The battle for me

I sit in awkward silence. Looking at my phone, scrolling through pictures of people who are in other places, doing other things, anything to avoid eye contact with my neighbours. They, who too sit silently, who too glue their eyes to their phones, who too would like to be anywhere but here. I settle into the familiar tones of this room, the receptionist, answering queries in a hushed voice, the familiar whirr of the fan as it tries to cool the room, the shuffling in and out as each person is called upstairs, only to be replaced by a fresh body, another weary soul.

I’ve always liked the colour scheme in here, blue is calming. The darker tones of the armchairs contrasting the powder blue emulsion blanketing the walls. Deep blue carpeting covers the floor, lending a soft, muted, atmosphere to the room. Even the notices, so strategically dotted around, reminding everyone to keep their face coverings on, are edged in a matching blue colour.

The receptionist nods at me, “You can go up now”. I smile. Outwardly. Then get up and make my way up the stairs. I know that our time is limited, I drag my feet, ascending slowly, delaying the moment of encounter for as long as is acceptable. I hate lying.

As I round the first flight of stairs, the butterflies, lying dormant deep within my gut, begin to stir. As if awakened by some unseen signal, they sense the impending experience and set their wings into motion, moving faster until they have launched themselves into a frenzy of fluttering. I can’t ignore them. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with oxygen, inhaling until the air reaches the butterflies, beneath the layers of the lung, past the bronchioles, further, to seep through the alveoli. Sucking in more and more of this life-giving gas, until the dancing creatures are stilled, until the weight of the air lifts them, gives them space, allows them to settle.

I exhale, letting these attentive warning signals leave my body, they know the danger isn’t here and can find it somewhere else. I can almost see them as they fly off, released from the confines of my mind, into freedom. One more breath and I see the door.

The familiar sight of that white door, solid wood, neat brown sign, invites new sensations. Temples begin to throb, shoulders lift, heart pumps faster, sending an emergency blood supply to all areas of my body. That portal into the mire of my guilt, that knowledge that my deception, my misrepresentation of myself will perpetuate on the other side of that door, floods my conscience with shame.

I stop to take another deep breath, lower my shoulders, raise my head, and knock on the door. It’s too late to retreat, too late to back down, to turn around raise my hands and surrender. I must be strong, I must continue to wear my mask, conceal my truth, to perform as planned.

She is sitting in her usual armchair, placed just opposite an empty one. She raises her head, smiles, and gestures to the empty chair. I sit. I’ve often thought about how I appear to her. What does she think when looking at me? She, with the years of experience under her belt, with the training and scholarship from prestigious universities, with the glowing recommendations from other professionals. Surely, she knows by now. I can’t have fooled her so completely.

But as she looks at me, as she places her glasses on the bridge of her nose and glances up from reading the notes in front of her, I sense her trust. I feel the confidence she rests on me, the expectation of reciprocal trust. It feels heavy. I don’t understand why I do this.

“How has it been over the last few weeks?” I smile, sit up straight in my chair, and make good eye contact. I can use all of the tricks I have learned and keep everyone satisfied.

“It’s been good. I’m taking my medication and feeling better, I have more energy, and am hoping to go back to work soon.” Her smile widens, reaches all the way to the corners of her eyes. She looks content. I take it a step further.

“I’ve even been eating meals on my own, keeping to the meal plan, not restricting at all,” I think I can almost see her dancing inside, a little jig circling around her mind. Or maybe it’s a waltz, that would fit her better, a slow movement, calm delight, the pleasure of another job well done.

I think I’ve said enough, I give myself an internal pat on the back, congratulating myself on my intelligence. I have succeeded, now I can relax, another six weeks until the next time I challenge myself like this. We put another date in the calendar and I skip back down the stairs, wave a cheery farewell to the receptionist, and rush out the door, released into the cold December air, into the streets lined with Georgian terraces, into the bustle that is London, half expecting to be pulled back inside to give a reckoning for my actions.

Once safely away from the building, a thought, one which had been suppressed beneath layers of self-congratulation begins to emerge. It starts off weak, like a prematurely born infant, unable to sustain itself at all then steadily grows stronger. Once barely audible, this notion is now loud enough to be noticeable. It increases its volume until it can no longer be ignored, demanding my attention, clamouring to be heard.

And so the battle begins. Each side eyes the terrain, judging the level of weaponry necessary for the coming clash. I know the intruder to be persistent, to be unyielding, even in the face of constant attack. This faction has been patient, has been suppressed under occupation, but has never been crushed. The current occupier, however, has a firm grip on the territory, clings on with everything it has, depending on its hold over my mind for survival.

The first shot rings out. The occupier is taken by surprise. The thought is present. It is out in the open. “This is not you. This lying, this manipulation, this deception. This is not who you are” This attack is met with derision, a laugh, a sneer.

“It is now. Look at all the lies you’ve told over the last few years. You’re so good at it, you’ve misled them all, this is who you are now.” So, it continues. Back and forth, around, and around in a dizzying display of acrobatics, my thoughts attack each other. Each side battles for supremacy, each side fighting to the death for control over my mind. I begin to feel weak, ready to surrender, ready to forfeit my hopes, my goals, the life I have always wanted for the security of anorexia. For the power and sense of achievement it gives me.

I am willing to submit to the rules and rituals it dictates, to the ideals it espouses, to the never-ending chase for the body I will never have. I am ready to lay down arms, to wave my white flag, surrender to the comfort of restriction.

But today something has changed. Today as battle rages I feel new power in the rebellion, new energy in the insurrection. Today, the underdog may just hold out. My attacks are stronger now, I let anorexia feel the power I hold over it. I have control over its very existence, my decision today will determine whether it survives or crumbles like the cake it will not allow me to eat, scattered into insignificance.

The victor emerges, scarred, and bruised from battle, exhausted, collapsing, but ultimately successful. Surveying the area just recovered, I understand. There are further wars to win, further fights to overcome. The vanquished will again return, will need driving out from every corner of my mind. The road ahead will be tough, each time we meet on the battlefield the risk is high, but a risk worth taking. I know that under the grip of anorexia I was not myself, I was not in control of my thoughts and actions.

Now, it’s me, the true me, the beautiful, thoughtful, intelligent person that was there all the time. The one who waited with unending patience, with foresight and preparedness. The me who trained for war and won is now able to rise up, return from exile, and take its rightful place in the palace that is my mind.

I turn around and head back inside.