by Tina McGuff
I let myself in the front door with my key and, almost straight away, I felt the coldness of the flat, the bleakness, overtake me. It wasn’t warm or homely.
‘Tina!’ Mum exclaimed, walking through from the kitchen. She seemed so happy to see me but, in that moment, I didn’t want her to touch me. As she pulled me to her in an embrace, I just stood there, arms locked to my sides, unable to hug her back. I put my things down in the hallway and walked around the flat, looking at everything as if in a dream. Was this my life? I wondered as I picked my way through the mess that my sisters had left behind that morning. Old dresses and socks lay about the floor, schoolbooks and drawings were scattered on the dining-room table. In my room, I examined the Madonna and U2 posters on the walls.
It all came flooding back to me then – the misery that had led to my being in hospital all that time. And, for some reason, I couldn’t hold it back – it washed over me like a tide.
When my sisters all got home from school, they rushed to greet me and covered me in hugs. Half an hour later, when they were sprawled out in front of the TV, munching on toast, I quietly took myself off to my bedroom and started exercising again.
Chapter 11
Relapse
Life at home had not changed. And neither had I. If anything, my anorexic urges were stronger than they had ever been. I embraced the anorexia and the strength and control it gave me with renewed determination and zeal. We had been separated for too long and now I raced back towards it, like a child looking for the safety of its mother.
Mum and Dad never spoke any more – if we ever saw Dad it was when he came to the house on the Sunday morning after a failed meet-up the day before when us girls, like four lost little orphans, would sit and wait for him all day long. He was working, he’d say, he couldn’t get away. He was full of remorse – and Mum gave him hell every time – but to me, it didn’t matter. We weren’t his priority, this much was clear to me. When we did see him, he focused his conversations on the younger ones and that was fine with me – my goal now was to get to 4 stone and I didn’t want anyone standing in my way.
At first, I did all the things I was meant to – I attended my Psychiatric Outpatients clinic with Dr Ballinger, or ‘Pissed Off People clinic’ as we used to call it. I kept up with the nurses, regularly calling in to give them my weight but, as time went on, I stopped. After all, the weight was falling off me in record time and if they knew the truth, I knew they would call me in.
I stopped eating the day I was discharged and though Mum would beg me to eat and I caught the concerned looks in my sister’s eyes, I wasn’t about to be deterred; I simply stopped looking in their eyes. I had boundless energy, more than ever, and I was totally in control. I was so nutritionally well from the eating at the ward, I felt healthy and I thought I understood my body, my brain and illness better than anyone else. I prided myself on being an ‘anorexia expert’.
Now I ran all the time and I set myself a target of 1,000 sit-ups and push-ups a day. I was back in Boots, weighing myself every day and loving it. Within two months, I was down to 5 stone 10 lb, the lightest I had ever been. But I knew I could go further, and I would. The weight hadn’t been on me long enough in hospital to stay on and I was excited by the thought of how easy it was for me now to lose weight again. Every day that passed, I got thinner and thinner, and though I could hear Mum pleading with me to call the hospital, I knew I was fine.
By the time I reached 5 stone, I could barely walk. My whole body ached as never before. My back killed me, my stomach was in agony, but this is what I expected – I knew I had to push through the pain and never give up. Giving up was a weakness and I was stronger than I had been my whole life!
Except, as the pounds fell away, my strength seemed to desert me, too – now I struggled to complete 50 push-ups and 50 sit-ups a day. It was maddening! But I knew I could do it, if I just pushed myself harder, so I’d stay awake half the night, trying desperately to meet my targets.
One night I had set myself a target of 500 push-ups and I had 150 left to do. My heart was pounding out of my chest and all my energy was spent, but still, I refused to give up. I would do this push-up if it bloody well killed me! My arms cried out in pain as I flattened my palms against the floor and braced to take the strain before launching myself upwards with an almighty heave. As I did so, my head just melted away. The next thing I knew, I came to on the carpet. I was furious that I’d allowed myself to faint – so, in defiance of my weak body, I carried on until I hit my target of 150.
The effort was unbearable – but I pushed on, cursing myself in my head. Come on, you fat, lazy slob! Come on, you weak little shit! You’re nothing – you’re revolting, you can’t even do the easiest thing. Now push, PUSH! At that moment, the only thing that would have stopped me from finishing those push-ups was death. And that didn’t frighten me in the least. Finally, after an agonising two hours, I made it to 150 and promptly rushed to the toilet to throw up with exhaustion.
The following week, I was in my room, arranging my weight printouts from Boots, carefully smoothing down any folds and marvelling at how all the numbers tumbled downwards to my newest weight of 5 stone, when Mum called out from the corridor.
‘It’s Sister Cummings on the phone for you, Tina!’
‘Tell her I’m busy!’ I hollered back. ‘I’ll call her tomorrow.’
‘Tell her yourself,’ Mum said, putting her head around my door and holding the phone out to me. I was angry for being interrupted in this way – she hadn’t even knocked!
‘Hi, Sister,’ I started, keeping my voice friendly and even. I knew she was going to be mad with me for I hadn’t called my weight in for weeks.
‘Tina, we need to know why you haven’t been in touch,’ she said, crossly.
‘I haven’t called because I’m fine,’ I insisted. ‘I’ll give you a ring when I need your help, but I’m fine for now.’
‘Tina, how much do you weigh?’
‘I’m 5 stone, Sister.’
I could have lied, I knew that, but I didn’t want to – I wanted to show off. Inside, I was proud to have achieved such a dramatic weight loss so quickly. I caught the sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, the momentary pause as I sensed Sister Cummings trying to compose herself. Even so, when she spoke, her voice, though low and controlled, was fizzing with anger.
‘Tina, you need to get into hospital right away or you will die,’ she told me.
‘I don’t care,’ I retorted. ‘I don’t care and, anyway, I think you’re lying to me again – I’m not going to die.’
‘Tina, you are dying now! Right now! You must come in so we can check you over and make sure you are not going to be in pain.’
It was those last few words that got to me – she wanted to make sure that I wouldn’t be in pain for my last days on earth. That made sense to me. I knew I didn’t want to die at home, with my sisters around me – after everything they had suffered already in their young lives, I couldn’t put them through that. I didn’t want to live any more, it was true, but I didn’t want to die an agonising death either. For the first time, I felt a little shiver of fear creep up my spine as I considered that these were probably my final days. For what no one knew was that I had also stopped taking in fluids the day before. Now, it was only a matter of days.
Once I had put the phone down, I asked Mum to take me to the hospital. Now that I had let myself see the truth, I wanted to ensure that the end was peaceful, not painful. Every inch of my body was crying out in agony and I was so weak, I could barely put one foot in front of the other. Mum called Dad and told him to meet us there. The ward sent an ambulance and, by the time we got there, I was practically crawling on my bony knees as I had nothing left. I wouldn’t fight any more, I couldn’t – I had admitted the truth to myself and now I was resigned to dying. All my energy was gone and I felt like I was finished.
My legs gave way once I arrived and I collapsed onto the ward floor at the side of the bed I had
been in the last time. When I came to I felt a tremendous sadness sweep over me – I truly hoped I wouldn’t wake up again. I wanted to die now, more than anything else. Somebody helped me onto the bed and I lay there for a few minutes before something inside me snapped and I realised I had been tricked again: they just wanted to make me fat!
The power of my fury propelled me upwards and I sat up and started screaming: ‘Get me out of this fucking bed! I want to go home, take me home now!’
My parents were nowhere to be seen but Sister Cummings came rushing over, to try to calm me down: ‘Hush now, Tina, you really need to be lying down! You’re not well enough to go home – you’re very, very sick.’
‘You fucking liar!’ I spat. I’d never been so rude to anyone in my life before – it was as if I was possessed. But I couldn’t stop.
‘There’s nothing wrong with me!’ I shrieked. ‘You’re just lying to me to keep me here. Well, nothing’s going to stop me – I’ll take myself home.’
And with that, I threw myself out of bed, tried to walk to my little cabinet for some clothes, but fell over. My legs had completely given up and I was dragging myself around to get dressed. I was crying hysterically now and the next thing, Dr Ballinger appeared and tried to reason with me to stay.
‘Tina,’ she said. ‘Look at me, Tina – you know you need to be here. Come on, you’ve been here before. It’s fine. We’re going to take care of this.’
But I just lay on the floor, weeping and screaming to go home. I felt hands on my arms as the nurses tried to lift me back into bed, but I lashed out at them, kicking and screaming.
‘GET OFF ME! GET THE FUCK OFF ME!’
WHO THE FUCK WERE THEY TO TRY TO STOP ME? I was furious for allowing myself to be tricked again. I felt rage – RAGE! RAGE! RAGE! and I didn’t know where it was coming from or how to stop it. Every cell in my body was clenched and fighting for survival – I had to get out of there.
I passed out again and, when I came to, I noticed they had put a tube up my nose while I was unconscious.
‘What the hell is this?’ I fumed. ‘Take this out this minute – you’re not going to feed me through a bloody tube! TAKE IT OUT NOW OR SO HELP ME, I’LL PULL THE THING OUT MYSELF!’
Fiona stood by my bedside, real concern in her eyes.
‘We can’t take it out, Tina,’ she told me gently. ‘You need to have it because you’re very sick.’
At that point, I went mad. I pulled the damn thing right out of my nose and threw it on the floor. Once again, I tore my covers off and tried to sit up – this time, I really was going to leave and there was nothing they could do to stop me.
‘Please, please calm down,’ Fiona begged. ‘You’re very sick, Tina – your heart is very weak, as are your kidneys and liver.’
But I just laughed in her face.
‘You’re talking shit!’ I shrieked. ‘You’re just lying to me to keep me here!’
I didn’t believe a word any of them said any more. Nothing was making sense in my head; it was very blurry. But I was right, I knew that, they were all lying, conniving bastards! Fiona looked a little hurt but she didn’t move. Instead, several other nurses came to the bedside and held me down – I felt a prickle along my arm and I saw one of the doctors was giving me an injection. What’s happening? What are they doing to me?
Moments later, a strange man in a black suit appeared with a big leather-bound folder. He looked like an accountant or a lawyer.
He asked me if I wanted to leave.
‘Of course I fucking do!’ I screamed at him.
‘Well, I’m afraid we can’t allow that. We are sectioning you under the Mental Health Act …’
At that point, all the fight went out of me. I felt my body relax as I realised that I had lost – they were keeping me there and there was nothing I could do about it. Somewhere, far off in the distance, I could hear the man’s voice prattling on about legalities, reading me a load of jargon that I neither heard nor understood.
Confused and despairing, I begged them to let me leave.
‘Please, Fiona, please just let me go now! I don’t want to be here,’ I wept. But it was out of her hands. I heard the words ‘court order’ and I realised this was serious; I was terrified. Now they had control over me and they could do what they wanted, administer anything at all, for my own safety.
Finally, the strange man told me that the police could arrest me if I tried to leave the premises.
‘Fuck you!’ I said to the man as he turned to leave. How dare they! How fucking dare they keep me as a prisoner like this! It was outrageous, disgusting!
Now, Fiona sat at one side of the bed and Sister Cummings sat at the other, talking very quietly and calmly to me.
‘You are the sickest you have ever been,’ Sister Cummings said. ‘You will die unless we keep you here.’
‘But I don’t care,’ I sobbed. ‘I want to die. I don’t care any more – I’ve had enough.’ The adrenalin was gone, as was every last drop of energy I had left in me. By now, I was a lot calmer; the injection must have kicked in and I let Fiona put the tube back up my nose. It was horrible.
‘Okay, now, Tina, you need to pass urine so we can check your kidneys. And we also need to take a blood sample to run some tests.’
I offered my arm for the syringe, knowing I had no choice any more. But every time the needle went in and Fiona drew on the syringe, it would snap back into the empty barrel. It was very painful, especially since my skin was now so tight that it broke and bled every time the needle went in.
‘We can’t get any blood, Sister,’ I heard Fiona tell Sister Cummings.
‘I haven’t had fluids in two days,’ I said weakly.
Sister Cummings wasn’t angry any more – her face was a picture of sorrow and pity. I could see now that she really did care about me but still they couldn’t get any blood out of my arm, not a single drop. Somewhere deep inside, I felt a satisfied sense of a job well done – success!
Finally, I had achieved the emptiness I had sought for so long.
Chapter 12
Praying for Death
That night, I slept like a baby but, when I woke up, I was consumed with despair. Why won’t they just let me die? Why won’t they just let me go in peace? From the moment I opened my eyes that morning, I was pushed and pulled around as the nurses and doctors fought to save my life.
First, they hooked me up to a catheter – now that I was getting fluids through the tube, I needed to go to the toilet but a bedpan proved useless. Nothing was coming out of me. My kidneys weren’t working properly any more as my body was desperately trying to hang on to every last drop. So Fiona fitted the catheter. It seemed to take for ever and was horribly painful.
‘I’m sorry, Tina,’ she whispered as I cried out in pain. ‘All your tubes, veins and arteries have shrunk due to severe dehydration. I’m trying my best not to hurt you.’
When it was finally in place, another nurse tried to put a cannula in the back of my hand – more agony as my veins kept collapsing. After half an hour of this, she gave up. Minutes later, another nurse appeared, wheeling in a heart monitor, to which she hooked me up with chest pads. So now I really was on life-support – liquid foods, catheter, heart monitor. Desperate to tell them to stop, to just let me go quietly, I didn’t have any control any more: I was sectioned.
Worried-looking doctors streamed past by my bed now at regular intervals, talking in hushed tones, checking my charts and conferring over my treatment. I gave them all baleful looks. Look what you’ve done to me! I wanted to shout. Look what you’ve turned me into! I’m a person, not a machine, and I just want to die in dignity and peace. Why won’t you all just leave me be?
Astonishingly, food was brought to my bedside. It felt like a sick joke – they knew they couldn’t get me to eat this stuff. They must have seen I was determined to die, no matter what. My anger was as strong as ever, but sedated now. I couldn’t move a muscle so I just lay there, waiting and praying for death. Da
y became night, and night bled into day again – how long had I been there? I didn’t know.
Now they brought the weigh chair to my bedside as I couldn’t get up and, since I was only being drip-fed a liquid diet, the weight continued to fall off. They refused to tell me how much I weighed now, knowing the low numbers only fuelled my determination, but I was an expert, of course, and I could read the scales even when lying down. For every pound that disappeared, I cheered silently inside my head. I was 4 stone 11, then 4 stone 10, 4 stone 9 …
Around two weeks after being sectioned, my tongue went completely black from a fungal infection due to anaemia. I was given jelly lozenges to try to get rid of it and, though I hated the thought of anything passing my lips, I was disturbed enough by the weird change to take them. My teeth were already a mess but now I developed terrible toothache lying there in bed. But since I was too ill to be moved, they couldn’t get me to a dentist, so they just gave me pain relief.
The sedatives they gave me were so strong I slid in and out of consciousness, barely able to keep a hold of myself for a few minutes. The lights would dim, my body relaxed and I’d slip into dreamy unconsciousness, welcoming the opportunity to let reality fade away. All I knew, when I came round from another dozy sleep, was that I wanted to die: I WANT TO DIE! At 4 stone, I could barely hold a thought in my head, let alone move, and yet that was the only one I clung to.
Where are my family? I wondered one day. They’ve abandoned me; they’ve accepted my decision. It’s best I just get on with it and get the job done. Sadness swept over me – this was for the best. I couldn’t hold on any longer – there was not a single part of me that wanted to live. So I just lay there, suspended in a state of limbo, halfway between life and death. I was done. Done.