Falling with Wings

by Dianna De La Garza

  My morning ritual never changed. From the day I started until the day left, I consumed as much coffee as I could before jumping on the treadmill of classes that covered everything from art to nutrition to DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy) skills, a group of behavioral skills that addressed mindfulness, distress, tolerance, and emotional regulation. In between classes, I’d attend various therapy sessions. The only breaks in our routines that were allowed came on weekends, during visiting hours, and if we didn’t have visitors, someone always found something for us to do.

  In order to gain privileges, such as walking to the dining room without an escort or going on shopping trips, I needed to move into stage two, known as “Looking In.” To make that leap, I’d have to participate in every class and therapy session, eat all of my food, and turn in my homework assignments on a regular basis. Of course, the challenge of doing all of that made me cry even more.

  I learned that there was a reservoir of grief inside of me that had to be emptied. If I was too full of heartache, there was no room for joy. So I wept for the singing career I had never achieved and for the parts of myself that had died during my marriage to Pat. Then I cried for the finger I had lost, the hardships of poverty, and the little girl who had moved too often. I cried for the mistakes I had made and for the mistakes my children had made. And I cried for the friends I had lost, as well as the hopes and dreams that had gone off course. Somewhere in the process, the walls inside of me began to crumble.

  On one of those early days, when I was feeling really low, I took the purple rock off my dresser that Sheila had found in my suitcase and carried it with me to art class. It felt comforting to hold on to something. As I sat there listening to the soft music, contemplating whether I should string a few beads together or learn to knit, Rae, the art teacher, wandered past me.

  “Hey,” she said, picking up my rock, “I’ve seen this before.” She then flipped it over and showed me the sticker that was pasted on the bottom, which I had failed to notice. It said: STRENGTH. “I make a stone for everyone before they leave,” Rae explained, “and I gave this one to Demi!”

  It was a poignant reminder that Demi and Dallas had been down this path, too, and if they had survived, I figured I could, too. Later, when I asked Demi if she put that stone in my bag, she said she hadn’t. But it wound up in my possession for a reason. During those difficult days when I needed an extra boost of comfort or encouragement, I always reached for it and found the “strength” to continue.

  * * *

  One of the most astounding changes to take place during the first week of my treatment came when the nutritionist put a normal plate of food in front of me. I stared at the large cut of steak, the mound of green beans, the heap of mashed potatoes, and the eight-ounce carton of milk and finally admitted that I “might” have an eating problem. The meal before me was more than I typically consumed over several days. My admission of guilt meant more meetings with the nutritionist and adding nutrition classes to my schedule. It also meant agreeing to that dreaded meal plan, which included three meals a day, plus two snacks. Every bite was terrifying.

  Since I wasn’t used to eating large quantities, my plan at first was simply to eat small amounts with high caloric value. My first meal, a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and glass of milk, made me wince. As I sat in Oak Lodge staring at the challenge before me, some of my comrades in arms felt the urge to help me. “You can do this, Dianna,” one woman urged. “It’s just food,” offered another. Tears were streaming down my cheeks, but I appreciated their encouragement. I tore off the crusts and started eating. Every bite required an eternity of chewing before I could swallow. When I stopped, I still had half a carton of milk and pieces of crust scattered on my tray.

  “Not good enough,” the BHS said. It was clearly an all or nothing deal, which unleashed a few more tears. The first time I finally finished everything on my plate, everyone around me cheered. I smiled, but wondered how I could possibly do it again in a few hours. At first, I couldn’t, which always meant eating the next meal in Oak Lodge with the other “sad sacks,” the nickname we gave to those who couldn’t comply with the dietary rules, as no one in that situation ever looked happy. The simple fact that I wanted more freedom and the social benefits of eating with other residents finally propelled me to consume greater quantities of food. Eventually, I graduated to grilled cheese sandwiches and pieces of chicken.

  But conquering my eating disorder involved more than just a meal plan. In group therapy, I learned that anyone whose life is controlled by food suffers from some type of disorder. Mine was definitely anorexia, as I was fastidious about restricting the amount I ate. This became even clearer in nutrition class when I was asked to draw a life-size picture of myself on a sheet of white paper that was placed on the floor. After I finished, I stared at the crime-scene-like drawing I had made and thought it looked accurate. But when I was asked to lie down while someone else traced my actual figure on top of my sketch, it was clear that I was far tinier than I imagined.

  “The syndrome is called body dysmorphic disorder,” the teacher said. And we all seemed to have it. But I was thankful that, unlike some of those around me, I never heard voices telling me to throw my food on the wall and I never felt that certain body parts, like my neck or my arms, swelled in size when I ate. As thin as I was, I hadn’t yet reached that point of no return. There was still hope that if I found the right tools and motivation, I could change.

  Perhaps the most telling sign that I wanted to kick my anorexia came when I learned that all my years of restricting what I ate had affected more than just my outer appearance. In reality, I had been starving my heart, my liver, my kidneys, and my brain as well. And that scared me. I didn’t want to be a brittle-boned woman with sagging skin, and I certainly didn’t want to die from malnutrition. My children were precious to me, and I desperately wanted to be around for them in the future, especially for Madison, who had so many milestones ahead of her. I dug my heels in and decided to make better progress.

  * * *

  Where did you go? I wrote.

  It was the start of an assignment that challenged me to write a letter to my former self and to explain why I thought I was in the shape I was in. At first, I had no idea what to write. Then the words started pouring out of me:

  You’re not here anymore, and I miss you. You used to be such a cheerleader for me and other people! You used to be so happy all the time! No matter what you came up against, you made it work. You turned every bad situation into something good. And you encouraged me! Why aren’t you here anymore??? Where are those silver linings you always found behind every cloud??? I’m looking for you, and I hope I find you, because I miss you. A lot. I know you can help me to heal.…

  It was a defining moment. I finally was looking at myself with compassion—all of me. That bubbly teenager who had always smiled and dreamed big and that Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader who had proudly represented her team were also the same person who had starved herself, who became a mentally-disease-ridden drug user, and who eventually was a depressed mother fighting for her sanity. They were all pieces of me, and I could no longer pick and choose which ones I wanted the world to see.

  One thing was clear: Secrets had made me sick. Now it was time to change my life. I had to find a way to accept all of the weak and imperfect parts of myself and transform them into something stronger. More than anything, I wanted to stop chasing perfection and start creating a life worth living. I wanted to know real joy. Real happiness. Real satisfaction. My letter was a baby step in the right direction.

  Another issue I was working on was post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). It wasn’t something I was even conscious of until I went into therapy. But from my first night on, it was painfully clear that certain situations not only terrified me, they transported me in time to past events. My room situation was a prime example, where my bed, which was located by the door, was an instant trigger. Throughout the night, from midnight to dawn, a BHS stopp
ed by to check on us. And every time that door squeaked open, I jumped up and started climbing the wall next to me. Literally. Each and every time, it was like I was back in my bedroom the night Dallas came charging in, high on drugs. I was terrified, and my reflex was to escape.

  There were other incidents, too. When I’d hear a door slam shut during the daytime, it triggered memories of my fight all those years ago with Pat. BAM! The sound was like an alarm that released a physical reaction in my body. All over again, I’d feel the door smashing my fingers. I’d hear the crunch as my bones crumbled. And I’d relive the horror of all that blood spurting in my face. Sweating and panting, I felt like I was going crazy.

  It took long sessions with my trauma therapist to change those patterns. And as we worked through the reasons and causes behind such debilitating responses, I began to understand just how many dimensions are involved with treating and understanding mental-health issues. Not just with PTSD, but with everything I was addressing—an eating disorder, depression, anxiety, ruminating thoughts, and addiction to Xanax.

  I learned there were possible genetic factors, as well as environmental ones. And telling the difference wasn’t always easy. When I learned that my mother had dealt with an eating disorder, and her mother before her, I thought maybe my tendencies were genetic. But my mother suggested that maybe it was more that I had modeled behavior that I had seen, just as she had done. And up until that point, neither of us had ever talked about the topic. Regardless of the cause, I had grown up in a home where dieting was the norm, and that put me in a high-risk situation for developing eating issues of my own. And I learned that early trauma in combination with a parent who has a mental-health issue such as anorexia meant that I was dead center in the perfect storm of conditions likely to produce self-destructive coping mechanisms. All of it made my head spin.

  But there was more. I also learned that if we believe at an early age that we are at fault for bad things happening, every future bad thing that happens solidifies the concept. When I looked back, the pattern was clear. Every time I had tried unsuccessfully to obey the pastor’s fiery warnings about hellfire and brimstone for so much as a sinful thought, every time I had endured Pat’s criticism and his habit of pushing me against a wall, and every time I saw my kids make a mistake—I had blamed myself. Deep down, I had trouble believing that I was a good person … a good mother … a good anything. It was self-destruction at its worst.

  Dr. Kim told me that I had a choice. I could either walk around and wear those old, unhealthy beliefs that told me I wasn’t good enough, that I needed to be perfect and that I would only be loved if I was thin—or—I could start paying attention to the beliefs that were ruining my life and consciously choose to change them. It would be some of the most important work I did at TK, because it meant not blaming anyone for my situation but rather taking responsibility for my actions and accepting help to change the way I thought about myself. It was also clear that I needed to change so that I could be a better role model for my kids. It was time to take our family in a new direction!

  But trying to let go of perfection, after five decades of striving to attain it, wasn’t easy. I was willing to start forgiving myself and to be more compassionate, but I had my limits. I never could get the nerve to break a few rules while I was in treatment, and I never, ever left my room without wearing makeup. At one point, my therapist actually encouraged me to break a rule—like being late or missing a class—just so I could ponder how it felt. She even promised the reward of allowing me to take a short joyride on one of the forbidden golf carts outside. But I couldn’t do it. Conquering those challenges would have to wait until I came home.

  * * *

  As I settled into the routines at TK, I started to relax and open up to the people around me. Like most people thrown together for any length of time, we found ways to humor and inspire each other, and we also shared the details of our lives like we were open books. I found it interesting that most people my age didn’t know who Demi was, but they all got excited when I mentioned Madison’s name. It seemed I was surrounded by Desperate Housewives fans, and we all bemoaned the fact that we couldn’t stay caught up on the show. Over time, I grew to love the women around me like sisters. And when they opened their hearts and shared their feelings during group sessions, their stories helped me more than they will ever know. Every word taught me something about the incredible journey we were all on to improve our mental and emotional selves.

  Sometime, shortly after those difficult first two weeks, I finally earned my white cap, signifying that I had advanced to the second stage of “Looking In.” I was over-the-moon excited because it meant two important rewards would be added to my schedule. First, I could hop on the bus in the evenings and go to support meetings like AA that were held off-site. Even though I had never considered myself an alcoholic, I found the group of mostly old men at the local meeting to be charming and sweet, and as I listened to their stories, I realized their battles with alcohol weren’t much different from my addiction to Xanax. But if I’m honest, my number-one reason for going was purely selfish: I wanted the free coffee they served at every meeting. It’s sad to admit, but when you’re in rehab, you look for any motivation you can find, and mine was caffeine!

  The second privilege I earned was the opportunity to go shopping. When a trip to Target was announced, I felt a rush of anticipation similar to that of counting down the days until Christmas. Now that I was eating again, none of my clothes fit, and I desperately wanted to buy pretty new outfits, even if they were a size bigger. When they dropped us off in front of the store, I rushed inside like I was on a game show, gathering armfuls of colorful sweatpants in my arms and throwing handfuls of T-shirts into my shopping cart. It felt wildly satisfying. Oh, how I missed normal experiences like going to the mall!

  * * *

  No one ever goes into treatment thinking they’ll be there for two or three months. I was no different, especially since I had been working so hard to get better. When someone told me to report to a group meeting with my support team at the end of April, I was elated. This was my day! My freedom papers were coming!

  “Dianna.” Dr. Kim smiled. “We think you need to stay a while longer.” The staff around her agreed.

  I stared back in disbelief, feeling crushed. Then I ran back to my room and called Eddie, sobbing. He told me that I needed to listen to the experts. “But it’s costing a fortune!” I wailed. “They just want our money!” It wasn’t true, but I wanted to blame someone. And the cost of treatment was a concern.

  Truthfully, I still don’t know how anyone without means is supposed to get the appropriate mental-health care they need when insurance companies treat therapy like it’s a choice instead of medicine for an illness. My Xanax addiction, my depression, my eating disorder, my PTSD, and my anxiety issues weren’t a matter of choice. I wanted to live differently, but I didn’t know how to do that without help. Getting help for all my issues was no less important than a diabetic getting medical advice about controlling his sugar, but our insurance company, like most others, didn’t see it that way. Although I felt fortunate to have the resources to stay and get better, I also didn’t want to exhaust our family’s savings in the process.

  But the real issue that day was simply the fact that I wanted to go home. Eddie visited regularly and the girls came when they could, but I wanted to be back in their daily lives. I was ready, damn it! Why were they doing this? The whole situation made me angry. That afternoon during group therapy, when it was my time to share, I let loose.

  “I don’t even hear what any of you are saying today, because I thought I was going home,” I ranted. “But I’m not! And now I’m pissed. I’m pissed at the therapists. I’m pissed at the doctors, and I’m pissed at everyone who’s involved in this place, because I don’t want to be here—and that’s my thought for the day!”

  The BHS politely thanked me for being honest, while someone else smiled. “Good for you! Express your feelings,”
one woman cheered. I wanted to slap each and every one of them. It took about forty-eight hours to calm down and realize that the staff was right. If I went home too early, I’d relapse, just like many did once most insurance companies refused to pay for another dime of their stay. I understood that I was one of the lucky ones who didn’t have to listen to the mental-health directives of some CEO making policy decisions, and I wanted to make the most of my opportunity. Besides, I didn’t want to leave until I could uphold my promise to be a better role model for my kids. My new goal was to stay until I completed the program and earned my certificate proving that I had done the work. But I also wanted to do it in record time. Again, I dug my heels in. About two weeks later, I moved into TK’s final stage, “Looking Out.”

  * * *

  A highlight of my time at TK was on Mother’s Day that May, when Madison, Demi, and Dallas came along with Eddie to visit. When everyone strolled into the conference room, I noticed they had brought a gift.

  “For you, Momma,” they said in unison.

  They placed a box on the table before me that bore an emblem I knew too well. It was the Rolex emblem, something I had seen years before when Eddie had decided to use his Christmas bonus to surprise me with a special watch to commemorate Madison’s birth. I had always wanted one, but two years later, I had decided (without his approval) to sell it so that we could keep our girls’ dreams alive.

  “It’s okay,” I had told everyone. “It’s just a watch. One day you girls will be successful, and you can buy me another one.”