by Tina McGuff
His manner was so abrupt, so brusque that I was shocked. I looked over at my mum, but she didn’t seem to flinch. She knew what he was going to say. So she’d noticed! All this time, I thought I’d been so clever at hiding my illness and yet she knew all along. All of a sudden, the penny dropped and I realised they had been planning this all along. This wasn’t what I expected at all – this was an ambush, a siege. I burst into tears.
A little softer now, Dr Coburn explained: ‘Your mother called me some months back – she was very concerned about you and wanted my advice. I had to tell her that because you are now sixteen, I can’t help you until you ask me for help. Now you’ve called for me and I want to help you. Tina, this has been a long time coming and, right now, you need urgent medical treatment as you are very, very ill. Dangerously ill.’
It was so unfair, and so wrong! He didn’t even seem interested in my stomach pain. What kind of a doctor was he, anyway? Wiping away my angry tears with the heel of my hand, I clamped my lips together and silently seethed. When he’d finished his little pre-rehearsed speech, I told him vehemently: ‘I’m fine, Dr Coburn. Don’t be so stupid! I’m not ill – I’ve just got a sore tummy! It will pass.’
Meanwhile, Mum sucked in her breath, crossed her arms and drew up her shoulders, as if trying to hug herself. I could see now the anxiety in her eyes and the pain on her face. All this time she’d been concerned about me and yet she’d never said a word! Now she bit her bottom lip as Dr Coburn went on again, telling me things I didn’t want to hear. I tuned him out – it was words, just words. He couldn’t make me do anything; none of them could. I couldn’t believe I’d been so stupid to call for help. Inside, I reproached myself for letting my guard down.
Eventually, after about fifteen minutes, Dr Coburn gave up. He sighed and stood up and then turned to face my mum, who looked crestfallen.
‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘I tried, I can’t force her.’ Then he left and Mum shut the door behind him. I heard muffled voices from the corridor and the unmistakable sound of my mum sobbing. Then, after I heard the front door close, she came back into my room. Her eyes were red and her voice broke as she said: ‘Tina, you really, really need help! I’ve been trying to get you help for months. Please listen to the doctor.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ I spat back angrily. ‘I have it under control. Trust me – now just leave me alone!’
After she left, I lay there, fists balled in anger at my sides. How could I have been so careless? It never occurred to me that Mum would see what was going on. I had to be even more careful from now on. They didn’t understand. There was no reason for their concern – none of them understood that I was on top of this thing. I was in control; I just had to get a little thinner and then everything would be okay. I knew I could go further and I had to push on, no matter what!
After this close call, I was determined more than ever to prove I was fine by losing weight and staying healthy, but every day that passed brought a fresh round of misery for my failing body. My periods had stopped for a couple of months, my hair started to fall out and my skin started to flake off. Peeling off the last layer of clothing always brought with it a layer of skin. It was so dry – no matter how much moisturiser I rubbed on myself, translucent flecks of skin peppered my clothing. It was disgusting – and to make matters worse, I’d grown this really long hair over my body, repulsing me even further. Still, I ignored these failings as much as I could – I only had one thing on my mind: getting thinner.
Now I started to use laxatives since my energy levels were really low and it was getting harder and harder to complete my exercise regime. Yet I had to push myself further or I would never achieve my dream. The drugs played havoc with my bowel movements. I was determined to flush out every little thing inside me – in fact, nothing much came out of me these days except a weird, green slime, like mucus. I couldn’t tell anybody. Of course not! I could never admit to any weakness whatsoever – that had nearly tripped me up the last time. Instead, I retreated further and further into myself, cloaking my illness with deception and lies.
In early December, Sophie, now aged twelve, asked me if I would walk with her into town to buy some books. Pleased at the chance of a little exercise, I agreed, though just before we left, I ate a whole box of Ex-Lax squares. Usually, I was able to time my body’s reaction to this, but today was very different. We walked for about fifteen minutes and suddenly my whole body started to burn and ache. I thought I was going to pass out with the searing pain that was ripping through me.
In desperation, I took flight, running to the local public toilet. Inside, the revolting stench of urine filled my nostrils but I didn’t care. Already, I could feel the fluid running down my legs. Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! I couldn’t control it – it was just coming out!
I slammed the door behind me and fell onto the stinking toilet floor, vomiting all over the place. The fluid from my bowel was now uncontrollably flooding out of my back passage and going everywhere. I could feel it seeping through the three pairs of leggings I was wearing under my jeans. It was not even faeces, more like dark, watery slime. It was so painful.
OH, CHRIST! My heart pounded and I started to shake and cry at the same time. I’m dying! I’m dying! I could literally feel my intestines twisting inside me. Now my tears mixed with the vomit and I felt my hair sticking to my face. I was incapable of moving off the floor where I’d collapsed, hanging off the toilet bowl as if clinging to the wreckage of a sinking ship.
Eventually, I heard footsteps and then a tentative knock at the door.
‘Are you okay, Tina?’ came Sophie’s scared little voice. Poor thing – she sounded terrified. She must have heard it all! And yet I still couldn’t let my guard down, couldn’t let her see what a mess I’d become. So I lied. I lied from behind the door, where I was covered in all sorts of shit and vomit. In my worst pretend-happy voice, I sang out: ‘Yes, I’m okay, Sophie. I’ll be out in a minute.’
Inside, I wanted to scream and cry for help. I wanted her to run home and fetch Mum. But my resolute attitude of never letting anyone see my weakness overrode everything: I HAD to stay in control, no matter what! So I waited until I no longer felt sick and tried to clean myself up with the cheap shiny pieces of toilet paper I found lying around. I tried to use two small squares of paper to clean my face, very unsuccessfully, and eventually exited the toilet, avoiding my sister’s eyes.
‘Sorry, Sophie,’ I muttered, my voice full of shame. ‘I’ve got to go home and change, ’cos I’ve had an accident and need a shower.’
Sophie didn’t reply and we walked home in silence. I was so grateful that I was wearing so many layers of clothing or she might have seen the horrible mess under my jeans. But she must have smelled it and she didn’t say a word to me the whole way home. I decided during that terrible walk never to use laxatives again. It had caught me off-guard and I couldn’t allow that.
Once safely at home, I scrubbed myself clean and washed my clothes in the sink. Then I steeled myself to looked at my reflection in the mirror. And I hated what I saw: I felt a mixture of anger for still being fat and revulsion at the state of me. There was no difference any more between the voice and me – it had filled up my head completely.
I was ugly beyond belief. I was a horrible, fat, weak, insignificant person who was taking up far too much space in the world and needed to disappear to allow others to be happy. Look how I’d upset my sister! She didn’t need that kind of trauma in her life. I couldn’t bear the thought of hurting her, my mum or my other sisters – the people I loved most in the world – any longer.
No, it would just be better for everyone if I died. I knew now that I was in a terrible place and beyond help. Suddenly, calmness flooded my brain. This was my epiphany, the moment everything became clear. I knew now what my goal was – I wanted to starve myself to death. Being thinner wasn’t good enough – I must die, and the quicker the better.
So I continued on my path with new resol
ve and, two weeks later, I collapsed in my bedroom. I came to on the floor but, instead of picking myself up, as I usually did after a fainting fit, I found I couldn’t move. Frightened, I called out for my mum, who responded with lightening speed.
‘Tina!’ she gasped as I lay on my back. I tried to focus but it felt like I was floating away, like wisps of smoke in the air.
‘I can’t get up,’ I said. ‘I can’t move.’
I was so ill, so weak now that even these few words took a tremendous effort of will and concentration. I was dying, I knew that. Mum picked me up gently and lay me on my bed. I felt myself fading in and out a little, not really aware of the passing of time. Moments later, it seemed to me, Dr Coburn was at my side but his voice came from far away.
‘Tina, I’ve arranged for you to go into the hospital now and your mum will get your stuff.’
But I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything any more – I sensed myself slipping down a long tunnel, further and further away from reality. Out of nowhere, my dad appeared and, together, him and Mum half-carried, half-walked me to the ambulance waiting outside our flat. The drive to the hospital felt very long but, once there, I was eased into a wheelchair and pushed along the stark white corridors. As the neon light-strips flashed above me, I noted my parents’ concerned faces. Oh, well, I thought dreamily to myself, not long to go – it will all be over soon.
Chapter 8
Are There Calories in Air?
As soon as I was wheeled into the ward, a tall lady, who introduced herself as Sister Cummings, showed me into her little office. Panic now rose within me. I felt a surge of energy as the accompanying adrenalin kicked in.
Sister Cummings had short and curly fair hair and her large eyes and generous, full lips reminded me of Princess Anne. She seemed at pains to reassure me that I was in the right place.
‘Tina, we’re so pleased you’re here,’ she said, smiling, her warm eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘We’ve had many girls here over the years, perhaps not as young as you, but all with the same condition. And we can help you – you just have to let us help you.’
Unable to focus fully on her words, I took in only the basics of what she was telling me. There would be a strict eating programme, a system that rewarded weight gain and positively reinforced the importance of getting well. After putting on 2 lb, I would gain access to a radio, another 2lb would buy me some time with a newspaper, another 2 lb, a phone call, and so on …
My attention snapped back when she said: ‘… the important thing is that you are never left alone at any time. Even going to the toilet, you will be accompanied by a nurse. Your privacy privileges will begin when you have proved that you are committed to gaining weight.’
Suddenly, my head started to pound and my anxiety levels shot up. They were going to try to make me fat by denying me my dignity! How could I possibly go to the toilet in front of a total stranger? I couldn’t cope with anyone seeing me naked. Seemingly oblivious to my rising panic, Sister Cummings went on: ‘The meals are made up of very high-fat foods and no fibre, since we understand that laxative abuse has been a feature of your illness …’
NO WAY! My brain screamed out. NO WAY ARE YOU PEOPLE GOING TO MAKE ME FAT!
Eventually, she came to the clincher: ‘… and to begin with, we will have you on bed rest, with no getting up or going out for a cigarette until you put on 8 pounds.’
‘What? I can’t even smoke?’ I finally exploded. From somewhere deep inside, I felt a rush of energy and stood bolt upright.
‘That’s it,’ I snapped. ‘I’m not staying! I’m out of here, I’m not ready for this.’
And before anybody could stop me, I walked out. I strode down the corridor, the corridor that I’d just been wheeled down minutes before, as fast as I possibly could, ignoring the plaintive shouts from my parents behind me. I could see I needed to get up to the next level in order to exit the hospital but, just looking at the stairs, I knew the little strength I had would never carry me up, so I punched the button on the lift and got in. It seemed crazy that I had been so weak just moments earlier, almost willing death to come, and yet now I was walking around. All I knew was that I had to get out of there as quickly as possible.
Catching me up, my parents got in the lift behind me. For the first time in years, they were as one: their looks of utter disgust matched each other’s perfectly. They were fuming with me, speechless with rage. After literally throwing me into the back of the car, we started for the journey home – I smoked all the way back. I could feel their resentment and hostility from the back seat but I switched off from it and concentrated instead on the houses whizzing by outside and on smoking as many cigarettes as possible.
When we arrived back home, Mum got out of the car without a word and Dad just drove off. I ran up the stairs to our tiny flat and slammed my bedroom door shut on them all. After curling up on my bed, I pretended to fall asleep. I was so angry that I had nearly been tricked into eating and getting help. It was the closest call I’d had so far. From inside me came a strange, happy feeling from my determination and my win: I would never give this illness up, I promised myself. Never!
I went on avoiding foods for another few weeks and once again tried to ignore the cold, the pain and the fact that my skin had turned a horrible bluey-grey colour. I tried to ignore the brittle, broken hair that came off on my pillow every night. Coldness was now a permanent state for me – I hated taking off my clothes for any reason, even to change into my pyjamas. My gums bled all the time and my bowels were just a seething mass of pain. There was nothing coming out of me except green yellowish mucus, like jelly. It was awful when the slime oozed out as it made me feel sick and yet at the same time I felt like I had achieved something by emptying my whole body of food. The tiny amounts of urine I managed to squeeze out were deep red, like beetroot juice.
But it still wasn’t enough; I wasn’t thin enough. I’d test myself by pinching the parchment-thin skin on my arms or legs, convinced the thin slither beneath my fingers was fat – horrible, wretched fat. My one comfort was to measure my weight loss by holding my hands around my upper thighs and waist and squish in. The fingers would touch and, as the gap widened between my body and my hands, so too did my happy smile. I pushed and pushed each day until the weight fell off me. Each day I ran to Boots for my weigh-in – I was 6 stone now but stopping was no longer an option.
Two weeks later, I ran to the post office to buy a stamp to send a letter to my Irish pen pal, who like me was also a huge U2 fan. Every few months, we’d write to one another, just silly stuff about the band, nothing real about our lives. But as I went to lick the stamp, I froze. The back of the stamp! My mind suddenly whirred – it’s sweet! It must have sugar in it. Calories! Oh, no! No, no, no! I can’t lick this stamp, I’ll get fat! Instead, I licked my finger and rubbed that on the back of the stamp. But as I posted the letter through the box, panic bubbled up within me. There must be hidden calories in everything – everywhere! I can’t escape them! I’ll always be fat because I’m probably consuming calories through the air without even realising it.
I walked home in a daze – now my head felt very strange and I was consumed with despair. I’m inhaling calories right now, right this very minute! my brain screamed out in anguish. How can I control the calories I can’t see? I knew there was only one way – I had to try to take very small breaths. Now my rational sense had all but deserted me as I resolved to limit the air I breathed in. Of course, I couldn’t stop breathing altogether but I had to try to make a difference. These tormenting thoughts chased themselves around my head, day and night now – I barely slept with the worry that by falling asleep I’d lose control of my breathing.
I was still trying to exercise but now, weak and exhausted, I could barely manage 50 sit-ups at a time. Added to that, I was trying to stop myself panting while I did them. The pressure inside my head was unbearable, immense, and I was so tortured by my racing thoughts that I felt like I was losing a grip on reality.
When I saw anybody eating now, I was filled with loathing for their lack of control, their greed! Just watching my mum eat her toast in the mornings was agonising – I wanted to shake her and tell her to stop. How could she be so weak? Anyone who ate was a weak-minded worthless piece of shit, I was convinced. I couldn’t have willed anything past my lips now even if I had wanted to eat; it simply wasn’t possible.
One morning, three weeks after my failed hospital admission, I woke up and went to take a shower. I don’t know why but for some reason I’d forgotten to lock the door. Just as I was finishing up, my sister Katie came in to use the toilet. I was in my towel and had pulled up my knickers when it occurred to me to have some fun. On TV there was an advert for Scotch videotapes. It was such a catchy little song and I knew I now looked so thin it would be an accurate impression of the cartoon skeleton in the ad. I thought she would find it hilarious. So I dropped the towel and started to sing: ‘I’m going to tell you how it’s going to be with Scotch’s lifetime guarantee …’
I jumped around in my pants, my stick-thin legs and arms jutting out at every angle.
‘Record what you want, both night and day. Then rerecord, don’t fade away …’
I thought she’d fall about laughing but, instead, Katie’s eyes widened in horror and she burst into tears, fleeing the bathroom with her face in her hands. I stopped and stood still. In that terrible moment, I had seen what my sister saw – I had seen her look of horror, disgust and … and … oh, God, hatred! Yes, hatred! She hated me right then. The way she’d looked at me – so scared – as if I was a monster. I looked down at the blue skin stretched taut over my bones and the cold hard realisation hit me: it was enough.
It looked as if my skin was shrink-wrapped over my whole body. In the mirror, my huge teeth dominated my skull-like face and my skin was grey and lifeless. My eyes were dead.