A Room of Their Own

by Rakefet Yarden

  leaves on a train from Haifa, so the question is, “How long will it take Poogy

  to bump into himself, and will he be disappointed?”

  More than anything, I didn’t understand why.

  Why I don’t feel good, what’s wrong,

  and how I can live up to the world’s utterly illogical expectations.

  So I did the only thing that could somewhat ease my pain.

  I gave one long, continuous howl, a long, agonized howl,

  heard by the entire neighborhood.

  Predictably, it disturbed the neighbors.

  Hoomi, the upstairs neighbor, lacking in humor but equipped

  with a potbelly and a standard bald spot, offered to hospitalize me in

  the insane asylum in Talbiye. “It’s real close, just down the road.”

  It’s amazing how serious one can be when one is named Hoomi.

  No, thank you, I politely declined, I’m fine.

  No one’s ever offered to hospitalize me, my jackal said.

  No doubt there are advantages to being a jackal.

  No one would ever think that you’ve lost your mind simply because

  you’d tried to relieve a little burden with a good old howl.

  Next time, just hang up a sign:

  “Lost my mind. Be right back.”

  Thank you for the recommendation. I’ll keep it in mind.

  We parted in a friendly manner.

  I felt relieved. The lump in my throat was suddenly lighter.

  Everybody could use a jackal friend every now and again.

  Eighth Meeting

  Dizziness. I could barely knock on the door.

  This wasn’t a good time for such a long walk. Four o’clock, and I’d only had two cups of coffee and a glass of water. I couldn’t get anything else in. I’d left Miko at home. I didn’t have enough energy to wander the streets with him and all his vigor.

  “Dani,” Rotem opened the door with a worried look. It got me worried too, but before I managed to say anything, she grabbed my hand, pulled me in gently and sat me down on the armchair as though I were a brittle old woman.

  “Stop it. I’m fine,” I tried to protest.

  “You’re very pale. Can I get you anything to drink?” Unlike the other times she’d asked and I’d politely declined, this time she was genuinely pleading, but I still politely declined.

  “Water, at least?”

  “All right,” I agreed.

  “You don’t look well, Dani,” she said as she finally sat down.

  “Thanks. Love you too,” I answered sarcastically.

  “I’m serious. You can’t go on like this.”

  “All right.”

  “When did you last eat?” Rotem asked half-apologetically.

  “Yesterday morning. Just coffee.”

  “All right, then we need to think about how to break this down.” She tried to keep cool, but I could see that underneath it all she was concerned. Genuinely concerned, not like when someone’s scared of getting sued. I really didn’t know what to tell her.

  Breaking a fast is a challenging mission. You’re already deep within the head-on battle against your body. Who’s stronger? Who’s going to last longer? And either way, it’s only downhill from here. From here on in, the scale worsens − every little bite is already enough of a reason to vomit. So that there won’t be anything inside me. So that I’ll be empty and clean. Externally as well as internally.

  “What do you say, Dani?”

  “I don’t have anything to say.”

  “Do you have any idea about what could help you? Maybe we could do it together?”

  “Together?” I was a bit intimidated.

  “Yes. Let’s eat a little something together. What do you like to eat? Or, actually, what would you agree to eat?” She then immediately walked over to her clinic’s little fridge and opened it, rummaging inside it in a child-like manner.

  “Nuts, almonds . . . a tangerine?” Rotem turned to me, smiling.

  I didn’t say a word. I felt confused and embarrassed.

  “I have yogurt, dates, oatmeal cookies . . .”

  She continued rummaging, as though she were looking for something specific, as though she were hoping that I’d suddenly leap with joy at the sound of some specific dish. I stayed silent.

  “Well, what do you say?”

  “Don’t know. There’s no way that I’ll eat with you.”

  “Why? What’s the problem?”

  “It’s . . . it’s too embarrassing,” I stuttered.

  “What, me watching you eat? Seeing you filling up? Seeing how human you are?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “All right, then give me a hint about how I’m supposed to cope with sitting in front of a starved person and listening to their pain while knowing that they’re in danger. You’re important to me, Dani. I can’t let you endanger yourself like this, and if the only immediate solution at my disposal is to convince you to eat with me, then that’s what I’ll do. Do you have any better ideas?”

  “I’ve already agreed to see a dietician.”

  “And then you cancelled your appointment with her, and meanwhile you’re here with me, not having eaten for over 24 hours. So, come on, I’ll put a few things on the table and you have to eat something. Just a few little bites, as much as you can handle, without feeling too heavy.”

  She got up and prepared a few things on the work surface near me, then placed three little plates on the table and sat back down. Walnuts and almonds, tangerine sections, and cookies. I looked at the plates in horror, and then I looked at her.

  “It’s not that terrible. Take a few nuts. One tangerine section. You’ll feel better, and I promise not to watch you while you eat.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I was so embarrassed. I also didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. I eyed the plates again.

  Cookies are a major no-no. They crumble and make a mess. No way. Tangerines can drip, and that’s even less esthetic. So that just leaves the walnuts and almonds. Chewing almonds is too loud, so that just leaves the walnuts. But how many nuts should I take? One seems ridiculous, and more than one seems over-the-top. I hoped that she’d dictate how many I should take, but she didn’t.

  “You know what? I’ll have whatever you have. Will that help?” She was close to my line of thinking but still off-course. I couldn’t care less what she ate. I couldn’t care less if she ate nothing at all.

  “All right,” I answered and leaned forward a little bit, quickly grabbed two walnuts and leaned back. The embarrassment made my entire body heat up. I looked at the nuts in my hand and imagined them getting stuck in my throat and me coughing loudly and spitting them out all around me in the most awkward way possible. The thought gave me shivers.

  “So, tell me about the last few days,” she said smiling, and I felt grateful for her rescuing me from my terrible thoughts.

  I looked at her for a minute, trying to concentrate on her questions and my answer, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the nuts. I tried to think up an answer, and at the same time, I slowly separated the nuts into tiny little pieces that would definitely not get stuck in my throat.

  Rotem

  I finished work and got ready to leave. Eight separate worlds went back into their drawers, shutting down along with the air-conditioner, the computer, and the lights. I turned the volume back on my muted cell phone and checked it on my way out.

  Almost all of my messaging groups had unread messages: “Lilly Pre-school”, “Lilly Parents without Pre-school Teachers,” “Family,” and “Independent Therapists.” In the last one, among a few technical questions about forms and cheery festive blessings for Passover, Easter, and Ramadan, a little poem peered out: “If you meet a broken man, sit with him on the edge of the cu
rsed crack . . . Don’t try to fix him . . .Sit with him so he won’t be there alone.” I gave it a once-over and decided to read it as soon as I got home. I had too much to cram in.

  Smadar Weinstock’s poem was wonderfully simple and precise, and it took me back to the last team meeting I’d had at the eating disorders unit. We were all sitting in a big hall full of plastic chairs. There was a table on the side with coffee and Styrofoam cups, pastries, and diced vegetables. We, and the Israeli government, were probably the last people stuck with that kind of snack selection. I looked around, trying to understand why everyone seemed so embarrassed, as though they’d been caught naked, making great efforts to hide, conceal themselves. Gal, one of the new students, brought up a case for the first time, and she was understandably excited,. Reality check: They were about to devour her. I was tense and becoming rigid, and not entirely sure why I was feeling that way. Once all of the administration announcements were made, Dr. Zuckerman handed the microphone to Gal. She cleared her throat, blushed slightly, and started gently weaving the tale of the bond created between her and one of the patients. I was sure that she’d been preparing the case description for at least a week. She described a very young and extremely scarred woman who’d been raised in institutions and developed chronic anorexia over the years. This was her fourth hospitalization at the unit. Their bond wasn’t simple, and the treatment wasn’t going anywhere.

  “What do you think her disorder is?” Dr. Zuckerman interrupted her, commencing a glorious comeback to his stage.

  “What?” Gal muttered, surprised.

  “What is her disorder?” he repeated.

  And right before our bewildered eyes, and with a huge grin, he pulled it out, as though from a hat. “Borderline Personality Disorder.”

  Why don’t we just call her hysterical and get it over and done with, I thought to myself. After all, it had worked for a long time back when male therapists treated female patients. We’ll soon be sending her to stand in the corner with her face to the wall − or better yet, ship her over to the closed ward for isolation. I nodded politely as I listened to my thoughts.

  Rock. Paper. Scissors. Shoot.

  “Complex PTSD,” I suggested.

  “I don’t think so,” he dismissed me. I guess he went for scissors, then. “We haven’t heard about any trauma.”

  We haven’t heard about anything yet, I thought to myself. And besides, doesn’t getting raised in institutions count as trauma? Over the years, I’d learned to fight my battles using my opponents’ language: an eye for an eye, diagnosis for diagnosis. Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. A person suffering and recoiling, or attacking in order to defend themselves − that’s what you call a personality disorder? Would you find it easy to get rid of your potbelly and stop smoking just because your doctor told you to do it? Then why is she deemed crazy and you’re deemed a doctor? Maybe we should better understand what she’s been through and how she got to where she is now, instead of assuming that she was born this way − with a disorder and opposition to changes?

  “It’s unclear where this sudden aggression of yours has come from,” my supervisors and mentors have told me over the years. It’s been on its way for a long time, I always want to reply.

  I remained quiet and kept a hollow little smile while rebellion sizzled within me. Nausea. A pungent smell of something rotting. I tried to keep it inside. Stop it, Rotem, you’re getting yourself into trouble.

  “Why is it suddenly so important what her disorder is?” I finally lashed out.

  A heavy silence descended over the room while everyone looked over to see who this social worker was who dared to second-guess Dr. Zuckerman and the esteemed medical institution he’s been carrying on his back like a wrinkled old turtle.

  But I feel that I was actually relatively gentle. What I really wanted to ask was “And how would you diagnose yourself, Dr. Zuckerman? Dismissia? A frozen heart? You tell me.”

  They waited a few months until the end of the year, and then they fired me. “You’re undoubtedly brilliant with the patients. You know how to be with them within their hardships and pain, and yet you still demand that they make progress − and you show them how to do it, which is why we’d kept hoping and waiting until now. But, with your supervisors . . . well . . . not so much,” Dr. Zuckerman said at my review board hearing.

  It took me a few months to recover, to set up my own clinic and choose mentors and partners on my own. I found warm-hearted psychiatrists who support the path of healing.

  And then Dani came along, carrying a heavy bag of diagnosis on her back, an heirloom from her many hospitalizations, lacking even a single ounce of self-attentiveness or compassion for herself – which is precisely what I needed to rev myself up and get going.

  Dani

  The stomach pains that came back drove me out to a nighttime walk with Miko. The cold ocean breeze seemed to melt the pains, making them a bit more bearable. We’d walked along the shoreline for quite a while, and when we turned into the city streets in order to turn back, Miko pulled me to his favorite spot. I found myself at the dog park near Gordon Beach. Far. How conniving, Miko, I thought to myself. But you’re cute and you deserve it, putting up with my nighttime whims, cooperating, and even giving me the impression that you’re enjoying yourself and pleased with my bizarre ideas, even though I’d pulled you out of your warm bed. A true friend, like I always say.

  I closed the gate behind us and took off Miko’s leash. It was a little past midnight, and we were alone in the dog park, obviously. Miko scouted for dog scents, trying to figure out who’d been there before him and what they had to say.

  While busying myself with the curious Miko as well as my stomach ache, which refused to leave me, I heard the gate open.

  A tall, thin guy dressed in a gray sweatsuit, looking as though he’d just been pulled out of bed, entered with a brown dog a bit smaller than Miko. The dogs immediately ran to each other, skipping and hopping in little circles, as though they’d known each other from way back and finally got the chance to meet.

  Our eyes met too, embarrassed. My eyes and his eyes. Looking, apologizing, ashamed about the late-night hour, praying that there would be no questions and no conversation, asking to remain anonymous.

  We stared awkwardly at the two frolicking dogs for a long time. They were running wildly and messing around, uninhibited, no explanations needed, just doing what they felt like doing.

  I felt like getting closer to the guy, felt like being carefree and relaxed. After a few minutes of ripening while standing near him, I started to hope that he’d strike up a conversation, ask some questions. Even just one tiny question, to cut through the awkward silence and break through the frost surrounding me.

  Finally the guy whistled and called out, “Chuck!” and the German Shepherd reluctantly but immediately obeyed and came to sit next to him. Miko came over to me straight away, as though he were a kid whose game was interrupted and needed to take a break next to his mommy. I petted him and decided that it was time for us to leave, too. I hooked Miko to the leash and left after the stranger, with the sense of security I’d gotten from him turning into a feeling of having missed out.

  I thought about myself, about the loneliness in which I live, lacking the ability to take action in order to improve my situation. I felt trapped within a body and a face that don’t allow me to blossom. A hated, ridiculed body, and a face that doesn’t know how to communicate with the world.

  Miko and I quietly walked on the sidewalk, closely following the guy and his dog, and even turned after them at the first junction. The dogs tried to pull towards each other, and our eyes met again, embarrassed, until finally, when Chuck tried to pull back towards Miko for the third time, the man stopped and turned to me for the first time.

  “Do you two live nearby?”

  I couldn’t answer. I was surprised. I wanted to answer him, but my vocal cords
refused to comply with my brain, and I remained still and embarrassed.

  “Do you understand English?” He tried again.

  “I do,” I finally managed to say.

  “Oh, great.” He seemed to be relieved. He smiled briefly. “So, where do you two live?”

  I liked that he spoke about the two of us, that he included Miko as a separate entity. “Not too nearby. Florentin neighborhood.”

  “So you guys went for a long nighttime walk, like us.”

  “Yeah, I like the air at night,” I said, and immediately felt like an idiot.

  “Me too,” he smiled. “Chuck’s the main reason, though. If I don’t take him out for a long walk before bedtime, then I usually wake up to a house full of surprises, if you know what I mean.”

  He seemed embarrassed again, as though he were talking about a major screw-up of his or his kid’s. I smiled. There were so many things I wanted to say, but I couldn’t.

  “He’s still young. Less than a year old. I’m his foster parent, but I think that we’ve bonded too much already. I don’t think that I’ll be able to give him away.”

  I suddenly realized that we’d started a conversation in the middle of the street. I got really cold, and the dogs had started playing with their leashes near the road. I started shifting around restlessly.

  “Well, I’m heading in your direction. We don’t live too far from here, but it’s still the same direction,” he said.

  He started walking, and we did too. I didn’t walk too far from him, but not too close either. We both walked silently, each wrapped up in their own thoughts. I was angry at myself for not being interesting enough, for not managing to talk and develop the conversation. I immediately thought that nothing could ever help me, that I’m a lost cause. The kind of thoughts that aren’t exactly uplifting.

  Ninth Meeting

  I kept an ear out for the quiet knock on the door. Dani wants to be sure that she’s expected and wanted. She came in, her pants drooping, thinning brown hair and worn-out sneakers. She slowly sat on the armchair in front of me.