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the moment. I can’t recall what I said but it was incomplete and ashamed, for that’s how I felt and still feel. Tom asked me a few questions, quietly, gently. He said he would support me to eat more, a little at a time. This frightened me of course; any thought of eating more still threatens my stubborn sense of autonomy. He told me that I’d never get fat, just that I needed to eat for my fertility, my sleep, our happiness.
    It was important to talk about it, I know that now, but God, I felt exposed. I knew I couldn’t go on with this secret forever; that’s what adults do: they talk about difficult things. Tom didn’t judge me or scorn; in fact he didn’t seem that surprised. He had already made the link between how little I eat and how much Iexercise; he understood my vague references to ovaries “shutting down.” I explained it was temporary and reversible: according to my doctors I’m not infertile, just underweight. Tom kept saying he loved me and would do anything to help me get better, a little at a time.
    Once the eating disorder topic was out there it amazed me that we were discussing it. The language was slightly evasive, but we were actually talking about it. We talked of low body fat, my overly healthy lifestyle (ha!), excessive exercise, but we did not use the term “anorexia.” In fact we never said “anorexia” until The Times printed it—and to this day we both still hesitate before using that word.
    * * *
    For the rest of the weekend it was as though a layer of skin had been peeled away from me: I was raw. What I remember now from Copenhagen—as well as the eco-hotel and the sauna and cycling in the rain around the hippie suburb of Christiania—was that time with Tom, that new beginning. Ever since that terrible night and morning, there’s been a new level of openness between us. How amazing: this man, who accepts me as I am.
    But it isn’t stable; nothing is. Sometimes I’m glad he understands and loves me anyway; at other times I feel angry at the invasion of my privacy. When I’m having an episode of the “mean reds” I think Tom needs me to be weak like this, broken. Most men like to feel useful: does my being “unwell” give him a useful purpose? Maybe this “saving me from myself” enables him to reach me in a way that my cast-iron barriers don’t normally allow?
    A few days after we got back from Copenhagen I was talking to my big sister, trying to explain how exposed I felt. Thinking back to that conversation with Katie I can see how frightened I was. Itwasn’t anger with Tom so much as fear of recovery, the same old fear of opening up: that someone would help me, would force me to face this.
    Was it the right thing to have done? Share and share until he knows everything, until there’s nothing left for me? Ever since we talked about food and weight and health issues, it seems I’m expected to be open about everything. I have always found this difficult: at times I feel prickly, uncomfortable in my own skin. It nags at me that he knows so much; now that we’ve discussed anorexia, there’s nothing private left. Why must I tell him everything just because we’re in a relationship? Sometimes I feel stripped of my dignity; I want to run very far away.
    Even now, two years later, I still feel a sense of loss. Why did we talk—why did I open up like that in Copenhagen? I’ve been forced into sharing and I hate it: this is my problem, my private hell, this is for real. Now my issues about eating are casual conversation topics: We need to fatten you up; I’m going to bring you a bagel; Promise me you won’t skip lunch . I never wanted anyone to help me, I never asked for it.
    * * *
    Tom and I have been through turmoil, but there’s also a lot of happiness. We talk and laugh and read and write endlessly, we’re always running off for another