Purge

by Nicole Johns

  Clique number two (the passive, submissive, mostly anorexic clique): Eliza, Danielle, Sandra. They go to bed at 9:00 PM and mostly sit on the sofas and knit. The bulimic clique’s boisterousness makes them nervous.

  We are supposed to go to a Milwaukee Brewers game tonight, but Therapist Elaine thinks it’s a good idea to do team-building activities instead, to facilitate a better group dynamic and erode some of the bulimic clique’s power.

  I have been looking forward to the Brewers game for weeks. Baseball reminds me of summer evenings as a child, driving to Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh to watch the Pirates play, back when they were good. Baseball games were happy times when I ate popcorn, watched fireworks, and tailgated with my family.

  Team-building activities are scheduled for after dinner. I simmer with anger all through dinner; I can barely swallow my Cuban black bean casserole. After dinner we sit on the porch and smoke, while talking about boycotting team building. The program motto is “Challenge by choice,” and we are ready to choose.

  “What the fuck are they going to make us do, sing ‘Kumbaya’ and hold hands?” asks Holly.

  We make up our own version of “Kumbaya.” It goes like this: “Kumbaya, this blows, suck my ass. Kumbaya, this blows, suck my ass. Oh, Shannon, suck my ass.”

  Therapist Elaine overhears us and is not pleased. We get a lecture about positive attitude.

  After slamming the patio door so hard the glass shakes, Holly and I go into the dayroom. RC Shannon and RC Julia take us out to the parking lot and have us all line up single file, with our hands on the person’s shoulders in front of us. We have to come up with a team name, and someone picks Camp Turtle Pond for the Nutritionally Challenged, which is shortened to Team Turtle. We all have to hop in sync and shout, “Team Turtle,” and if someone is out of sync or refuses to participate, we have to go back to the beginning.

  I refuse to say “Team Turtle.” We go back to the beginning.

  Here I am, twenty-three years old and forced to participate in some ridiculous team-building activity. I am absolutely livid with pent-up rage. I manage to mutter “Team Turtle” and hop, just so we can get the activity over with.

  Back inside, Shannon and Julia make us all hold hands and twist into a messed-up circle. We are supposed to work together to untangle ourselves. The whole scene feels unreal; I am so angry that I am calm. After we untangle ourselves, we are sent to our rooms to pick a song that symbolizes a happy time for us. I know this is dangerous territory.

  I pick the song “Wildflowers” by Tom Petty because it reminds me of the spring days at the end of my senior year of college that I spent driving around Lake Erie with my ex-boyfriend Jordan. It was a time when I was not actively eating-disordered; I stopped purging when I started dating Jordan. I was happy with my life then. Jordan used to sing “Wildflowers” to me, emphasizing the lyric “You belong with your love on your arm, you belong somewhere you feel free.”

  I left Jordan when I left Pennsylvania.

  We play our favorite songs for the whole group. Some residents have Christian songs, others hard rock. I am fine until Danielle puts on “My Immortal ” by Evanescence. I start wailing. I curl into a ball on the sofa and choke and gasp and heave. Laura tries to wipe my nose, Holly puts her arms around me, Eliza smoothes my hair, and Shannon and Julia coax me to play my song. Eliza puts “Wildflowers” on the stereo and I cry harder; it is the kind of crying that hurts your lungs and makes you hysterical with grief that is so built up, you can’t even begin to figure out what it’s about, much less talk about it.

  “Do you want to talk about why you’re crying?” asks Julia.

  “No.”

  When I calm down, I apologize for singing the inappropriate version of “Kumbaya,” for slamming the patio door so hard the floor shook, and for telling Julia I was “fanfuckintabulous.” Shannon and Julia accept my apology and say they are happy I have broken open.

  Playground Love

  One boring Saturday night in mid-July, RC Julia and RC Evan ask us if we want to go on an outing. We say yes, of course. Somehow it is decided that we will go to a playground, since it is a nice night and we have a lot of pent-up energy, according to the RCs.

  Recreational Therapist Douglas has taken us to this playground before, so that we could let our inner children run wild.

  At the playground, Laura heads for the swings, Holly runs for the fort and proclaims herself queen of the world, and Eliza and I make our way to the monkey bars with Sandra.

  We watch as Sandra, who is wearing a jean skirt, hangs upside down by her knees, her white granny panties and stick legs fully exposed.

  “Hey, Sandra, I can see your underwear,” says Eliza.

  “Yeah, I know,” says Sandra.

  “Well, I just thought you should know,” says Eliza.

  RC Julia comes over to the monkey bars.

  “Sandra, I can see your underwear,” says RC Julia.

  “Yeah, I know,” says Sandra.

  “Well, that’s inappropriate,” says RC Julia.

  “But I’m just trying to get comfortable with my body,” says Sandra.

  “You need to get comfortable with it somewhere in private,” says RC Julia.

  Sandra flips off the monkey bars, and we watch as RC Julia and RC Evan start swinging on the swing set, side by side. We have no basis for our belief that Julia and Evan are having a steamy, sensual affair, but it keeps us amused, so we go with it. We speculate on what they are talking about while they swing.

  Once dusk settles over the playground, the RCs round us up and we head back to the EDC. We are wild and raucous; we try to institute Fight Club in the van, and we throw things at RC Evan (we would throw things at RC Julia, but she’s driving). We beg RC Julia to drive past the Voodoo House, and she agrees just to shut us up.

  Strange, strobelike light beams are emanating from the Voodoo House. Laura jumps out of the van and starts taking pictures, RC Julia yells at Laura and tells RC Evan to go after her, and RC Evan says no way because the black man is always the first to get killed in these situations. We are all laughing hysterically.

  Laura jumps back into the van, breathless and sweaty; we return to the EDC in time for evening snack time; and our carefree mood dissipates quickly.

  Safety, Contract #2

  I, NICOLE JOHNS, promise not to drink

  more than one cup of coffee and

  one caffeinated soda while on pass.

  I will not abuse caffeine in an

  attempt to dull hunger.

  People Are Hell

  “People are hell, Nicole.”.

  That is what Dirk told me as he drove me home after I’d been stranded at his house the night before. Another one of the endless Great Lakes blizzards had put down two feet of lake-effect snow in a matter of hours, and the interstates had been closed.

  “Do you know who I’m quoting, Nicole?”

  “No,” I said as I watched the snow-covered vineyards of northern Pennsylvania fade into the white brightness of the horizon. My breath fogged the window of his Honda Civic.

  “Sartre. You really should read some of his work.”

  I recount this dialogue during Psychodrama with Rachel. I had told her I wanted to do a psychodrama about the night I spent at Dirk’s house, because maybe then I could move on fully from the experience. Despite all the geography between us, the formal request from Penn State Erie that he keep his distance from me, and the years gone by, I can’t forget.

  Dirk was my senior thesis adviser at Penn State Erie.

  He asked me to dog-sit for him.

  I said yes.

  He invited me to his house after school, so I could see where everything was and meet the dog.

  It started snowing.

  I had never driven in snow.

  Dirk said he would drive.

  I said yes.

  I met the dog, saw the house.

  Dirk started drinking and offered me a glass of wine.

  I said no. />
  He tried to drive me back to Erie. The roads were closed.

  He asked me if I wanted a glass of wine.

  I said yes.

  He told me to pick a bottle from his collection; I picked a French red.

  I drank.

  We listened to Beth Orton.

  I drank.

  He topped off my glass.

  I drank.

  He made me a dinner of pasta with clam sauce.

  I ate and I drank.

  I told him about the bulimia.

  He told me about his recent divorce.

  We both drank.

  He said he was lonely. He needed friends. He was alone.

  I sat on the sofa with him.

  We drank.

  He said he wanted to be friends.

  I started crying.

  I blacked out.

  I woke up to his hands on my feet, then my calves, then my thighs.

  I blacked out.

  I woke up propped against his shoulder, my feet on top of his.

  He gave me a shirt to sleep in. It was size XXL. Eddie Bauer. Forest green.

  My white shirt was stained with red wine.

  The next morning, he tells me to keep everything quiet.

  He could lose his job.

  I tell my friends.

  I am infuriated.

  I tell members of the English department.

  They say to keep quiet.

  He doesn’t have tenure.

  He could lose his job.

  I report him to the sexual harassment counselor.

  I report him to the head of humanities and social sciences.

  He is everywhere.

  He asks my friends about me.

  He tries to talk to me.

  A letter goes in his file.

  A restraining order is issued.

  I am told to keep quiet.

  I am told how mature I am for not seeking revenge.

  I graduate and move to Minnesota.

  I don’t have to keep quiet anymore.

  The years of silence choke me. The first event I write about when I move to Minnesota is the Dirk ordeal because, finally, I can speak freely. From the night I spent at his house until the day I graduated from Penn State Erie, my eating disorder worsened. I was symbolically stuffing my feelings and then purging them, since speaking about them was forbidden. Even after I move to Minnesota, the blank spaces in my mind bother me. What happened during the times I blacked out? Was I manhandled or raped? I believe I would’ve known if I had been violated, but doubt creeps into my mind. I was still dressed, I reassure myself. But I will never know the truth.

  I tell Rachel all of this. I tell her I want to do a psychodrama about Dirk, because maybe that way I will be able to move on. She agrees that it’s a good idea.

  Rachel asks me to arrange the room like I usually have my classroom arranged when I teach Introduction to Creative Writing at the University of Minnesota. I arrange all the chairs in a circle, and all the residents, my simulated students, pick a seat. Rachel tells the students to ask me about what books I’ve read. Laura asks me if I’ve ever read Tolstoy’s War and Peace.

  I say no.

  “What kind of teacher are you if you’ve never even read War and Peace?” asks Rachel.

  “A perfectly fine one. No one has read all the classics,” I reply.

  “Everyone, I want you to pretend you are Nicole’s students. Give her a hard time about her not having read War and Peace, and just harass her in general,” says Rachel.

  “You suck as a teacher.”

  “You’re only twenty-three; how can you teach college?”

  “I’m better read than you.”

  “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

  I listen to these voices and decide this whole tableau would never occur in real life. The classroom is one of the places where I feel most comfortable. It is a place where I can forget that I have an eating disorder. And I always get wonderful student evaluations. But I decide to play along with Rachel.

  “You’re not good enough.”

  “You aren’t thin.”

  Now my students are interjecting issues from a recent Group Therapy session, also something that would never happen in real life.

  “Rachel, this would never happen in real life. I’m completely comfortable in the classroom,” I say.

  Rachel calls an end to the scene and has me arrange the furniture in the same way Dirk’s living room was arranged. I am not feeling anything other than anger at what I deem Rachel’s ineptitude. There is no sense of catharsis in this psychodrama. Instead, I feel my cheeks begin to burn with anger. This is not helping. Nothing will ever help. True, I am holding back—I’m not surrendering to treatment. But I’ve surrendered before, and it has only gotten me into bad situations.

  We act out the evening at Dirk’s, with Holly playing Dirk.

  Rachel has Dirk stand behind me and cover my eyes. I just stand there, not sure what to do.

  “Why don’t you fight back, Nicole?” asks Rachel.

  “I don’t know,” I reply. I know where this is heading, and I don’t like it.

  You are not blowing aimlessly in the wind. You have control.

  I fight Holly off.

  “Why were you drinking?” asks Rachel.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You blacked out, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alcoholics black out.”

  Silence.

  “I am not an alcoholic.”

  I am fiery with silent rage. Alcoholics are physically addicted to alcohol. I am not.

  “Would this have happened had you not been drinking?” asks Rachel.

  I am itching to punch Rachel smack in her pointy face.

  “You are resisting the psychodrama; you are not letting go.”

  I have no response to this comment. Psychodrama ends, and we file upstairs for dinner. RC Julia attended my psychodrama; I asked her to come, since I thought I’d have a hard time. At dinner, she sits at my table.

  “How do you think that went?” she asks as she butters her roll.

  “Terribly. I’m not an alcoholic, and I don’t appreciate Rachel intimating that everything was my fault.”

  RC Julia doesn’t know what to say.

  “That’s some major bullshit,” says Holly.

  “What if your drink was roofied?” asks Eliza.

  “I fucking hate Rachel. She has no idea what she’s doing,” says Laura.

  RC Julia still doesn’t know what to say. She just looks at me with what I assume are sympathetic eyes.

  “You should confront her,” says RC Julia.

  “I don’t want to. I just want to forget about it,” I say.

  After dinner, I talk to RC Marie in the office. I tell her about my psychodrama, and she says she has an assignment for me. Intrigued, I ask her what it is. I secretly like assignments because they make me feel like I’m in school.

  “I want you to write a letter to Dirk.”

  I like this idea.

  I head down to the conference room with my CD player and listen to Tori Amos’s Little Earthquakes album, and write a furious letter stained with my angry tears. I feel relief. I feel catharsis. I thank RC Marie and vow to read the letter out loud in Group Therapy the next day.

  Laura talks about how she has no choices in her life, and I fidget and sigh during Group Therapy. Finally, I interject. “Elaine, I really, really need to read this letter.”

  Laura pouts and becomes silent, and I begin to read.

  Dirk,

  I fucking hate you. I hate how you tried to blow the whole incident off, how you pretended to act contrite and said all the right things. I hate how you made my senior year at Penn State Erie such a trial.

  Do you know what it’s like to have anxiety attacks and be so scared that you hide in the bathroom? Because that is what I did. And you kept trying to talk to me. You kept trying to keep me quiet and now I feel like I’m going to fucking expl
ode because I’m so sick of everyone trying to keep me quiet.

  When you touched me, I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I wanted to die. The thought of your hands on my thighs makes me sick. You worked a bad situation to your advantage and I’ve been blaming myself.

  I was not the one who kept filling my wine glass, I did not ask you or want you to touch me. I did not want you. You violated me.

  I’m so angry that as I write this I can barely contain myself. And maybe I don’t want to anymore.

  Some people have suggested that you put Rohypnol in my drink because I blacked out so suddenly. I don’t even want to think about that. I drive myself crazy wondering what happened in the blank spaces even though the parts I remember are bad enough.

  You not only affected me emotionally, but also academically. You were already my second thesis adviser and because you couldn’t keep your lecherous hands to yourself I had three thesis advisers before I finished the damn thing.

  I fucking despise how you played innocent when I informed you that you were no longer my adviser.

  I fucking hate how you tried to manipulate me, how you tried to appease me, tried to placate me.

  I fucking hate how you stared at me while I read from my senior thesis at the English Department Banquet.

  And the day you pulled out behind me in the parking lot, I thought you were following me. I want you to know that kind of fear.

  In fact, I want you to be stuck in the situation I was in and wake up with some man’s hands on your vulnerable thighs. I want you to have to live with the blank spaces in your memory, to keep trying to piece it all together, to play the whole night on repeat in your head.

  Most of all I want the memory of a man’s hands caressing their way up your thighs to be imprinted in your body and mind. I want you to feel dirty and ashamed. I want you to have to inspect your body for bruises and signs of assault the next day.

  Most of all I want you to question what happened in those blank spaces, because that is what torments me.

  Wait, I take that back. I fucking want you to become a raging bulimic. I want you to spend days consuming and purging. I want you to isolate yourself from others. I want you to live on a diet of coffee, Diet Coke, and diet pills. I want you to pass out, get concussions, develop heart problems, and pray for death because you are so fucking miserable.