Believarexic

by J. J. Johnson

  Like an eraser to my past.

  Monday, December 12, 1988

  Dr. Prakash had warned me, Norpramin might make you a little drowsy the first few days.

  A little drowsy!

  That was like saying the EDU lounge was a little smoky. The Titanic was a little leaky. Nurse Ratched was a little bitchy.

  I took my new tricyclic antidepressant for the first time before bed last night, lining up with the other patients for meds. It was like the weigh-in line, minus the paper gown, plus the promise of drugs. So: much better.

  This morning a nurse worked me up as usual for vitals and weigh-in, but instead of taking a shower afterward, I dropped back down and slept past Heather’s alarm. Monica came and dragged me out of bed, throwing clothes at me from my dresser. We got to the lounge in the nick of time; trays were on the table and Ratched was coming to look for us.

  We sat. Bronwyn told me I’d slept through the loudest Jesus Lady commotion in the history of Samuel Tuke. I stared, bleary eyed, at my tray.

  I fell dead asleep on the couch during group. Dead asleep.

  I only woke up because Bronwyn was jabbing me. I was too groggy to be embarrassed.

  “Jennifer,” Dr. Wexler said. “What are you trying to avoid by sleeping through group?”

  Apparently I answered, “I’m trying to avoid being awake,” and went back to sleep.

  I missed the ensuing laughter and Monica reminding him that I was going through my induction into the Norpramin club.

  Tuesday, December 13, 1988

  Dr. Prakash woke me up from an impromptu morning nap today. She sounded annoyed. “Jennifer, the medicine cannot possibly be making you this sleepy. You are on a minuscule dose.”

  “Sorry.” I wiped drool off my face. “But I mean. Look at me. The evidence is pretty clear.”

  Dr. Prakash sighed and wrote something in my folder.

  I sat on an aluminum folding chair to stay awake in group. It worked, just barely. I kept waking up when my head bobbed.

  This was ridiculous. I’d wanted drugs, wanted relief from depression and sadness, but sleeping my life away wasn’t what I’d had in mind.

  To add insult to injury—or gluttony to sloth—it was my first full day on 3000s. (Not to mention the weekly joy of urine collection day.)

  I could not believe how much food 3000 calories was.

  It looked like a lot more when it was your own tray instead of your neighbor’s.

  It took me an hour and three sugar packets to get through my breakfast eggs.

  Also I was afraid that I would fall asleep and dump my face onto what seemed like eighteen yellow washcloths.

  Lunch was enormous.

  Dinner was massive:

  •a buttload of green beans cooked with red peppers

  •two dinner rolls

  •three packets of butter

  •one pear

  •salad with dressing

  •a crap-ton of mystery meat

  •a big square of chocolate cake (which I ate first, since I’d be too stuffed to enjoy it later)

  •apple juice

  •chocolate milk

  That was the volume of food I had to eat three times a day. Oh, plus a mondo snack.

  I just had to keep shoveling food in my mouth the entire hour.

  I was a sleepy, fat, disgusting mess.

  Correction:

  I was a sleepy, healthy-ish, very human mess.

  Wednesday, December 14, 1988

  Treatment-planning Objectives for Jennifer

  Patient will learn potential side effects of Norpramin.

  Patient will explore ways in which she can be more spontaneous in everyday life.

  Patient request for weekend passes—approved.

  “What are you doing, kid?” Chuck asked.

  “Waiting for the phone.” I was lying on a couch, super dopey and half asleep. Norpramin life felt like short, choppy scenes between naps. Disjointed and strange.

  He swatted my feet. “Shove a bum, chum.”

  I made room for him.

  “So, what’s up?”

  I shrugged.

  “Come on,” he said. “You know you want to talk to your pal Chuck.”

  I sighed. “I still have so far to go.” From nowhere, I started to cry. Typical. “It’s so hard and I’m so tired and I still have so far. Why should I even bother?”

  He passed the box of tissues. “Did you think this would be easy?”

  “Everything else in my life has been.”

  “Huh. You think? It didn’t sound that way in your essay.”

  “What do you mean?” I didn’t follow. Slow brain.

  “You’re smart and get good grades, sure. But it sounded to me like you’ve been working really hard just to pass for normal and healthy. Let alone all the other burdens you put on yourself—be cool, be thin, be perfect.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So you’ve already been working hard. You just have to shift from working hard at pretending to be healthy, to working hard at actually being healthy. Just…pivot. Like in basketball. Pivot.” He mimed a jump shot.

  “Okay. But…”

  “But?”

  “I’m scared,” I said.

  “Of what?” he asked gently.

  “Of failing. What if I can’t do it?

  “Hey. Take it easy. It’s not all or nothing.”

  “Yes it is. You’re either in recovery or you’re not.”

  “Don’t make it so hard for yourself.”

  “But it already is hard. Too hard. I don’t know how to be, without my eating disorder.”

  “Just keep going,” he said. “You’ll make it.”

  “Ugh!” I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my face. “I’m tired of people saying that! What if you’re wrong?”

  “Just because you’re tired of hearing it doesn’t mean we’re wrong. Unmask thyself.”

  He stayed with me a while, writing his shift notes. I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up when he touched my arm.

  “Phone’s free.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  He smiled. “You’re very welcome, Snorey McSnorespants.”

  Thursday, December 15, 1988

  “So. You are adjusting to the Norpramin?” Dr. Prakash asked.

  I nodded. And yawned. “I’m going to bed earlier, and getting a little more used to it.”

  “Very good.” She made a note. “And what is on your mind today, Jennifer?”

  “I’m wondering whether I should quit dance. When I get out of here. Because I was looking at posters at the mall this weekend.”

  She took off her shoes and swiveled to light a cigarette. “I do not follow one to the other. Quitting dance because of posters?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Norpramin non-sequitur. The train of thought was: there were ballerina posters at the mall. And in Wellness and Nutrition, we were talking about exercise, and how I need a regular exercise plan, but noncompulsive. And non-

  eating-disorder-competitive.”

  “Ah. And dance…”

  “Is both compulsive and eating-disorder-competitive.”

  “I see. Do you enjoy it?”

  “I used to. I liked my dance classes, and I liked teaching the little kids. But lately it’s not fun. It’s stressful. Plus, the leotards, the mirrors, the performances…it might trigger me to want to lose weight and be skinny. Not might. It definitely will.”

  “What does your intuition tell you to do?”

  “Quit. At least for a while,” I sighed. “Find different ways to exercise. But it makes me sad to give it up. It seems like it’s been a big part of my life.”

  She nodded, paused. “Tell me, Jennifer. Do you know what narcissism is?”

&nb
sp; “Don’t think so.”

  “How about the myth of Narcissus? Are you familiar with it?”

  “No.”

  She tapped her cigarette ash and leaned forward. “In the Greek myths, Narcissus was a hunter. He was proud. He believed himself to be beautiful. In order to defeat him, his enemy led Narcissus to a pool of water, where Narcissus saw his own reflection. That was all it took. Narcissus became so entranced with his reflection that he could not leave the water’s edge. He was utterly self-absorbed. He ultimately died there, Jennifer. That is where the term narcissism comes from.”

  “Well, there are a lot of reflections in the dance studio. A whole wall of mirrors.”

  “Yes, I imagine it can be quite conducive to narcissism.”

  “But I’m not in love with myself. Most of the time I hate myself.”

  She lifted her hands, holding them like a balance scale. “Hating or loving ourselves can be much the same. Either way, the narcissist is the center of his own universe. He is fixated on himself.”

  “Oh. I never thought of it like that.”

  She nodded slowly, giving me time to think.

  “I guess I see what you’re saying,” I said. “Even when I’m hating myself, I’m still just thinking about…myself.”

  “When we keep ourselves at the center of our own universe, we miss out on other things. Do you understand what I might mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Like, if I’m just always looking down at my thighs, my eyes are glued on them, and I’m literally not able to look at anything else.”

  She smiled. “Yes. And?”

  “And it’s not just what I’m looking at. It’s what I’m thinking about.”

  “Not only what you are thinking about, but also the way you are thinking about it. Eating disorders are terribly narcissistic, Jennifer, whether one is loving how thin one’s thighs are, or loathing how ‘fat’”—she made air quotes—“one looks. Either way, it distracts you from many of the much, much more interesting things life has to offer.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as ideas, art, travel. Reading, learning, exploring. You name it, Jennifer. What would you like to be thinking about instead of your thighs?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then you must find out. You will have renewed mental resources when you are in recovery. Some of your thoughts will need to focus on the recovery itself. Other thoughts, some of the perfectionistic, obsessive energy…let us just say, it will be helpful to find an outlet.”

  “I like reading. And drawing. And writing.”

  “Very good, Jennifer. Very good. Just remember not to stand on the head of a pin. Follow your interests, do your drawing and reading and writing, but keep your two feet on the ground, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aspire to be ordinary.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I know, I know. You want me to stop competing in everything I do.”

  “Yes. And how will you do that?” She stubbed out her cigarette.

  I scrunched up my face. “I don’t know. Maybe when I’m more comfortable with myself? I won’t need to compete as much?”

  She touched her nose. It meant: Exactly.

  I lay on Bronwyn’s bed and watched her do her makeup, getting ready for our EDU outing. We were going to the two-dollar movie theater to see Big.

  Most of us didn’t wear any makeup on regular days. It wasn’t a drastic change for me—cherry ChapStick was the extent of my makeup routine at home—but it did seem like a big change for Bronwyn, Monica, and Amanda, because whenever we left the hospital, they put on full foundation, blusher, everything.

  We all did our hair every morning, though. Everyone except Heather. Mornings echoed with the sound of Conairs, checked out from our baskets, blow-drying coiffures in every room and bathroom.

  “Hey, Bronwyn?”

  “Yes, my Chiquita Banana?” We’d been keeping and trading the stickers from our bananas lately. I was still wearing the one from dinner on my forehead.

  I peeled it off and stuck it on her teddy bear’s chest. “Why do they make us keep dental floss in our baskets?” I’d pieced it together that hair dryers could be used for electrocutions, and the belt precaution was to prevent hangings (duh). But some of the other stuff, like floss, was still a mystery to me.

  “Ah. The floss question.” She peered in the mirror, then closed one eye to dab mascara on her lashes. “Sheryl used to work at another hospital, about five years ago.”

  “Ratched?”

  Bronwyn looked at me. “Yes, Ratched. She’s not that bad, you know.”

  “Um. Yes she is.”

  “Anyway. A girl hung herself with dental floss.”

  “What? With dental floss?”

  “Yes. Actually, no. Maybe the girl cut her own throat with it?” Bronwyn paused, looked at the ceiling. “No, she hung herself. Anyway, Sheryl was the one who found her.”

  “That’s horrifying,” I said. I had no great love for Ratched, but to go through that? How awful.

  “Yeah. They were really close.” She swept mascara across her lower lashes. “Sheryl doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  “How did you find out?”

  She shrugged.

  “It’s weird some of the things they do let us have, though,” I said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like on Shop Walk this week, I got that new Neutrogena shampoo and conditioner. Why do they let us have shampoo and conditioner and soap in our bathrooms, but not mousse or hair spray?”

  “Because of the aerosol cans, probably.”

  “No, they don’t even let you have the pump kind.”

  “I guess it’s more poisonous than shampoo?”

  “Yeah, but you could sneak anything into a shampoo bottle.”

  “Good idea,” she said. “Salon Selectives, whiskey edition.”

  “Now, now, Bronwyn,” I said, wagging my finger at her.

  She sucked in her cheeks and put on her blusher.

  “Did you notice when Ratched and the other nurses checked our bags, when we got back from Shop Walk, what they wrote in our notes?” I asked.

  Bronwyn shook her head.

  “‘Patient denies contraband.’ They used to write ‘No contraband,’ but now they say ‘Patient denies contraband.’”

  “I bet they changed the policy. Probably after Thriller snuck in laxatives.”

  “What!”

  “You didn’t know?”

  I shook my head.

  “She admitted it in group.”

  “When? Where was I?”

  “Oh! It was probably that day you were completely conked out. Yeah. She said she wasn’t trying to lose weight, but she was so constipated she couldn’t stand it anymore.”

  “She said all that?”

  “Yup. It was the most I’ve ever heard her talk. Her sentences were almost coherent. Almost.”

  “Maybe she’s gaining enough weight that her brain is starting to work again.”

  “Could be.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Um...they revoked her weekend passes and searched her room.”

  “Good Lord. What else did I sleep through?”

  “Not much.” She snapped her blusher case shut. “But now you know who to thank for the contraband policy change.”

  I propped my head on my elbow. “It just bugs me. ‘Denies contraband.’ Even when you don’t do anything wrong, you still feel—”

  “Untrusted.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Could be worse. I bet the nurses on Adolescent search everything like crazy.”

  “I know. When we go down there for CD, everyone looks so miserable.”

  “That’s because everything on Adolescent is
group process.” She rifled through her cases of eye shadow.

  “Group process?”

  “It means the whole group is punished for what one person does. Like, say, if Thriller snuck in laxatives, and got her passes revoked—”

  “Which she did.”

  She swept shimmery eye shadow on her lids. “Yes, but if we had group process, all of us would have gotten our passes revoked.”

  “Holy nightmare. Why do they do that?”

  “It’s reverse peer pressure, I guess. Knowing that the whole group will be held accountable for what you do is supposed to help you make good decisions. Plus, your friends want you to follow the rules, because if you get in trouble, so do they.”

  “And vice versa.”

  “Yup. You pressure everyone else to do the right thing so they don’t get you in trouble.”

  “So it’s still based on self-interest.”

  “Huh.” She nodded. “Yeah.”

  “And why don’t any of them have laces in their shoes? Is it…is it like dental floss?”

  “No. Someone probably tried to run away. They take your laces so you can’t run fast.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “That sounds hellish. It makes the EDU look like a picnic.”

  “Yes, it’s totally a picnic here! Picnics with heaping trays full of disgusting, smelly old food!” Bronwyn said. “Except for you, my little Chiquita Banana snack. You are fresh from the vine. Tree. Bunch. Whatever.” She ran her fingertips under her eyes to make sure there were no mascara flakes or unruly eyeliner marks.

  She picked up her basket. “I’m going to sign this in. Be right back.”

  “Sure.” I loved watching Bronwyn get ready to go out. It seemed like when she looked in the mirror, she liked what she saw. Bronwyn seemed comfortable in her body—relatively. For here.

  Comfortable in your body. I literally could not imagine what that would feel like.

  I hadn’t bothered with makeup for our outing, but I was wearing nice big silver earrings and one of my standard going-out outfits: big black shirt, untucked of course, hanging loose over my favorite jeans—which were getting agonizingly tight, especially around the waist—and slouchy black boots. I was going for Edie Brickell’s look in her “What I Am” video.