I don’t make the rules
(I do. I literally make all my own rules.)
Content warning for eating disorders, alcohol, and the unanimous fear felt by all too many of us walking alone at night.
Worcester, 2009
In lieu of smartphones, podcasts, and a bottomless, round-the-clock internet connection, my journey to sixth form was punctuated by the Yellow Car Game. Rules were officiated by word of mouth, and often warped by degrees of separation, though an official website existed and you can still visit it today. So much Comic Sans. My God.
Basically — and there’s no other way to explain the game as it was, at its core, incredibly basic — if you see a yellow car, you have to punch your friend before they punch you. Not hard. Just a little swat on the arm. And you have to say ‘yellow car’. In the version I played, Minis earned you a double punch.
Walking up Rainbow Hill one day, an unlikely number of yellow Minis drive past, and I punch T in the arm — thwap, thwap, ‘Yellow car!’ — but he doesn’t even try to punch me back. He’s seething. I don’t know why.
‘You’re anorexic,’ he says at last.
‘I’m not. I’m a binge eater.’
‘You only binge because you’re starving yourself.’
‘Yellow car!’
‘And O told me you haven’t come on in months.’
This takes me by surprise. T is an eighteen-year-old bloke who squirms at the mere mention of periods. For him to raise the topic so seriously, and with such maturity, is weird.
‘You’re anorexic,’ he says again.
‘So?’
‘So stop it. You’re gonna kill yourself.’
We take the rest of the walk in angry silence. I want to hit him and he wants to hit me, but it has nothing to do with the colours of the cars.
I really did believe I was a binge eater. I assumed, wrongly, that starvation should come easily, that nourishing myself was a cardinal sin, and that wanting to eat meant I was greedy and morally inferior. The more I forced myself into deprivation, the more I obsessed over the foods I denied myself.
Friends asked, ‘How’s your appetite?’ as though I had simply gone off my food. Not once had I forgotten to eat, like M and H and T often did. Food was always on my mind, but it was rarely on my plate. When I did eat, I was terrified of losing control. So I ate less. Which made me hungrier. Which made the fear even worse.
I started walking a different way to college, partly to burn more calories, and partly to avoid T. We’d make amends before too long, but I don’t want to gloss over the fact that anorexia isolates you. Granted, some people were clumsy in their attempts to get through to me, coming off too strong, too forceful, too aggressive — too angry. Some people made well-intentioned remarks that sent me spiralling. I still blame anorexia for this because if I didn’t have an eating disorder, if my brain wasn’t so sensitive to this kind of commentary, I wouldn’t have reacted the way I did.
In lieu of podcasts, livestreams, and a friend to wallop, I played my own game. If I saw ten Mini Coopers, I’d have a good day. Ten Mini Coopers and I knew I was in control. My being in control had nothing to do with the rush hour traffic on Barbourne, but I felt better believing that it did.
Newcastle upon Tyne, 2015
I’m so better. I spent a year in outpatient treatment before moving far, far away, and they wouldn’t have discharged me if I wasn’t totally fine, so yeah. Here I am. Fine, thank you.
I’d originally planned to live at home and study in Birmingham, commuting to lectures on the train. Worcester to Newcastle is a seven hour coach trip on a good day, so I no longer live with my parents. I am independent. I am also broke. I take a job cleaning Wetherspoon toilets at 6am. Being broke, I don’t own a car and I don’t like to spend money on public transport. I walk through Byker, on my own, at 5:40am.
Don’t think I’m not prepared. I’ve Googled pepper spray (illegal) and self-defence (not illegal). I leave the house with a scalding mug of black coffee. I don’t drink it. I am prepared to throw hot water in the face of an assailant. I bring my skateboard. I don’t ride it. I am prepared to clobber a rapist over the head with it.
As I pass drunk Geordie men who have yet to go to bed, homeless folk kipping in betting shop doorways, and the occasional vehicle in the road, I remember the Yellow Car Game. Ten Mini Coopers and I wouldn’t binge. As if that had any credence to it. Anyway, let’s count the number of vehicles I can walk past without getting kidnapped. One point for a regular car, five for a white van.
I make it to work with a high score of seventeen. I dust the one-armed bandits. I sweep cigarette butts off the patio. I mop up golden liquid from the bathroom floor — to my relief, it’s from an overturned can of Fosters. The rumours are true, though. The men’s toilets are SO MUCH WORSE than the women’s.
At 8am, the shift leader opens the doors to bevy awaiting their bevvies. Beer, at this time in the morning. I am above all that. I’m going to go home and weigh my granola and low-fat yoghurt on manual kitchen scales. I’m going to drink black coffee at the vegan café, buy a slice of cake and only eat the icing. I’m going to drink Malibu rum at two in the afternoon because I have finished my shift and my lectures and no one can stop me.
I’m so better.
If you need help
Always seek medical advice in an emergency. In the UK, you can call NHS 111 option 2 for mental health support. Find a list of helplines around the world here.
More stuff
I write about eating disorders and body image.
