Loneliness has cold hands.
In the winter of Anorexia they have been cracked and blistered, gnawed until raw by the frosty bite of neglect. Ellie is always surprised by their strength.
As I wrap my fingers around this pen, I watch bloodless crevices rip over my knuckles, and fraying shreds of feathery skin litter the cradle of my palm.
Loneliness has no expectations. No seeds of doubt or suspicion are sown, and no plump clumps of self consciousness are harvested. It is desolate, but safe. Anonymous encourages Ellie to let these tortured hands guide her into hibernation, because Anorexia relies on lonely: it is part of her history.
This time of year is hard.
I felt the leaves curl into corpses and shiver off the trembling branches. I felt the fragile sunlight trip under the darkened skyline. I felt the breath of frost cast over the twinkling Christmas lights.
Facing the cold when I am already shivering is hard.
Enjoying the warmth of company when I am burning in furious paranoia is hard.
Sitting through a carol service when restlessness stole the pleasure of heavenly peace is hard.
The weather outside is frightful, and Christmas is proving terrific in it’s plight to thaw Ellie out.
Holding the hand of lonliness, I am often tempted to hide.
I cancel plans last minute, foolishly believing Anonymous that only her company will bring me comfort.
Friends smell of spring, and Anonymous panics. What if they tell me I “look well”? Surely, that means I look recovered? Fat even? That I must be a fake? That this illness isn’t there?
“Well” means none of these things, Ellie.
With only Anorexia as company, “well” is only a controlled cycle that begins and ends in winter.
Let us take a moment to admire the darling buds of recovery that are peeping out of the cracks in the ice:
This sprig here grew when I actually managed to go to that carol service, venturing outside after dark. A month ago, I had to leave fireworks night before the torches were even lit: I was so tired, and so cold.
This bud sprouted when I ate my soup at the table as my family devoured a succulent, steaming roast. I didn’t panic about the greasy aroma wafting around the dining room. We shall call that a practice run for Christmas day.
This shoot is particularly fresh: I went on a date. Quite an achievement for someone who is barren of desire but brimming with nerves.
This seed has a plumage of proud petals: I received an offer from the University of York to begin studying there next year. These roots of recovery are anchored deep into the ground, slowly squeezing Anonymous dry. I never want to go back to Manchester university: it is full of ghosts. This would be a fresh start, a sign of spring.
Before we finish this horticultural spectacle, allow me to explain this tomato stained shrub here. It marks the spot where an unbroken rule was breached: don’t throw food at Anorexics. (This is not an endorsement.)
I was caught in a crossfire during a food fight at work (don’t ask), which resulted in a gleaming, grease coated tomato to land on my left shoulder with a sticky squelch.
Alas: I didn’t look down and scream. I didn’t look down at all, nor did I hear the shrill cursing of Anonymous, telling me the calories would diffuse through my skin – I think she was more taken aback than Ellie was.
Instead, I stripped on the spot.
Like loneliness, recovery battles are strong but brittle. I must confess my failure to win a war I have been waging for 3 weeks: that of the forbidden fruit.
Full, fleshy and ripe bulges blush in the fruit bowl. Apples with fine stretched skin; shining zests of oranges and smooth leathery bananas. Even a pomegranate, crimson and glowing.
Ellie loves fruit. Even Anonymous can tolerate it during wartime.
So, when asked by my nutritionist: why won’t I eat that “extra” portion? Why do I find it so hard to sink my teeth into something so submissive? Why am I filled with shame when confronted by these bursts of nectar?
It is the word “extra”. T’is the season to be “extra”.
Indulgence and anticipation saturates the air of Christmastime, and there is expectation to be “extra”.
I am “extra” nervous, “extra” restless, and “extra emotional.
When gathered in a crowd, Ellie feels “extra” distanced. I will not let the frosty bite of shame silence my tongue that is crying out for fruit. With the excitement of Christmas, I am “extra” on edge, and “extra” thankful.
Thank you, for helping me get to see Christmas with my family, and with my friends. I didn’t think I would make it this far, and I am so grateful to be home.
Merry Christmas, with love from Ellie xx