Chapter Four: Schizophrenia

TRIGGER WARNING: GRAPHIC DETAILS OF EATING DISORDERS

Exchanging tips and tricks was not something people with eating disorders tend to agree with, and we didn't do it at all. Jane warned me about the dangers of making yourself sick, and I warned her about the dangers of laxative abuse, and over-exercising. We were going to look out for each other, and we were going to be friends in secret. It made things easier if we pretended to not even know each other at school.

Lying was something I used to find next to impossible, but it became second nature - it almost became easier to lie than to tell the whole truth. Jane was the person who knew whole truths, and I felt privileged in return to know hers. During dinner that night, I barely felt guilt as I shovelled pasta into my mouth, and decided to not use laxatives for once. Something about it was exciting, and I emotionally felt the best I had in years, with the exception of when I asked out Sam and she said yes.

Watching lame reality TV with my parents didn't seem too bad either. I made everyone cups of tea, I took the dog out for a walk, and I just relaxed with the knowledge that finally, finally I had someone I could talk to in real life who understood how I felt. My stomach did begin to hurt, though, as it usually did after I had eaten, and I had to run to the bathroom. My parents thought since I was 12, that I had IBS, which was probably true - but I didn't go to a doctor; I knew people online who abused laxatives and developed IBS, and I refused to be one of those people.

Sam was always supportive with my anxiety, which I told her about before we began dating. What she, or no-one else knew, was that I frequently liked to misuse my anxiety medication. I'd go weeks without taking anything, or have days/nights where I took too many. It always seemed as though, although there were usually repercussions for people abusing drugs, I believed that I would not be one of those people that had problems as a result of misuse. To me, it was only prescription medication, over the counter laxatives and alcohol that I touched, and since they were all legal, they were all safe. Logically, I knew I was wrong, but in my mind, what I was doing was okay. Cutting was the least okay thing to me: it was visible, left visible scars. People knew. People didn't know that I gave myself IBS, they couldn't tell if I hid alcohol in my room and swigged whiskey if I ever found life too hard. Obviously parents have worries of their own, and I knew my mother blamed herself for my poor mental health. Since she didn't know the half of it, I thought it was wise to never tell her everything.

I did think about my own death a lot, and wondered what would become of my writing - I wondered if when people knew my whole truths, they would hate me after my death. I could never imagine living a long time, maybe 50 years at the most. I could never be an old woman... I basically had the body of an old woman at the age of 16.

I managed to sleep unaided, and woke up at 11am. My phone was blowing up, and all my friends were asking if I was free. I couldn't get a lift in to town, unfortunately, so I hung out with Hayley, as I usually did.

She wanted to go out for pizza, and we planned to meet at the park at 12pm. It was a good day, and I was able to reassure myself that no-one suspected me to have an eating disorder.

"It's not my fault I'm so skinny," I said, "I eat everything and I never gain weight!"

"Lucky you," Hayley said, "I'll eat a grape and I'll gain 10 pounds."

We played games of guessing calories in foods, and it made me feel like a kid again. Except, there were no calories mentioned in the menu, and pizza was generally a lot - I was just lucky that we couldn't afford two, and that Hayley was a vegetarian.

My feet were the most numb they had been in a very long time. It scared me because I thought that my feet could fall off, and wondered what I'd do with no feet. I guessed that I'd get out of PE.

After our meal, we decided to go to Hayley's house to binge watch our favourite shows - her family had Netflix, so it just seemed easier that way. I'd rather stay out for longer and lie to my mum about how much I'd eaten. Apparently I used to lie when I was a child, but I think that was either an overactive imagination, or a hint of premature schizophrenia.

When my brother took psychology at A-Level, he learnt about schizophrenia, and decided it would be a great idea to diagnose me. That was, however, on the basis of my believing in ghosts and having very random delusions. It felt like as soon as I opened up to a person, they were ready to attack. The thing I admired most about John was that even through the break-up, he never exposed anything about me, when he easily could have. My mother always told me that it was impossible to be friends with exes. Though, to begin with, I hated him for four months: until he messaged me one day, asking me if I wanted my jacket back. We got into conversation, and he felt guilty about the way he treated me.

At first I used him to get what I wanted, but eventually, we got our broken friendship group back together - they split into two and took sides after we broke up. Sam was always on my side.

Saturday evening, I regretted coming home, because my dad had baked chocolate muffins - the whole house smelt like chocolate chips. I told him I was full, I'd eat one tomorrow. Which was going to have to be a lie, because there was no way I could get out of Sunday dinner. Friday and Sunday were always family dinner days. My parents had always worked full time, and their hours usually clashed terribly. They were still close - our whole family was pretty close.

"Would you love me no matter what?" I asked my mum. I needed constant validation from everyone.

"Of course I would, silly," she said.

"What if I was a mass murderer?"

"I think I'd be a little angry, but I'd still love you."

I wanted to ask why she sometimes said horrible things to me when she was angry, but then, I didn't want to make her angry. She'd gone through phases of begging me to eat, and getting my brother to check up on me. Weirdly enough, the more I weighed, the more worried she'd become. But she could get nasty, and so could my grandmother.

A few times I had been almost kicked out the house - the first time I was eight, and my mother was angry for reasons no-one can remember. She packed my bags, and I chucked it right back at her. I was never a naughty child, so I didn't know what could possibly have made her so angry, and I didn't know where she expected me to go. If I knew they existed, I would've used my mobile phone (which was only for emergencies) to call a childrens' hotline. The first hotline I called was when I was 16; it was specifically for LGBT people.

The next few days were a blur, as were the weeks and months. Jane and I did talk about BMI, weight and calories, but never competed. She was an inch taller than me - we had different weights, but the same BMI, when we first started talking. She ate more frequently than I did, but averaged 400 calories a day. Mine varied depending on the day - but I never got more than 1000. We both cared for our calorie diaries like an Imam would care for the Qur'an.

None of my friends suspected a thing, but either way, I was stuck in a plateau, as was Jane. Our solution, as recommended on nqb, was to binge (and not purge), then weigh yourself the next day. I desperately wanted us to do it together, but we couldn't risk going to her house or mine - so we video-chatted instead. My binge was 2548 calories, and hers was 2962. It had been many years since I last binged, even longer if I said binging and not purging. But we did it, and it was fine, and in the next mornings to come, the weight fell off me again.

My natural BMI was 19 anyway - so I was never lying when I said I was naturally thin. Jane and I started talking in January, at the same BMI in the 16-ish region. By March, she was 15.4, and I was 15.6. I'd noticed people stared at me more. My friends tried to get me to eat more. I confused the hell out of them by eating more, but losing more.