I.
the beeping keeps her up all night
that and the too-white lights
she’s not here to sleep, far as she can tell, though she’s on a mattress – strapped to a mattress – wires running from sticky patches on her chest to bedside machines
the hospital sheets make her feel dirty, grimy, germy; how many expiring old men have lain supine in this bed? how many soiled themselves? bled, pissed, drooled, soaked the sheets? breathed their last breaths? ask any of her friends from school, she’s a germaphobe at the best of times; a bit precious, a bit pole-up-her-ass – ruined the year 10 camping trip with her hysterics (sand, dirt, leaves in the tent!) and though they won’t pass up a chance to remind her of it, they forgive her, of course they forgive her, Billie can’t help it, it’s just the way she is
someone outside barks hand it over or something similar; a troop of navy torsos cluster at the door and she’s thrust into shadow
her name is said (the one she doesn’t go by), birth date, admission time, a smattering of numbers, letters, acronyms: braddy-cardy-ya, it sounds like, or brat-tea-car-dee-ah (she’d google it but they took her phone)
pens click, feet tap
wait, is this bed 3?
bed 3 discharged last night, this is bed 4
yes
anorexia nervosa
footsteps thud-squeak-squeak-thud away and the light floods back in
a tearful exchange with her father when he comes to visit
they don’t know what else to call it, he says, meaning, show proof to the contrary
well, whatever it is, it’s not that, she snaps, but softly; not yet accustomed to her own churlishness
I eat, you’ve seen me eat, I eat all the time, I don’t not eat, I’m not that (every neighbourhood has one, a psychologist will say to her years later, half-smiling, and perhaps you’re yours) sad stick figure, militant mannequin, carving the same route through the streets day in, day out, all sinew and bone, angular, gawky, cadaverous
bird without feathers, without wings, without breasts – what’s left?
she doesn’t
she’s not
II.
school gates open to steps leading down to bitumen sloping into gullet of deputy principal’s office
Billie enters, fresh and full (moon-faced), keenly aware that there’s more of her to look at now, more of her to look at and wonder where she’s been since term 2, why she’s only back now, the day of the school captain elections
in which she isn’t featuring as a candidate
five minutes to the morning bell and Billie heads toward B-block, steps onto the veranda where she finds Ellie and Ash awaiting her big(massive, she’d warned them) return
the new growths on her chest demand attention and Ellie goes to state the obvious before back-peddling at the sight of Billie’s expression, smiling instead and saying something about getting used to them
which sets Billie off anyway
which isn’t surprising, everything sets her off these days, she feels violated, trapped, truly goddamn awful, you’ve no idea, the fuckery of the past two months, and this great big bloated thing – she glares down at venus-esque undulations of tits, hips and stomach – I’ve got to cart around with me now
the bell rings and tears sting her eyes, Ash puts an arm around her and says not to worry, come to the computer rooms with year 12
which she does
so she’s not there in the main hall with the rest of the school to see the captaincy speeches, the gags and the pledges, the slogans and the charisma, the usual quips about attending a school on a hill belonging to some guy named Smith
and feel more like a fuck-up than she already does
the school days stagger doggedly along that first week back, punctuated by recess and lunch, both of which she spends in her mum’s parked car
which is what you get when you cannot be trusted to sit in the schoolyard with everyone else, remove the cling film from the sandwiches and convey them, crusts and all – that’s it, take a bite, no, a proper bite, stop that nibbling, for god’s sake! – to your mouth instead of the bin
cue the twice-daily walk of shame in front of her year group, which stakes out the front entrance of all places during breaks
up the steps, two at a time
navy plaid
doctor’s orders
no one is looking at you
III.
they talk about lack
sometimes excess but mostly lack
five years between them and from opposite ends of Sydney, but Court is someone whose illness has left the same gaping holes
lack of educational attainment
lack of driving-a-car experience
lack of drunk-hook-ups-and-late-nights-and-intimacy experience
things they’d forfeited in a rush to get nowhere
things they berate themselves for
on nights spent sitting at the nurses’ station, crocheting, filling in crosswords or folding paper cranes, memorising the lyrics to ice ice baby – amusements in which they are now fierce (manic, the nurses write in their notes) experts
in the level 2 courtyard, soaking up a carcinogenic blend of UV rays and cigarette smoke, mingling with patients from other wards, Billie and Court keep their diagnoses to themselves, not pinned to their lapels like certain others do – which is fine too, don’t get me wrong, you do you, no judgment, no judgment at all, they coo
fear of a name, Hermione says in the first (second?) film, only increases fear of the thing itself (‘cept in the book, it’s Dumbledore speaking)
either way it’s probably true, she thinks, the less you talk about it, the more it festers, EDs thrive in silence
at least that’s what they say
in group
along with
surf the urge
radical acceptance
opposite actions action with intent
recovery goals grounding for five
bigger picture
pros & cons
coping phrase (if the facilitator is Lynne)
psychobabble bullshit that Court gives a chance (it’s called CBT, she says defensively, and it works) but Billie just can’t seem to swallow
she sits through it anyway, tries not to huff audibly, tries to be a paragon of recovery, picking at the lint on her sleeves and wishing she was elsewhere, otherwise
ignoring the girl in the corner who will not stop jiggling her legs
because the two of you – Billie catches Court’s eye – are here to get better
while she clearly just wants to stay sick
later
when not with Court or otherwise concerned to preserve her dignity
Billie can be found doing sneaky push-ups, jumping jacks, squats in the bathroom stalls, taking herself off for walks around the block between checks
gulping down cup after cup of water on weigh days, breathing – for the gains – through the nausea
cheating the system when she can get away with it
and (increasingly) even when she can’t
IV.
Billie sits in the clinic waiting room, occupying one seat in an otherwise empty row of eight
it’s January (fuck, how is it already January?) and at this time of year, in this hemisphere, people prefer beach holidays to hospital admissions, even – or especially – the mentally ill
meanwhile
Billie tries to align cold-numb sneaker-clad feet exactly with the patterns of tessellating polygons in the carpet, willing the air-con to sputter and die so the room feels less like a refrigerator and she less conspicuously hypothermic (get some meat on your bones, someone screams in the distance)
on the TV above the receptionist’s desk, a man with an orange face and too much money is the newly-elected leader of the free world, and his mouth is exactly what Billie thinks of when she hears the word piehole
by god’s grace it’s set to mute, so the piehole opens and shuts noiselessly, comically
dummy sans ventriloquist
anyway, that’s a different hemisphere
(not that we can hide from it here)
we are each of us, she thinks but doesn’t say
that afternoon, feeling the blood-pressure cuff inflate and tighten around her arm, falter, deflate with a hiss
watching the nurse turn to record the numbers on a chart, humph when the pen doesn’t work
wrapped in devil’s ivy
V.
I mostly keep to myself, Billie writes in the about me section of her rental application,
which is true and a virtue in these times
she gets the room, pays the bond, packs the car and moves up and in
for the first time, sleeps in a double bed
for the first time, orders a double-shot flat white
for the first time, feels more like a fully-functioning carbon-based life form, less like the other thing, particularly so on glorious (glorious!) days when the sunshine is delicious and dappled, when walking the length of Glebe Point Road feels like slipping through endless pockets of hot and cold
for the first time, gets the share-house-blues
there’s the housemate who lives off ten-calorie popsicles, noghurt, diet cola and aeroplane jelly (lite), the latter of which is passionfruit-flavoured and looks and smells like pus
there’s the piss-poor shower pressure and mould growing in the sink and the backyard that smells like the marijuana her housemates pretend not to smoke there
and the temptation to go without breakfast/lunch/dinner
as it is, long walks distract her from the food sitting in her stomach, which doesn’t cause her nearly as much distress as it used to but feels insidious – half-digested muesli sprouts arms and legs, kicks, hits, punches, tears at her insides, killing her from the inside out – nonetheless
in hospital, there was a girl who refused water, kept it up for days, brain steadily shrinking before the seizures began
one in the elevator, two in the group room, one (spectacular) in the dining room, in front of all the staff and patients from the mood disorders and drug and alcohol units (who, all things considered, probably enjoyed the excitement) before she was transferred to a different facility
Billie thinks about this sometimes
and the drought
and how scarcity drives people mad
VI.
she labours over a conclusion
for an essay she’s written but is too afraid to finish, let alone submit
chews her lip
writes:
like a premier women’s magazine, the multidisciplinary ED treatment team churns out glossy messages of empowerment, touts self-acceptance, self-care, self-compassion; in the same breath, it reminds us that we do not know our own brains, bodies or appetites, that we do not know how to take care of ourselves, that we need to heal, to nourish ourselves (with such and such a product, with such and such a caloric intake), go plant-based (or up the meat and dairy), drink more/less water (it artificially satiates!), pause and meditate, retrain our brains, rewire (get those neurons firing), breathe in the good, breathe out the bad, submit to the process, entrust our bodies and our busy little minds to the experts who’ll nip and tuck and perform the necessary adjustments, do this
[mindfulness/ body-sculpting/ self-soothing]
exercise three times daily – download the app for easier access and optimal results!
the scripts, the micro-aggressions, the bottom lines are the same
you, young lady, cannot be trusted
we know what’s best for you
help us
help you
help yourself