An Apple a Day (5 page)

It was there on the stairwell as dawn broke and rain fell that we finally talked openly about anorexia.

* * *

Tom had been reading about insomnia on the Internet, trying to understand what was going on, and he had some theories about the cause. In my case, my diet. He explained, “Em, you're doing huge amounts of exercise and sometimes you don't eat all day. I'm no expert, but think about it, by the time you lie down at the end of the day your body is simply in deficit; it can't unwind because it's not relaxed. You need to eat more throughout the day; it's just about meeting your energy requirements. If you ate regularly, your body would be able to relax at night and switch off. Don't you think?” He was closer than he realized, of course, and I nodded, awkward and silent. Of course it seems obvious now, but this was the first time we'd discussed it; I felt unmasked, as if he'd been reading my thoughts.

I explained to Tom, as if I were being rational, that I had lost the ability to sleep. And I couldn't stand up or go back to bed, I couldn't go downstairs to the breakfast room, because I simply couldn't go on . . . After listening to this monotone patiently he
finally took control, marched into the bathroom, and ran me a bubble bath.

It's miraculous the way something as simple as a cup of coffee or a hot bath can rescue us at a moment of real crisis. Otherwise how would we go on? I think this is what separates humans from animals.

I lay back in the bath and Tom closed the door. I could hear him through the wall, straightening up the bedroom. (I would feel guilty except that I have tidied so many hotel rooms after him—wet towels on bathroom floors and bedrooms littered with wine glasses.) I was ashamed of myself, uneasy with the night's events. I wasn't used to showing anyone my weakness. I soaked the washcloth in the hot scented water and brought it to my face, pressed down on my cheeks and forehead, massaged my aching eye sockets. It was dark and warm beneath the damp compress. I wanted to stay in that bath, eyes closed, hiding from it all. It was just a hot bath, but it saved me.

When I was wrapped in a white bathrobe and sitting on the newly made bed, Tom went downstairs for a breakfast tray, carefully selecting foods he knew I could eat. In a parallel universe—the world without anorexia—I would start the day with Danish pastries or croissants, buttered toast and raspberry jam, nutty bread or sourdough or oven-warm rolls. Yes, I love food—I love the same delicious food as everyone else. But I can't eat it.

Instead I had gallons of coffee and a plate of fruit: chunks of pineapple, sliced kiwi, and strawberries. I realized how good it tasted and how dehydrated I was from lack of food and sleep. Tom checked that I had enough coffee and then ate quickly: two slices of toast and a brown roll with cheese and ham.

How come he could eat? This is one of those stupid petulant thoughts you have with an eating disorder:
Why is he so greedy? How does he eat all that lovely food and stay slim while I have
to starve myself?
You crunch grimly through another apple, not thinking clearly about the fact that no one is stopping you from eating; in fact they would do anything to feed you those healthy foods too.

After breakfast we sat on the bed in our bathrobes talking, our heads resting together against the pillows. Tom reminded me of the positives, all the good stuff in life, everything we have to look forward to. For the first time he talked about children. “Remember how much you love babies; just think of how wonderful it will be when you have one of your own.” I realized we were talking about having babies together, and my heart banged hard against my chest. Tom continued, “At the airport yesterday, remember that family and their children—when I watched you playing with that tiny baby, I'd never seen anything so beautiful, Em. And I've seen you with Katie's children”—my big sister Katie has three children, two girls and a newborn boy. “I've seen you holding baby Theo and I know you'll be such a natural mother.”

I didn't want to ruin that moment, for it was special, but I knew I had to tell him the truth. I managed to murmur something that I knew Tom needed to know, something to the effect that I can't necessarily have babies at the moment. I can't recall what I said but it was incomplete and ashamed, for that's how I felt and still feel. Tom asked me a few questions, quietly, gently. He said he would support me to eat more, a little at a time. This frightened me of course; any thought of eating more still threatens my stubborn sense of autonomy. He told me that I'd never get fat, just that I needed to eat for my fertility, my sleep, our happiness.

It was important to talk about it, I know that now, but God, I felt exposed. I knew I couldn't go on with this secret forever; that's what adults do: they talk about difficult things. Tom didn't judge me or scorn; in fact he didn't seem that surprised. He had already made the link between how little I eat and how much I
exercise; he understood my vague references to ovaries “shutting down.” I explained it was temporary and reversible: according to my doctors I'm not infertile, just underweight. Tom kept saying he loved me and would do anything to help me get better, a little at a time.

Once the eating disorder topic was out there it amazed me that we were discussing it. The language was slightly evasive, but we were actually talking about it. We talked of low body fat, my overly healthy lifestyle (ha!), excessive exercise, but we did not use the term “anorexia.” In fact we never said “anorexia” until
The Times
printed it—and to this day we both still hesitate before using that word.

* * *

For the rest of the weekend it was as though a layer of skin had been peeled away from me: I was raw. What I remember now from Copenhagen—as well as the eco-hotel and the sauna and cycling in the rain around the hippie suburb of Christiania—was that time with Tom, that new beginning. Ever since that terrible night and morning, there's been a new level of openness between us. How amazing: this man, who accepts me as I am.

But it isn't stable; nothing is. Sometimes I'm glad he understands and loves me anyway; at other times I feel angry at the invasion of my privacy. When I'm having an episode of the “mean reds” I think Tom needs me to be weak like this, broken. Most men like to feel useful: does my being “unwell” give him a useful purpose? Maybe this “saving me from myself” enables him to reach me in a way that my cast-iron barriers don't normally allow?

A few days after we got back from Copenhagen I was talking to my big sister, trying to explain how exposed I felt. Thinking back to that conversation with Katie I can see how frightened I was. It
wasn't anger with Tom so much as fear of recovery, the same old fear of opening up: that someone would help me, would force me to face this.

Was it the right thing to have done? Share and share until he knows everything, until there's nothing left for me? Ever since we talked about food and weight and health issues, it seems I'm expected to be open about everything. I have always found this difficult: at times I feel prickly, uncomfortable in my own skin. It nags at me that he knows so much; now that we've discussed anorexia, there's nothing private left. Why must I tell him everything just because we're in a relationship? Sometimes I feel stripped of my dignity; I want to run very far away.

Even now, two years later, I still feel a sense of loss. Why did we talk—why did I open up like that in Copenhagen? I've been forced into sharing and I hate it: this is my problem, my private hell, this is for real. Now my issues about eating are casual conversation topics:
We need to fatten you up; I'm going to bring you a bagel; Promise me you won't skip lunch
. I never wanted anyone to help me, I never asked for it.

* * *

Tom and I have been through turmoil, but there's also a lot of happiness. We talk and laugh and read and write endlessly, we're always running off for another adventure, or calling each other with new schemes and plans, lying in bed together, or sharing a bath.

Would I have done this on my own? I'm not sure. In many ways this relationship with Tom is central to my journey of recovery. Despite our individual failings—my stubborn independence, his irrational jealousy (of any man who comes within a mile radius of me—any male friend, colleague, acquaintance, or stranger)—
mostly it seems to work. On that rainy February evening, that unlikely blind date, we found each other—and we might even make it through. No relationship is perfect, and I think we're both learning to compromise.

* * *

One morning last week, for example, a burst of optimism. Usually I find January the bleakest month but this year I feel positive, full of hope: it's a new year and I'm determined to make progress. I had stayed overnight at Tom's flat, and we were sitting at the breakfast table, sharing the newspaper, discussing the headlines, grumbling companionably about going to work, sipping our coffee and eating—raspberries for me, toast and jam for Tom. I'd slept badly and the tiredness would catch up with me later, but for the time being there was nowhere else I'd have rather been. I looked at Tom, his hair wet from the shower, his blue shirt and jeans, gobbling his toast as if it would run away, and I felt acutely happy. After so many years of guarding my own space, it feels good to be normal: sitting at the breakfast table, eating together, starting the day with another human being.

I cycled off to work. Two hours later I received this email:
Em, I believe in you absolutely. I'm filled with hope about the future for us and hope you are too . . . Waking up next to you in the morning is the best way to start the day. When I think of my life a few years ago when you didn't exist for me, it was just a different existence, as though I was living on another planet. T x

There is so much worth struggling for; when our relationship is good it's the best. Tom and I have been through a lot, but he can stay or go; he is an adult and it's his choice. I recall that line in
On the Road
, “I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion,” and wonder why he's with me . . . but I'm starting to
understand that most of us feel this way most of the time, a bit ramshackle, a bit confused.

If there's any point to love, surely it's to make us strive to be better people—kinder, more generous. With Tom, I want to be a nicer version of me for him. Every day I try to think of myself less, to put him first, to get outside the depression and anxiety of the eating disorder. As anyone who has been close to a sufferer will know, anorexia is more than a problem with food. It doesn't just surface at mealtimes. It's a constant conflict, a state of internal warfare. Yes, it's like I've declared war on myself.

I often remember something my great-aunt, Virginia Woolf, wrote in her novel
Night and Day
: “Of course I behave badly, but you can't judge people by what they do. You can't go through life measuring right and wrong with a foot rule.” Don't get me wrong: it's no excuse. I'm responsible for everything I do and say. I try not to blame my bad behavior on anorexia, but remember this is not a diet gone wrong; it's a mental illness.

Mental illness, sickness, disease—I never thought I'd be involved in any of this. I don't enjoy appointments with doctors or psychiatrists, and I don't think of myself as a victim. But who knows what life has in store for you—and who knows who you'll fall in love with? I know this has been a huge learning curve for Tom, but I am who I am, and this condition is what it is. Would it sound lame if I said that anorexia was never my choice?

I do have a choice now, and that's to recover. So, I keep trying.

Chapter 3

It's a Family Affair

T
here was another reason I decided to out myself: it was also for my family. So much worse than going through this myself has been watching what I've put other people through: the constant anxiety etched on their faces; my inability to eat, their inability to pull me out of this trap. Worst of all has been watching what anorexia does to the family, especially to my parents. My mum and dad dreaded every new twist into this anorexic descent, never knowing what to expect next, how much more food I could cut out.

For an illness that is so focused on individual self-destruction, anorexia has surprisingly long tentacles. I thought it was “my own business” but it soon spread all around me, snaking its way into the heart of my family. And while I was busy with the painful private struggle, it wasn't just me who was suffering.

I remember one evening in those early years when I was at my thinnest, twenty years old, in my bedroom at home. I couldn't sleep because I hadn't eaten all day: the cramps and the acid were eating away at my stomach lining; my bones ached on the mattress, unable to settle in a comfortable position. Finally I got out of bed and crept downstairs to make a hot drink—peppermint or camomile, anything calorie-free to ease the hunger. There was a light on in the kitchen so I stopped in the hallway, realizing that
my parents were still up, not wanting to interrupt. As I turned to go back upstairs, I overheard my mum saying to my dad,“ . . . but I just feel so helpless, watching her starve.”

How could I hear something like that and carry on not eating? I know how selfish it was (and still is), how self-centered it all sounds. I could pretend I was just in denial, but it's not as simple as that. I was aware of the pain I was causing my parents, but I had shut myself off. Even if I'd wanted to stop, I didn't know how to. Back then, the anorexia was stronger than everything else.