and isolated in a photo, taken out of that symbiotic relationship you have with the person in the mirror, brought home to me with devastating force how skinny and ill I had become. I looked awful.
I rang my parents and burst into tears, telling them everything.
‘I’m coming to get you,’ said Dad.
He drove up to Manchester and took me home to Norfolk. Term-time was over for the summer, so I was working under my own steam on my thesis, which had to be in by October. Dad took time off work, and I stayed at home for about a week.
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ he said. ‘I just want to be with you.’
I explained everything to him as best I could. He just couldn’t comprehend it, but he was super-supportive. It was such an alien thing for him to have to deal with. He had no experience of it. Not being able to help was agonising for him.
‘Chrissie, you’ve got so much going for you,’ he said. ‘You’re beautiful, you’ve got a great mind, a great body. I just don’t understand why you’re doing this to yourself.’
He was at a loss. But, for me, just his being there and my being able to talk to him about it was enough.
We went for a walk and ended up in a coffee shop. He ordered a cake and tried to get me to eat some.
‘I can’t, Dad,’ I said. ‘I can’t.’
‘Chrissie, I don’t know what to do for you. I don’t know how to help.’ And he broke down.
I’d never seen my dad cry. It tore at my soul. The fact that I’d caused him and Mum so much distress rocked me.
But it was my brother who delivered the killer blow. I went to stay with him in Greenwich, where he was studying. We had talked at length about my problem before, and he had always been sympathetic and supportive, but this time he showed me the toughest love he possibly could. It was what I needed. Our relationship has at times been feisty, and that feistiness helped to complete the turnaround.
‘You’re so selfish,’ he said. ‘Look at what you’re doing. You’re tearing Dad apart. And Mum. You think this is just an eating disorder, that it’s just affecting you. Well, it’s not. It’s affecting our whole family. You don’t care what you’re doing to everyone else.’
He gave me both barrels. This was not the first time that had happened, but for the first time I didn’t give him both barrels back. I took it in silence, because I knew he was right. Matty helped me then more than he could know. He woke me up to what was happening. I might not have shown it at the time, but my gratitude for what he did for me that day knew no bounds.
And maybe being with my brother brought home to me another realisation, which helped me then to learn to appreciate my body and continues to help me now. I am a combination of my mum and dad. If I hate what I see in the mirror, then indirectly I am being critical of them. And to be critical of them is the most absurd idea, since they are the two people I love and respect most in the world. Or, to approach it from the other way, if I love my mum and dad so much, which is a given, then it follows I should love, or at the very least appreciate, my body. I should appreciate me.
Which brings me back to those millennial resolutions, and the one I have tackled least successfully – to be tolerant of my weaknesses. I still have to learn to be kinder to myself. Those days at the end of my master’s were a watershed for me in that respect, as in many others, but I have never quite shaken off that tendency to be self-critical. Indeed, it is less that I need to tolerate my weak nesses, and more that I need to realise that what I’m berating myself for isn’t actually weakness at all. I have an illogical conception of what weakness is. If I lose a race, that is weakness; if I have a bad day’s training, that is weakness. For me, anything short of perfection is weakness.
At least now I understand the problem. Learning to see my body less as an object to be manipulated and more as an
I rang my parents and burst into tears, telling them everything.
‘I’m coming to get you,’ said Dad.
He drove up to Manchester and took me home to Norfolk. Term-time was over for the summer, so I was working under my own steam on my thesis, which had to be in by October. Dad took time off work, and I stayed at home for about a week.
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ he said. ‘I just want to be with you.’
I explained everything to him as best I could. He just couldn’t comprehend it, but he was super-supportive. It was such an alien thing for him to have to deal with. He had no experience of it. Not being able to help was agonising for him.
‘Chrissie, you’ve got so much going for you,’ he said. ‘You’re beautiful, you’ve got a great mind, a great body. I just don’t understand why you’re doing this to yourself.’
He was at a loss. But, for me, just his being there and my being able to talk to him about it was enough.
We went for a walk and ended up in a coffee shop. He ordered a cake and tried to get me to eat some.
‘I can’t, Dad,’ I said. ‘I can’t.’
‘Chrissie, I don’t know what to do for you. I don’t know how to help.’ And he broke down.
I’d never seen my dad cry. It tore at my soul. The fact that I’d caused him and Mum so much distress rocked me.
But it was my brother who delivered the killer blow. I went to stay with him in Greenwich, where he was studying. We had talked at length about my problem before, and he had always been sympathetic and supportive, but this time he showed me the toughest love he possibly could. It was what I needed. Our relationship has at times been feisty, and that feistiness helped to complete the turnaround.
‘You’re so selfish,’ he said. ‘Look at what you’re doing. You’re tearing Dad apart. And Mum. You think this is just an eating disorder, that it’s just affecting you. Well, it’s not. It’s affecting our whole family. You don’t care what you’re doing to everyone else.’
He gave me both barrels. This was not the first time that had happened, but for the first time I didn’t give him both barrels back. I took it in silence, because I knew he was right. Matty helped me then more than he could know. He woke me up to what was happening. I might not have shown it at the time, but my gratitude for what he did for me that day knew no bounds.
And maybe being with my brother brought home to me another realisation, which helped me then to learn to appreciate my body and continues to help me now. I am a combination of my mum and dad. If I hate what I see in the mirror, then indirectly I am being critical of them. And to be critical of them is the most absurd idea, since they are the two people I love and respect most in the world. Or, to approach it from the other way, if I love my mum and dad so much, which is a given, then it follows I should love, or at the very least appreciate, my body. I should appreciate me.
Which brings me back to those millennial resolutions, and the one I have tackled least successfully – to be tolerant of my weaknesses. I still have to learn to be kinder to myself. Those days at the end of my master’s were a watershed for me in that respect, as in many others, but I have never quite shaken off that tendency to be self-critical. Indeed, it is less that I need to tolerate my weak nesses, and more that I need to realise that what I’m berating myself for isn’t actually weakness at all. I have an illogical conception of what weakness is. If I lose a race, that is weakness; if I have a bad day’s training, that is weakness. For me, anything short of perfection is weakness.
At least now I understand the problem. Learning to see my body less as an object to be manipulated and more as an
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