Look up there; isn’t that Paul Henns?

It occurred to me recently that hardly anyone ever looks up as they walk about the streets of their city or inbred rural enclave; (I still haven’t decided what mine is, by the way – I do not wish to offend the inbred. They’re unpredictable.)

I wonder why no one thinks it is important to be aware of what may or mayn’t be above your head; in fact, just last night the topic of being brained by a piece of masonry came up. I can’t think of a better reason to walk about habitually staring upwards, though I suppose that brings up two separate issues: how to avoid muggers and rapists whilst gazing at the heavens; the other is that is it better to see the broken stone falling at your head a second too late to alter the outcome?

I recently got a new front door and have had trouble finding the door knocker I want. I have settled on a gargoyle that spits water at people. Especially the Nazi war criminals that are hiding on window ledges and doorsills because NO ONE EVER LOOKS UP.

The Nazis are clever.

 

Getting wasted.

I firmly believe that every single person carries with them a tidy compendium of mental illnesses in their head; some are harmless idiosyncrasies that might fall at the very furthest edges of the obsessive-compulsive scale. Some are mild forms of depression. Personality disorders are rampant (I’ve decided, in my infinite wisdom), despite the fact that often, they’re vaguely insulting diagnoses.

My predominant mental illness is that I am an anorexic. There we go – I’ve outed myself as a modern-day self-flagellating, calorie-counting gustatory neurotic. My relationship with food has always been antagonistic. I never think of it as something you need to, you know, live. I have to quell my appetites (which sort of ties in nicely with the previous post on the piety of women since food is always a morality play with me. Cheesecake = sin. Lettuce = virtue. Nothing = saintliness.)

As with a lot of anorexics, I am a very accomplished cook; my friends always politely refrain from commenting on the fact that whilst I eagerly refill their plates with heady pastries and rich savouries, I refuse to eat any myself. They’ve passed the point where they attempt to reason with me in any meaningful way. I sometimes get a token “You having any of this?” sort of comment, which always makes me flush with embarrassment. “No thank-you,” is my inevitable answer. People die because there isn’t enough to eat, and I’m sitting here surrounded by plenty like Catherine of bloody Sienna.

I disagree with a lot of what has been written about the roots of eating disorders. Over-controlling mothers, distant fathers, chaotic home life, a desire for control. “It’s not really about food,” the therapists insist rather lamely, in an NHS-purchased office chair, cheap and squeaky. They lean forward and look me meaningfully in the eye and proclaim, “It’s about control.” What a load of nonsense. If I was really in control I would down bucket after bucket of fried chicken with careless abandon. If I were in control, the sight of a fruit scone would not send me into a mental tailspin for the next forty-five minutes. Quite the contrary, anorexia is a total loss of control. It is an insidious, unglamorous and most significantly, a boring illness. Food is a pleasure; life without it takes on a muddy colour, with streaks of funereal black punctuating it.

I’ve tried all sorts of therapies, ranging from psychologists brandishing flow charts showing how human beings go through x amount of steps before making even the simplest of decisions, and how we can mould our expectations of the outcomes by performing certain mental gymnastics at each checkpoint. (Yawn.) I’ve had slightly-befuddled psychiatrists hand out prescriptions for all variety of anti-depressants, unaccustomed as they are to dealing with this sort of thing – their main concern is keeping the schizophrenics and manic-depressives on an even keel with psychotropic drugs. “So,” said one to me once, peering at me vaguely over magnifying reading glasses, “you’ve tried Pr0zac right?” “Yes.” “Hmm. Well, how about some Ser0xat?” “Er. Ok?”

I’ve spent over half my life counting, restricting, calculating and having my happiness dictated by the size of my clothes. Sounds hopeless, really, when laid out starkly like that. But I’ve discovered my motivation – at last! – for a real, concerted effort at reclaiming my rightful place at the table. This morning, as I performed my usual anxious once-over of my body, poking and prodding it with a furrowed brow in front of a giant mirror, Girl Baby toddled in to the room. She appraised me with her clinical eye and then, without breaking her gaze, lifted her shirt to expose a gorgeous rounded toddler belly. I was just about to gush about how perfect she was when I froze; she was looking down at her tummy with the same dissatisfaction that I use on my own. Then she slapped her stomach. Finally she looked up at me and grinned her silly grin as if to say “Look what a good girl I am, being just like you.”

Oy vei. If that’s not motivation to knock this on the head once and for all, I don’t know what is.