Believarexic

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Believarexic Page 8

by J. J. Johnson


  “What if you tried sugar?” Bronwyn asks.

  Monica and Amanda look at Bronwyn

  like she just asked, What if you were a trapeze artist,

  and your mother lived in an igloo?

  Bronwyn shrugs at them.

  The shrug says, She’s bulimarexic, not anorexic.

  Meaning: the calories in a packet of sugar

  don’t mean the same to Jennifer as

  they do to anorexic Monica and Amanda.

  Jennifer has tried, and failed,

  at pure, restriction-only anorexia.

  Bulimarexia was the best she could do.

  Anorexia is flawlessness.

  Anorexics are iron-clad in their willpower,

  untainted by overeating, ever.

  They are, have always been, the highest,

  most accomplished,

  most emulated,

  most envied people in the eating disorder hierarchy.

  Jennifer may be a stranger in this foreign land,

  but she has been studying its culture for years.

  She speaks the language.

  Even when the language is unspoken.

  Monica says, “Well…I suppose…

  If you care more about getting it down

  than you do about the extra calories…”

  Which Jennifer does.

  She doesn’t care about the calories right now.

  Normally that should sink her to the bottom of the ranks.

  But she’s underweight. The “rexic” in bulimarexic.

  It gives her higher status

  than “normal” weight bulimics,

  who outrank overweight bulimics,

  who outrank compulsive overeaters.

  Anything to get through this.

  The entire universe has telescoped down

  to one yellow washcloth.

  This is the most important thing Jennifer has ever done,

  eating this egg, greasy and limp in its plastic tray.

  Jennifer selects a packet of sugar

  from the condiment basket

  and pours it on the other side of the terrycloth,

  the side away from the ketchup.

  She dips a bite of egg into the sugar.

  Slowly the eggs go down.

  She will eat eggs with sugar

  every time she’s faced with them.

  And only much, much later

  will it occur to Jennifer to wonder

  whether Bronwyn was simply being kind,

  just trying to help…

  or whether she was delineating—cementing in—

  Jennifer’s place on the EDU’s

  anorexia/bulimarexia/bulimia/compulsive overeater

  hierarchy of eating disorders.

  Or both.

  Samuel Tuke Center

  Eating Disorders Unit

  Rules and Therapeutic Expectations

  Therapy and Therapeutic Activities

  Patients are expected to participate in all groups and therapeutic activities as directed by staff.

  Patients shall comply with psychological and physical testing as directed by treatment team.

  Patients shall comply with medical and therapeutic guidelines, including the taking of prescribed medication.

  Patients will write a Personal Eating Disorder History and read it aloud to EDU patients and staff when assigned by treatment team.

  All EDU patients shall attend:

  •EDU group therapy (daily, Monday–Friday, 10:00 a.m., lounge)

  •family therapy (time and location TBD, with assigned social worker)

  •individual therapy with director of EDU (weekly, office of director, time TBD)

  •individual therapy with assigned psychiatrist (weekly, office of psychiatrist, time TBD)

  •Overeater’s Anonymous when held in-house (weekly or twice weekly, lounge, time TBD)

  •EDU Community Meeting (weekly, lounge, time TBD)

  •Assertiveness Training (weekly, Monday 7:00 p.m., large 2nd

  floor lounge)

  •Wellness and Nutrition (weekly, Monday 1:30 p.m., activities room 1)

  •Meditation (weekly, Tuesday 1:30 p.m., activities room 1)

  •Journaling (weekly, Wednesday 1:30 p.m., activities room 1)

  •Art Therapy (weekly, Thursday, 1:30 p.m., activities room 1)

  •Body Image Workshop (twice monthly, large 2nd floor lounge, time TBD)

  •Sexual Assault & Abuse Survivor’s Group, Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, Chemical Dependency Education, Al-Anon, Depression Workshop, etc., as prescribed by treatment team (various times, locations)

  •Arts and Crafts (if not in prescribed therapy group, Tuesdays and Thursdays 11:00 a.m., activity room 2)

  In addition, all medically cleared patients will attend:

  •Off-campus Overeaters Anonymous and/or National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders (ANAD) groups (TBD)

  •Movement Therapy (1:30 p.m., Fridays alternating with Aerobics, movement studio)

  •Aerobics (1:30 p.m., alternating Fridays, movement studio)

  All rules are subject to change without notice by staff.

  At 10:00, it’s time for group therapy.

  Dr. Wexler ambles into the lounge,

  nodding at patients.

  As if he has gravitational pull,

  everyone gathers,

  settling on couches, rockers, chairs,

  forming a big circle.

  Dr. Wexler sits on a folding chair

  and crosses his legs at the knee.

  Jennifer sits on the couch between Bronwyn and Monica,

  and although it’s good to be near two nice people,

  she is scared and lonely and miserable.

  Converging for group happens wordlessly.

  It’s surreal how many things transpire without words here:

  sitting down for group and meals, getting a cigarette lit, waiting for weigh-in.

  Dr. Wexler clasps his hands around his knees, leans forward.

  Does this mean the start of group?

  Nothing.

  Silence.

  Patients pick at their cuticles, or fidget,

  smoke cigarettes that were lit by nurses before group.

  The discomfort builds.

  Jennifer waits.

  Shouldn’t there be talking?

  She’d expected Dr. Wexler to give them a topic,

  or otherwise get the ball rolling,

  like a teacher leading a classroom discussion.

  Instead, it feels like the entire room is in a contest of wills

  to see who will break down

  and speak first.

  After what feels like forever,

  a girl with long, dark hair clears her throat.

  “I have something to talk about.

  I think there are a lot of people on this floor

  who are showing major avoidant behavior.”

  Avoidant behavior. What does that mean?

  A ripple of something—fear? anger?—

  passes through the lounge.

  “Could you be more specific, Eleanor?” Dr. Wexler asks.

  “Yes, I can,” Eleanor says.

  “I specifically think Monica and Bronwyn

  are being avoidant.”

  A moment of stunned stillness,

  followed by a surge of voices,

  words gushing out of mouths,

  accusing, defending; angry, crying.

  Monica and Bronwyn tense themselves into

  tight bundles of angry energy.

  Words pop like bubble
s:

  “denial” and “bathrooms”

  and “milk trick” and “tanking”

  and Jennifer’s name.

  But she is totally lost.

  Jennifer looks from one person to another,

  searching for clues,

  desperate to figure out what is going on.

  It seems like everyone is mad at someone.

  The best that Jennifer can discern is that

  Eleanor and a few other patients

  are mad at Bronwyn and Monica for doing something,

  something that is “avoidant behavior,”

  but she doesn’t know precisely what that means,

  or exactly what they did.

  As soon as Jennifer thinks she knows what’s going on,

  the topic shifts to something else someone did.

  Jennifer hasn’t spoken, nor have Heather

  or Thriller or Amanda.

  During a lull, Dr. Wexler asks each of them

  if they have anything to say.

  Heather and Thriller shake their heads.

  Amanda says, “I believe Bronwyn and Monica.”

  Jennifer says the only thing she can think of to say:

  “I didn’t tank.”

  The air is still thick with acrimony

  when Dr. Wexler says, “That’s our time for today.

  It seems this unit has a lot to talk about.

  Perhaps we can continue this discussion tomorrow.”

  Jennifer stares at Dr. Wexler.

  Nothing’s been resolved.

  How can he end the session, when everyone is still so upset?

  That can’t be good. Not for anyone.

  Now they’ll all walk around resentful

  and angry at each other?

  She scratches her forearm.

  Her skin feels tight.

  She can’t stand when people are angry.

  She hates confrontation.

  It makes her want to disappear, fade into oblivion.

  At school, there are girls who enjoy squabbling,

  who regularly have big, ugly battles with each other.

  Not Jennifer. She fractures into a million pieces

  if anyone outside her family—

  anyone, from closest friend to most passing acquaintance—

  expresses even the tiniest hint of anger at her.

  Anything remotely negative sends her into paroxysms

  of panic, worry, doubt.

  No, this can’t drag on.

  Jennifer is already hanging on by her fingernails here.

  She at least needs the patients to be nice to each other.

  But now Monica and Bronwyn jump up from the couch,

  without a word or a glance at Jennifer,

  and form a huddle with Amanda.

  The three of them whisper and shoot dirty looks at Eleanor.

  They leave the lounge in a tight knot of three.

  Jennifer doesn’t want to be alone.

  She feels left out.

  It reminds her of everything that’s bad about school,

  and life in general.

  Always wondering if people like you,

  always wondering if you’re missing something,

  if you weren’t invited to a party,

  if people are talking about you;

  never sure of your level of social standing.

  Jennifer wants to follow the girls out of the lounge,

  find out what’s going on, be privy to their whispers.

  But she’s afraid she would be annoying:

  a puppy nipping at their heels.

  The way her brother hates it when she wants to

  tag along with him and his friends

  on BMX tracks and ski slopes.

  Keep up or ski alone. That was the Little Sister Rule.

  So Jennifer learned to ignore her fear

  and fly down those hills.

  The rest of the patients linger in the lounge,

  smoking newly lit cigarettes,

  talking in low voices, not including Jennifer.

  How can she learn what this is about?

  Heather turns the TV on.

  Bob Barker is chatting with a contestant

  on The Price is Right.

  Jennifer watches the contestant guess prices.

  Watches the clock on the wall.

  Starts to cry.

  Tries to hold her tears in.

  It’s embarrassing, crying this much.

  Eleven minutes and 42 seconds later

  (not that she’s counting),

  Jennifer is jolted by the sound of her name.

  Dr. Wexler has stuck his head into the lounge.

  He says her name again,

  motioning for her to come with him.

  When they are seated in his office,

  the same office as the intake interview,

  but without Mom this time,

  Dr. Wexler says, “So, Jennifer.

  How’s it going so far?”

  Jennifer starts crying in earnest.

  Dr. Wexler hands her a box of tissues.

  “You seem sad, Jennifer.”

  You seem sad. How insightful.

  Jennifer takes a tissue from the box.

  “I miss my mom,” she says. “It’s hard here.”

  “The separation.” Dr. Wexler nods.

  “Is that what’s distressing you most?”

  Jennifer wipes her nose. “Not just that.

  Overwhelmed.”

  “You’re feeling overwhelmed?” he asks.

  She nods.

  “In what way?” he asks.

  “In every way,” she says.

  Dr. Wexler doesn’t respond. He waits.

  “I wonder if I can even survive here,” Jennifer says.

  “It doesn’t feel like I can survive.”

  “Can you say more about that?” he asks.

  “I feel like I’m going to die.

  As if I’m so sad, I’m going to just…stop living.”

  “Are you thinking of hurting yourself?” he asks.

  Jennifer shakes her head. “No. It’s just, I can’t stop crying,

  and if I do stop crying, it’s only for a minute or two,

  and then it starts again.”

  Dr. Wexler makes a note in her file.

  “Is this new or unusual for you?”

  “I don’t know.

  For a long time I’ve felt sad, and…alone.

  At home, a lot of times, I feel like crying,

  but I can’t. I’m numb.

  No, I’ve never cried this much.

  I feel like something’s been knocked loose inside me.”

  “Well, I think it’s quite normal,” Dr. Wexler says,

  “for a girl who is as enmeshed with her mother as you are.

  Of course you would feel pain on separating.”

  “Enmeshed,” Jennifer says.

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “It means that you don’t know where one of you ends

  and the other begins.”

  Jennifer chews her lip, thinking.

  “Isn’t it okay to be close with your mom?” she asks.

  “Normal teenagers rebel against their mothers,”

  Dr. Wexler says.

  “It’s part of the process of individuation.

  That’s how you find out who you are.”

  Jennifer protests, “You’re making it sound like

  I’m a goody two-shoes.

  I’m rebellious. I rebel.”

  “I suspect you rebel by turning it inward.
<
br />   By turning against yourself.

  Eating disorders are an unhealthy means of rebellion,

  an unhealthy attempt at individuation.”

  “I guess,” Jennifer says.

  Dr. Wexler says, “And perhaps you have been waiting

  to be in a safe environment

  before you could allow yourself to experience this pain.”

  “Maybe.” Jennifer sighs.

  “I wonder which came first, the pain, or—”

  She’s about to say, “the pain, or my eating disorder,”

  but the phone on Dr. Wexler’s desk rings,

  so she stops.

  Dr. Wexler holds up one finger,

  and swivels to pick up the handset.

  “Dr. Wexler. Uh huh. Yes. No, that’s not right…”

  Jennifer can’t believe it.

  He picks up his phone in the middle of a session?

  Without so much as an Excuse me?

  Isn’t that super incredibly rude?

  Yes, it is. Unless…

  Unless he thinks his time with her is not important.

  She watches the minutes on the digital clock.

  One minute. Two. Three.

  Dr. Wexler deposits the heavy handset on its cradle,

  makes a note on his desk calendar,

  and turns back to Jennifer.

  He doesn’t say anything, or give any sort of sign,

  no expression that says, Sorry about that interruption.

  He just looks at Jennifer like he’s waiting

  for her to continue.

  She folds and smooths her tissue over her knee.

  Fold, crease, smooth.

  Fold, crease, smooth.

  The silence draws out,

  increasingly uncomfortable.

  Finally Dr. Wexler says, “I have a note here that you created

  a commotion at weigh-in this morning.”

  “What?” Jennifer’s head snaps up.

  “You didn’t create a commotion?”

  “No.” Jennifer shakes her head.

  “The nurse thought I drank water,

  but I didn’t. And she wouldn’t believe me.”

  Dr. Wexler leans forward, elbows on knees,

  like he’s thinking, Now we’re getting somewhere.

  “Should she have believed you?”

  “Yes!” Jennifer’s cheeks flush.

  “Hm,” says Dr. Wexler. “You seem angry, Jennifer.

  Are you angry?”

  Again with the You seem such-and-such, Jennifer.

  “I’m frustrated!” Jennifer says.

  “It’s hard when no one believes you.”

  “How do you mean?” he asks.

  “It’s the nurse’s word against mine,

  just like it’s my parents’ word against mine.

 

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