A Room of Their Own

by Rakefet Yarden

  “How are you, Dani?”

  “I’m fine.” She was quiet, as usual. Even after a few weeks, she still found it hard to begin.

  “How has your week been?” I started with my usual opening line, a reassuring ceremony, so that at least the first few minutes of the session would be predictable.

  “It was hardly a week. Nothing happened. I barely left the house, except for a few morning and evening strolls with the dogs I’d already taken on, so I had no choice but to do it, and also Mrs. Adler is so nice to me that I didn’t feel comfortable just telling her that I want to quit. Do you realize that my only friend is an 80-year-old woman? Miko, don’t take offense, You’re my best friend. So anyway, I just continue dragging myself out of the house morning after morning in an endless routine with nothing awaiting me at the finish line. No degree and no promotion, or marriage or children or anything like that, no bone to throw to my parents to calm them down and show them that their child is normal. This is what I’m like. I can’t appease them. Can’t just get over everything and forget it all and move on. I mean, how bad was my experience that I can’t go on living life after it, that I can’t just push it aside and grow up? It happens to lots of kids, and I don’t see them all staying at home and giving the world the silent treatment. I don’t have a purpose. Everything’s difficult and heavy, I have no strength left in my legs or my arms. Just getting off the couch is exhausting, as though I’m carrying a 100-pound rock along with me, which already weighs more than I do.”

  Dani rubbed her sweatshirt between her fingers, and suddenly went quiet.

  “What is it?” I asked her.

  She didn’t react.

  “Did you get weighed?”

  “Yes, by accident. I’d managed to avoid it for such a long time. I can’t break the fast.”

  “When did the fasting start?”

  “A little bit after that freak’s funeral.”

  “How did it stop?”

  “Hospitalization. Come to think of it, I’ve never managed to break the fast on my own.”

  “And if you were to be hospitalized now?” I asked, immediately regretting it.

  “As if.” Dani interrupted me. “I’m never going to the hospital again. All those months at the unit were enough for me.”

  “But could it be that I’m not enough for you right now? Perhaps it would help you balance, just for a few weeks, so that we can continue.”

  I saw her sinking into the armchair. I could see her thoughts hovering above us, heavy and gloomy. I’d suggested that someone else take care of her, and she was offended by it, wondering if the trust she’d put in me was justified.

  I felt my shoulders tightening. I’m tired, too, I thought to myself. Tired of a treatment going around in circles. I, too, have run out of strength to be endlessly patient and contain everything. I know that it’s inappropriate, but I don’t know how to tell her that this terrible disease is stronger than us both, and that this responsibility is too heavy for me and I’m tired and I’ve had enough.

  Dani was curled up in her armchair, hugging her knees. “It gives me a sense of being non-human. Having powers that others don’t have. Not being dependant on food, on money, on love. Not needing anyone.”

  “You find it dangerous to trust. You’ve been hurt by a man who didn’t deserve your trust, and no one was there for you to help stop him. You took it all on yourself. You didn’t tell anyone.”

  “And I have nothing to tell anyone. What good would it do? That monster’s already in his grave, and he wouldn’t care either way. It would just hurt my grandmother, who’s suffered enough, and my family, who’ve put up with me for my entire life.”

  “The way I see it, you’re the one putting up with them, but it doesn’t matter. You no longer need to tell them if you don’t want to. I know the truth, and you know the truth, and so here, in this room, that’s the truth.”

  “I feel like you’re my witness, and that scares me too. Being dependent on you. I can’t stop, I can’t think about anything, I just want to die. Everything’s pulling me down, and I can’t lift myself back up. I’ve already realized that I don’t have enough courage even to die. I’m such a loser. So I do it the slow way. It’s already gotten a life of its own, as though it’s sucked up all of mine, so that even if I’d want to stop, I couldn’t. It’s like a merry-go-round that keeps gaining more and more momentum, and I try with all my force, but it doesn’t stop, or even slow down. I’ve lost control, Rotem. I don’t know how to stop anymore.”

  I’d already planned to commence a speech − there’s no other choice, we have to hospitalize you. But she really touched my heart.

  “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” This was quoted by Mary Oliver, and the words echo within me during each and every session with Dani.

  I heard myself saying, “Maybe that means that this can’t be stopped. And I’m not sure that it should, either.”

  “What do you mean? So what then?”

  “Let’s not try to stop it, just to reduce it, little by little, just to slow it down.”

  “How can we slow it down?”

  “Would you like to message me every time you manage to eat something?”

  Dani was pulling fibers out of the armchair, shifting restlessly on her seat. “Where do you get the strength for all this?” she asked.

  “You’re not used to people caring for you long-term. They always end up letting you feel like you’re unbearable.”

  “Yeah, that scares me.” She then hesitated for a minute, and finally added, “You’ll get tired of me too, eventually.”

  Another day had ended. I sat in front of the computer and opened a new file. I didn’t need to rush to pick up Yotam. He was staying over at Gili’s, sleeping without me for the very first time. He was so excited when we packed his sleepover bag that morning − and so was I.

  We had a calm morning together. We woke up early enough. My boy: a round face and big green eyes framed by long black lashes. I was so glad that he got my eyes. The eyes that I had gotten from Grandma Emily, while my sister only got her name. Green spotlights fixed onto me as he asked, “Mommy, can I have chocolate milk?” And a minute later, “Mommy, can I watch TV until we leave? Can I, Mommy?”

  Of course you can, I said in my mind. Why do you ask so much, my sweet boy? And all of that” excuse me” and “thank you” and “please.”

  “Are you seriously concerned about the child being too polite? What, do you want him to be some sheikh who believes that he deserves everything? He’s an only child. He could easily believe that he’s the king of the world,” Emily once said when I’d shared my concerns with her. The way I see it, his being an only child actually liberates him from the need to constantly fight for his place in the world. But that’s just one of the many things that Emily and I see differently.

  We walked over to his school, the scent of rain still filling the air. All of the potholes along the way had been filled, becoming puddles. The trees along the boulevard still dripped with water. All the cars were dust-free, and the sidewalks, too, had been washed by the rain. Yotam was excited about wearing his new boots. He jumped into every puddle, not missing a single one, and loudly sang, “It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring . . .”

  He got louder with every leap into a new puddle, and I managed to move in time before getting drenched. “Do you want some candy, Yotam? We can get some on the way. We have time. It’s so nice to have time.” He’d gotten the boots last winter from Emily, green ones with a dinosaur print on them, their edges shaped like a tail, along with a matching rain jacket with triangles on the back. She found it during a trip with her team to the Mamilla Mall in Jerusalem.

  “I know that they’re too big,” she said smiling, “but I couldn’t leave them there. I saw them and immediately thought about Yotam. They’ll wait for next year.” I painf
ully recalled how much love she’d showered him with. Now the boots are a perfect fit, and Emily isn’t.

  It was as though Yotam had read my mind. “Where’s Aunt Emily, Mommy? I didn’t see her since she gave me these. That was last winter, and now it’s winter again, so that means it’s been one year, right, Mommy? When will she come over again? Can we go visit her, Mommy?”

  No, my wise boy, we can’t, I thought to myself. I do try to allow him everything. I hardly ever refuse him, thereby ignoring my parents’ warnings: “Don’t give him everything. He shouldn’t get used to it.” From the moment he was born, my father already started cautioning me: “Rotem, don’t pick him up every time he cries so he won’t get used to your running over at every peep of his.” But I actually did want him to get used to it. So that he knows he’ll always be supported. I want him to know that I’m here for him, and that he can get used to asking and receiving whatever his heart desires. I never understood the worry about spoiling children. The word “spoil” makes it seem as though you’re ruining them. The way I see it, spoiling Yotam would be doing something for him that he could do himself. But the meaning of the word is mixed in the minds of many parents whom I’ve met. Many emotional expressions are perceived as something that needs to be pushed away and not validated so that we don’t end up with a “spoiled” child, God forbid, because then how will he be a soldier and how will he fight for his livelihood and how will he do everything else that needs to be fought for in order to survive? We shouldn’t remove the armor yet because we’re in constant battle.

  Yotam continued asking, amazed by the wonders of the world. “Can we, Mommy, can we?”

  “Emily’s gone far away, Yotam, but she sent you a big hug.”

  I’m such a liar. She didn’t send him anything, he doesn’t interest her − in fact, nobody interests her right now. Only herself. He asked about her more frequently at first, but with time, he got used to it and stopped. The boots reminded him of her. I was surprised to see how much anger was pent up within me. I have to find a way of letting it out, I thought. I’ll go running tonight.

  I updated the medical file as concisely as possible. I’ve often been reprimanded for being stingy with my words. Of course the stinginess is only in my medical records. Sometimes, other medical personnel require information in order to make their decisions, and then I do make more of an effort. Just like this morning on the boulevard. Here, too, I try my best to walk between the drops, maintain privacy, not reveal any unnecessary information, yet still write the important things about the patient’s condition.

  I went over all of the files and quickly updated them − on auto-pilot mode. A mixture of intertwining thoughts, wanting to finish and get out of here to make it in time for a run during daylight, and I’ve also made up to meet Yulia for coffee on Sderot Rothschild. She took a day off from her quintet and notified Ofir that he was to look after them. It gets dark so early now. Hanukkah will soon be here, and after that, the days will start getting longer again. I wanted to take Yotam on a trip during the vacation and promised him that we’d go on a train.

  I finished updating most of the files. I got to Dani’s and paused for a minute. I concentrated, trying to find the right phrasing − worried about her condition, but convinced that we can get through it together. It was important for me to convey this message in a concise manner.

  Dani Freedman. Reduced activity, introversion. Eating disorder erupted again recently, following an event that had caused an old trauma to resurface. Says that she vomits a lot and has trouble sleeping. She’s resumed taking pills regularly. These help her emotional regulation and enable her to process the trauma. She finds writing helpful, feels that it reduces the frequency of her vomiting. We’re examining how we can create a reverse movement and slowly increase food intake.

  Dani Has a Bit of a Low Self-Image

  Because of a bit of low self-image. That’s what I’d heard my father telling his friend on one of the days when I was in the little kitchen at the unit, playing tic-tac-toe on the blackboard. Dad was still doing his residency in the ob-gyn department back then. He was towards the end of it, and was already well known and sought after, almost a senior resident − although that specific word was not to be used.

  So, because of my low self-image, as he used to say in an attempt to normalize the bizarre phenomenon that befell our perfect family, he’d decided to take me for therapeutic horseback riding. Yes, yes. From northern Tel Aviv to the suburbs of Ra’anana, to a small family-owned ranch. That’s what he told anyone who would dare ask.

  I heard so much about the “appointment” he’d made for me with the horseback riding therapist. The one who was to eliminate all of my troubles, transforming me into a vocal, sparkling 10-year-old girl.

  One day he came to pick me up from school earlier than usual, not before making sure I’d left home that morning wearing long pants and sneakers, and bringing an extra sandwich in case I was hungry after “therapy.”

  We reached the ranch. At the entrance was a little petting area that caught my eye. I wanted to go into the rabbits’ huge cage and stay there with them forever. They were chubby and fluffy, lying beneath light water sprays meant to relieve them from the intense summer heat. They weren’t suited to the Israeli climate.

  My father pulled me by the shoulder. “Come on, Dani. We don’t want to be late.”

  The woman who was going to treat me, a little bit older than my father, walked up to us, introduced herself, and then helped me choose a helmet. I was suddenly hit by the realization that I was about to get on a horse. Ride a horse. Wait a minute, I thought to myself, no one’s asked me if I even want to ride. I was startled. No, actually, not startled − I panicked. I was disgusted. I felt clumsy, as though no one could assemble me. Yes, that’s the definition.

  While I was busy with my thoughts, a beautiful girl approached us with a horse that seemed huge to me, but was actually a kind of pony, according to the therapist. It was brown with a big white spot on its face, which gave its nose a kind of pinkish, pig-like look. I was immediately smitten, and all I wanted to do was hug it, stay close to the big creature with the kind eyes and just be with it, inhale it into me, become filled by its serenity.

  “Dani, this is Oscar.”

  I petted its face and above its eyes, and its neck and its ear.

  “Come here, Dani, sweetie,” the therapist told me. I can’t remember her name.

  By the end of the session, I was already familiar with Oscar’s neighbors, too − a fair-haired little pony named Molly, and a big black horse named Sam. Sam was curious and pleasant, and tried to join us, sticking his gray nose out through the bars, while Molly was agitated and didn’t want us to bother her. I remember the magical feeling surrounding the stables. I felt as though I were in a fairy tale. Me, small and silly, among all these noble animals that have names and ages and desires and angers. I imagined the horses talking among themselves. I amused myself with the things they were probably saying in their own language about me and about the other humans.

  I combed Oscar’s long mane, and at the end of the session gave him a kiss on the nose. I parted from the therapist, promising to return the following week, but we never went back.

  The therapist had thought that it was a good idea for me to go there regularly, and that there was a lot that could be done besides riding the horses, that it was all part of the process, but Dad thought that it was stupid. He could just take me to a petting zoo if all I needed was to pet horses, and then he wouldn’t have to pay for some silly horseback riding therapy. Afterwards I heard him snickering about it to Mom, saying that this therapy was nonsense. Mom only half-listened. The rest of her attention was devoted to her courthouse paperwork, as well as the shoddy job done by the cleaner that day. I was actually sorry and wanted to go back to Oscar and Sam, and to Molly too − I thought she was well within her rights to be agitated. I wanted to get to know the other hor
ses, too.

  But I didn’t tell Dad any of that.

  I was walking outside with a lot of layers of clothing on. The air was cool, but very thick. I tried to protect myself from the world. From the chill of the world. The air was that of the end of winter. I knew that my time was running out. Summer would soon come, bringing with it the summertime news. It’s easier to starve in the summer. The constant drinking of water fills the stomach and the heat makes one forget about the hunger. Winter would soon end and travel to another country, taking with it the many layers covering me. And then Dad would see how much weight I’d really lost.

  I saw black spots turning into white ones again, and then the sky above me became heavy and the ground started spinning a bit. I tried to focus my eyes on the sidewalk, but I was seeing everything double. I lifted my eyes to the building across from me. Focus. Relax. It’ll soon pass, I told myself. And it did.

  The dizziness had become more frequent and much more severe, but I wasn’t about to break. I was full of conviction within my battle to extinguish myself. I guess.

  Most of the time, I didn’t think about the meaning of what I was doing. About my leading myself towards total destruction. No, I’m just surviving, I thought to myself. But it wasn’t survival. It was suicide.

  I guess I was addicted. Maybe I am sick, just like Rotem says, I thought to myself. I recoiled when she’d first used that word. Me? Sick? Aunt Eva, Grandma’s sister who passed away a few years ago from cancer, she was sick.

  A few months before, I was in bed with a high fever − that was me being sick. I’m not sick now. Being underweight and having bad eating habits isn’t a disease.

  True, I’d already spent a few months of my life, even a few years, in a number of hospital departments, but still, I couldn’t think of myself as sick. Maybe crazy or stupid, but not sick.