MY BODY, MY ENEMY: My 13 year battle with anorexia nervosa. Claire Beeken
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‘I’m hungry,’ I tell the others, when we get back to the house after a night out with Rosaleen’s sister. Again I am horribly drunk. In front of everyone I walk through to the kitchen and fling open all the cupboards in search of crisps, bread, biscuits, anything. I find a packet of digestives and start stuffing them down one after the other. ‘Don’t!’ shouts Claire, but I am in a feeding frenzy and no one is getting in my way. ‘Stop it!’ she says, making a grab for the packet. My mouth bulging like a baby’s, I throw her a look of pure hate. ‘Leave me alone!’ I shriek, spluttering crumbs. ‘What the hell’s happening to you?’ says Rosaleen as she walks in, visibly shocked. ‘I want those biscuits!’ I yell as Claire snatches the packet. ‘You’re really ill,’ Rosaleen whispers incredulously. ‘I’m not ill!’ I scream. ‘Don’t you want me to eat? Am I too fat?’ ‘We’ve got to go to bed now,’ says Claire, trying to calm me down, but I’m not going anywhere without those biscuits. ‘I’ll bring them up in a minute,’ says Rosaleen, snapping into action, ‘Go upstairs.’ So I go and Claire helps me into my nightshirt and puts me to bed. Rosaleen brings the biscuits up, sits on the bed and lets me have three. I want more, but she won’t let me have any more and I bawl my eyes out.
Later, when Claire has gone to sleep, I lock myself in the bathroom and shove my fingers down my throat.
‘Did you eat while you were in Scotland?’ asks Mum, as she drives us home from the coach station. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Did she, Claire?’ she quizzes my friend, who is sitting in the back of the car. In return for her silence I’ve promised Claire that I will eat when I get back home. ‘Yeah,’ she says in a flat voice, and changes the subject.
‘Don’t bloody start that lark again,’ says Mum. ‘You’re going to sit down and you’re going to eat that.’ ‘I don’t want it! I can’t,’ I protest. ‘How do you think we feel? Lisa’s so ill, and here you are making yourself ill,’ says Dad. Desperate to get me to eat, my parents try various tactics. Making me feel guilty is one; issuing ultimatums is another. ‘You’re not going out, my girl, until you eat something,’ Mum says one evening. I go to the cupboard, get out a slice of Nimble, and ram it in my mouth. ‘There, I’ve eaten,’ I say and flounce out. ‘My God,’ gasps Mum, ‘you ate that like an animal!’
Every meal is a battle-ground, and I have honed my defence strategy. If it’s shepherd’s pie I eat some; then skim off the layer of mashed potato, hide my greens underneath and flatten down the mash so nobody realizes what lies below. Other bits of dinner go under my knife and fork. My most powerful allies are Drummer and our new Alsatian Sheba, who lie beneath the table – their mouths ever-open – waiting to devour the enemy.
‘You’re going to kill yourself,’ Mum and Dad keep saying. But I am trying to live: being light and empty is my way of living with myself, of surviving. Granddad hasn’t touched me since the day I stopped him, but I still hate my body. I can’t help thinking that if I could just rid myself of my dirty, disgusting carcass and float round the world, perhaps I’d be truly happy.
Each day I monitor my disappearance. Mum has banished the scales, so I go to work early and jump on those in the medical room before anyone else arrives. At every opportunity I sneak back in to weigh myself, and each night in the bathroom I run my body through a series of checks. We don’t have a full-length mirror at home, just a half mirror above the toilet. If I stand in the bath and twist round I can watch my fingers count down my ribs in the reflection. Then I get out of the bath and stand on the toilet to inspect my bottom half. I have to be able to put my hands round my waist till they almost join. ‘You’re still too big though,’ says the little voice, ‘you still take up too much space.’
‘Can I talk to you, Michael?’ I say to my brother one night, after a bad day at work. I am cold and in almost constant pain from the laxatives, which frightens me. ‘Mum and Dad are having a go at me about my eating again,’ I say. ‘Well, you’re stupid,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘But I’m scared of eating because I’m scared of getting big,’ I say, starting to cry. ‘And I’m taking laxatives,’ I snivel. It is the first time I’ve admitted this to a member of my family and I don’t really know why I choose Michael – he doesn’t have a clue what laxatives are. ‘They, er, make you go to the loo,’ I explain hesitantly. ‘Why are you taking them?’ he asks incredulously. ‘I feel lighter after taking them,’ I mumble, ‘but I’m scared because I’m in so much pain.’ He looks horrified. ‘I’ll tell Dad,’ he says, getting up to do so. ‘No, don’t tell Dad,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell Mum then,’ he insists. ‘Don’t tell either of them,’ I beg. But he does.
Mum and Dad go through the roof. I just want my family to understand me, but they are frightened by what’s happening to me, and fear makes them lash out. ‘What are you trying to do – kill yourself and kill us with you?’ yells Mum at the top of her voice. And Dad hits me across the face, hard. I go into hysterics, screaming so much that I can hardly breathe. I grab my handbag and run from the house. My brother tears down the street after me, but I am running so fast I give him the slip. Mum and Dad jump into the car and start to scour the streets.
I get as far as The Favourite pub and ring the McCanns. ‘It’s Claire. Please help me, please!’ I yell into the telephone. ‘Just tell me where you are, and we’ll come and get you,’ says Matt who’s picked up the phone. Ten minutes later I see Claire and her dad draw up outside the pub. As I come out of the building, Mum and Dad pull up as well. I run to my friend who bundles me into the back of her dad’s car. ‘You’re coming home with us,’ says Matt, getting out of the car to speak to my parents.
‘Come on, Claire,’ says Mum, peering at me through the car window. ‘You’re showing us up. Come home with us now.’ I bury my face in my friend’s shoulder. ‘What shall I do?’ ‘Stay. Stay with us,’ she whispers. But I’m scared to: I know my parents won’t like it. Matt’s saying to them, ‘There is no point taking her home and having a go at her. Your daughter is not well.’ ‘We just don’t know what to do,’ says Mum, starting to cry. I say goodbye to Claire and get out of the car. ‘Your daughter needs help; you’ve got to see she needs help,’ I hear Matt saying as I climb slowly into Mum and Dad’s car.
Too shocked to speak, we drive home in silence, and troop into the front room. Dad sits on the organ stool, looking beaten. Mum flops on the settee, her eyes fixing on her treasured photograph collection of pet Alsatians past and present. I curl up in an armchair in the corner and look at my lap. ‘I am so sorry,’ I say eventually, starting to cry. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ ‘We’ve got to get you sorted out,’ says Mum softly. ‘I’ll make an appointment for you to see the doctor.’
‘What can I do for you, Claire?’ says Dr O’Donnell, looking at me over his half-spectacles. ‘I’m having bad period pains,’ I lie. ‘Can I have some Ponstan Forte?’ Period pain? I’m not even having periods! ‘Of course,’ he says, writing out the prescription and handing it to me. ‘Thank you,’ I say, picking up my handbag. ‘Is there anything else, Claire?’ he asks. ‘No,’ I reply, starting for the door.
‘Can you step on the scales for me, please?’ he says, casual as you like. I freeze. ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘I just want to have a quick check on your weight,’ he replies. ‘No,’ I say, panicking. ‘Why not?’ he says. ‘I can’t,’ I reply, fear creeping into my voice. ‘You look very thin to me, Claire,’ he says. It suddenly dawns on me that Mum must have been to see him. ‘Well, looks are deceiving!’ I retort angrily.