Читать книгу Coming Clean - Living with OCD - Hayley Leitch - Страница 11

MUM HAD WORKED behind the makeup counter at Selfridges for as long as I could remember but one day she left and started at a new company, doing the accounts. With both parents at work, Nanny Linda stepped in to look after me and my sisters. I didn’t mind because to us, Nanny Linda was our second mum. Soon, Mum and Dad were passing like ships in the night. She’d cook Dad’s tea and we’d see him for a couple of hours before being packed off to bed. This pattern continued for the best part of a year until one day, Mum had something to tell us.

‘Dad’s not going to be living here anymore,’ she said wringing her hands nervously in her lap. My eyes automatically followed them and I took a sharp breath when I realised she’d already removed her wedding ring.

I looked over at Lauren and Zara but they didn’t even flinch. The sad truth was that, despite his best efforts, none of us saw Dad anymore. The business had all but consumed him until it had slowly stolen him away from us. Mum was also busy, wrapped up in her new job. I thought it was sad they’d suddenly stopped loving one another. Even though I thought about it, I never asked Mum any questions, none of us did – we just accepted it. As long as Nanny Linda was still with us, I knew we’d be okay.

In fact, in many ways, Dad leaving had its bonuses, mainly the plush new apartment he moved into. It was part of a huge block of flats in London, but he shared a swimming pool and gardens with the other residents. We visited Dad every other weekend, when we’d get to stay over. I loved it there because we’d spend endless days swimming, laughing and chatting. The swimming pool made me feel like my dad was a millionaire – no one else’s dad I knew had a swimming pool.

Back at home everything stayed the same and soon our fractured family became our new way of life. Months later, Mum introduced us to her new boyfriend, a man called Paul. They’d met at work, she told me. Meanwhile, Dad had a girlfriend of his own – a lovely woman called Carol. She was a single mum and pub landlady from Clapham, with two children – a boy and a girl. They were called Joseph and Rachel and I loved spending time with them because they were still so young. Joseph was four years old and a typical boy, boisterous and lots of fun, while Rachel was still a baby.

‘Aww, a baby!’ I squealed with delight as soon as we met.

I put out my arms to hold Rachel, and Carol let me. It made me feel important, like a miniature mum. Joseph was tiny in comparison to my youngest sister Zara, even though she was only a year older than him. He was so slight that I was able to pick him up and spin him around in my arms.

‘Faster, faster!’ he giggled until I spun him so fast that we both felt dizzy.

Despite my new family and the fact my parents were both moving on with their lives, my compulsions never left me. My fear of eating out remained but the urge to jump the fishpond was eventually overtaken by another compulsion. I was still only seven years old, but this new obsession would quite literally change my world.

One day, I walked into the bedroom I shared with my elder sister Lauren. We had a big bedroom. It was painted pale green and had a tall wooden bunk bed pressed up against the wall in the right-hand corner. Opposite stood a large dark oak wardrobe which was crammed full of clothes. Take That posters adorned the walls, although Lauren was a much bigger fan than I was. I loved our bedroom but I’d never given it or the things in it a second thought until today. It had been a mundane rainy afternoon with very little to do. I’d been playing downstairs with Lauren and Zara, but as soon as I walked into our bedroom, everything looked wrong – it all seemed so cluttered. The wardrobe was far too big for the corner, even though it had stood there for as long as I could remember, and the bunk bed was too sharp and angular in the right hand side of the room. I shook my head in despair – everything had to be moved. My hands were clammy so I wiped them against the hem of my dress. Even the top of the white chest of drawers looked messy, scattered with hairbrushes, bands and bobbles. Everything needed sorting and I’d be the one to put it all back in order again.

How could we have let it get into such a state? Why hadn’t I noticed before?

The more I glanced around, the more I saw. My heart thudded inside my chest as panic gripped me – I couldn’t believe I’d been sleeping in such a messy bedroom! It all had to be rearranged and it had to be done now. Pushing the door closed behind me, I looked across at the wardrobe. Besides the bunk bed, it was the largest piece of furniture so it needed moving first. There was just one problem; it was far too heavy for me. I stood back and scratched my head. For a moment I thought about shouting down to Lauren to give me a hand, but I dismissed the idea because she’d only argue and say where everything should go. But I already knew where things had to go and I didn’t want anyone messing it up – I’d have to do this alone. Gripping my fingers around the edge of the wood I tried to yank the wardrobe away from the wall and towards me. My knuckles flashed white as I pulled as hard as I could but I realised it was impossible. I stood back; I’d have to think of a better way. The wardrobe wasn’t on wheels; it didn’t even have ‘feet’, only a flat base. I knew if I could get enough strength behind it I’d be able to push, rather than pull it along. But first I’d have to create a small gap, small enough to crawl into. I spanned my arms out once more and, using all my might, I gave it a small tug, which caused the wardrobe to shift slightly. It was all the encouragement I needed. I tugged again and again, using small bursts of energy until soon, it had shifted a few feet away from the wall. Squeezing inside the gap, I wedged my back up against the wardrobe and pushed as hard as I could until there was enough room to sit down. Placing my feet flat against the bedroom wall like a human crowbar, I heaved with my back and shoulders. Instead of jarring, the wooden base slid along the smooth carpet like a knife against butter until, ten minutes later, it was exactly where I wanted it to be – at the other end of the room. I was satisfied because it definitely looked better over there. I considered the bunk bed – it was even heavier than the wardrobe. Placing my feet flat against the wall, I forced my back against it. Using my feet as a guide and my back as the force, I edged it around the room. It was tiring work and it took ages. I was sweating profusely and my thin top was sticking to my skin, but I refused to give up – I needed our bedroom to be perfect. After more huffing and puffing, I managed to manoeuvre the bed into a better place. Then I tackled the chest of drawers using the same technique and brute force. With everything in place, I calmly picked up and sorted through the hair bands and bobbles, arranging them into little neat colour-coded piles. I wiped the top of the drawers even though they weren’t dusty as cleaning somehow made me feel calmer. Finally, I took a step back and admired my handiwork. A contented smile spread across my face.

Not bad! The voice congratulated me.

My pounding heart started to slow and calm. With everything less cluttered and lined up I felt better because where there’d once been mess, now there was order. It’d taken me ages to move it all but the satisfaction I now felt made it worthwhile. A slight draught brushed against my back as the door opened behind me.

‘What’s going on?’ It was Lauren. She gasped and her mouth fell open as she looked around the room. ‘Hayley, what have you done?’

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘It just looks so different.’

‘But it looks nice? It looks better?’ I offered.

Lauren nodded.

‘Yes, it does look better,’ Lauren decided, jumping up onto the bed. ‘I love it!’

I should’ve been happy, satisfied that I’d sorted it all out, but I never was. To me, after that day it never looked quite right. There was always something that needed moving. If it looked wrong, then it was. It became an itch I had to scratch and soon I was doing it all the time.

One afternoon, Lauren walked into the bedroom just as I was pushing the last piece of furniture into place, only this time she didn’t look happy.

‘Mum, Hayley’s moving the furniture again!’ she hollered.

I shot her a hateful stare.

Mum’s footsteps sounded on the stairs and I cursed Lauren for telling. Mum crossed the hallway until there she was, standing right in the middle of the doorway. I’d been caught bang to rights, with my back wedged up against the wardrobe and my feet on the wall.

‘Hayley, stop that! You’ll hurt yourself!’ Mum said.

‘Okay,’ I replied, but I didn’t mean it.

Instead, I waited until she’d gone back downstairs. Once the coast was clear, I moved the rest of the furniture because, by now, I couldn’t stop myself. If I didn’t move it then I knew something bad would happen and I’d be responsible. Also, I knew just where everything needed to be, no one else did. No one else could make it perfect, and it had to be right otherwise bad things would happen.

But Lauren got fed up with me moving her stuff.

‘Stop touching my things,’ she snapped one afternoon.

She was protective of her possessions and didn’t like me moving the soft toys from her bed. I didn’t mind sharing a room as long as I could control where everything went. I even colour co-ordinated our clothes hanging up inside the wardrobe. The more Lauren complained, the more I dreamed of having my own room. Our house was big enough but Nanny Linda had one room and my parents kept another spare for Uncle Roger. He lived in Hong Kong but he often came to London on business and kept all his belongings in the other bedroom.

As the months passed, so the furniture migrated around the bedroom in an endless cycle. In fact, I was so busy moving stuff that I soon forgot about jumping the fishpond until I no longer thought about it at all. Instead, I became consumed with other worries, particularly my appearance. My insecurities occupied every spare moment I had until I constantly fretted and fussed over my looks. I was getting older and, like most girls, judged myself against others in my class. Everything bothered me about my face. My eyes didn’t look right – they were too small. I hated my reflection because my eyes always looked wrong, whatever I did to them. I focused in on them and myself until they became my new obsession. I needed to find something to make them look bigger. When Mum worked at Selfridges, she regularly brought home makeup samples which she kept locked inside a vanity box, tucked in a corner of her bedroom. The box was enormous and stood on four metal legs which were so tall they reached up to my waist. Whenever I undid it, it would open out into a cascade of different makeup compartments. One day, I was rifling through these compartments when my fingers stumbled upon something: a tube of thick black mascara. As I rolled it over in the palm of my hand, I knew it was perfect. It was just the thing I needed to emphasise my eyes. My hand was a little shaky and unsure as I coated each lash with the black gooey mixture. Within seconds, my lashes had extended. I was amazed, almost immediately I looked and felt better because my face looked as though someone had drawn on a new and prettier pair of eyes. The more I stared at my reflection, the more something changed inside. My face looked better, it wasn’t perfect, but the black, sticky liquid had made a real difference until soon I was applying it every day. Mum noticed but didn’t mind – she knew I was growing up and wanted to experiment with my appearance. But the more I applied, the more I needed. It was as if in Hayley’s world, nothing would ever be good enough.

Soon, I’d reached the end of primary school. On one of my last days there, a girl called Kayleigh approached me at the school gate, threw me up against it, and pinned me there. I was simply terrified. Mum was waiting to pick me up and saw everything. It was home time and lots of children were spilling out of school so the playground was packed. Above it all I heard a lone voice – it belonged to Kayleigh’s older sister.

‘Go on Kayleigh, hit her,’ she shouted.

I was utterly petrified. The attack had been completely unprovoked and I didn’t know what to do or even how to defend myself. A voice taunted me inside my head.

I’m ugly, that’s why she wants to hit me!

Despite all the pretty clothes Mum bought me, despite the mascara, despite everything, I felt totally worthless. Maybe I deserved it because I never, ever felt as pretty as the other girls. Kayleigh knew it, that’s why she’d singled me out from the others. But Mum had seen and now she was furious. She marched straight up to Kayleigh and gave her a mouthful. Mum was just sticking up for me but I was mortified because everyone was looking over at us. It was my worst nightmare – I felt as exposed as if I’d been standing there stark naked.

‘Don’t you ever lay your hands on my daughter again, do you understand?’ Mum was saying, her voice carried loud across the playground.

Kayleigh nodded meekly but Mum still wasn’t happy so she went to see the headmaster. I felt awkward standing there as she recounted everything she’d just witnessed. The head promised to take action but after that day, I was afraid. The thought of Kayleigh’s sister waiting for me at secondary school in September made my stomach twist with anxiety. Throughout the summer holidays I worried about it until it plagued me. I imagined walking through the gate of my new school only to be stopped in my tracks by the two sisters. The resulting ‘fight scene’ played over and over inside my head until it became so real that I could almost touch it. I imagined myself splattered with my own blood – the thought of it made my heart race. The only way I could calm myself was to move more furniture or tidy my bedroom. Soon, even that wasn’t enough, so I’d sit down and apply even more mascara. All three things helped me feel better, the rituals acting like a soothing balm on my fraught mind.

By the time I started secondary school I was so obsessed with mascara that now I wouldn’t be seen dead without it. I needed it just to feel normal. Instead of worrying about the fishpond or moving furniture, I turned in on myself.

What else could I do to change my appearance? I wondered.

I searched inside Mum’s vanity box and found more stuff to help conceal the real me. The real Hayley was still there but now she was buried underneath layers and layers of makeup. It became my mask and helped hide the insecure and terrified little girl I’d become. Only, the more makeup I wore, the more others judged me. I was labelled vain – a Barbie doll – but the cruel reality was that I was just a frightened little girl, too scared to reveal who she really was to the rest of the world. I could hide behind my makeup. After that, every spare moment I had, I’d stand in front of the mirror in the girls’ toilets at school and apply yet another layer. Slowly, I built up my armour but instead of using mascara, I dabbed on foundation too. It made my face look washed out, like a blank canvas, so I painted on my cheeks and filled in my mouth. I used blusher to give me back some colour and a little lip-gloss to accentuate my lips and balance my face out. I loved the way the makeup made me feel. I looked more feminine but more importantly, I felt accepted. Deep down, I knew I’d never be beautiful enough because I set myself impossibly high standards but the makeup gave me enough confidence to feel as though I was good enough to belong. I started hanging around with the popular girls. Unlike me, they didn’t wear makeup. Most of my friends were black and naturally pretty so they didn’t need it. I never considered myself as good as them and no matter how much makeup I applied, I’d knew I’d never feel as attractive. The makeup just took the edge off my low self-esteem. I convinced myself mascara and lip-gloss would make everything okay again but the reality was nothing ever would because I never quite came up to scratch.

Mum noticed and started to nag me to take it off. It wasn’t the fact I wore it which annoyed her, just how much I used. Some mornings, she’d be at the bottom of the stairs waiting to ‘check’ my face before I left for school.

‘Take some of that off – you’ve got far too much on!’

I was a typical teenager and now I’d started secondary school, I had attitude to go with it.

‘What’s too much make up?’ I replied cockily. ‘Anyway, you can’t wear enough…’

But Mum was furious.

‘Now you listen to me young lady, you need to take some of that makeup off and you need to take it off now.’

My heart thudded with panic. I couldn’t take it off because if I did then everyone would see how ugly I was. Instead, I made a big show of checking my watch. I’d spent ages applying and reapplying my makeup that morning. It was as near perfect as it’d ever be and I wasn’t going to take it off for Mum or anyone else. I glanced up at Lauren who was waiting by the front door.

‘If I take it off now I’ll be late – we’ll both be late,’ I said gesturing over towards my big sister. ‘But I will take it off, promise. I’ll take it off on my way to school.’

Mum shook her head with despair. She knew she didn’t have time to argue because she couldn’t be late for work.

‘Okay, okay, but you better do it, otherwise I won’t be happy.’

I nodded, opened up the door and pulled it shut.

‘So, are you going it take it off then?’ Lauren asked as we turned the corner of the street.

‘Nah, course not. I just said that to keep her happy.’ I smiled and linked my arm through my sister’s and we ran to make up for lost time.

I didn’t remove my makeup because without it, I couldn’t function. It became my comfort blanket and life-support wrapped into one. The more people nagged me to take it off, the more I dug my heels in. Everyone labelled me a rebel but my new-found attitude stemmed from fear, not arrogance. The thought of washing off my foundation and eye makeup made me feel physically sick. I didn’t realise it then, but I was slowly becoming obsessive and it was spiralling out of control.

Occasionally, I’d spot Kayleigh standing in the school corridor but by now she avoided all eye contact with me because I was one of the popular girls. As long as I kept in with the group then everything would be fine. I tried my best to emulate them and kept my hair as perfect as possible. Nanny Linda ironed my clothes every day. She loved to iron so it wasn’t a chore for her. I was grateful because now I couldn’t stand dirty marks or creases in my clothes. I changed my uniform all the time and, if I spilt food or even splashed a drop of juice, I’d take off my jumper. It didn’t matter if it was freezing cold because I couldn’t bear to look dirty or scruffy. I was just as obsessive when it came to the length of my school skirt. It had to be just so: enough above my knee so that it didn’t look prissy, but not too short because I didn’t want to look like a slag. Whenever I passed Kayleigh with my new found friends I couldn’t help but feel a little smug.

Not so big now, are we?

Not long afterwards, one of the older girls got into a fight with Kayleigh’s sister. I was elated because she’d finally got her comeuppance after egging her little sister on to smack me. All those times I’d worried about being beaten up and now there she was – a crumpled mess on the floor.

As my obsession with makeup worsened, so did my fear of eating in public. It’d always been there but, unlike the fishpond, it was one fear which never went away.

One morning, during my first summer holiday from secondary school, Mum decided to take me and my two sisters shopping for new uniforms. Zara had had a growth spurt and needed some new trousers. Lauren and I also needed kitting out. Hipster trousers were really trendy at the time and the tighter, the better. But the shops near us didn’t sell trousers like that.

‘We could go shopping in Croydon instead?’ Mum suggested.

Zara and Lauren were beyond excitement. Croydon was a much bigger place with loads of shops but I didn’t say a word. The thought of going petrified me because Croydon was a place where all the big gangs hung out.

‘Do we have to go?’ I asked anxiously.

Mum was adamant.

‘Yes, Hayley, we do.’

Try as I might I couldn’t shake the new vision out of my head – one where a gang was attacking Mum and terrorising me and my sisters in the middle of the street. Later that day, Mum drove and, although the traffic was heavy, it didn’t take us long to reach Croydon. She parked up and we started to shop, making our way along the high street. For the next few hours we wandered around but all the time I was constantly alert, watching and waiting for someone to attack us. I couldn’t relax and enjoy myself because inside I felt so anxious. I prayed the day would end.

‘You’re quiet, Hayley.’ Mum remarked as we walked along.

It was true; I’d hardly said a word because I was too busy worrying.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ she said suddenly, ‘Let’s go to McDonalds.’

Lauren whooped with delight and so did Zara because having lunch at McDonalds was a huge treat. I longed to feel as excited only I couldn’t because I knew McDonald’s was where teenagers hung out and I was terrified there’d be gangs waiting for us.

This is it, this is where the attack will happen, the voice warned.

As soon as we pushed the door open my stomach clenched. It was Saturday and the place was heaving with hordes of teenagers. My throat constricted and seemed to close – I felt intimidated just being there. Although I followed the others inside my immediate thought was I’m not eating in here.

‘What are you all having then?’ Mum asked.

My heart was banging as if it was too big inside my chest and the palms of my hands felt clammy. The last thing I wanted to do was eat. I couldn’t eat because of the teenagers, but also because I’d have to eat in front of strangers. I’d just walked into my worst nightmare. Lauren and Zara were hungry and ordered a burger and fries quickly, and then it was my turn. Mum turned to face me, she was waiting. My eyes nervously darted around looking at them all sitting on plastic chairs, perched against bright plastic tables. It was really busy, crammed with people talking and eating. My stomach turned.

It was too busy.

‘Err, I’m not hungry,’ I said casting my eyes downwards so that Mum wouldn’t see me lying.

‘Come on, Hayley, you haven’t eaten for hours; you must want something?’

Lauren turned to look and I felt my face flush. I was hot and embarrassed, trapped inside McDonald’s, with too many people and too many pairs of eyes watching me. Mum didn’t understand and refused to take no for an answer. I started to panic because the long queue had dispersed quickly and now we were next in line.

‘Can I help?’ A smiley girl behind the till called, beckoning us forward.

My heart was thumping so loud that I wondered if anyone else could hear it.

Why did I feel so scared?

Mum placed the order and turned to me, along with Lauren and Zara. Even the girl behind the till looked at me. They were all standing there, waiting for me to decide. I felt under pressure. The palms of my hands were wet as though they were slowly melting.

‘Hayley?’ Mum asked.

I had to pick something, anything to stop them from looking at me. Images of food on the illuminated sign above the till whirred and blurred before my eyes – there was too much to choose from. Someone tutted loudly behind – I had to make a decision and I had to make one quickly.

‘I’ll have the chicken,’ I blurted out.

It was the first thing to come into my head. I heard a collective sigh of relief from my family and even the girl behind the till as she bleeped in the final part of the order. Mum told us to go and find somewhere to sit. My eyes scanned the room; I need a table – one where I could eat without facing strangers, but Lauren had other ideas. She ran over and plonked herself down in an empty seat right next to the window and Zara followed.

‘Here?’ I asked, slightly appalled.

Lauren and Zara looked up at me.

‘Yeah, here,’ Lauren huffed.

‘Err, there must be somewhere else,’ I said, looking around.

Only there wasn’t because nowhere else was free. I was stuck – in full view of the window and everyone inside the restaurant. I flopped down into the seat opposite and felt utterly miserable as I glanced out of the window. A passing gang of teenage boys caught my gaze and stared back at me. My stomach cramped because it felt like a living hell.

‘I think we should move,’ I said, suddenly getting up.

Lauren refused to budge.

‘I’m not moving,’ she said, folding her arms.

I was just about to argue when Mum slid the red plastic tray onto the table in front of us.

‘There you go,’ she said breezily. ‘I bet you’re all starving.’

But I wasn’t hungry, I felt sick to my stomach. As the others tucked into their food I stared hopelessly out of the window. I was surrounded by my family but I’d never felt so alone. I just wanted to be normal; to be able to rip open the bag and eat my food like everyone else, only I couldn’t because something was stopping me. I couldn’t see it or touch it but it was as real as the people sitting next to me. It was a fear of being judged and talked about, a fear of eating the food in front of me. I grabbed the top of the brown paper bag and scrunched it down with my fingers.

‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Mum asked.

‘Not really. Would it be okay if I took it home and warmed it up for later?’

Mum sighed and put her burger down on the greaseproof wrapper. It took all the strength I had to smile but I needed to reassure her. I didn’t want her worrying because I did enough of that for everyone. I couldn’t tell her the real reason that I was too scared to eat in front of people. At home I knew everything would be okay because back home, everything was familiar and safe.

‘Okay,’ Mum finally agreed. ‘I’ll warm it up in the microwave.’

I carried the little brown bag around in my hand for the rest of the afternoon. Hunger pangs gripped me as the hours passed but still I refused to eat or even take a nibble. The chicken and chips were stone cold and looked a little congealed by the time we’d reached home but I didn’t care. I placed my food on a plate inside the microwave and watched as the light blinked on and the meal turned around and around.

‘Careful,’ Mum said taking it out and putting it down on the table in front of me. ‘It’s really hot. Don’t burn yourself!’

The chicken didn’t taste as good as I knew it would’ve back in the restaurant but at least I could eat it without worrying.

On our next visit to McDonalds I brought my food home again to warm up inside the microwave. But this time, I only took a bite before I had to run straight to toilet where I was sick. I felt wretched because I thought I’d finally found a way to beat the fear, only I hadn’t. Instead, like the food inside the bag, it’d just packed itself up and followed me home.