Believarexic

by J. J. Johnson

  I was crying. Mom was crying. Rich was crying. It was impossible to see Dad like that and not cry. It was unbearable.

  I truly felt like I had destroyed my family.

  “Dr. Johnson, you are very upset,” Dr. Prakash said. “It is, indeed, upsetting to think of your daughter as an alcoholic. But tell me, is this news more upsetting than learning that Jennifer has an eating disorder?”

  “This is worse!” Dad wailed. “This is so much worse!”

  “On the contrary, Dr. Johnson,” Dr. Prakash said. “Think of it this way: one can abstain from alcohol. But food is ever present. One must face one’s addiction, or disease, three or four times a day.”

  Dad kept crying.

  Dr. Prakash said, “Jennifer, I believe you have more to share on this subject?”

  Jesus. I took another deep breath. I had to just get it all out, get it over with, so we didn’t ever have to go through this again.

  “I get drunk every weekend. I come home drunk a lot,” I said.

  Dad buried his head in his hands. Mom and Rich’s eyes, already red and wet, went round. Owl eyes.

  “You look surprised, Mrs. Johnson,” Dr. Prakash said. “Had you any idea about this?”

  “No,” Mom shook her head. “I had no idea. Jenny mentioned alcohol in the screening interview, but…” She trailed off.

  “And what about you, Richard?”

  “I didn’t know.” It was the first thing Rich had said all morning. And it was surprising. Hadn’t he heard about my public drunken hijinks? Plus, I thought we’d shared a bunch of Hey, it’s cool, I know what you’re up to, but we’ll cover for each other knowing glances in the kitchen late at night. Apparently these sibling bonding moments were completely one-sided. Self-delusion.

  We sat for a while. It wasn’t actual silence, because everyone was sniffling and cry-hiccupping. God, I was a piece of shit. For doing this to my family. For getting sick. For lying and sneaking around. For making them drive here and sit for hours and go through all this.

  Dr. Prakash said, “This may be difficult to hear. But Jennifer’s alcoholism and eating disorder are likely related to a bigger issue, an organic issue. An issue of brain chemistry, if you will. The latest research suggests that people such as Jennifer utilize extreme dieting or alcohol abuse as an attempt to self-medicate, or self-modulate—albeit problematically. We would like to see if we can do better for Jennifer. With psychiatric medication.

  “We have run some tests on Jennifer’s blood,” she continued. “We will wait until all results are back before we decide on a course of treatment. But I would like to ask your permission to prescribe Jennifer medication, when the time comes.”

  “Will you let us know the specifics?” Dad asked.

  “Of course,” Dr. Prakash said. “Now, I need to be very clear. Many psychiatric medicines react negatively to alcohol. If Jennifer were to binge drink while on medication, it could be very dangerous. Perhaps even life threatening.”

  Yay. An extra incentive not to drink.

  Mom and Dad seemed pretty numb. They just nodded.

  When the session ended, we were the walking wounded. I was depleted, exhausted. My family looked like they felt the same.

  I walked them to the end of the hall.

  “Um. Thanks for coming,” I said. “Sorry it was so…” Brutal? Scarring? Hellish? I couldn’t find the right word.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Mom said, her eyes still red from crying. “Think about what you want to do on your pass.”

  I nodded. My first pass. Instead of excitement, all I felt was guilt. “Sorry it’s so far for you to come. All this driving you have to do.”

  “It’s okay,” Dad said. It felt like a generous thing for him to say. He looked wrecked.

  “See you, Jen,” Rich said.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said again.

  What would their ride home be like?

  Poor Rich, being stuck with my brutalized parents for ninety more minutes. And then getting dropped off at school and having to go to class and concentrate like nothing had happened. At least I had support. He just had to try to resume normal life.

  Ha. Normal life. After today, and more family therapy in the future, would our family ever be able to resume normal life? Or was our version of “normal” what put me here in the first place?

  Were there actual answers to any of these questions?

  Or did we all just have to muddle through, broken and breaking each other, over and over again?

  Friday, December 2, 1988

  Eleanor left today. It was the first discharge I’d witnessed, and it brought up a messy mix of feelings: sadness, envy, hope, inspiration. Seeing someone successfully leave, having “graduated” the program, felt momentous. It was a light at the end of the tunnel. I wanted it to be me.

  I hadn’t become super good friends with Eleanor, but I would miss her. All of us on the EDU lived so closely together, in such extreme circumstances, that we couldn’t help but be connected. More importantly, Eleanor was the only patient totally dedicated to recovery. Everyone else complained or struggled or doubted. Eleanor was a rock. She seemed to have no doubts or fears whatsoever.

  We gathered after lunch to say good-bye, even though Eleanor had officially “terminated” with each of us during group. Terminations were official, required, staff-facilitated good-byes. But there were two unofficial, patient-led good-bye traditions: journal-swapping and the song circle. No one knew when these traditions started. Monica said they pre-dated her admission.

  Journal-swapping meant writing in the back of each other’s journals. It was like school yearbooks, except instead of Stay the same or Have a great summer! you got deep and personal, because this was about disease and recovery and struggle.

  I wrote to Eleanor: Thank you for that talk in my room. You are an inspiration. You are the strongest, most dedicated to recovery person I know. Good luck and keep in touch if you ever need support! And I gave her my home address, to write to me when (if) I ever got out of this place.

  In my journal, Eleanor wrote her address and said: Embrace recovery! You are doing this for YOU. I know you have what it takes!

  Was she right? Did I really?

  God, I hoped so.

  The song circle was even better than journal-swapping. We stood in a huddle—all of the patients on the EDU—with our arms around each other, and someone put on a tape with “That’s What Friends are For” and “Lean on Me.” We all swayed and sang along—loud—laughing and crying and smiling and hip-bumping.

  It was the best thing, my favorite thing so far. Even though it was totally cheesy, even though it meant saying good-bye to someone, even though I was still stuck here. Everyone participated, everyone sang. No one was jaded or resistant. For five minutes, we were all on the same team. We all wanted recovery. For ourselves and each other.

  If only it could always feel like that.

  Saturday, December 3, 1988

  Mom took me out on my first pass. I was 20 percent worried she’d still be upset from our family session, but I was 80 percent dying to get out of the hospital and do something normal.

  She was escorted up to the EDU after lunch. She looked tired. Was it because of Thursday’s family session? I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to bring it up.

  She came bearing gifts. One was a new poster of a long poem, “I Am Me, I Am Okay: My Declaration of Self-Esteem.” It was corny but inspiring, and a thoughtful gesture. She also brought my Georgia O’Keeffe painting, poster tape, another calling card, and quarters for laundry.

  We went to T.J. Maxx to hunt for bargains, because it had always been my favorite activity when we went to Syracuse.

  What had I been thinking?

  I stood, frozen, amid the rows in the Juniors section while Mom browsed shoes. I stared at the racks of jeans.

  Dread
, panic.

  What jeans size would I be at maintenance?

  I already felt fat. How could I gain more weight?

  How could I possibly maintain it when I got out?

  It was impossible. All of it, this whole thing.

  A tear rolled down my cheek.

  What a loser, crying in the middle of discounted jeans.

  I looked over at Mom. She was sitting on a bench, staring vaguely at shoes.

  I was putting my family through so much pain.

  Was it worth it?

  At least when I was sick, it was just me who suffered.

  Now I was dragging my family down with me.

  Mom must have felt my gaze. She glanced up, and came quickly over.

  “Oh, honey. You look like a deer in the headlights.” She hugged me, which squeezed more tears out.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right, sweet one. It’s all right.”

  “But I’m breaking our family.”

  She rubbed my back. “Oh, honey. You’re not breaking our family.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  She sighed. “Jenny, I thought about it all yesterday and all night.”

  “See? You didn’t sleep because of me—”

  “Listen to me. Listen. Yes, I had trouble sleeping. But it was worth it. Because I figured something out. You’re the truth teller. You are the truth teller of our family. You were trying to tell us something with your eating disorder, and now you’re figuring it out, and telling us in words. I can’t pretend it isn’t hard for us to hear. But it’s worse for you.”

  “No, it’s okay, Mom—”

  “It’s not okay. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m so sorry that this burden is on you. It shouldn’t be. It should be on grown-ups.”

  It sounded like something Dr. Prakash would say.

  “What about Dad?” I asked. “Does Dad think I’m a truth teller?”

  She frowned. “Your dad is having a hard time with all of this. But he loves you.”

  “Does Rich hate me?”

  “Rich doesn’t hate you. Our family is not going to break because you are in the hospital.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed her.

  “Let’s get out of here. How about a movie?”

  I nodded. “A movie sounds good.”

  We went to see The Naked Gun. It was ridiculous. It must have been just what we needed, because we laughed and laughed.

  Maybe it was because we were tired and needed a break from the heavy stuff.

  Or maybe it was because when you went through something this painful, it cracked open a part of your heart and made some room for joy.

  Sunday, December 4, 1988

  Dad came this afternoon. I was more nervous than I had been with Mom yesterday, but I was still excited to get out of the EDU.

  He looked okay: weary, but not completely torn apart. “So, what would you like to do, JJ?”

  “Um, well, I thought, since it’s nice out, we could go to the zoo?”

  “Syracuse has a zoo?”

  “A small one. I’ve been to it before, on a school field trip. Chuck said there’s a new boardwalk that’s really nice.”

  “You’re allowed to go there?”

  “Yup. It was Chuck’s suggestion. He even drew a map for directions.”

  “Okay. The zoo it is. It’s cold out, so bundle up.”

  I nodded. Usually I would have said something about being fifteen and knowing how to put a coat on. But I decided to see Dad’s directive as a way of showing he cared about me. I got my coat, hat, mittens, and scarf.

  He signed me out, and we drove to the zoo.

  It was really cold outside. But I’d bundled up. And the sun felt fantastic.

  Dad and I were careful with each other. Polite and courteous. We watched the animals and read the informational displays to each other.

  It was the first time in ages that I didn’t lie to him, or act fake and perfect, or cover everything up.

  We didn’t seem broken.

  It seemed like progress.

  After dinner, I decided to have a Sprite as an optional liquid, above and beyond the required 1800 calories of my meal plan. It would be my first voluntary, full-size, nondiet can of soda in four years. (From a taste-bud standpoint, I would have preferred Coke, but patients weren’t allowed anything with caffeine.)

  I was super nervous.

  But I needed to do this. Confront my irrational fear. Check it off the list. Just have a damned Sprite and live to tell about it.

  Chuck offered to chaperone me to the soda machine. We went to my room—Heather was in the lounge—and I dug some quarters out of a roll.

  “You’re hiding those well, right?” Chuck asked.

  “Yup.” I held up my snow boot.

  “Did you ever find out what happened to those other quarters?”

  I shook my head.

  He frowned but didn’t say anything.

  We walked to the vending/laundry room at the end of the hall.

  As I put my quarters into the machine, my hands were shaking. I was incredibly nervous about drinking a full-size soda on top of all the calories I was already eating.

  Would it immediately make me fat?

  Would all the sugar go straight into the bubbles of cellulite on my thighs?

  No. Of course it wouldn’t. People drank soda all the time. One soda didn’t make your body parts burst into freakishly large whale proportions. One soda didn’t turn you into the Hulk.

  I hit the Sprite button. As the can tumbled inside the machine, something hit me in the back of the leg. I looked down. A Ping-Pong ball was rolling away from my foot.

  “GOOOOOOAAAAAL!” Chuck did a slow-motion lap around the tiny room.

  “You’re hitting me with stuff? Hello? I’m trying to embrace recovery over here.”

  “I’m trying to embrace victory over here.”

  “What?”

  “Vending room soccer. Goals are the soda machine and the doorway.”

  “I hope you’re ready to embrace defeat.” I retrieved the ball from the corner and gave it a kick.

  “Yo, you know how we were talking about your grades,” he said, trapping the ball with his foot, “and you told me you get straight As, except for the—”

  “Occasional threat of an F in my interim reports?” I blocked his attempt at a goal. “Ha. Denied.” I dribbled with my toes and kicked it out the door. “Good day, sir!”

  “Darn.” He retrieved the ball and set it down for kickoff. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I realized: those are both ways of getting attention.”

  I looked up at him. “I never thought of it like that.”

  “Astute.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “That’s what I’m here for.” He kicked the ball straight past me. “GOOOOAAAAAL!”

  He beat me, three goals to two. Then we sat on the floor, our backs against the warm clothes dryers.

  I popped the Sprite open and took a small sip. It was cold and fizzy and absurdly sweet on my tongue. I tried not to think of cellulite and calories. “My brother’s coming to visit Friday.”

  “That’s good.” He was drinking a regular, full-caffeine Coke.

  “It’s the first time he’s coming to see me without my parents bringing him.”

  “Cool beans.”

  “I bet my parents are paying him to come. They must have instituted some kind of incentive program. Or maybe it’s just plain coercion.”

  “Carrot or stick?” Chuck made a face. “What makes you say that? He seemed nice when I met him.”

  “He doesn’t like me.” The words caught in my throat. I took a sip of Sprite, trying not to cry.

  “He’s your brother. He loves you.”

 
“Nope. Doesn’t want to be seen with me.”

  “He’s older than you, right? That’s standard older brother behavior.”

  “I guess. But if I ever show up at a party and he sees me, he leaves. He literally rounds up his posse and leaves.”

  “His posse?”

  “His posse.”

  “Okay, not subtle. But still probably normal.”

  “I just wish we could hang out sometimes. We used to ski and ride bikes together. Then again, Mom made him take me along, so that’s not a good example.”

  “You sound like you look up to him a lot.”

  “I do. He’s the cool one in the family.”

  “You’re not cool?” He looked aghast. “Then why am I hanging out with you? I’d better get out of here.”

  “Ha ha. My brother says I’m a geek.”

  “You’re not a geek,” Chuck said.

  “But I’m not as cool as Rich. He gets along with everyone. He’s an amazing skier, and he’s good at sports and stuff like that.”

  “You’re good at things, too.”

  “Good at being a bitch to my family,” I said. “He hates me. This visit couldn’t have been his own idea.”

  Chuck bumped his shoulder into mine. “Hey. Don’t put words in people’s mouths, or feelings in their hearts.”

  “Just make up imaginary problems for them, like the strangers in the window?”

  “That was different. Now we’re talking about the people who are in your life. You shouldn’t assume you know what they’re thinking and feeling. If you want to know how your brother feels, ask him. He’ll probably tell you. But until then, don’t assume. You know what happens when you assume.”

  I rolled my eyes at the old joke. “You make an ass out of u and me.”

  “Correct. Good student.” He drained the last of his Coke and nodded toward my Sprite. “You going to finish that or what?”

  “Yeah. Give me a second.” I drank the rest, wiped my mouth with my sleeve, and let out an involuntarily burp. My cheeks burned. Uncontrolled bodily noises: so mortifying. “Excuse me,” I muttered.

  “Good one!” Chuck stood and put his hand out. I grabbed it and he hauled me up. “Whatever the reason, it’s nice that your brother’s coming,” he said.