painkillers beforehand. It would mean I could prolong my exercise for a greater period of time. For every moment spent doing overtime, I enjoyed just a little extra allotment away from the reality of the nothingness I had become. It was one of the best forms of escape in those quiet hours and required only me, and whoever now dwelled inside me.
It almost goes without saying now that by this stage, my eating habits had changed profoundly. Most people seem to maintain the mentality of ‘Well, I can just burn off whatever I eat through exercise.’ I, however, contended in the back of my head that if I ate too much it would surely have wasted all that time spent exercising. I began to eat much less. Generally it went unnoticed because the change wasn’t initially all that severe. Eating became like a race against time. I would eat very small amounts and would time it around exercising. In this way, I could never give the food enough time to latch on to my insides. It was like I suddenly became aware of an invisible glue that lined my stomach. Anything I ate could stick to it almost immediately. The only way to stop this from happening would be to exercise before the glue had time to set or shortly thereafter. This process was fast which meant I had to be faster; I had to be one step ahead of my own body at all times. It was exhausting to say the least.
I watched any and every television programme I could that surrounded the issue of weight-loss. Mostly I just found that the programmes half spurned me, but half aggravated me at the same time. Of course they can stay that skinny, I told myself. They have their own personal trainers and dieticians. I started to develop a most curious relationship with the images I was seeing. The women portrayed on television and in advertisements represented everything I wanted to be; determined, disciplined and utterly perfect. I also, however, cursed their names and told myself that if these women were in my position, they surely could not look as they do. They’re not strong enough to go it alone, I thought. But we were. If I could somehow get my head and my body in sync with one another, together we could do it with absolute perfection. Suddenly being flawless didn’t seem so impossible.
It seems almost inconceivable now but I began searching the internet again and again with words and phrases such as ‘skinny women’, ‘thinspo’ (thin inspiration) and even ‘emaciation’. I didn’t want to be that skinny, though it would have been preferable to my size at the time. No, initially I just wanted to draw a contrast. I felt that I was one extreme and that by looking at women who lived at the other end of the spectrum, I could motivate myself enough to find a happy medium between the two. I was captivated by these images. Oftentimes, I would glare in horror at some of the extremities depicted but I could not look away; I could never stop myself looking that extra bit closer. Their bodies, unlike mine, could be studied like a painting. While my own felt like one massive surface of skin and filling, theirs were concave with protrusions scattered here and there. Their bones rose and fell from shadow to shadow, with porcelain skin draped over like silk. They were jagged creatures and were composed of sharp-edges and spindly bends, reminding me of a delicate spider. If you had a gentle enough touch, you could have played their ribcages like a piano. Tummies were always flat but evolved very abruptly into hips. With each image, a new twist and turn of the creatures could be found until I finally had a mental image of every possibly pose such a body could display. It was art. I would slip into a trance and would temporarily leave my own body looking at them. She who now lived in my head guided me gently from picture to picture and like a sponge, I soaked it all in with ease and what felt like nourishment. It was as easy as breathing.
The weight loss thus far had been minimal when taking into consideration how hard I had been working. Looking back n
ow, 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.
My Secret Life Page 3