over Claire and rush to the loo. The pain is excruciating – my insides seem to be cascading into the toilet along with their contents. I cling to the toilet seat and boil with a terrible fever. A high-pitched buzzing fills my ears and everything goes black. When the pain subsides and my vision clears I clean myself up as best I can, and head back to my seat, barely able to walk. ‘Thank God that’s over,’ I say to myself. Only, with laxative abuse, it’s never over and, as the coach rumbles through the night, I am forced to scuttle backwards and forwards to the disgusting toilet.
Scotland is a nightmare. It is freezing and I am forced to eat more than usual to keep out the cold and stop people commenting. I shovel down tablets at all times of day and night to make up for it. We hire a car and do a lot of sightseeing, and I am forever having to rush to the toilet. After we get back from a visit to Edinburgh Castle, I am chattering away to Rosaleen’s dad when suddenly I freeze, and burst into tears. I’ve had a terrible accident! ‘Are you okay?’ says Rosaleen’s father. ‘Can I have a bath please?’ I sob. ‘It’ll take a while for the water to heat up,’ he says, looking bewildered. ‘I’ll have a cold one,’ I say. ‘Yes,’ I hear him say, as I race up the stairs, ‘Go ahead.’
Most nights we go out drinking – Claire, Rosaleen and I – and because I am so starved it only takes a couple of drinks before I’m away with the fairies. One night, after we’ve come in late, I go into the kitchen to get a glass of water. A tiny crumb lies on the counter, next to a sponge cake that Rosaleen was given on her hen-night five days before. The cake is stale now, and nobody has thought to throw it out. ‘I want this,’ I think, eyeing the weeny crumb with its titchy bit of icing. Guiltily, I pick it up and stick it on the tip of my tongue. ‘I need this,’ I say to myself, quickly picking a little corner off the cake and popping it into my mouth. I grab a bigger piece and shove it in; then another, and another. My iron rule over my starving body snaps and I turn into an eating machine. My mind hums with nothingness, as I sit on the floor with the cake and shovel it into my emptiness.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ says Claire, gazing in horror at the sight of me on the floor, ramming down the stale cake. She forces my mouth open and flicks out the cake, whacking the rest from my hands. ‘Get up!’ she orders. ‘I want it,’ I whimper helplessly, as she scoops up the cake and heads out of the back door with it to the dustbin. I stay on the floor and sob as if my heart will break. ‘It’s okay,’ says Claire, coming back in and rushing to hold me. ‘It’s okay.’ ‘Please don’t leave me,’ I sniff into her shoulder. ‘I won’t leave you,’ she says gently, rocking me in her arms, ‘But you’re going to die if you don’t sort this out. Promise me you’ll eat properly tomorrow.’ ‘I promise,’ I say through my tears.
Next day I have toast for breakfast – oh, and 30 laxatives – but I can’t manage any dinner.
‘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?’
