“Well, exactly. I’m the one who hasn’t been happy. Or healthy.”
“Jennifer, a family is an ecosystem. Girls who contract eating disorders usually have a good reason for doing so.”
“I guess…”
“Let us be more specific. How would you describe your relationship with your mother?” She pronounced it muttah, but I was getting more accustomed to her accent.
“We’re really close. We get along great.”
“Mm. And your father?”
“It’s okay. We like to read and watch movies together. We argue sometimes. He can be hard to live with.”
“How so?”
“He seems angry a lot. And he’s totally socially awkward. My mom and I have a good time making fun of him.”
“You make fun of your father together?”
I shrugged. “We both live with him, so we both know what a true dork he is.”
“Is it fair to say your mother makes negative comments about your father in front of you?”
“Yeah, but we’re just joking around.”
“Often we say we are joking, but we are really being quite serious. Is that a possibility, Jennifer? Is it possible that this ‘joking around’ is something more serious?”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“That doesn’t sound like something a happy family does.”
“But he deserves it. My dad is a total nerd.”
“What is so terrible about being a nerd?”
“Ha. You’re obviously not in high school.”
She smiled. “No, I am not in high school. But neither is your father.”
“No.”
“Again, what is so terrible about being a nerd? Nerds, as you call them, tend to get called such because they work or study hard. They are often bright, successful people. Why would your mother pick on him for being smart and successful?”
“Sometimes he’s mean to her.”
“Mean? To your mother?”
I nodded; the tears came.
“Tell me. In what way is he mean to your mother?”
“He yells at her. Like, really loud and…cruel.”
“What does he yell at her about, Jennifer?”
“Anything. How dinner is made, or how she handled something with me and Rich.” I wiped my eyes. “It’s like he’s always angry on the inside. It’s always there, and anything can set it off.”
“That sounds very different than being a nerd. This anger, it is simmering? But unpredictable?”
“That’s the perfect way to describe it.”
“And tell me, Jennifer. Does your father drink alcohol?”
“Never. His dad was a really bad alcoholic, remember? He died from alcoholism. His sister, too.”
“When you say they ‘died from alcoholism,’ what does that mean? Were they in a car accident?”
“No. They didn’t die at the same time. It was something about their livers. Sertosis or—”
“Cirrhosis? Of the liver?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Prakash uncrossed and recrossed her legs. When she shifted, her skirt moved, revealing her bare knees. Her stockings covered her feet and calves, but ended at the bottom of her kneecaps.
Knee-highs. The ultimate fashion faux pas.
Dr. Prakash opted for comfort in her hosiery yet she wore stiletto heels, which must have caused absolute foot torture.
It felt like being let in on a little secret.
Dr. Prakash was saying, “Cirrhosis in two generations would indicate a serious pattern of alcoholism. Let us return to that in a minute. For now, I would like to ask, does your father have other addictions?”
“No. Like what?”
“Other drugs? Marijuana? Cocaine? Prescription drugs?”
Dad snorting coke? “No,” I said.
“Nicotine?”
“No.”
“How about food?”
It hit me then. “Um. Yes. He eats too much, and he goes on crazy diets.”
“Crazy diets? Can you be more specific?”
“He goes through fad diets. Like last month, he only had hot water with lemon for breakfast, because it’s supposed to kick-start your metabolism. And he always makes Mom buy nonfat, sugar-free diet food.”
“And does he lose weight on these diets?”
“No. He complains that they don’t work. He’s overweight.”
“Does he talk to you about it?”
“About what?”
“Dieting?”
“Sure,” I said. “We talk about it a lot. We compare notes.”
She went quiet again. After a while, she said, “And?”
“And it feels like a competition. Which is totally messed up. Because he is overweight, and I’m not!”
“And he’s an adult and you are not,” she said. “You sound angry.”
“I am!”
“What about your mother?”
“What about her?” The abrupt change of subject confused me. “What do you mean?”
“Does she show signs of addiction? Does she drink alcohol? Or use drugs? Prescriptions? Marijuana?”
Mom lighting up a big doobie? I giggled. “No way. She’s too straightlaced for that.”
“What about food?”
Another truth bomb. My throat got tight. Slowly I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Can you say more about that? Does she diet, like your father does?
“No.”
“Does she eat compulsively, or binge?”
“I don’t think so. Not that I know of.”
“Jennifer, using what you have learned so far in the hospital, how would you characterize your mother’s eating?”
“I…she…I think maybe she’s an emotional eater.”
“She uses food as medicine? To soothe herself?”
“Yes. No.” I shook my head. It didn’t sound quite right. “Not medicine. It’s more like she uses food to stuff her feelings down. My dad can be so mean, but Mom doesn’t fight back. She’s always kind and loving.”
“Except that she makes fun of your father,” Dr. Prakash said. “Does she do that in front of him?”
“Sometimes, but mostly she does it with her friends.”
“And with you.”
“Yeah.”
“Making fun of your father together is an indirect way that you help your mother fight back against him.”
“It is? I guess. Maybe. But I’m also the only one who stands up to Dad when he’s angry. Directly.”
“When he yells at your mother?”
“And when he yells at Rich. Or me.”
“How does he yell at you and your brother?”
“He doesn’t just yell. He screams. Mostly at Rich.”
“About what?”
“Usually about not putting tools away after he works on his motorcycle.”
“Your father has a motorcycle?”
“No, my brother has dirt bikes. He uses Dad’s tools. It makes Dad so angry. Like, furious. Rage.”
“What does your brother do when your father unleashes his anger at him?”
“When we were little, Mom would tell us to go to our rooms.”
“To get away from your father?”
“Yeah.”
“She was trying to protect you?”
“Dad would get mad at her, but she wouldn’t fight back. I would listen to them through the heating vent, and I would scream at him to leave her alone.”
“And your brother? What did he do?”
“He just stayed in his room.”
“You said that is what you did when you were little. What do you and your brother do now?”
“Rich is out with his friends most of the time.”
“Meaning it is you
and your mother at home,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“You are a team, against your father.”
“Sort of.”
“You stick up for your mother, the way you wish she would stick up for herself? It sounds almost as if you are acting as an extension of your mother.”
“I guess.”
“That is an example of what we talk about when we talk about enmeshment.”
I shrugged.
“How does all this make you feel? What are you feeling right now?”
“Angry, I guess. Sad.” And overwhelmed by all these new insights.
“Now, Jennifer. I know this is difficult. But I want you to think. Do you believe your father is good enough for your mother?”
My throat constricted. “No.”
“You characterize your father as a nerd and as constantly angry. You characterize your mother as kind and loving, yes?”
I nodded.
“But that cannot be all they are. I wonder…I wonder if you have a habit of idealizing people.”
“What do you mean? I don’t idealize my dad. Obviously.”
“No? When we idealize people, we place them on the head of a pin. If they are perfect—kind and loving, like your mother—there they will stay. But if they are less than perfect, they will topple off. One mistake, and down they go.”
“Screaming at your family all the time is a lot different than one mistake.”
“I agree.” She lifted a finger, “But. If we idealize people, we also create a wide space between ideal and not ideal. I really want you to think about this, because I believe you do this to yourself, too.”
“What? I definitely do not think I’m perfect!”
“When we are perfectionists, we idealize ourselves. You are making yourself stand on the head of a pin. It is a grueling balancing act. You do not allow yourself to make any false moves, any mistakes. You have no freedom. You must earn top grades, or you will fall off the pin. You must excel in
extracurricular activities, or you fall off the pin. You must be liked by every single person, or you fall off the pin. You must do the socially correct thing at all times, or you fall off the pin. You must look a certain way, or you fall off the pin. You must maintain a dangerously low weight, or you fall off the pin. Jennifer, it sounds quite exhausting.”
A sob shook loose from my chest. “It is. It is exhausting. I can’t do it anymore.”
“You do not have to do it anymore. What if I told you that you can set both your feet on solid ground and still be quite good at being you?”
“How?”
“By accepting that you are not perfect, nor should you be. You will be required to relax your standards a little bit. You will be required to give yourself a break. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“And do you think that all of this idealizing is exhausting not just for you, but for the other people in your life? Is it fair to your mother that she need always be kind and loving, or she will fall off her pin?”
I shook my head.
“Now. Think hard. Is it fair to your father that he has fallen from grace, as the saying goes?”
“He deserves his fall from grace.”
“That may be, but I suspect he has many good qualities that make him worthy of another chance. He supports your family financially, does he not?”
“Yeah.”
“He does not hit you or your brother, or hurt you physically?”
“No.”
“He attends your school activities? Your dance recitals?”
“Yes.”
“In many, many ways, he is a very loving and attentive father. He does not drink or abuse drugs, because he does not want you or your brother to be raised in a house with an alcoholic father, like he was.”
“That’s true.”
“These are all things that speak to his integrity. Are you able to see these things? That your father is not terrible? That your mother has some faults, too?”
I made a face.
“Think, Jennifer. Think about a fault your mother has.”
“I don’t want to,” I said. But I smiled, a small joke.
She smiled back. “Go on.”
“She doesn’t stick up for herself.”
“Yes. What else? What about the position she puts you in, when she makes fun of your father with you?”
“I guess it’s unfair?”
“Yes. How is it unfair?”
“Because it’s kind of…using me? It makes me feel like she’s sticking me in the middle of their marriage.”
“Yes. It is inappropriate for her to complain to you about your father. If she has issues with him, what should she do?”
“She should talk to him. Not me.”
She lifted her hands, palms up, like, Yes, there you have it. “So your mother is not perfect, either. Will you push her off her pin now?”
“I hope not. I don’t want to.”
“What about me, Jennifer? What will you do when I make a mistake?”
“You asked me that the other day.”
“Yes, well, I am certain to make a mistake in our time together. Do you have me on the head of a pin right now? When I fall off, will we continue to be able to work together? Or will our time have been useless?”
“It’s not like that. It’s not all or nothing.”
“Is it not? I hope you are right about that.” She leaned forward. “Jennifer. You must learn that recognizing people’s flaws is a fine thing to do, as long as you recognize their strengths, as well. This mix of flaws and strengths, this is what makes us who we are. We cannot live our lives on the heads of pins. It is an intolerable and untenable situation.”
“I guess I’m learning that.”
“I guess you are.”
I started 1800s at dinner. It was a smack in the face after my week of 1200s. 1800s was more food. It meant the start of gaining weight. Packing on the pounds until I reached a “healthy” maintenance range.
Staff was always saying, Healthy recovery requires healthy bodies. You can’t have a healthy mind in a sick body.
But wasn’t “healthy” just another word for “fat”?
How could I have a healthy mind if my body felt obese?
Fat is not a feeling. What’s the real issue? That was another staff refrain. Meaning if you felt fat, it was because you were avoiding what was truly bothering you.
But what if my weight truly bothered me?
Fat sure felt like a feeling.
I poked a fork at my pasta. The food was gross, as usual. Spaghetti with meat sauce, wilted salad, a huge clump of cauliflower, an orange, two percent milk.
Bronwyn wrinkled her nose. “This spaghetti is so overcooked.”
“Do you know how Italians test whether pasta’s cooked right?” Monica picked up a noodle that wasn’t covered with sauce, twirled it over her head like a lasso, and threw it at the wall. It hit and fell to the floor. “See?” she said. “It should stick. If it falls, it’s overcooked.”
“I’ll show you what will stick.” Bronwyn picked up her straw wrapper, rolled it, wet it with spit, and stuck it in her straw. Then she squeezed one eye shut and took aim. The wad shot out and stuck to the wall behind Monica.
“Dude! You almost shot me!”
“Ladies,” I said. “It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.”
We laughed, until Bronwyn stopped and blinked, and we fell silent. It was like we had just remembered we were in the EDU. We looked over at the nurses. Thank goodness it was Chuck and Baldy. If it had been anyone else, Bronwyn and Monica would have already been written up. Or electroshocked, if it was Ratched.
Chuck smiled. “Knock it off with the noodles. Those, you need to eat. But if you’re going
to shoot spit wads, you might as well have one of these.” He rummaged in the cupboards and pulled out a paper plate. With a marker, he drew concentric circles.
We had a target.
“What should we put in the bull’s-eye?” Bronwyn asked.
“Ratched?” I said. “Maintenance weight? Bathroom privileges? Weigh-ins? Group? The food?” So many frustrations and challenges here—whether staff would deem them “real issues” or not—the EDU blessed us with a real cornucopia of choices.
Mom and Dad and Rich came after dinner. I gave them huge, long hugs. We went to my room for a modicum of privacy. Heather was writing in her journal.
“Hi, Heather. This is my family—” I started introductions, but she picked up her stuff and left without a word.
When she was gone, Dad said, “Gosh, she seems like a peach. Did you two have a fight or something?”
“She’s always like that. But thanks for assuming it’s my fault.”
“I didn’t assume anything of the sort—”
“Why don’t we all sit down and get caught up,” Mom interrupted.
I sat on my bed, Bearibubs in my lap. I tried to shake off my irritation at Dad’s question. I didn’t want to ruin the visit by fighting.
Mom sat next to me. Rich and Dad sat in the chairs. As they got situated, I realized I’d never had my whole family in my bedroom at once. It was weird. On top of the fact that we were in an EDU.
We sat there, looking at each other, gazing around the room. That was another thing: no distractions. We weren’t sitting down to a meal, or playing a board game, or watching a movie, like we would normally do if we were all together.
Plus, all these new insights were boiling inside of me—alcoholic, less-than-perfect family dynamics, problems in my parents’ marriage. Dr. Prakash had told me not to talk about that stuff until family therapy, because she wanted those conversations to happen in a safe environment, guided by a professional. But keeping them inside made me feel far away from my family. Now that they knew about my eating disorder, I had thought we would all be closer. But we were still a million miles apart.
“Would you like me to bring anything from home, to spruce up your room?” Mom asked. “Are you allowed to hang posters?”
I looked at the bare walls and nodded. “That would be good. Could you bring my Georgia O’Keeffe poster? The red poppy?”
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