I sit quietly on the carpet, knowing I have no expectations of me when I’m down here. Nothing I need to be afraid of. Nothing I have to do or think about. Stian turns a page of his journal. He’s smiling faintly as he does, and I know it’s because of me.
We do this several times a week, and it’s as good as the mindfulness exercises that Doctor Loftin finally has me practicing, only far more pleasurable. I’ve stopped fighting the anorexic voice, and she’s become easier to ignore. Struggling to keep her in that box gave her power over me and she was able to wield my fears like weapons. Now that I don’t have to be afraid that I’ll never be enough for Stian and the things I want, she’s diminished, almost pathetic.
I am loveable. I do deserve to eat. To feel. To love and be loved. They’re not just affirmations anymore. I’ve slowly managed to stitch these beliefs into my psyche, into the places that she once occupied. There’s less and less room for her with every day that passes.
We take road trips, and I sit in the back of the car and eat my lunch while Stian drives. We’ve never eaten in a restaurant, but we have sat in a pub together several times, me with a glass of wine and him with a pint of beer. I still hear her whispering to me, but she’s quieter now, as if she’s drawn very far off or her heart’s no longer in it. Every day she grows a little fainter.
At his home, we sometimes sit in the greenhouse with his bonsai trees and eat together. I can’t do it all the time. Some days are harder than others, but I’m getting there. I’m remembering that food has a taste, and I like to eat slowly still, but so I can savor it. I’m amazed how much sensory detail I can get out of a slice of apple or a bite of roast potato.
Sometimes I think of the boys and girls and men and women back at the Dawnstead Inpatient Clinic, and I wonder how they’re doing. I used to remember that place with fear, but now I feel mostly sad about it. The statistics for recovery from anorexia are grim, and I know a third of the people I met there will learn to live with their anorexia, though it will always be lurking at the edges. Another third will relapse again and again, their relationships suffering, their lives depleted. Or they’ll die. Only a third will recover.
I’m determined to be one of the third who get over this disease. Then I’m going to keep going, my life expanding outwards like a deep, generous breath.
Over the winter, Stian grows a beard, and I find a few red and brown bristles among the blond as I’m nestled in his lap. “You don’t look nearly so scary and severe with a beard, daddy. You’re all cuddly.”
He moves to stand up. “I’ll go and shave it off, then.”
“Nooo!” I protest, laughing and wrapping my arms around his shoulders. “I like you all cuddly.”
He shoots me an amused look. “Well, all right. But only because you like it, and just for the winter. By May I’ll be scary and severe again.” He rubs the bristles against my cheek, making me squeal with laughter.
I continue with my Masters, though I take it very slowly. The university board has told me not to worry about the gaps due to my psychiatric treatment. They’re happy that I’m persisting with my studies. I take a part-time maternity contract assisting one of the collections managers at the Albright Collection, which means I get to see Stian most days. I even eat lunch in his office.
In the early summer we take a train out to the countryside and go hiking. Beneath the trees on the edge of a field, we spread our lunch on a picnic blanket and eat quietly, watching the cows who are watching us. My sandwich tastes of sharp cheese and watercress and the bread is slightly squashed. It’s delicious. Maybe in a few months’ time I can think about having a picnic in a city park, or even going to a restaurant with Stian. It will be a big step, but one that I feel is getting closer and closer.
As we’re packing up the sandwich wrappers and brushing crumbs from the blanket, I look around wonderingly. “A year ago I never thought I’d be able to have a picnic.”
He reaches out and strokes his forefinger across my cheek. “A year ago is when we met. Did you realize it’s today?”
I think back carefully, and then a smile spreads over my face. “So it is.”
“How is she?” he asks, meaning the anorexic part of me.