An Apple a Day (13 page)

As I was starting to find a balance, of sorts, Greg was losing his. In 2002 he killed himself. I still think of him every single day. Ours had been the first relationship in which I'd begun to let my guard down since New York. Sometimes we felt like brother and sister, or father and daughter, or twins; that's how closely entwined we were. I will never know exactly what happened in the final hours before his death, nor what drove him to that ending—I suppose that's why the act of suicide is so hard to accept: there is no explanation, no final goodbye. And of course there are limits on what I can say. Greg had suffered from clinical depression for years and he was experiencing tremendous inner turmoil in those last few months. He was conflicted about his family, his past, our relationship; he was further mixed up by alcohol and the wrong medication, and he was tearing himself apart. Suicide is a cowardly act, but it also takes immense bravery. The philosopher Nietzsche argues that the individual has a full moral right to take his own life, but I'm not so sure. Not when you think about what is left behind. I remember someone once told me: a suicide is tragic because
nothing interrupted it . . . Looking back, I understand why Greg took that way out, although it's wrong for anyone to kill oneself in such despair. Why didn't I see what was happening; why didn't I ask someone to help us? I have forgiven him but I will never forgive myself. There is a poem by Emily Brontë called “Remembrance,” and it says everything I have ever wanted to say to Greg.

Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee
,

Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!

Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee
,

Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

I remember the phone call at dawn telling me his body had been found that beautiful day in September. The leaves were turning red and gold and there was the first hint of coolness in the air. Then the postmortem, and the following weekend my big sister's wedding, and Greg's funeral, which I was not allowed to attend. Weeks later, the local vicar secretly agreed to take me to where he had been buried. Sitting beside his freshly dug grave was one of the bleakest moments of my life: it didn't seem possible that his body was really lying there, a few feet below me.

Then weeks, months of unremitting hell inside my head, where the questions and guilt and grief and love collided without solace or answers. I never got to say goodbye. I never got to hold him one last time.

Now, my parents tell me they were convinced Greg's death would send me back down into full-on anorexia. It sort of did, and sort of didn't. I lost a lot of weight at the time—the pink silk bridesmaid dress for my sister's wedding had to be taken in and in and in as the pounds dropped off. Katie's wedding photographs show me pale and paper-thin. But I don't remember consciously avoiding food, so I don't think this was anorexia—just a complete
absence of appetite through grief. Even now, I can't think clearly about that time without feeling panicky. The grieving process for Greg was like an extended panic attack that lasted months—bewildering, relentless.

For a long time afterward I wanted to die too. Greg had loved me fiercely for two years (I sometimes found his love claustrophobic), but more than that he had protected me. Previous boyfriends had been around the same age as I, but Greg was twenty years older. He was at a different stage in life; he was powerful, he made me feel safe. Without him I felt frightened and alone. I did not think I could carry on living. But his suicide taught me something I have clung to ever since: that I could not destroy my family in that way. I would not leave behind me the mess he left behind. My father's parents committed suicide and he has never recovered. Although I love Greg with all my heart, although I understand he had no other option, although I know he was brave, still I believe suicide is a profoundly selfish act. Whatever happens I will not take that way out. Suicide is not an option.

I think this belief—that you must go on living, whatever happens—saved me. After almost a year of hovering in between, I got back on track. By the first anniversary of Greg's death, I was starting to look around me again, starting to see that life could be worth a try. With that new hope came a little bit of weight and then a bit more. I've maintained a fragile equilibrium ever since, between 98 and 112 pounds. And that's about where we are now. Early April, springtime, Greg's favorite season.

Did I waste those years? Do I regret it all? Please . . . I can barely bring myself to answer. I want to believe that nothing is wasted. Life, even after suicide, even with anorexia, is still worth living. There was happiness and sadness, lots of work and relationships and books and therapy, there was a year of raw grief I have tried to block out. If I could go back, of course there are things I would
change: I would have seen what was happening with Greg, I would have sought help. But I was only twenty-four. And there is no way of going back. He left a wife and children, and their loss is so much greater than mine.

* * *

While we're on endings, there is a postscript to the Laurie story too. Nine years after we broke up, when I was twenty-eight, we met in London. His mother was lecturing in town and our two families went out for dinner, a pleasant Italian meal. I ate garlic bread, salad, and pasta like the others—I desperately wanted to appear normal—although unlike the others I had saved up my calories for this event for days.

After the meal, Laurie and I stayed on at the restaurant in Bloomsbury. We had a few more glasses of wine in the bar, then sat talking in Russell Square all night, then we walked down to the Thames and watched the sun rise before I had to go to the office. It was as wonderful as I had known it would be, walking and talking with Laurie; all the old magic was back.

Following that brief encounter, he invited me to New York for a long weekend. That too was bittersweet: perfect and yet heartbreaking at the same time. We went to the New York City Ballet, met up with old friends for brunch, took long, nostalgic strolls around Central Park, drank red wine at Blue Note, our favorite jazz club. For me it was magical being back in Manhattan, being with Laurie again: I liked us even more in our late twenties than as teenagers. But it became clear that he saw this as a couple of days of fun together, nothing more. Certainly he had no long-term plans for a future that included me. I flew back from New York on the Monday morning with my heart in pieces—it sounds crazy, but I felt I was holding the raw chunks of it in my hands.
That week I returned to London, I lost 8, 9, 10 pounds—my body just went into weight-loss free fall.

I only mention this because it seems incredible that, after nine years, he had not lost the power to hurt. Leaving him that last time, knowing he would never love me the way I loved him, the anorexia rushed back in like an old habit. I remember lying on the wooden floor of my Elephant & Castle flat, talking to my mother on the phone, and crying so hard the tears running off my face pooled on the bare floorboards around me. That was the end, I knew it then at last, and I have not seen him since.

That was more than six years ago; Laurie is now married and has two daughters. From that final meeting, it would be more than four years before I would meet Tom, and at least five years until I even felt ready to contemplate recovery.

* * *

I find it overwhelming, at times, trying to understand the past. My twenties were a difficult decade, no doubt about that. Mostly it was the slow, daily fight against the voice inside my head that tells me (always) I'm greedy and I don't deserve to eat. The voice that reminds me I'll get fat the moment I let my guard down. Compared to rowing across the Indian Ocean, say, or overcoming cancer, the food struggles are nothing—an extra yogurt or an additional piece of toast. But it's the relentless voice inside that makes anorexia such a fight.

And now, if I want to have a baby, I have to make the last colossal push: I have to get out of the underweight hinterland, this just not-well zone; I have to drag myself back into the world of breasts and periods and flesh and being a woman. I've done it before; surely I can do it again? Faced with the same challenge, I try to recall what worked last time. All I remember is the pain of each cheese sandwich. (Yes, cheese!)

What is holding me back? I could be so close to a breakthrough. They say that when you're overweight it's losing the last few pounds that is most difficult. I think it's the same with gaining them.

* * *

Sometimes it's frightening, writing this book. I lie awake most nights and think about the ending. You know how it's supposed to end, right?

As I write, I'm still trying, every day, to make myself eat more and not panic and not give up. It's April now, nearly six months since I embarked on this journey. I have put on weight and it's exciting and threatening. I must be 108, maybe 112 pounds—I'm not sure, I can't face weighing myself. But it's the furthest I've ever gotten and it's a huge psychological barrier for me. I feel large, and my clothes feel tight; at night I feel overheated. But this is progress: this is exactly what has to happen. I cycle all over London and I feel powerful—I have more energy—I can see my body is starting to respond.

I could be very close to a breakthrough, Tom reminds me; I could be closer than I think. I know he's right: I have to be strong and not retreat . . . At times the fear is so great—of changing, of fat, of losing control. I find myself physically clenching my teeth, my fists; I have to hold my nerve. If I retreat now, what was it all for?

I swing from optimism to panic: some days I'm excited and some days I'm in despair. I am tense, waiting—like a bomb is about to go off. I know I have to put on this weight but I dread it. I know this is a normal part of recovery: the ups and downs are inevitable. Last week, for example, the sun came out and everyone started talking about how winter was finally at an end. So I decided it was time for a spring-clean, and I spent the
evening going through boxes of documents, bank statements, letters. I found a file of medical referrals from the last ten years, mostly from my psychiatrist Dr. Robinson to my GP. It made depressing reading. “Emma has reached a BMI of 17 but remains amenorrheic”; “She has lost 3 lbs but appears to want to recover”; “Her bone scan shows further deterioration, results attached.”

Suddenly it was like a needle had punctured my spring optimism. For the first time I felt defeated; I thought,
I can't do this
. The evidence was spread out in front of me in black and white: all the doctors' reports, the consultations and weigh-ins, my inability to reach a healthy BMI; charts with zigzags showing the ups and downs, tiny losses and tiny gains (which felt so huge at the time), two pounds higher then six pounds lower, one step forward and two steps back.

I thought of all the effort I put in, all the time I'd wasted. No one will ever understand, and what does it matter? Year after year of not eating and I've got nothing to show for it but this hopeless bunch of doctors' letters. I've given the last decade to anorexia and gotten nowhere. Sitting there on the living room floor, feeling hopeless, I recalled a warning from a psychotherapist about recognizing one's own limitations: “If it was simply a matter of reason and persistence you'd probably have recovered by now. It may not just be about willpower.”

I really was defeated. At that moment, I felt,
I've been kidding myself
. I thought I was well on the way to beating this—I thought this was finally my new start. Maybe the reason I haven't gotten better is that I can't. It's not about food or weight. There's a reason why anorexics don't ever recover fully. I'll never be free of this, no matter how hard I try.

I abandoned the spring-cleaning and retreated to a hot bath, shaken by this epiphany. If I can't beat this illness, then what
next? I like to know where I'm going but at that moment I was rudderless. Sinking under the grapefruit-scented bubbles I wondered:
Is acceptance the most mature thing?
People live with other challenging conditions: schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, depression. Perhaps I need to learn to live with anorexia and make peace with myself. After all, it's not anorexia itself that torments me; it's constantly struggling against it. Surely it's possible to be happy, however imperfectly?

But then, what about having a family with Tom? I want our baby so much. My mind was racing, unable to admit defeat. I needed a plan. I got out of the bath, wrapped myself in a towel, and opened my laptop. I Googled “fertility drugs, IVF, adoption.”

Later that evening I wrote my weekly column, and I decided to be completely honest. I explained my despair, I admitted I had failed so many times before and now I feared I would probably fail again. The responses started coming in within hours of publication:

April 20, 2011 5:58
PM

Hi Emma—OK so you have had a little relapse. It doesn't mean you can't do this. You are not anorexic—you just have this negative voice that pervades your life called anorexia. You can take charge of your life—you can change it. There are many young women like you who have managed to have a child—it has been life-changing for them and so worthwhile. So just shake this negative voice out of your head and carry on—it is a privilege to share your journey—you are so brave and honest—maybe get some CBT or hypnotherapy—anything to get you back on track—YOU CAN DO THIS!!

J.M
.

April 20, 2011 8:22
PM