Believarexic

by J. J. Johnson

  They are a journey you move through, if you will.”

  “Okay,” Jennifer says. “But I’m moving

  into the stage two journey?”

  Dr. Prakash sighs. “Is it so important for you to have a label?

  Must it be black-and-white?

  Can there be no ambiguity?”

  “I’m sorry.

  It would just help me to know. I’m trying so hard.

  I just want to know I’m making progress.

  Ratch—Sheryl—told me not to bother requesting privileges.”

  “Jennifer, Jennifer,” Dr. Prakash says.

  “If it is this important, then I will tell you.

  Yes. You are doing well.

  You are in stage two.”

  Samuel Tuke Center

  Eating Disorders Unit

  Rules and Therapeutic Expectations

  Treatment Planning

  Treatment-planning meetings occur once a week for each patient (Monday, Wednesday, or Friday).

  A patient’s treatment-planning team shall consist of nursing staff (including patient’s primary and/or secondary nurse), director of EDU, patient’s psychiatrist, a nutrition team member, and relevant social workers/therapists (if applicable).

  Each patient shall be made aware of his/her treatment-planning schedule within the first week of admission.

  Patients must request passes or privileges IN WRITING TO THEIR PRIMARY OR SECONDARY NURSE, BEFORE 8:00 A.M. on the morning of their assigned treatment-planning day. It is the patient’s responsibility to submit requests on time. Late requests for privileges will not be accepted for any reason.

  Each patient shall be assigned a primary and a secondary nurse, who will inform the patient of treatment-planning goals, as determined by the treatment-planning team.

  All rules are subject to change without notice by staff.

  — Stage Two —

  Saturday, November 26, 1988

  Bronwyn’s family brought a stack of magazines when they came for family therapy. I flipped through the November issue of Seventeen, which featured metallic party dresses with huge shoulder pads and drop-waist pouf skirts. One of those truly terrible Taylor Dayne videos came on MTV.

  “You know how there are oldies stations on the radio?” I asked Bronwyn. “Music our parents grew up with? And how there are retro fashions, like cat-eye glasses and circle skirts—”

  “And saddle shoes!” Bronwyn said. “Oh, man. I totally wish my mom kept her saddle shoes. I would wear them all the time.”

  “Me, too. But this?” I pointed to Taylor Dayne. “And this?” I held up the magazine. “I never want to see this current stuff ever again.”

  “For sure.”

  “Can you imagine a future where our kids wanted to dress up retro eighties? And radio stations played eighties music as oldies?”

  “I can’t imagine having kids,” Bronwyn said.

  “Okay, but if you did.”

  “Hm. Would our hypothetical kids think the eighties were cool?” Bronwyn tapped her finger on her chin. “Some of the music, maybe. Some of the movies. But none of the fashion.”

  “And none of the hair metal.”

  Taylor Dayne ended, and another video started: “Wishing Well,” by Terence Trent D’Arby.

  “This is a good song,” Bronwyn said. “This should endure.”

  “I love this song!” I ran over and turned up the volume.

  We sang along and copied Terence’s moves, doing the choreography.

  We giggled and sang and danced. For the first time since admission, I almost forgot where I was.

  And then Ratched walked in. “Girls! Stop that this instant!”

  We froze, mid–moon man stomp. Terence continued singing.

  “You are exercising!” Ratched screeched.

  “We’re just singing along,” Bronwyn said.

  “You are engaged in unapproved physical activity!”

  “But we’re not trying to lose weight,” I said. Surely one minute of dancing to MTV didn’t count as banned exercise.

  “I’m going to have to write this up,” she said.

  No dancing? Did recovery mean no dancing?

  I felt another piece of my heart break.

  • • •

  Later, Chuck’s voice was soft when he asked, “You in here, Jennifer?”

  “She’s crying again,” Heather said.

  I had my quilt over my face. It was humiliating how much I cried. Monica said I’d float away. I was probably dehydrated from all the tears.

  Chuck sat on my bed. “It’s all right to cry…” He started singing the song from Free to Be You and Me. It made me cry harder.

  “I’m leaving,” Heather said. I heard her go.

  “Come out for a second,” Chuck said, tugging my quilt a little. “I want to show you something.”

  “No.”

  “Come on, just over to the window.”

  “Are you going to keep bugging me until I do?”

  “Yes. Why yes, I am.”

  “Grr. Fine.” I slunk out of my bed and joined him by the window.

  He drew the curtains aside. Mobil mart, four-lane street with dribbles of traffic, a few pedestrians hurrying past old buildings that were in various states of decline. A dusting of snow on the ground.

  “You see those people out there?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I’m going to tell you a not-so-secret secret. Ready?”

  I shrugged.

  “The secret is: people are the same everywhere.”

  I waited for him to say more. He didn’t.

  “And?” I asked.

  “And…everyone’s got problems.”

  “This is a guilt trip. I knew it.”

  “No, no, not at all. Look at that dude right there.” He pointed, tapping a thick finger on the metal mesh that “kept us safe” from our windows. “Homeboy’s got problems. I’m going to say…his rent is due and he doesn’t have the money. Now you try.”

  “Try?”

  “Tell me what his problems are.”

  “How would I know?”

  “Use your imagination.”

  “Chuck.”

  “Just humor me.”

  I sighed. I looked at the man outside. “All right. Maybe his dog died.”

  “Excellent. Dead dog. Heart wrenching.”

  The man waited for a car to pass and then trotted across the street.

  Chuck said, “And the dog was a gift from his wife. Who is dying of cancer.”

  “Consumption would be better.”

  “Ooh, consumption is better. You’re a natural. Okay. Now. That lady over there.”

  I looked. “I think she stepped on gum.”

  “But she’s wearing her best pair of shoes, and she’s sad because they’re ruined?”

  I nodded. “Crocodile leather.”

  “She got them in Australia when she was an exchange student,” Chuck said. “And she can never go back to get another pair, even though her one true love lives there…”

  “Because she’s deathly allergic to kangaroos?”

  He laughed. “There. See?”

  “See what.”

  “Don’t you feel better?”

  “By imagining strangers’ problems?”

  “By putting things in perspective.”

  I thought about it. “Not really.”

  “You’re just being stubborn. Look at me.”

  I did. His eyes were sincere. “The point is, everyone’s got problems. Problems are part of what makes you human. You will get them figured out. You’ll get through this.”

  “Ha.”

  “Don’t ha me, kid. You put yourself in here. You stood up and told your parents you needed h
elp.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “How do I know that?” He smiled. “I’m your secondary, aren’t I? And let me tell you, standing up for yourself, admitting you have a problem, reaching out for help? That’s not easy. That’s brave.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “You think I’m brave?”

  “Yes. Very. Don’t let it go to your head.”

  We stood there, looking out the window together, for a long time.

  Brave. I didn’t let it go to my head. I let it go to my heart.

  Sunday, November 27, 1988

  After dinner (dry pork chop), we had an in-house Overeaters Anonymous meeting. On the EDU, Overeaters Anonymous really meant All Eating Disorders Anonymous. And you couldn’t attend OA unless you had an eating disorder, so it was just patients—no staff.

  We circled up, like during group, except there was no Dr. Wexler.

  “Who wants to lead?” Monica asked.

  No one answered.

  “All right, I’ll do it. Welcome to Overeaters Anonymous.” Monica smiled, looking around the circle. When her gaze snagged on Eleanor, she didn’t hide her frown. Obviously they hadn’t smoothed things over yet.

  “I’m Monica, and I’m anorexic,” Monica said.

  “Hello, Monica,” everyone said.

  Was it bizarre for Monica to introduce herself as if we hadn’t all been living on the same hall? As if we hadn’t all just eaten together? Yeah. But no one else batted an eyelash.

  Monica picked up a laminated page, which I recognized from the bulletin board in the nurses’ station. “So. The Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions.” She looked at me. “Wait, is this your first OA meeting, Jennifer?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. Well, the Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions are from AA, Alcoholics Anonymous. Basically all Twelve Step programs—OA, NA, AA—are the same. OA and NA just say food or drugs instead of alcohol. OA says ‘Admitted we were powerless over food,’ like that. Anyway, I’ll read the Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions.”

  “You don’t have to,” I said. “I can look at them later.”

  “No, meetings always begin this way,” Monica said.

  She started reading. The longer it went on, the faster she went, like she was afraid people were getting bored.

  When she was done, Monica looked at me again. “Also, it doesn’t say this, but the rules for OA meetings are that we all go around and share, and you get one turn to share, and there’s no cross talk.”

  Eleanor interjected, “Cross talk means you can’t directly respond to something someone says.”

  “Like Eleanor just did,” Monica said pointedly.

  “Okay,” I singsonged, trying to diffuse the tension between them. “Got it.”

  “Who wants to go first?” Monica said. She looked around.

  “I guess I will,” said Bronwyn. She sighed heavily. “Hi, I’m Bronwyn and I’m bulimarexic.”

  “Hi, Bronwyn,” everyone said. Again, like we weren’t all living together. So weird.

  Bronwyn said, “My weekend was total crap. My parents and little sister came yesterday for family therapy, and it was such a shit show that they left right after, even though they were supposed to take me out on pass. And I had no say over the matter, and that just pisses me off.”

  I knew she’d had family therapy, but I didn’t know it had gone so terribly. We had hung out all yesterday afternoon. Why hadn’t she told me?

  “And during my family therapy session, the social worker said I should start going to Chemical Dependency on Adolescent,” Bronwyn said. She was clearly angry about this, but I became secretly jubilant—it meant I wouldn’t have to face the Adolescent Unit alone!

  Bronwyn continued, “It’s utter bullshit. I’m sure Ratched will just love the idea. She’s being such a bitch lately, don’t you guys think?”

  Everyone nodded, but no one spoke. I guessed that would be cross talk.

  “I hate this place. I’m thinking about writing my 72-hour letter and getting the hell out of here. That’s all,” Bronwyn said.

  Whoa. Her 72-hour letter? Was she serious? It was the first time I’d heard someone talk about signing themselves out. It was unsettling. It suddenly shook the foundations of the program—trusting staff’s opinions, working the program through its stages. It negated all of that

  “Thank you, Bronwyn,” Monica said, like Dr. Wexler in group. Except, even though I’d only had three group sessions with Dr. Wexler, I knew he would have pushed back. He would have asked Bronwyn something like, What are the feelings behind your anger? Or, What do you think signing out would do for your chances of recovery? Or maybe ask her more about what happened with her family. But Monica wasn’t Dr. Wexler. Actually, she seemed to look perkier and increasingly interested the more Bronwyn talked about being angry and miserable.

  We continued around the circle. Heather and Thriller passed on their turns, but everyone else spoke. Even though we all admitted our diseases when we introduced ourselves—anorexic, bulimarexic, bulimic, or compulsive overeater—it became clear that this OA meeting wasn’t really about overeating or undereating, or food issues at all. It was a place to rag on staff and complain about the program.

  When it was her turn, Eleanor said, “I’m Eleanor and I’m bulimic. And excuse the cross talk, but I think you all are letting your sicknesses be in charge. This is a whole bunch of ‘stinking thinking’.” She made air quotations. “You all need to just quit your bitchin’ and work this program.”

  People rolled their eyes and looked irritated. But I was glad she said it. Because the longer the meeting went on, the more weird and unsafe and…sick it felt.

  I was last. “I’m Jennifer and I’m bulimarexic.”

  It was strange to put it out there, just like that.

  “Hello, Jennifer.”

  “I’ve been feeling like…I don’t know if I can do this. Chuck says I can, and I want to work this program, I want recovery. But I just feel so overwhelmed and hopeless. I miss my family.” A wave of homesickness hit me, and I started crying.

  Bronwyn handed me tissues.

  When she saw that I was finished sharing, Monica said, “Okay, so that’s it.”

  Everyone stood and held hands with their neighbors.

  “God…,” Monica began.

  Immediately, before Monica had even finished saying the word, everyone joined in: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

  After the prayer, I let go of Amanda and Monica’s hands, but they held on, squeezing harder. Everyone said, “Keep coming back. It works. If you work it,” pumping their hands up and down to the words. Only then was it over.

  I went straight to the pay phone. I couldn’t wait to hear Mom’s voice: normalcy, softness, comfort. As I punched in the long series of numbers—phone number, calling card number, PIN code—I thought about the meeting. In some ways, my first Twelve Step meeting had been reassuring,

  because I wasn’t alone in my frustrations and misery.

  But in other ways, it dragged me down.

  It was as if we were all in the ocean because our boat sank, and every one of us was struggling not to drown. And while we were ostensibly trying to help each other, we were actually just pulling each other under.

  Time for lights-out. But instead of being in bed, Heather was huffing around our room, shoving dresser drawers, letting out heavy sighs. She did this every night. Every night.

  “Heather? Is everything okay?” I asked, as I had every night.

  She didn’t answer, as usual.

  “Not to be annoying, but we’re both supposed to be in bed, with the lights off,” I said. “I don’t want you to get in trouble again.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t care, Jennif
er.”

  “Okay. But if you’re upset about something, you can talk to me. I’m a good listener.”

  She looked at me, heaved another sigh, and went back to slamming drawers.

  Sharing a room with an angry person had been scary at first. I basically cowered, waiting for her to yell at me. Or hit me. Was it me she was angry at? Had I done something wrong? Heather wouldn’t say. She never volunteered to talk. Dr. Wexler had cajoled her into talking in group on Friday, and even with all his efforts, she only coughed up a sentence or two: Thanksgiving sucked. My dad was mean, what else is new?

  Monica was the only one Heather ever opened up to. Monica told me not to take Heather’s gruffness personally; she said Heather had a lot of “unresolved issues.” As to the specifics of those issues, Monica was vague—she would only say that Heather’s dad was abusive, and that Heather used fat as a shield to protect herself. That’s all Monica would tell me.

  But Heather’s slam-moping was going from scary to irritating to tiresome. Plus, it made a mess. Her half of the room was a pigsty, with dirty clothes and wet towels and messy bed and random, crumpled rolls of wrapping paper—even though it was forever until Christmas.

  Maybe I could accept all of it better if I understood more of what she was going through. Maybe I should keep trying to be a good friend?

  But Heather had never given me anything other than snorts of derision when I tried to be nice. Not once. Plus, she never reached out to me, any of the infinite number of times I cried underneath my blankets.

  I was so tired. I just wanted to go to sleep.

  How much more energy should I spend trying to relate to a person who obviously didn’t want to be friends?

  Wasn’t the whole point of this place to open up and share your feelings? Without forcing people to drag it out of you?

  Monday, November 28, 1988

  “Could you please tell me about your family life?” Dr. Prakash asked in individual.

  “Oh, my family is fine. That’s not an issue.”

  She lit a cigarette. “Not an issue?”

  “It’s me that’s the problem, not them. My parents love each other. They support me and my brother.”

  “So you are all happy and healthy? It does not seem like you have been happy and healthy.”