In Search of Adam Read online

  She handed me another piece of paper.

  This is a model of a person. You have thoughts and these are identified as cognitive processes. These thoughts relate directly to our feelings and our behaviour.

  Nod nod. Blah blah blah.

  You have feelings that trigger certain actions and behaviour. We need to work together to identify which feelings are linked to your binge eating. However. We cannot change these feelings until we understand the thought processes behind your feelings. This is to do with interpretation and cognitive processes.

  Nod nod. Blah blah blah.

  Over the next few weeks we’re going to try and identify your thought processes, which will lead to a change in your emotions and moods. This will then have a direct effect on your behaviour.

  Nod nod. Blah blah blah.

  We often blame people for making us feel a certain way, when in fact it is our thoughts that have triggered the feelings…Have you followed that?

  I nodded again.

  I hadn’t. I had heard her saying blah blah blah.

  I was waiting to talk about Eddie. And Adam. And my mother. And my father. And Rita. And. And. And.

  Each session we will base our discussions around this model and also around the monitoring of your eating habits.

  -Sorry?

  Have you ever kept a diary?

  -No.

  Why’s that?

  - Because I can’t trust anyone.

  Well you can keep one now. I want you to write down everything that you eat in a day. All the fluids and foods that you consume, the place where you ate it, whether you considered it to be a binge, if you took laxatives or vomited and finally you need to record the thoughts and feelings which contributed to the event.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. Rehearsed. Rehearsed. Her speech. Her kingdom. Ruling. Dictating. I didn’t trust her. I didn’t like her. She was sterile. She was too clean in her stale-smelling room. She wanted me to spill my secrets onto paper.

  Never.

  Never.

  Never.

  I wanted to bounce words off her wall.

  - But won’t this mean that food’s always in my mind?

  You’re talking distraction methods again Jude. You need to face up to your problem and address it.

  -My life is shit already, if I have to record everything and constantly delve into reasons behind my behaviour, then how’ll this make my life any better?

  There are no short-term fixes. Things will get harder before they get easier and as I said… pause …I can’t cure you.

  -Well who can then?

  You can Jude. It is all about making the decision to commit.

  It’s all about decisions. It’s always about decisions.

  I walked from the square room. I clutched the details of my next appointment. I knew she saw my fat.

  I have a recurring dream. I appear. Walking into a white room. I look normal. I am wearing clothes that fit. My body has shape. The curves allow the clothes to touch and to cling. I move with my clothes. I enterthe room and the door closes behind me. Calm. Silent. I remove my clothes. I want to remove my clothes. I stand naked and my torso displays a gaping hole. You can see right through. You could place a fist straight through me. In removing my clothes, all that I do not have speaks through the hole. In my dream my removed clothes disappear. They vanish and leave me exposed. Alone. Naked in a room with a round wooden table, a roll of tape and a photograph. In my dream I tape a Polaroid photograph of my father over the hole. I tape only the top of the photograph. It flaps up with a breeze. The breeze is like a giant’s breath. It comes in small gusts. Like the blowing out of candles. I tell myself to move. To leave. In my dream I try to tell myself that it will not work. That the Polaroid is not enough. That the tape is not enough. In my dream I do not hear. I never hear. The wind blows through me. My nakedness exposes my loss.

  My period was late. My period was never late. At 29 days I bought a test. I peed onto the absorbent stick. I laid it on the side of the sink and watched. I sat on the edge of the pea green bath. I waited. I watched. A pink sea swam over the two white windows. The test was working. I had to wait for five minutes. Then I would know. The control line appeared. A straight pink line. In the window next toit a fainter line emerged. It didn’t get stronger. It wavered between negative and positive. It was trying to decide what to tell me. At five minutes. Exacty five minutes. I read the result. Two lines. Both pink. One much stronger than the other. But. But still two lines.

  I was pregnant.

  I picked up the result. Held it up to the ceiling light. Illuminating the line. It was faint. But it was there.

  I was pregnant.

  I had something real. A physical. Something to think about. I had focus. I was unsure if the news was good or bad. But. But I could cope with the chaos. There was an excitement oozing from that stick in my hand. It wasn’t a celebration of the life inside me. It was a carnival of chaos. Confusion and disorder. I was filled with excitement. I had a new focus. I had a new distraction. A baby. A baby inside me.

  I had no idea who the father was. It could have been any of the customers that I had slept with that month. I played sex like a game of Russian roulette. I tried to recall who and when. Too many to guess. Too many to name. I could divide my tips. My gains. I could subtract. I could remember. But. But I didn’t care who the father was. I was the mother. I was going to be a mother. Sex meant nothing to me. I played at sex. It never reached a climax. My pleasure came from the emotion that rejection brought. I was an easy lay. A cheapshag. Men hopped in and out of me. They all knew that I was a sure bet. I was left with pain. Money and pain. I expected their rejection. I lived off their rejection. Money and rejection.

  Session two

  November 21 1992

  How are you today?

  Susie asked in the direction she was walking.

  -Fine.

  She gestured to the seat opposite her. Our knees nearly touched. She was still blonde. She was still skinny.

  OK Jude. Have you brought your homework with you?

  I looked blank.

  We’re going to talk about your food diary and the food cycle that I mentioned last time. Do I need to recap?

  Nod nod.

  Jude, you have low self-esteem and this has led to extreme concerns about your weight and shape. You have tried strict dieting, but the precise and rigid boundaries that you have placed upon yourself have led you to binge eat. This is then accompaniedby guilt and has led to self-induced vomiting, which ultimately leads to low self-esteem. Can you see the cycle?

  She recited her words. Again.

  Fluent.

  Rehearsed.

  Precise.

  Emotionless.

  Cold.

  How many times had she uttered the speech? The meaning. The weight of the message was lost. Lost within the coldness. Lost within the script. The books read. The books learned. Susie was a puppet. A very skinny puppet who had no chance of ever understanding the secrets that I carried inside.

  She did not see me as an individual. I was another one. I was the same as everyone else. No need to alter her mere talk. Preparation wasn’t necessary. No need to change anything. Just slot in my name. That’s it. Simple.

  -Can we talk about something else?

  I found my voice.

  I understand that this may be uncomfortable for you. However… pause …I have a strict formula that I must stick to. I have a weekly plan.

  - I have questions.

  About the cycle?

  - I’m pregnant.

  Oh.

  She was stunned. I watched as her eyes jumped. She was exploring inside her tiny brain. Opening boxes. Flicking through files. She needed to slot me into another group. I could not become an individual. She would not allow that to happen. Quick. Quick. Define define. Quick quick.

  - I need to know if my…if my Bulimia will harm my child.

  Perhaps this will give you a new incentive, a new drive to
conquer your eating disorder.

  - I don’t want to hide behind things. I want to talk.

  All in good time Jude. I will have to consult with my boss and see if we can arrange for you to see a dietician. This is usually around about week 11, but in these circumstances, I think that it’ll be… pause …beneficial to see our community dietician as soon as possible.

  -But am I harming the baby?

  You’re harming yourself. The baby will always take what it needs. Time is ticking—she tap tapped her watch—we really need to address this cycle.

  She began to talk.

  Blah blah …feelings that trigger certain actions and behaviour… blah …work together…identify feelings… blah …your binge eating…behind your feelings… blah blah …interpretation and cognitive processes. Jude?

  I looked at her. Tears filled my eyes.

  -Will my baby die?

  You’ll be fine. You may even find that being pregnant drives you.

  She looked at her watch. She tap tapped her watch again. Tick tock. Tick tock. My time was up.

  Please maintain your food diary for next time. I expect at least three days this time.

  I stood. I walked to the door. She watched my fat.

  I bought a new notebook. Pink. With a huge purple heart on the front. I wrote down everything that I would need for my baby.

  Breast pads. Nursing bras. Muslin cloths. Breast pump. Breast milk containers. Teats. Bottle brush. Bottle steriliser. Baby sling. Pram. Car seat. A Moses basket. A baby monitor. A mobile. Baby bath. Baby soap or wash liquid. Two soft towels. Two soft flannels. A soft hairbrush. Baby nail clippers. Vests. Babygrows. Cardigans. Socks. Shawl. Scratch mitts. Changing mat. Changing bag. White cotton wool. Baby lotion. Baby wipes. Newborn disposable nappies. Nappy sacks.

  I needed to save. No escaping New Lymouth and travelling the world. I had to put down roots. Save my money for my baby. I stopped earning special tips. I stopped letting men deposit their dirt into me. I didn’t want my baby to swallow any dirt. I wanted to protect my child. I wanted to make something of myself. For my child. So. I worked. I saved. I didn’t tell anyone about the baby growing inside of me.

  I planned to take classes. Parenting classes. And to go and see a GP. My GP. Then a midwife. Then visit the hospital. So much to do. So much to do. The weeks were flying past. I planned to tell my father soon. Eventually.

  The first things that I bought for my baby. Two things at the sametime. A packet of scratch mittens. Tiny. White. Forty-nine pence. A white teddy bear. Hands together. Praying. Four pounds ninety-nine pence. I bought them six weeks and three days after my last period. I needed to do something. I needed to make my baby real. For me. I needed to spend some money on my child. I caught a Number 37 bus to Whitley Bay. I walked around the shops. Looking at racks and racks of tiny things. Blues and pinks. There were so many to choose from. I liked the looking. The knowing. Just me and the baby knowing that one day soon I would have to buy little socks. And little shoes. And little trousers. And little jumpers. I walked around for hours. And hours. And hours. Just looking. Apart from my two tiny items.

  I kept my two buys. In a white plastic box. Under my bed. I bought the box too. It was new. Fresh. Clean. It was white. Neutral. For my baby.

  I thought about names.

  Boys

  Michael. Christopher. Tyler. Nicholas. Thomas. Dylan. Corey. Jonathan. Ryan. Cameron.

  Girls

  Molly. Jessica. Emily. Megan. Nicola. Danielle. Courtney. Kelsey. Whitney. Alicia. Grace.

  I liked to think of names. I looked for names. I asked for names. I remembered names. I wrote them all in my pink notebook.

  I was waiting to tell the world.

  Waiting as long as possible.

  Waiting so that my father.

  So that Rita.

  So that no one could take away my happiness.

  Hush hush. My secret. My special secret.

  I was waiting to tell the world.

  My baby.

  I remembered overhearing someone saying that when they were pregnant, they just knew that everything was going to be alright. I just knew that it wouldn’t be. I was cursed. If I felt love for anyone, then they would be taken from me. I was never going to have a happy ever after.

  I was still being sick.

  I couldn’t stop myself.

  But.

  I began to love the baby that was growing in me.

  I began talking to my child.

  I could lay my hand over my stomach.

  I began trying to smile.

  I couldn’t help myself.

  I was keeping a diary. In my pink notebook. Talking to the baby. Writing things. Not important. Just about work. And my day. And what we would do. The baby and me. In the future. About getting a flat. Just me and the baby. Crystal could help me decorate the baby’s room. It would have to be a yellow room. Unless I found out the sex of the baby. I would have a scan. A picture.

  I couldn’t stop myself.

  Eight weeks and two days after my last period.

  I sat on the toilet. Legs separated to see if anything fell. Blood dripped into the bowl.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Red water. Legs open. Watching between my thighs. My wee was tinged with red. I tried to stop its flow. I had no control. It fell.

  Softly. Softly. Sinking down to the bottom of the bowl. Away away. No noise. Softly softly sinking. I watched it fall. One large red clot. A large red clot sank away from me. My hope left me.

  I had no control.

  My baby was gone.

  I reached my hand into the water. Into my pee. Trying to grab the large clot. It came away in my fingers. I desperately scooped it. Blood oozed from it. Drip drip dripping through my fingers. Staining my finger nails. Getting under my finger nails. I was touching my baby. I wrapped it in toilet roll. The clot. I placed it back into the toilet. I flushed away my hope.

  My baby.

  My throat ached. I strained. Trying to stop the tears. Big girls don’t cry. Do you hear me? Big girls don’t cry. Tears were weakness. They came. They fell. They were beyond my control.

  I cried for everything that I had ever lost.

  I cried till I could cry no more.

  Sitting on the toilet.

  Baby falling from me.

  Blood drip drip dripping from me.

  My stomach cramped.

  Clot.

  After clot.

  After clot.

  Fell to the bottom of the toilet bowl. Fresh crimson blood drip drop dripped. I sat on the toilet. Terrified to move. My insides were falling out. My fingertips stained with my baby’s blood. That single clot. Promised so much. I flushed my child away, into the sewer. Unknown. Alone. Abandoned. Away. Away.

  My bleeding seemed endless. It went on for weeks. I never told anyone. I never went to the GP. I was dying. I knew that I was dying.

  I was alone in my grief.

  My baby was gone. With that faint pink line I had thought of a new beginning. Names kept popping into my head. They wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop them.

  Molly.

  I would have called her Molly. She would have been a girl. I knew that she was a girl.

  My mind had wandered. Into a future. I had allowed myself to hope. I had had dreams. I had seen a future. I should have known better.

  As the clots passed from me. As the blood turned brown. I realised that I had been weak. I had given in to temptation. That enticement of something that I should never have had. I was weak.

  I cried for my baby. I stopped work. Just didn’t go in. Instead. I spent hours. Days. Curled into a question mark. On my blue duvet. In the box room. I ached. All of me ached. Inside and out. I didn’t want to speak. Not even to Crystal. I shouted at her if she came into my room. She didn’t understand. I didn’t want to feel anything. I didn’t want to speak. Silence. I need
ed silence.

  I was angry at me. At my weakness. How dare I hope. I had forgotten the cruel game that was being played around me. It had played all of my life. I had forgotten that my Lord hated me. I should never have hoped. I knew not to hope. My Lord had given me a taste of honey. Sweet sweet honey. I had wanted more. I had needed more. My Lord knew that. My Lord was laugh laugh laughing at my weakness. At my greed. My Lord had watched as I began to change. I let down my guard. Just for a moment. I began to hope.

  Then.

  Then he fired his fatal shot.

  Bang.

  Into my stomach. Into my baby. Cruel.

  The Lord that governed me was cruel. Evil evil man.

  I had died.

  Somehow I had missed out the living and instead I was existing in Hell. Hell on earth. Hell was a semi-detached house. Number 9 Disraeli Avenue. My Lord hated me. I was evil. My father used to tell me that I was the child of a whore. I knew all about Adam. I knew all about my mother. I knew that I was being punished. That I should never have been born. I was paying for my mother’s sins. I was the consequence of a sin. Destined for sorrow.

  I had no right to live.

  I should not live. I had to make a decision. I had to be brave. I had to go before Crystal was touched. Before my sorrow invaded her innocence. Before she became like me.

  I had to make a decision.

  I have to make a decision