An Apple a Day (28 page)

It comes back to the same thing—fear. The longer you live alone, the more private you become. Like gaining weight, it has
become unimaginable for me to live with someone else. Giving up anorexia and moving in with Tom are inextricably linked. Since we met he has asked me to move in with him almost on a weekly basis. I remember an evening in Vienna, walking back to our hotel, when he said, “From very early on I've had this instinct to bring you near me and to look after you. I want us to create a world together.” I used to find it seriously threatening, this notion of being looked after; now I find it comforting.

And yet I'm still hesitating. Tom has been getting increasingly upset by the “part-time” nature of our relationship, by the weekday evenings spent apart, by what he perceives as my lack of commitment. Although we probably spend more time together than many couples with all the traveling, it's not the same as sharing a home. It's taken me ages but I'm starting to understand this, that my reluctance to move in with him feels to Tom like rejection.

* * *

How did I get so stuck in this solitary way of living? I grew up surrounded by people in the most chaotic circumstances imaginable. I think back to my childhood—that noisy, loving family of seven—and wonder where I've gone wrong. But now, more than ever, is a time for courage. If I want to move forward, if I want to have a home and a child with Tom, I must get myself unstuck. I must change.

Starting the column and then writing this book have been life-changing experiences. Never did I think I'd leave a secure career in publishing to strike out on my own. Never did I think I could say the word “anorexia” out loud. Never would I have thought it possible to confess that I am addicted to starving myself, that I get high from the hunger, that my greatest fear was to get fat. Never
would I have considered sharing these fears with a boyfriend. Or putting my trust in someone again. Never would I admit that my periods had stopped and if that bothered me, or that I am overwhelmed with anxiety about the future. Never did I think I could eat a piece of cheese or a bar of chocolate again.

I achieved it all. I survived it all.

Please don't laugh. I know the chocolate and cheese seem tiny, ridiculous, but they are huge triumphs in the face of anorexia. Call it narcissism, neurosis, the dieter's disease; whatever you call it, it's been the hardest fight of my life. And every triumph, however minor, brings a new strength, a spark of power, a sense of achievement (mixed with terror)—above all, a knowledge deep within myself that I can do it. Every time I challenge the fear, every time I do something impossible, the fear gets a little weaker.

* * *

And so to the next challenge: to move in with Tom. From independence to cohabitation, from “me” to “us.” According to him, unless I move in we have no future. Maybe he's right. Of course he's right. And we want to be parents. My deep-down, unscientific instinct tells me that my body won't conceive until we're settled, actually living together. Making a baby takes two.

Lying in bed one morning I say, “Tom, there's something I want to ask you.” My voice comes out all shaky. He turns his head, rests it on the edge of my pillow, and looks concerned. “What is it?” I take a deep breath. “If you still want—if you'd still like me to . . . shall I move in?” His face breaks into a massive smile.

We book a moving van for the last three-day weekend in August. I can't lie: I. Am. Petrified. But like most of our fears when we face them, the anticipation may be worse than the reality. Who knows, it might even be fun.

Chapter 15

Healing

E
xactly ten months ago I wrote about setting myself this goal:

“
—the biggest challenge of my life . . . over the next year I'm going to overcome anorexia . . . I'm going to reach a healthy weight so that I'm fertile again. (I'm not going to freak out when my period returns, I'm going to celebrate
.)”

This morning I woke up and felt that low-down ache in my abdomen. I went to the bathroom and yes, my period's here. The hard work has been worthwhile. At long last my body is working the way it should, despite my best efforts to wreck it, despite the years of stupidity. I sit for a while on the chilly bathroom floor, overwhelmed with relief—and gratitude and respect for whatever's going on inside.

For years I've felt like a broken piece of machinery. Now I feel whole again. I've waited so long for the little red flag that will signal the start of new things. Finally it's here and I'm not remotely freaking out. It's the right time at last, I'm ready.

So many times over the past decade I have imagined this moment. Whatever I said, no matter how much I promised my parents, doctors, and therapists that I wanted to beat anorexia, that I wanted to be healthy again, deep down a part of me wanted
to remain sick. I needed to be visibly thin; in some strange way I needed the chaos inside my head to show on the outside. Much as I fought for my independence and pushed others away, the anorexia—that most visible sign of falling apart—was the proof that I was struggling. I thought I was so strong and I looked so weak.

So I'm all mended now? Well, no, not quite. If you were to give me a plate of buttered toast for breakfast, or porridge with sugar and cream, there is no way I could eat that. Not even a mouthful. But I have, in my own odd ways (via yogurt and broccoli and raspberries and muesli), made sufficient progress to get to this point. Things are starting to happen. My period is back; my body has begun to heal.

What surprises me most is how happy I feel: not scared, not fat, just excited. I feel (cue cheesy music) womanly!

It's only 6
AM
but I'm wide awake. I run a warm bath with rose oil and soak for a long time. If you asked me how much I weigh right now, I couldn't tell you and I don't care. Imagine that:
I don't care.
Right now, a whole new set of possibilities has opened up to me, and I can almost believe I'm stronger than anorexia . . . Of course this is a temporary euphoria (the anxiety will be back soon enough), but I'm so unused to this feeling of peace, contentment. All the fretting over scans and weight charts is irrelevant now: my body—with this small event this morning—tells me all I need to know.

I wrap a towel around me, go upstairs, and slide back into bed, fresh and clean. Tom turns, opens his eyes sleepily, and smiles. “All OK, Em?”

Yes. All OK. All very OK.

* * *

Last week's period was the physical marker of the end (or perhaps the beginning of the end) of anorexia, but the psychological recovery is still a work in progress. As I predicted, the anxiety has begun to creep back in, but I'm aware of it. I have the upper hand this time. I know what I'm feeling—“your period has come back, therefore you must be fat”—but I know it's not true. I understand where this anxiety comes from, and I'm trying to look it firmly in the face.

And here's the difference between this recovery and all my previous failed attempts: I didn't panic when my period arrived. I didn't immediately stop eating. I haven't changed my mind; I don't want to lose the weight again. There is so much chaos inside my head, I admit, so much to work through over the coming months. But I don't feel defined by the sickness anymore. I remember how I felt at the hospital last month when the sonographer told me everything was “normal.” I really want to be normal now! Not fat, not thin—just healthy and active and OK. OK about food, OK about myself, OK about being loved.

That's why this is a story of love and recovery. Not that falling in love was the answer—there have been many ups and downs, and we're not out of the woods yet. Not that Tom cured me: no one can do that for an anorexic. As much as he and others have supported me, the hardest work was mine; when I say that every bite has been “agony,” it's true. But it's been a gradual process of growing up, understanding my demons, letting the painful past fade a little, and finding someone with whom I want to live and love and have a baby.

Dr. Robinson always tells me “the body is never black and white.” Well, neither is life. Not black and white, but a series of compromises, moments of black despair, moments of pure, perfect white, and lots of little flashes of color in between. In the end, loving someone else fully, which I couldn't do while in the grip
of anorexia, was more important to me. Giving up control is frightening beyond belief, but there are compensations.

I won't lie: the pressures have been immense. Many of us know what trying to get pregnant can do to a relationship. One minute you're a carefree couple, enjoying each other's company; then you begin to feel that having a baby together would make things even better. In itself that's a romantic decision—I remember the emotions I felt when Tom and I first talked about starting a family—but it changes the agenda. Romantic sex becomes baby-making sex (or as the women on Mumsnet call it, SWI: Shagging With Intent), and inevitably the pressure builds. It doesn't have to ruin everything—you can still keep things spontaneous—but the dynamic changes. At best, deciding to try for a baby is a thrilling, intimate venture, but at worst it can become soul-destroyingly routine.

And of course when there are problems conceiving it's the “problem” partner who feels responsible, even though Tom reassures me that's not the case with us. At times I've felt like a total failure: no periods, barren ovaries, I'm inadequate. I've been holding us back, letting us down.

Then there's the age thing. At thirty-three I'm not in the last-chance saloon, but it's hard to ignore the dire warnings all around: how female fertility “plummets” in your midthirties, how modern women are “leaving it too late.” Many friends have told me I don't need to worry for years yet; women are having babies later than ever these days. Female fertility is thought to be heritable and the signs in our family are good—my mother had five children, my big sister already has three, and neither of them had any problems conceiving. I'm not panicking yet—well, I'm trying not to—but I think about it a lot. The truth is, time goes really quickly. As one (male) reader unhelpfully reminded me, “your thirties are no time to mess around.”

On top of the efforts to conceive and the ticking of the biological clock is the pressure I've imposed upon myself: of beating anorexia in public, of sharing the journey, and within a specific time frame. It's what that psychologist meant when she emailed months ago: “
I have concerns about this sort of ‘reality' journalism in terms of the pressure it places on the individual in the public gaze
.” I suppose I've been conducting an experiment on myself, and I'm OK with that. The exposure has been a mixed blessing: it has given me a purpose and a structure, a reason beyond myself for getting better. Whenever I've felt “greedy” for eating, or tempted to lose weight, it has enabled me to say,
No, Emma, you're doing this for a reason. You've made this public commitment and you have to follow through
. But it's also been difficult, at times, to keep writing about it.

The vast majority of responses have been kind, funny, supportive. I've received excellent advice, and I've met all sorts of strangers with whom I'm still in e-contact. Many anorexics have written to say that I've inspired them to recover too, and it's an unexpectedly lovely feeling for me to be helping others.

So why is it the harsh criticisms that stick with me? Why do I still remember the woman who called me a “narcissist,” the man who said “get over yourself,” the angry message that reminded me people are dying from cancer and starvation and I should stop being selfish and help others? Last week I received an email that informed me I was simply not ready to have a baby, that I'd never be a mother, and “God help my children” if I did. That message hurt me more deeply than I can say. When you're honest in the media people seem to think you're not vulnerable. It's the age of the instant, anonymous response, of online “trolls” and hate mail and petty cyber abuse. Everyone has an opinion, especially when it comes to anorexia or other people's weight. But even though the harsh stuff sticks with me, I'm learning not to take it to heart.

This morning, as I am thinking about pressures, an email from my editor arrives. She's in her early forties and hoping to have a baby too.

Just trying to get pregnant is stressful in itself—so many times over the last two years I was really down when my period came, especially if it was a bit late and I was hopeful. And then there were the awful feelings of jealousy and unfairness when other people got pregnant . . . The idea of combining those emotions with simultaneously trying to recover from anorexia—well, it must be a hell of a ride!

“A hell of a ride” is right. And I've probably gone about this all wrong, taking on too much, trying to solve all my problems at the same time, wanting immediate results and a perfect outcome (as anorexics always do). The urgent health priority, to recover from anorexia, has been getting all mixed up with the baby thing and the relationship thing and the independence thing. In a way they're separate issues—and in an ideal world I would address them one at a time—but the reality is less straightforward. And then there's me and Tom: a relationship that is, at times, fairly conflicted. We're both quite solitary souls, used to our own company—Tom endlessly traveling his lonely planet, me with my own weird struggles. The last few years have been very happy but also very volatile times. I used to think jealousy was a form of flattery—in other words, the more jealous someone is, the more he loves you—but now I know it's one of the most corrosive, pointless, destructive emotions. Jealousy reveals a lack of trust, not love, and it breeds paranoia, secrecy, and insecurity. None of us is perfect, and I wouldn't want to pretend that my relationship is either. Tom and I adore and torment each other in roughly equal measure. On top of that, as we're tentatively moving toward living together, we're also now trying to
conceive, and I'm trying to beat a mental illness that has nothing and everything to do with pregnancy and relationships and babies and love. It hasn't been simple.