interpreted as messages or visitations from God or the gods. In fact, Jaynes believed, they were communications from the other side of the brain.
Maybe there’s something to Jaynes’s theory. In people with schizophrenia, who often hear voices, the corpus callosum is typically smaller and narrower than in those without schizophrenia. † I wonder if the demon might also be explained in terms of neuroanatomy. It certainly seems like Kitty’s experiencing an altered state of consciousness when the demon is at its loudest. It would be fascinating to see what areas of her brain light up at those moments.
The next night we see a slightly different face of the demon. Kitty goes to her first gymnastics practice and comes home upset because she’s lost her skills. She’s thrust into that altered state where she spins around and around—in this case, over the fact that she’s lost her conditioning, she can’t do gymnastics, she’s no good, it was the only thing she’s looked forward to, it was the only thing she was good at and now she’s not. On and on she worries and obsesses. This time, maybe because I’m paying attention, I hear the moment when her distress over gymnastics flips into anxiety about eating. She goes from back handsprings to breakfast in one breath, worrying that if I make her have cereal the next morning, the milk will upset her stomach and then how can she possibly drink a milk shake tomorrow because that will also upset her stomach.
“I’m serving eggs tomorrow morning for breakfast,” I tell her, hoping to allay a bit of the anxiety.
“I’m afraid of eggs!”
“Why don’t we talk about what’s really upsetting you?” I say.
Out comes a gush of words. She says Jamie’s mad at her because she needs him to sit in the kitchen with her at lunch, and now we all hate her, she’s done nothing but cause us problems, she is stupid and fat and ugly. Oh, and why do I hate gymnastics when it means so much to her?
“I don’t hate gymnastics,” I tell her. “I hate the anorexia.”
In a flash her tone turns from self-pity to rage. “Well, the anorexia is part of me,” she says furiously, “and you hate the anorexia, so you must hate me!”
“No, I don’t hate you, I love you,” I say as calmly as I can, but it’s like she’s Helen Keller and I’m no miracle worker. She doesn’t see me, she doesn’t hear me, she’s locked in, lost in her own terrible world, and I would give anything in my power right now to snap her out of it.
“Why do you hate gymnastics?” Kitty cries. Then she leaps from the table, grabs a pillow from the living room couch, and starts stuffing it into her mouth. I grab it and yank it out; I don’t want her to make herself throw up.
“I don’t hate gymnastics!” I yell. This is a lie. I do hate gymnastics, and gyms, and coaches, and leotards, and every last thing associated with the sport.
Kitty glares at me. “Gymnastics isn’t to blame for my illness,” she yells. “I am! I’m stupid and fat and ugly! I’m a horrible person and everyone hates me!” She hits herself in the head, hard, with her open palm. I grab for her arm but miss. She hits herself two or three more times before I get hold of her. She’s much stronger than she looks—much stronger than she should be, and despite her frailty she could get away from me if she really tried. But she’s not trying.
After what feels like an hour, but is probably three or four minutes, she collapses in my lap. “You want to take away the only thing I care about,” she sobs.
“I don’t,” I say, stroking her hair. “But right now the most important thing is your health. That’s what I care about.”
When she is finally asleep, I sit in the living room, lights off, feeling like a failure. I said all the wrong things tonight. I made things worse, not better. I yelled at my daughter. I couldn’t help her.
Now I understand what the Maudsley people mean when they say it’s not helpful to cast blame. Blame makes you sit alone in the dark and feel like your skin has been flayed. Blame takes away your power and makes you into a small scolded child, when what you need is to get bigger. So big that you can reach down and swat away what plagues you. Big enough