Clandestine Confessions

February 2, 2004.
I had made it about 6 months in the real world after being discharged from the psych ward before I would find myself needing more intensive treatment again.
I switched my doctor to a nurse practitioner within the same office in Hershey.
I was seeing a therapist weekly.
I was meeting with a nutritionist bi-weekly.
But none of it was enough.
Entry upon entry in my journal of me begging God to take it all away.
Pleading with Him to take me home to be with Him.
Insufferable mental and emotional agony inflicted me every minute of the day.
I could not keep up with the demands of the trauma screaming for relief.
Nor could I maintain the lies that dictated my life – that became my life…
–
I was told by my parents I was trying out a new doctor in New Jersey.
Which eased my suspicions a bit when I learned my mom was taking the day off of work to come.
It seemed less odd that my dad couldn’t just take me himself.
Nor just my mom since she did not feel comfortable driving longer distances to new places.
The pieces were adding up.
But it still felt like some were missing…
–
My dad dropped my mom and I off at the hospital door.
The statues, who soon would be named by my uncle, the first things I noticed.
They were hard to miss…
They were the one constant in the umpteen times I would call the facility “home”.
(Tuck the use of that word away for future reference.)
“Excuse me,” my mom spoke to the woman at the concierge desk. “Where can we find Dr. Marx?”
I stood there scoping my surroundings.
Knowing something felt…off…the disordered part of me ALWAYS having a sixth sense for the threat of its end.
But not knowing then how much I would come to learn those hallways.
I would see them often.
Far too much so.
“Second floor. Make a left when you come out of the elevator.”
We followed her instructions along with the signs on the wall pointing us in the right direction.
“Eating Disorder Unit” – my eyes naturally gravitated towards those words lasered into the boards.
An ever present reminder of the scarlet letter I have been carrying within me.
Making me an outcast in the real world, but an insider to a place like this.
–
The woman at the desk, a far more pleasant version of Roz from Monsters Inc., directed us to the room beside her.
A round table with chairs right when you walked in.
A love seat, two chairs, and a coffee table to the right – the spot I would soon watch my family’s “perfect” image unravel quickly in weekly therapy sessions.
A door slightly in the middle of the opposite wall – leading to what I would discover to be a group therapy room.
The sound of patients sneaking out from underneath the sliver of open space above the floor straight to my ears – companionship in the waiting to hear my fate – from those I would come to later call my friends.
Those who would see me, hear me, understand me, in a way I never fathomed possible.
–
The doctor came to the room to lead me to his office.
Through the double doors.
Took a right.
Past the dining room.
And the dietician’s desk.
And the location of the voices.
And a few decorated doors with girls’ names signifying to me my intuition was indeed correct.
The last room at the end of the hallway on the left.
Across from the classroom.
–
I was weighed immediately upon entering – clothes still on.
My light wash Limited Too jeans and yellow and blue striped sweater.
Then was asked all the typical questions – how long this has been going on, my daily food intake, severity of thoughts, view of self, emotional state.
A few thrown in that had nothing to do with the disorder – all of which I struggled to answer but still appreciated his attempt to call to the authenticity.
I took note of the book he authored sitting on his desk.
His diplomas hanging on the walls.
Along with a couple magazine covers in which he was featured.
The pictures of his two daughters and wife framed by his computer.
Each one of those things I would inquire about in the weeks to come.
–
He excused himself to bring my parents into the office.
And once all reunited, I would relive my nightmare.
“J meets the weight criteria by insurance to be admitted. We have a bed available for her today.”
He looked right at my parents.
“How would you like to proceed?”
It was courtesy what my mom and dad did next for I know they already had their answer.
“Do you mind if we take some time alone to discuss?”
We were brought back to the waiting room.
Where I immediately released the fear and anger.
–
“No. This cannot happen. Please. I do not even have any of my stuff.”
Anxiety mounted as I recollected every single second of the psych ward.
Body shook uncontrollably and heart raced painfully at the thought of being forced to endure it all again.
I was not going to survive it…at least not emotionally so.
“There is a suitcase already packed in the car.”
Laying in the trunk of the blue Sonata – the same car that took me to the psych ward – there it was behind me the whole drive without me ever even knowing.
But they knew…
They knew this was going to happen.
I know my parents were scared too, attempting to protect me by withholding this information.
But the secrecy did more harm than good – obliterating any ounce of trust I had left in people.
Whatever sense of safety I had remaining now gone.
Feeling fully exposed to the cruel world.
And with full transparency I will tell you I still make choices today rooted in that wound.
–
In fury, in betrayal, in panic, I banged my head against the circular wooden table.
A lined bruise marked my forehead for the next week.
There was this part of me that thought this act would convince them to not go through with admitting me.
If they saw how vociferously I was shouting my pain.
Once again, using my body as my voice.
And once again, it was not loud enough…
–
“J, we have no choice. You are too sick to return home.”
My dad took over all the talking from this point forward.
I could not get my mom to look my way – her fear of seeing me in agony perhaps far too great for her to bear.
“I will change. I promise. I will do whatever they say. Please. Don’t do this. Please. You have no idea what it is like.”
“I am sorry. You need to be admitted.”
“But for how long? I will be out for Valentine’s Day, right? And my birthday? I have to be out by then. It’s my thirteenth. No, wait, please. This cannot happen.”
“I am sure as long as you do as they say it will be a short stay.”
–
He was not right.
But in a strange turn of events, I was glad he got it wrong…