by Tina McGuff
Alan picked me up and took me back to bed. As I looked back, I saw one of the male nurses place a comforting arm around Sister Mary, whose small frame was shaking. I was put to bed and given more medicine, which made me fall asleep almost instantly.
The next morning when I woke up, I sat up in bed as the nurses busily came past, helping everyone to make their beds. They all said good morning to me but I was too ashamed to look at them.
An hour later, Sister Cummings strode across the ward towards me, holding herself rigidly, obviously furious.
‘Well, Tina, are you felling okay this morning?’
But I didn’t feel like talking – I just looked down at my hands.
She touched my arm: ‘You know you have taken a huge step back and need more help than ever before. Dr Ballinger will be around to see you at 9 a.m.’ Then she left.
Dr Ballinger did indeed arrive and explained to me that I had to have new medication and intensive therapy. No visits from my family, either – not until they were happy, she said, even if my weight went up. Now trapped, I was sorry and ashamed for the most part because, although I had been desperate to die in that moment, I actually saw directly how my decision had affected others. Recalling the terror in Sister Mary’s eyes, I felt awful, full of remorse.
The following evening, when Sister Mary came back on shift, I immediately apologised, weeping with shame.
‘You know, Tina, you are precious, as everyone is precious,’ she said, looking at me with heartfelt intensity.
As I lay there, week after week, I tried to examine what had got me to this point in my life. Now nineteen, I was on the cusp of adulthood. And yet, after two and a half years, here I was still! How could I go from being a normal child, to smoking drugs, to drinking and having tattoos, to not eating, to nearly dying, to trying to kill myself? What was going on? As I lay there, these thoughts were going round and round in my head. As I reminisced about my life, I felt very sad – I had missed so much. I had ruined all my chances at school; I would never be a dentist or a doctor, I would be nothing. I was not qualified to do anything. How many mountains would I have to climb to become a normal person and get friends and have a normal job?
One night, I lay on my back, staring up at the ceiling, very depressed but, most of all, I was fed up – fed up and tired. I missed just being ‘normal’; I hated what I had become. I hated the anorexia so much but it had taken over me like a tsunami; it had saturated my every cell and turned me into a wreck. For the first time, it dawned on me that I was not in control. At first, the thought came like a small whisper in my ear, a whisper from a voice I’d lost so long ago: You cannot control it. It is controlling you. You are a slave to the anorexia.
The admission was like a door opening in my mind, and I knew that I had to walk through that door. I thought back to the books I had read years before about anorexia – they never told you about the stuff I was going through. They made it seem quite a small illness, nothing really to worry about. There was no mention of psychiatric wards, of being sectioned against your will; of your excrement being stuck in your body and having to get it incised out – none of that was in there. I felt betrayed and was looking to blame something, anything. But, really, I knew that I had no one to blame but myself and only one person could save me.
There and then, I vowed that if I made it through alive, I would make sure I warned others of how bad it can be. I was determined not to be a slave any more, to take back control and get through it. If I managed that, I would be the victor.
The illness is not my friend – that realisation was a breakthrough. And suddenly, I could hear the rational, authentic voice of my own mind telling me something I really needed to hear. And I heard it loud and clear: Anorexia is not making you happy. All this time, you’ve been clinging to anorexia as the one thing you think you can control; and yet, all this time, it has been controlling you, killing you.
One day, I will be normal, I told myself. Just like Dr Ballinger said. One day, I’ll be rid of this illness for ever, but I shan’t forget.
Chapter 15
Healing
‘Are you kidding me?’ My mother was gobsmacked.
‘No, I’m serious,’ I replied earnestly, a little giddy from the thought of what I had just proposed.
‘You want me to bring in fudge doughnuts and purple Quality Street chocolates?’ She sounded like I’d just asked her to boil her own head in a saucepan but, given the history of my eating over the past three years, it was hardly surprising that she reacted with incredulity.
‘Seriously?’ she asked again. ‘You’re not having me on?’
‘Mum!’ I laughed then. ‘I really do want them – I’m eating again. Look at me! I feel better than I’ve felt in years. I’m recovering, I swear. And now I want some chocolate, please!’
I could see the clouds of worry pass over her face. Mum was reluctant to let herself be persuaded – after all, I’d assured her I was ‘fine’ so many times before and I guess she didn’t want to allow herself hope, just in case I let her down again. But this time I was determined. More than anything I wanted to be better and, instead of fighting the people around me, I fought the anorexia. The next time my family came in, I looked even healthier – I’d been eating loads and really making good progress with my counselling. My skin was glowing, my hair had come back to life and I knew my smile now was real, not plastered on for the sake of appearances.
‘You look great!’ my sister Katie remarked, and I could see she meant it.
‘Thanks, Katie. You know what? I feel great!’
‘Here you go then!’ Mum handed over the box of sticky, sugary doughnuts with doubt and uncertainty in her eyes. Would I actually eat them right in front of them? Had I really made that much progress?
I dipped my fingers in and pulled out a plump doughnut, my fingers instantly covered in grains of sugar, and then attacked it with relish. The sweet fried dough gave way to a gooey fudge centre and I felt myself smiling with pleasure. When was the last time they had seen me eat? When was the last time they had seen me eat like this? With enjoyment! My mum and sister were open-mouthed with wonder. Within a few minutes, I had polished off two doughnuts and, I have to say, they were the most delicious, amazing things I’d ever tasted. I looked up, grinning at them both, and they were speechless – I hadn’t even covered my mouth with my hand!
Anorexia was not going to rule my life, I was determined now; but I even surprised myself, eating those fatty, sugary foods without any problems. However, I realised now that food wasn’t the enemy – anorexia was. And any time I started to feel panicky or strange, I’d close my eyes and tell myself: You are in charge of your own destiny, not the anorexia.
Within a month, I was up to a very healthy 8 stone 7 lb, my target weight; I was going home at the weekends and doing great. I was also able to have semi-regular conversations and listen to what people said to me. It was a big step – I had been so lonely and isolated by the illness for so long now, my communication skills were bad. Obviously, it would take a long time, but I was definitely on the right track.
There was some discussion between me and the doctors now about leaving the hospital but one thing was clear to all of us – I couldn’t go back home. The trauma of my past was too deep and the situation still too fractured for me to cope. On my trips back to the flat, I saw how Katie and Sophie were now in the throes of their troubled teenage years, just as I myself had been, a few years before: there were boys, there was drinking, drugs and fighting. School hardly mattered to either of them and, though I wasn’t told all the ins and outs, I got the impression they were just doing their own thing. Mum seemed as impotent to stop them as she had been with me, four years earlier. Celine flitted between my mum and my aunt’s house and, meanwhile, Mum, sadly, was as depressed as ever. I felt cut off from it all and, in some ways, though I needed the separation, it made me feel terribly sad – the illness had robbed me of my closeness with my family.
On the cusp of turni
ng twenty, Dr Ballinger booked me into a rehabilitation unit. This was my first step towards independence and, from the first day I visited, I realised it would be perfect. The unit had lots of bedrooms, each with its own en-suite bathroom. There was a lovely dining room, a games room and secure entry by key only.
The day I left hospital – a sunny July day in 1989 – was strange and a little scary but I knew I was ready for it. I said goodbye to all the patients on the ward and to the doctors and nurses I’d grown to love over the past four years. These people had cared for me, helped me and saved my life on so many occasions. I didn’t have the words to thank them, but I tried.
‘I don’t need you to thank me,’ Fiona said, smiling, after we hugged and I apologised for not being able to fully express my gratitude. ‘It is enough to see you walking out of here, looking so happy and healthy, and well on your way to recovery. Seeing you succeed and beat your illness makes it all worthwhile. You’ve done so well, Tina, and we’re all very proud of you here. Don’t look back now – just keep moving forward. We know you’re going to live a very happy life.’
Her words brought tears to my eyes. I thought of all those weeks she’d seen me lying in bed, at death’s door, determined to kill myself. And she had never given up – none of them had. Somehow they’d kept the faith with me when I myself had lost all hope. How can you ever thank someone for that? How can you repay them for all the times they told you they believed in you when you didn’t believe in yourself? Their words, their love and care, had slowly repaired my troubled soul. All I could do now was prove to them all that I was never going backwards. From now on, it was all about living!
It didn’t take me long to settle into the rehabilitation unit – it was full of different people also making the adjustment to the outside world, like me, and there were staff and nurses on hand to support us at all times. I kept up with my therapy every other day and it felt like I was getting better all the time. And I made friends in the unit and began to listen to music and read a lot; I also visited my auntie Annette and my gran everyday. But I didn’t run to see them any more – I walked. My body was slowly healing from the trauma it had been through; I had no muscles left so everything had to be rebuilt slowly. My body was shapeless – the rare times I looked at myself in the mirror, I noted that I looked like a malnourished young boy with huge, baggy sweaters draped over me.
I faced one giant hurdle after another. First, I had to accept the re-emergence of my breasts. Before my eating issues kicked in, I had had quite big boobs so I knew, eventually, they would return – and although I dreaded them coming back, when they did, I just went out and bought a bra – I was a woman now and I had to get on with it. Accepting my shape was an inevitable part of my recovery and all those feelings of wanting to regress to childhood were gradually fading; I was on the path to accepting adulthood.
It was scary, but the therapy helped. Every day, I practised reinforcing positive thinking into my brain, replacing the negativity that at one time ruled my every waking moment. The anorexic voice in my head was gradually getting fainter and fainter – and when I heard it, I refused to listen. No, I had to get better and I wasn’t going to listen to her destructive, vicious words any longer.
The one part of my therapy that had so far been overlooked was my relationship with my parents. Anorexia is a whole other world – a very dark, lonely and desolate place, full of doubts and mistrust. You trust nothing and no one so you never want to tell anyone anything. Mum and Dad were now like strangers to me. I did not know what to talk to them about; I had nothing in common with them any more. So I said very little and felt I did not know them.
Kevin, my therapist, said there was a gap to be bridged and explained that he would like to talk to us all together, that it would be beneficial for all of us. I knew we needed this but, at the same time, it was very daunting. My feelings towards them were still so confused – I was angry, full of angst and yet deeply ashamed at the same time. I felt they had let me down and, then, after my anorexia had taken hold, I felt they hated me for putting them through such hell.
Our first session together was strange and tense. Kevin asked Mum to talk to me about how she was feeling.
‘I’m really happy with her progress,’ she began, choosing her words carefully. ‘Tina has missed all her teenage years and it’s a terrible thing. I wish I could have changed things. I love her very much. I’m just so thankful that she is moving on. She’s an intelligent young lady and I know she’ll be fine.’
I was so nervous now, I was shaking – Dad just sat there, nodding his head.
‘What else would you like to say to Tina?’ continued Kevin, gently.
‘I … erm … I don’t know.’
There was a silence then. I cleared my throat and shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Even now, I didn’t want to feel I was a burden on them, I didn’t want to push them into a difficult situation.
‘Okay, well, how has it been without Tina all this time?’ Kevin prompted.
‘It’s been very sad, not having her at home.’ Mum’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I’ve missed her a lot.’
Dad nodded and then added: ‘We were very worried – I thought I was going to lose my daughter.’
The tears were flowing now – I couldn’t help it. It was such a relief to hear them say that they loved and missed me. I could see there was no anger there at all, just love. I didn’t say much myself – I wanted to apologise but at the same time I was eager to tell them how much they had both hurt me. But I couldn’t – I couldn’t cause them any more pain. I was so conflicted after all this time and. though I knew this was an important part of the healing process, I needed time to disentangle my feelings towards them.
Two weeks later, Dad and I had a session on our own. I told him about the time he tried to see me, when I was 4 stone, and how it had been his determination to make contact and then the horror on his face when he saw me in bed that had made me want to get better. The moment I told him, I could see he recalled that day as vividly as I did.
‘Oh, Tina, I couldn’t believe it!’ he said, shaking his head and wiping away the tears. ‘To see you like that, it was awful. And the worst thing about it was, I couldn’t understand, I just couldn’t make sense of it. Why were you doing that to yourself? None of it was your fault! Everything that had happened between your mother and I – I know it was hard for you girls, but you were punishing yourself and I couldn’t bear that. It was me, I was to blame! All those times I didn’t show up – I’m so sorry. I know it affected you and, then, before I knew it, you were dying! You were dying right in front of our eyes and I didn’t know how to help you, none of us did. And I wanted to. So much. I wanted to put it right again.’
I couldn’t look at him now – it was hard to hear but I knew it was good for me. For the first time, my father was opening up to me, talking about the giant hole that had ripped through all our lives; apologising for the times he let my sisters and me down. It was what I needed to hear but, at the same time, I couldn’t bear him carrying this guilt around.
‘I didn’t understand it either, Dad,’ I tried to reassure him. ‘But you did help. You came and you showed me that you cared – it made a difference.’
For the first time in years, the barriers between my parents and me were breaking down. At last, we were all mending.
Sadly, my sisters were now out of reach. During my time in hospital, I had only seen them when my parents brought them in so, for four years, we had had very little communication. I would spend hours worrying about them. It broke my heart that I had left them alone to survive in the toxic atmosphere at home as I felt they were my responsibility. It took many hours of counselling to understand that I had blamed myself for the divorce and only after I had accepted that it was not my fault could I fully recover.
So I tried – I saw as much of Katie, Sophie and Celine as possible, but now they were dealing with their own issues. Celine was doing well at school but I could see she was upset by the fa
ct that she rarely saw Mum and Dad for one reason or another. Katie and Sophie, meanwhile, were out on the streets, getting into trouble. Katie had filled her ears up with tonnes of piercings; she had a full-on attitude problem now – very aggressive and confrontational. She and Sophie had bunked off from school so much, neither of them had any qualifications – they just ran around, doing their own thing. At seventeen, Katie fell pregnant, while Sophie, fifteen, was out getting high on cannabis, drink and anything else she could get her hands on.
I realised very quickly that all this had been kept from me while I was ill. And now, because it had become a habit, they still refused to open up to me, afraid that I could not cope with it mentally. It was infuriating. Mostly, I would just catch snippets of conversation, but when I asked what was going on, they all said it was nothing. It made me feel that I could not be trusted to rationalise or think like a normal person. I knew they didn’t want to upset me but the upshot was that I was always on the outside.
As time passed Mum and Celine moved to England to live with my gran, who was suffering from terminal cancer. Katie by now had left home to live with her boyfriend and Sophie was at our dad’s place. So now we were all separated for real and I saw them less and less. It killed me inside but I had to try to accept this was my life now and it was never going to be as before.
Instead, I tried to focus on my recovery. Food was no longer the centre of my world but I still tried to ensure I ate a healthy diet – lots of vegetables, pulses, grains, cereals, rice and yoghurt. I had missed food and all the pleasure it could bring so now I put on more weight and started experimenting with different products, trying out all the new vegetarian dishes as they hit the shelves. I bought food recipes and tried delicious pâtés, spreads and crackers.
Until now, I hadn’t thought about getting a job – I was on Disability Benefit for a long time after I got out of hospital – and, to be honest, I had no idea what I might be qualified to do. Then, one night, in the pub that Dad was now running, I bumped into an old school friend of his called John. He asked me if I was working. I explained that I had just recovered from eating issues and, thankfully, he said he knew about this as Dad had already told him. I was pleased Dad had been talking to his friends about what I was going through – it wasn’t a dirty little secret or something he was ashamed of. John offered me some labouring work with his daughter, Meredith, and, from the word go, I loved it. It felt so good to be building up my strength again and now I felt physically and mentally stronger. Every day, I carted heavy wheelbarrows filled with bricks on a building site and enjoyed every single minute of it.