***For the protection and confidentiality of the truly wonderful and brave, I have changed all the names of the other clients in this story.***
It all began on December 9th, 2014. I was 12 years old, and very disoriented. The inside of my head was spinning, and the room was dark, but the disco lights from the Christmas tree added a rainbow glow to the dull room. Everything was blurred together, and I could hardly breathe.
“Please,” I wailed one more time, just because I didn’t know what else to do.
“Don’t send me away. Please.”
The volume of my voice rose to a shriek, then back down to a low whimper, as it had been doing for the past twenty minutes, after I processed the fact that my parents really were going to send me away, to a treatment center, when I clearly didn’t want recovery. At that point in my life, I would rather die than gain a single pound. That was it. I knew I had to act fast. I jumped up from the soft brown couch, and flung my arm out. My fingers caught on a string of lights, and the tree tumbled to the ground. Treasured glass ornaments shattered upon contact with the deep maple floor, and through the haze, I saw every detail, as if I were viewing it in the form of a slow motion movie. I knew I had to get out of there, so I fled through the front door, slamming it behind me. As I ran up my dim block, lit only by the candle-like glow from the houses, block, I wondered where I should go. I deeply considered running away from home, like the kids from “The Boxcar Children”.
One of my closest friends, Sophia, lived nearby; only about two blocks away- I walked to school with her every day. I argued with myself over whether or not I should flee to her house; and the only thing that stopped me was the fact that I knew they would take me back where I couldn’t return. So, after contemplating what the best move was, I decided to run around the block a few times, after all, if my parents had their way, it would probably be my last chance for a while to burn a few calories.
When I finally gave up and returned to my house, I found that my mom had already begun to pack my suitcase. My dad was out looking for me, but I was too exhausted to care. I balled up under my covers and cried myself to sleep, letting all the anger seep out with my tears. Sometime around one AM, I awoke with a subconscious need to exercise, as I had every night for the past few weeks.
Just a few days earlier, I had told my mom, through gritted teeth, that I would rather be skinny than have all the happiness in the world. Whenever I walked through the school hallway to my classes, I concentrated on comparing the size of my legs to those of people at their lockers. I may not have wanted it, but I sure did need help. I gave up all my anger towards my parents, and it dawned on me that I would be away from them for a long time, with strangers, in a place where I would have to eat. I stumbled into their dark room, and my mom invited me to sleep between her and my dad, as I had done in my younger childhood. I curled up beside her and sobbed into her shoulder.
After my sisters left for school, my mom took me to Barnes and Noble, where I picked out stationary, because I couldn’t have my phone, and I had limited phone time on the phone at the facility. Then, it was straight to Center For Discovery, or CFD. When I got there, it took me a while to realize that it was a house, and not that we were in the wrong place. They really weren’t kidding when they called it a ‘residential treatment center.’ In the atrium, there was a huge glass chandelier, and there were teens in the background, just as emaciated as me. When my parents filled out forms in the formal, I was taken up to one of the therapist’s offices, to be questioned. I was asked everything from my treatment preferences (not to be there) to how many times I eat a day (none, if it were up to me). The worst part of that process was that they made me eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and carrots with hummus. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t try to get rid of it. After many tears were shed and my parents departed, the staff brought me downstairs to the art room, where the other people (they called us clients) were tye dying shirts, and I thought to myself, ‘Well this isn’t so bad!’
Just about an hour later, I was told that group was starting. I had no idea what they were talking about, but I followed the others to the living room/ group room, where there was a movie set up. One of the other clients, Amanda, (she was my roommate, as I would soon find out) told me; “It’s time for documentary group.” We watched a film about how women are influenced to look a certain way.
“People shouldn’t care enough about other people’s bodies to tell them how they should look.” I thought out loud in the discussion after the documentary, trying to be inspirational. Which was hard, considering, that, at this particular moment in my life, I didn’t really believe the words coming out of my mouth.
“I agree,” Amanda began, “People shouldn’t care… It’s not about them, so why do they feel the need to make it their business?” Then the conversation took an abrupt turn to a get-to-know-you type of talk between me and everyone else. There was a bulimic boy, Chris, who told hysterical stories about people he hardly even knew, and drew amazing pictures. He had been there for just under a month. Zoë, who had been at CFD for roughly three weeks, had been struggling with anorexia for three years, and she was basically me, just older; Amanda, who was ‘celebrating’ her first week-aversary, was anorexic as well, and she was sort of the popular girl of the group; there was Alexis, who had been there since just after Chris; the shy, quiet type, who was actually an exciting, funny girl when she opened up to you, and there was Margaret, who would eventually have a turn-around and become one of my best friends ever, but at the time, she never said a word and cried in the corner 24/7. She had been at CFD for about two weeks. Then there was me, the 12-year-old anorexic girl who they all looked at funny because I was too young, too weird, too innocent.
On my first night, as I was walking to the nurse’s area, which was only accessible through the art room, Alexis gestured for me to come over by the art room sink. When I got there, she asked me; “Do you think I’m fat? Be honest.” I was taken aback. Wasn’t there some sort of rule where the ‘F’ word was ‘fat’ here? I had no idea how to reply, so I said what I thought would be the most supportive to this poor girl, who didn’t know the unspoken rule of eating disorders- ‘You don’t talk to people about it, you simply believe that the truest thing ever is the fact that you are fat.’ I stuttered over the first few syllables as I began to speak. “F-fat?!?!” I exclaimed, “You? You’re not fat, you’re healthy.” I don’t know why I thought that this would make her feel better, considering, in an eating disorder mind, ‘fat’ and ‘healthy’ are synonyms. I suppose I had thought that because she had been there for about a month, she would be past that way of thinking. I was wrong.
“Oh… I uh, I have to go.”
She fled the room, clearly hurt. Had I really screwed up yet again? It seems like that’s all I do in my life- mess up. Hurt people. Offend my peers. Disobey those superior to me. Oh well, to me, at least then, it was all worth it. I didn’t need anyone to like me, not if I could be skinny.
Days passed without leaving the house, and I was forced to eat more and more, without exercising at all. I felt trapped, but eventually, I was allowed to go on walks. I still had two daily visits with the nurse, and blood drawn every few days. However I acted to the other clients and to the staff, I was not remotely motivated to put this behind me.
Christmas time rolled around, and I was forced to eat unhealthy holiday food. Amanda discharged (left- she was doing well enough to remain stable without the aid of 24/7 support) and Chris was sent to another treatment center, this one for drug abuse. There were two new girls, Lia, who adored puzzles, but slept a lot; and Becca, who was quite a fun person with lots of drama going on in her life, which overwhelmed her, so that she ignored her life and focused only on her eating disorder.
I may have thought I was ready to go home, but the truth was, I was still so focused on my weight that 90% of the topics written in my journal were just that- “I’m fat enough already!” “Haven’t I met my goal weight?” “I really don’t want- or need- to gain any more weight!” “Why can’t I know how much I weigh? I know I’m fat! What’s the harm?” In order to recover, I needed to let all this go, but I simply refused. For over 50 days, I refused. I told myself that I could recover without giving up my passionate desire to be, basically, an emaciated body from the holocaust. I needed to let myself fall into recovery, instead of trying to leave without doing so. If I wanted to get out, I had to smile, let my worries go, and burst my eating disorder as you would a balloon.
“Day 28: 1/6/15
‘No more writing down what you eat’ is what Maureen, the resident dietician, said, so I guess I won’t be doing that anymore. At the restaurant outing, I wanted to get a pesto-veggie sandwich, but Maureen said I had to get a veggie burger, because there wasn’t enough protein in the sandwich, but when we got back to the house, she made me have a cheese stick for extra protein anyways! It snowed, so I couldn’t go on walk again- it’s not fair! I need the exercise! Lia fell asleep on the couch and we started dinner without her, and didn’t realize she was missing from the table for like 5 minutes! My family meal is on Friday for am snack, but and I hope this means I can discharge soon, but I really don’t want to weigh more than I do right now! I’m fat enough already!”
“Day 29: 1/7/15
I should be discharged already, but we haven’t even talked about it. Ugh! It’s not fair! I’m staying here getting fat for no reason!!! WTF?!?!?! I just want to be skinny. Is that too much to ask? Alexis went for a run today, and now she isn’t allowed to prep any meals or snacks, and I feel like that’s my fault, because I went running on Sunday which gave her the idea, but I didn’t get caught. Margaret and I did a new yoga video today, because we couldn’t go on walk. (it was too cold) It was really cool- there are really fun bicycle crunches and stuff.”
“Day 30: 1/8/15
My family meal is tomorrow at am snack, and I’m really excited, but I’m terrified of gaining weight! Elodie, one of the staff members, broke the glass part of the blender at breakfast, so now we can’t have smoothies, which sucks, because I planned for having three or four in just the two upcoming days! I went outside this morning on the porch in shorts, and it was supposedly 5-7°F, but it didn’t feel remotely cold! But, unfortunately, we can’t go on walk for the fourth day in a row. (probably- walk happens after lunch, and I am currently writing, before walk time- it’s am snack prep), but maybe we could do more yoga videos instead. I’m really nervous/anxious/anticipatory for contract group! I hope I moved up phases/ can prep more meals/snacks/ moved up exercise levels, but I’m sure to be disappointed, most likely about everything. We’ll see!”
As I got further and further into recovery, things got better and better. By the time my birthday rolled around, I had been there for two months and a day, but recovery was finally getting to me. The other two clients, Lia and Genevieve, made a scavenger hunt for me, and with every clue there was a small gift. Throughout the day, staff, therapists, and clients surrounded me with love and, of course, presents. I had never felt so happy or loved in my life. As the day came to a close, my family came to the house for dinner (I couldn’t go home for a pass because that didn’t give us enough time to celebrate- it was a school night for my sisters), and we had my favorite meal- pasta salad, and for dessert, chocolate-strawberry cake with whipped cream frosting. I enjoyed every bite I ate that night, something I hadn’t done in so long, I had to focus all of my attention onto it. From my parents, I got a bean bag and a new quilt for my bed (my mom made it!), and from my sisters, I got books. I fell asleep feeling happy and giddy. I was just starting to jump into recovery, and it was as satisfying as jumping into a pit of balloons is for a little kid.
The following day, I got to know the new client, Linnea, a little bit better. She arrived on my birthday, but I was so caught up in all the festivities, I didn’t get to welcome her. It turns out, she went to the same middle school as me, and she also had Mr. Browns for 7th grade gym. We bonded over that, and she told me “I think he knew about my eating disorder,” and when I replied with , “Why do you say that?”, she explained, “Well, he always talked about how we had to refuel our bodies after physical activity, as he looked directly at me. Also, in the nutrition unit, he made sure that we knew that under eating is just as bad as overeating.” That comment took me back to the nutrition unit at the beginning of the year, in which Mr. Browns hadn’t said a word about undereating, and this brought me to the conclusion that he really did know about Linnea’s eating disorder, but maybe not mine, because he hadn’t taught us about the harmful effects of not getting proper nutrition, although he had subtly hinted at it with her class, and his comments had seemed directed at her, at least from the way she told the story. She seemed quiet at first, but after Genevieve, Lia, and I showed her how to play steam rollers, (you roll around on the floor and whoever can roll over the other person wins that round) she offered the idea of having a bean bag fight. We did- and ten minutes later, we all stood in the center of the room, hair plastered to our faces, trying to catch our breath, but failing to- we were all laughing too hard.
Another fond memory was with my therapist, Jessica, about the time of my dad’s birthday (late January). We had blown up nearly a hundred balloons and stuffed them in Margaret’s closet (she was discharging the following day), and when she opened the door, there was a downpour of balloons. We just couldn’t let that be all the fun we had with the balloons we had spent so much breath and hard work filling, so we hid them behind a chair (it was in the corner of the room, but at an angle, so that a triangle was created from the back of the chair and the wall) in Jessica’s office, and the next morning, at the close of my therapy session, I ran, full speed at the armchair, hurdled over the back, and landed with a satisfyingly loud series of pops. She was taken aback by the event, but, being the wonderful person she is, hopped in and joined me. For weeks, we all enjoyed the fulfilling closure of a nice jump in the balloon pit whenever we left Jessica’s office.
Though, towards the end of my time at Center For Discovery, most of the memories are fond, there were still some moments that weren’t 100% joyful. I was sitting on the familiar grey sofa in the basement office (Jessica’s office), fiddling with one of the blue-green decorative pillows. We were in session, discussing plans for after discharge, while, in my head, I was contemplating whether or not I should ask when, exactly, I would discharge. Finally, I gathered up the courage to mumble the question which had been on my mind for months, but only now did I really feel that I was ready. “Jessica,” I murmured under my breath, “When do you think I will discharge? Do you think it will be before my birthday?” I hardly expected her to reply with a yes, and my predictions were correct. “I’m sorry Erms,” she replied, sounding genuine (Erms was my nickname given from her and Lia) “But I don’t think so, just because we need to see how things work out.”
“Yeah,” I replied, disappointed that the best-case-scenario wasn’t what had happened. I don’t really remember what happened after that, but I do remember that I was about to leave without jumping into the balloon pit, but Jessica stopped me and asked “Aren’t you going to jump in?” I didn’t really have it in me to be lighthearted or frivolous enough to enjoy that, but I hopped in anyways, just to make her happy. As I took the flying leap into the corner, I smiled to myself. Not just because I wasn’t as upset anymore, but because I was enjoying myself. I didn’t really care how I looked in that moment, I just cared that I was having fun. I lept into the balloon pit as I had lept into recovery- at first, I tried to avoid it, but then, with some coaxing, I wholeheartedly flung myself into it.