My Dark Mistress: Part 1

Summary

The author recounts their struggle with anorexia, referred to as a "dark mistress," and their return to an inpatient unit, marking a surrender of personal agency and identity to the illness.

Abstract

The narrative "My Dark Mistress: Part 1" opens with the author's reluctant admission to an inpatient unit on a dreary April day, a day that signifies their complete surrender to anorexia. The author describes a long-standing battle with the illness, which has progressed from a hidden secret to a dominating force in their life. Anorexia is personified as a manipulative and destructive entity that has stripped the author of their humanity and autonomy, leaving them in a liminal state between life and death. The author's decision to seek help is fraught with internal conflict, as they are caught between the shame of their condition and the harsh, demeaning voice of their illness. The act of pressing the buzzer to enter the ward is symbolic of their commitment to treatment, despite the fear and stigma associated with it. The author, once a clinical researcher advocating for mental health reform, now finds themselves on the other side of care, having to confront their illness head-on as a patient.

Opinions

The author feels a profound sense of shame and failure for allowing anorexia to dominate their life to the extent that it has.
Anorexia is portrayed as a seductive yet malevolent presence, a "mistress" that has taken over the author's sense of self.
The author experiences a significant loss of identity, transitioning from a mental health professional to merely "the patient," which underscores the severity of their condition.
The support system, represented by the author's husband and mother, is present but overshadowed by the author's internal struggle with their illness.
The author anticipates judgment and feelings of unworthiness from others in the psych ward, reflecting the stigma associated with mental health issues.
The author's past role as a clinical researcher is contrasted with their current state, highlighting the irony and tragedy of their situation.

The day I became “The Patient”

It was a bleak day in April when this body first approached the door of the inpatient unit. I cannot call it my body because I had long forgone ownership. The vehicle of flesh and bone that had housed “me” for 30 years had once again slipped into the comforting embrace of my dark and seductive mistress.

I knew this mistress well, she had been my constant companion throughout my adult life. At times, she had been nothing more than a dim flicker; my sinister little secret that I kept safe and hidden from the world. But as my reliance on her grew, so too did her dominion. Slowly, that flicker became a flame and I was engulfed by her command.

So here I was again. My mistress had stripped me of my sovereignty, maimed my humanity, and left me starved and bleeding in the cold. I was gone, and in my place, my archangel stood; not yet dead, but no longer alive.

I was lost to my mistress. I was lost to Anorexia.

Standing outside the main doors of the ward, I was balancing on a cliff edge and I began to question if I was ready to jump. I felt the strength of the hands that were tightly wrapped around my upper arms; my husband’s on my left, my mother’s on my right. Logic told me that a hand should never fully encircle an adult woman’s bicep, and I felt a flash of shame for letting things get this bad. Louder than that was the scream of my mistress: you can do better than this, be sicker than this. You gave up and you failed. You stupid bitch.

Seemingly of its own accord, my gaunt hand rose before me and unfurled an unsteady finger to press the silver buzzer on the door. It was cold, like my bones.

A muted ringing from the other side of the doors sent my mind whirring back to patchy memories of my last stint as an inpatient.

Tubes wrenching skin

Restraints

Clashing cutlery

Teeth gnawing bone

Acrid tears and screaming

So much screaming

My clenched jaw tightened in anticipation of the onslaught that was inevitable once I entered through these doors.

As I lowered my hand from the buzzer, I felt my husband’s grip on my upper arm tighten. This perhaps served a dual function: to stop me from bolting and to steady himself. He had never seen the inside of a psych ward before. The fear in his breath permeated the thick woollen scarf wrapped around my neck. As much as I wanted to turn into his embrace and assure him that everything would be okay, I couldn’t. So I kept staring forward, through the thick glass panes between me and the ward, and I waited.

After a lengthy delay, a figure appeared on the other side of the door. The beep of a keycard signalled that we could enter. As the door swung open, we inched forward in unison and were hit by the stagnant scent of the ward. The scuttering of feet and a whispering of voices beaconed for my eyes to glance down the hall, but I dared not look. My dark mistress told me all I needed to know: They are more worthy of this place than you. You’re a fraud, a fat, disgusting fraud, and they will know it.

Instead, I locked my gaze on the blue lanyard that hung around the neck of the clinician who stood before me. I was familiar with this lanyard; I had worn one similarly draped around my neck for the past four years. But this time, it wasn’t mine. I was no longer the cutting-edge clinical researcher fighting for change in a broken mental health system. Somehow, I had slipped far enough that none of that mattered. As the heavy NHS doors shut behind me, that part of me died.

So there I stood; the grip of my mistress wrapped tightly around my neck. No one could feel her but me. I knew there was no way out, except through. So I took a deep breath, whispered goodbye to my former self, and once again I adorned the identity of “the patient”.