Believarexic

by J. J. Johnson

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks.”

  Awkward silence.

  “How’s the food?” Dad asked.

  “Terrible,” I said.

  “Institutional…” Dad frowned. “Er, that is, hospital food…is often terrible.”

  Awkward silence.

  “Are the other patients nicer than your roommate?” Mom asked, even though she knew from our phone calls that I’d made some friends.

  “Yeah, most of them.”

  “That’s good,” Dad said.

  More silence.

  “How’s school?” I asked Rich.

  “It’s school,” Rich said.

  And more silence.

  “Do any of your friends know I’m here?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” He looked annoyed, like I shouldn’t care whether his friends knew. Which was true, I shouldn’t. But his friends were cool seniors, so I did care. A lot.

  I poked at my quilt. “Have they said anything about me?”

  “You’re not a main topic of conversation, Jen.”

  “Oh.” Harsh.

  And silence again.

  “Is Chuck working tonight? Could we meet him?” Mom asked. She turned to Dad and Rich. “Chuck is Jenny’s favorite nurse.”

  I jumped up. “Yes! I’ll go see if he can say hi.” I’d waited all week to see them, and now I was rushing out of the room.

  I returned with Chuck. He made small talk.

  I needed someone to make small talk with my family.

  It was excruciating, and sad.

  Why did being with my family feel so…unfamiliar?

  Tuesday, November 29, 1988

  “Monica, want to peel my orange?” I asked.

  “You bet I do.” Monica plucked the orange off my tray. She loved peeling oranges. I hated it. I hated how the white part got stuck under your fingernails and the sides of your fingers got a funky roughness from the peels. Monica was my designated orange peeler.

  So far, the nurses let her do it. I was surprised they didn’t say it was “diseased behavior” to peel someone else’s orange.

  I took two packets of sugar from the condiment basket, tore them open, and made a sugar pile next to my eggs. I slid a piece of yellow washcloth into the sugar. This, too, was probably “diseased behavior.”

  Nurse Ratched held something in front of Bronwyn. It was a packet of butter wrapped in gold foil. “You need to eat this, Bronwyn.”

  “No, I don’t,” said Bronwyn. “It wasn’t on my tray.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Ratched said. “You need to eat it.”

  Bronwyn shook her head. “No. I’m back down to 1800s for maintenance. I have one butter. I don’t need another fat exchange.”

  Ratched crossed her arms. Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, you do. Eat it.”

  Bronwyn stared straight ahead, not looking at Ratched. “No. It’s not on my food plan.”

  “It’s not. It’s not on 1800s,” Amanda chimed in. She was a human encyclopedia of the EDU meal plans. “There’s only one fat exchange at breakfast on 1800s.”

  “This does not concern you, Amanda,” Ratched said. “Bronwyn, you cannot leave this table until you eat it. If you don’t, it will follow you. And you will lose privileges.”

  Bronwyn’s face turned dark reddish-brown. She closed her eyes and spoke through gritted teeth. “I know it is not on my food plan. I will eat it. But I want this reported in my case notes. Write down that I strongly object. A nurse is forcing me to eat something that is not on my food plan.”

  Nurse Trendy, who had been monitoring a different table, came over. “Bronwyn,” she said. “Why do you have a problem with staff telling you what to eat?”

  “My problem is with that specific staff”—Bronwyn pointed her fork at Ratched—“telling me what to eat.”

  Trendy frowned. “We’re just holding you accountable.”

  Ratched said, “Because we care about you.”

  “No. That’s not it,” Bronwyn said. She glared at Ratched. “You and I both know exactly what this is about.”

  Ratched’s face went white. She threw the butter onto Bronwyn’s tray and walked out. Which left Trendy as the only nurse in the room. This was a big no-no. There were always supposed to be at least two, if not three, nurses at meals. Trendy had to stand in the doorway and call for Bosom, who was in the nurses’ station.

  I looked around the table. Everyone’s eyes were wide. A nurse storming out? Unprecedented.

  You and I both know exactly what this is about. What did Bronwyn mean? What just happened here?

  Wednesday, November 30, 1988

  Treatment-planning Objectives for Jennifer

  Patient will begin writing personal eating disorder history.

  Patient is medically cleared.

  Patient will attend Chemical Dependency group on Adolescent Unit.

  Patient request for weekend passes—approved.

  “Do you think I’m depressed?” I asked Monica in the lounge after group. “Will I get put on medication?”

  “They haven’t started you on anything yet?”

  I shook my head. “I get my blood test tonight.”

  “Hm. Let me see you.” She looked deep into my eyes, as though the color of my irises or the clarity of my pupils was a depression scale. But she’d also seen me weep every day for the past eight days.

  “Yes.” She nodded once, decisively. “Depressed. That means drugs.”

  “Does medicine really help?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t make you feel happy all of a sudden,” she said slowly. “But it kind of pushes away that feeling of total despair and hopelessness.”

  “That would be nice,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “What do you take?” I asked.

  “Prozac.”

  I had heard of Prozac. There was a big article about it in Time magazine. Or Newsweek, maybe. My parents subscribed to both. Bathroom reading.

  “All the psychiatrists love it,” Monica said. “They act like it’s a wonder drug.”

  “Wow. Do you worry because it’s so new?”

  Monica tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Sorry. That came out wrong. Never mind.”

  “You can’t ask a question like that and then say ‘never mind.’ Tell me what you meant.”

  “I just meant, do you worry that maybe there are long-term effects that no one knows about yet?”

  Monica raised her eyebrows.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m sure it’s fine. They wouldn’t prescribe it if it wasn’t safe, right?”

  Monica sighed. “Jennifer, I figure even if there are bad long-term effects, they can’t be worse than anorexia and suicidal depression, you know?”

  “True,” I said. “Those are definitely worse.”

  “Yup.”

  “Did you…try to kill yourself?” I asked Monica.

  “A couple times. But mostly I just wanted to my disease to do it. Death by anorexia. I wanted to waste away.”

  “What if there were drugs that were reverse antidepressants! Prescriptions that caused anorexia and depression?”

  “There are.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way. Anorectics. Heather came in on Fenfluromine,” Monica said. “Her parents made her take it, to try to control her appetite. Did you know her dad put a padlock on their refrigerator?”

  “Are you serious?”

  Monica nodded. “An actual padlock.”

  “Is she still on the appetite drug? Fen-whatever?”

  “No, the doctors here took her off it. She’s on Norpramin now, I think.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a tricyclic. Tricyclics are the old standby of antidepressants.”

  Monica knew
a lot about this. It was almost like looking things up in a book. “Does everyone here take something?”

  “Pretty much. Amanda’s on Prozac. Bronwyn takes lithium.”

  “Lithium? Isn’t that for bipolar disorder?”

  “Yeah. She’s manic-depressive.” Monica looked around the lounge. “Let’s see. Thriller’s on Elavil, that’s a mood stabilizer. Eleanor takes Anafranil. That’s another tricyclic.”

  “How did you learn all this stuff?”

  “I was studying nursing. I haven’t told you that?”

  I shook my head.

  “At community college. I had to drop out last spring.”

  “Do you think you’ll go back? You would be a good nurse.”

  She gave a sad smile. “Maybe. I don’t know. I have to get better first.”

  “You will,” I said.

  “I’m not so sure,” she said. Then it seemed like she wanted to change the subject back to medication. “So they’re giving you your DEX test tonight?”

  “Yup. Tonight’s the night.”

  Dr. Prakash had told me I’d get blood drawn after snack, and then I’d have to take a pill at bedtime, dexametha-something. The pill didn’t do anything; it was just a marker to go in my blood. Tomorrow morning, they’d take another blood sample, to see what happened to the dexametha-something.

  They were also going to look at other chemicals in my blood. Dr. Prakash listed a bunch of them. Some I recognized from biology class, some I didn’t: cortisol, adrenaline, norepinephrine, serotoni-something.

  Chemical markers, blood draws, pharmacology. So much science to try to pinpoint what was wrong with me, and how to fix it.

  Or was I unfixable?

  Was I doomed to bulimarexia, and sadness, and monsters, for the rest of my life?

  Could a little pill really bring hope?

  Thursday, December 1, 1988

  My family arrived while I was still doing my thirty minutes at the breakfast table. They peeked in at me from the hallway, and a middle-aged white lady came into the lounge.

  “You must be Jennifer. I’m Dianne, a social worker here,” the woman said. “I’ll be leading your family therapy sessions.”

  I guess she met my family down in the waiting area.

  “You may be excused, Jennifer,” Trendy said.

  Slowly I pushed back my chair.

  “First one’s always rough. Be strong,” Monica said quietly.

  “Good luck,” Bronwyn whispered.

  Mom put her arm around me as we walked to my room. We settled into chairs, some borrowed from the lounge.

  My armpits prickled with sweat. For days I’d been thinking about how to break my new insights to my family. On top of all the costs and inconvenience I was already causing, how could I tell them I was an alcoholic? How could I confront them about their marriage dynamic?

  And how would they react? Would Dad get angry? Would Mom cry? What would Rich say?

  Dianne looked at her notes and my file. “Again, it’s nice to meet all of you. We’ll meet on a regular basis, so we’ll get to know each other quite well by the end of Jennifer’s time here. So. Let’s begin. Why don’t we start with you, Jennifer?”

  Despite all my anticipation, I wasn’t prepared. I drew a nervous blank. “Start with what?” I asked.

  “How things have been going. Anything you want to share.”

  “Um. Okay,” I said. “Well, I guess I’ve realized that I have a need to be the center of attention—”

  Dad snorted. Which gave me a flash of anger. And hurt.

  But Dianne didn’t say anything. I soldiered on.

  “I know in the past I’ve been a pain, so I’m sorry about that.” My voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

  Dianne still didn’t say anything. I looked at her, waiting for some support. She nodded at me to continue.

  “And I know I tend to be sarcastic with Dad,” I said.

  Mom and Dad both started talking at once.

  “Your attitude makes it awful for all of us,” Mom said.

  “Your sarcasm is inappropriate and destructive,” Dad said.

  “Sarcasm is unladylike,” Mom said.

  “It’s unbecoming,” Dad said.

  “You need to learn how to be nice to people,” Mom said.

  “Or you won’t have any friends,” Dad said.

  “You don’t understand,” I said, trying to hold back tears. “I know I’m sarcastic with you, but that’s because I’m nice to everyone else all the time. I only let myself be bitchy at home. Because I’m exhausted. I let myself be that way around you guys because you’re my family, and you have to love me.”

  Mom sighed. “Yes, Jenny, we love you. But lately we don’t like you very much.”

  My family doesn’t like me.

  The dam broke. Flood of tears. “I already feel bad. You don’t have to make me feel worse.”

  “I’m sorry, honey,” Mom said. “But you’ve been very hard to like.”

  “Fine, but I’m not the only one with a problem. A family is an ecosystem.”

  I looked at Dianne, waiting for her to back me up and explain that the whole family was involved in this. It wasn’t just me. But she still didn’t speak. Why wasn’t she helping?

  So I went on. “I’ve learned that maybe you guys don’t have a perfect relationship? And Mom, sometimes you drag me into stuff that should be between you and Dad. Plus, I think Dad’s anger is a big dynamic in our family.”

  Mom and Dad looked surprised. They bristled, like ducks whose feathers had been ruffled by a strong wind. Rich didn’t react. It was like he was tucked inside himself.

  “Admit it,” I said. “Dad’s always angry. And he can be so…cruel!”

  Dad’s face turned red. His body went into total defensive posture—arms crossed, legs crossed, furious face.

  I looked from Dad to Dianne. She still didn’t speak.

  It felt like we were on a boat with no oars or captain, being pulled toward a waterfall.

  “I mean, you’re either completely sarcastic and harsh, or you’re having tantrums and making Mom cry,” I said. “You explode. Everyone’s always afraid of you.”

  Well. That did it.

  “You’re the reason you’re here!” Dad shouted. “Not me! Not my anger!”

  “Dad—”

  “No!” he yelled. “You are what we came here to talk about! And by God, that’s what we’re going to talk about!”

  Mom looked scared. Rich looked scared. Dianne looked scared. She said, “Er, Mr. Johnson, it does seem that you may have an issue with your anger—”

  Dad turned on her. “You don’t know me! You don’t know anything about me!”

  She looked completely flustered. Mom and Rich were both starting to cry.

  I yelled back, just as loud as Dad. “Obviously your anger is an issue! Look at you right now! You’re screaming! You’re even yelling at the social worker! And look at me! I’ve got an eating disorder and I’m going to die if we don’t deal with it.”

  “Don’t exaggerate, and don’t tell me your problems are my fault!”

  “It’s not your fault that you terrorize your family?”

  “Shut up!” he screamed. “Just shut up!”

  And then Dr. Prakash came in. She must have heard us from all the way down the hall. In a quiet voice she said, “Dr. Johnson, Mrs. Johnson.” She shook their hands.

  Super smart of her to call Dad “Dr. Johnson.” He must have listed his Ph.D. in mathematics somewhere on my admission forms. It worked like a magic soothing balm. It immediately calmed him down.

  She turned to my brother. “And you must be Richard. I am Dr. Prakash.” She shook his hand. “Now. I appreciate all of you coming here today. What about if we move down to my office? It will be more comfortable.”

  We looked at th
e social worker.

  “I will take it from here, Dianne,” Dr. Prakash said. “Thank you very much for your time.”

  Dianne handed Dr. Prakash the folder and practically fled out of the room. She still hadn’t said anything. What a big help she had been.

  We followed Dr. Prakash down the hall. As we passed the nurses’ station, Ratched and Bosom looked at us curiously. Patients peeked out the lounge door. Monica’s eyebrows were knit in sympathy; Bronwyn crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue.

  Everyone had heard us.

  But the walk down the hall gave us some time to cool down. Clever Dr. Prakash.

  We filed into her office. Rich and Dad sat in the two chairs by the window. Dr. Prakash sat in her big leather chair. I sat on the couch, next to Mom. Even though I was mad that she hadn’t spoken up to defend me, I wanted to snuggle into her for comfort after that horrible scene.

  Except she’d just said she didn’t like me very much. That she hadn’t liked me for a while. I started crying again.

  Dr. Prakash didn’t waste time. “Thank you all for coming. Jennifer has something to tell you.”

  “I do?” I said. I was so shaken up. Which something did Dr. Prakash mean?

  “Yes, Jennifer,” she said, gently but firmly. “About alcohol.”

  Holy crap.

  I took a deep breath. “I told you how I’m starting a class downstairs?” I blurted. “The reason is…it’s for chemical dependency.” The words were sticking in my throat. “Er. On alcohol. It seems that…I guess…they think…and I think…maybe I’m an alcoholic.”

  Dad broke into loud laughter. It set me off into nervous giggling, even though it wasn’t funny. It was so not funny that it was hilarious.

  Wait. Dad wasn’t laughing. He was sobbing.

  The look of anguish on his face—I’d never seen anything like it.

  “Oh, my God!” Dad wailed. “Oh no! No! This is my worst fear! This is the worst fear of my life! No, please, God, no!”

  “Dad, it’s okay,” I said. I didn’t know if he could hear me, he was crying so loud.

  “Oh, God. You are so much like my sister,” Dad cried. “Oh my God. Oh my God! I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault, Dad,” I said.