The Last Appointment

“You’re right, your first appointment was on the first of November – almost exactly a year ago”, she agreed as she placed the record sheet on the table, preparing to stand up. “You did so well to see this through in light of how uncomfortable you were at the start. And you don’t seem phased at all about being here now,” she added. “Yes, I don’t feel anxious about it, I just feel grateful,” I told her whilst staying seated a moment longer, taking in that this really was my final appointment. The room that day was baking hot, though I didn’t quite believe the culprit to be the small electric heater awkwardly centred in the room. A comfortable chair faced the matching one I sat in, illuminated by the winter sun that gushed in through the Victorian looking windows. Beyond the panes sat an enclosed garden, squared in by other angles of the building, which always looked perfectly pruned yet never entered. Laura moved towards the doorway saying ‘shall we?’, as I followed her out of the room that after today – I would hopefully never see again. Laura and I were about to take the walk that I used to dread most at these weekly appointments. Down the corridor, a turn right, then left, a tap on the door by Laura to check vacancy, and into the room where it stood. An instrument that once had so much power over my happiness: the scales.

 

The scales are an important character in the eating disorder story. They can make or break a day. I first remember meeting them when I was sent to the school nurse in year 3, having had a letter sent to my home. It said that I lay within a higher than average percentile on weight charts. When I entered the nurse’s room, I was met with an evidently confused nurse and the slight stench of day old sick. “Oh, why have they sent you, you’re only a little thing?’, she asked the question for which I had no answer. She shuffled me onto the scales, did a few quick squiggles onto her papers, and with a ‘run along now this was a waste of our time’ tone bid me farewell.  I returned to my class thinking that she must be trying to make me feel better, feeling certain that the numbers on those scales meant the world. The desires to be smaller are ones that seeped in years before this though.  I would do lots of illogical things like crush myself into my younger sister’s tiny shorts believing that they would shrink me overnight, reflecting my childlike lack of know how. The nurse’s visit told me that I would not have to guess when I was too big or too small anymore – these scales could let me know in an instant.

 

A few years on from this I found my Mum’s dieting magazines that listed the ideal weight range for me. I interpreted these numbers as ‘if you are not the lowest number in this range you must be fat and disgusting, and you will never be happy’. I know in movies you see a different kind of magazine being sneaked through from the parents bedroom, but rebellious little me was only flicking to back pages checking on the calorie content of an apple. As I moved into my later teens, we got a bigger house, with scales in lots of bathrooms. From 16-19 I had a daily routine of weighing myself at 3 intervals a day, with clothes, without clothes, and on all 3 sets of scales. I would then add and divide all 18 weight measurements to provide an average daily weight score. I mean Dah! You can’t just trust one figure! This may sound crazy, but as an abusive husband wouldn’t start with a battering, the eating disorder behaviours began reasonably. As I moved into my 20’s, I went through phases of obsessive weighing and total avoidance. From about 27 onwards, after a really stressful patch, I managed to completely ban all scales from my life but remained terrified of how the numbers on them would make me feel if I ever saw them. When I went to my first, second, and even tenth appointment, I never looked at the numbers on the scales. One day Laura looked to me from across that room and with her usual soft compassionate tone said, ‘let’s write down the pros and cons of avoiding your weight’, which led me to understand that avoiding something only gives it power.

 

On this last appointment I slipped my Nike’s off ready to take my final step onto the scales. “Wait I haven’t turned them on yet,” I heard withdrawing my over eager move. “Ok, now”, she said, and I waited, caring what they said, but knowing that it didn’t really matter. We walked back to the room and seated snugly in my chair I updated her on my successes of the five weeks since my last appointment. Looking out to the vacant little garden occasionally, I told her of the abilities I now had in explaining this disorder. I mentioned I had written things about it in this blog as an attempt to relinquish any residual shame and guilt – which I now knew to be the two most powerful driving forces in the disorder. I expressed my gratitude to Laura for the knowledge she had passed onto me, and as we walked to the exit I felt a happy sadness that I suddenly wanted to express with a farewell hug. “I would give you a hug if it were appropriate”, Laura’s words echoed my thoughts.  “Me too,” I turned and paced along the corridor, sensing that it was more than these two words that I had just parted with. The exit grew nearer, enticing me towards the cool air outside which blasted onto my face with the opening of the doors. I walked away from the building buzzing with pride for having been through a process so painful and scary, yet essential and liberating.

The 1st Appointment

While tossing and turning all night I wondered how it could be so warm in November that I would be uncovered and barely clothed, yet still sweating buckets. Each time I attempted to go back to sleep, an anxious swarm of thoughts engulfed my mind not allowing it. I was dreading tomorrow. I had already delayed the appointment five times because of my “busy” work schedule, and the tone of the emails now told me that it was either now or after another year long wait. It was November 2016, I was still aged 30 and so within my vow to sort my eating disorder out by then.

The overground crawled towards my stop, and I felt like everyone in the carriage could see my overwhelming thoughts and knew where I was going. Entering the outpatients building, I grabbed my phone grateful for its existence and held it to my ear in an attempt to be unapproachable as I passed the reception desk. I couldn’t risk someone asking me what department I was going to. The corridor had a yellow glare spilling in from the long lights and tiny windows which gave a feeling that it was neither day nor night. Photographs of historical buildings placed evenly along the wall were captioned to reveal the hospitals past. At the end of the corridor I met the final turn – straight ahead for the cafe, or left to the eating disorders unit, and did an internal chuckle at the sprinkle of irony. Glancing to my iPhone, I saw I was 8 minutes early, so I took the left but waited in the hallway before entering the unit, afraid to be in the waiting room. Punctual footsteps behind me made that heated anxiety return, and as they passed I imagined that the person, like those on the overground, knew every single detail of my eating disorder past that I had hid so well until now.

The echoes of the hall spoke of two more people approaching, so I rang the buzzer, and in one quick spurt said my name and that I had a 12 noon appointment. “Come in”, the intercom replied, with a tone that had not a hint of anxiety. The door opened noisily which attracted the attention of the pokey waiting room immediately to my left. The room was boiling, for me at least so I sat as far away from the radiator as possible. Four chairs lined each side of the room, one was occupied by a very slim looking young girl who tapped away on her phone, while two more were filled with a couple who whispered not quietly enough for the size of the room. I decided to listen in to focus myself on something, whilst scanning the “inspirational” pictures and images that lined the walls. He was coming to half of her session, my eavesdropping revealed, and then he would go back to work. A quick glance at her revealed she looked beautiful, healthy and confident. And clearly had someone by her side that loved her. I wondered if she was at the start of her treatment or the end. I didn’t feel I shared her buzz, my skin was blotchy and redder than ever, my throat felt eternally sore, energy levels were measly, and my knuckles revealed red marks which I dragged my sleeves down to hide. Before the session I was told to write a list of reasons why I want to recover from this, and those are ones I could add on. Amongst the others were key words I wrote down, which reminded me of my rock bottom moments such as “bathroom floor” which was a time after being sick for hours, I collapsed on the bathroom floor but proceeded to clean up while laying there, worried about my house mate returning home from work soon.

 

A tall lady with black hair tied back neatly entered with a South African accent saying “Jessica!” like she had bumped into an old friend, and she soon took half of the couple away, explaining to the guy she would be back in a moment. I was right, she was on the other side of recovery and her glow inspired me. A moment later a petite woman with not quite blonde, not quite brown hair approached the small doorway saying my name with a tone unsure who I was but a glare that knew exactly. “Hi!”, I said masking my terror, and followed her into the room where I was about to reveal and try to fix my biggest secret of all.