A letter to...my Aunt who I don't know how to help.
'Close' may be a little too strong a word to describe our relationship, however you appear in many of my fond childhood memories. Bright, garish jumpers paired with tactile costume jewellery and metallic make-up; familiar, strong, floral perfume that lingered heavily on the air, the bleach dyed hair, the pink false nails that clicked as they touched; I never saw you without these disguises.
Your home (my mothers nightmare,) was a quirky wonderland, a hoarders paradise of pot-plants, dusty collectables and novelties. It was where I saw you the most. My brother and I would scurry about each room finding antique furniture to hide behind accompanied by crazed dogs and fraught cats that would fight causing chaos and noise.
Ever the busy, talkative hostess of most of our family occasions, you would prepare piles of food, present vast selections of wine, serve baked cakes hadn't risen whilst chatting excitedly over everyone recounting holiday travels and pet antics. You are a whirlwind of generosity interspersed with drink refills and trips to the toilet. Mother would dread these times but as a child I never understood why, I always wanted to see more of you.
You were brought up on a farm with an older brother and sister who you got along well with. When my mother was born you were 13 and by then the others had left. Your relationship is also not to be considered as 'close' but there is a bond there. Mother still recalls the rainy days where you taught her to knit, crochet and would play the recorder together.
Tragically in the prime of your teenage years, your older sister was killed suddenly as she cycled home from school. The driver was never caught. Greif was never expressed, as it simply was not communicated, complying with the family way of processing emotions. As soon as you turned 18, you left home and married to a man who's family owned a popular hotel by the sea where you worked relentlessly for many years. Perhaps your mother could see that you were overworked, but would never say a word. Somewhere in-between you had a daughter, but almost immediately afterwards you returned to work.
The hotel was eventually sold and shortly afterwards, your husband passed away from cancer. You didn't shed a tear, but then you wouldn't in front of anyone. Perhaps these were saved for more private moments.
You always were a fragile creature. But as I became older, I noticed how frail you were becoming. Everything you said with the gestures you made were all a distraction from what was really going on. Your perfume became stronger, your jewellery mismatched and your nails chipped on hands that were shaky. At dinner, Mother would role her eyes every time you'd get up to leave from the table and I noticed her observing your movements with suspicious eyes. She would tut and mutter things under her breath as you'd loose track of your own anecdotes. An atmosphere could always be detected between you.
'She has...a problem,' she told me after you left one evening, '...with her eating. She makes herself sick. It's something that's been going on for, well, since she was a teenager.' At 14, this was the first I'd ever heard of an eating disorder and it was a sad truth to learn. Mother told me how she would remember you making any excuse to avoid eating throughout her life, usually by taking a great deal of time in preparing and serving food. You would share recipes and gush over cooking programs and yet always found yourself to busy or too full to eat. Bones would break in your feet from carrying out simple gardening tasks and your hair became increasingly thin and your face more gaunt.
I asked mother if she had spoke to you about it, but she said you were too stubborn and you would try to get into an argument which made her feel insignificant and uncomfortable. She went to your mother on a few occasions expressing her concerns for you, however her reaction was nonchalant and unphased. 'I lost a lot of faith in her' mother says bluntly and admitted that it caused a lot of underlying resentment. Mother also tried to communicate these issues with your daughter, who also found it difficult to discuss and talk to you about. Whenever there was an attempt to bring this ordeal to the forefront of conversation, it was soon brushed under the carpet. 'It's complicated and runs too deep. Too much time has gone by, she's too set in her ways,' it seems mother has concluded.
A couple of years ago you had serious stroke and it was incredibly lucky you survived. We were all so worried, but hoped that perhaps this would encourage a fresh start. Sadly, as soon as you returned home it was as if the whole event had never happened. You started drinking more and more. You'd mask spirits in fruit juice bottles and would leave rambling voice messages to mother in the middle of the night. The following year you were admitted to hospital again for liver disease. You have since moved into a new home and you tell us that you've started attending AA meetings, but mother is sceptical as you are good at hiding these things.
Seeing your health deteriorate this way is heart-breaking and I wish I could tell you how much I care about you. I am so sorry to see that whatever it is you're going through has manifested itself in this way. There have been times where I felt that perhaps I could try and get help for you, but without the support from anyone else, it would be like fighting a loosing battle. I feel it could potentially ruin our relationship too.
However, this disease does not define who you are, and I will not let it alter my perception of you; the colourful, eccentric and creative person that I know you truly are. Your condition is sadly not unique and there are people who are suffering like you every day all over the world. Although I lack the courage and support to help you directly, it has made me more passionate to help others in your situation, and preventing it from getting it to this stage.
By witnessing your eating disorder myself and how it has directly affected those around me, has made me realise how important communication is and how unpleasant truths need to be faced head on, not ignored because it seems to be the easier option. You have helped me change the way I communicate within my own family and I will teach my sons and daughters to the same.
I hope we will share many happy memories while you still are here.
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