We lost the summer. My last memory can be traced back from the first week in May:
“Eleanor Davies, please go to Dr A********** in room 6.”
I tottered around plastered arms and hacking coughs, watching wheezing frames double over in the line of patients snaking around the room. I pulled my coat up to my face and breathed into the fleece. A trickle of warm air kissed my chattering teeth. I shut my eyes and tried to drown the cacophony of wailing and moaning and groaning. I tried to think.
Ellie: what are you going to say? What are you doing here?
You are weak.
She had cold eyes. They skated over me once, and a sour smirk unfolded over her lips.
You’re a waste of time.
“I just – I can’t – I won’t eat.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“I’m flying home in 10 days, I just need some advice. Please help me, I’m frightened.”
Her body shook with the force of that sigh. With pursed lips she began to click, click, click away at her computer. She kicked some scales out from under her desk.
Oh look, she is going to weigh us. How predictable.
“45kg.” Not good enough.
“Yes.” Go ahead, cry. See? Nobody cares.
“So … you think you have an ED. What do you want me to do for you? Why won’t you just eat?”
Nobody wants to help you.
“I’m scared. I just need to make it through the next 10 days, please help me.”
This doctor looked at me a moment, stretching out time. “HA” her laugh rattled through the chair and into my bones. “Well,” she said, trying to composed herself, “obviously don’t eat any less.”
“Well, I could refer you to an Eating Disorder specialist …” Hell no. “… or I can tell you to toughen up.”
We waited. Not good enough. We left.
In those 10 days, I lost 6kgs.
It has taken me 6 months to the day to restore the damage done in that doctor’s surgery.
Nobody cares, nobody will help you.
My weigh in today clocked on at 45kg. BMI: 14.9.
Time can’t be tempted, but Anorexia can.
I can control time.
It is a power Anonymous fed me in scraps. We made it smaller. Time is a wild thing, but I have been taught how to lock it up in a cage to waste away.
Woozy and drunk on depravity, it shrank with and away from me.
Anorexia tortured time: I was stretched thinner and life was squeezed smaller.
Routine rotted the day. Daylight would crawl from my 4:30 alarm to my midday black coffee, over treadmills and trembles, to the turning of Anonymous’ screw.
This will make you strong.
In recovery, I chase time around the clock. I check in at breakfast, lunch, supper. Each day, I am robbing Anonymous of her control over my time.
Recovery tames time so it can be used, not filled.
My days feel small, but are getting fuller, bigger. I can cope with doing more.
I can follow my train of thought just that little bit further; even if time does eventually catch up with me and my mind stumbles into a babbling outburst.
I can think ahead, and plan past the next hour into the next day. I don’t panic quite so often if lunch gets ruined: if I drop a carrot stick or the phone rings. There will be another lunch tomorrow. Tomorrow will happen, because I’ve planned for it.
Time will take me there.
I know time watches me.
Anonymous grooms the clock for opportunity, and makes me move. I still can’t sit still in the day, I still feel her fingernails scratching away at my nerves.
She makes me fill my daylight hours walking, pacing, twitching. Moving from one room to another requires detours up the stairs or around furniture.
Jump up. Move. Earn that food. Get through the next few hours.
My job is exhausting. Time spent at work is never compensated on my days off, because I find it difficult to sit still.
The bar of activity has been set now. Move.
If I keep myself distracted, the seconds won’t creep up on me.
My job may contrary to medical advice, but it is the reason I have clawed back that lost time.
Time pushes Ellie through the present because it knows there is freedom in the future.
In small licks, I can taste it. On New Year’s Eve, I stayed up to greet 2017. I watched fireworks, I hugged my friends. Anonymous was collapsed, exhausted from the day’s work, no doubt revelling in the hunger high she had been saving for us to share.
Ellie swallowed her solitude, washed down with supper, and spent an hour with a sparkler in her hand, grinning.
Recovery is like light: just a bit slower. Happy New Year everyone x