Then bingo! I remember Bethany and the peas in her sock. In the top drawer of the scratched, Formica-topped dresser are several pairs of potential barf-receptacles. But how do I cover up the smell? There’s something about the smell of puke that makes me want to barf. I figure I can do it near the window, which is cracked open at the top, letting in the growling hum of a lawn mower. The bottom half of the window doesn’t open, to prevent us from jumping ship — or just plain jumping, because we crazy folks might just do stuff like that, you know.
Sock in hand, I pull the desk chair over to the window, climb aboard, and stick my fingers down my throat. At first I only gag, but then I feel the full-fledged barf reflex starting. I cover my mouth with the sock, which smells, strangely, of home, and regurgitate what little is in my stomach. The problem with puking when it’s been a while since your last meal is that all this stomach acid comes up, too, and it really hurts your throat. Puking right after eating’s a cinch. That’s why they keep us Barfers away from the bathroom for so long after each meal.
The sock is filled from toe to heel with warm vomit, and I need to get rid of it before the whole room begins to stink. Since I don’t plan to use that sock again, I decide to toss it out the window, throwing it as far out as possible, so if it’s found, no one will be able to pin it on me. I hide the leftover sock inside another pair, just in case I need it at a later date. I’ll have to tell Mom I need her to bring me more socks from home the next time she visits.
I feel so much better after purging. I guess that’s why it’s called purging — because you get the stuff that’s bad out of you, and then you feel calmer and more … I don’t know … pure. Empty. Like before I purged there was all this … stuff … swirling around inside me … so much that it felt like my brain was a socket with too many plugs, about to short-circuit. But once all the bad stuff comes out of my throat, the swirling stops and I don’t feel overloaded anymore.
I know I’m supposed to be in here so they can “cure” me of doing this, but I’m not so sure I want to be cured. I don’t know how to achieve that feeling of empty okayness without sticking my fingers down my throat. Sure, I don’t like the actual act of throwing up. I hate it. But it’s like the opposite of eating. I love eating, but hate having eaten. I hate barfing, but love having purged.
When they finally let us out of our rooms, we all have to go into the dayroom. There, a strangely pale Nurse Kay tells us that Helen had a seizure and went into cardiac arrest. She’s been transferred to a hospital — a real hospital with an emergency room and intensive care, not just a prison–loony bin like Golden Slopes.
“Is she going to be okay?” I ask. Like I said, even though Helen can be pretty annoying, I don’t want anything really dire to happen to her.
“That depends on Helen,” says Nurse Kay grimly. “Just as all of you getting better depends on you.”
I guess I’m not getting better then … because I wouldn’t depend on me for anything. Not a chance.
July 23rd
I was too freaked out to write last night. I was too freaked out to do much of anything all day yesterday. I couldn’t even bring myself to call Kelsey because it would mean going back to the pay phone — and, believe me, I really needed to talk to someone other than a nurse.
Nurse Kay keeps trying to get me to talk about stuff but I don’t want to tell her how messed up I feel, because I’m afraid it’ll mean I have to stay in here longer. Yesterday during the post-dinner Thirty-Minute Rule, Callie told me how she made some comment to Missy about cutting herself and Joe overheard it. The next thing Callie knows, Dr. Pardy hauls her in to speak in private and quotes what she said completely verbatim. Callie said at first she thought Missy had narced her out but after they had a huge fight and Missy swore up, down, and sideways that she hadn’t said a word to anyone, because why the hell would she, Callie realized it must have been Joe. So me — I’m keeping my mouth shut, locked as tight as the door that keeps me in this place, the door that you have to be buzzed out of to be able to reenter Normal Land.
But I keep seeing images of Helen on the floor by the pay phone with her pale face and twitching limbs. It’s like I’ve got some silent horror movie constantly running in my brain even when I’m trying to think about other things. I keep wondering if she’s all right. It’s no use asking anyone around here about how she’s doing, because, believe me, I’ve tried. Joe said he doesn’t know anything; same with Nurse Kay and Nurse Rose. But I find that hard to believe. Maybe I should ask Dr. Pardy … except then she’ll try to get me to talk about what happened. When I had to meet with her one-on-one the first day I was here, I felt like she was trying to pull the words out of my throat against my will.
Everything she asked had some hidden motivation, and anything I said would just be used as evidence that I’m crazy and need to be locked up in here indefinitely. That’s part of the reason I don’t want to speak up in group, or “share” the contents of this journal. What’s in my head is private, and I don’t want people poking there and judging me for the things I think and feel. I get enough of that at home and at school. I need to keep some of myself for myself — unsullied, uncorrupted, secret, and unsaid. Otherwise, there won’t be anything left of me.
But sometimes I wonder if that’s already true; there are times when I get so tired of trying to be everything to everyone I feel like shouting, “Will the real Janie Ryman please stand up?” I’ve spent so long striving to be as perfect as Perfect Jenny to please my parents, striving to be smart to please my teachers, but not too smart to please boys, striving to fit in, striving to be thin, striving to be pretty. I’m not sure I even know what the real Janie looks like anymore.
Things were so much easier when I was younger. I bet my parents would laugh at me for saying that, because in their mind I’m still too young to have real emotions and thoughts and feelings, too young to have a mind of my own. I don’t think it’s because they’re such bad parents — I think it’s because like a lot of grown-ups, they just can’t remember how it feels to be a teenager. It’s not that our emotions aren’t real, it’s more that they’re hyper-real because we’re feeling them for the first time.
I’ve experienced minor jealousies and hurts before — like pretty much anyone who has survived middle school — but what happened with Matt is so far beyond that I can’t help wondering: Does it get any easier? Is the pain of the third, or fourth, or the twenty-fifth betrayal less overwhelming than the first? I sure as hell hope so, because otherwise I’m not sure I want to go on living. There are just so many ways a person you like can hurt you.
There’s one immediate benefit from Helen being carted off to the hospital — the Starvers aren’t as organized in their mealtime insurrection, so we actually get to eat on time, or at least a lot closer to it. I wonder if someone else will take over as the Starver-in-Chief. Do you think they have an election or draw straws or something? Vote for me, and I guarantee that those Barfers will have to wait till kingdom come before they get to eat! Elect me and I’ll share all my Secret Starver Strategies for Avoiding Calorie Consumption!
Nah. Even the Starvers can’t be that crazy. Or can they? You never know in this place.
Even though it’s a little more relaxing at mealtimes without the Barfers chomping at the bit to eat while the nurses play hide-and-seek with Helen, I can’t help wondering how she is and if she’s going to be okay. I also find I’m spending more and more time thinking about how I can sneak off to purge. I’ve already managed it once so far today by taking a leaf out of the Starver Book of Stealth and “forgetting” my journal in my room, then quickly puking into a sock and throwing it out the window before heading back to the dayroom to write.
I’m busy finishing up my journal entry before group starts when Nurse Kay walks in with — I can’t believe it — another guy. It’s just raining men (well, okay, boys) here in Golden Slopes. This guy looks about my age, give or take a year, and I’ll bet anything he’s a total jock — partly because he’s wearing a Mattawan
High T-shirt, and partly because underneath the T-shirt you can tell he’s really buff and his arms are muscled to the point of Popeye. I figure he must be one of the generally screwed-up types, not a Barfer or a Starver. But then Nurse Kay introduces him.
“Janie, this is Royce,” she says. “He’s a new patient, who will be joining you for Dr. Pardy’s group.”
She turns to Jock Guy. “Dr. Pardy and the rest of your group will be here in about five minutes. Make yourself comfortable.”
Royce sprawls on the sofa and puts his hands behind his head. I wonder if he does it on purpose to show off his bulging biceps.
“What’re you staring at?”
I guess I just can’t believe that Mr. Mattawan High is an ED patient. He looks too — I don’t know — healthy to be one of us.
“Nothing, really,” I say. “I’m just wondering why you’re in here.”
He crosses his arms across his chest. “Probably the same reason as you,” he says.
“What, you make yourself puke?”
“No, not that,” Royce replies. “I just … well, I have to make weight for wrestling, see, so before a match I don’t eat hardly anything.”
“Oh, so you’re a Starver,” I say. “But you don’t look skinny enough to be a Starver.” I suddenly realize he might take that the wrong way. “Not that I think you’re fat or anything.”
“Nah, I’m not fat. My body fat percentage is only seven point five percent.”
Well, excuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuse me, Jock Man. I have no idea what my body fat percentage is. Probably like 150 million or something.
“So then what’s your problem? I mean, eating-wise?”
“Well, I don’t eat to make weight, but then I pig out and eat everything in sight after a match,” he says. “Like for a few days, you know, to treat myself for making weight. Then I stop eating again before the next match.”
“So you’re like … I don’t know … a Binge–Starver or something,” I say.
“I don’t know what I am,” Royce says. “I didn’t think there was anything the matter with what I do. It’s what lots of wrestlers do. What’s the big deal?”
It’s weird. When he says that, it’s almost like I’m listening to me. But for some reason when I hear it coming out of someone else’s mouth it sounds … well, maybe not wrong, but definitely not right.
I’m saved from having to say anything when Tom and Callie join us.
“Guess what, Tommy!” I exclaim. “You’re not the only Y chromosome on the block anymore. Meet Royce. He’s a hybrid model — a Binge–Starver, minus the puking.”
“Hey, Royce,” Callie says.
Royce takes in the nose ring and the tattoo and it’s clear from his face he disapproves. What a jerk! I mean, I know Callie looks kind of intimidating — she scared the crud out of me when I first met her. But underneath all the piercings and the tattoos, she’s actually okay. Well, not as in okay okay. Of all the people I’ve met in here, Callie’s the one with the most visible mental armor. But still — it pisses me off that Royce is writing her off just because she doesn’t look like some picture-perfect girl. I’ll bet he’s one of those really traditional uptight chauvinistic-type guys who calls his girlfriend “baby” and expects her to dote on his every word and come to every match to cheer him on, even if she has important stuff to do in her own life.
“Hey, Royce,” Tom says. “What’s up?”
“Not a whole lot.”
I glance over at Royce, because he sounds, I don’t know — kind of uptight all of a sudden, even more uptight than I’d expect an uptight Male Chauvinist Pig Super Jock to sound. I’d have thought he’d be more relaxed now that he knows he’s not the only dude in the place.
“Oh. My. God! It’s … a GUY!”
You can count on Missy to state the obvious — and loudly, too. She flings herself onto the sofa next to Royce.
“What am I, chopped liver?” Tom jokes.
“Well, I meant a REAL guy …” Missy says, leaning closer to Royce and looking at him from under her pale, blond lashes. Next thing you know she’ll be batting them at the dude. If she does, I swear I’ll puke.
I feel this unexplainable defensiveness for Tom.
“What the hell is THAT supposed to mean?!”
Missy doesn’t even turn to look, she’s so busy eyeing Royce’s biceps and broad chest. Jeez, have some respect for yourself, girl! I feel like saying — but I don’t.
“You know.”
“No, I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe you should explain.”
“Forget it, Janie,” Tom says.
“No, I …”
Despite the fact that I’m seething with anger, I don’t get to say anything more because Dr. Pardy walks in.
As usual, she makes the new guy introduce himself first. Royce tells everyone else the same stuff he told me, including bragging about his seven point five percent body fat, a statistic that probably makes the Starver Girls green with envy. I don’t know if it’s because Missy is looking at him like she wants to eat him for lunch, but he also makes a point of saying how it was his girlfriend (ha! that’ll teach Missy) who told his wrestling coach that his star wrestler had a problem. Turns out, the girlfriend was an ED person, too, once upon a time. Guess it takes one to know one. It’s clear Royce is still mad at her for helping to make him the unlucky winner of a one-way ticket to Camp Golden Slopes.
“And like I said, I don’t have a problem,” he sums up. “This is just what wrestlers do to make weight. Everyone does it.”
Dr. Pardy has been taking notes on her clipboard, but now she looks around the group. It’s obvious that Royce has just earned himself a nice long “vacation” in Eating Disorder Hell.
“What does the group think about Royce’s statement? Is his eating behavior a reasonable strategy for making weight?” She leans forward to make her point. “Is it true that ‘everyone does it’?”
“No, it’s just us — we’re the Few, the Proud … the Fundamentally Incapable of Having a Normal Relationship with Food,” jokes Callie.
“That’s not true,” argues Bethany, who has become known as the “Niblet” since the peas-in-her-sock incident. Missy was all for calling her the Jolly Green Giant, but since she’s short and probably weighs less than a bag of tender green peas flash frozen at the point of picking, the Niblet seemed more appropriate. “There are tons of pro-ana groups on sites like MySpace and Facebook — Web sites, too. So it’s not just us.”
Pro-ana is like Starvers Anonymous for people who don’t want to get better and actually think that looking like a famine victim from the African subcontinent is a good thing. They post pictures of the latest Hollywood actresses the tabloids accuse of being anorexic (“New insert actress’s name Anorexia Shocker!” complete with paparazzi shots of insert actress’s name in a bikini, ribs countable, face gaunt behind a pair of oversize sunglasses, and legs like toothpicks stuck into a pair of expensive designer slides) and compare notes on how to survive the day on a grape and a prayer.
I think about the time I thought I was alone in the bathroom at school before play rehearsal a few months ago. One of the senior guys on tech crew, Mike Dillard, went out and got a few boxes of Dunkin’ Donuts, and before I knew it, even though I’d meant to just have half of one chocolate glazed because I’d only had a few carrot sticks for lunch and I was hungry, I’d inhaled the entire chocolate glazed, plus a chocolate frosted and a sugar jelly, washed down with a Diet Coke.
Of course, the minute I stopped inhaling donuts, I wished I hadn’t eaten. I felt disgustingly fat, like I needed a wheelbarrow to carry my bloated stomach around. You’re so gross. You’ve got no self-control. You suck at being thin and you’re going to suck as an actress. People will laugh at you and call you a loser for thinking that you can play the part of Anne Frank when you’re really only suited for playing Moby Dick … and so on.
I knew that I’d never be able to concentrate on my lines if I didn’t purge, that I would indeed be a Great Fat Fa
ilure if I let those calories stay inside me, racing their way through my bloodstream to find a permanent home on my thighs or my butt, my stomach or my hips. So I raced for the bathroom before warm-ups and thanked my lucky stars that it was empty. The second I hit the stall I flipped up the toilet seat and stuck my finger down my throat. At least donuts don’t hurt coming up the way things like steak and curry and chili do. I was so busy trying to make sure I’d puked up every last crumb that I didn’t realize someone had come into the bathroom.
I almost screamed when I opened the stall door and saw Nancy O’Connell, a junior who was playing Anne’s sister, Margot, standing by the sink, her arms crossed and a faint smile on her face. Thinking on my feet, I said, “I think I must be coming down with that stomach bug.”
“Yeah, right!” she laughed. “Tell me another one. I know another bulimic when I see one.”
“You are SO wrong!” I protested, washing my hands and splashing my overheated face with cold water so my blushing didn’t give the lie away.
“Whatever you say, Janie,” she smirked. “But if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to ditch these donuts before rehearsal starts.”
She sauntered into one of the stalls and, without even bothering to lock the door behind her, stuck her finger down her throat. I heard the sounds of her retching and then the splatter of regurgitated donuts hitting water. My stomach heaved as I made my escape.
My head was spinning. Here I’d thought I was the only one at school with a dirty little secret. Here I’d been feeling ashamed, like every time I binged and purged was another example of my failure. Yet Nancy seemed completely unashamed, almost proud of what she was doing.
After that, Nancy and I became Purge Partners. We’d cover the bathroom door and take turns purging before rehearsal. It’s strange — we’d never been all that close despite being in the Pine Hill Players together for the last two years, but now it was like we were sisters in more than just the play, because we shared a secret Bond of Barferhood.
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