Losing It

by Sandy McKay

  We talked about it for a while. How people get addicted to things like cigarettes and even numbers and tidy bedrooms and throwing up.

  When you think about it, the world must be full of addicted people. The question is, how come only some of us end up in mental institutions?

  D,

  Solitary confinement again. Bed rest. No privileges. No showering. Nothing to read and no one to talk to because Dot’s been away all week. I miss her when she’s off work. She’s such a hoot and the only one here with any sense of humour. She reminds me of Mrs Jordan (a bit plumper but just as kind). Like, the other day she brought me a tin of homemade fudge. If only I could eat it… If only the smell of it didn’t turn my stomach…

  Anyway …

  Last night I had this dream about Charlotte. She had grown huge and was stalking across me with big hairy legs (which, incidentally, were even worse than mine). Right across my face until I woke up screaming. The bedclothes were off and I lay there shivering and feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t have the energy to cover myself up so I just lay there. Pathetic, huh?!

  Leon has gone home for a few days and I’m really worried about him. He’s got very quiet and seems more confused than ever. Plus, he gets this weird kind of look in his eyes sometimes. I think he feels responsible for his mum and dad’s break-up. Like, if he were the perfect son it’d all be okay. Yeah, right! It really does my head in sometimes.

  From what I can work out, his mum is totally in charge and his dad just follows along to keep the peace. They blame each other for Leon being in hospital. It’s like they think being gay is somebody’s fault. Leon was dreading going home. I think now that they’ve moved back together he feels responsible for that as well: as if they think that now they’re going to all live happily ever after, their son won’t have to be gay any more. Bollocks!

  I wonder sometimes if feeling sad is contagious. If it is, then places like this must only make matters worse. For example, since I’ve been in here my exercise regime has gone completely to pot. And exercise is supposed to be good for you. Isn’t it? They can’t have it both ways.

  I have become such a slug. I can’t remember the last time I did some sneaky press ups and these days I can’t even be bothered to read. I used to love reading. Getting lost in a book was, like, the best thing in the world… Tamora Pierce and Sheryl Jordan were my favourite authors. But these days I can’t concentrate on anything longer than a page. This letter has taken me all morning to write but who cares. I’ve got nothing better to do.

  D,

  It’s the middle of the night and I can’t sleep because the gap in these curtains is irritating the hell out of me. Everything irritates me these days. It’s like having constant heat rash and I want to scratch myself raw. In fact, writing is the only thing that keeps me sane.

  Sometimes I feel like I’m down a black hole. Or I’m in that water with the eels – going round and round, getting all tangled in the weed. I lay here last night looking at the painting and trying to will myself into it. It was like I wanted to be right there in that sea with the waves thrashing and the undertow dragging me down. They say drowning is a nice way to go. But how do people know stuff like that? Maybe they just make it up. There was a story in the Woman’s Weekly about a baby drowning in an inch of bath water. Sometimes I think you don’t need any water to drown.

  I haven’t had a letter in ages. They’re keeping them from me until I start eating again. Maybe I could drink something. Maybe I’ll have some yoghurt. Maybe … But my mouth is cracking at the sides and I’ve got ulcers on my tongue. I am ugly. Ugly. Ugly.

  Dear Jo,

  School is so, so, so, so boring just now. Mr Tafea is making us memorise formulas for Science and for History we are studying Adolf Hitler, except that I’m not going to do my essay because I think that man’s had far too much publicity already. I think it would be better to study someone who’s made a positive contribution to world history like Gandhi or Martin Luther King, Jr. or even Elvis Presley. Hey, at least he brought some joy into the world. What is it with writing essays about warmongers? Seems like you get to do all the good people at primary school and then when you get to high school they hit you with the monsters.

  My career as a photographer took a major blow yesterday when we tried to publish the formal photographs and got a row of ghosts instead. Complete balls up.

  So the newspaper people now think I’m a total moron.

  Dear Issy,

  No one thinks you are a moron. You are the sweetest smartest girl on the planet and don’t let anyone tell you any different.

  Jo

  P.S. I know why they make us study Hitler. It’s because he was so evil and wicked and they think if we learn about why he was like that then all that evil won’t happen again. But some people are born evil and that’s that. Some people only ever think about themselves. Some people have absolutely no feeling for others…

  P.P.S. Have you run into that Tim guy again lately?

  Dear Jo,

  Thanks for that completely biased summary of my personality.

  Yes, I have run into Tim again. Twice! But I’ve decided to steer clear because every time I see him I turn into a complete drongo. Honestly, I don’t know what gets into me.

  Remember how I told you about that elevator thing I have going in my tummy? Well, that feeling has now evolved into something more serious: with my mind going completely blank, my voice coming out all screwy and my brain losing the ability to form sentences.

  It’s a bit like stage fright and instead of wowing him with warm and witty conversation I go ‘Duh, uh, umm yeah.’ Then I giggle and go bright red. Might as well dye my hair blonde and be done with it.

  All my love,

  Issy

  P.S. I don’t agree about the ‘evil’ thing because I don’t think anyone’s born evil. It’s society that makes them like that.

  Dear Issy,

  Sorry, I have no advice on the ‘boy’ front. The only male contact I’ve had for the past couple of months has been Leon and he doesn’t really count in that respect.

  P.S. Please don’t go blonde on me – you are absolutely not dizzy enough to pull it off.

  Dear Jo,

  Breaking news.

  The other night Kate shouted me to a movie. Yes, I know, I was as shocked as you. (I think it was a sympathy thing.) Anyway, it was Kate’s treat and she chose this movie called River Queen, because it’s a New Zealand film and there was all this controversy and also because she knew someone who worked on the set as a stand-in or something.

  Well, about three-quarters of the way through, I notice this familiar head shape two rows in front. (Hey, I’d recognise those ears anywhere.) It’s Tim. Luckily the movie is nearly over, because now I can’t concentrate. Not trusting myself to carry out a casual conversation I decide to evacuate my seat asap, which would have worked out fine if it hadn’t been for Kate wanting to sit through to the bitter end so she can see her friend’s name come up on the credits.

  Of course, this time he sees me and he gets this big dopey look on his face. We say hello, and I go through my ‘dah, um, er bright red face’ routine again. But then he introduces me to this girl called Geraldine. I hadn’t noticed anyone with him before that and suddenly I feel like such an idiot.

  And to make matters worse Kate starts going on about how she reckons he fancies me and I know she’s only saying it because she thinks that’s what I want to hear, but I don’t. Because what I want to do is scream and say, oh, yeah, right, maybe that’s why he has someone called Geraldine strapped to his arm!

  Advertisement on chemist shop window:

  Lose weight. Gain control. Lose weight.

  Gain control. Lose weight. Gain control.

  Lose weight. Gain control. Lose weight.

  Gain control. Lose weight. Gain control.

  Ask your chemist …

  D,

  They are going to put me on a potassium drip. I will be hooked up to a heart monitor and hav
e my temperature taken every hour.

  D,

  Aunty Kay said that when I was a kid I was built like a pencil but now I was starting to get curves – like Mum. That’s what started me off – a silly thing like that.

  I can remember the day I started my diet. It was Saturday, November the sixteenth.

  I used to keep my old exercise books from school in a box under the bed. So I found one that was only half full and started writing down goals. First up, I promised to write down everything I ate for the next two weeks. It felt good to have a plan and be in charge for once.

  The next day I ate absolutely nothing all day except for one piece of fish (without the batter) and seven and a half chips. (No kidding – that’s what I wrote – ‘seven and a half’ chips!) I recorded every single thing I ate (every sip and every crumb).

  Example:

  Monday – One slice toast with Marmite. One sausage.

  Eight glasses of water.

  Tuesday – One pottle mixed berry yoghurt.

  Wednesday – Two sausage rolls and half a Weetbix.

  It was easier than I thought. I could go without eating for a whole day if I tried. Nothing to it! In fact, if I stayed busy and away from food it was a doddle. Will power and water! That’s all you need. And I had truckloads of both. Missing breakfast was a breeze because Dad was too busy to notice and he doesn’t eat breakfast anyway. I felt guilty turfing out the lunch he made me, but it was all for a good cause.

  If Dad worked late he left dinner in the fridge for Matt and me to heat in the microwave. Sometimes I ate the vegies but usually I biffed the whole lot in the compost heap, under the grass clippings, so he wouldn’t find out.

  Not eating isn’t nearly as hard as you think. You go through the hunger and out the other side. Endure, ignore and eventually it goes away. Eventually. Usually. (Well, mostly!)

  Except that every now and then hunger arrived like a great huge bear demanding to be let in. Bang! Bang! Bang! Growling in fury and making a fist in my belly. Sometimes I gave in to it, scoffing everything in sight – stuffing it down in a frenzy. Cold pies, raw bacon, stale bread. Whatever was on hand. The more revolting the better, because eating is disgusting. I am disgusting. Puking into the rubbish bin is disgusting, too. But not as disgusting as not puking. Not as disgusting as having curves, like Mum. I got back on track fast, recording everything in my notebook:

  ‘Tomorrow not one morsel of food will pass my lips. Tomorrow I will run ten kilometres without stopping. Tomorrow …’

  Tomorrow I go on the potassium drip.

  Dear Jo,

  Guess what?! Geraldine is his sister. Isn’t that a coincidence?! Both of us at the movies with our sisters!! I only found out yesterday. Feel so much better now.

  He says, ‘Do you like the movies?’

  I say, ‘Sometimes.’

  He says, ‘I only went because my sister shouted?!’

  I say, ‘Really? Me too!’

  (Fancy that, eh!)

  Luv,

  Issy

  Group Therapy Homework:

  I feel powerful when … I am hungry

  My best asset is … My will power

  Dear Mr Morrison,

  As discussed over the phone we have placed your daughter Johanna on a potassium drip. We would also like to recommend a family approach. In our experience psychotherapy works well in combination with family therapy. Please phone or call and we’ll make an appointment to discuss further treatment.

  Yours sincerely,

  Neville Fraser (Dr)

  Noticeboard:

  OT – This week we’ll be continuing with collage.

  D,

  We had this discussion about Francine in group today. If Veronica was trying to scare the pants off us … well, I guess it worked. They say she is going to die soon because her organs are failing.

  They’re always on about people dying from anorexia but you don’t believe it. Not really. I mean, how can anyone die from being too skinny?!

  One night, at home, I ate a whole loaf of cheese and onion bread. I didn’t mean to – I just started picking at the cheese and before I knew it I’d scoffed the lot. That’s how it happened. I’d start off small and lose control. Then I’d get the hiccups and vomit in the toilet.

  The next morning I felt like crap. I was sick and tired of being like this. It was such a pathetic way to be. Then I had an idea. I knew what I had to do. It’s weird when I think about it now, but back then it seemed like the perfect solution.

  All I needed was scissors.

  And the only scissors I could find were the ones Dad used to cut his toenails. They’d have to do. I started on my fringe, slicing my way from left to right – chomp, chomp, chomp, the more uneven the better. Then I just went for it until all my hair was scissored up. In the end I was chopping it down to the scalp – slicing in from different angles. I don’t know what came over me but it felt right. It looked dreadful but I felt strangely satisfied. It was like I deserved it.

  But … oh, my God! What a mess. I must have looked like a demented witch and when Dad came home my hair was all over the kitchen floor.

  Dear Jo,

  Remember the 40 Hour Famine? Remember how we got sponsored and stayed the night in the scout hall? Can you believe that was a whole year ago? Mrs Hopkins has been asking for volunteers again but I said, no thanks, I’d rather walk a mile on hot coals than go without food for that long!!

  Issy

  D,

  The 40 Hour Famine was when Issy and I had our fight. Well, it wasn’t a fight exactly but it was a pretty bad argument because we ended up not talking to each other for three days, which is the most time we have ever not spoken for, apart from lately, that is. These days we write instead.

  Anyway, Mrs Hopkins organised it through school and you had to get sponsors who paid you fifty cents an hour for not eating. All the money went to the starving people in Africa. Good idea, huh? Awesome. In fact, I reckon we should do it more often. We should have regular five-day famines to make up for having so much to eat when most of the world has nothing. Or maybe we should starve ourselves every Friday and donate the proceeds. Last year I raised $48.60.

  Anyway, the famine is great. You get to chill out and you’re not expected to do anything except not eat, which is cruisy. People bring along videos and there’s a pool table and stuff. Mostly Issy and I lie about reading and playing cards, which isn’t hard work at all. In fact, it’s cool having an excuse to not eat.

  But Issy is hopeless and after just two hours without food she is ready to pass out. ‘It’s my low blood sugar problem, Jo,’ she reckons. More like her low will power problem, I reckon. Issy cheats. The rule is you’re allowed one barley sugar every hour so I give her my rations but still it’s not enough because (to delay the onset of malnutrition), she sneaks in a packet of Pineapple Lumps, two boxes of Jaffas, and a king-size Grainwaves. And I think it pisses her off that I won’t join in with the Pineapple Lumps. ‘Come on, Jo. No one’s gonna know. Just a few lollies. And since when did you become such a goody two shoes?’ But it’s not about other people knowing, is it? That’s not the point. YOU know! And that’s what counts.

  Anyway, I must be a stubborn cow because I don’t stop after forty hours like the others. They have this big countdown when the time’s up – 5, 4, 3, 2, 1!!!, like New Year’s Eve. And everyone starts cheering and hugging and putting in their pizza orders. But pizza is the last thing I feel like. Big, fat, globby pizza?! No thank you. What about McDonald’s? says Issy. Nah! Not for me.

  That’s when Issy gets fed up and we have our argument, with her saying I am weird and nutty and vain and what the heck’s got into me these days and me saying she’s got no will power and anyway she’s just jealous. So I go home and she stays for pizza and we don’t speak for three days.

  They are the worst three days ever, which is why I decide to keep my eating plan a secret – basically so Issy and I can be friends again without her thinking I’m really weird or being
jealous because I’m losing weight.

  It’s hard though. I have to work things so she won’t know. Like, if I’m over at her place and her mum asks me to stay for dinner then I have to make up some excuse like I’ve already eaten or I’ve got a tummy bug or Dad said I have to come home for dinner because he’s gone to a lot of trouble. I get good at making excuses. And if I absolutely can’t get out of eating then I throw up. You have to do it straight after, before the food gets digested. The trick is this – run a tap so no one hears, use the toilet spray and suck on Tic Tacs so your breath doesn’t smell.

  Dear Issy,

  I thought we weren’t going to mention that famine…

  Dear Jo,

  Okay then, we won’t.

  I wish you could meet Tim. He has this cute little turned up bit on the end of his nose like a ski jump and he has a kind of bouncy walk. Not too bouncy though. Not like a nerd or anything – well, not quite.

  We are onto Shakespeare in English now. Romeo and Juliet. Romeo, Romeo, wherefor art thou … Miss Haddock got Danny Snell to read Romeo and he’s in full flight when suddenly he cracks a high. How embarrassing – I am so glad that voice thing doesn’t happen to us. I would be mortified to crack a high in front of everyone. Wouldn’t you?

  No more news. Sorry.