Believarexic

by J. J. Johnson

  “You—you threw me a dance party?” I shouted.

  “We threw you a dance party!” Sophia repeated.

  “Because I seem to remember you saying something about being happiest when you’re dancing,” Chuck said as he boogied over. “Well, what are you waiting for? Take the dance floor, kid!”

  All the furniture had been moved to clear a space.

  “How did you…why did…”

  But I knew how. And I knew why.

  How: Nurse Ratched was gone.

  Why: because Chuck and Sophia—and maybe even some of the other nurses and patients—loved me.

  “Anyone below maintenance weight can only dance to the slow songs,” Baldy shouted. “So don’t ruin it for Jennifer by getting compulsive!”

  “But…you’re not supposed to hang things from the ceiling,” I told Chuck. As if he didn’t know.

  “Let me worry about that, would you?” he said. “Go! Dance!”

  The next song was Prince, “Let’s Go Crazy.”

  “I love this song!” I squealed.

  “We know!” Sophia laughed.

  We all intoned the beginning along with Prince, “‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…’”

  And then we went crazy.

  In a good way.

  — Discharge —

  Saturday, January 28, 1989

  And now I’m in the car, and I’m on the way home.

  Mom and Dad are in the front seat.

  I’ve got my Walkman with me in the back.

  In it is a mixtape Chuck made for me. A Maxell 120, loaded with songs. The first side is the playlist from last night.

  The side I’m listening to now is “For Jennifer, when you need a friend.”

  He put Bob Marley on there first. “Three Little Birds.” Now I get it. Best song ever. Then it’s James Taylor.

  Mom turns and looks back at me. “What are you listening to?”

  I press the Stop button, slide my headphones off. “Mixtape. From Chuck.”

  Dad’s eyes flick from the road to the rearview mirror where he can see me. “Which one was Chuck?” he asks. His tone is a little too bright, like he’s trying too hard to sound cheerful.

  “My primary,” I say.

  “Her favorite nurse,” Mom says. “You remember him.”

  “Huh,” Dad says.

  I figure that’s it, but as I’m putting my headphones back on, Dad says, “Hey, JJ. Can we all listen to it?”

  “Why?” I ask. Does he not trust Chuck? Is he going to criticize the songs?

  Dad sighs. “I just thought it would be nice to listen to some music instead of NPR all the time.”

  “That sounds good,” Mom chirps.

  “Okay.” I try to hide my reluctance. Do I want to share this with them? It’s such a gift, this tape Chuck made me. Then again, it’s nice of Dad to ask. He’s really trying.

  I press Eject and hand the tape to Mom.

  She runs her thumb along the label. “Which side?”

  “B,” I say. No way are my parents ready for a dance party.

  Mom pops it in. James Taylor fades out. The Traveling Wilburys song starts, with a guitar riff and a tambourine.

  Well, it’s all right…

  Dad taps his thumbs on the steering wheel. Mom starts bobbing her head, just a few microinches.

  Well, it’s all right, doing the best you can…

  Farms roll past. Bent, broken cornstalks poking through snow. Hills. Gray skies.

  Well, it’s all right, sometimes you gotta be strong…

  “Wait. Is that—that’s Roy Orbison!” Dad says. “Roy Orbison’s in this?”

  I laugh. “Yes, Roy Orbison. And Bob Dylan, and George Harrison, and Tom Petty, and some other guys.”

  “They’re from our generation,” Dad says.

  “Your father loves Roy Orbison,” Mom tells me.

  “Everything old is new again,” Dad says.

  By the end of the song, we’re all singing.

  Then a weird boy choir starts.

  “You must be joking,” Dad says.

  My heart sinks. What does he mean?

  But Dad reaches over to the radio knob and turns up the volume. A horn and guitar.

  I saw her today at the reception...

  “The Stones, Juanita!” Dad says to Mom. “You remember when we first heard this song?”

  “Oh, I remember.” I can hear the smile in Mom’s voice.

  You can’t always get what you want…

  And we’re all singing.

  “These songs are great.” Dad sounds surprised, and

  delighted, and happy.

  We keep on like that. Singing the songs we know,

  listening to the ones we don’t.

  Out the window, I watch houses pass. Drooping front-porch roofs, swing sets draped with snow.

  Had I known it before? That every person in every house has their own story? Had I thought about it at all, until that day I stood with Chuck by the window?

  Through every window, every doorway: stories.

  Maybe happy, maybe painful. Maybe both.

  Before Reverend Stanley left the legendary box of sharps, he told me that Buddha said, “Life is suffering.”

  Life is suffering.

  It makes me strangely happy to think this.

  Because if the only guarantee in life is suffering, it means that any moment of happiness or joy is a total bonus. Because joy and happiness aren’t guaranteed.

  This moment, riding in the backseat, singing with my parents to the songs Chuck recorded for me, this is happiness.

  This is not guaranteed.

  This is a bonus.

  Am I different than I was ten weeks ago?

  Did I kill the monster?

  Here’s what I wrote in the back of Sophia’s journal. I left it on her bed, along with a Muppets lunch box.

  Remember your first night in the hospital, when you said you felt like there was a monster inside you?

  I knew just what you meant.

  And now, I think maybe it’s not about killing the monster.

  Maybe it’s about making peace with it. Turning it into a fuzzy warm friend, maybe even like your favorite Muppet. (Long live Super Grover!)

  But most importantly, I think, is that you find people who love you—

  who understand you—

  monsters and all.

  I love you.

  This isn’t the end of my story. In some ways, it’s the beginning. It’s the start of actual recovery, out in the world. I’ll see Dr. Prakash and Dr. Wexler on Thursday. Sophia will be discharged in a month or two, and I’ll see her then. I’ll talk to her even sooner. Tonight, probably.

  Chuck?

  God, I’ll miss him.

  I’ll listen to this tape and close my eyes and send him thanks, and tell him I’m okay.

  We’re on the outskirts of Norwich now, passing the ice-

  skating rink.

  I dig in my coat for the piece of Bazooka.

  I unwrap it, save the cartoon for later. I work the hard gum in my teeth until it finally softens.

  Mom turns around and smiles at me.

  I smile.

  I am different, but I am the same.

  We drive past the Kurt Beyer Pool, then along Canasawacta Creek, left onto West Main, right onto our street.

  I know every house. Do I know every story? Not even close.

  We slow down and Dad pulls into our driveway.

  We’re here.

  Mom ejects the tape and hands it to me. “Thanks for letting us listen,” she says.

  “Yeah, that was good,” Dad says.

  I wrap my headphone cord around my Walkman, put them in my backpack. I pull my
backpack onto my shoulder.

  My heart is pounding.

  I take a deep breath.

  I open the car door.

  The hard-packed snow squeaks under my boots.

  Dad is at the open trunk. He lifts out my suitcase. “Gracious,” he says, closing the trunk and lugging my suitcase onto the back porch. “What have you got in here?”

  “Bricks,” I joke. And I remember to say, “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Welcome home, JJ,” he says.

  Mom squeezes my shoulders.

  Spike is at the back door, tail wagging so hard his entire body is in spasms.

  Rich appears and smiles. “Hey, nerd.” He opens the door and takes my backpack.

  Spike jumps into my arms.

  I’m home.

  Answers to Questions You Might Have—

  And Some Words from the Author

  You call Believarexic an “autobiographical novel.” Isn’t that like saying something is “true make-believe”?

  Yes. I think of it this way: imagine a sine wave (a squiggly, sideways, repeating S curve) drawn over a straight horizontal line. Still with me? Okay. The straight line is what really happened. The squiggly line is Believarexic. The story follows the direction of the truth, and intersects with it often, but also…veers away.

  I did go into inpatient treatment for bulimarexia in the winter of 1988–1989, when I was fifteen. My admission and discharge dates are real. The therapy sessions, rules, groups, and policies are real. The inner struggles are real.

  But I exaggerated some elements, simplified or consolidated a few characters, and slid their timelines around a bit. My intention in doing so was to craft a better story, not to be deceptive or dishonest. In the interest of transparency, I’ve posted my actual journal from my actual hospitalization on www.believarexic.com. You can compare, if you want, history to story. The only editing I’ve made is taking out specific references to my pre-hospitalization and maintenance weights—I don’t disclose those numbers because I don’t want to trigger readers’ own issues.

  Your family is pretty…um…exposed in Believarexic. Have they read it?

  They have read every draft. I’m humbled by their response. They’ve been unwaveringly supportive and generous, and we’ve laughed ourselves silly. We’ve all come a long way—individually and together.

  Did you really make that promise to yourself in the hospital, that when you were grown-up and happy, you would travel back in time and help yourself through?

  Yup. I really did. Writing Believarexic is one aspect of keeping that promise. I encourage everyone to engage in similar time travel. You don’t need a flux capacitor.

  Did you get into recovery? Are you recovered?

  Yes, and yes. With a few stumbles and temporary relapses. If you want details, you can find them at www.believarexic.com.

  What should I do if I think I have an eating disorder?

  GET. HELP.

  I’m not kidding.

  If you have even just a glimmer of a spark of a thought that you maybe might have an eating disorder, then your eating is disordered enough to need help. The end. Full stop. No arguments.

  You may think you’re not “bad enough” for treatment. Or, you know you have an eating disorder, but you’re convinced you need it. Or you may think there’s no hope. Or you think “ana” or “mia” are your friends. (They are not your friends. They are conniving, backstabbing bitches.)

  No, no, no no no.

  There is SUCH A BETTER LIFE FOR YOU.

  Recovery is possible. It’s not easy, but it’s worth it.

  I promise.

  Say something to someone. Write a note. Send an e-mail. Try a guidance counselor, minister or rabbi, trusted teacher, parent, guardian, mentor, older friend, Twelve-Step meeting, or eating disorder hotline. AND DON’T YOU DARE STOP REACHING OUT UNTIL YOU GET THE HELP YOU NEED.

  •The National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA) has a free online chat Helpline at www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/find-help-support and a free, confidential phone Helpline at 800-931-2237. They can connect you to local help, as well.

  •Eating Disorders Anonymous (EDA) is a Twelve-Step program with meetings online, over the phone, and/or in your town. The only requirement for EDA membership is a desire to recover from an eating disorder. Please go to www.eatingdisordersanonymous.org/meetings.html for information. Meetings are always free. (Those meetings were invaluable to me in the early days of my recovery—although back then it was called Overeaters Anonymous.)

  •HelpGuide.org has excellent advice about HOW to ask for help, and how to start helping yourself in the meantime: www.helpguide.org/articles/eating-disorders/eating-disorder-treatment-and-recovery.htm

  I know you think you can’t or shouldn’t ask for help. But you can. And you should.

  I believe in you. I think you’re smart and awesome.

  I want to see you shine again. I want you to be able to think about something other than food and weight. I want your life to expand in good directions.

  What are you waiting for? Go on.

  Take that leap of faith. Trust that you’ll grow wings.

  I’ll be right here cheering for you.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by J.J. Johnson

  Cover design by

  ISBN 978-1-5040-2680-2

  Peachtree Publishers

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