My skin, once soft and smooth around every turn, looked aged. It looked like every cigarette I had ever inhaled began to exhale back onto my exterior canvas. It wafted out of every pore and left a dry and haggard ash-stain in its path. My lips paled and my face lengthened uncomfortably. As dark circles formed an encasement from my brow to my cheeks, my eyes faded in tenacity and indeed, lost any if not all indication of the life behind them. Somewhere in those months, I think I slipped away beneath them. Hiding beneath whatever I could in order to shield myself was something I was always good at. Slipping under the radar was my forte and I enjoyed the protection it provided.
***
I am 17 years old. After two fleeting years, Stephen and I broke up only days ago. I think I knew that it had been coming for a while and just didn’t want to believe it. I’m about to go to a birthday party and am sick to my stomach. The source of my upset is not that I miss Stephen. Surprisingly, it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. No, the main reason for my being so melancholy is because I miss the person I was when with him. After so long of being with someone, it’s as if I became that person’s interpretation of me. Everything I was could be wrapped up in what Stephen alone saw in me. He was like a safeguard, hiding me from everything I was afraid of. Now, I have nothing to hide behind and no radar to slip under and lie low.
Walking through my friend’s house, I try my best to move like a shadow. I don’t want to be noticed for fear of someone seeing that I’m missing a vital limb or something else of great importance. The crowd is an unfamiliar one with faces I’ve only ever seen once or twice. I try not to catch anyone’s eye. I don’t want them to look at me because I know they will observe how completely lost I am here. Instead, I retreat to the back of my encircled friends seeking solace and comfort.
‘Have your eye on anyone, Leanne?’ Kate smirks at me.
‘No, I’m only looking. Don’t think I could even if I wanted to.’ As it turns out, this is a lie. Under particular circumstances, it’s so easy so convince ourselves of what we’re feeling rather than face the repercussions of the truth. The truth, in this instance, is that I do want to and there are one or two boys at the party who I have noticed very briefly. But I can’t tell my friends this. If I do, a fuss will be made and a series of Chinese whispers will commence much the same as there would have been when I was 14. I can’t take that kind of glossed-over mortification, let alone the pressure of it all.
Thankfully, this doesn’t need to occur. In little to no time at all, I’m talking to a local boy named Adam. Confident and outlandish, he’s making this conversation easy for both of us. It’s a weight off my shoulders. If nothing else, I know now that I can at least still talk to a member of the opposite sex without feeling utterly foolish. Moreover, I’m in shock that anyone would be interested enough to talk to me for this long. The conversation is typical and wonderful. From school to what we will go on to study and a few brief words on the party, the small talk was all I wanted and needed that night.
I’d had no intention of this night amounting to anything. At best, I wanted simply to come here this evening, trudge through it and go home where I can continue in my growing loneliness. And yet, this is not the case. As I talk with Adam, I’m bubbling over beneath the surface and surprised with myself. Not only am I very attracted to him, but it’s as if his confidence has radiated to my very core. In his presence, a certain ease has descended over me and my worries of before have almost completely vanished. In this moment, I don’t want to hide or disappear. Rather, I want to showcase myself and push this debutante feeling to its full potential.
‘Here,’ Adam says, taking my hand, ‘let’s go somewhere more private.’ When we finally kiss, it’s as if Stephen and the person I was with him, never existed. Beneath the uncertainty with which I walked in this evening, I must have been merely waiting for something to open a bolted door. Now open, I feel confident, attractive and what’s more, I feel sure of the person under my own skin. I don’t want to hide anymore and I can only hope this feeling lasts for ever.
***
At a time when everything about me seemed to go missing, it was difficult for me to remember moments when I stood alone and fully formed in my own head. Before that night, I hid extremely well under the covering shield of a boyfriend. With the realisation that this protection was gone, I knew then that I had to find some other means of guarding myself. As it turned out, the next thing or person I would hide beneath would be my bulimia.
I had lost a tremendous amount of weight, the figure I struggle to remember exactly. It was enough, however, for others to commence with their anticipated comments, some positive and some of less so. Being around people I hardly knew and had little regard for became the highlight of my declining social life. My closest friends, the people I had known and trusted for years and who knew me better than I cared to believe, became unbearable company. Their shrewd eyes were inescapable and insufferable. Our history together and all they knew of me became overwhelming. I couldn’t breathe around them anymore. In the dead heat of their knowledge, it was stifling and completely suffocating. For the time being, I was done with them and all they had to offer. Instead, I felt at ease amongst strangers. I was comforted by how little they cared for me, as it guaranteed my own freedom among them; I didn’t have to work as hard hiding the truth because with these people, the fabrication was enough and easily maintained. When I ventured as far as my local pub with friends, it wasn’t long before I would abandon them and find a less challenging clique.
In this way, I eventually became defined by pretence, or at least I did in public. Self-definition was something I always strived for. I suppose I needed it. As a child, if I didn’t define myself under particular headings then I would have been nothing at all, or so it seemed. Whereas I once classed myself as an academic and a master of intellectual advancement, I now wore the mask of the perfect socialite. In public, my facade was affecting and almost flawless. How I spoke, behaved and carried myself became everything I was. It sounds like a rather hollow existence and if that was everything I embodied then of course it would have been. But my life, under my logic of the time, was extremely fulfilling. I told myself I had everything a person should have and more.
The impeccable illusion experienced by others was only a facet of the person displaying it. Unlike the moronic primates I found in new companions, I possessed something more substantial. I felt superior to their insignificant cares because I just knew that they did not have the mental or even emotional capacity to understand me or even fully understand themselves. They lived a one-track life that was directed aimlessly under one mentality. I, on the other hand, functioned under a dual-ability to live as both the person she wanted me to be and the person they all wanted me to be. Therefore, I was safe in my belief that their superficiality could surely never contend with my own complexity. She convinced me of this and as such, made my one-woman show a triumphant success for a time.
Her presence in my life and in my personal development made everything possible. Of course, I had no way of knowing who or what she was back then but I was moderately insightful enough to know that there was something different about me, even if I couldn’t put my finger on it. On a surface level, I just didn’t question it. Whatever it was, it made my life easier and more manageable. But let’s be realistic about this. I knew then as I know now, along with the rest of the human race, that a person should eat to live. My logic was not so forgiving in that sense and it obviously did not escape my attention that it wasn’t normal to live as I was attempting to. I must have known this or else I wouldn’t have been so desperate to conceal this secret life of mine.
Along with this, I was not so foolish to believe that everyone else lived and worked in the pain and discomfort that had become the norm for me. All memory of how my body should feel had disappeared. I was in a constant state of discomfort, to put it lightly. What most recognise as hunger pains were now excr
uciating and one of the only sensations I physically felt anymore. It felt like I was eroding from the inside out. Someone had carved a hole in my stomach and filled it with air. Eating steadily changed from something I would prefer to avoid doing to an unimaginable act of weakness. There were days I was convinced if I put anything into my mouth, I would feel it moving through me like an alien intruder that my body was trying to resist. I would feel it at the back of my mouth, chewed and fully-prepped to launch an aggressive assault. I would feel it creeping down my throat, building momentum and stealth. More than anything else, I would feel it grounded to the bottom of my once divinely empty stomach, rotting and stewing. It would begin an assault from that advantageous position and infest its way into my bloodstream, my defenceless cells and the bodily walls that shielded and protected it from being ripped out immediately. It was using my own body against me and as a result, it became all too easy for my mind to register that food was the enemy.
The most powerful weapon against it was, quite simply, prevention. Once in my stomach, there were limited cures and the only degree of safety to be upheld was through enduring resistance. I would not do that to myself; she wouldn’t let me, she cared too much. So I would not eat and that was final.
Through such justifications, it gradually became easier and easier to suppress the hunger pains and even tolerate the stabbing intensity of a truly empty stomach. I soon found myself enjoying the pain. It would spark in the lowest point of my stomach, light like a match and blaze until I thrashed in flames. Then it would tear north, shredding my sides and scorching beneath the skin that enveloped my chest. It was more than hunger. My insides screamed at a deafening pitch, unable to fight the devouring emptiness. Soon it was like my body turned against me in desperation. The hollow sting that I nurtured so affectionately began to eat away at me instead. It fed off my muscles and biological insulation. I thought it a most fair trade. The person who lived in my head was the most important priority now. If she was the predator, I was happy for my body to be the prey. I would permit her to feed until fully cultivated. In doing this, I knew I could finally satisfy that impossible hunger which had gripped me so many months before.
Anything I had to give in return for this seemed insignificant; whatever it was, it would be a small sacrifice by comparison. One forfeit made, for example, was bodily. I’m sure that must sound very strange but constantly being cold was something I had to adjust to rather quickly. With little or no nutrition to thrive on, my body temperature dropped rapidly. It wasn’t the same as getting a draught from an open window; the cold had seeped into my bones and stayed there like an anchor on the seabed. It would not be moved and I would feel almost no warmth whatsoever. My hands and feet felt it the most. While no amount of layering could ease the piercing ice that ate at my toes, my fingers couldn’t feel to grip anymore. It had become too painful for my hands to do most things that others surely take for granted as I did before. From making a cup of tea, to dialling a number on the telephone and even trying to write, my hands felt like they were cramping up and just couldn’t work with quite the same efficiency.
The worst memory I have of being extremely cold was at a friend’s birthday party. It was August and given the fortunate weather of late, said companion resolved to throw a barbecue in her garden to celebrate. It had been only a few hours since the party began when shadows started chasing one another on the ground and the sun was remembered only through the amber and pink remnants imprinted in the sky. Darkness fell and with it, the heat of the sun vanished. Heaters and garden lights dotted the gathering of people and I gravitated toward them, unable to focus on much else. As always, I tried my best to stay perfectly in sync with the chorus of conversation around me. Part of being perfect was to always appear so and with this ideal in mind, I thought it best to simply ignore the distraction of my numb fingers and toes. I laughed and smiled, playing my part faultlessly and still managing to avoid the food passing from plate to plate. But my skin prickled so much that it began to sting. My feet may as well have detached themselves from my body and taken a walk elsewhere, while my nose was about to crumble and turn inwards into my face.
‘Jesus!’ someone choked beside me. ‘Leanne, you’re lips are blue! Are you cold?’ I laughed it off uncertainly before making a swift exit from the situation and to the nearest bathroom. When I looked in the mirror, it took a moment to fully appreciate what exactly was looking back at me. Yes, my lips had gone a faded shade of blue-gray and seemed to jump out from my face, which had turned a deathly white. I looked like a porcelain doll, I thought, except for the flawless finish. I had put my make-up on immaculately that evening, leaving no room for mistakes or blemishes anywhere. And yet, something looked different about my face. Something was wrong with it. Aside from the very obvious bizarreness of my blue lips, my complexion was gaunt and hallowed. It reminded me of a cracked painting, damaged through the years of wear and tear. Though you saw no out-of-place contour from my forehead to my chin, the overall composure was ghostly. It wasn’t my face. I stared at my own reflection, convinced that there was someone else in the room with me.
I was so suddenly stricken with panic. My hands had been shaky and uneasy for as long as I could remember, but now they trembled violently along with the rest of my body. My knees clattered against one another and my pores began to release cold perspiration. Finally, my throat started to close up and I couldn’t breathe. Something terrible was about to happen, I was sure of it. With that one fleeting thought, I was mentally committed to the notion that there was no escaping this horrible event that was about to unfold. It could have been anything; the bathroom door was jammed and I was about to faint with claustrophobia or the roof was about to fall in on me. Someone in the garden was about to fall and hit their head because I left my bag thrown on the ground or someone was about to burst in and accuse me of not eating. It didn’t matter what it was. For some reason, in that moment, I was doomed and the reality of this brought me to the floor. I was nauseous, my head was spinning and I wanted to get as close to the ground as possible. I curled up in a foetal position on the tiles; cold, shaking and dizzy. It was as if I was watching myself from the eyes of a third person. I witnessed everything a split-second after I did it. I saw myself get up, pace momentarily and eventually wrap my arms around my knees on the bathroom tiles. I would have cried but the anxiety had paralysed my body. I couldn’t catch my breath long enough to even do so. Without a doubt, I was definitely going to vomit. I closed my eyes for what felt like the longest time until finally, the ominous cloud lifted and I was back in my body and lying on a bathroom floor. The same song that had been playing outside when I first came into the bathroom was still playing now, thumping through the walls. Only minutes had passed.
I eventually stood up – albeit too quickly – and endured the last momentary blinding of my own light-headedness before I was at long last, looking at myself in the mirror again. It still wasn’t me and if anything, the reflection looked worse now than it had a few moments ago. I splashed water on the back of my neck, which made my already freezing fingers throb. After fumbling for some tissue, I dabbed my face gently and took off the glossy shine that now ruined my previously spotless make-up. It was no use and I was too cold anyway. That panicked feeling in the pit of my stomach had not fully retreated and for fear of it surfacing again, I was quick to grab my things, give my apologies to the hostess and leave as soon as I could. In bed that night, I could finally breathe properly once more.
More than anything else, I was physically exhausted and may as well have just run a marathon. I didn’t even care about how cold I was. My body had never felt so small or so fragile. In one sense, it was a moment of ecstasy and I was comforted with soft, almost compassionate, encouragement.
Delicate, she said. The word imprinted on me like the cold before it. I was weak and going numb, but I was delicate. This is what I had wanted. I wanted to lose weight and retain some ounce of delicacy to resemble t
hat of the spider-figured women I had seen in all those flashing images. Suddenly, the lack of strength displayed by my body was counterbalanced with a surging lease of mental satisfaction and might. As I lay in bed, buried under all my layers of clothes and bed sheets, the warmth still could not reach me. It was too late for that now and I didn’t care. I just wanted to sleep, basking in my success and enduring the cold until I could finally slip into a forgetful slumber.
Naturally, I tried to combat the freezing temperatures of my body with excessive clothing and found myself wrapped in layer upon layer, looking rather strange most of the time at home. It also served a dual purpose. Beneath the heavy folds, my body was free to waste away without too much attention. I have always been big-boned – the old cliché – my mother used it to reassure me as a child that this was why I looked bigger than the other kids. She was right to a certain extent. I did have a rather broad frame. It was being shaped liked this that allowed me to get away with the weight loss I experienced. Beneath my baggy clothes, my frame didn’t appear all that different to what it was before. The body that was hidden under these clothes was mine. Eventually, that body would go numb and devoid of all feeling. Soon after, all I began to feel was my brain pulsing between my eyes. With less and less of my body to be seen as time passed, my head became everything I was and all I lived. While I owned my body, my head owned me and somewhere in my consciousness, I accepted it most apathetically.
Though psychologically I felt liberated and powerful while fasting, my mind was of course split in two ways on the matter. On the one hand, I was merely doing what had started to feel natural to me – or at least what I had convinced myself was natural to me. On the other, it is impossible to fully ignore basic urges, no matter how well you have trained your brain. Consequently, I was haunted by food. While my body continued on its degenerative path, my senses seemed to explode from time to time. Particularly my sense of smell. Of course I would not eat whatever food was before me, but smelling it was something entirely different. I started smelling everything. Cooked meals always smelled the most potent and would travel from a hot pan straight to my nose, filling me and testing me. Salty foods would tickle my nostrils; nuts, crisps and popcorn were the main culprits. Such processed foods were packed to full capacity with salty gusto and aromas.
My Secret Life Page 6