Losing It (15 page)

D,

Veronica came by later and we had quite a long talk about eating disorders. I guess, like most of the kids in here, I like to think I’m different. I know I’m definitely not as bad as they are. Even when I’m admitting things in therapy, underneath I’m saying, ‘This doesn’t apply to me because I’m not as sick as them’. I can’t be, can I? My throwing up is under control and my eating is under control – that’s what I tell myself. I’m coping. You’ll see. Even when I’m put on bed rest I know it’s a complete over-reaction on their part. So, it takes a lot to admit it’s not. And I’m not quite there yet.

The next time Dad visits he comes straight to my room. I’d been on bed rest for three days and he sat in the chair holding my hand. Nervously biting his lip, he talked about the weather and rugby and Matt’s latest creepy crawly. ‘God knows how the poor thing survived in that glass jar.’ And, ‘Did you get the moa tooth, Jo? Strange
boy, our Matt – strange boy…’ He waffled on trying to fill up the silence and I just lay on the bed with all this stuff building up in my head.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes, Jo?’

‘Dad –’

‘Yes, Jo –’

‘Well, um, you know when Mum left…?’ Fear clogged my throat and I still wasn’t sure I could do this.

Dad took my hand. My throat tightened. He looked at me hard and I noticed something I’d never seen before. The pain behind his eyes.

‘It’s okay, Jo,’ he said. ‘The nurse already told me –’

Dear old Dot, I thought. And then it started. So unexpectedly, that my normal defence systems were unprepared. One minute I was looking at Dad and swallowing like crazy and the next I was a snivelling wreck. Floods of tears gushed out so fast I couldn’t keep up. Heaving and snorting and choking …

Dad didn’t say a word, just held my hand and waited. And then I noticed that he was crying too. Not out of control snorting like me, but there were big fat tears rolling down his face. Then he wrapped his arms round me so tight I felt like I was going to break.

And then, just when I felt like it was all going to be okay, he did something unexpected.

He got up and walked out the door.

D,

I have this recurring dream.

In the dream Mum comes to visit but she doesn’t
recognise
me. She’s standing in the doorway asking if anyone knows a Johanna Morrison and I yell out ‘Mum! It’s me!’ and rush over but she ignores me and walks off. And then I’m calling after her and she’s walking and walking and not turning round once. Pathetic, huh?

I guess seven years is a long time. What if she doesn’t recognise me if we meet again? Or, even worse – what if I don’t recognise her? For a while after she left I thought about her all the time and I got obsessed about stuff. Like her smell, for instance. I’d go into the bedroom, open the wardrobe door and bury my head in her red winter coat. I told myself that as long as I could smell her she couldn’t disappear. But then I panicked and I started worrying that I might be over-sniffing. I might sniff her smell away. So I kept out of the wardrobe so that her smell might last longer.

I haven’t been in the wardrobe for ages now.

2:38a.m. is the worst time to be awake. That’s when all the dark thoughts surface, hunting you down and dragging you into the gloom. Into those inky depths.

Miss Hughes told me once that if I accepted that Mum was gone for good then maybe I’d be able to get on with things. Move forward, that’s how she put it.

‘I don’t mean to be cruel, dear,’ she said, in her
counsellor’s
voice. ‘But –’

Exactly. There are still way too many ‘buts’. Miss Hughes doesn’t know the full story.

‘I wish you were dead’. That’s what I said. How cruel is that?

Miss Hughes doesn’t realise that accepting the fact that Mum might be dead also means accepting that it was me who wished she was in the first place. And I’m not ready to do that. Not yet!

Dear Jo,

As you know I’m not much good with words. In fact I’m pretty useless. The other day when the nurse told me what you’d told her I felt gutted. How could I have been such a jerk not to realise what was happening to you? Well, maybe your Pop was right because I’ve made a pretty poor job of things so far. Like when I came to visit, for example. I should have known what to say, but I didn’t. I had absolutely no idea.

But there is one thing that you have to believe, Jo. And it’s this –

Your mother leaving was not your fault. You were nine years old, for goodness’ sake. You were NOT responsible. Do you hear me? NOT responsible.

Your mum wasn’t well. It wouldn’t have mattered what anyone said or didn’t say to her. She was severely depressed
and not thinking straight. The doctor said she was suicidal – did I ever tell you that? Well, perhaps I should have!

The tragic thing was, she wished herself dead. That’s the truth of it.

So her leaving had absolutely nothing to do with
anything
you said to her. Nothing!

Luv, Dad

P.S. You absolutely have to believe that, Jo.

D,

I’ve had a letter from Dad. Thank God for that. The way he walked out that day really threw me and it took me ages to open his letter. I was so nervous because I thought he must be shocked and disappointed. I thought he must be pretty pissed off as well. And so he should be.

But he sounded okay.

He said it wasn’t my fault and that means a lot. I know it’s not exactly true but it feels good to hear him say it. (Well, to read him say it.) The thing is, I still feel guilty about Mum and I probably always will. But I’m not going to let it ruin my life – not any more. I wrote a long letter to Dad explaining things but I changed my mind because I know he’s not into all that therapy stuff.

So I made it brief and businesslike.

Dear Dad,

Thanks for your letter. I really appreciate it. And I do believe it, sort of.

Luv,

Jo

P.S. Can you and Matt come visit this Saturday?

Dear Jo,

We’ll both be there, definitely. See you then.

Luv,

Dad

Veronica’s favourite saying –

The longest journey begins with the smallest step.

D,

Tuesday – Muesli, yoghurt, 1 apple, pita bread with chicken. (And I didn’t throw up!)

This morning when I got out of the shower I had this bizarre experience. When I looked in the mirror it was like stepping into a horror movie, or one of those kinky mirrors they have at the museum, because looking back at me was a skeleton. Honestly, there were bones all over the place and even my face is full of bones. I spent the
afternoon
bawling and am still struggling not to throw up in disgust.

Veronica says it’s a good sign. She says one of the things about anorexia is that even when you’re skin and bone you still think you’re fat because your mind starts playing tricks. I still feel as big as a house but I’m
working
on it – trying to put things in perspective. I still feel petrified about putting on weight, though. The other day, Veronica asked me to try and explain why I felt so
frightened
and I thought about it for ages. And the answer I came up with is pretty weird.

I told Veronica that I think maybe I’m afraid to ‘have’ weight because I’m kind of scared to be who I am. I know it sounds dumb, but … well, if I’m light then I don’t have a say or what I say won’t really matter. Does that make any sense?

‘Are you saying that you don’t want a say in your own life, then?’ asks Veronica. ‘Like, maybe, subconsciously, you don’t want to pull your weight in the world?’

Maybe. Yes. Maybe I am frightened of having a say in the world. But after I thought about it some more I knew it wasn’t true. Because I do want to have a say in the world. I’ve always wanted a say, that’s been my problem.

‘Your daughter certainly has a lot to say for herself,’ one of the teachers told Mum and Dad at my first school interview. (Dad told me that.) See, I know that I’m not naturally timid and shy, like Pip, for instance. And I’m not frightened of success, like Ingrid seems to be. Or frightened of who I am, and what the world thinks of me, like Leon. Some of the people in this place don’t want a say in the world. I can see that. It’s sad.

‘Let me be weightless and empty and light…’ – that’s what Francine wrote. But that’s not me. Not really.

Veronica says I have turned the most important corner. It’s scary. Sometimes people never get to this corner (like poor Francine, for instance). She says I have a good chance of recovering. And I am determined to get better (I will. I will. I will. I can. I can. I can) – because I absolutely don’t want to spend the rest of my life obsessing about what goes in my mouth. I want to be strong and healthy again and to have my say in the world. I really, really do.

So … here’s the plan.

First, I’m going to take things one day at a time and when I get to 49 kilos I’ll be allowed home. (I know it was supposed to be 50 kilos but I managed to negotiate!) Then, when I’m home, I’ll come back to hospital once a week as a day patient. I’ll have a counselling session with Veronica and get weighed weekly. So far I’ve managed to put on two kilos. Who would have thought putting on weight would be so scary??!!

Wednesday – I had a swim today and it was totally utterly awesome.

Dear Issy,

Guess what?! I am now officially 48 kilos, which means I have just one kilo to go before I am allowed home. That is great but also very scary news because the weird thing about being in hospital is that the longer you stay in here the more it seems like home and the more home seems like somewhere else. Dot says it’s called being institutionalised.

I guess you get used to the routine and to not
thinking
for yourself. And maybe you feel safe. It’s kind of like weird becomes normal and normal becomes weird. I know that going back to school will be pretty scary after being in hospital. And it’s amazing when I look back to when I first arrived and thought I’d come to prison. I was such a tosser. Sometimes I can’t believe how angry I was. Going through your letters to me feels so weird, realising how I must have seemed to you.

I am sooo looking forward to seeing you again, Issy – your letters have been like a lifeline to me and God knows how I’d have got through all this stuff without you. Don’t let that go to your head, though. It doesn’t mean I’m going to let you thump me at tennis or anything.

Actually, I’m a bit worried about getting together for real again. Are you?

Anyway, I just wanted to warn you that I’ll be home again soon.

Luv,

Jo

Dear Jo,

I can’t wait for you to come back to school. You don’t know how relieved I am. I was worried out of my wits and when that Francine girl died … well, it didn’t bear
thinking
about, Jo.

Luv,

Issy

P.S. I’ll book the tennis court for Friday afternoon.

P.P.S. ‘Failing to plan is like planning to fail.’ Miss
Haddock
has just put that on the whiteboard, which means you will be back just in time for exams. Good timing, Jo.

D

Friday – one plate ice cream, two spoonfuls tinned apricots, half a cup of runner beans, one sausage, one plate of pasta!! (Not thrown up!)

Yahoo … today I’m going home!!!

Dear Dot,

It’s hard to believe it’s been a whole month. In some ways it feels like no time has passed at all and, in other ways, it’s like I’ve been home again forever. I won’t say it’s been easy. It hasn’t! In fact, when I first came home I was totally miserable and all I wanted to do was slink back into hospital, crawl under the sheets and hide. I felt hopeless and it felt weird with Dad and Matt being super nice to me all the time. To be honest they drove me crazy – like I was some china doll. I felt like they were watching everything I did and I know for sure they were watching everything I ate. It was like being under surveillance 24/7, which was worse than when I first went into hospital. The first few weeks were hideous.

Since then I’ve had some good days and bad days. I still have to write down everything I eat, which gets fairly tedious at times. And I can’t say I have completely stopped throwing up or that I am back to normal with my eating. If I’m under stress there’s always the temptation and I wonder if I’m ever going to be normal again.

Actually, I’m starting to wonder if there even is such a thing as normal. Everywhere you go these days people are doing some kind of diet or other and once you start thinking a lot about food it’s very hard to go back to not thinking much about it. (After all, it’s not something you can actually give up, like cigarettes or something. Instead you have to totally relearn how to eat.) But I hope I am
not as obsessed and strange about food as I was.

School was difficult at first. I was so behind with
everything
and it felt pretty scary going back, kind of like I was the new girl or something. Everyone acted strange with me at the start. Also, I got back just in time for the practice NCEA exams, which was bad timing and I managed to fail pretty much everything except for English. (I think I have Miss Haddock to thank for that.)

And thank God for Issy who has been utterly fantastic. She even got me a place on the school newspaper, which I am still reserving judgement about. Don’t laugh, Dot but I write this fake Agony Aunt column. Pretty sad, huh?! Stuff like
Dear Aunty Jo, I am thinking about getting green dreadlocks but know my mum will go psycho, what do you think
? If I get stuck for an answer I find staring into space for an hour or two quite helpful, especially when it’s a starry night.

Mostly I’m just trying to get by one day at a time. I guess you might have heard I still see Veronica once a week as an outpatient and Miss Hughes keeps an eye on me as well. Miss Hughes is actually not so bad when you get to know her, like the other day I told her about the letters I’d written Mum when I was in hospital. I was worried she might think I was unhinged or something but she took it in her stride. Amazingly, she didn’t laugh hysterically and get the straitjacket out (which I’m sure she keeps in her file cabinet for emergencies!). She even said she thought it might be helpful for my recovery. I tell
her how I feel now – well, a little. (Still find it hard to do the touchy feely thing.)

Say hi to everyone for me, won’t you? Have you heard how Leon’s doing? I seem to have lost his address.

I hope all is going well for you, Dot.

Luv,

Jo

P.S. Would you mind looking in on Charlotte from time to time – just to make sure the cleaning lady doesn’t suck her down the vacuum cleaner?

P.P.S. My friend Issy is now officially going out with Tim from Year Twelve. And she wants to hook me up with some friend of his called Larry… I’m still undecided.

P.P.S. I would be really grateful if you could get me Leon’s address.

Dear Jo,

Hi. It’s me, Dot. How nice to get your letter. I’m so pleased to hear you are doing okay. You are one of my favourite patients and I knew as soon as you arrived that you were going to make it. Some don’t, you know. Some come back here time and time again. It’s ver y sad and I don’t know what the answer is. But you are going to be fine and that’s the main thing.

I don’t think I’m supposed to get addresses (it’s all to do with the privacy act) but I can’t see the harm in it and what they don’t know won’t hur t them.

Keep well and out of trouble.

Lots of love,

Dot

P.S. Good luck with your column.

P.P.S. Give Leon my best wishes when you make contact.

Dear Leon,

I’ve wanted to write for ages but getting hold of your address was no mean feat. It’s all this privacy act stuff. Seems like it’s okay to know about someone’s personal hang-ups but not their home address and telephone number. Thank God for Dot who has become a very talented sleuth since her husband did the dirty. I didn’t ask how she did it but I have visions of her sneaking into Plaquey’s office under cover of darkness with a dodgy torch and a pair of surgical gloves to eliminate fingerprints.

I’ve been thinking about you lots, Leon. Mainly because I’ve just found the pile of Trivial Pursuit cards I had stashed in my suitcase. Okay – confession time …

Yes, I did have cheating on my mind. My plan was to memorise them systematically and then wow you with my brilliance. Doesn’t seem quite so important now. Funny the things you get obsessed by – or distracted with. Guess it served a purpose though, aye. Those games we had together probably saved my sanity.

Speaking of sanity – how’s yours? I hope that guitar stuff wasn’t just a distraction because you were getting really good and music is such a healing thing and should definitely help with getting your shit together. You’re lucky in that respect. Did I tell you I was completely tone deaf? Honestly, I’m so bad at singing that our music teacher once asked if I’d mind just mouthing the words because I was putting the others off, which certainly put
a dampener on my rock star aspirations.

Anyway, I hope you’re still strumming away and making up the odd song or two.

You’ll be pleased to know I’m finally making progress with getting my own shit together. Sometimes it feels like two steps forward and three back but at least I’m moving forward. Enough about me, though.

I’d really like to know how
you’re
getting on and if you feel like dropping me a line, Leon, I’d love to hear from you.

Keep strumming,

Luv,

Jo

Dear Jo,

Good old Dot, eh.

Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you but my home address has changed so your letter took a few detours. The thing is, I’m living with Gran now. Long story but you won’t be surprised to hear that the ‘happy families’ thing didn’t work out. To be honest it was even crappier than I thought it would be.

In the end I figured I had two choices.
Tell them I’m gay and go or tell them I’m gay and stay. So I took the coward’s way out and left them to it. I decided it was their problem, not mine. Actually, that was Gran’s idea. ‘If they’re not grown-up enough to accept you for who you are then they don’t deserve you,’ she said. ‘You can come live with me instead.’

So I’m now living in a one-bedroom pensioner’s flat by the beach, which isn’t near as bad as it sounds. The wrinklies are a real hoot and old Mrs Reynolds next door has taught me to body board. It’s great. We waddle down to the surf at six every morning except for Sunday because that’s her day for salsa dancing and she needs to save her energy.

The people round here aren’t scared to have fun and they’ve been round long enough to know what’s important in life. Well, that’s what Gran says.

Gran is really on my case these days, which is good because self-motivation was never my strong point. Next term she’s got me signed up for a barista’s course at the polytech. Don’t worry, I’m not going to be a lawyer or anything daft but I will learn how to make great cappuccino. Maybe you and Issy can be my guinea pigs. You are welcome to visit any time,
Jo. I’ll even set up the Trivial Pursuit if you like. Keep in touch.

Leon.

Dear Mum,

You’ll be pleased to know that I have finally been released from the Camp for the Gifted and Talented. It was an interesting experience but one I don’t want to repeat in the near future. Gifted and talented is very hard work and I would happily settle for ordinary and boring just now. In fact, I think ordinary and boring is very underrated.

Everyone is fine at home and school is pretty much the same way I left it.

Except for something weird that happened today that I want to tell you about. We were in the library for last period and there was a display of animal fiction books down by where the computers are. And they had loads of different titles like
Tiger Rising, Lionboy, Moby Dick, Black
Beauty, Stuart Little
(I’ve read them all, by the way) and
Charlotte’s Web.

When I saw
Charlotte’s Web
I got goose bumps because I hadn’t seen that book in years and the cover looked so familiar and everything. I actually went giddy because I knew that there were two chapters I needed to read.

Remember how we never finished it because we thought it was going to be too sad? Well, I thought I might be up to it now, so I sat down to read.

I got all the way to the page that said ‘Charlotte is very ill. She has only a short time to live’ and I almost chickened out. But I carried on and guess what? You should read it because the ending wasn’t quite as sad as we thought. Of course, Charlotte dies, like we knew she would, but good things happen as well. Like Templeton (the rat) does this amazing rescue and gets her egg sac (with five hundred and fourteen! unborn children) back to the barn.

In the springtime the eggs hatch and although most of the newborn spiders set off to make their own way in the world three of them stay behind, in the barn. Their names are Joy, Aranea and Nellie. And because Wilbur owes his life to Charlotte, he pledges his friendship to her daughters forever. It’s so sweet, Mum. Such a sweet, lovely story. You’d enjoy it. I know you would.

At the end it has a line that says: ‘It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer.’

Yeah, I thought. And I know someone exactly like that.