‘That’s the way a girl should be’ by Louise Hegarty

My gag reflex has gone completely kaput. Fingers do nothing for me anymore. A toothbrush leaves only nasty red scratches on the inside of my throat.

I like to think that I am a tough cookie.

Some southern belle.
Only the best will do.

I keep hearing about ipecac and it sounds like it could be my saviour. Online, people warn me that

YOU WILL DIE IF YOU TAKE IT

as if that would dissuade me.

I am the type who starves myself

and

I have become quite proficient at it.

But sometimes I need to put on a show. Sometimes I need to eat in order to distract. And other times I would just get this insatiable urge to fill myself up to the brim,

to stuff myself,
to overstuff myself,
to feel it all,
all at once.

The emptiness that comes afterwards always tastes sweeter. It is a rush.

My other methods have fallen by the wayside.

My GP is no longer willing to see me but I still have his
one
two
three scripts of thyroid medication
on hand just in case. Normally I would have taken all those pills in the space of
forty eight hours

but now I had to stretch my rations out to nearly
two weeks.

My doctor thought he could save me himself
but he is a narcissist which makes him
easy to manipulate oh he liked me, he worried
about me but he has no self-awareness
and he would spend most of our appointments
talking about himself while thinking
he was somehow getting through to me
and so he became guilty about how he had
allowed himself to be manipulated and so
he had to drop me.

I have also tried the following:

(i) Mustard: did nothing to me at all.
My gut is made of steel.

(ii) Salt water: your body is supposed
to sense that you have too much salt
in your system and cause you to throw up. The issue
is that you may not vomit and then will have
essentially overdosed on salt and have to seek
medical help. It is difficult to explain away such
high levels of sodium in your system or why you
are having seizures. They are concerned. They ask
questions. They turn their heads slightly and say,
‘you’re quite thin, aren’t you?’ I always act slightly
surprised as if it is news to me.

(iii) To my great shame I have tried bloodroot: useless.
I had been told about it on one of those forums for
people recovering from eating disorders. It is the best
place for information. People are so non-judgemental.
The disclaimer on the site asks users to be ‘sensitive
to others’ while underneath the threads are all about
how many laxatives to take and the easiest food to purge.
Occasionally I will receive a private message from someone
looking to help me. Sometimes I let them think that
they have, mainly I ignore them. I am not an idiot.
I know that what I am doing is totally insane.
But it does have an internal logic to it.

(iv) Clenbuterol: given to me by an ex who got it from
someone in the gym. Made me feel heavier and
gave me palpitations. Also difficult to come across.

(v) I considered ordering a tapeworm online once
but the whole thing just creeped me out.

I am very busy at work.
(That is my excuse for everything but it is also true.)

I am too busy for lunch. Too busy for after-work drinks.

I am sure the others bitch about me. I am ‘anti-social’, ‘a shut in’. They see my long sleeves and high necks and layered loose clothing and think me a prude.

More than >>>>>>>>>>>> more than >>>>>>>>>>>> more than one man has felt the need to comment on how I dress, how I look. They tell me that I should show
off my figure,
tell me to wear less makeup.

This one man from accounting came and sat on my desk just the other day, made some small talk, flirted a little and then told me in a low voice that I should

‘show some flesh’.

His eyes trailed the outline of my jumper, imagining what was going on

underneath.

He had ideas.
He was thinking about touching me.
He wanted to feel me.
He would get a shock.

*

During lunch, while my colleagues eat sandwiches and salads in the cafe across the road, I stay at my desk and watch videos online of people taking ipecac and then vomiting uncontrollably.

I get a deep and dark thrill from it.

They are always surprised, that’s the thing. It just suddenly takes them. I ignore the warnings; the Karen Carpenter references

~ touch me when we’re dancing ~

are clearly meant for someone else. I am not an idiot. I know what’s involved.

He has already started dinner by the time I get to his house.

He is very sweet.

He loves me.
He adds a small pinch of salt and then sugar to the pasta sauce and wants me
to taste it. He holds out the spoon and I run my lips over it, feeling the heat
and saliva; my throat burns.
I smile at him.
It is silly.

He is
kind and
smart and

funny.

He is good at his job, is ambitious, his family are
lovely and yet I think badly of him, judge him for
not noticing what I fight hard to keep a secret and it
makes me sad realising that he can’t really see me,
but of course the moment he shows concern I shut
down and am angry with him for an entirely separate
set of reasons.
He can’t win.
I will resent him either way.

I go upstairs to wash and change.

When I return to the kitchen he is ladling l o o p s of
spaghetti into white bowls. I swallow it down and lick sauce from my lips.

He talks about work and an upcoming golfing trip and pours me more wine. I am sick inside.

After piling the dishes in the sink we move into the sitting room. There is some show on the television that we have apparently been watching but I can’t remember any of it. He starts
kissing my neck and ear

and then takes the wine glass from my hand and leads me upstairs.

I insist on turning off all the lights: my layers of clothing give me the illusion

of fleshy femininity
but
when naked he could see everything.

I confuse him with kisses and manoeuvre him out of the way so that I can get under the sheets. Amongst the pillows and duvets

I am shielded.
He likes that I am tiny; he said that the first time we met even when I was 10
lbs heavier. He liked that I might need protecting, that I was vulnerable. But I
knew enough to conceal myself from him.

Once I hear the first snore I escape to the bathroom where I clean myself up,
take five laxatives
and then set my alarm for the morning.

I was overweight as a young teen. My parents, being the good supportive people they were, called it

puppy fat

and told me it would dissolve off of me in a couple of years. And when I started to lose weight they congratulated themselves on being right. They didn’t realise, couldn’t see that I had taken control of my own life. I wondered at the time how they couldn’t notice

my parents, those good people

all the trips to the bathroom, cramping, my pallor, how I was always unwell.

I was so obvious.

They never realised. Even after I became too thin and was constantly
having food poisoning and allergies. So transparent. Didn’t they read

the handbook?

I stopped for a while when I was at university

a brief pause

but once at work I fell back into the familiar pattern once again.

*

My alarm doesn’t wake me the next morning,
the cramps do.

My entire insides are spasming.

I rush to the bathroom.

I feel as though I might faint with the pain.

‘I hope it wasn’t the dinner last night.’

‘No, no. Dodgy prawns for lunch.’

I push him out of the bathroom and lock the door.

I want to yell out but know that that would only cause him concern.

My stomach is rippling and my insides are dissolving.

After about ten minutes he knocks timidly at the door.

I stand up, shaking, weak.

I manage to convince him to go to work and that I will be fine.
He isn’t sure but I turn the whole thing into a joke.

I had misjudged things.

Even after the contents of my stomach have surely been evacuated my
stomach still spasms. I down some painkillers and get on my work clothes. I
pull on my tights while doubled over on the bathroom floor and button my
blouse with shaking fingers. It is a day for plenty of blusher and concealer
and some distractingly bright lipstick.
My stomach seems to be settling a little as I walk tenderly towards my car.

I sit through a meeting with my stomach rippling. I am
so hot so hot so hot so hot so hot so hot so hot so hot so hot so hot so hot so hot so hot so hot

in my tight suit and wish desperately that

someone would open a window. I fear I might faint if I stand up. There is a jug of water in front of me calling out to me but I know that any liquid at all will cause my insides to squirm once again. I am the last to leave the room. I head straight to the bathroom where I stay for the next forty-five minutes. I am start- ing to re-calibrate but there is still a pain in my stomach. It is still there when I get home. I take an antacid and it eventually recedes.

But the pain returns in waves over the next few days: my body is punishing me.

*

When I am getting the train later on that week to attend a work event, a man sits next to me.
He is fat and red and sweaty and greasy and smells.
He tries to talk to me.
He has pushed himself up close to my thighs. He
(accidentally)
brushes his fingers over my body parts
three times.

He asks me where I am going and where I live and then says,

‘well there’s hope for all of us yet.’
He seems personally offended by the length of my skirt, which grazes my ankles.
‘Such a pretty young girl,’ he says as explanation.

Browsing through DoneDeal at work I finally come across what I had been searching for these past few weeks. Some kindly soul is selling all of their recently deceased mother’s belongings:

her clothes,
her glasses,
a fine dresser,
jewellery,
a large mirror,
a marble clock,
a nice hat,
some picture frames,
what looks like her best china,
all her religious statues
and
one box of ipecac syrup.

I zoom in as much as I can but can’t quite make out the best before date on the box. It was most likely years ago. Ipecac syrup hasn’t been produced since 2010 so the chances of these being ok are slim, but still needs must and I click ‘purchase’.

YOUR ORDER HAS BEEN RECEIVED

Ipecac is the elixir I need. I can’t reach those heights anymore.

I pay through Paypal and on seeing the seller’s real name I decide to enter it into Google. An obituary comes up for the elderly mother aged 74. The post uses the word

‘tragically’ a codeword for suicide especially given her age.

I wonder about that box of ipecac.

Did they think it was just medicine?

Did they think she was just overly cautious?
I feel we may be kindred spirits.

When I get home that evening the house is cold but I don’t mind. I am in a good mood. I turn on all the lights downstairs, light a fire and put on the sound system. I close the curtains to give myself some privacy.

I start to dance.

My hips move, my hands wave, I am smiling. Da da da, I am singing along with the music. I remove my outer jacket, allowing it to fall to the ground

...♪♫♪♫ ...
I pull my blouse out

from where it is tucked into my skirt.
... ♪ ♫ ♪ ♫...
I unbutton it in time to the music.

Soon my undershirt is off as well and I slip out of my skirt.

...♪♫ ♪♫...
My shoes now lie

sadly by the sofa.

Bra unclasped, tights and underwear down in one.

I twirl. Hand on

hip. My feet twinkle.
... ♪♫♪♫...

I spin out into the hall, my feet dancing across the cold

floor.
...♪♫ ♪♫...

I catch a glimpse of a swishing leg in the mirrored surface of the oven.

My outline is blurred in its reflection.

...♪ ♫ ♪ ♫ ...

I turn to the side and nearly disappear.

I move my hands from the shock of my hips to the exquisiteness of my individual ribs.

I play them like a harp.

I feel a deep sudden stab in my abdomen. My body automatically curls over to protect itself. I kneel down and press on what is left of my flesh and after a number of minutes the pain subsides again. I take some painkillers to keep it at bay.

YOUR PAYMENT HAS BEEN RECEIVED

I have only been hospitalised once: when I was on my gap year in Australia.
I hadn’t been compensating properly for the increase in temperature

and between the heat and the lack of food and the dehydration

I collapsed.
I had been sharing a room with a girl from Scotland who promptly phoned
the ambulance and the paramedics carted me off to the hospital despite my
protestations. They were quick to diagnose dehydration but the Scottish girl

piped up and told the doctor,

‘she doesn’t eat, she throws up.’

That set off a whole series of tests and a psych evaluation

(
In the hospital they had done tests on my heart. They told me I was
dangerously underweight
not a surprise
and that my heart muscle had been damaged. If I stopped this all now and
sought medical treatment I would be okay but a couple more years and my
heart would be irrevocably destroyed. They urged me to stop but they didn’t understand,
even the doctors, even the nice psychiatrist they sent me to.
)
and I ended up spending two weeks in hospital. They encouraged me to phone
my parents but I was over eighteen and in a foreign country and so the doctors
couldn’t compel me to do anything. Once I was released from hospital I moved
out of the flat and travelled to Melbourne to enjoy the rest of my year.

I feared for a while that the Scottish girl may have gotten my

mom’s number from my phone and called her.

But weeks went by and I didn’t hear anything.

YOUR PARCEL HAS BEEN DISPATCHED

The boy doesn’t seem to notice that I never menstruate; he must think I am
a wonder. And of course he wants to have sex and so I go along with it,
covering

bones

and

barely-there breasts
as if I am shy. He picks me up so easily. I like how light I feel in his arms
and then I am on top, my hands on his chest.

I can sense his shallow breaths.
His grip is tight.

His hands are grabbing at all parts of me for dear

life: my hips my thighs, my hair.

Everything is black.

The back of my head is tingling.
I start to feel very warm. I feel a
cold sweat in my hands. I black
out for a couple of seconds
and wake up with my head on
his chest. He clasps me to him
thinking I have come, kissing
my forehead. He moves his
hand and then he exclaims. I
recoil and see
stars in my eyes.

In his hands he is holding a clump of my thinning hair. He is apologetic. I pretend I can feel where he pulled. I laugh about it, making him feel like a man, knowing however that it did not need his strength to be pulled out.

*

I nearly fall asleep while brushing my teeth that night I am so tired.
So tired, zzzzzzzzzzzz always tired. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
My gums are bleeding every day now. zzzz They are red and receding from
my teeth. zzzz I think one of my teeth at the back is rotting slowly. zzzz
Never mind how much mouthwash I use it still stinks to high hell. zzzz I put
bleaching strips on each week to maintain some sort of dignity. zzzz
I am so tired, always tired. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

The parcel of ipecac arrives the next morning. I was right: they are years out of date. I wonder whether this will increase or decrease its potency. I hold the tiny bottles in my hand
and get a sharp thrill.

My sick brain.

I have a work Christmas do coming up this weekend where I can surely binge to my heart’s content
and then return home to the warm embrace of ipecac.

The pain in my stomach returns the next morning and I have to get off the bus early to head to the pharmacy for painkillers. They kill the pain slightly but ultimately it returns.

The boy has started pulling away from me. No surprise really. I am barely
there. He hasn’t left me, hasn’t officially ended things
but I can sense that he will.
Some of them don’t end things at all, some just fade away.
You get the message after a while. His texts are
becoming less frequent, is busy this
weekend, next weekend,
he has no
time.

I will be a memory soon.

At the Christmas party I

drink and
dance and
laugh and
sing karaoke and
eat.

I enjoy myself.

I am the life of the party.

That man from accounting is giving me the eye. He watches me dance and then when I go to freshen my drink he follows me. His hand touches my lower back gently and he whispers into my hair,

‘you looked great out there.’

He tugs at my cardigan and says, ‘but you must be
so warm in that thing. Why don’t you take it off?
Let us see you.’

I smile at him.
‘You’re right,’ I say.
‘Do you know somewhere safe I can put it?
It’s my favourite cardigan.’

His smile meets mine. He leads me out to the hotel lobby and then straight to the elevator. The third floor. His key card dips

in
and
out
and
the door opens.

He has already organised a hotel room. (That smug son of a bitch.) He doesn’t offer me a drink or any other of those tricks people have. He isn’t one for subterfuge.

But I am.

Straight away his hands are on me. Or more accurately they are on my layers. I push him back onto the bed and lower the lights until we are just silhouettes. Then I slowly remove my clothing:

dress,

underskirt,
tights,

shoes,

cardigan and underwear
are discarded. When I am naked I get up close to him again
and kiss him hard. I unbutton his shirt. He stands up to
remove his pants and shoes while I put the lights on again.

I am completely naked.

He sees me
finally,
suddenly.

His eyes bulge.
His mouth hangs up.
He closes it quickly again but it is too late.

‘Don’t you like me like this?’ I ask. ‘Isn’t this what you want?’

His pants are around his ankles. He doesn’t know where to look. I put his

hands on my hips, the skin

stretched taut

over white bone. I kiss him again. His hands are loose on me. He swallows.

‘Don’t you want me?’ ‘Don’t you like me?’

My tone intensifies. I step back from him. My stomach is sunken, all of my ribs are visible, there is a crater beneath my collarbone, bruises on my legs.

I am hunched.

‘Isn’t this what you want?’

He is confused.

I grab his hands and push them all over me, so that he can feel every inch of me.
‘Isn’t this what you want?’

I grab his penis and squeeze. He pushes me away and falls over, his feet tangled up in his pant legs.
I laugh involuntarily.
I am left alone.

He gasps, ‘Jesus’, pulls up his pants, grabs his shirt and
then backs out of the room, forgetting that it is his.
I laugh then.
And I cry.
I dress myself.
And raid the minibar.

Back at home I slide the box out from under the bed, push down its broken
flaps and retrieve one single solitary precious tincture of syrup. I break the
seal and swallow the lot. I am not entirely sure what to expect. I thought
it would be instant. I am expecting my body to be suddenly overcome but
nothing happens. I wait a good one two three four five six seven eight nine
ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen
twenty minutes at the toilet bowl but not a flutter. It must be gone off. Its
potency must have decreased. I would have to take another though a small
voice inside me is saying a silent and plaintive
no.

I take two more precious vials just to be sure. I am hardy.
Another one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve
thirteen fourteen fifteen minutes go by and I feel nothing. Another one two
three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen
minutes and then I feel something: a rumble. A shaking like an earthquake.
Something breaks inside me and I can barely move my head towards the
toilet bowl in time. It erupts from me. Redness everywhere. The colour and
force shock me so much. I breathe in quickly and find that I can’t inhale.

My throat is clogged,

fresh red blood across the white tiles,

and I am coughing and spluttering,

choking on it.

I try to stand up as if that would do some good.

But still it comes.

I fall back onto my knees again.

I cannot breathe.

I cannot see.

I clasp at things around me for no good reason

and things fall around me.

I am falling. I can’t stop.

My mind escapes its tether and settles above me.

I feel light.

I feel high.
I feel good.
I feel nothing.
I am numb.
I am free.
I am empty.

From issue #5: autumn/winter 2017

About the Author
Louise Hegarty’s work has been published in The Tangerine, The Dublin Review and The Stinging Fly and featured on BBC Radio 4’s Short Works. She lives in Cork.