by Sandy McKay
Leon says her name’s Francine Colson and she’s been in here for ages, only she’s grown stranger and stranger. She got kicked out of group therapy a few weeks ago. I can’t imagine why anyone would get kicked out of group therapy but Leon says she’s got some pretty nutty ideas and she was always trying to stuff things up for the counsellor. Anyway, I was thinking ‘Francine Colson’ – why did that name sound familiar? And then I realised. Her initials are F.C. and she writes all this weird poetry.
One of F.C.’s poems:
‘Let me be weightless and airy and light, and maybe
I’ll find peace tonight.’
Or this one:
The Shape of Things
Whittle me down
As far as you can
Carve my angles tight
A work of art, a body part
Chiselled cheekbones,
Nice and thin
Wrists like twigs
Shape and trim.
Weird, huh?
Dear Jo,
Hmmnnn … those poems are pretty bizarre all right. They must have something to do with her illness.
I borrowed a book about anorexia from the school library because I thought it might help me understand. Only now I wished I’d got a nice cosy fantasy instead. Something with a good plot and a happy ending. (Or maybe I should have stuck with my usual – The Guinness Book of Records.)
Anyway, the book is called Dying to be Thin and it has five true-life stories of people with anorexia. One of the stories was about these twins called Penelope and Patricia. Apparently, Penelope was always the ‘chubby one’ until one day she decided she wasn’t going to be the ‘chubby one’ any more. So, she decided to become the ‘skinny one’ and five years later she was dead. The story was told from Patricia’s point of view, so it was like one twin watching her sister starve to death. It was so sad and I got all tearful and had to leave the class before anyone saw me blubbing.
So I read Theresa’s tale in the loos. Far out! This Theresa gets so thin that her tailbone actually breaks through the skin and … well, I didn’t read any more after that because the book really freaked me out. There are photos of girls who look like famine victims. One is, like, twenty-three and looks about a hundred and ten. This disease is scary, Jo. Your kidneys fail and your hair falls out. Do you seriously want to go to the formal with no hair?!
Dear Jo,
Please ignore my last letter. I’m sure you don’t need any more lectures or scare-mongering (is that the right word?).
What you need right now is gossip.
Okay … here goes. So guess who Marko Deans is taking to the formal? I’ll give you a clue. Her name starts with ‘A’ and she’s been going out with his best friend for the past six months. (Yes. Amanda Curtis!)
You should have been there. Marko and Dave had this big scrap outside ‘D’ block near that purple rhodo bush. We were just coming out of maths and there they were. Marko had Dave’s tie and was pulling it really tight and Dave was all red and sweaty. They were both yelling and swearing and some of the girls started squealing and then Mr O’Malley came racing out of class to break them up. But they just carried on hitting and kicking like Mr O’Malley wasn’t even there and you could tell he was too scared to get between them, like they were pitbulls or something. Tane Milton had to break them up in the end and they all got marched over to the principal’s office.
Oh, and guess what else?! There’s this new school rule. All Year Elevens have to do at least one culture option. It’s the new DP’s idea. Mr Stalker. Mum thinks the sun shines out of that guy’s bum, but that’s another story. Anyway … I’ve joined the school newspaper. Yes, me! Don’t laugh. It was a choice between choir, kapa haka, debating, or newspaper, and deciding which one I’d hate least. After serious consideration I figured that ‘newspaper’ was the only one that didn’t involve standing on a stage making a complete dork of myself. I know I’m useless at writing but I’m hoping to get a job as photographer, which might be good for a laugh and could also be a possible career option providing I steer clear of self-timing units and try not to chop everyone’s heads off.
Most of the others are from Year Twelve. There are two issues per month and we meet once a week on Tuesdays in the library. Doesn’t sound too daunting. I’ll keep you posted.
Not much else to report on the school front. In English, we’ve started reading A Slipping Down Life by Ann Tyler. I’m up to page 88, which is pretty good for me. We were having this discussion in English the other day. One of the characters in the book – Evie – gets a guy’s name tattooed on her forehead. (And his name is Drumstrings Casey!!) Well, Miss Haddock was talking about tattoos and stuff and Sarah Woodrow starts giggling down the back of the room. So Miss Haddock says what’s so funny and would she like to share it with the rest of us. And guess what? Well, Sarah rolls up her sleeve and shows the whole class this tattoo, which is like a proper tattoo of a heart with someone’s name in it. SAM F.! And it’s real. Sarah Woodrow?!! SAM F.! Can you believe it? Absolutely the last person on earth you would ever imagine with a tattoo! And who the heck is Sam F.?
Luv,
Issy
P.S. I found this joke book at a sale at Paper Plus in the weekend and I thought it might cheer you up. Read the one on page 13!
Dear Issy,
You?! Working on the school newspaper?! I don’t believe it! Next thing you’ll be signing up for library duty, buying ‘save the whale’ badges and hugging pine trees.
Hey, thanks for the joke book.
These are my favourites so far.
A bloke loses his dog. ‘Put an ad in the paper,’ says a friend.
So he does. A little classified reading, ‘Here boy!’
How do crazy people go through the forest?
They take the psycho path.
What do prisoners use to call each other?
Cell phones.
What lies at the bottom of the ocean and twitches?
A nervous wreck.
Leon put the one about the mental health hotline on the noticeboard:
If you are obsessive/compulsive, press 1 repeatedly.
If you have multiple personalities, press 5,6,7 and 8.
If co-dependent, please ask someone to press 2 for you.
If you are paranoid, stay on the line so we can trace your call.
If you are having a nervous breakdown, please fiddle with the # key.
If you have low self-esteem, please hang up. All of our operators are too busy to bother with you…
A couple of nurses raised their eyebrows at that. And mean old Morag took it down. Dot says not to take it personally because Morag has absolutely no sense of humour.
Dot is really cool, Issy. Some of the others don’t talk to you much. One really looks down her nose at us, in fact – but Dot’s great. She treats me like a proper human being and not some screwed-up teenager. And she tells me stuff about her own life as well. She’s probably not supposed to do that but she does and, I know it sounds weird, but it really helps to hear about other people’s problems sometimes.
You get pretty self-centred in here and you forget about normal people having issues. Like, Dot is on this anti-male rampage after discovering that her husband had been cheating for the past five years. And not only that but most of her friends knew and didn’t bother telling her. Gutted! Dot thinks that even her own daughter might have known about it. She asked me the other day what I’d do if I knew my dad was cheating on my mum. Would I tell? I said I didn’t know. For a start, I couldn’t imagine Dad doing that in the first place but I guess you never know. I don’t think Dot thought it would happen either. What would you do?
Dot’s favourite joke is on page 156:
Two women are having lunch together and discussing the merits of cosmetic surgery.
The first woman says, ‘I need to be honest with you, I’m getting a boob job.’
The second woman says, ‘Oh, that’s nothing. I’m thinking of having my arsehole bleached
.’
To which the first replies, ‘I just can’t picture your husband blond!’
I felt bad when I read your last letter, Issy. That sounds like a very depressing book to me and it pays not to believe everything you read. My tailbone is not going to come through my skin and I am definitely not going to die. I’m sure they exaggerate these things to sell books. I bet they had something really gruesome and eye-catching on the cover too, didn’t they?
As I’ve already mentioned – I am the fattest person in the ward by far.
Hey, guess what. There’s a swimming pool in the next building across. I only just found that out. It’s a lap pool. The doctor says when I put on another 3 kilos I might be allowed to use it. I haven’t swum for months. Not since you and I went to the salt-water pool on the bus that day and your wallet got stolen. Remember?! And it had all our money in it, plus all those Glasson’s birthday vouchers from your sisters. We had to walk home that day. And it was nearly eight o’clock by the time we got back and Dad went crook because it was Tuesday and he’d missed his rugby game. He reckoned he was angry because he was concerned about me but I’m sure it was because of missing the rugby…
Anyway, you’re not to worry because I’ve made some resolutions. I’ve decided I’m going to try really hard from now on. And I’m going to eat everything they give me because when I get to 50 kilos they’re going to let me out.
Oh well, I better go. There’s a group therapy session this afternoon.
Keep writing,
Jo
Dear Jo,
Good for you. You go, girl!
Hmmmnnnnn … Poor Dot. I don’t know what I’d do in that situation. I don’t think my parents have time for extramarital activities!!! Mum has far too many meetings as it is! Don’t think there’d be room in her hectic schedule for any sneaky rendezvous. I guess you never know though.
Yeah, I remember when my wallet got stolen. The ugly sisters never forgave me for losing those vouchers!
Group Therapy Homework:
Things I’m proud of doing:
Pitching a tent in the backyard, blindfolded. (I was seven at the time and it was for a Brownie badge and I was the only one who got it right first time.)
Swimming the whole length of the school pool underwater.
Completing 40 hr famine and raising $48.60 for Ethiopia.
Good things about my personality:
I am honest (usually).
I say what I think (mostly).
I have good will power.
Not so good things about my personality:
I hold a grudge.
I have a bad temper (sometimes).
I say what I think (aka having a big gob).
Dear Jo,
Meredith hates my formal dress. She thinks it’s the wrong colour and makes my bum look fat. She hates the bells, too, I can tell. Not that she comes out and says so. Oh no, she’d rather keep dropping these subtle hints. Like, ‘Are redheads supposed to wear purple?’ And ‘Have you thought about joining the gym, Issy?’ And, ‘Would you like a go on my new rebounder?’
No thanks, Meredith, I’ll just stay the way Mother Nature intended. She hates me saying that cause as you know she’s exactly the same build as me and would rather waste her life fighting against Mother Nature’s intentions. The fact is – big hips and thighs are part of the Muirhead gene pool. You’ve only got to look at Mum and Dad to see where I come from. And Meredith!
Make the most of what you’ve got and cover the rest with a baggy top, that’s my theory.
Dear Issy,
You are definitely the wisest person I know and I think you should hire yourself out as a professional cheerer-upper.
Luv,
Jo
P.S. ‘Make the most of what you’ve got and cover the rest with a baggy top.’ I like that. Might put it on our noticeboard. Does that go for baggy bottoms as well?
Dear Diary,
First I’d like to make it absolutely clear that this is absolutely not my idea. Blame the new OT. As well as making homemade chocolates, she thinks keeping a journal will be ‘beneficial for my recovery’. I told her I am not the journal keeping type but sometimes it’s easier to go with the flow and I don’t have the energy for aggro these days.
So I agreed, but only if she promised that no one can read it without my permission. You have to be careful about stuff like that. Issy’s cousin, Laura, kept a journal once. She had a crush on this boy from St Paul’s called Russell Richmond and she wrote all this stuff in her diary about him. But then her mother read it and freaked out. She acted like Laura was a raving nymphomaniac and wouldn’t let her out of the house for months.
I thought that was so unfair. It should have been the mother who was grounded for being such a nosey old cow.
Jo
Hi Sis,
It’s me, Matt!
Dad thought it would be a good idea for me to write you a letter. He says I have to write at least one page, which is why the letters are so big. As you know I’m not that great at writing but I’ll give it a go. Please excuse any spelling mistakes. Today is sunny. I hope it is sunny at your hospital. This term at school we are doing food technology, which is the same as cooking but they think boys will like it more if it’s called technology. Dumb, eh. Cooking is cooking and it’s much better than maths, whatever they want to call it – because at least you get to eat.
Anyway, on Monday we made Weetbix Delight, which is yummy and doesn’t take much technology to make. I put a sample in this letter for you to eat. Hope it’s not too squashed.
Recipe for Weetbix Delight
3 crushed Weetbix
1 cup coconut
4 oz butter, melted
1 cup flour
1 cup sugar
1 tsp baking powder
Add melted butter to dry ingredients. Press into sponge roll tin. Bake 15 mins in moderate oven.
Get well soon,
Luv Matt
Dear Diary,
Okay, where to start? This is so embarrassing, like going on a date or something. Not that I’ve been on an actual date. Well, not a proper one. Last year I went to the movies with a guy called Todd Pritchard. It was some James Bond thing. Anyway, things were going okay until half time when he asked if I wanted an ice cream. I said ‘no thanks’ but he bought me one anyway. Probably thought I was just being polite, except that polite is not really my style. I’m more of a straight talker. If you don’t want something, say so – that’s my theory. So I did. And when he came back with two ice creams I said it again. ‘No thanks.’ (Well, I hadn’t eaten anything for two days and I wasn’t about to ruin it for his benefit!) So then he had to sit there eating both ice creams, which served him right really but was kind of embarrassing for both of us. We didn’t talk much after that and he never asked me to the movies again. Or anywhere else, actually. Wonder why?!
So …
My name is Johanna Margaret Morrison. Margaret was my grandmother’s name but she’s dead just now. She was eighty when she died (which everyone said was a good innings) and had no distinguishing features apart from a fetish for crocheted doilies. (When she died they found 164 stacked in her hall cupboard. So Mum and Aunty Kay got half each.)
Anyway, I’m fifteen years old. They tell me I’ve got anorexia but they tell everyone in here the same thing. They’re into labels. And they want us all to get fat and roly poly out of here. Ye hah! But fat doesn’t mean happy, does it? Take poor Dot for example. She’s put on eight kilos because of what her slimey husband did behind her back.
Anyway, most of the patients in here are piles skinnier than I am.
I used to eat loads but now food makes me ill so I have to vomit, which is pretty disgusting, I know. But I can’t help it, which is why it’s better not eating in the first place. It’s easy once you get used to it. I can go without food for days. Eating makes me feel, like, so out of control. My favourite food used to be KFC. I could eat a whole five piece pack all by myself, plus potato and gravy
, chips and a large Coke. I’d die if I had to eat one now. I feel sick just writing about it. Have you seen how much fat drips out of that stuff??!! Did you know that one steak and cheese pie has a golf ball of fat in it?
Sometimes I think that if I started eating again I might never stop. And I might end up like Dot (who is a really nice person but a bit on the plump side).
Well, that’s all you’re getting for today.
Bye,
Jo
Dear Issy,
Why do bagpipers walk when they play? They’re trying to get away from the noise. Ha. Ha.
I think that’s what I’m doing in here, trying to get away from the noise. Except that it’s not working. But maybe I brought my own noise with me because usually the noise in my head is rowdier than anything outside. Sometimes it feels like pot lids crashing together with me stuck in the middle. Matt used to drive Mum mental when he got into the pot cupboard and started crashing about. She didn’t do anything to stop him though, just lay on the couch with her hands covering her ears. Either that or she’d take herself off to bed and leave me to deal with it.