Believarexic

by J. J. Johnson

  “For instance?” Dr. Wexler prompted.

  “Well, one time, when she was in eighth grade I think, she told me that she didn’t understand English.”

  Dr. Wexler looked at me. “You didn’t understand English?”

  “I said more than that! I told Mom that I’d be sitting in class, or with my friends, and they’d be talking, and it felt like everything was going on around me, and none of it made sense. Like words were just swirling in the air, but I couldn’t make them mean anything. I said all that, Mom!”

  “You sound defensive, Jennifer,” Dr. Wexler said.

  “Yeah, because she makes it sound like I’m purposely trying to manipulate her. Like I’m just a manipulative little bitch. But it was real! Dr. Prakash called it a…” I tried to think. What had she called it again? “She called it a disassociation experience.”

  “Dissociative experience,” Dr. Wexler corrected. He opened my folder and leafed through papers. Without lifting his eyes from the page, he explained to my parents, “A dissociative experience is when a person feels that she is outside herself. Or when things seem unreal.”

  Mom looked concerned. Dad looked annoyed. Rich looked sleepy, but somewhat interested for a change.

  “It’s real!” I said. “I mean, it’s real that it feels unreal. I don’t know how to explain it. But Dr. Prakash knew exactly what I was talking about, right away. It’s a horrible experience. It’s freaky. That’s why I was trying to tell you.”

  Dr. Wexler seemed to find what he was looking for in my notes. He was quiet for a moment, reading. Then he looked up. “These experiences can be quite unsettling. But they aren’t terribly unusual.”

  “It felt terribly unusual to me.” I turned to Mom. “What am I am supposed to do? Not tell you? I thought I was supposed to talk about my feelings.”

  “It sounds like your mother didn’t appreciate the timing of your disclosures,” Dr. Wexler said. “Can you see it from her perspective?”

  “I’m glad if you talk to me,” Mom said. “But why is it always right before a business trip? When I have so much preparation to do? It feels like sabotage.”

  I slumped. “I see your point.”

  “Do you think you were sabotaging your mother?” Dr. Wexler asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. The adults in the room seemed to think I was. “If I was sabotaging or manipulating, it was subconscious. Honestly.”

  Dad snorted.

  Dr. Wexler ignored him. “How so?”

  “I just think…it feels like a deadline. You know when an essay is due, and you rush to get it done? It’s like that. I know that Mom is going away, so I rush to get it out before she leaves.” I sighed. “I see how that looks like I’m manipulating her. But I really didn’t mean to.”

  Dr. Wexler raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I said. “In the future, I won’t talk to you about my feelings—”

  “Jennifer,” Dr. Wexler warned.

  “I wasn’t finished!” I said. “I was going to say, in the future, I won’t talk to you about my feelings right before you leave for a trip.”

  Sheesh. Give me some credit. I was trying to grow here, people.

  Saturday, January 21, 1989

  Somehow, despite the milk trick, staff let Bronwyn keep her original discharge date. She left today.

  I followed her out. I was leaving with Dad for a pass; she was leaving with her parents for good.

  I stared at her suitcases wistfully. One more week. Just one more week.

  We wrote the time in the Patient Out/In Log at the front desk, then waited for our parents to initial under “staff or chaperone” next to our names.

  Things were better between Bronwyn and me. We hugged in the cold, snowy parking lot. Our breaths were clouds in the cold air.

  “I’ll miss you,” I said.

  “I’ll miss you,” she said. “But I won’t miss this place.”

  I laughed. “Be good.”

  “You, too.” She looked at her family, waiting in their BMW. “I’m scared, Jennifer,” she whispered.

  “I know. But be brave. You can do this. Remember from OA: Courage doesn’t mean you’re not afraid. It means being afraid, but doing things anyway.”

  She nodded solemnly.

  “Write,” I said. “Or call. Tell me how you’re doing, okay?”

  She nodded. We hugged again.

  And that was it.

  She got in the car and her dad drove away. She waved at me out the back window.

  I got in the Delta 88.

  “Movie?” Dad asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “Sounds good.”

  He pulled out of the parking space. “There’s one with Harrison Ford that’s supposed to be pretty good. You still like him?”

  “Harrison Ford? Yeah.” I stared out the window. Would Bronwyn be okay? Would I be okay when I left?

  “You all right, JJ?” Dad asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m okay.” Then I added, “Thanks for asking.”

  “Was she your friend? That girl back there?”

  I nodded.

  Past tense: “Was she your friend?” Not “Is she your friend?”

  Were hospital friendships destined to become past tense?

  How many of these girls would remain in my life?

  How transient would our friendships turn out to be?

  Sophia and I would stay friends, close friends, for sure. The end, period, full stop.

  But the others? How many would disappear without another word, like Heather had? How many would fade quickly after one phone call or letter, like Eleanor?

  How many would get better? Get into recovery?

  How many would stumble, relapse, but pick themselves up again?

  How many would give up completely, resigning themselves to a life of disease?

  These, the sick girls, would I need to cut them loose?

  To protect my recovery, how ruthless would I need to be?

  When we got back to Samuel Tuke, Dad walked me into the lobby, signed me in, and gave me a big hug. He kissed the top of my head. “I’m proud of you, JJ.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Mom will be here tomorrow. I’ll see you in a week.”

  One week.

  The next time I’d see him, I’d be going home.

  “Okay. Thanks again for the movie.”

  “You bet.”

  The lady at the front desk smiled. She called the EDU to tell them I was coming up. They trusted me to escort myself these days.

  Chuck was waiting at the door at the top of the stairs.

  “You’re back!” I said. “I missed you!”

  “I heard you got your discharge date.” He held the door for me.

  “I did indeed. Will you be here this week?” I asked. “A lot?”

  “Would I miss your last week?” he said. “I’m on shift Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday.”

  “Days or eves?”

  “Eves.”

  “So you can take me on meal and snack out! Because Ratched has days this week!”

  “Kid, for the love of monkeys. Her name is not Ratched. It’s Sheryl. But yes, that’s the plan.” He punched me gently on the shoulder as we moseyed leisurely down the hall. “Where do you want to go? What are you in the mood for?”

  “Piiiizzaaaa.” I held out my arms like Frankenstein’s monster. “Jen want piiiizzaaaa. Jen miss piiiizzaaaa.”

  “That can be arranged. Thin or thick?”

  “Thick and goooeeeyyy.” I dropped the act. We stood in the hallway. “Wait. You’re not going to be here Saturday?”

  “You’ll be gone in the morning, kiddo. Figured I’d stay home and cry into my pillow.”

  “V
ery funny.”

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “For what?”

  “Duh,” he said. “To leave.”

  “Oh. Duh.” Was I ready? Would I ever be ready? “I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be?”

  “Hm. Good. I like it. Thoughtful, but not overconfident.”

  “Over-confidence is not my weakness,” I said.

  “What is your weakness, then?” he asked. “Besides quoting Star Wars. You are quoting Star Wars, right?”

  “But of course. Return of the Jedi. Luke tells the Emperor, ‘Your over-confidence is your weakness.’ And then the Emperor goes, ‘Your faith in your friends’”—suddenly my throat got tight, my voice faltered—“‘is yours.’”

  “Whoa. You okay?”

  “Not really. I mean, holy cow. That is my weakness. My faith in my…” I leaned against the wall and asked quietly, “Did you hear what happened? With the milk trick, and Monica, and my room search?”

  “Unfortunately. I read about it in your case notes.” He sighed. “That’s a stinker, kiddo, no doubt about it. But listen. Maybe your faith in your friends isn’t your weakness. Maybe you just need to be a better judge of who your real friends are.”

  “You’re right.” Tears came. “But how am I supposed to know?” I used my coat sleeve to wipe my face. “What’s the secret? How do you figure out who your real friends are?”

  “How do you think?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Obviously.”

  “You have to trust your gut.”

  “Ha. Sure. Except my gut isn’t trustworthy. I have an eating disorder, remember?”

  “Good point,” he said. “Well, here’s what I think. Just take small steps as you get to know someone. And give it time. You have to take a risk on people at first, when you don’t know them well, but make it a small risk. Small things, like little favors or secrets, nothing big.”

  “Ooh, like a spy.”

  “Excuse me? How do you get ‘spy’ from—”

  I wiggled my fingers at him. “You plant a little tidbit of information, something untrue, a different thing for each person, and whatever gets out, you know who leaked it!”

  “Okaaay,” he said. “Or maybe something a little less…”

  “James Bond? Brilliant and debonair?”

  “Uh, sure. James Bond. Let’s go with that. Anyway, as I was saying. The bottom line is, friends are people you can trust. They have your back. It’s as simple as that.”

  “I know Sophia has my back.”

  “She sure does.”

  “I thought Monica did, too,” I said. “I thought I could trust her.”

  “Did you really?”

  “Of course I did. What do you mean?”

  “I mean, were there any signs? That maybe she wasn’t as trustworthy as you thought?”

  I mulled it over. “Well, Sophia told me not to trust her.”

  “Interesting.” He nodded. “And?”

  “And…Monica wasn’t committed to her recovery, because she signed herself out. And did the milk trick.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “And she was hurting herself, and not being honest about it. And…she was always so nice to everyone, it was like…I wonder if maybe she focused on helping everyone else, instead of dealing with her own issues.”

  “So, what you’re telling me is, there were actually quite a few red flags.”

  “I guess,” I admitted. “Yeah. There were red flags.”

  “You just didn’t heed them.”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s not that I didn’t heed them. It’s that I didn’t even see them. That’s worse. It’s scarier.”

  “You just need some practice. Learn how to see those flags, be sure you listen to them.”

  I sighed. “You make it sound easy.”

  “It’s not easy. But you can do it, kid.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “You listen to me. You’ve got this. You can do this. It’s in the bag.”

  Sunday, January 22, 1989

  I walked into my room and found Ratched behind my bed. She was peeling my cards and notes off the wall.

  MY NOTES AND CARDS.

  THAT PEOPLE SENT.

  TO ME.

  They hadn’t announced a room search. Why was she in my room, pawing through my things? I tried to remain cool and collected, like the about-to-be-discharged, advanced-level- three patient I was.

  “Um, what are you doing?” I asked.

  She whirled around. “This is not masking tape!” Her

  tone was demented and hysterical, like she was the victim in a horror movie. “You need to take all these down,” she said. “Immediately!”

  “It’s poster tape,” I said. “I used it specifically because it comes off without damaging the wall.”

  “Oh. Well. It’s still not masking tape.”

  No shit, Sherlock.

  “What about this?” Ratched gestured toward the window, where one of my sweatshirts was hanging from the curtain rod.

  “I washed it. It is still drying. There was nowhere else to hang it.”

  “And your books! They are everywhere.”

  “No they aren’t,” I said.

  “Yes! They are! You have things everywhere! You are the only one who ever has a room this messy!”

  “What are you talking about? Remember Heather? She was a slob. Not to mention the fact that she was a kleptomaniac! How long did you know that!” I studied her face to try to gauge her response, but she was unreadable.

  “No, no. You’re the messiest patient in this hospital!” She sounded completely unhinged.

  “Look, everyone hangs up their clothes after they do laundry. And maybe I have more books, but that’s not the issue. Face it. You have some sort of bizarre obsession with me.”

  “Bizarre obsession!”

  “That’s right,” I said. “You have a bizarre obsession with me. Something about me triggers you. You obviously have some kind of major issue with me.” I took a deep breath. “You know, I’m leaving at the end of this week—”

  “I know that, and I think—”

  “Excuse me.” I held up my hand. “I wasn’t finished. Please don’t interrupt.”

  She narrowed her eyes, like she could not believe how impertinent I was being.

  “As I was saying, I’m leaving at the end of this week. And I don’t think we have to love each other, but I would appreciate it if you would just leave me alone.”

  “I can’t leave you alone. I’m your primary.”

  “Well, then, I think you should take a look at your own issues.”

  “Jennifer! That’s not appropriate! My issues? That’s not for you to say!”

  “No? These cards on my wall? They have been up there for two months now. Two months. Why today? Why, less than a week before I leave, do you decide to come snooping around my room?”

  She crossed her arms. “I am staff. If I come into a room, it isn’t snooping.”

  “Sure, you are staff. So I guess that makes it okay for you to hate me?”

  “I don’t…I don’t hate you,” she said.

  “Could have fooled me!” I said. “From day one you’ve had it out for me. Every day it was another smack in the face. Accusing me of tanking. Accusing me of sticking things up my you-know-what. Accusing me of enabling. Of hiding sharps.”

  “I was just…I was trying to keep you safe.”

  “Safe? I have done nothing, NOTHING, but work the program since the minute I got here.”

  She blinked. Didn’t say anything. Was I getting through to her?

  “And you know what? None of the other staff have accused me of any of those things. Not one. Have you ever noticed that? They don’t seem to think I’m a horrible person.”

 
Oh my God. I felt like fifty pounds had dropped from my shoulders. Not cellulite pounds; the myth of Atlas pounds. Unnecessary burden pounds—the weight of having to tiptoe around this landmine of a nurse.

  “Well,” she said. “I still—I think it’s unfair to housekeeping to have to clean such a messy room.”

  “Sorry you feel that way,” I said.

  “That’s all you have to say?” she asked.

  “Hm. Is that all I have to say? I think so,” I said. “No, wait. It isn’t. I want to say that I think you’re the one with the issue here. Except maybe I said that already. Goodness. I just can’t keep track. Good-bye.”

  I dove onto my bed and hugged Bearibubs. I was giddy, relaxed.

  “I think…you should consider the housekeepers and come up with a better response.”

  “I think I’m not supposed to think about it. I think I’m supposed to be spontaneous and express my thoughts and emotions. Which I just did. Quite admirably, if I do say so myself. An A plus for me.”

  “So you’re not going to pick up your room? It’s going to stay like this?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  “Well, I think there should be consequences for that.” She turned and walked out.

  I looked at Bearibubs and repeated, “I think there should be consequences for that.”

  Usually I fell apart after a confrontation. But this time, I was content and happy.

  I’d finally said what I’d needed to say.

  I had told her where she could put my quarters.

  Monday, January 23, 1989

  They let me weigh myself this morning. I stood in the nurses’ station, in my worn-out paper gown and bare feet, just like a million times before, except this time I was facing the scale.

  “Go ahead,” Bosom said.

  My heart was beating fast. I stepped on the platform, taking a moment to balance and breathe. Slowly I slid the clanking weights. Higher, higher, higher.

  I stepped off.

  I weighed more than I’d ever weighed in my life.

  I was in the exact middle of the five-pound adolescent weight range. My adult weight range was ten to fifteen pounds more. Which I seriously could not fathom ever weighing.

  “You okay, hon?” Bosom asked.