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  like people on rations

  throats parched

  guts contorted

  Meals stretch out

  and contract

  like an endless labour

  with no birth

  In the playground

  when I collect our younger daughter from school

  I want to join the bright purposeful chatter

  with other parents

  But even when things improve

  it is hard to block out the white noise

  of clinking cutlery

  on untouched plates

  a hundred and twenty miles away

  In the night

  I wake

  fear clutching at my stomach

  my head giddy

  my thoughts running in loops

  my heart thudding

  I open our bedroom window

  and look into the dark

  at the big lime tree

  swaying in the wind

  breathe

  and try to close the vast crater

  that has opened up

  between me and the ordinary world

  Every few days I haul my bike onto the train

  pedalling urgently through London streets

  feeding on sights and sounds and smells

  inviting bricks and tarmac roads and buildings

  to imprint themselves in my brain

  and be a map of solid things

  while tiny white lights

  constellations of shock and terror

  dance behind my eyes

  Each time I visit my daughter

  I have to leave her

  have to leave her

  Goodbye, I say

  feeling angry with the nurses

  for keeping her

  Goodbye, goodbye

  sickened by needing

  to need them

  Goodbye, love you

  My reflection in their eyes as I turn to the door

  a hideous cartoon of mother, mum – who’s she?

  a fake, playing along and acting normal

  any decent Mum would have

  any decent Mum

  Goodbye, goodbye

  love you, love you

  love you, love you

  There is a boy on the unit

  who has the same dark granite gaze

  as our daughter

  He has drawn a beautiful swan

  in pencil on white paper

  which they have framed on the stairway

  I see it on the way up

  and I see it on the way down

  Every few weeks there is a meeting

  Hospital staff sit in a circle

  with papers in their hands

  and we sit, feeling small

  Their reports are dry as toast

  laden with meal plans and routines

  and minutes and hours and calories

  and numbers and amounts

  and things that are wrong

  portions that have been missed

  weights

  dates

  It sounds like somebody else’s girl

  a girl we don’t know

  there is nothing about how she climbs trees

  to the very top

  giggles infectiously

  sucks lemons

  or sings

  but they sound so convinced

  we nearly believe them

  Half way through the meeting

  someone fetches her

  and she appears at the door

  an elfin creature in a world of giants

  No-one mentions the forest of family trees

  the desert of white noise

  the child whose eyes change colour

  from blue to cold granite grey

  Our guides are in the dark too

  For this is dancing on the edge

  and who can say they understand the brain

  or the mind?

  Who can say they know where the beginning is

  or where the end?

  Who can say where mind meets body

  and how they dance together?

  This is dancing on the edge

  and who can describe

  the movement of a thought?

  Is it a wave, or a river?

  Is it fibre optic or digital?

  How can anyone describe the birth of a feeling?

  Mappers of the brain’s intricate pathways

  are just setting out

  into uncharted territory

  with a backpack

  and pencil and paper

  in shorts and big heavy boots

  The multi-coloured rainbows of an MRI

  promise gold

  but cannot tell us where the mind begins

  or why some pathways lead helter skelter

  into the dark forest

  and anyway who cares

  when half the world is starving

  and right here in front of you

  this child has plenty but won’t eat?

  I think of my daughter as an honest person

  but anorexia lies

  it’s a masterful liar

  It lies to you in the mirror

  makes a reflection a distortion

  twisting everything from true

  When you’re thin

  it magnifies you

  to monster proportions

  You can be fading away

  and it makes you see a giant

  looming back at you

  It teaches you not to trust anything

  except what it shows you

  - very convincing lies

  with perennial cheerleaders

  Ballooning celebrities

  Skinny celebrities

  Lose a stone a month!

  How I got back into shape super-quick

  after my baby

  Innocent playground games

  star-jumps

  cartwheels

  skipping

  turn into instruments of death

  Frenetic exercising

  calorie burning

  sit-ups counted

  running on the spot counted

  star-jumps counted

  calories counted

  counting counting counting counting

  counting down to zero

  Our daughter starts checking

  the circumference of her wrists and thighs

  over and over

  over and over

  The more she checks

  the less she is sure

  It’s like an itch

  getting stronger and stronger

  They have tried to make the unit homely

  with sofas, TV, bedrooms, kitchen

  but we are utterly lost

  Parents wandering helplessly

  in a looking-glass world

  where our children trade tricks

  so they won’t have to eat as much next time

  Lighter, they want to appear heavier

  it’s all topsy turvy

  drinking water out of hot water bottles

  hiding jewellery, pebbles, batteries

  in upturned hems, armpits, anywhere

  We are the innocents

  cumbersome ignorant idiots

  and they are the wily magicians

  I dream of mirrors

  a looking glass world

  of opposites

  The pull of my daughter’s feelings

  makes me want to be invisible too

  She runs repeatedly on the spot

  and I am a hamster on a wheel

  walking, pedalling, catching trains

  repeatedly rushing to her and back

  I wake in the night

  spiked by fear

  I learn the next day

  she woke at the same hour

  the umbilical torturer

  won’t let me rest

  Being separate from her

  and separating from her

  is like tearing off skin

/>   like her ripping herself away

  from her compulsions

  to risk eating again

  Who knows if either of us

  can do this?

  If she won’t eat

  can I at least feed her appetite for life?

  In the specialist unit they keep pets

  There used to be a rabbit on the roof, they tell us

  but he died

  now there are giant snails

  the size of clenched fists

  living in a huge glass tank

  in a jungle of earth and leaves

  That’s good, we say

  allowing ourselves the faint hope

  that children feeding giant snails

  might become children feeding themselves

  or at least that having a pet

  will bring our daughter a little joy

  When the snails lay eggs

  they are collected

  and put in the freezer so they can’t hatch

  in case the whole place fills up

  with multiplying snails

  One day after visiting time

  I am cycling away

  with my head crammed to bursting

  and the sick feeling in my stomach

  I cycle through some red lights

  Can’t you see the fucking red?

  yells a taxi driver

  I can see red

  but I don’t care

  I wish he had run me over

  The next morning

  I find a bench

  in a London square

  I start thinking

  I will sink without trace

  I will disappear

  It will be a relief

  The flowerbed in front of me

  is packed with yellow and purple pansies

  moving slightly in the breeze

  I stare at them for a long time

  They are ordinary

  and bright

  and very real

  With effort

  I make a pledge

  I believe in love

  even when

  there is only emptiness

  and crying into dark lonely tunnels

  where I can’t find it

  however hard I look

  I try saying it to myself

  I choose to believe in love

  Who would think

  a crowd of yellow and purple pansies

  could bring life and love

  to the wastelands of the heart?

  Out of the physical

  comes the intangible

  Out of genes, molecules, neurons

  come desire, loathing, hope, love

  But does it work the other way round?

  Does the intangible

  return to physical?

  Do desire, loathing, hope, love

  shape the geography of genes, molecules,

  neurons?

  I don’t know

  It’s beyond me

  It’s beyond her too

  the consultant in the hospital

  who has written all the books

  and knows so much

  Even if we could see every little neuron

  on an MRI scan, she says

  we still wouldn’t know how to cure your daughter

  I am not upset by her honesty

  I am happy with her humility

  and her kindness

  She isn’t doing what anorexia does

  she isn’t hiding

  she isn’t lying

  I trust her more

  not less

  for telling me

  how little we know

  When you don’t have answers

  and you don’t have tools

  and you don’t have a cure

  and you don’t have research grants

  from pharmaceutical companies

  and you don’t have a popular cause

  that the public will give generously to

  when you are with children

  who are choosing not to eat

  and your guts are churned at the very thought

  and you can barely stomach it

  and it is easier to turn away

  it is hard to hope

  it is hard to trust

  and to believe there’s a way through

  Anorexia rears up like a many-headed monster

  Each time one head is cut off

  another grows in its place

  You’re in for the long haul

  they say

  It’s a marathon not a sprint

  It’s several marathons

  in a pair of lead boots

  that are far too big

  without a following wind

  in sweltering heat

  My friend makes me keep

  a tally of ‘brownie points’

  She texts me every week

  What’s your brownie point score?

  I get brownie points for looking after myself

  a good cuppa, a swim, rest, a stroll in the woods,

  seeing friends

  Someone needed to tell me over and over

  that by caring for myself

  I am caring for my daughter

  I would never have believed them

  before it all began

  whenever that was

  I don’t know where the beginning was

  or what the ending will be

  But I know our daughter is alive and her sparkle...

  she sings

  makes things out of colourful materials

  and her laugh is infectious

  She could climb a tree right to the top

  but she has to take things steady

  because anorexia keeps promising

  to show her the perfect self

  behind the self she sees

  and anorexia keeps threatening

  and bribing

  and promising

  to give her perfection in return for starvation

  to show her the way to be light as air

  and free from ordinary sadness

  and how to take off the heavy boots and float

  but anorexia wrecks ya

  and is lying

  and I think she knows

  When anorexia gets your child

  it’s hard to take your own mirror

  out of your pocket

  hold it up with conviction

  and meet anorexia with its opposites:

  its meanness

  with abundance

  its despair

  with hope

  its po-faced self-satisfaction

  with humour

  its isolation

  with sociability and team-work

  its rigid monotony

  with a dance of life

  its ruinous destructiveness

  with imperfect

  ordinary

  everyday

  irrational

  rational

  passionate

  tender

  gentle

  firm

  strong

  yielding

  love

  But this is the best you can do

  Acknowledgements

  A huge thank you to everyone who has helped this book

  into being.

  Friends, colleagues and others who read a draft and gave their responses.

  Sarah Bird, Jean Boulton, Chris Seeley and all at Vala.

  Clare Short for seeing the potential on and beyond the page.

  Philip Gross for his kindness and words.

  Laila Diallo and Helka Kaski for dancing on the edge.

  Jitka Palmer for responding from the depths as human being and as artist.

  Alyson Hallett for attention to every little word.

  Jonny Glasson and Jamie Lake for a safe haven.

  Anna Farthing and Pameli Benham for theatre expertise.

  Janie and Chris Grimes for an empowering ‘yes’ from the beginning.

  Tom for livi
ng this experience alongside me and showing care and love every step of the way.

  First published in 2014, 2017

  by Jessica Kingsley Publishers

  73 Collier Street

  London N1 9BE, UK

  and

  400 Market Street, Suite 400

  Philadelphia, PA 19106, USA

  www.jkp.com

  Copyright © Fiona Hamilton 2014, 2017

  Foreword copyright © Philip Gross 2014, 2017

  Front cover image source: [iStockphoto®/Shutterstock®]. The cover image is for illustrative purposes only, and any person featuring is a model.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form (including photocopying, storing in any medium by electronic means or transmitting) without the written permission of the copyright owner except in accordance with the provisions of the law or under terms of a licence issued in the UK by the Copyright Licensing Agency Ltd. www.cla.co.uk or in overseas territories by the relevant reproduction rights organisation, for details see www.ifrro.org. Applications for the copyright owner’s written permission to reproduce any part of this publication should be addressed to the publisher.

  Warning: The doing of an unauthorised act in relation to a copyright work may result in both a civil claim for damages and criminal prosecution.

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  A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress

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