An Apple a Day Read Online Free PDF Page B

own depressive nature, but I spent the whole time struggling to get back on track. Waiting at Heathrow Airport, I remember standing at the sink in the restroom close to tears. I wondered how I could get through the next five minutes, let alone the weekend. That was unlike me—sure, I go up and down, but I don’t do weepy.
    The flight out of London was delayed due to fog over the Channel; we arrived in Copenhagen late on Friday evening in a rainstorm. After eating a quick supper we’d picked up (a hot dog for Tom, a banana for me) we unpacked a few things and fell into bed. Tom reached out to touch me, to hold me—he’d been on assignment in Colombia for ten days—to cuddle me goodnight.But my body was tense and I curled away from him, unable to respond. I didn’t want to kiss him, I didn’t want to be touched.
    We lay there in the dark, me almost falling off the edge of the bed, clutching at the duvet, Tom reaching all the way over. After a few minutes of silence he sighed and said my name out loud into the silent bedroom. I said nothing, waiting, wishing he would go to sleep. He reached up and stroked the back of my neck, teasing at tendrils of hair, and I felt nothing. It was so quiet I could hear us both blinking. I wanted to scream; I wanted to leave.
    Finally Tom said, “Emma, please. What’s the matter?” I said nothing. “I’ve been missing you, longing for you, love. I’ve been away from you for nearly two weeks and all I want to do is hold you in my arms.” This was strong stuff from Tom—in those early days, he wasn’t versed in the art of romantic-speak, although he’s pretty good now. Still I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t about sex, just that I didn’t feel close to anyone or anything; I didn’t want to be held. I felt I would snap.
    We lay there for ages, in silence. Eventually, I reached across and kissed his forehead. I found his hand and we lay in the large four-poster bed, holding hands. After ten minutes or so Tom’s steady breathing told me he was asleep. I lay awake, unable to get control of my racing mind. It seems impossible to me that one can be so tired and still not sleep, but I’ve never learned how to switch off. The hours that followed in Copenhagen were some of the lowest I remember. Strange how you can be lying next to another person and feel so completely alone. I went from exhaustion to anger—looking at Tom’s sleeping face, calm and peaceful—to despair. Around 5 AM I stood up, wound one of the white sheets around me and opened the door to the fire escape. It was cold and still raining. I sat down on the metal stairwell outside.
    Before long, Tom appeared in the doorway, fuddled with sleep. He tried to coax me inside, into the warmth, to come back to bed,but I couldn’t move from the chilly metal stairs. I held my head in my hands and he held me. I was dizzy from lack of sleep (not just that night but the many weeks and months before) and unable to speak. Everything seemed hopeless; everything seemed as bleak as the gray morning light. Somewhere Tom’s gentle voice went on, explaining how we could change things, how he would help; he rubbed my hands to warm me but I couldn’t feel anything. We sat that way for ages, shivering, wrapped in a few thin sheets, his head resting on my shoulder. My clearest memory is thinking, Poor Tom, this is not the romantic mini-break he signed up for .
    It was there on the stairwell as dawn broke and rain fell that we finally talked openly about anorexia.
    * * *
    Tom had been reading about insomnia on the Internet, trying to understand what was going on, and he had some theories about the cause. In my case, my diet. He explained, “Em, you’re doing huge amounts of exercise and sometimes you don’t eat all day. I’m no expert, but think about it, by the time you lie down at the end of the day your body is simply in