Seconds to Snap

by Tina McGuff

  One day in town, I went into Boots and noticed they had a digital-scales machine that gave you a whole printout of your weight and ideal weight. My God, it was like the Holy Grail of scales! So that became my new goal: to get there every day.

  Now I was down to 7 stone 7 lb and, to help things along, I started to run 6 miles every day. Each afternoon, I’d go into town with 10p for my daily weigh-in at Boots, and seeing the pounds fall off gave me the most amazing buzz. I kept all the printed tickets like they were prizes, stored in my bedside drawer in neat little piles. Each day after my weigh-in, I was more and more motivated to lose the weight. And for the first time in years, I felt what I can only describe as happiness: this is what my life had been missing all this time – a goal, something I could aim for. And now I had one that made me feel so good about myself.

  But as my quest took over, it began to push out other things in my life. Food, weight and calories became my world. Obsessed, I hoovered up books and magazines so that I could increase my knowledge of food. I could tell you, to the exact gram, every calorie, protein, fat, sugar and fibre of almost every type of food – I had it all memorised. My mind became a secret calculator, always counting up what everyone would be having and obviously what I would not be having.

  My ‘dinners’, such as they were, had now become incredibly restrictive. I didn’t eat meat anyway as I was a vegetarian, but now I cut out anything I thought would be fattening. Mostly, my meals were now a couple of pieces of Ryvita with a gossamer-thin layer of cream cheese, an apple and a little bit of carrot, cucumber or celery.

  To friends and family, I became an accomplished liar in order to hide the extent of my diet. I told them: ‘I’m just getting more into eating raw vegetables and fruit’ or ‘I’m full – I’ve just eaten’ and, the favourite standby when all else failed: ‘I don’t like it.’ Always there was a ready excuse in my mental arsenal to stop the questions and head off suspicion. But making food now took up a good part of my day. One morning I made a sandwich for my sister Katie with her favourite filling – bacon. I was so happy as I cut off the crusts very neatly and then laid down each slice of crispy bacon with forensic precision. But when I took it through to her, brimming with pride, I found she was still asleep in bed, dead to the world.

  ‘Wake up, Katie!’ I cooed softly into her ear, ‘a lovely bacon sandwich for you here, just as you like it with tomato sauce and tons of butter. Come on, sleepyhead, wakey-wakey!’

  Then I placed it next to her bed and left the room, thinking the smell would rouse her soon enough. But when I came back in later on that day, I found the empty plate next to the bin. Confused, I lifted the bin lid and was disgusted to see the whole sandwich, untouched, thrown away. I went berserk!

  I stormed through to the lounge, shaking with rage: ‘You didn’t eat it, you cow! I made it for you especially and it was so tasty and good. How could you be so thoughtless and stupid?’

  ‘Calm down,’ Katie said, looking confused. ‘It’s just a sandwich, for God’s sake! By the time I woke up it had gone cold so I didn’t fancy it. What are you getting all worked up for?’

  It was true – it was only a sandwich and I knew my reaction was completely over the top and disproportionate – but I couldn’t help it. I needed to be around food, to see it, smell it, make it and yet deny myself even the tiniest morsel. If I ate any of it, I was weak and a complete failure. I had to maintain control at all times so that I could snatch my happiness through resisting the temptation. It took an iron will but I thrilled in testing myself over and over again.

  I would sit for days, reading books about fats, trans fats, carbohydrates and the effects on the body. It consumed my every thought. If people were speaking to me, I would be watching their lips move but all the while I’d be thinking about calories or food intakes, or what exercise I could do next. These thoughts had replaced all other brain activity and I could not force them out of my head. There were times I did try to think of other things, but it was futile – it was an addiction and there was nothing I could do to stop it taking hold and it burning into my soul.

  I read piles of newspapers, looking for recipes. It became an obsession to make hearty, fattening meals for my sisters and, of course, the challenge was never to eat a morsel myself. I baked bread, cakes and biscuits and insisted everyone have some, even if they weren’t hungry. It gave me such a buzz to watch them munching down the food I’d made them. Even the toast I made them in the mornings was loaded with butter, right up to the edges!

  It only took a few months for me to realise this wasn’t normal. I had a new life in my head, a secret world nobody else had access to, and every day it seemed to get worse. I didn’t feel the same any more and I didn’t know why. I stopped going out to meet up with Diane and all of our friends, and even Jack, the love of my life, was fading into insignificance in my mind. There just wasn’t room for him and I had no libido anyway – I didn’t care about kissing him any more. I just wanted to get home and get stuck into my exercises. My sisters would see me every morning and night – jogging on the spot, crunching, squatting and jumping for hours – but they were used to their mad older sister with her latest crazes.

  But I wanted to know what was happening. So, one day, when I was in the library, taking notes from recipe books to get ideas about what to cook for my sisters, I wandered over to the Personal Development Section. There, I found a book on eating disorders. I borrowed it and ran home straight away to read it. Lying on my bed that day, I devoured the book with hungry fascination. There was a name for what I’d become: anorexic. It talked about all the ways in which food and weight loss became an obsession for its sufferers. There was an example of a girl – Cathy, not her real name – she’d lost 3 stone and was so thin, you could see her ribcage through her skin.

  It’s funny, but it didn’t disturb me at all to read about anorexia; if anything, it was a little comforting. I’d never heard of eating disorders before now and I was happy to think that there were others like me out there. It was nice to know there was a name for my condition and there was no mention of potentially fatal consequences. It just said that sufferers became very thin, cold and their hair and teeth suffered.

  Looking at the picture of Cathy, I was suddenly filled with new resolve. Three stone? I could lose more than that! It was like the gauntlet had been thrown down and now I had a new goal: I was going to be the best, most complex anorexic in the world! I would benchmark the illness to a whole new level.

  I was thrilled to reach the milestone of seven stone by November 1985. It had seemed so far away when I was 9 stone, but now I was there, it proved just how easy it was. And I resolved to keep going. Of course I didn’t realise that in the grip of anorexia, my brain was now being starved of nutrients to perform properly and make rational decisions. In my mind there was nothing more sensible than continuing my quest for the perfect body and 7 stone was just way too big for me. I had to keep going – I had no idea what my target weight actually was but I thought I’d know when I got there. The more weight I lost, the more I piled on the layers of clothing to hide my skinny frame and the less I saw of my friends.

  One day, on a visit to see us, Dad made a passing comment.

  ‘Tina, you’ve lost a lot of weight.’

  It was a throwaway remark, no judgement or tone that made me think he felt either good or bad about this and, outwardly at least, I ignored this observation and talked about other things. But inside, I was dancing with delight. What a boost! In fact, it gave me such a high that I rewarded myself by going to my room to exercise for the next three hours. You’ve got to make sure that the next time he sees you, you are even thinner! said the voice in my head.

  Now my routine was strictly and entirely based on food and exercise. I was up at 5 a.m. to start my exercises and then, two hours later, I’d get the family up with breakfast, cornflakes and toast, and watch them eat it. I walked Celine to her school, two miles away, and then ran all the way home at a sprint. During the day, I
would go to the library to study recipe books, hang around the Wellgate or head to the swimming pool, where I’d clock up hundreds of laps at a time, followed by some light weight training.

  In the afternoon, I visited Boots for my daily weigh-in and my whole mood depended on whether I’d lost another pound. If I had, I’d be happy for the rest of the day; if I was still the same as the day before, a black mood would descend and I’d have to push myself even harder in my night-time exercises to ensure that the next day I got a pound off.

  My schooling was non-existent now as it was getting in the way of my obsession. I had all but given up and my mum never said anything.

  It wasn’t until I reached 6 stone 10 pounds that someone noticed the dramatic change, and not in a good way. I was walking through the Wellgate shopping centre with my friend Paula and all of a sudden she turned and looked at me; her eyes widened in horror. She pointed down to my sternum – that day, I was wearing a crew-necked, black sweater – and I wondered what she was looking at.

  ‘Oh, my God, Tina!’ she whispered as her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘What?’ I snapped, annoyed at her dramatics. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Tina, look at your bones!’ she breathed. The look on her face was horrible – fear, pity, sadness and disgust all rolled into one.

  ‘Oh, Tina! Oh, my goodness, you’re too skinny,’ she burbled. ‘You’ve lost too much weight.’

  She was really quite upset but I thought she was being completely over the top – I knew for a FACT that I had not lost enough weight so she was just being silly. Of course, secretly, in the back of my mind, I was pleased that someone had noticed my efforts.

  But it couldn’t last. One day, when I was running low on shakes, I called my auntie to ask her to reorder.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tina,’ she sighed over the phone. ‘It’s just too expensive. I can’t afford to buy them for you any more.’

  This was a disaster. I felt completely thrown – how was I to cope if I couldn’t get the shakes any more? That night, I made a huge pot of broth. It was meant to feed the entire family but because I felt so scared and uncertain, I lost it: I ate the whole pot in one sitting.

  Urgh! I felt sick, not just from the large quantity of food, which by now I was no longer used to, but because I had failed; I had lost my willpower. My mind turned on me. You are so pathetic and weak, Tina! it shrieked. You’re just a lazy, horrible worthless slob! The words rang out in my ears – it was deafening. I couldn’t tell any more if this was the voice or me – it just felt like my head was going to explode. In a blind panic, I rushed to the toilet and spent the next hour getting rid of it all, and trying to erase the guilt at the same time.

  As I gasped and retched over the toilet bowl, I tasted the metallic flavour of blood. My fingers were bleeding where my back molars had cut into them. After an hour, my throat, lips and neck were all swollen and my eyes bloodshot and streaming. The swelling affected my hearing and for a while, it felt like I was deaf. My stomach ached with the forced convulsions. I couldn’t even speak properly as the vomiting had damaged my throat. It was a nightmare but at least I had purged all the food.

  Lying on my bed that night, my head spinning, I realised I was no good at making myself sick. I hated it – the whole process of eating, drinking lots of water and then spending lots of time trying to be sick without making horrible noises. It was repulsive and I knew I couldn’t keep it up but without the shakes, I would be unable to control my food intake properly. There was only one thing for it: I had to stop eating altogether. It was the only way to maintain complete control. So that’s what I did.

  My new super-duper diet would now consist of: Diet Coke or Diet Pepsi, no-sugar squash, black coffee and any cigarettes I could pinch from my mum. That’s it. For months, I continued with my quest and my weight dropped even faster. It was a revelation and a great one, I thought.

  Chapter 7

  At War With My Body

  Huddling under a thin blanket, I pulled my legs up to my chest and hooked my arms under my knees to try to contain the little warmth I felt. It was freezing! FREEZING! Next to me, my sisters slept soundly, all in their thin nighties as if it was the height of summer. But it wasn’t summer! It was now near the end of November and it seemed no matter how many layers I wore, I was always chilled to the bone. Right now, I was wearing three layers of leggings, two T-shirts and a sweater and still my fingers felt numb with cold. It didn’t help that we didn’t have central heating and no money to feed the electric heater, but how come the others slept so well?

  The layers now stayed on all the time. I told myself it was to stave off the freezing winters but inside I knew there was another reason: I didn’t want anybody to see how thin I’d become. Anorexia, this was my secret, and I didn’t want anybody to take it away. The fact was the more I starved myself, the happier I seemed to feel. Some days I felt completely euphoric at my discipline and control.

  The only time I allowed my body to be seen was when I went swimming. In the past couple of weeks, I’d set myself a new task. Every day I ran down to Olympia, our local pool, and pushed myself to do 100 laps a day.

  I was three weeks into my starvation diet when my body started to rebel. I’d just swum hard for an hour and was on my way back to the changing room when suddenly I was overcome with nausea. Thinking I was about to throw up, I ran into the toilet cubicle and fainted.

  I came to lying on the toilet floor, just as the cleaner was trying to drag me out by my arms. She’d spotted my hands poking out from under the door, she explained, as she pulled me upright and sat me on a chair. Then, as I tried to stabilise the wobbly feeling that had infected my whole body, she instructed me to lean forward, placing my head between my legs. It was a shock that this had happened to me and I tried to stave off her matronly fussing by insisting I was fine. But my overall feeling was one of annoyance: it irritated me that I’d been caught out like this and I resolved not to let it happen again. To prove the point, I stood up, got dressed and walked the three miles home.

  From then on, I made sure I controlled the fainting. As soon as I got that strange woozy feeling, I’d nibble on a Ryvita cracker or eat a tiny piece of apple. That way I could give my body a small energy boost that would make me feel normal again. It worked a treat and every time I succeeded in heading off a fainting fit I gave myself a mental pat on the back. I was so clever, so smart!

  I knew my plan was working brilliantly because I could now try on every single item of clothing in BHS and they were all too big for me, massive even. It gave me such a thrill to realise that I could fit into every single piece of clothing in that store. Though I didn’t have any money to buy clothes, I started browsing the children’s sections. What age could I fit? I almost giggled to myself as I realised that I was so small, I could probably squeeze into a children’s pair of jeans, aged ten.

  Meanwhile, my old life was falling away from me, bit by bit, and that was a good thing – I had no time now for distractions like school or boyfriends. I hadn’t seen Jack in nearly two weeks when he called me on the phone one night. I’d been doing my exercises in my bedroom when my sister Katy called out to me from the corridor. I braced myself. I’d been expecting this and I was ready when he asked in a hesitant, nervous voice if I was okay.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I said matter-of-factly. ‘However, I’ve got some issues I need to deal with right now and I’m really sorry but I can’t see you any more.’

  I knew I should have been sad but actually I was relieved at the chance to get rid of Jack. It just wasn’t possible to juggle the demands of a boyfriend when I needed all my energy to focus on my quest.

  There was something resigned in his voice when he replied: ‘Yeah. Okay – I mean, I’m really sorry about that, Tina, but I understand. And, well, I’m here for you whenever you need me.’

  He didn’t seem surprised at all – he must have known I’d been avoiding him and expected me to end things when he called. That was why he sounded so nervous
and awkward. For my part, I just wanted him off the phone as quickly as possible. There was nothing more to be said so I thanked him quickly and ended things with a casual ‘Bye’ before putting down the receiver. Phew! Now I could concentrate 100 per cent on what I was doing, no more people in the way.

  The more time passed, the more my body began to fight back. The cold and the fainting fits were bad enough but now I started to suffer with terrible pains in my stomach. They never seemed to leave and though I tried hard to ignore them, they just got worse and worse. One afternoon, they were so bad I couldn’t ignore them any longer. Doubled over in pain, I called out to my mum.

  ‘I think I need to see a doctor,’ I gasped, gripping my stomach. It was excruciating! Mum nodded sympathetically and ordered me to bed, saying she would call him straight away.

  It didn’t take long. Within the hour, Mum’s favourite doctor was stood at my bedroom door. Dr Coburn was tall, with bushy brown hair and a large moustache. He must have been in his fifties and Mum thought he was quite handsome. She hung back in the doorway as he came in and sat down on my bed. I didn’t waste any time – relieved to see a professional, I helpfully pulled down the blanket and pulled up my nightie to show him my stomach, the cause of my agony.

  But Dr Coburn seemed to have other ideas. Almost immediately, he pulled my nightie down again and replaced the cover on top of me. With a serious look on his face he told me straight: ‘Tina, I don’t need to see your tummy. You are anorexic and you need help.’