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Charles wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to understand why. Why of all pictures that stupid news outlet could’ve used to spread more meaningless gossip about his racing future, did they have to use that one? That one broke his heart every time he met the eyes of the sunken ones in the image. That one that took him back to all of the times he’d been desperate to forget. That one that kickstarted the sick thoughts in the back of his brain. That one, where he is so clearly unwell is a miracle he was still allowed to drive.
There were so many other ones to choose from. For god's sake, they did official photoshoots every few months! He’d been in countless magazines, why not use one of those? He had a whole Instagram feed full of pictures of him, or ones posted on official Ferrari social media channels. Hell, an ugly screengrab from a recent race would’ve been better than this. Better than staring down the eyes of the old him. The unwell him. The anorexic him.
How many people had seen it? How many people would clap their eyes on him and associate him with that word. That word made him nauseous. That word reminded him of what he was, and what he would always be. That word reminded him that his brain could not be normal about things. That word reminded him he was sick. After losing so many years of his life to that bastard, cruel illness, he was finally starting to find himself again. He was no longer referred to as “that Formula 1 driver with an eating disorder.” He had just begun to get his respect back with the public, finally being recognised for the sunshine he was and the talent he carried. Finally, he was more than an illness to people. Yet the media had to go and do it again, drawing on the associations between that illness and him, refreshing people's memories when they’d nearly forgotten.
I guess nobody will ever forget that part of him. No matter how much he wanted them to.
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Three years of his life Charles had lost to anorexia. It turns out, mixing an addictive personality, an overactive brain and the weight and diet restrictions of Formula 1 together didn’t work well. Charles cant even pinpoint the moment it started, he wasn't aware that the little gremlin voice in the back of his mind had bought suitcases full of vile words and moved in. All he remembers was his horrid lullabies and the methods which soothed him.
“You can’t eat that, it’ll ruin all the hard work you’ve put in”
“Just a little bit more, a little bit more will benefit the performance of the car, and you want to make your dad proud, don't you?”
“Do you really need to eat that? You're not even that hungry”
“You're disgusting. You're vile. Your image will be ruined if you carry on.”
The gremlin knew exactly what would get to him. Knew what would make him break. It was too hard not to give into its mantras, especially when suffocated in a diet-culture environment. He thinks it began just before he lost his dad, and following his passing it just got worse. His whole world came crumbling down around him, and he was getting all too good at losing the things he cared about. He couldn't control what God had in store for him, he couldn't control the heartbreaking sobs of those grieving around him. He couldn't control what the team thought of him, so he turned to the one thing he could control. His eating habits. Yes, on reflection it was a terrible idea. But when everything is so rapidly spiralling out of control and no matter how fast you're swimming, you just can't get to shore before the next wave of tragedy hits, you look for the next best thing. He was suffocated, by heartache, by numbers. So many numbers. And the increasingly rampant screams of the obnoxious creature in the back of his mind. He just wanted it all to stop.
Stop it.
Stop it.
Stop it.
He remembers the despair. Remembers how cold he was, even under the warmth of the fireproofs and the hot roars of the car's engines. Remembers the dizziness as he stood up, struggling to get his balance after rising from his press conference seat. Remembers the unsettling pounding of his heart when he moved too quickly, or pushed himself too hard at the Gym. Remembers nothing he ever did being enough, and obeying the gremlins' screams. In a world where he had nobody, the gremlin had his back. He was like that friend your parents warned you about. The selfish one that uses you, preys on your insecurities and manipulates you to do what they want. He was all too aware of the consequences if he didn't listen.
And god. He was tired. He couldn't fight any more consequences. He’d fought too hard, he couldn't do one more battle.
The gremlins' sick praises when he obeyed were too good to let go of. He revelled in their words, telling him just what he needed to hear. The gremlin made him feel good enough, in a time where everything seemed against him.
That was, until Sebastian Vettel came along. It was obvious there was something wrong with Charles, and as his teammate, he saw it first hand. Charles did not smile anymore, and his eyes looked dull and sunken into his features. His hair thinner, his stature smaller. He struggled to focus in meetings and on track, mind drifting to possibilities for his next, gremlin approved meal. He was drowning, and Seb could tell. He knew he had to tread carefully around the younger driver. Approaching a topic like anorexia with someone suffering was difficult. One wrong word and he’d spiral. The last thing Seb wanted was to make it worse, but he’d never forgive himself if something bad happened and he’d had the chance to step in.
Charles still remembers the day Seb knocked on his driver room door, and let himself in. The pair were friends, so this wasn't an unusual occurrence. He remembers Seb sitting down, a concerned look plastered his features.
“Hey, mate. I don’t mean to pry. But we, the team, are worried about you. I’m worried about you. You don’t seem yourself lately, and if you need someone to talk to, you know where i am.”
Anger bubbled under the surface, the last thing Charles needed was another person on his case. He already had the team demanding results, the gremlin in the back of his brain controlling his every move. He knew he shouldn't have, but he snapped. If Seb knew something was wrong, how long could he keep his best friend before it was ripped away from him through institutions, gruelling recovery programmes and pity. He was fine, he just had a new friend in his mind.
“I’m fine, Seb. I’d be even better if you got off my case. There's nothing to be worried about. Je suis prêt à conduire, alors qu'est-ce que ça vous fait?”
Charles had never used that tone before.
“Things don’t have to be okay, you know? I care about you.”
“Non. Don’t you dare say that to me. You don’t care, and if you did you’d fucking get off my back and let me live. Don’t you think I have enough going on right now? Je n'ai pas l'énergie pour ça, Seb. s'il vous plaît, si vous vous souciez autant que vous le dites, laissez-le. je ne peux plus.” He tried to stay angry, but he was tired. Too tired to do this. Tears rushed to his eyes, ruining the facade he’d tried to uphold.
“That’s not fair. You know I care.” Quiet. Too quiet. Seb stood up slowly, turning to walk towards the door. Just as he was about to push down on the handle to see himself out, Charles burst into tears.
“Seb, I need help. I can’t live like this anymore. I’m so, so tired. Everything is too much. I can’t do this anymore, and I don't know how to say this without sounding stupid.”
He turned around to face Charles. “Say what, Charlie?”
“I think i’m anorexic. I’m frightened.”
As horrible as that day was, it was the day things began getting easier. Seb held him close as he cried, gut-wrenching sobs that he’d been holding back for far too long. For once, Charles didn’t have to be brave anymore. He thought he was fine, but that was because he’d been telling himself that. He really, really wasn't okay. And Seb began teaching him that it was okay. He took him to the doctors, and spent all the difficult nights with him when he couldn't deal with the volume of his own brain and the overwhelming guilt burning in the pit of his stomach. He spent months checking Charles was eating something, while they were waiting on psychological help and an official diagnosis.
When it was in writing, on his records and forwarded to the team, there was no real escaping it. Ferrari held a meeting with him, expressing how urgently it was for him to make a decision regarding recovery. They expressed their patience, and explained they would help support him and make the environment less suffocating, but never pushed him to the decision to recover. Because that would never work.
Charles chose recovery for him. For his career. For the younger Charles, who loved an ice cream dessert, and always dreamed of driving for Ferrari. He told his dad he’d signed for them before he passed, so now he had it was important he made him proud. His dad would always tell him “You’re worth more than the numbers”, and while it usually referenced racing data, it felt oddly fitting now.
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Recovering was the hardest thing he’d done in his life. It was so difficult to get the gremlin to pack all of his bags, and it took years. Constantly having to disobey his screams, getting more intense the more he neglected him. But the more he screamed, the more he died. Slowly, Charles began to realise he had more control now than he ever did when obeying the gremlin. Rewiring his brain was so difficult. I mean, feeding yourself is a human instinct, something everyone just knows how to do. So how do you relearn something you don't remember learning in the first place? Sometimes it was overwhelming. How do people know what portion sizes are? How do people just forget the numbers attached to every food? How do people know what they actually like eating and what they tell themselves they like to fuel the disordered side of them? Most of the time, though, it was rewarding. There was something so empowering about the rebellion and the pride he felt after succeeding. It took time, these things don’t go away overnight. But with the support of the Ferrari team and Seb, each step forward wasn’t as frightening. The more he relearned, the easier it got. His therapist had told him about constantly re-challenging himself, so things didn't become scary again. And therein lay his path to freedom. He started smiling more, he had more energy again. He felt present in team meetings, and could fully appreciate the position he was in, and the people around him.
And Max.
Charles cant quite remembers how he and Max came to be good friends, the difficulty of early recovery made it quite hazy. With his consent, the team held a meeting for all drivers to inform them of Charles’ struggles. He thought it was for the best, so he would consistently be in non-triggering environments, and would always have support. Pierre had been brilliant, of course he had. Valtteri had also been suffering from something similar, which helped Charles feel less alone.
And Max? Max was the best support he could’ve ever asked for. He never treated Charles differently, always was there to listen, to aid in distractions and just talk like two normal people doing normal things. To Max, Charles was just that, Charles. Not Charles with anorexia, not Charles with a mental illness. Max helped Charles figure out who he really was, because for three years his personality had compared to that of a grape. He realised he had passions for video games, music and history. Max would listen to his ramblings, recommend him songs and take an actual interest in everything he had to say. He’d hold him as he cried, comfort him with reassuring affirmations when he couldn't make his brain go quiet. Max seemed to have such a magical effect on him, different from anything he’d ever experienced before. Max reminded Charles he was more than a number, more than the numbers attached to food, more than the number glaring up at him on the scales. Although, he never had to see that anymore. After races, he went through that process in a separate room, and he was never told the numbers. That made the gremlin pack his bag quicker. Finally, the ignorance he’d wished for all his life was coming back.
Max seemingly made Charles whole again. They quickly became inseparable, and somewhere between then and now, they entered a relationship. How could Charles not fall for him? He was the Max Verstappen, with a heart of gold and for Charles, the patience of a saint. He never laughed at the lies his brain was spouting, never told him he was being ridiculous. Max seemed to always know what to say to make things go quiet. It was the most peace Charles had had in years. Every hug felt like coming home, and he worked out where he belonged the first time he kissed the other man. Max had seen him at his lowest, his most vulnerable, and loved him all the same. That made Charles love Max all the more. He realised that this was the kind of love you read about in fairytales, and he would never need anything else so long as he had Max there by his side. He gave Charles the courage to continue, and the motivation to recover. When his therapist would set him weekly challenges to diminish the power anorexia had over him, Max was there to do them alongside him. He had never felt more supported or cared for in his life. As time passed, he got stronger. His therapist checked in once every month to check he was still on track, as being an F1 driver meant Charles couldn't afford for his recovery to slip. He learnt he was weeks away from being let go, the Ferrari medic explained that to him once he got stronger.
Nowadays, he classed himself as recovered. Sure, the gremlin hadn’t gone forever, but he’d finally moved those suitcases out and ditched the obnoxious squeaky voice. He was dormant, only rarely would he be triggered. Charles had a strong support network, with Max at its centre. So when things got hard, he knew he wasn't battling it alone. He’d built up the skills and courage to manage this independently and knew he had the power now. It felt incredible, and he decided he was more proud of his recovery than he was of any of his career successes. Because he never thought he’d see the daylight ever again. Recovery was challenging but without a doubt the best thing he’d ever done with his life. He always said he didn't regret anorexia because it taught him things he would have otherwise been oblivious to. He felt sad for the man he was, but he’d mostly dissasociated himself from that man now. They weren't the same person at all. The Charles he knew, was the Charles he presented to everyone now. The happy, powerful, strong man, with a bright future ahead.
But that didn’t mean everything was perfect now. There were still hard days and triggers. Because after all, the anorexic thinking never quite goes away.
Hence why Charles was sitting on his and Max’s shared bed in their Monaco apartment, silently crying after seeing the picture.
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Max re-entered the room holding two glasses of water and some snacks for them to share. They had a week off between races, so had decided to have a movie night together to celebrate their recent hard work. As soon as he saw Charles, curled up with his knees hugging his chest, he knew something was wrong. The silence was piercing, as Charles looked up to meet his eye line the tear tracks were evident.
“Hey, Mijn liefje, what's happened?" “Talk to me, Schat, i’m here.”
Between sniffles, Charles shakily turned his phone around to show Max the article, and the uncomfortable photo filling half of the screen. He knew instantly, because this was Max, and he always knew.
“Oh, Schat. I am so sorry. I’ll get in contact with a legal team and get them to take it down. There’s so many pictures, why would they dare use that one? Insensitive bastards.”
Charles shook his head vigorously. “Don’t. It’s been up for 8 hours. So many people will have seen it by now, there's no point. Plus, the pictures were public in the first place, so technically they’ve done no wrong. It doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.”
Max just nodded, knowing Charles hadn't finished.
“I don't want you to see this side of me anymore. I promise I am recovered, it's just hard sometimes, you know? There are reminders everywhere of who I used to be, of what I used to be. And I hate it. My heart aches for that man. I don’t look like me, Max.”
“I know, love.”
“Is it bad that I miss it sometimes? Like rationally I don't, that was the worst and darkest period of my life. But seeing the way i looked, it does something to my brain that I hate. I know I will always be anorexic, and that's a hard pill to swallow. Haven't I given enough? I’ve worked so hard to get over this, yet it always seems to come back, and here I am crying over a fucking photo! It’s pathetic. But I think I'm grieving for the person I could've been if it wasn't for my stupid fucking brain.” More tears. Desperation coated his tone. He sounded tired.
“Not at all. It was such a big part of your life, and when you see things like this, it sends back romanticised reminders of what it was like. You’re right. Your brain works a little bit differently, and this stuff will always be sensitive. But you’ve come so far, you’re the strongest person I know, and I mean that. You hold the power now, not the illness. I couldn't be prouder of you.”
“Really?” Max pulled the other man into a tight hug, gently pressing kisses to his forehead. Love, safety, acceptance.
“Of course.” Max quietened his tone, barely a whisper. He knew that made Charles feel calmer, and in this moment he knew he needed reassurance and validation.
“You are more than enough as you are, okay schat? You don’t have to change your body, or your habits, for anyone. I know its easy to think of it as a comfort, but you know what it was like back then. And you know you’ll never go back to that, because you hated it. You don't have to control things, you don't have to bear everyone's problems on your shoulders anymore. When the world feels like it's caving in, I'm here to hold it up for the both of us, no matter what, okay?”
It was Charles’ turn to nod. “I know, just seeing that picture kind of brings it all back, I'm embarrassed, really. I mean what grown man can’t just eat like a normal person?”
“None of that, okay?” Gentle, yet firm. Grounding. It made Charles’ brain shut up. He was mesmerised that four words from Max had intimidated the gremlin and pushed him back into his box in the corner of his mind, buried in happier memories.
“You are valid, you are more than a number and more than the illness you have. You’re not afraid anymore! That's worth way more than any of these images. I know its horrible to see, I know you hate that side of you. But I think you are incredible, and it’s not embarrassing, for the record. You deserve food, you deserve happiness, you deserve to feel present and warm and have achieved all you have. You are worthy, Charles. I promise you. I love you, and you are so strong, so brave.”
Silence for a few minutes. Just the rustles of the bedsheets as the pair rocked back and forth, something Max found had always relaxed Charles.
“Thank you, for giving me the courage to recover, and shutting that silly little part of my brain up. Thank you for knowing what to say. I love you.”
“I love you too, Schat. I know I can't just take it away, if I could I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I’m always here to listen, always here to hold you. These blips, they don’t define you. They’re natural, it’s unfortunately a part of recovering. But what matters is how you move forward from them, and you always bounce back. Now, I think it's time for a cosy night, yeah? I bought your favourite snacks, let's show that gremlin who's boss, yeah?”
That made Charles smile, as he reached for the plate of chocolate-covered strawberries and ate one proudly. Max beamed, wrapping Charles back up into a tight embrace, once again placing kisses on any part of him he could reach. Celebrating his successes, no matter how little they appeared on the outside.
“See, you’re doing so good! Well done, Charlie!”
“I couldn't have done it without you, thank you. I cannot express how much I love you.”
“Yes you could have, I’m just here to cheer you on! I love you too, now, shall we find a film?”
Charles nodded enthusiastically, settling down into Max’s hold. This was the life he had dreamed of. Yes it took fighting, bravery and so much hard work.
But it was all worth it.