Dying to be Ill by Marc D. Feldman

Author:Marc D. Feldman
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781351663533
Publisher: Taylor and Francis

Craving Drama

Polly was not interested in being nurtured. She wanted a “rush” in the more direct sense—the adrenaline rush of life-or-death situations. Her factitious crises were dramatic and short-lived. When Polly wrote to me and Gregory, it was because she was shocked by the loss of her friend Olivia, who had died in hospital from a self-induced condition:

I do not know exactly how Olivia died, but I think she deliberately inhaled talc crystals. I know that this can cause respiratory problems, and even cardiac arrest. For a long time she pretended to have a bacterial infection as well. What has shocked and scared me most about Olivia’s death is realizing that it could have been me. Like her, I used to make myself sick.

I first remember faking when I was seven years old and recovering from an injured ankle, which had left me using crutches. I was an accident-prone child, and for years I had been in and out of hospitals with broken bones and stitches. I grew up helping out on a farm in the south of England, so this was not uncommon. But this injury was different, because when my ankle had healed, I pretended it still hurt. I come from a good family, and I was loved and well provided for—so why did I do this? My mother was a little emotionally distant, perhaps? I cannot pinpoint anything in my past that could have caused me to lie in the way I did.

By the time I was nine, I was giving myself asthma attacks, usually by running in the cold air, or repeatedly coughing, which I knew would trigger my wheezing. I had to be taken to hospital a lot. When I was admitted, I would cause myself to choke on water, because I wanted my asthma to be as serious as possible. The more urgent my situation, the better. One time, I made myself very sick by manipulating my asthma when I had a real chest infection. I remember all the hospital staff rushing around me, and I loved it. I did not feel scared. I actually missed it when it stopped, and I often tried to make my asthma worse when they talked about discharging me. If that did not work, I would scratch the inside of my nose until it bled and had to be packed or cauterized.

I never did any of this because I wanted the attention of my family or friends. In fact, this was often an unwanted side-effect of my “illnesses.” I wanted to be in emergency situations, and I wanted hospital staff around me. Sometimes I would fantasize for hours about being in accidents or other crises. These situations gave me an “adrenaline rush.” I did not enjoy having to lie to doctors to get this. When I hit my early teens, everything escalated. I started making up stories. I lied about my dad beating me up, and I faked bruises on my arms to show to my friends as “proof.

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