Emma Woolf—Virginia Woolf’s great-niece—pens a memoir about battling a decade-long eating disorder.
I’ve always been volatile, but over the recent months of early summer I’ve noticed that the emotional extremes have been getting worse. If it were simply the elation of the high times and the despair of the low times I could deal with it, but it’s more than that. Of late I’ve had episodes of violent aggression, moments of such intense rage that I might do anything: attack someone, jump off a cliff, smash a glass into my face, open the car door and leap out while Tom is driving at 90 miles an hour on the freeway.
Last week, a van driver cut me off on Marylebone Road, then braked sharply at the red lights nearly causing me to crash into the back of him. When I drew up alongside and gave him the finger, he shouted out the window that “f*cking cyclists should get off the f*cking road” and I was a “stupid c*nt in need of a good f*ck.” Without a second’s hesitation I got off my bike, strode over to his window, and punched the door frame so hard that I still can’t bend my little finger.