Clandestine Confessions

“Bump, clink, bang, clink, knock knock.”
Our 6AM alarm clock every morning.
The sound of the blood pressure machine squeakily making its way down the hall.
Always making a loud thud when crossing over the hallway carpet to the bedroom carpet.
Which preceded the tap on the door by the nurse – as if they needed permission to enter.
Or as if every other noise they emitted was not loud enough to jolt us all awake.
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Sometimes groggily, sometimes fully coherent (if anxiety already stirred me out of my slumber), I would stick out my arm for the cuff to be positioned.
Obsessively watching how far the nurse wrapped it around to gauge how “large” my arm was becoming.
The mind knowing immediately the job it needed to do – even if still half asleep – giving no second of relief from the compulsions.
Hoping last night’s nightmare was not this morning’s reality.
Always finding any way to body check as my weight remained a mystery.
Then would raise my pointer finger for the oximeter to be placed on.
And would do it all again while standing.
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“Good morning, J. How did you sleep?” always the question asked.
By the nurse taking the blood pressure.
And the nurse weighing you.
And the nurse giving you your medication.
And the nurse at breakfast.
All of whom would write it down somewhere.
Yet seemingly none of them knowing where that somewhere was….
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Our vitals would be scribbled down on a small slip of white paper.
Our room number and names printed at the top.
Then placed on our beds while we changed into our gowns – and ONLY the gown.
Nothing allowed underneath.
Making sure to not forget to grab it before making the cold walk down the half-lit hall.
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First stop: weight room.
Where we would stand at the door waiting for our turn to enter.
Sleepiness not at all a suppressor of anxiety.
Knowing you were about to face your largest demon – before the sun even rose.
Not how I personally recommend starting your day…
Yet despite that, it was the best version of myself you would see all day.
Progressively declining as the minutes passed and the thoughts became louder.
Each moment I realized there was no escaping the inevitable hell of a changing body.
The feeling of being suffocated by my own skin.
Sensing its “rapid” expansion.
Everything feeling tighter with each morsel of food that entered my body and each emotion I was made to feel.
Painfully aware of my presence.
Consistently being redirected by staff to stop fidgeting – a result of me trying to find a more comfortable position – more comfortable as in take up as little space as possible…
Which I seemed to be occupying more and more by the second.
My mind berating me for defying its sense of safety.
Taking it out brashly on my reflection.
Petrified of it but unable to look away – obsessively scrutinizing every inch of my body, repulsed at my appearance, spewing out the venom that is self hate.
As if those spiteful words would make it submit into to my deepest desire of disappearing…
The only way I saw getting relief from being tormented by the visual manipulation my mind was capable of curating.
“This is not the person I saw an hour ago…” I would tell myself.
Every single waking hour.
The greatest struggle to logically know what you are seeing is not real (nor possible) but yet so convinced that image is truth.
And utterly unable to believe anyone telling you otherwise.
And then to know you can go to another mirror and see something totally different.
Body dysmorphia – a lifetime of fun house mirrors…
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The slip would be handed to the nurse weighing you.
Who would add the number to it and never have it seen by you again.
At least that was their intent.
Admittedly, I would try to sneak a peek throughout the morning when standing at the nurse’s station.
Only successful twice.
Coming to the conclusion curiosity did more damage than ignorance did.
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Next stop: medication.
Rattling of your medical ID – a series of seven numbers – or having your bracelet scanned to verify your identity before the little cup of pills and water was handed to you.
“Can this be counted towards my fluids?” a fear driven question as the water retention intensified through the refeeding process.
“No, J.”
I always knew what the answer would be.
I always asked anyways.
A description of each medication with their dosage spoken by the nurse every time…in the event the torture chamber of your mind forgot why you rely on them.
“Please open your mouth and lift your tongue.”
And if all was clear, back to your room you went.
To kill time before breakfast doing what you wished – go back to sleep, shower (if not on bathroom observation – for that required coordinating with an available staff member), read, watch TV, venture into other patient’s rooms to talk, make phone calls.
(I experienced both time periods of communication… first being the use of a calling card where minutes had to be added weekly by my parents – the obnoxiously loud ring of that hospital phone unforgettable – all of us trying to figure out from which room it was coming. And second being when cell phones were permitted during certain hours of the day – needing to be signed out and signed back in from our bins.)
Occasionally your morning routine would be interrupted by the phlebotomist.
Or some other random test they needed to run on you.
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I can still see the 12 year old J sitting in the common room watching the news by herself every morning.
I would turn the heater on, cozy up on the couch with my blanket and journal, and spend the next two hours catching up on the events of the outside world.
While simultaneously alternating my creativity between fantasizing a future beyond those four walls and imagining all the foods I wished I would allow myself to eat.
Struggling to commit to a side.
Trying to not lose my footing on what is real, to not get too far detached from life separate from the disorder to never know how to make it back.
But yet also coveting an intense desire to intentionally get lost…for good.
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Just like I still see the teenage J sitting on the burgundy recliner chair in the living room in Pennsylvania.
Insomnia leading me there at 4am every day where I would watch the only entertaining program airing on TV at that hour; 80’s sitcoms.
Eagerly waiting until 5:30 when I would make my two low fat multigrain Eggo waffles and spend the next two hours consuming them before going to school.
Having now switched the channel to ABC to watch the news.
My futile attempt to keep a toe still in reality.
Sometimes falling asleep with a bite in my mouth from the pure mental exhaustion of the routine.
Then waking up and knowing exactly where to pick up – as if there was never a lapse in behavior.
Lost in this secret world so methodically lived while the rest of the world slept.
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Just like I still see the twenty year old J in the great room in North Carolina.
On the tan couch that became my bed as I could no longer walk up the stairs.
Sleep and I now complete strangers.
Intently, as if in a trance, staring at the clock impatiently waiting for the 3 to transform into a 4.
My permission to walk into the kitchen and take possession of my Yoplait Light Orange Crème yogurt.
Timed to be completed mere seconds before my mom would walk out of her bedroom to leave for work at 6AM.
The TV barely audible to not wake anyone up – DVR’ed episodes of House Hunters playing.
An attempt to still dream – deceive people into believing I still saw a tomorrow where this could be a reality.
But completely loyal to and lost in a world where nobody could reach me.
Where that type of normalcy was an impossibility.
For this world had me on a quest to die…
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Just like I still see the 29 year old J sneaking out of her then boyfriend’s (can I call him that?) house at 5am because I was not allowed to be seen.
Where I would drive around and then pull into a Wawa or Starbucks parking lot and sob for two hours.
Grabbing 24oz of coffee for my breakfast.
Before returning to my Uncle’s house and logging into work for the day.
As if nothing happened.
As if I was living my best life.
As if I was healed…
But truthfully trapped in a painful world nobody could know about out of protection for another – a clandestine affair that had more power to take me out than the disorder ever did…
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Although the outward appearance transformed, three things remained unchanged with each version:
1. The part of me yearning for safety, trying to figure out where I belonged…designing dangerous realities in desperation.
2. The secrecy in which I shrouded so much of my story – especially when knowing its revelation would permanently force me back into a fearfully foreign land.
3. Those two hours always coming to an end…when I would eventually have to temporarily face the world from which I was trying to escape and depart from my own. Donning the mask, speaking their language, and praying I could survive until my two sacred hours came again.
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It always seemed to arrive too soon, but yet never soon enough…
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And for now, this is where we will end the treatment chronicles. To be resumed soon.
But first, much more life on which to catch you up…