Losing It (11 page)

‘Sorry… I didn’t mean –’ I could feel my face go red.

He picked his cards up. ‘You didn’t mean what?’ He managed to look both offended and amused at the same time. But there was a smirk leaking through like he knew how awkward I felt and was enjoying watching me squirm. And just when I was about to die from embarrassment he rescued me.

‘Is it that obvious?’ he said, and then grinned and we both cracked up laughing. As relieved as each other,
probably
.

Bad news – Francine was rushed through to the main hospital in the middle of the night. I could hear them clattering about in the corridor in the early hours.

Dear Jo,

God, I have such a sore throat. When I mentioned it to Mum she flew into some new Florence Nightingale
routine
. It’s almost like she’s waiting for an excuse to start pampering me, which is so not like her. As you know, Jo, a day off school in our house is like a once in a decade treat and only if you are struck down with something deadly or contagious or both. The exact opposite to your soft-as-butter dad!

Anyway, not this time. This time, one mention of my throat and she’s out with the lemons and honey and wiping my fevered brow and booking me in for sick leave without me even asking.

It’s like ‘be nice to Issy’ week and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why. I suspect the family knows about what happened at the dance, which means they have heard about my blind date hanging around for less than two hours before finding someone better. How humiliating. I can’t stand them all feeling sorry for me and even Meredith is being half-pie decent, which is totally puke-making.

Anyway, they’ve been acting weird and I’m sure that’s why. I just want to forget the whole thing. I mean who cares about rotten Mike Maxwell anyway. Because, like you say, I had a lucky escape.

Luv,

Issy

P.S. Oh, I forgot to tell you. When Gemma and Mike arrived at the after party there was someone waiting for them. Luke!!! He must have sobered up enough to make a return appearance. Apparently there was an ugly scene. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall, eh.

Dear Issy,

Just desserts, Issy. Just desserts. Yeah, a fly on the wall would be fun.

Luv,

Jo

P.S. I miss you and I wish I could leap out of bed and give you a great big hug.

Dear Jo,

Me too.

Hey, your dad phoned here the other night wanting to know if I had any news. I felt really sorry for him, Jo. He sounded worried and kind of desperate. I think you should let him visit. What harm can it do?

Luv,

Issy

Dear Issy,

Please drop it. I can’t face Dad right now… and that’s all there is to it.

D,

Had a good talk with Dot yesterday. I think it was the most honest I’ve ever been with anyone about throwing up (including myself). The good thing about Dot is that she doesn’t talk down to you, which makes it easy to tell her stuff. Maybe I told her too much. I’m so used to being secretive that it’s become like part of my nature, which is weird because it’s not the way I used to be. I’ve always been more an upfront type.

Anyway, I was trying to be honest. When I think about my binges, they’ve always been at some really emotional time or when I’m not coping. Like when Aunty Kay came I’d start out feeling confused and then I’d get angry. I think it was because she reminded me of Mum and she had this new baby and stuff. And eating kind of helped. But then, after I’d eaten so much I’d feel disgusting and have to get rid of it. When I first started throwing up it was only after bingeing but then it became a habit and now I throw up after everything. Now I don’t keep anything down at all.

One of the patients in here cuts herself – I won’t say which one because that’s against the rules. But the other day she was talking about how she feels afterwards. It sounded so familiar – the feelings and everything. When I first started throwing up I’d feel good afterwards. Relieved.
Emptied out. De-stressed. Now I just feel revolting and guilty.

Like I said, we all have to stay in the dining room for at least half an hour after meals and if you have to go to the loo then one of the nurses goes with you, which is pretty embarrassing when you think about it. But that half hour, for me, is like torture. It’s like being denied my fix – like some druggie or something. That’s what I was trying to explain to Dot.

Things people do to harm themselves:

Cut, pull hair (their own), binge, starve, take drugs, steal stuff.

Dear Mum,

They haven’t said when we’re allowed
out
home yet but I hope it’s soon. Yesterday, as a special treat, we were allowed to order our favourite meal. I chose homemade scones with cheese melted on top, like you used to make. Remember how you let me help with mixing the dough and I always had the first one hot from the oven? We’d pile the butter on thick, and jam too. Apricot jam. The other thing I loved was apple crumble with whipped cream and runny custard.

Dad isn’t nearly as good a cook as you. When you first left we had hot chips a lot. Dad would get them on his way home from work and we had chips with absolutely everything. It’s better now. Dad has this little repertoire going. Like, on Monday it’s sausage casserole, on Tuesday it’s something with mince like spaghetti bolognaise or nachos, on Wednesday it’s fish pie with mashed spuds, Thursday it’s stir-fry and Friday it’s macaroni cheese. In the weekend it’s just whatever’s around.

I haven’t had hot chips in months.

They don’t do them here.

Take care,

Jo

P.S. I was reading some stuff about spiders. Apparently the spider lays her eggs in autumn, wraps them in a silk bag and then gets ready to die. The interesting thing is, after laying the eggs she is so exhausted that she simply can’t carry on, which is why you don’t see many spiders about in winter.

I was wondering, Mum. Was that how you felt after having Matt?

D,

In group therapy the other day Caroline was telling us about this great-aunty of hers who’d never touched alcohol all her life until she had some Christmas cake with sherry in it when she was seventy-eight years old. And the sherry must have triggered something off inside because after that she became an alcoholic. Leon didn’t believe her. He said that sounded like a load of bollocks and who ever heard of someone becoming an alcoholic after eating Christmas cake. But Veronica said don’t scoff because addictions can be very strange things. She said they’re just like allergies in a way and sometimes people get addicted to things they’re allergic to. Like, for example, someone with a wheat allergy could develop a craving for pasta.

We talked about it for a while. How people get addicted to things like cigarettes and even numbers and tidy
bedrooms
and throwing up.

When you think about it, the world must be full of addicted people. The question is, how come only some of us end up in mental institutions?

D,

Solitary confinement again. Bed rest. No privileges. No showering. Nothing to read and no one to talk to because Dot’s been away all week. I miss her when she’s off work. She’s such a hoot and the only one here with any sense of humour. She reminds me of Mrs Jordan (a bit plumper but just as kind). Like, the other day she brought me a tin of homemade fudge. If only I could eat it… If only the smell of it didn’t turn my stomach…

Anyway …

Last night I had this dream about Charlotte. She had grown huge and was stalking across me with big hairy legs (which, incidentally, were even worse than mine). Right across my face until I woke up screaming. The bedclothes were off and I lay there shivering and feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t have the energy to cover myself up so I just lay there. Pathetic, huh?!

Leon has gone home for a few days and I’m really worried about him. He’s got very quiet and seems more
confused than ever. Plus, he gets this weird kind of look in his eyes sometimes. I think he feels responsible for his mum and dad’s break-up. Like, if he were the perfect son it’d all be okay. Yeah, right! It really does my head in sometimes.

From what I can work out, his mum is totally in charge and his dad just follows along to keep the peace. They blame each other for Leon being in hospital. It’s like they think being gay is somebody’s fault. Leon was dreading going home. I think now that they’ve moved back together he feels responsible for that as well: as if they think that now they’re going to all live happily ever after, their son won’t have to be gay any more. Bollocks!

I wonder sometimes if feeling sad is contagious. If it is, then places like this must only make matters worse. For example, since I’ve been in here my exercise regime has gone completely to pot. And exercise is supposed to be good for you. Isn’t it? They can’t have it both ways.

I have become such a slug. I can’t remember the last time I did some sneaky press ups and these days I can’t even be bothered to read. I used to love reading. Getting lost in a book was, like, the best thing in the world… Tamora Pierce and Sheryl Jordan were my favourite authors. But these days I can’t concentrate on anything longer than a page. This letter has taken me all morning to write but who cares. I’ve got nothing better to do.

D,

It’s the middle of the night and I can’t sleep because the gap in these curtains is irritating the hell out of me. Everything irritates me these days. It’s like having constant heat rash and I want to scratch myself raw. In fact, writing is the only thing that keeps me sane.

Sometimes I feel like I’m down a black hole. Or I’m in that water with the eels – going round and round, getting all tangled in the weed. I lay here last night looking at the painting and trying to will myself into it. It was like I wanted to be right there in that sea with the waves thrashing and the undertow dragging me down. They say drowning is a nice way to go. But how do people know stuff like that? Maybe they just make it up. There was a story in the
Woman’s Weekly
about a baby drowning in an inch of bath water. Sometimes I think you don’t need any water to drown.

I haven’t had a letter in ages. They’re keeping them from me until I start eating again. Maybe I could drink something. Maybe I’ll have some yoghurt. Maybe … But my mouth is cracking at the sides and I’ve got ulcers on my tongue. I am ugly. Ugly. Ugly.

Dear Jo,

School is so, so, so, so boring just now. Mr Tafea is making us memorise formulas for Science and for History we are studying Adolf Hitler, except that I’m not going to do my essay because I think that man’s had far too much
publicity
already. I think it would be better to study someone who’s made a positive contribution to world history like Gandhi or Martin Luther King, Jr. or even Elvis Presley. Hey, at least he brought some joy into the world. What is it with writing essays about warmongers? Seems like you get to do all the good people at primary school and then when you get to high school they hit you with the monsters.

My career as a photographer took a major blow
yesterday
when we tried to publish the formal photographs and got a row of ghosts instead. Complete balls up.

So the newspaper people now think I’m a total moron.