by Tina McGuff
I cut myself off from my family and though most of the time Mum wasn’t around, there was the occasional showdown when she’d pull me up about my late nights, roving around town. One night, I got in drunk and late, my hair a mess and my face studded with glue as usual, and she was standing in the hallway, ready to give me hell.
‘Do you know what time it is?’ she hissed, hands anchored on her hips, eyes blazing. I ignored her, pushing past her to get to my room, too pissed to care.
‘It’s midnight! Tina, this is unacceptable. You’re not eighteen, you are fifteen years old and you have school tomorrow.’
‘Ah, shove it!’ I whispered under my breath.
‘You’re not getting away with this,’ she carried on, following me to my room. I tried to close the door behind me but she put her foot in the doorway, to stop me.
‘You’re grounded – for two weeks!’ she dropped her voice low since my sisters were asleep, just feet away. And at that, I laughed out loud. Grounded? As if! She couldn’t ground me, she couldn’t do anything!
Of course, she did try. After I got home from school the next day, she locked the front door and hid the key. But I wasn’t going to take this from her. What did she care what I did? It wasn’t her decision. I just opened the kitchen window, climbed out and slid down the drainpipe. As far as I was concerned, my mum had no control over me any more. Working all her many jobs meant she was barely there in person and when she was around, she was so completely absent in every other way she didn’t seem to notice what was going on. In my mind, she had effectively checked out of motherhood years before so I didn’t see why I had to do as she said.
I tried everything that year – I just wanted to escape into oblivion and sometimes I did that so effectively I passed out for hours. One time, I tried sniffing aerosol spray. My friends had a can of butane gas. They took the little nozzle off and pressed it into a cloth really hard. Once the cloth went hard and cold, they started inhaling and sucking the fumes through their mouth and nose. Thinking it looked really easy, I had a go, too.
It floored me on my first small breath. There was an intense buzzing sound in my head. My sight disappeared completely and my whole face started to tingle with pins and needles. It was horrible and, for the first time, I was actually quite frightened. For a few minutes, I was unable to move or speak. Eventually, I came back to normal but I felt terrible afterwards and never touched it again.
At school, I was sliding even further behind in my studies. I’d been put in all the lowest sets, so it felt like I really was as thick as I imagined. In frustration, I took out my anger on my teachers, talking back to them and being rude. I didn’t have any respect left – for myself or anyone else. Even getting the belt didn’t stop me giving them mouth. I’d tell them to fuck off or refuse their requests for homework.
I thought none of my teachers noticed that I was getting out of control but there was one. It was the last class of the day and Mr Findlay, my maths teacher, asked me to stay behind after the bell went. As the chairs scraped along the floor and the other kids battled boisterously to get out of the door, I shoved my books in my bag and gave Mr Findlay short shrift. After all, I had plans that afternoon – plans to drink in the park with my mates.
‘No, sorry,’ I said dismissively, not even looking at him. ‘I’m far too busy and, anyway, you can’t make me.’
But Mr Findlay wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He put his hand on my bag and looked directly at me.
‘This is very important, Tina,’ he said seriously. ‘It’s about going forward with maths.’ I could tell from his tone he wasn’t messing around. Mr Findlay was a youngish teacher, in his mid-thirties, who wore steel-framed glasses and slouchy trousers. He wasn’t exactly cool but then he wasn’t an old duffer either. Occasionally, he could make the class laugh, which was saying something among our group of hard nuts, each with his own brand of bad attitude.
‘Fine,’ I stropped, flouncing back in my seat and refusing to meet his eye. I suppose I didn’t have any choice – I had to listen to him harangue me about my work, wasting both our time! I knew as well as he did that I was on course to flunk the year. As the last of the pupils made it out of the classroom, Mr Findlay closed the door behind them and came to sit on the desk in front of me. For a while, he didn’t say anything, just looked at me, his brow creased with concern. So I stared back at him haughtily.
‘Look, Tina – I just want to know: are you okay?’
I was shocked. For a minute, my couldn’t-give-a-shit attitude slipped and my heart began to thump. I didn’t think anyone had noticed what was going on but it seemed one person had! The question was so open and genuine, as if he could see straight through my cool-as-you-like attitude to the scared little girl underneath. Undone, I felt exposed and vulnerable. For a moment, I didn’t know what to say.
I had two choices, either lie and say everything was okay or spill the beans about my pathetic life and how I’d let everything get so out of control. I needed help, and fast. But I couldn’t just let this teacher into my inner world so easily – after all, I’d spent a long while building up my outer defences. Who was he to think he could just break them all down with one little question?
‘Yes, of course I’m fine,’ I lied, smiling sweetly. ‘Why?’
‘Yellow Belly,’ he challenged me gently, pointing at the bright yellow tank top I was wearing over my white shirt. ‘I don’t believe you – you don’t seem fine to me.’
This was way too much – his kindness and concern was beginning to get to me and I just wanted out. I couldn’t cope and I didn’t see how he could change things anyway. So I just pushed myself up, grabbed my bag and walked out, still smiling, but now fighting down the tears. As I got to the door, I turned back briefly and gave a half-hearted little wave: ‘It’s all good, Mr Findlay.’ Then I left.
He must have known I was lying – I really wasn’t a very good liar – and as I walked slowly down the corridor that afternoon, my emotions bubbled up inside me. It was nice to know someone cared and, deep down, all I really wanted to do was run back in there and ask him for a massive hug, then open my heart to him. I wanted to ask him for help to make my life better, but I couldn’t. I just didn’t know how. Instead, I kept walking – walking towards my destructive destiny.
Things didn’t get any better after that. I stopped telling my mum about parents’ evenings – I didn’t want it confirmed to her what I already knew: that I was stupid and failing in all my subjects. In any case, I had other things on my mind. I decided to join my friends in getting tattoos. I got my name tattooed on my left forearm, next to my elbow, and ‘YWS’ tattooed on my right forearm, the initials for the Young Whitfield Shams, the gang I wanted to become part of. At home, I wore long-sleeved tops so my family wouldn’t see. On top of that, I had my whole head shaved, except for a flick of hair at the front, and I got nine piercings in my ears– just to be different!
I also started experimenting with make-up, caking my face in thick foundation and drawing on dark eyebrows with a black kohl pencil. I felt ugly, inside and out, so I just wanted to hide from the world. My insecurities were now so bad, I didn’t even like to look people in the eye.
There were only two good things in my life at this point: my contemporary dance classes, which I went to whenever I had enough money from working at the chip shop or selling my dinner ticket, and my boyfriend, Jack. The dancing was something that always made me feel good about myself. Flying through the air, doing back flips and the splits, gave me a rare sense of freedom and, for a few hours a week, I felt truly happy and alive. I was able to get away from all my unhappiness and silence the voice in my head that never seemed to leave me alone now.
Jack, my new boyfriend, was a nice distraction, too. He was Dave’s younger brother and we’d met at the fish-and-chip shop one day when I was serving. He was a couple of years older than me and so handsome and tall at 6 ft 2 inches. He’d asked me out to the movies one night and from there we started see
ing each other. Jack was a very sweet boy and he really seemed to adore me, even when I cut off all my hair, got tattoos and pierced my ears. I loved him, too, but it was hard to fight down my insecurities when I was around him. Though he was always kind and considerate, I feared it wouldn’t last. He’ll stop loving you one day, said the cruel voice in my head, you’re just not good enough for him.
For the summer I turned sixteen, I was taken on my first foreign holiday. It was Maria and Alfonso’s idea. Their whole family – including Suzie, Dave and their two young children – was going to Italy for a couple of months, to see relatives, and I think they must have seen I needed a little time out. They had asked my parents some months before if I wanted to join them and I’d jumped at the opportunity, so now all my wages from working in the fish-and-chip shop went towards my spending money for the trip.
As I waved goodbye to my sisters that sunny day in June 1985, my heart fluttered with excitement, tinged with anxiety. It was the first time I had left them for any length of time and I worried if they’d be okay without me, especially Celine as we were so close. But as the miles slid behind us and we drove out of Dundee, caught the ferry and crossed into Europe, my senses were filled with new sights, smells, sounds and experiences. It was amazing!
At first, we drove to France, where we stayed with their friends for a few days, before going through Switzerland and then on to Italy. We stayed in Rimini and made day trips to San Marino and other pretty towns and villages. The family looked after me as if I was one of their own and the food was always excellent, wherever we went. There was a café below the apartment and they sold the best, thickest hot chocolate I had ever had in my life. I simply had to have one every day! We spent weeks hanging out on Rimini beach and, at first, it was wonderful but then one day, something happened that changed my life for ever.
It was early morning and already the beach was alive with throngs of holidaymakers. There were loungers and people everywhere you looked, talking, playing games, laughing or simply sunbathing. I had been in the sea in my red all-in-one swimsuit and was standing on the sand, letting the sun dry me off, when I turned around.
In that second, I saw two women lying on a lounger next to me, and it appeared one of them was gesturing towards me, her hands open wide, as if indicating something was very big. In that split second, I was filled with horror. Oh, my God, it’s me! She’s saying my backside looks huge!
Until that moment, I’d never worried about my figure. I danced, swam and did gymnastics, so I always assumed I was quite fit and healthy. But now it felt like a switch was going off in my head and the voice inside started shouting at me: You are fucking huge! You are a whale! You are massive. MASSIVE! It’s embarrassing! Look at yourself!
I had to get away; I had to do something about it. So I threw on my sundress and ran back to our apartment, where I locked myself in the toilet. Then I stuck my fingers down my throat and threw up the breakfast and juice I’d eaten not long before. I just felt that I had to get the food out of my body as quickly as possible and it occurred to me that I could do this by throwing up. Then, when I’d finished, I went to stand in front of the full-length mirror in my room. Now, instead of being content with my body, I was filled with horror. How could I not have noticed this before? How had I let things get so out of control? It was like my eyes had opened for the first time and at last I could truly see what I’d become.
Holly shit, Tina, you look like an elephant! The voice inside my head boomed. Look at those massive thunder thighs, and that fat massive arse, and, even worse, the arms! I was repulsed by my reflection. How had I let myself get to such an enormous size? I had to do something about it right away.
So for the rest of that holiday, I enjoyed the great food as usual with the family, but afterwards, I excused myself to go to the toilet, where I made myself sick to get rid of what I’d just eaten. Anything was better than getting fat! I hid this, of course, from Maria, Alfonso and the others – I didn’t want them to see the lengths I had to go to in order to slim down. In my mind, I really was a disgusting pig.
This became my daily habit – eating then running to a toilet to throw up. If I couldn’t do that, I’d just take a small bite of my food, chew it a while, then spit it out into a tissue under the table. Almost overnight, my eating habits had changed and I knew I had to stick to the new rules or I’d never be happy again.
After two months in Italy, during which I turned sixteen, we made the long drive home. I was sad to leave – it was a fantastic place, with great culture, food and people – but I had gone to Italy a normal healthy girl and come back a completely different person. Now my life took on a whole new purpose and I was ready for the challenge ahead …
Chapter 6
The Best Anorexic in the World
121. Push! 122. Push! 123. Must push harder! Every fibre in my stomach muscles screamed out in pain and the sweat dribbled down my temples as I counted the sit-ups, hands locked behind my head. I couldn’t stop now – I HAD to get to my target of 150 before I could allow myself to rest, so I sucked in my stomach, scrunched up my face against the burning in my abdomen and pushed myself on. 124. Yes! 125. Keep going! MUST. KEEP. GOING!
When I hit my target number, I collapsed back onto my bedroom floor, my head swimming, chest heaving, yet filled with a huge sense of satisfaction. I grinned to myself: I’d beaten yesterday’s target of 130 by 20 sit-ups and now I could take a short break before starting on the 200 star jumps in my regime.
Exercise had become my new best friend. Since returning from Italy, life at home was as depressing as ever. Mum was hardly ever around but now I had a new reason to stay in and not go out with my mates: I had to shift this disgusting fat that I would squeeze with my hands every night. It wasn’t hard to ditch the friends – all I had to do was stop going out. After all, alcohol was fattening so I couldn’t allow myself to get drunk any more.
Each night, I went to my room and started a routine of exercise that gradually became more and more testing. At first, I was just doing 50 sit-ups, 50 squats, 50 push-ups, running on the spot for 10 minutes and doing 50 star jumps. But every day, I increased my target numbers and it always gave me a huge rush when I pushed myself to my limits. Exercise was something I was actually really good at and knowing I was burning up all that horrible fat made me feel I was accomplishing something.
I was 5 ft 5 inches and started out at 9 stone. When I looked in the mirror I felt physically sick. If people see you like this they’ll be repulsed! the voice in my head told me. You are fat, ugly and worthless. The only way to beat the voice was to exercise non-stop – so any time I went anywhere, I ran. I sprinted to school, ran home, ran to the shop and I even ran over the bridge at night to see Jack.
Food was now an uncomfortable issue. I didn’t like people watching me eat any more – the voice told me that I looked like a ‘greedy fat pig’ whenever I ate so, even in front of my sisters, I hid my mouth behind my hand when I was eating. Even so, with every little nibble, the voice repeated over and over: Greedy fat pig, greedy fat pig, greedy fat pig!
After a few weeks, I could see a change in my body and Jack too noticed I was getting slimmer.
‘God, look at the gap between your waist and your jeans! They’re hanging off you,’ he exclaimed one night as I sprawled out on his large bed. I loved being around Jack, he was my emotional safety blanket, but at the same time, there seemed less and less room for him in my life now that I had my goal of losing weight. Secretly, I was pleased he had noticed. I was wearing my three-quarter-length jeans, a look I’d borrowed from Madonna. I was crazy about music and loved Madonna, U2, The Specials, Madness, The Beat and The Jam. Their posters adorned my room at home and every Sunday, I’d record The Charts on my cassette tape to listen to during the week.
‘What?’ I scoffed. ‘Don’t be stupid! It’s the jeans, they’re rubbish,’ I replied casually.
‘No, seriously,’ he said, wide-eyed, tugging at my waistband to demonstrate his point. Ther
e was now a hand span between the material and my skin. ‘You’re getting really thin.’
That night, I ran home over the bridge at super speed – my plan was working really well! Unfortunately, it just wasn’t fast enough for me and after a few weeks my weight seemed to plateau. Every day I weighed myself I was the same: just under eight stone. It was maddening, but I wasn’t going to give up – it had to come off. In the shop near us, I scoured the magazines for tips on losing weight and in one I found the answer to my problems.
‘The Cambridge Diet is a revolutionary new plan that allows you to lose weight FAST!’ screamed the advert, next to a before and after picture of a woman. She was grotesque in the first picture – great big tree trunks for thighs, rolls of flab around her belly, and triple chins – but looked slim, fit and healthy in the next picture. This was the answer I’d been looking for. The plan consisted of drinking special nutritionally balanced shakes three times a day instead of eating. It was fast, effective and safe. What could be better? Unfortunately, at sixteen, I was too young to start the programme myself so I persuaded my Aunt Annette, my dad’s twin sister, to arrange for a representative to visit us at her house – I didn’t want my mum knowing.
‘But Tina, love, you don’t need to lose weight!’ she objected at first. My aunt was lovely – whenever she came round, she always seemed to be on a diet, so I knew she’d be the right person to help me in my quest. If anyone would understand, it would be her.
‘I just want to do it for a short while,’ I replied innocently. ‘It’s all healthy so there’s no problem. We’ll do it together. Come on, it’ll be fun!’
Eventually, she caved in and signed up to the plan and the representative left some boxes of the shake sachets for us. I took most of them, knowing Aunt Annette wouldn’t have the stamina to last very long on the plan. And I was right: she gave in almost immediately, complaining they didn’t taste of anything and she missed food too much. But for me – well, I found it easy. I hid the sachets in my room and made myself up one for breakfast, one for lunch and ate a normal meal for dinner. It was fine, I told myself. It was perfectly healthy because the shakes were nutritionally balanced. I was thrilled after the first week when I noticed the weight coming off really quickly.