preview
-treatment stage two-
WARNING! SPOILERS AHEAD!
Proceed with caution
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1988
Sophia. That was the name of my new roommate.
The basics: bulimic, wouldn’t have to gain weight, 22. She had just finished her first semester in Veterinary School at Cornell. Which meant she loved animals, so she understood how much I missed Spike.
We sat together at dinner last night, which was served late because of the Pan Am plane crash. Staff and patients were making calls all night, to see if they knew people on the flight. It was unsettling and sad to see staff so upset.
Poor Sophia, being admitted on such a scattered, tragic day. I scooted an extra chair up for her at my table with Bronwyn, Monica, and Amanda. Now it was my turn to talk a newbie through her first meal. Sophia was a trooper. She didn’t cry or anything.
After dinner, Sophia and I talked. After snack, Sophia and I talked. And at bedtime, we talked, staying up long after lights out.
“So you’re bulimic?” I asked. She’d already told us she was. But in EDU language, “So, you’re anorexic/bulimarexic/bulimic/a compulsive overeater?” translated to, “Commence the rest of your life story in three, two, one. Go!”
“Yeah. But…” she hesitated.
I waited, in the semi-dark. Her sheets and blankets rustled while she shifted.
“This is so embarrassing,” she said. “I’ve never told anyone.”
“Okay,” I said. This was going to be juicy. “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to,” I said, of course secretly hoping she would.
She was quiet a little longer. “I think I want to. That’s why I’m here, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“I never throw up,” she said.
“But… you’re bulimic,” I said. Which was probably the absolute worst thing to say.
“I know!” she said.
“Thus your secret shame,” I said. Oh great. What if she couldn’t tell I was joking?
Fortunately, she laughed. “Yes! Thus my secret shame. I tried making myself throw up, but I just couldn’t do it. How embarrassing is that? It makes me not even bulimic, right?”
Honestly, I’d never heard about a bulimic who didn’t vomit. “Did you use laxatives?”
“No. Nothing like that. Just exercise.”
“Oh.”
“That makes me super weird, right?”
“Well,” I said. “Since I’m completely normal, yes, I think you’re weird.”
She was quiet.
“Because I’m so completely normal that I’m a patient in a mental hospital?” I said.
“Oh,” she said.
Then we both started giggling.
“Shh! Don’t make Nurse Beverly come in here.”
“Oh, sorry.”
We both took deep breaths, trying to stop laughing.
I turned onto my side to face her, even though I could only make out her outline. “When I came here, I was worried, too. I was worried I wasn’t sick enough to be a proper bulimarexic.”
“But you were so skinny.” She’d seen my photos, taped to the wall.
“Not anymore,” I said.
“Please,” she said. “You’re still tiny.”
“Blurg.” I puffed my cheeks out. “Anyway, I guess my point is, maybe we all question ourselves?”
“Yeah.” She went quiet.
“I think it’s bad enough,” I said. “For you, I mean. Even if you didn’t throw up.”
“You do?” The hope, the relief in her voice; it was like I’d thrown her a life jacket.
“Yeah, definitely. I mean, it must have been bad, if you ended up here.”
She laughed. “True.”
“Besides, barfing is gross,” I said.
A pause. “Could we really get in trouble for being up late?”
“Probably,” I said. “But we’ve got our lights out, so we’re technically following the rules. And Beverly—the night nurse—she’s nice. She’d understand for one night. Plus everything’s so off-kilter, because of the plane crash.”
“That’s so sad,” she said.
“It is,” I said.
We went quiet for a while.
“I can’t believe I’m here,” she said.
“It feels weird, right? But it gets better.”
“It does?”
“Not really.”
We laughed again.
“It doesn’t get better,” I said. “It always sucks. But you make friends, and you get used to it.”
“I can’t believe Christmas is in a few days,” she said.
Holy Napoleon. As sad as I was about being here for Christmas, it would be worse for Sophia. It was her first week. No passes, no visitors.
“Would they bend the rules, do you think?” I asked. “Let you have visitors?”
“They said maybe, depending on how my first few days go.”
“I was here for Thanksgiving my first week.”
“Did they let you have visitors?”
“Nope,” I said. “Christmas would be harder though.”
“Yeah,” she said. “But my family’s a mess, so it’s probably better that I’m here than home. Especially during semester break.”
“Was that your family in here, before? All those people?”
“Yeah. Mom, Stepdad, Dad, two brothers, one sister, and my boyfriend, Rob.”
“Wow,” I said. “Big family.”
“Yup. I’m the oldest. Do you have any siblings? Is that your brother in the picture?”
“Mm-hm. One brother, three years older. Mom and Dad, still together,” I said. “Is it worse at home? Your eating disorder?”
“Worse? I don’t know. I think it’s actually worse at school. But home can be crazy. My family is crazy.”
“Like, psychiatric hospital crazy? Unlike us…”
She chuckled. “Seriously, they are certifiably crazy. All of them in different ways. My mom’s an alcoholic. Full blown. And my dad is schizophrenic. Diagnosed.”
“Oh,” I said. “Wow. Does he take medicine?”
“He does until he feels better,” she sighed. “Then he stops, because, you know, he’s all better, right? And then he gets bad again. And then it’s a huge fight to get him back on his meds.”
“Is that why your parents got divorced?”
“Yup. And after my mom wasn’t around to take care of him, I got the job.”
“Because you’re the oldest.”
“Because I’m the oldest,” she said.
We went quiet again.
“Sometimes I worry I’m schizophrenic,” she said.
I didn’t know what to say. What if she was? Wasn’t mental illness sometimes genetic?
“You seem pretty normal to me,” I offered lamely.
She didn’t seem to hear me. “I feel like… Sometimes I feel like there is this thing inside me…” she trailed off. “Now I really do sound crazy.”
“No,” I said. My heart was in my throat. Was she going to say what I thought she was going to say?
“Go on,” I said. “Sometimes you feel like there’s… what inside you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want you to think I’m psychotic. Or, more to the point, schizophrenic.”
“You feel like there’s a monster inside you,” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Oh my God,” I said.
“I know. I’m crazy aren’t I?”
“No, no,” I said. “I didn’t mean, ‘Oh my God, you’re crazy.’ I meant, ‘Oh my God. I know exactly what you mean.’”
“Really?”
“Yes. I feel that way, too. I feel like there’s this ugly thing inside me, that is completely separate from me—”
“Like it’s just this thing living inside you—”
“Yeah, just squished in there somewhere, sometimes in my gut, sometimes in my—”
“Brain,” she said.
“Yes!” I said. “And it tells me that I’m horrible—”
“And disgusting—”
“And totally messed up—”
“And nobody will ever understand—”
“So don’t ever tell anyone.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Nope, no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.
She laughed.
I couldn’t believe it. She had the exact same monster. “I basically came here to figure out how to get rid of it, the monster,” I told her. “Or kill it.”
“Did it work?” She sounded hopeful and excited, but cautious.
I thought about it. “I don’t know. I’ve never actually said it before. Out loud. To my doctors. Or anyone.”
“Me neither,” she said.
“Going into recovery, you know how they say it’s a journey, not a destination?”
“I haven’t heard that,” she said. “But it makes sense.”
“Oh, get ready. You’ll hear it in groups all the time. People get all philosophical and spout these nuggets of wisdom. ‘Recovery is a journey, not a destination.’ ‘Happiness is being able to enjoy yourself on the detours.’”
“Great,” she said. I couldn’t see it, but I knew she was rolling her eyes.
“Oh yeah, it’s something to look forward to,” I said. “When I’m really bored, I keep track. I count how many times someone mentions a saying. The record is nine in one hour.”
“Impressive.”
“It was me,” I said. “I was trying to see if anyone would notice.”
“Ha. That’s hilarious.”
“Anyway,” I said. “I think it’s true about the journey. And enjoying the detours—”
“JESUS! I AM JESUS! Water into wine! Water into wine!”
“What…” whispered Sophia, “is that?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s a patient in the Adult Unit. She does this every once in a while. But it’s not every night. And she’s harmless.”
“JESUS! I AM JESUS!”
“Um. Will she stop?” Sophia asked.
“Eventually,” I said. “Either a nurse will calm her down, or they’ll call a—”
The intercom clicked on. “Code Blue. Code Blue. Adult Unit. All available nursing staff to Adult Unit. Code Blue. Adult Unit.”
“Okay, now there will be some commotion,” I said. “But honestly, don’t worry.”
“What will they do to her?”
“Give her tranquilizers, I think? I don’t know for sure. It’s creepy, but like I said, it doesn’t happen often. And she’s totally harmless.”
“Okay…” but she didn’t sound sure.
“Are you ready to go home now?” I said.
“Yup. I’m all better and ready to go home now.”
We laughed so hard we cried.
Sophia. That was the name of my new roommate.
The basics: bulimic, wouldn’t have to gain weight, 22. She had just finished her first semester in Veterinary School at Cornell. Which meant she loved animals, so she understood how much I missed Spike.
We sat together at dinner last night, which was served late because of the Pan Am plane crash. Staff and patients were making calls all night, to see if they knew people on the flight. It was unsettling and sad to see staff so upset.
Poor Sophia, being admitted on such a scattered, tragic day. I scooted an extra chair up for her at my table with Bronwyn, Monica, and Amanda. Now it was my turn to talk a newbie through her first meal. Sophia was a trooper. She didn’t cry or anything.
After dinner, Sophia and I talked. After snack, Sophia and I talked. And at bedtime, we talked, staying up long after lights out.
“So you’re bulimic?” I asked. She’d already told us she was. But in EDU language, “So, you’re anorexic/bulimarexic/bulimic/a compulsive overeater?” translated to, “Commence the rest of your life story in three, two, one. Go!”
“Yeah. But…” she hesitated.
I waited, in the semi-dark. Her sheets and blankets rustled while she shifted.
“This is so embarrassing,” she said. “I’ve never told anyone.”
“Okay,” I said. This was going to be juicy. “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to,” I said, of course secretly hoping she would.
She was quiet a little longer. “I think I want to. That’s why I’m here, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“I never throw up,” she said.
“But… you’re bulimic,” I said. Which was probably the absolute worst thing to say.
“I know!” she said.
“Thus your secret shame,” I said. Oh great. What if she couldn’t tell I was joking?
Fortunately, she laughed. “Yes! Thus my secret shame. I tried making myself throw up, but I just couldn’t do it. How embarrassing is that? It makes me not even bulimic, right?”
Honestly, I’d never heard about a bulimic who didn’t vomit. “Did you use laxatives?”
“No. Nothing like that. Just exercise.”
“Oh.”
“That makes me super weird, right?”
“Well,” I said. “Since I’m completely normal, yes, I think you’re weird.”
She was quiet.
“Because I’m so completely normal that I’m a patient in a mental hospital?” I said.
“Oh,” she said.
Then we both started giggling.
“Shh! Don’t make Nurse Beverly come in here.”
“Oh, sorry.”
We both took deep breaths, trying to stop laughing.
I turned onto my side to face her, even though I could only make out her outline. “When I came here, I was worried, too. I was worried I wasn’t sick enough to be a proper bulimarexic.”
“But you were so skinny.” She’d seen my photos, taped to the wall.
“Not anymore,” I said.
“Please,” she said. “You’re still tiny.”
“Blurg.” I puffed my cheeks out. “Anyway, I guess my point is, maybe we all question ourselves?”
“Yeah.” She went quiet.
“I think it’s bad enough,” I said. “For you, I mean. Even if you didn’t throw up.”
“You do?” The hope, the relief in her voice; it was like I’d thrown her a life jacket.
“Yeah, definitely. I mean, it must have been bad, if you ended up here.”
She laughed. “True.”
“Besides, barfing is gross,” I said.
A pause. “Could we really get in trouble for being up late?”
“Probably,” I said. “But we’ve got our lights out, so we’re technically following the rules. And Beverly—the night nurse—she’s nice. She’d understand for one night. Plus everything’s so off-kilter, because of the plane crash.”
“That’s so sad,” she said.
“It is,” I said.
We went quiet for a while.
“I can’t believe I’m here,” she said.
“It feels weird, right? But it gets better.”
“It does?”
“Not really.”
We laughed again.
“It doesn’t get better,” I said. “It always sucks. But you make friends, and you get used to it.”
“I can’t believe Christmas is in a few days,” she said.
Holy Napoleon. As sad as I was about being here for Christmas, it would be worse for Sophia. It was her first week. No passes, no visitors.
“Would they bend the rules, do you think?” I asked. “Let you have visitors?”
“They said maybe, depending on how my first few days go.”
“I was here for Thanksgiving my first week.”
“Did they let you have visitors?”
“Nope,” I said. “Christmas would be harder though.”
“Yeah,” she said. “But my family’s a mess, so it’s probably better that I’m here than home. Especially during semester break.”
“Was that your family in here, before? All those people?”
“Yeah. Mom, Stepdad, Dad, two brothers, one sister, and my boyfriend, Rob.”
“Wow,” I said. “Big family.”
“Yup. I’m the oldest. Do you have any siblings? Is that your brother in the picture?”
“Mm-hm. One brother, three years older. Mom and Dad, still together,” I said. “Is it worse at home? Your eating disorder?”
“Worse? I don’t know. I think it’s actually worse at school. But home can be crazy. My family is crazy.”
“Like, psychiatric hospital crazy? Unlike us…”
She chuckled. “Seriously, they are certifiably crazy. All of them in different ways. My mom’s an alcoholic. Full blown. And my dad is schizophrenic. Diagnosed.”
“Oh,” I said. “Wow. Does he take medicine?”
“He does until he feels better,” she sighed. “Then he stops, because, you know, he’s all better, right? And then he gets bad again. And then it’s a huge fight to get him back on his meds.”
“Is that why your parents got divorced?”
“Yup. And after my mom wasn’t around to take care of him, I got the job.”
“Because you’re the oldest.”
“Because I’m the oldest,” she said.
We went quiet again.
“Sometimes I worry I’m schizophrenic,” she said.
I didn’t know what to say. What if she was? Wasn’t mental illness sometimes genetic?
“You seem pretty normal to me,” I offered lamely.
She didn’t seem to hear me. “I feel like… Sometimes I feel like there is this thing inside me…” she trailed off. “Now I really do sound crazy.”
“No,” I said. My heart was in my throat. Was she going to say what I thought she was going to say?
“Go on,” I said. “Sometimes you feel like there’s… what inside you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want you to think I’m psychotic. Or, more to the point, schizophrenic.”
“You feel like there’s a monster inside you,” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Oh my God,” I said.
“I know. I’m crazy aren’t I?”
“No, no,” I said. “I didn’t mean, ‘Oh my God, you’re crazy.’ I meant, ‘Oh my God. I know exactly what you mean.’”
“Really?”
“Yes. I feel that way, too. I feel like there’s this ugly thing inside me, that is completely separate from me—”
“Like it’s just this thing living inside you—”
“Yeah, just squished in there somewhere, sometimes in my gut, sometimes in my—”
“Brain,” she said.
“Yes!” I said. “And it tells me that I’m horrible—”
“And disgusting—”
“And totally messed up—”
“And nobody will ever understand—”
“So don’t ever tell anyone.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Nope, no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.
She laughed.
I couldn’t believe it. She had the exact same monster. “I basically came here to figure out how to get rid of it, the monster,” I told her. “Or kill it.”
“Did it work?” She sounded hopeful and excited, but cautious.
I thought about it. “I don’t know. I’ve never actually said it before. Out loud. To my doctors. Or anyone.”
“Me neither,” she said.
“Going into recovery, you know how they say it’s a journey, not a destination?”
“I haven’t heard that,” she said. “But it makes sense.”
“Oh, get ready. You’ll hear it in groups all the time. People get all philosophical and spout these nuggets of wisdom. ‘Recovery is a journey, not a destination.’ ‘Happiness is being able to enjoy yourself on the detours.’”
“Great,” she said. I couldn’t see it, but I knew she was rolling her eyes.
“Oh yeah, it’s something to look forward to,” I said. “When I’m really bored, I keep track. I count how many times someone mentions a saying. The record is nine in one hour.”
“Impressive.”
“It was me,” I said. “I was trying to see if anyone would notice.”
“Ha. That’s hilarious.”
“Anyway,” I said. “I think it’s true about the journey. And enjoying the detours—”
“JESUS! I AM JESUS! Water into wine! Water into wine!”
“What…” whispered Sophia, “is that?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s a patient in the Adult Unit. She does this every once in a while. But it’s not every night. And she’s harmless.”
“JESUS! I AM JESUS!”
“Um. Will she stop?” Sophia asked.
“Eventually,” I said. “Either a nurse will calm her down, or they’ll call a—”
The intercom clicked on. “Code Blue. Code Blue. Adult Unit. All available nursing staff to Adult Unit. Code Blue. Adult Unit.”
“Okay, now there will be some commotion,” I said. “But honestly, don’t worry.”
“What will they do to her?”
“Give her tranquilizers, I think? I don’t know for sure. It’s creepy, but like I said, it doesn’t happen often. And she’s totally harmless.”
“Okay…” but she didn’t sound sure.
“Are you ready to go home now?” I said.
“Yup. I’m all better and ready to go home now.”
We laughed so hard we cried.