Believarexic

by J. J. Johnson

  “Yeah.” She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, which was covered with envelopes and papers.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Aren’t you happy?”

  She held up one of the papers. “My insurance is definitely running out.”

  “No way,” I said.

  “I think I have about a week left.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked. “Have you figured out about your Medicare?”

  “Medicaid,” she corrected. “Medicare is for old people.”

  “You’re old people.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Well? Medicaid, then?”

  She slumped, resting her back against the wall. “It looks like I’ll have to go home for about a week, and then Medicaid will kick in and I can come back.”

  “Will you go to your mom’s or your dad’s? Or Ithaca?”

  “I don’t even know.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “If I had my own house, you could come live with me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Spike would love you.”

  “We could have a zoo.”

  “‘Lions and tigers and bears.’”

  “‘Oh my.’”

  Sophia moved to the edge of her bed carefully, so she didn’t disrupt all her papers, then stood. “I’m going to go see if the phone is free.”

  “Call my mom for me,” I said.

  “Sure. After I call the insurance company. And Rob.”

  As she walked out, Ratched came in.

  “Jennifer, don’t you have any treatment-planning

  requests?” she asked.

  “Nooo…” I was confused. Why was she asking? “My treatment-planning day is Friday.”

  “No, it isn’t. Your treatment planning is today.”

  “What? No. My treatment planning moved to Friday.”

  “No, it’s today. You need to turn in your requests. They’re already late.”

  “But…” I started crying. Treatment planning was everything here. Everything. Passes, privileges, progress. “It’s supposed to be Friday! I don’t know what to ask for!”

  “Jennifer, calm down,” Ratched said. “Your response does not equal the situation. This is not the way someone in stage three should be acting. Pull yourself together.”

  Pull myself together? I was frantic. “I don’t know what passes to request! I haven’t talked to my parents! I can’t call them until tomorrow! How will I know when they can come?”

  “Why are you so unprepared? You need to take responsibility for your own recovery.”

  “I am! I do! But my treatment planning is Friday!”

  Ratched shook her head slowly, like she was absolutely disgusted. She turned on her heel and walked out.

  Sophia came back. I was still bawling. “Jen! What’s wrong?”

  I told her what happened. She disappeared. I tried to think what to do, but I couldn’t make my brain work.

  Sophia reappeared, with Dr. Kanduri.

  “Oh, Jennifer,” Dr. Kanduri said calmly. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

  I told her what happened. Dr. Kanduri’s lip curled; she looked intensely annoyed. But I could tell her irritation was with staff, not me. She marched off to the nurses’ station looking like she was going to kick Ratched’s ass.

  Sophia and I looked at each other. We ran over and pressed our ears on the wall, but we couldn’t hear anything.

  Then we heard the nurses’ station door, followed by footsteps heading our way, so we dove onto our beds. Sophia’s papers scattered all over.

  Dr. Kanduri came back in. “Not to worry, Jennifer. It is all straightened out. You were right, of course. Hopefully they will not make that mistake again.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You are most welcome. And thank you, Sophia, for bringing this to my attention.”

  “Yeah, thanks, Sophe,” I said.

  “No problem.”

  Dr. Kanduri left.

  I rolled out of bed and started picking up Sophia’s papers and envelopes. “You know what I love?” I asked, sniffing. I was a mess, still taking shuddery breaths from crying.

  “Do tell.” Sophia leaned over her bed, stacking the papers as I handed them to her.

  “I love how staff keeps telling me I need to be more independent. But look at this place! Everything is set up for dependency. I try to be assertive and say when my treatment planning is, and staff doesn’t believe me, so we have to depend on other staff to straighten things out with the first staff. No matter what, I’m completely dependent.”

  Sophia laughed. “Irony.”

  “I probably did overreact, though…,” I said meekly.

  “I don’t actually think so. Maybe in the outside world. But in here? One false move—as defined by staff, of course—and any and all privileges can be yanked. It’s high stakes.”

  “Everything we’ve worked for can just go poof.”

  “Yup. Anything that gives us a shred of dignity or control—”

  “Or happiness…,” I mused, thinking of how Ratched had shut down dancing with Bronwyn, and our after-meal game of Bullshit, and our sledding idea.

  “So you should freak out if staff tries to change the rules on you.” She started a new pile of papers. “I’d like to see what Ratched would do if she was a patient, and staff tried to change the rules on her.”

  “I would pay to see that,” I said.

  “Can you just imagine? She’d go batshit crazy. It would be hilarious.”

  “It would be funnier if it wasn’t so infuriating.”

  “Ah, but it’s funny because it’s true,” she said.

  “PS,” I said. “Thanks again. You’re an awfully good friend.”

  “You too, you big dumb stinker.”

  “Big dumb stinker! You’re going to give me a complex. And an eating disorder.”

  She grinned. “How about a complex eating disorder?”

  “God. I try to have a serious, heartfelt friendship moment, and look what it gets me.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I guess I’m not as mature as you are.”

  “Old people–Medicare notwithstanding,” I said.

  “Shut up,” she said in an old lady voice. “You kids, get off my lawn.”

  Tuesday, January 10, 1989

  “So, how have you been doing lately?” Dr. Wexler asked.

  “Crappy. Dizzy.”

  He flipped to the vitals page in that stupid folder dedicated to the life of Jennifer H. Johnson. Whoever that was.

  “My pulse this morning was one hundred forty. It’s been super high for ages. I never get to go on morning walks.”

  “We’re monitoring the situation. Your pulse and dizziness are likely a somaticized response to stress.” He sighed. “It certainly seems that you’re attuned to what’s going on physically.”

  I groaned. “You asked me how I was doing.”

  “And you answered by listing physical symptoms.”

  “So my body doesn’t matter? I thought the whole point of getting healthy is there’s a mind-body connection. It’s all supposed to be integrated.”

  “We’ve gone over this before, Jennifer. You tend to somaticize things. You feel your emotions in your body, when you should be talking about them and dealing with them in sessions.”

  “You asked me how I was doing, and I answered the question, and then you got all sarcastic and snippy.”

  We just went around and around like that, like two dogs chasing each other’s tails, until time was up.

  In therapy, sometimes there wasn’t a big insight, or emotion, or even much of a conclusion.

  Sometimes you just had to show up, put your time in, and stop when your fifty minutes w
as over.

  Wednesday, January 11, 1989

  “Travel to all four corners of the room,” Therapy Liz instructed. “There’s no order, no right or wrong.”

  I was the sole fan of Movement Therapy. God bless Therapy Liz, who led all the most loathed EDU classes: Movement, Wellness and Nutrition, Aerobics, Body Image. She had to do the impossible: convince EDU patients that butter and olive oil were healthy, or that we could exercise—“noncompulsively!”—in a mirrored studio. She withstood a constant barrage of resistance. Her leotards must have been armor-plated.

  But Movement was as close to dancing as we could get in this place. Plus, unlike walks and aerobics, staff was still letting me do this, even with my high pulse.

  We were in the movement studio, in the newer wing of Samuel Tuke. The room had a high ceiling, a huge bank of windows covered in purple curtains, and unfortunately, one wall of mirrors. Which was triggering for everyone.

  Hello, body image issues! Hello, dance class memories!

  They should have hung curtains over the mirrors instead of the windows. I would rather have natural light and zero reflection.

  I wore baggy pants and my biggest sweatshirt in the studio. The opposite of a leotard and tights.

  “The first time we travel, we’ll move indirectly,” Therapy Liz said. “I want you to wander. Just do what feels good, don’t think about it too much. Then we’ll go through a second time, with direct movement.” She ignored everyone’s grumbles and put on slow, new age music with wind chimes and pan flutes. “Okay, indirect movement. And. Allow yourselves to begin.”

  I wanted to dance around like a silly Muppet. But I was still a little dizzy. And all the other girls were moping around, zombie shuffling from place to place. It reminded me of a school dance, before anyone starts actually dancing, and everyone just stands around, waiting for someone else to get things rolling. I did sway a bit, but felt too inhibited by everyone’s gloom to do any major interpretive dancing.

  I saunter-swayed to the windows and pulled the curtains aside. Big, fluffy snowflakes were floating down from the sky, doing their own little dances on small updrafts, decorating the benches in the courtyard like frosting on a cake. It was beautiful. Therapy Liz smiled and came over to look.

  After a few more minutes, Liz paused the music. “Okay. Very good. And now, show me some direct movement!”

  I marched from corner to diagonal corner. Some of the girls power walked. There was a lot of giggling.

  “Great job!” Liz turned the music low. “Let’s gather in the middle and talk.”

  It was funny how Movement Therapy and Art Therapy and Journaling were all supposed to be stream of consciousness, uninhibited, and…duh duh duh…spontaneous. Just let the feelings flow. Don’t analyze or judge.

  But what did we always, always do after the spontaneous movement, or art, or writing?

  Analyze the crap out of everything.

  I guess the point was: do first, think later.

  And it was cool, how you could get crazy insights from stuff you thought was totally subconscious. But where was the line between appreciation and overanalysis?

  Wasn’t there a way to not ruin the beauty of what you created with too much jibber jabber?

  We all circled up on the floor and processed. Using nonjudgmental language, of course.

  When Liz got to me, she asked, “Which movement felt more comfortable for you, Jennifer? Direct or indirect?”

  “Indirect, definitely.”

  “Ah.” Liz nodded. “You know how you stopped and opened the curtains? It was wonderful, because it prompted me to go over and look. I wouldn’t have seen the beautiful snow if you hadn’t stopped to look at it along the way.”

  “That’s pretty cool,” I said.

  “It is pretty cool. Have you heard the saying Recovery is a journey, not a destination?”

  I looked at Sophia and raised my eyebrows.

  Liz continued, “It can be easy to overlook the beauty in our journeys.” She leaned back, quiet for a moment, like she was thinking. “I noticed something else. Jennifer, you said indirect movement felt more comfortable for you. Yet you always looked like you knew right where you wanted to go. Does that ring true?”

  I considered. “I guess I’m always concentrating on where I’m going, rather than where I am. But that’s ironic? Because I like moving indirectly better than directly. It’s a contradiction,” I sighed. “It’s confusing. I’m a bundle of contradictions.”

  Liz smiled. “It’s okay to be a bundle of contradictions. The point is that you are gaining insight into who you are. What your contradictions are.”

  I scrunched my nose. “I should try to be more in the moment, though.” I knew Dr. Prakash was right: I did need to be more spontaneous.

  “Maybe.” Liz shrugged. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s good to know where you’re headed. It’s good to have goals. As long as you also remember to stop and smell the roses.”

  I actually hated the smell of roses. But I got her point.

  Thursday, January 12, 1989

  Today in group, Patty, the socks/sex-hating former ballerina announced, “I just think I have to leave this place, in order to be true to myself.”

  “That’s exactly how I feel,” Monica said.

  This again. Right.

  I wanted to shout, Patty, you just signed yourself in directly from the medical hospital! What are you thinking! And Monica, you cut your wrists and passed out!

  Stop complaining and focus on what you can do here!

  Or, you know what? Forget it.

  Just shit or get off the pot. Everybody who’s not committed to recovery, just go. Pack your bags and leave. Don’t let that heavy glass door hit you in the ass on your way out.

  Or do let it. I don’t care.

  But who would be left?

  Me and Sophia.

  Not Charlotte, Patty, or Monica.

  Thriller? That girl was still an enigma. She never complained, but she also barely talked. I had a feeling she was working the program as hard as she could—laxatives notwithstanding. Her brain and body just weren’t re-fed enough to be capable of good decisions, or much other thought, insight, or energy yet.

  As for Amanda, she had her discharge date: January 25.

  I still couldn’t believe it. When Amanda had told me, I tried to smile and be happy for her, but she was still fighting the program as much as she was working it. I bet staff wanted to keep her longer, but Amanda’s obnoxious dad was pushing for her release.

  Bronwyn had her date, too: January 20. Eight more days.

  Even though it was only eleven days earlier than my tentative date, I was so far beyond jealous, I couldn’t even see jealous from where I was standing. Eleven days felt like a lifetime. Dr. Kanduri had said my last three weeks would fly. Wrong. Time was dragging slower than ever.

  Patty nodded, emboldened by Monica’s encouragement. “I don’t have any issues. I just want to be skinny.”

  I almost snorted. What a load of crap.

  I liked being skinny, too. But that wasn’t the same as not having issues.

  “Jennifer, what do you think about all this?” Dr. Wexler asked.

  I looked around the group. I didn’t want to sound mean or bitchy. I didn’t want to make anyone mad. I wouldn’t have survived my first week without Monica or Bronwyn. But I was sick of Monica talking about signing out, when she clearly wasn’t healthy enough for outside life. And I was fed up with everyone being so cynical. “Um, well, I guess I just…I feel like I’m going to stay and you know…work the program.”

  “Patty, how do you respond?” he asked.

  Patty frowned. “I think the only reason Jennifer is working the program is to get other people’s approval. She wants a Certificate of Completion or something.”

  My whole body went hot wi
th anger. Just pure fury. Fuck you, Patty. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

  But I didn’t need to create more drama in this place. I needed less drama. Less drama.

  “Well, okay, sure,” I said, willing myself to be calm. “Approval is nice. But…I believe in this program. I believe it’s saving my life. And also I’m fifteen, so I can’t really sign myself out, can I?”

  “I’m old enough to sign myself out, and to know what’s best for me,” Patty said. “I don’t need a stamp of approval.”

  I wanted to punch her in the throat.

  Friday, January 13, 1989

  Treatment-planning Objectives for Jennifer

  Patient request for lunch downstairs—approved.

  Patient will continue phone use every other day for family phone calls.

  Patient requests for weekend passes—approved.

  Today, Charlotte confessed that she’d been faking a stomach flu to cover up the fact that she had been PURGING FOR THE LAST TWO WEEKS. I couldn’t believe it.

  Back to stage one for her.

  I did not ever, ever want to go back to stage one.

  So even though I was coming down with a cold—sore throat and stuffy nose—I didn’t say anything to staff about it, didn’t ask for any Tylenol or Chloraseptic. Not after the fake-flu brouhaha. They’d probably overreact and somehow I’d be punished horribly for actually being sick.

  Even if I was dying of Spanish flu, I would just suck it up.

  If this place was teaching me anything, it was to lie low. Not to seek attention unless I truly needed help. Hup-two. Buck up. Suffer in silence.

  Saturday, January 14, 1989

  “Your mother and I have discussed it, and we do not want you to think about Samuel Tuke as a second home,” Dad said in family session. “So if you ever need to go back into a hospital, it will be somewhere new.”

  “Fine by me,” I said.

  Dr. Wexler’s eyebrows flew up. “Jennifer, you’re comfortable with this?”

  “Sure. I don’t ever plan on coming back here, or any other hospital. This is it. I’m done.”

  Dr. Wexler looked at my parents. “May I ask what prompted this decision?”