Clandestine Confessions

“720. Saving a banana and peanut butter.”
“480. Complete.”
Each patient speaking different variations of those two sentences as we went around the table.
The staff member at the head of the table, coveted clipboard in front of her, writing it down in the appropriate meal box next to our names.
Some of us also having additional notes beside it…
“Double check under plate.”
“Watch for her adding water to milk.”
“No more than 960ml at meals.”
“Watch for overheating food.” – which, by the way, I am pretty sure was an impossibility with our mediocre microwave and ice cold food from the trays arriving over a half hour before meal times…
30 seconds – the maximum allotted – to reheat our food barely making a dent in temperature change.
There was a sharpie being passed around for everyone to write their names on their food before we placed them on the “saves” tray and basket.
Occasionally a drawing would accompany our monikers.
If boredom got the best of us.
The most creative people I have and will ever know are those I met on the EDU.
All of their art pieces I still have in my possession.
–
I sat there utterly confused as to what was unfolding.
Kim, one who immediately took me under her wing from day one, must have sensed my anxiety and immediately assisted.
“You will tell them how much you drank,” she said pointing to the large chart in between the lights on the wall in front of us.
Decorated with bubble letters and hand drawn pictures of various beverages.
240ml for one cup of water, milk, tea, coffee, ginger ale, and Boost.
120ml for ice cream, jello, water ice, and juice.
180ml for soup.
“And then say if you ate all your food or saving something for later.”
Her voice just barely audible over “Bigger Than My Body” playing on the mini boombox sitting on the window ledge in the dining room – the “Heavier Things” album on repeat for weeks every meal and snack.
(Until a revolt was held one lunch by Meredith and Sarah and John got replaced with Bob Marley…who played for weeks…until it went back to John…)
“240. Saving an apple,” the words quietly escaped my mouth.
“We need you to have at least 360 at meals and 240 at snacks. Can you go get half a cup of water?”
I would oblige.
This time.
Rebellion not yet in my blood. Perfectionism still my ruler.
More determined to be discharged than I was to preserve the disorder.
A mentality I would sustain until no longer under legal guardianship 6 years later.
When my stubbornness swapped sides.
–
The dining room would see the best of me – conquering my “fear” foods, completing meals, surrendering a few rituals, choosing life in the moments my mind screamed for death.
Particularly the meals following a family session…talk about a Herculean feat.
Throw EVERY trigger your way and then place your coping mechanism in front of you.
And not be able to use it in the way you trained your brain to do so…
It would also see the worst of me – (those stories to come at a later date…)
It would hear my laughter.
And see my tears.
Outside of the private conversations kept sacred within the confines of one other’s rooms in the early mornings and evenings, it would hold some of the strongest bonding moments between us patients.
Whether commiserating together during Wednesday’s lunch on cooking class days.
Or cheering one another on during intensely terrifying foods (was always grateful when the staff would let me stay behind to sit with someone struggling to keep them company.)
Or using humor to keep us surviving amidst the mounting anxiety that was out to drown us all.
Or enduring the playing of games because “STAT!” was yelled far too many times, and we had to be occupied to “stick to appropriate topics”…
I can still see the hand drawn sign on the cabinet door that housed the cooking supplies listing all the off limit words and discussions.
Calories, numbers, food, weight, etc.
Funny enough I made a new one for the dining room during my first stay…
Was always an odd feeling to still see it there in the years to come.
For I never imagined while creating it that I would ever see it again.
A painful reminder of what I could not overcome.
Especially when it was gone upon my return after the dining room switched locations.
Had assumed it would at least outlast me…
–
My first few stays had the dining room in a converted bedroom directly across from the entrance doors.
Far too small for the amount of patients and staff to fit comfortably.
Someone always bound to get pinned between the wall and a chair at least once during the meal.
But it was the only option at the time.
The small room across serving as a pantry – complete with a fridge and nonperishable foods used for calorie increases.
Or when the kitchen left off a few items written and/or circled on our menus…
Trust me, not hard to do if you looked at our trays – the paper lining barely visible underneath the plethora of food.
Plus, the state of those menus – white out covering those rectangular sheets from one too many indecisions…
And the very worst being the unexpected addition or change made by the dieticians.
AFTER you handed in your menu.
The butter you know for SURE you did not circle.
For your entire day’s intake was written down in a notebook – for the purpose of recounting the exchanges to ensure accuracy when the mind screamed you miscalculated, to obsessively review the night before and morning of to know exactly what to expect, as a safeguard to not deviate drastically in calories from day to day…
–
Then the dining room moved to the old playroom at the opposite end of the hall near the common room and laundry room (the EDU was adjacent to the pediatric ICU).
Where Saturday’s multi family sessions were once held (now moved to a conference room downstairs).
The large windows – looking out into the hallway, not the outside world – decorated for the corresponding season or holiday.
Artwork on the walls and the cabinets by the sink.
The fluids chart, water cooler, apple corer, and microwave got an upgrade – however, the latter still not a match against the byproduct of passing time.
The fridge – having been relocated – covered in pictures of people’s pets.
One of which I still have with me – that of two goats…(if I am brave enough I will say why one day…)
The tables swapped out to accommodate a larger room.
The formation ever changing to see what could comfortably fit the most people.
As the location change made it possible to add more beds to the floor.
The need for it heartbreaking…and made worse knowing it still was not enough to shrink the ever growing waitlist.
–
The outpatients ate in the schoolroom at the end of the hall.
Its bathroom serving as the gym.
Various exercise equipment squeezed into the small space for those who earned the 20 minute privilege.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner always consumed here – snacks eaten with the inpatients.
Except for the one Friday out of every month where they would eat in the cafeteria for “exposure”.
The anxiety palpable in the hallway on those afternoons – usually sprung upon everyone the day of.
The dietician handing out the original lunch menus for the outpatients to gauge the exchanges they needed to meet.
Which usually turned into meticulously counting…and recounting…and recounting…to ensure they did not exceed what was already planned.
Writing it down on a little slip of paper to better track once in the cafeteria.
And always one or two people making it back upstairs emotionally shaken – the experience the main focus of the proceeding psychotherapy group.
“I am a 2. I am feeling anxious, frustrated, and annoyed. And I need group time.”
Always breathed a sigh of relief when someone spoke that last sentence – knowing we were about to be spared from sitting in awkward silence.
Where someone with a lower number would inevitably get called out.
Making it ever so tempting to give a fabricated rating of my mood to avoid that fate…
–
And then the hospital would switch locations.
Which brought with it a much larger, brighter, more open dining room in between two hallways of bedrooms.
Lined with glass panes on both sides.
Decorations hanging from the ceiling.
Once again, the tables shapeshifting frequently – changing based on quantity of patients within certain age ranges.
Children and teens always separated from adults.
A kitchenette now attached to it making for more efficient cooking classes – with a small table I would come to know quite intimately when my obstinacy made itself known…
It was my least favorite of the three even if the “newer” version.
For its spaciousness would create a loss of connection with other patients during mealtimes.
And lacked the personality of the former two – the sterile setting screaming “I’m in a hospital.”
Which, yes, was true, but there are ways to mask that painful reality.
Ways that impact the psyche greatly.
Ways that can add normalcy to a horribly abnormal situation.
Ways that can bring more hope than hurt.
It would become the dining room to carry the most trauma for me.
–
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
There are quite a few chapters left to go before I introduce you to that J….