cling-film on bone

passive

-My beautiful daughter Ana had, at 16 years of age, not a pinch of fat upon her body. As far as I could see she was perfect. I could, however, always see that she did not and would not agree with this idea. She never seemed to be comfortable in her own skin. I remember how often she used to look in the mirror, how intently she’d stare. I did notice the frequency of this but I never appreciated the danger. It never occurred to me to wonder exactly what she was looking at or, more frighteningly, what it was that she saw. I just didn’t see it. At “Sweet 16” she’d had her first kiss, her first boyfriend, her first betrayal, her first broken heart. She still spoke to me back then, told me her stories, painted me a picture of her life. She used to treat me like I mattered, like I was her mother.

People can’t help asking me how it happened. More painfully they feel compelled to ask how I didn’t see it sooner. I don’t think they understand the full implication of their question, how much it burns inside me and how I lie awake each night wondering the same thing, marvelling at my own ignorance. We shared the same house. I thought we shared our lives. But I had no idea what she had been doing to herself or for how long. I never saw her in the mornings and after school she was most often out. She always seemed to have eaten before me or intended to eat after me. Family meals just weren’t part of our routine and it was months before I would think back and realise I could not remember the last time I had seen her eat a single thing. After that happened I found that I’d been buying less food each week to keep the same presses full. Her self-prescribed diet was nothing more than “Air, Water & Purity”. I just hadn’t been privy to this information or been made aware of her campaign of self destruction.

She could have died without warning and I wouldn’t have guessed why. I was that oblivious. I only learned how she had been treating herself a few weeks before her 17th birthday. I was called into her school and shortly afterwards I ended up driving her to hospital. Ana had collapsed in the corridor; no warning, no reason. She was unhurt and the nurse has resuscitated her without difficulty but had decided to call me since this was , apparently, a weekly occurrence back then. I had no idea prior to that moment. The nurse was shocked to learn that Ana was not anaemic, that she didn’t always faint easily. She had called me up to recommend I obtain a prescription for iron tablets more potent that those she had been giving Ana for the last month or two. This was when I lost my veil of ignorance and became utterly confused. Ana wouldn’t speak to me in the car… I was forced to wait until a doctor met me outside the observation room in the hospital. Then I learned just how much I had been missing.

“your daughter weighs a little under six stone”. This took a few moments to register with me. She was 5’8”, like myself. “I don’t believe she has eaten today, nor that she has had a substantial meal in well over a week”. He spoke directly and got right to the point but his voice was soft and careful, his eyes betraying sympathy and the guilt he felt at bearing this news. “Severely malnourished”, “Withdrawn and dishonest” “Anorexia Nervosa”, “her life is in danger from this point onwards”. I couldn’t breathe. They needed to keep her overnight and I was given information on her condition and encouraged to go home, assured that “she will be okay”. I don’t think they believed that but I tried to anyway. The booklets I had been given opened my eyes to so much. I was made aware of the nature of my daughters illness and the overwhelming extent of my own ignorance. After a long self debate and much guilt I searched Ana’s room and found, eventually, her little black box; her diary.

A few months ago the issue of food and fat seemed to be just a detail to her. “I hate this year. I’m getting nothing done. Aaron & I still haven’t spoken properly since the fight.. I’ve been eating too much and it shows. I’ll end up like a blimp at this rate.” There didn’t seem to be a line but by the time I was halfway through my invasion of privacy her stories and dreams had been replaced with self-loathing criticism; “I looked at myself today and cried. I have no control whatsoever. It’s so ****ing disgusting. Fat, ugly, bitch!!! You are not perfect. You will never ****ing be”. Later still her obsession shifted and become calmer…more calculated. She wrote almost entirely in numbers; Calories, fat content, details of various vitamin pills. It was insane. She seemed to have lost her goals and dreams and replaced them with targets and numbers. There were figures and comparative scales detailing her weight at regular intervals in the day, missing only school times and time spent asleep (though often there were random intrusions at 2am, 4 am, 6 am). She had weighed herself 20 times the day before, twice between waking and leaving for school today before she collapsed. I sat there, catatonic. My child was killing herself. I just hadn’t seen it. “100cals today. I’ve nearly got it right.”

So they ask me how I hadn’t seen it. I try not to cry. It’s been 6 months since I found out and I’m sitting beside her in hospital. I tried forcing her to eat. I tried encouraging her to stop what she was doing… We fought so much more during that time than ever before. She screamed at me, “you fat cow, leave me alone. It’s my body and I won’t let you poison me” I couldn’t understand her. I still can’t. She acts so selfish and foolish. She speaks about beauty, acting as though she’s attaining some idealised version of it for herself. All I can see is her cheekbones jutting out like knives and her eyes sinking into her skull. Despite my efforts at vigilance it was still a few months before I paused outside the bathroom, heard all of the taps running and discovered that our bathroom door was locked (shortly after a forced meal). I kept the key from the door but this only allowed me to catch her on her knees, purging my good intentions from her system. I screamed and cried, tried to reason with her. It was impossible. I felt like I was speaking to the disease itself: some creature than controlled her mind and destroyed her body. Soon enough she couldn’t go to school or leave the house for anything. I tried for so long to feed her, to make her okay but nothing I could do had any effect. She became less and less every day. She didn’t want my help or my love. I brought her to hospital again; they had to keep her this time. My beautiful daughter, my Ana, is 17 years old and “on the threshold of death” at 4st 7lb. She still seems proud of her self-discipline…

(another leaving cert english essay. "write an essay from the perspective of the mother of a child with an eating disorder)

shiv

Hi Passive,
The last paragraph struck me the most, as well as some of your other lines like purging the mother's good intentions and the random nocturnal journal entries. Very well-written from a mother's perspective.

BEAT

Excellent piece of work. If I didnt know better I would think this was your own experience. It really paints a picture and makes you feel for the character. These are the elements of a great story.

Keep up the good work

trajan

well done passive. thats among the best things i've read here. unusually mature writing from a leaving cert student. I don't mean anything patronising by that. This seems like genuine talent to me.

passive

thank you everybody. I quite liked it too and, luckily enough, so did my teacher! A1 -excellent

parker larkin

Did they give you the title to workwith or the subject? I used to love the challenge of an English essay so can understand your pride and joy. It's well written, good luck with the exams!

Shad0r

Good work. I was just browsing around wishing for some prose and stumbled upon this. Before I saw that line in bold at the end I would have sworn you were in your late 30s!! It reads like its being narratted from personal experience, which means job well done.

Dave3x

This is very good writing. I especially like the line:

"She seemed to have lost her goals and dreams and replaced them with targets and numbers"

It really provokes thought on the way in which people measure success in numbers, not emotions- the house, car, salary- rather than whether or not they're happy.

:|

excellent story, could have sworn it was a real life experience