It’s like putting boiling water in a glass. You can see the effect the water has on the glass but there is not much you can do to stop the damage. The glass will be smashed to pieces and it will be too late when you finally realise that you should not have put that boiling water into that glass. It’s already happened. It’s irreversible, therefore it must be prevented. That is what my father always said. I despise myself to admit it but the man is always right… in the end.
My father always thought of the rainy day and lived his life with the future in mind whereas my mother only thought of the present and the current circumstances. She would play the lenient role in our residence.
“For a quiet life” she’d say in her defence whenever my sister refused to eat.
“It’s a teenage fad- she’ll grow out of it.”
She didn’t think ahead and sadly she was the one that had to pick up the pieces. The day my sister was diagnosed with this monstrous illness and was admitted to her first eating disorder unit my father turned to my mother and said “I told you so” which stabbed into her already bleeding heart.
After the first day of the new term back at school, feeling inadequate and out of place amongst my peers and teachers drilling knowledge into me, putting the copestone on the stress of exams, I was clearly not in a good mood. I arrived home and before I even approached the door, I could sense the grey cloud, slowly manoeuvring its way towards the peak of the roof. How right I was. I found my mother slowly deteriorating with rage, weeping like a lost child over the kitchen table.
“What’s wrong? Where’s Affy? Where’s dad?” I said, panicking.
“It’s Afsaneh.” She stuttered.
“WHAT’S HAPPENED?” I screeched.
“She’s in hospital and they’re keeping her for a few months, it’s called the re-feeding process and your fathers gone to Iran.”
I went numb. I felt drained as my whole face lost its vibrancy. Maintaining this perfectly motionless numbness, I glided, up the stairs like an apparition wandering, aimlessly. The thought of not seeing my sister for months, orbited my mind, continuously, reminding me of what I could have done to prevent it; how could I have helped her? But I couldn’t have done more than I did. The most powerful person was herself. My mother prepared the meals, placed the food in front of her but only she could swallow it-“You can take the horse to the water but you can’t make him drink.”
June ’05. The six week rehabilitation process was complete and I was feeling ecstatic yet apprehensive to see her. I retained this distorted image of her deranged eyes and her skeletal figure, barely able to stand upright. I cringed from the vision of it. But today I was feeling optimistic. I sat in the Victorian styled lounge, awaiting her arrival. It was like a wedding ceremony when everyone anticipates the bride. She presented herself with drooped shoulders and eye contact with the floor. She was attired in a sparkling ACDC t-shirt with a wispy, amplified head of hair and her emaciated body remained. I stood up with open arms and hugged her gently, but I got nothing back.
“I missed you “I said… still nothing.
“I love you” and still nothing. I waited for an acknowledgement of the fact that I was talking but then I noticed a tear travelling down her face. She slowly lifted her head, with a vengeance in her eyes, like a snake ready to excrete venom.
“Are you happy now? You got what you wanted. They’ve fattened me up! I’m healthy now! I BET YOU’RE GLAD! I’ve got my thunder thighs back and my chubby cheeks” She squealed, tugging, strenuously at her thighs and face.
“LOOK AT ME!” she yelled. The nurse barged in and dragged her out.
“GET OFF ME!” she screamed, pressurising her frail, feeble frame. Her erratic behaviour perturbed me and I sobbed a waterfalls worth of tears as I dashed out of the ward like a bullet. Nurses and hospital beds soared passed me like black spades and daggers. I lit a cigarette and had no control over the tears that gushed out like the explosive water of a broken dam.
Aside from living with an anorexic, I had my own problems. I couldn’t socialise which resulted in me having no friends. I toiled over making a change to detach myself from the barrier that prevented my social life but failed… I was a corrupt fifteen year old, depressed from loneliness, the absence of my father and repressing my feelings. It was like I had been forgotten about and neglected. Affy was the focus. And as for my father, he thought a couple of phone calls now and then would justify his fatherhood but I guess he had his reasons. He’s a well structured and controlled man. He would always want the best for Affy and me; particularly Affy. She was the apple of his eye. He made her swim like a fish, illustrate like an artist, solve sums like a mathematician and write like an author. Perfection was his main aim for his daughters. But, in my book perfection is impossible. However, when she became ill and he couldn’t tolerate his “perfect” daughter destroying his work of art, he flipped it and left. The combination of Affy’s addictive personality and her endeavour for perfection was partly to blame for the vicious, devilish thing that fed on her brain. I realised that anorexia is not just about being abnormally underweight and thriving for the perfect body image which is often portrayed by the influential media. It’s about control, security and the buzz of achievement.
After years of misery, I found something that would distract me from all the flaws in my life and barricade the horrors of reality- music. Music had always been a pleasure of mine but it was during this dire chapter of my life when I experienced the depth of the rhythm that soothed my inner soul. The melody and lyrics would devour me entirely, as I would lose my identity for several minutes. Nothing else would matter, only the pulsating beat of the rhythmical percussion; when every time I heard the sound of a melancholy legato tune, one problem would evanesce, one after another and the expression on my face would illumine like the ripening of the sweetest fruit. My musical taste featured various genres and nationalities. I developed a like for the old stuff as I think a lot of the new artists make repetitive, manufactured music with meaningless lyrics.
My therapist also healed my heartache for a while on a weekly basis. She would remind me of The Bright side, and taught me that life is what you make it; that I am in control of my emotions.
“Mind over matter” she’d say, reassuringly.
Three years later and still anorexia hovers over her. After three admissions to different eating disorder units and recoveries to relapses, I have come to terms with it. As a sister, all that is in my reach of helping her is to love and support her. She still has her faulty, anorectic mind set but she is almost eighteen and she must fend for herself now.
The glass was smashed but we kept the broken pieces.
