LAST LONG,
MY SHELL SHOWS HAPPINESS,
INSIDE IS WEAK,
AM I A FREAK?
HOPING TO COPE,
SITUATIONS OCCUR,
ALL SEEMS A BLUR...
HEAD IN VERTIGO,
SENSELESS TALKING,
BRAIN IS WALKING,
I WISH IT WAS JUST ME,
PLAYING WITH FOAM,
I WANT TO GO HOME.
– EXTRACTS FROM MY POEM JOURNAL DECEMBER 1995, AGED 14 AND A HALF.
I didn’t feel that I had anyone to talk to about what was going on for me and I was trying to process a lot. Sometimes I would come home and accidently slam all the doors, just trying to get to my room to cry. I had no idea what an empath4 was then, but I did know that often times I would be filled with all sorts of crazy feelings and just have to cry into my pillow until I could breathe again.
Sometimes I would lie on my bed and write in my journal for hours; reams and reams of stuff I felt angry and sad and overwhelmed by. Most of it didn’t feel like mine. Sometimes I would write and cry for the starving children in Africa, or the girl I heard crying in the toilets at school. My belief about life was that it was messy. You couldn’t trust people. I found ways to stop it all feeling too overwhelming. At the time I thought I was doing great. I felt pretty unaffected by my family life. I felt sure that I was holding things together. I dyed my hair a different colour every week and began to find a style that was somewhere between punk rock and flower girl. Looking back I can see that I was incredibly ferocious and angry but putting on a mask of sugar and spice and all things nice. The only time I really felt good was when I climbed out of my bedroom window and sat alone, quietly gazing out over the rooftops and down to the sea, at the horizon and all its possibilities, while smoking a Lucky Strike cigarette.
Most of the time I felt vulnerable and scared and alone, and I didn’t know what to do with those feelings so they blurted out sideways and I acted out. I escaped from home as often as I could. I made myself a home from home. From 14 to 17 I had the perfect best friend. We met at a camp in Wales, but lived just a few streets from one another. She was cool. In my eyes she was the real deal while I was just an imposter. I wanted to be just like her. In term time she went to a grammar school and hung out with attractive, wealthy boys and in the holidays she hung out at the camps with all the attractive hippie boys. Everyone fancied her and I wanted them to like me as much as they liked her! Her mum was liberal and lenient and let me stay over all the time. For a while I practically lived at their house. My friend and I were alike in many ways, but also very different. I aspired to be just like her. I decided that she had the perfect blend of normal and unique. I felt sure that she was more popular than me and my belief was that it was because she was skinnier. I figured that if I could get skinny, then everyone would like me more.
Looking back over my diary entries while writing this book was both interesting and saddening. It became really clear, written there in black and white, that from the age of 14 until really relatively recently I thought and wrote really horrible things about myself over and over. It became habitual to put myself down, to call myself fat and ugly and stupid.
Knowing what I know now about how powerful writing down our beliefs can be for manifesting and creating, it is no wonder that I spent so many years at war with myself:
31ST JANUARY 1996
NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS:
I’VE DECIDED TO BECOME ANOREXIC OR SUCH LIKE.
NO FOOD... IT’S ONLY BEEN TWO DAYS SO FAR, BUT HEY – LET’S SEE HOW LONG I CAN LAST...
1ST FEB 1996
TODAY I ATE:
AN APPLE, 4 MOUTHFULS OF SPAGHETTI BOLOGNAISE.
2ND FEB
HALF A CHEESE SANDWICH. 2 RICE CAKES.
A YOGHURT AND AN APPLE.
TEN AND A HALF STONE. FUCK
3RD FEB
CHEESE AND MARMITE SANDWICH, PIECE OF TOAST,
A PIECE OF FUDGE, A PIECE OF PIZZA.
4TH FEB
GOT STONED. BINGED. 2 PACKETS OF SPACE RAIDERS.
CRÈME EGG. PACKET OF BISCUITS.
5TH FEB
I’M JUST A FATTY WHO CAN’T CONTROL HERSELF.
I CAN’T EVEN BE ANOREXIC!
I HATE MYSELF AND I WANT TO DIE.
The conversation I’d had with my dad all those years before about those two anorexic girls swirled around in my head and even though I was smart enough to know starving myself was not a good idea, I so badly wanted to look like I fit in. During the holidays I did my best to make excuses about meals and skipped as many as I could. After the first week I weighed myself at my grandma’s house and saw that I’d lost half a stone. Momentarily I was so proud. Then the hunger for better results kicked in. For those of you who have been lucky enough to escape addictive behaviour, I want you to think about when you get an alert on your phone, or a text message from someone you like. You get a little ‘hit’ – an endorphin rush. You want more. Have you ever messaged someone a question just to get a response? That’s how addictions start, curiosity. What happens if I say this? What happens if I do this? Searching for a rush, connection and a boundary.
When we went back to school I kept at it, cutting apples into pieces and sucking on them in class. Careful to never eat them, just suck the juice out. One day it was announced by one of our teachers that a girl from our class would not be coming back this term as she had been admitted to a special clinic for her eating disorder. Instead of being sad for her and her family like those around me, I was jealous. I can’t even do this as well as the other girls! The belief I had about myself was that I was failing at everything I cared about.
Later that term a well-meaning friend caught me not eating and told my parents. I promised it was just a phase and that I would start eating again. With everyone watching and a new-found emphasis on eating as a family or at the table I made the strategic decision to move on to bulimic behaviour. I wasn’t about to stop – I needed to get a body that would make my life better, and I also wanted to smoke a lot of weed.
The two were not congruent and the obvious solution was to make myself sick. I ate normally, and then ran off to the bathroom and stuck my fingers down my throat. Over time the rules were relaxed again and I was allowed out to see my friend. At hers we smoked pot and got high, binged on pizza and then drank pints of salt water to make ourselves sick. Sometimes we did this together, sometimes I did it alone. It made me feel closer to her to share this secret ‘naughty’ behaviour. I felt like we had found a glitch in the system and that we were tricking life. It felt good to have someone to share secrets with. It felt good to have someone who got me. It felt good to have someone to talk about boys with, to plan parties and fun times with. It felt good to belong.
But
