Believarexic

by J. J. Johnson

  At home I used to wait and wait for that video. Late at night, after I’d binged and purged, I would sit and watch MTV, feeling alone and empty. And the video would come on, and usually I wouldn’t cry, but sometimes I would. And I’d think that maybe if I was as pretty as Edie Brickell, and as laid-back as she looked in the video, maybe I could be okay. Maybe the inside could match the outside.

  Friday, December 16, 1988

  Heather voluntarily spoke in group today. She said, “I know I have a lot of work to do before I leave next week.”

  Everyone’s eyes bugged out. We were all like, SAY WHAT?

  “You’re leaving?” our newest patient, Charlotte (bulimarexic, 18, took Eleanor’s old bed in Bronwyn’s room) asked.Emphasis on you’re. Of all of us except Thriller, Heather talked the least, cried or emoted the least, worked the program the least.

  “Heather’s parents are signing her out,” Dr. Wexler explained. “Tuesday will be her last day with us.”

  “They don’t think this is working,” Heather mumbled.

  Tuesday. I quickly did the math. Four days.

  Four days until I didn’t have to room with her anymore!

  Yes! Yes! Yes! Hallelujah! Yes!

  I knew I should feel sorry for Heather; her family was obviously unsupportive. And I did pity her. But I was also so, so happy. No more moping, stomping, grunting, unfriendly, messy roommate!

  Monica, who was basically a saint, and therefore always nice to Heather, asked, “How are you feeling about going home?”

  “Not good.” Heather was looking down, frowning at her arms folded over her belly. “My dad’s making me get braces. To lock my mouth shut.”

  Um. She was kidding, right?

  “Are you serious?” Monica asked. She looked from Heather to Dr. Wexler. “They can do that? They can force her to do that?”

  “They can,” Dr. Wexler said. “It’s an orthodontic procedure, like braces, but the top and bottom braces are wired together so the individual cannot open her mouth.” He did not sound happy.

  “How…,” I started. “How will you eat?”

  “Liquid diet,” Heather murmured.

  Oh my God.

  Uncomfortable silence.

  Then Charlotte said, “I still don’t see how you get to leave. All you do is pout and be passive-aggressive. You’ve never done one thing for recovery.”

  Monica said, “Lay off, Charlotte. It’s not her choice to quit the program.”

  More uncomfortable silence.

  Dr. Wexler said, “Why doesn’t the group share ways we can support Heather until her discharge?” He turned abruptly to me. “Jennifer, what do you think?”

  What did I think?

  I thought Heather didn’t stand a chance.

  A father who would wire your mouth shut? And I thought my family had issues.

  But how could it help her at this point, to tell her that?

  So what I said was, “I’m here for you, Heather, if you ever want to talk.”

  Saturday, December 17, 1988

  Bronwyn had signed out nail polish and superglue from her basket; she was attaching little pieces of coffee filter onto her fingernail where it had torn. It was fascinating. And the fumes were rather potent.

  I was kind of morbidly waiting for the superglue fumes to mix with cigarette sparks so the whole place would blow up. Some excitement for our Saturday night.

  Annie Lennox’s video with Al Green, “Put a Little Love in Your Heart,” came on. It was in heavy MTV rotation because of the new Bill Murray movie, Scrooged, which Mom and I had just seen, out on pass. I went to the TV to turn up the volume. Bronwyn and I sang along. But we didn’t dance; we didn’t dare.

  “She’s so gorgeous,” Bronwyn said when the video ended. She blew on her nails, tickling the air with her fingers.

  I nodded while I turned the volume back down.

  “I think short hair is sexy on a woman,” she said.

  My cheeks went pink. I had short hair. Did that mean she thought I was sexy?

  It shocked me whenever Bronwyn or anyone here talked about a woman being sexy. Never, never would a girl have said something like that in Norwich. You could describe Molly Ringwald as pretty, or Cindy Crawford as beautiful, but sexy? No way. It would have meant you were a lesbian. Which meant everyone would call you a dyke. Which meant the end of your social life. Possibly even the end of your actual life. Kids got the shit kicked out of them for being—or acting—gay.

  But hearing Bronwyn talk about women as sexy was like hearing my own thoughts expressed out loud. Because I thought women were sexy.

  Which terrified me. Because did that mean I was a lesbian?

  Could you think a woman was sexy without being a lesbian? What if you got flustered and…turned on…thinking about women?

  No, no. I liked boys. I had loved fooling around with Conrad, before things went bad. Hot guys made me horny and libido-y. But I also felt that way about girls.

  Was there even a word for someone like that?

  I was scared there was a word for it.

  I was scared the word was freak.

  Sunday, December 18, 1988

  Laundry. I’d been handing off my essentials—socks and undies—for Mom to wash at home. But I really needed to do a big load of everything. My sweatshirt sleeves were practically crusty with dried snot and tears.

  So Bronwyn, Monica, and I dug out quarters (mine were hidden in my snow boots) and got Trendy to escort us to the vending room. All three washers and dryers, shared between EDU and Adult, were, miraculously, available.

  “Whites and darks separate,” Monica reminded me.

  “That’s clothing apartheid,” I joked. Then I froze. I felt my face go beet red. Bronwyn was African-American and I just made a joke about apartheid?

  “I agree.” Bronwyn didn’t seem too bothered. “And I just don’t believe in it. I shove whites and colors in together.”

  “Me, too,” I said, relieved. “Free South Africa.” I dumped the entire contents of my laundry hamper into the machine: sweatshirts, turtlenecks, jeans.

  And then I pulled my favorite jeans back out. I’d had them since eighth grade, since the beginning of my eating disorder—the eating part of my eating disorder. I had measured every ounce lost and gained by their feel. They’d gotten baggier and baggier as I’d gotten sicker and sicker.

  Now they were tight.

  What if my maintenance weight made me too fat to fit in them? How big was I going to get?

  “If I grow out of these jeans, I’m going to puke.” I said.

  I meant, I won’t be able to deal with it. Not literally, I will purge by vomiting. But too late. It was out.

  Trendy said, “That is some stinking thinking, my friend.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I said. “I just meant…” But I let it drop. And I dropped my jeans into the washer.

  Bronwyn and Monica gave me half smiles. They knew what I meant.

  “Can we leave our stuff?” I asked. “Come back when it’s done?”

  “It’s better not to,” Monica said.

  “People from Adult will toss your laundry on the floor to take over the machines for themselves,” Bronwyn said.

  “I guess it’s a dog-eat-dog world in the laundry room of a mental hospital,” I said.

  “Ruff,” Bronwyn said.

  “Bow wow,” Monica added.

  We waited, sitting on the washers, shimmying with the spin cycles.

  Monica’s washer shuddered to a stop, then Bronwyn’s, then mine.

  I pulled out my sweatshirts and jeans and set them in my basket. The rest of my clothes I put in the dryer.

  “You’re not drying those?” Trendy asked.

  “No way, José.” I shook my head. “I’m hanging them to dry in my room. I don’t want
them to shrink.”

  Trendy rolled her eyes.

  I’d been trying to shrink for so long. Now I was growing bigger.

  I needed my clothes to stay big enough to hide in.

  Monday, December 19, 1988

  “Hey, Heather?”

  “What.”

  “Have you seen my journal?”

  “It’s in Monica’s room.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I was writing in it. A good-bye note.”

  Um, it would have been nice if she had asked first before she took my journal. Monica’s room? Jesus. But I didn’t say anything. She was leaving tomorrow. It wasn’t worth creating drama.

  Monica had said Heather’s parents were planning to take her straight to the orthodontist on their drive home. To get her jaw wired shut. Just in time for Christmas.

  I felt so sorry for her. But I still couldn’t wait for her to go. Selfish, but true.

  I looked through my books on my dresser and nightstand, trying to find my Calvin and Hobbes collection. No Calvin, no Hobbes.

  “Okay. Well, have you seen Calvin and Hobbes?” I scanned my dresser again. “Or, wait…or Bloom County?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t take them,” she snapped.

  That was a weird response.

  “I didn’t say you took them,” I said slowly. “I asked if you’ve seen them.”

  “I haven’t seen them.”

  So I left. Retrieved my journal from Monica’s room. Went to the lounge. Sat on a couch, half watching MTV, half writing in my journal, half eavesdropping on Charlotte’s phone call.

  Which was actually thirds. Der.

  “Jennifer?”

  I turned around. It was Monica. “Hi,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Can you come into your room with me?”

  “Why?”

  “Heather asked me to come get you.”

  Bleh. Did I feel like dealing with Heather? No, I did not.

  “Just, please?” Monica said.

  I tucked my pen in my journal and followed Monica to my room. It was an even bigger mess than before—torn wrapping paper was crumpled all over the floor.

  Heather’s bed sagged under her weight. Monica sat down next to Heather and put her arm around her.

  Would I ever be as nice as Monica? How did she manage to always be so kind to everyone, including Heather?

  Monica said, “Heather has something to say to you.”

  Heather started snuffling. “Changed my mind.”

  “No, Heather. This is important. You can do this,” Monica said. “Jennifer is a toughie. She’s working hard for recovery. She understands the importance of forgiveness and making amends. She’s the best person to start with.”

  Start with? Forgiveness? What was going on here?

  “She’ll understand,” Monica told Heather.

  Heather got up and lumbered over to her desk. “Here.” She started shoving things at me.

  Four cassettes—Sting, Prince, INXS, Crowded House.

  And three books: Calvin and Hobbes, Bloom County, and The Prophet.

  Then she put a bunch of postage stamps on top of the pile.

  It was my stuff. I was stunned.

  “Um. Where were these?” I asked.

  “I…wrapped them up.”

  Oh my God. All the wrapping paper! “So…you were going to give my stuff away as Christmas gifts?”

  “Don’t get mad! I can’t help it. It’s part of my disease!”

  Holy hell. Stealing my stuff and wrapping it up. I couldn’t believe it.

  Was it part of her disease? How would I know? She never talked about anything.

  I had a really bad feeling that there was more. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  She made a sour face. “Yes, but I don’t have them.”

  “Have…what?” But flashcubes started popping in my brain:

  Dr. Prakash sticking up for me, believing I hadn’t used my quarters as weights.

  Dr. Prakash suggesting a calling card with a secret PIN.

  Chuck telling me to hide my stuff well.

  They had known.

  They had known my roommate was a kleptomaniac.

  And they hadn’t told me!

  Because they couldn’t tell me; it would break Heather’s confidentiality. They had to keep her secret, even if it meant causing harm to someone else—to me, in this case. They had to hope Heather would tell me herself.

  “I took…I took your quarters.” Heather said.

  “My quarters,” I said flatly. “You took my quarters. As soon as I got here.”

  And…my God. Had Ratched known?

  “I spent them,” Heather whined. “I spent all the money. I don’t have—”

  “You had them all along.” I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice. “You were lying here that morning when they accused me!” I pointed at her. “You were right there. You heard the whole thing. You could have told them.”

  She sobbed miserably.

  I blew out a big breath. I honestly did not know what to say. I was furious. I was baffled and incredulous. I also pitied her. What must it be like to be her? To have parents who padlocked the refrigerator? Who thought it was okay to wire their daughter’s mouth shut? It was medieval.

  “I promise I’ll pay you back,” Heather sniffed. As though making amends was just a matter of replacing my cash.

  “That’s…” I knew she wouldn’t pay me back. And even if she did, it sure as hell wouldn’t change the fact that I was humiliated and basically strip-searched because she’d stolen my stuff and then lied by omission.

  “It’s a disease,” Heather said again. “There’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “But there is,” I said. “That’s the whole point of this place.”

  “You’ve already taken the first step,” Monica said to her.

  “I have a lot more people to tell,” Heather said.

  Who else’s stuff had she helped herself to? How would they react?

  Monica suggested, “Why don’t you tell Jennifer how you feel.”

  “I’m really scared.” Heather wiped her nose. “That you and everyone else won’t like me or trust me anymore.”

  Um…hello? What about sorry?

  “I think people will be more willing to trust you if you try to talk about these things,” I said.

  “You see?” Monica patted Heather’s shoulder, then looked at me. “That’s what I told her. That people will trust her more, now that she’s opening up.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  I mean, God. She was leaving the next day. So maybe that little bit of hope was my good-bye gift to her. She needed it more than I needed to stay angry about something that was already done. I’d learned at least that much by now.

  Tuesday, December 20, 1988

  Heather’s parents came to get her before lunch.

  Her dad barged into our room, didn’t say hello, or acknowledge me, or hug her. He just picked up her suitcase and grunted, “Let’s go.” Her mom came in after him. She was meek, small, quiet.

  I ran to the lounge to tell everyone to gather for the song circle. But Heather’s parents were already hurrying her out. All we had time to do was shout good-bye down the hall.

  They were headed straight to an appointment to wire their daughter’s jaw shut.

  This place was opening my eyes to how truly horrible the world could be.

  For example: Monica’s older sister. She was (1) stabbed to death (2) by her own husband (3) on their honeymoon (4) when she was twenty-five. Monica was nineteen when it happened. She had been the maid of honor.

  Another example: Charlotte’s father (1) raped her, (2) got her pregnant, and (3) pushed her down the stairs, so (4) she would have a miscarriage.
This was last year. When she was seventeen.

  For some of these girls, an eating disorder was the least of their problems.

  It made me realize how good I had it. My family had issues, but nothing, nothing like that.

  Anyway, Heather. I closed my eyes and silently wished her good luck. She would need it.

  I hope you steal stuff from your orthodontist’s office. He must be a sadistic son of a bitch to do that to you.

  I hope you find solace somewhere. Because it probably won’t be from your parents. And it can’t be from food anymore, either.

  I wondered if any of us would ever hear from her again.

  In the meantime, to be totally, completely, obnoxiously selfish:

  No roommate! Private room!

  Wednesday, December 21, 1988

  Treatment-planning Objectives for Jennifer

  Patient will work on feelings of dependency and separation from family. Patient will limit phone calls to family to one call every other day.

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

  Patient request for weekend passes—approved.

  I sucked it up for my first 48 hours after arrival. That was the rule. After 48 hours, you got to use the phone. Everyone. That was the deal this whole time. And now, on my one-month anniversary, they were changing the rules on me. Not anyone else. Just me. I could only call every other day.

  And why now? Was this about Wexler and Prakash talking so much about individuating and becoming my own person and all that crap?

  Well, thanks a lot. What a great reward for working the program. How very nice of them.

  I was so mad, I didn’t even feel like talking to Chuck.

  I was so mad, I snapped at Dr. Wexler during group.

  I was so mad, I scribbled nasty doodles in my journal.

  I was so mad, I didn’t talk to anyone during lunch.

  I was so mad, I fumed at Dr. Prakash during individual.

  Okay, no, I didn’t do that last thing. I respected Dr. Prakash too much to fully fume. I was…respectfully angry. But she knew I wasn’t happy.