(continued from previous post "the contraband")
So my contraband was gathered up and taken away to a "safe place," never to be seen again... at least not until I walked out of those doors as a free and "healthy" woman; meaning it was definitely going to be a while. My biggest loss in the contraband removal was, of course, my beloved fan, but also my Dean Martin Cocktail Hour CD. I forgot to mention that CDs were one of the many items considered "potentially sharp" because if broken they could do a lot of damage. Who knew such good music could be so bad? Good old Dean... contraband! Can you believe it? I mean, maybe in his day his music was considered contraband to a few Southern Baptists, but this was 2007, and this place was definitely not Baptist of any sort. I found his removal from my life to be quite unnecessary, but if it was for the safety of everyone else, I figured I could do without his swooning voice singing "Wham! Bam! Thank You Ma'am."
The only thing left in my suitcase was my clothes, which I was thankful for at least not having those taken away. As my contraband removal session was ending, another girl filed in behind a BHA who was about to begin hers. We were introduced and told we would be roommates, which made the adult count for the facility a whopping total of 3. Almost all of the patients were considered "youth," which meant under 18. The other adult girl and myself were told we'd be sleeping in the lodge next door, as the lodge we were currently in was for youth, but that almost all of our sessions would be held together in the youth lodge. I was glad when I was told we'd be staying in a different lodge, and that there were only 3 of us. Even though I was in a back bedroom away from all the activity, it was still so loud from where I sat. Being so drained already, I certainly did not want to walk back out there and be around a bunch of "youth." Uh oh, the separation had already begun in my mind.
I sat on one of three beds in the big back bedroom, in no rush to to go anywhere, which worked out perfectly because I was told I could wait there until they finished confiscating my roommate's contraband (though not in those words). I watched a BHA go through my roommate's stuff and though she didn't have much, I wondered if she felt how I felt while they pulled all her mentionables and unmentionables out of her bag. She was much more outspoken than I was about what they took away. I spoke up in my mind, but never out loud... well, except for the life of my beloved fan, but other than that, my wise cracks I kept to myself. My new roommate, (who I will call Ashley from now on, though let it be known that was not her name, which I think it a shame not to mention because she had such a beautiful name, but for the sake of her own privacy, which I respect, Ashley will do) Ashley, on the other hand, was quite outspoken with her wise cracks and I remember taking to her right away. Not only was she a fellow Southerner, but she was not your typical Southern woman, meaning I knew she wasn't going to pretend to like me and say things like "bless your heart, darling, and all your sweet little problems" and then walk out of the room and talk about how my life was an abomination and that I was heading straight to the pit. I liked that about her. I'm sure you can understand why.
(Disclaimer and quick side note before the objections start coming: I am not saying that all southern women are like this, for there are many who are near and dear to my heart. But for those who are curious about Southern women in general, watch Something To Talk About with Julia Roberts and Dennis Quaid; if nothing else, it's just a great movie. And since we're on the topic, also see Fried Green Tomatoes and Steel Magnolias, two of my favorites.)
So Ashley was very obviously from the South in the way that she spoke with an accent, which I loved and hadn't heard in another person since my dad left that morning (geez, was it only that morning? it seemed forever ago), but she was very obviously not from the south in the way that she was way more outspoken than most of the Southern women I had encountered. She made it known if she thought something was stupid, and she also made it known when she wasn't going to comply with something because she thought it was stupid, which was the next thing I found out about her...
This wasn't her first day in the facility, as it had been mine, she was actually admitted a good week or so before me. The reason she didn't have much stuff is because shortly after her admittance, she had a "freak out," as she described it, and was sent off to a psych ward where she stayed for three days before being allowed to return. She only had a small bag of clothes that I guess someone dropped off for her while she was there. She voiced that she thought it was dumb for someone to go through her bag (again) because a BHA packed it for her and brought it to her under even more heightened security than what we were under, but in compliance with the rules of the facility, they searched it anyway. After telling me she was in for substance abuse, she told me she was bi-polar and that some of her doctors thought she might have borderline personality disorder. Not really sure of what that was, I couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with her "freak out." I didn't know what she meant when she said she had a "freak out," nor did I ask in fear that it might spur on another one, but either way, I still really liked her company and I was really glad she was going to be my roommate.
Before dinner we had snack, even though I was still full from lunch. When I left the kitchen I was introduced to the 3rd adult in the facility who was also going to be a roommate of mine. She couldn't have been more opposite of the first girl, but I liked her just as much. She was very quiet and soft spoken, with a bona fide mellow presence that made me feel as if I could fall asleep at any given moment while we were talking; not because I was bored, but because I felt so tranquil when I was around her, even if chaos surrounded me left and right. I knew she would be quite a good friend to have, especially in the months to follow. Though other girls that day would blurt out "so why are you here?" and stare me down as they waited for my answer, Lauren (as I will call her from now on), after having told me about her own struggle with depression and some reasons why she found herself in the facility, gently questioned "so if you don't mind me asking, why are you here?"
Now, the other girls were so abrupt in their asking that even when I answered them I did so out of anger and frustration, without the reality of my answer really hitting me, which is why I haven't mentioned why I was there until now. It was in that moment of talking with Lauren and sitting in the atmosphere of her mellow mood that I felt safe to answer. And so when I answered, I answered truthfully and calmly; and in the calmness of my voice I heard the truth, instead of the anger, and I acknowledged not just to Lauren, but to myself, why I was really there...
"Well, no, I don't mind telling you," though I did hesitate, "I've... I've struggled with depression for a really long time, but... I guess I'm really here because... I have an eating disorder."
Most of the other girls would respond with "how long have you had it?" or "what kind?" or "how bad is it?" Some asked in this way because they had no tact, others because they were sizing me up and comparing my problems to theirs, and still others because they were just simply making conversation and they didn't really know how, so I can't hold that against them.
Lauren sat quietly and breathed in, almost as a therapist would do (I remember because I journaled about it), and then said "yea, that is really hard. I've struggled with that sort of thing before, which may have led to the depression, I don't really know, but I suppose I'm going to find all that out while I'm here." I couldn't believe how calm she was, and though she'd probably still deny it, how wise she was. I felt as if I was sitting at the feet of some great theologian, partly because I was sitting on the floor at this point and she was sitting on the couch, so I was quite literally at her feet, but also because of her responses to questions and the time she would allow herself to think before actually responding.
While sitting in the truth of why I was there, I started to feel uncomfortable. The internal conversations started taking place... "I don't really have an eating disorder, I just have issues with food. I don't really need to be here, do I? I mean, this all seems a little extreme, doesn't it?" That went on in my head for a while as I watched the girls interact around me. Lauren and I talked a little while longer until the girls were rounded up to go to dinner. She left with them and I stayed behind with the mis-behaved and the exercise restricted. Fortunately for me, since Ashley was readmitted back to the facility that day, she was on lock down as well. I don't think she was too happy about it, but I remember being glad that she was going to stay behind with me, even if it wasn't voluntary on her part. I don't remember much about dinner, other than being angry. Angry about the food, angry I had to eat it, angry I had to hold it in, angry I was still full from lunch and snack. I was just angry.
Ashley's wit me laugh some, so that helped me through, but it was borderline impossible to get out of my head. "borderline," I thought to myself, "maybe I have that." You see, I remember conversations like this going on in my head because in a treatment facility, surrounded by girls with varying issues and varying degrees of them, it's hard not to try and start diagnosing yourself. This is something that I did all throughout my stay at the facility. I'd hear just enough of a girl's story to relate it to my own and then I'd convince myself of a greater issue at hand within me. At one point I had diagnosed myself with trichotillomania (a compulsion to pull out one's own hair), dermatillomania (compulsive skin picking), bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, depression, and self harm, even if not in the form of cutting. I was probably an insurance company's worst nightmare. I would hear a word, or a behavior that I had done maybe once before, and when I found out it could be an actual disease or an addiction, I would label myself as such. It sounds silly, but more than anything, I simply just wanted a reason to explain why I was the way that I was, even if the explanation was just for myself.
The trouble with that was, even if I had never suffered from those diagnoses before, I started to develop characteristics found in them simply so that I didn't have to focus on my eating disorder. This went on for a little while until I realized that I wasn't actually recovering from my addiction, I was swapping one addiction (or diagnosis) for another... but that is later in the story.
For now, in this part of the story, I'm still an angry and bitter girl, sitting at a dinner table, with a behavioral health assistant telling me I need to finish what's on my plate before I can leave the kitchen. I felt more like a toddler in that moment than when I actually was a toddler, probably because when I was a toddler, I wasn't aware of it.
Yes, I would agree that ignorance can very often be bliss.
To be continued...
Monday, March 14, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
the contraband
(continued from previous post)
I sat there in my anger long enough to let myself think it defined who I was, then I stood up and told Nic I needed to use the restroom. He said he'd go get Liz and I couldn't help but wonder what Liz had to do with it. "I know where it is," I told him, but he said I needed Liz to unlock it. "They keep the bathrooms locked?" I asked myself. Not only did they keep the bathrooms locked, but certain girls, myself included, were placed on bathroom restriction; meaning that if they wanted to use the bathroom within 2 hours after they've had a meal or a snack, a behavioral health assistant had to go with them. Considering the fact that we had three meals a day and three snacks in between, that left me little to no room to find un-monitored bathroom time. My anger elevated to an unethical degree and I suddenly decided I could hold it much longer than I had originally planned. Girl mode set in as I thought about the horror of what would happen if I had to go "number two." Two all of a sudden seemed like such a large number and I panicked at the thought of something so private becoming so public, even if it was only in front of one other person. Number two is not an experience to be shared between two people, and though at that point I only needed to experience number one, I wasn't ready to share that either. So I held it.
I don't remember exactly what happened next, I remember meeting girls and just listening in on conversations. I let time linger and I thought I had waited long enough for a full two hours to pass after my meal, but it was slightly under and I just couldn't hold it anymore. My bladder was about to pop like a pre-teen pimple. I finally informed someone that I needed to use the restroom and sure enough one of the female behavioral health assistants (I will refer to them as BHAs from now on) led me to a bathroom in one of the back bedrooms. When we got back there she looked at me and said "I don't have to go in with you, I can just stand at the door" and there was this glimmer of hope with music and all for a split second, until she followed it up with, "but you'll have to sing or something so that I know you aren't... you know... doing anything else."
"Tactful," I thought to myself, followed by "is she serious?" I went in the bathroom, left the door open and got in position. Nothing happened. It was dead silent. How could anything happen? After all, if any one's bladder has stage fright, it's mine. Much like my sleep habits that require white noise for any sleep to take place, if I am in a public restroom, it is almost impossible for me to "let the river flow" if there is no white noise of some sort to encourage the floodgates to open. Whether it be in the form of the faucet water running or pretending to be out of toilet paper so I can "accidentally" shake the toilet paper holder too hard, there has to be background sound of some sort. But this time it was just me and the silence... and one other girl. It was so awkward. I knew she was standing at the open door, listening, and it freaked me out."What if she thinks I'm trying to go poo and I can't because it's too quiet (God forbid she think I would go number two)? What if she thinks I was lying about needing to go just so I could get into the bathroom and... you know... do something else? What if she... oh god, please just pee, you idiot!" I couldn't understand it! I was literally just busting at the seams a few minutes ago but as soon as I got the chance to do something about it, I couldn't get a single drop out! Before I could continue bullying my bladder to make a move, her voice chimed in, "hey, can you sing the ABCs or something?"
There I was, 23 years old, singing the ABCs to the person who was monitoring me using the bathroom. Talk about getting knocked off of your "I have everything under control" horse. I bashfully began to sing the ABCs, but between my deprecating thoughts, the girl at the door, and apparently the inability to multi-task singing while peeing, at least to a complete stranger, I couldn't go. I didn't even get all the way through the alphabet before I gave up. I was crying inside. I felt helpless, and even more so, stupid. "I swear I really did have to go," I told her, "it's just that now that I'm here, I can't seem to." She said she understood and that "we" could try again later. "we," I thought to myself. "There shouldn't be a 'we' involved, I'm 23 years old, I'm the only person that should be involved in me going to the bathroom." I followed her back out to the lobby with my head hung low as if I has just lost the biggest game of my life. Before I could sit down I was informed that someone was now going to go through my suitcase with me to make sure I had nothing illegal or harmful hidden away somewhere. Wonderful. How about we squeeze just a little more lemon juice into my fully exposed paper cut of pride?
I was exhausted and felt weak in every way... mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually. All I wanted to do was lay down and sleep, but I kept up my pace and followed closely behind yet another BHA. I ended up going to the same back bedroom where I was previously taken to use the bathroom. "Deja-vu," I tried to joke with myself, but not much was funny at this point. I think I even told myself to shut up. One of the guys checking my bag was Brian, and though my mental state was so far out of whack for me to even have noticed, at least this early on, I can look back and appreciate that he was probably a good looking guy. He took everything electrical out of my bag including my hair dryer, hair straightener, and my beloved fan, whose comforting white noise I had never slept without. He said he had to go "test" them and he'd bring them back, even though when he brought them back I was going to have to put them in a locker that I did not have a key to. Upon his return he said they all cleared, which was obvious because they now had little green and white affirmation stickers on them saying they "passed." To this day my hair dryer and hair straightener have those exact stickers on them. On one of them the writing is rubbed off, but on the other it says clear as day, "TESTED FOR ELECTRICAL SAFETY By: BM On: 2/05/07." So long as I have those hair appliances in my possession, and I plan to keep them until they give out, I will never take those stickers off.
What didn't make it back to the room where I and my wide open suitcase sat was my fan, my beloved fan. Where was it? Brian told me that because of the fan blades, and issues involving girls who would use anything to self harm, I was not, nor was anyone else, allowed to have a fan. I explained to him that I only needed it to sleep at night. "It's purely for noise," I politely exclaimed, "I promise, you can keep it during the day, I just need it to sleep. I have to have it to sleep!" He said he would ask someone and let me know before nightly curfew. Curfew... there's another word I didn't want to hear, though at this point that word didn't surprise me. I was going to ask when curfew was but I found myself distracted by the gloved woman pulling my underwear out of my suitcase. She was pulling everything out of my suitcase, but it was the underwear that stood out to me; probably because it was my UNDERWEAR! Not to mention, Brian was still in the room trying to hold my attention as he was explaining some of the policies of the facility. I don't remember much of what he said, I just remember having the thought "if he looks over there right now he is going to see my unmentionables, oh god!" I don't even like it when male cashiers ring me up at a grocery store for tampons, but at least I more than likely won't see them again. With Brian, I was going to be spending the next two months in the same building as him, the last thing I wanted him to see was my underwear, even if it was just in my suitcase. My underwear was obviously going to make it onto my body at some point, and I didn't like the thought of Brian knowing what it looked like.
It felt like weeks had gone by since my dad left that morning, but sure enough, when I looked over at the little green and white sticker on my safely tested hair dryer, it confirmed that it was still only February 5th, 2007.
The gloved woman and Brian proceeded to sort through all of my belongings. "Any shampoo, conditioner, lotions, soaps, etc. with alcohol as an ingredient... you can't have," they said very matter of factly. "Any razor blades, bobby pins, safety pins, pencils, pens, i.e. anything sharp or potentially sharp... you can't have. Any cell phones or cameras... you can't have." Brian continued reading the long "you can't have" list as the gloved woman pulled almost all of the very objects that were listed as prohibited out of my bag. I knew they were just following protocol and saying what they had to say to every girl upon arrival, but I couldn't help but feel as if they were exclusively addressing me, this detestable new girl who couldn't be trusted. I felt like a liar and a sneak for even having shampoo in my bag to begin with. The fact that I had in my possession numerous items that "normal" people used on an everyday basis, but were deemed "contraband" and taken away to be stored in my "locker," that I didn't have a key to, made me begin to under if I was crazier than I thought and therefore in need of all this heightened security.
I explained the reasoning behind all my "contraband," assuming that no one had ever explained it to them before, and that they would somehow reach enlightenment on the issue and in their state of "OOOOH OK," they would hand it all back. This was not the case. As the gloved woman gathered up my pink, bic razors I envisioned the scratch attack that would take place in my arm pits if I wasn't allowed to shave them within the next few days. I assumed she would understand as I explained the sole reason I had them was for shaving my arm pits, and an occasional leg when I wasn't feeling lazy, and she said she understood, but her look was one of "that's what they all say!" She followed up with her look with, "for the safety of everyone, razors and other sharp or potentially sharp objects are strictly forbidden." I wanted to punch her in the face for saying "potentially sharp" again. "What does that even mean?" I thought, "Like I can't even have an un-sharpened pencil because it has potential to be sharpened?"
Truth be told, all the heightened security about sharp objects was new to me because this was my first time being in an environment where girls openly struggled with, or had previously struggled with, self harm. I basically needed Brian to spell out for me what "self harm" meant. I was picturing girls beating themselves up, so it caught me really off guard when he blatantly said "the girls cut themselves." In that moment, I felt a little bit bad for making jokes about sharp objects, but at the same time I didn't because of my own ignorance on the subject matter. I didn't understand why you would cut yourself if you weren't trying to commit suicide. I didn't understand why "those girls" would want to do that. Their addiction made no sense to me, but then again no addiction does make sense, and so I can only assume that I didn't understand their addiction at the time because I was in such denial about my own. Don't get me wrong, I knew I had a problem, obviously, there I was locked up singing the ABCs to a person with the title "Behavioral Health Assistant," but I also thought my problem was very different, and honestly, not as bad as theirs. At the time, I didn't see the correlation between my issues and their issues because all I saw was the method used to numb (or feel) as opposed to the reason behind wanting to numb (or feel), so I didn't care... about them.
A quick disclaimer before you deem me heartless and refuse to read the rest: I eventually got to the point when I did realize that we were all the same in our struggles, and when these girls, who were once "those girls," became my sisters, and they allowed me to enter into their pain as I allowed them to enter into mine, but that is later in the story. For now, at least for in this part of the story, I'm still an ignorant bitch.
To be continued...
I sat there in my anger long enough to let myself think it defined who I was, then I stood up and told Nic I needed to use the restroom. He said he'd go get Liz and I couldn't help but wonder what Liz had to do with it. "I know where it is," I told him, but he said I needed Liz to unlock it. "They keep the bathrooms locked?" I asked myself. Not only did they keep the bathrooms locked, but certain girls, myself included, were placed on bathroom restriction; meaning that if they wanted to use the bathroom within 2 hours after they've had a meal or a snack, a behavioral health assistant had to go with them. Considering the fact that we had three meals a day and three snacks in between, that left me little to no room to find un-monitored bathroom time. My anger elevated to an unethical degree and I suddenly decided I could hold it much longer than I had originally planned. Girl mode set in as I thought about the horror of what would happen if I had to go "number two." Two all of a sudden seemed like such a large number and I panicked at the thought of something so private becoming so public, even if it was only in front of one other person. Number two is not an experience to be shared between two people, and though at that point I only needed to experience number one, I wasn't ready to share that either. So I held it.
I don't remember exactly what happened next, I remember meeting girls and just listening in on conversations. I let time linger and I thought I had waited long enough for a full two hours to pass after my meal, but it was slightly under and I just couldn't hold it anymore. My bladder was about to pop like a pre-teen pimple. I finally informed someone that I needed to use the restroom and sure enough one of the female behavioral health assistants (I will refer to them as BHAs from now on) led me to a bathroom in one of the back bedrooms. When we got back there she looked at me and said "I don't have to go in with you, I can just stand at the door" and there was this glimmer of hope with music and all for a split second, until she followed it up with, "but you'll have to sing or something so that I know you aren't... you know... doing anything else."
"Tactful," I thought to myself, followed by "is she serious?" I went in the bathroom, left the door open and got in position. Nothing happened. It was dead silent. How could anything happen? After all, if any one's bladder has stage fright, it's mine. Much like my sleep habits that require white noise for any sleep to take place, if I am in a public restroom, it is almost impossible for me to "let the river flow" if there is no white noise of some sort to encourage the floodgates to open. Whether it be in the form of the faucet water running or pretending to be out of toilet paper so I can "accidentally" shake the toilet paper holder too hard, there has to be background sound of some sort. But this time it was just me and the silence... and one other girl. It was so awkward. I knew she was standing at the open door, listening, and it freaked me out."What if she thinks I'm trying to go poo and I can't because it's too quiet (God forbid she think I would go number two)? What if she thinks I was lying about needing to go just so I could get into the bathroom and... you know... do something else? What if she... oh god, please just pee, you idiot!" I couldn't understand it! I was literally just busting at the seams a few minutes ago but as soon as I got the chance to do something about it, I couldn't get a single drop out! Before I could continue bullying my bladder to make a move, her voice chimed in, "hey, can you sing the ABCs or something?"
There I was, 23 years old, singing the ABCs to the person who was monitoring me using the bathroom. Talk about getting knocked off of your "I have everything under control" horse. I bashfully began to sing the ABCs, but between my deprecating thoughts, the girl at the door, and apparently the inability to multi-task singing while peeing, at least to a complete stranger, I couldn't go. I didn't even get all the way through the alphabet before I gave up. I was crying inside. I felt helpless, and even more so, stupid. "I swear I really did have to go," I told her, "it's just that now that I'm here, I can't seem to." She said she understood and that "we" could try again later. "we," I thought to myself. "There shouldn't be a 'we' involved, I'm 23 years old, I'm the only person that should be involved in me going to the bathroom." I followed her back out to the lobby with my head hung low as if I has just lost the biggest game of my life. Before I could sit down I was informed that someone was now going to go through my suitcase with me to make sure I had nothing illegal or harmful hidden away somewhere. Wonderful. How about we squeeze just a little more lemon juice into my fully exposed paper cut of pride?
I was exhausted and felt weak in every way... mentally, emotionally, physically and spiritually. All I wanted to do was lay down and sleep, but I kept up my pace and followed closely behind yet another BHA. I ended up going to the same back bedroom where I was previously taken to use the bathroom. "Deja-vu," I tried to joke with myself, but not much was funny at this point. I think I even told myself to shut up. One of the guys checking my bag was Brian, and though my mental state was so far out of whack for me to even have noticed, at least this early on, I can look back and appreciate that he was probably a good looking guy. He took everything electrical out of my bag including my hair dryer, hair straightener, and my beloved fan, whose comforting white noise I had never slept without. He said he had to go "test" them and he'd bring them back, even though when he brought them back I was going to have to put them in a locker that I did not have a key to. Upon his return he said they all cleared, which was obvious because they now had little green and white affirmation stickers on them saying they "passed." To this day my hair dryer and hair straightener have those exact stickers on them. On one of them the writing is rubbed off, but on the other it says clear as day, "TESTED FOR ELECTRICAL SAFETY By: BM On: 2/05/07." So long as I have those hair appliances in my possession, and I plan to keep them until they give out, I will never take those stickers off.
What didn't make it back to the room where I and my wide open suitcase sat was my fan, my beloved fan. Where was it? Brian told me that because of the fan blades, and issues involving girls who would use anything to self harm, I was not, nor was anyone else, allowed to have a fan. I explained to him that I only needed it to sleep at night. "It's purely for noise," I politely exclaimed, "I promise, you can keep it during the day, I just need it to sleep. I have to have it to sleep!" He said he would ask someone and let me know before nightly curfew. Curfew... there's another word I didn't want to hear, though at this point that word didn't surprise me. I was going to ask when curfew was but I found myself distracted by the gloved woman pulling my underwear out of my suitcase. She was pulling everything out of my suitcase, but it was the underwear that stood out to me; probably because it was my UNDERWEAR! Not to mention, Brian was still in the room trying to hold my attention as he was explaining some of the policies of the facility. I don't remember much of what he said, I just remember having the thought "if he looks over there right now he is going to see my unmentionables, oh god!" I don't even like it when male cashiers ring me up at a grocery store for tampons, but at least I more than likely won't see them again. With Brian, I was going to be spending the next two months in the same building as him, the last thing I wanted him to see was my underwear, even if it was just in my suitcase. My underwear was obviously going to make it onto my body at some point, and I didn't like the thought of Brian knowing what it looked like.
It felt like weeks had gone by since my dad left that morning, but sure enough, when I looked over at the little green and white sticker on my safely tested hair dryer, it confirmed that it was still only February 5th, 2007.
The gloved woman and Brian proceeded to sort through all of my belongings. "Any shampoo, conditioner, lotions, soaps, etc. with alcohol as an ingredient... you can't have," they said very matter of factly. "Any razor blades, bobby pins, safety pins, pencils, pens, i.e. anything sharp or potentially sharp... you can't have. Any cell phones or cameras... you can't have." Brian continued reading the long "you can't have" list as the gloved woman pulled almost all of the very objects that were listed as prohibited out of my bag. I knew they were just following protocol and saying what they had to say to every girl upon arrival, but I couldn't help but feel as if they were exclusively addressing me, this detestable new girl who couldn't be trusted. I felt like a liar and a sneak for even having shampoo in my bag to begin with. The fact that I had in my possession numerous items that "normal" people used on an everyday basis, but were deemed "contraband" and taken away to be stored in my "locker," that I didn't have a key to, made me begin to under if I was crazier than I thought and therefore in need of all this heightened security.
I explained the reasoning behind all my "contraband," assuming that no one had ever explained it to them before, and that they would somehow reach enlightenment on the issue and in their state of "OOOOH OK," they would hand it all back. This was not the case. As the gloved woman gathered up my pink, bic razors I envisioned the scratch attack that would take place in my arm pits if I wasn't allowed to shave them within the next few days. I assumed she would understand as I explained the sole reason I had them was for shaving my arm pits, and an occasional leg when I wasn't feeling lazy, and she said she understood, but her look was one of "that's what they all say!" She followed up with her look with, "for the safety of everyone, razors and other sharp or potentially sharp objects are strictly forbidden." I wanted to punch her in the face for saying "potentially sharp" again. "What does that even mean?" I thought, "Like I can't even have an un-sharpened pencil because it has potential to be sharpened?"
Truth be told, all the heightened security about sharp objects was new to me because this was my first time being in an environment where girls openly struggled with, or had previously struggled with, self harm. I basically needed Brian to spell out for me what "self harm" meant. I was picturing girls beating themselves up, so it caught me really off guard when he blatantly said "the girls cut themselves." In that moment, I felt a little bit bad for making jokes about sharp objects, but at the same time I didn't because of my own ignorance on the subject matter. I didn't understand why you would cut yourself if you weren't trying to commit suicide. I didn't understand why "those girls" would want to do that. Their addiction made no sense to me, but then again no addiction does make sense, and so I can only assume that I didn't understand their addiction at the time because I was in such denial about my own. Don't get me wrong, I knew I had a problem, obviously, there I was locked up singing the ABCs to a person with the title "Behavioral Health Assistant," but I also thought my problem was very different, and honestly, not as bad as theirs. At the time, I didn't see the correlation between my issues and their issues because all I saw was the method used to numb (or feel) as opposed to the reason behind wanting to numb (or feel), so I didn't care... about them.
A quick disclaimer before you deem me heartless and refuse to read the rest: I eventually got to the point when I did realize that we were all the same in our struggles, and when these girls, who were once "those girls," became my sisters, and they allowed me to enter into their pain as I allowed them to enter into mine, but that is later in the story. For now, at least for in this part of the story, I'm still an ignorant bitch.
To be continued...
Sunday, March 6, 2011
the beginning
It was February 5th, 2007. The bears had just lost the super bowl the day before and I was waking up in a hotel room in Warrenville, IL at an ungodly hour in the morning. Having grown up on the coast of South Carolina, it was my first time experiencing a winter that was below 50 degrees. On top of which, according to news reports that morning it was "the coldest winter in Chicago history." I arrived in Chicago a few days before and upon exiting the airport I went into shock. I had never felt cold like that before, nor had I ever conceived in my mind that it was physically possible to be that cold. Sure, I had seen people act that cold in the movies, but that was the movies. In the movies people also end up "happily ever after," which I think is one of Hollywood's greatest fabrications, but that's a topic for another blog.
So on this cold February morning in Warrenville, IL, I packed up my bags, waited for my dad outside of our hotel room and the two of us headed for the place that was going to change the course of my life. In some ways this was my hope, and in some ways it was my fear. I so desperately wanted change from the life I had been living, but I was so desperately afraid for the change to actually take place. I wanted to be at a point where I could look back and say "look what I've come through, and look how I've healed from it," but I didn't want to actually go through what it took to get to that point. I wanted the title of a champion, without having to fight for it.
Despite my desires to skip the process, my body moved forward while my mind dragged behind. I got in the car and I remember the drive being really silent. It was about 30-45 minutes from where we were staying and everything was covered under a white blanket of snow. I remember being in awe and hoping that the drive would continue on without ever stopping. It's quite a paradox when I think about it now: while staring out of the car window that day I wanted the journey to never end, with no destination in sight, at least in the external, physical sense; but while looking inside of myself, I just wanted to get to my destination of being healed without ever having to begin a journey. It's funny how two such opposite feelings and desires can co-exist within the same person. I have often considered myself a walking contradiction, but that day certainly sticks out in my mind as one of the most aggressive wrestling matches between my thoughts.
As we neared the town I would be living in for the next two months, I began to feel a bit more anxious. I had no idea what to expect. I remember passing a large Buddhist temple on the way and thought it would be the perfect opportunity to stop and sight see, but dad thought it might not be the best idea if we wanted to make our 7am "admissions" appointment.
Admissions. I hadn't heard that word since I was in high school when I applied for college. What was I doing at 23, a college graduate, seeking admissions again. It might seem acceptable, even admirable, if it was admissions to a great new job, or even a graduate school of some sort, but it wasn't. And so I didn't feel acceptable, or admirable, or even lovable. I felt alone, and lost, and completely worthless, which is probably exactly why I needed to be admitted... to some place, any place that would accept me as I was, without a resume of great accomplishments or picture perfect credentials. In fact, it was in my efforts to strive for perfection that landed me in the place of feeling worthless and not good enough and in the very seat where I was sitting at that moment.
So dad kept driving. His spirit was as calm and peaceful as the quiet, white snow on the ground, and it was his peaceful presence that helped calm my anxiousness. I remember the exit. I remember driving over train tracks and into a section of town that looked like abandoned warehouses and it made me nervous. "Where are we?" I thought to myself. "I should have gone to California."
We turned into a gated area, maybe there were signs for the place, maybe they're weren't, I don't really remember, but what I do remember is the long driveway up a slight incline, surrounded by trees that were covered in snow. I was fascinated because to me they were more than just trees covered in snow; to me they were childhood stories coming to life! And whether that be because I had never really seen trees covered in snow or because my imagination was less grown up than it should be at 23, I was enchanted by my surroundings. I grew up hearing stories of the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and all the chronicles of Narnia, and in that moment I remember feeling like we were driving into Narnia (that is, if Narnia could be driven into). I remember seeing a lamp post and actually picturing Mr. Tumnus standing beside it, shivering in the cold. I smiled to myself, not because it's funny to see a faun shivering in the cold, that would be quite rude, but I smiled because for a split second I had the thought "we found it!" and I wasn't worried.
The second passed and we pulled into a parking spot outside of a big building. Nothing brings you back to reality more than a parking lot full of expensive cars. "Parking lots, big, fancy cars... Oh right, we're in America," I thought to myself. I closed the car door and I followed my dad up the wet, wooden stairs. We had to wait outside to be buzzed in the front door. The inside of the building was kinda of dark, with a little bit of natural light coming in through some skylights... at least that's how I think I remember it. There was a big staircase in the middle of the room and some benches and large fake plants. "Narnia would never have fake plants," I jokingly thought, so as to keep myself from the reality of where I was. The rest of my time in that building is still a haze. I remember paperwork and talking, but not much else.
My dad and I got in the car and followed someone to the other side of "campus," which wasn't really far enough to justify driving to. We should have walked but I guess between the suitcases and the snow, it was probably a good idea to loop around a few feet away from where we were. We approached two sets of double glass doors, both locked and alarmed, only to be unlocked and disarmed by the person we were following. My heart was pounding. I followed in behind my dad, and standing there in a row were what seemed like 20 adults (but it was really only like 7), two of which had on white lab coats. It was eerily quiet and a bit intimidating. Introductions began all around... doctors, nurses, behavioral health assistants. I didn't remember any names that day, but a few of the faces I grew fond of over time.
I met with each of the people standing there and talked about the same thing with each one of them. I was really quite tired of repeating myself and thought that perhaps they should do a better job of communicating between themselves instead of asking me to repeat myself seven times. The last meeting my dad sat in the room with me, where he did more talking than I, thank God. They told me my dad was going to leave and I was going to have to stay. I wanted to respond with "I'm 23, I know how this works," but I very quietly said OK. I think I appeared to be more scared than I actually was, but after my dad left and as the day went on, I realized I was more scared than I actually appeared to be.
My dad kissed me goodbye and I sat silently in the room, waiting for a nurse to come and get me, as I was told. The silence was so loud. "Where am I?" I kept thinking to myself, "how did I get here? Why am I here? How did this happen?" My questions were followed by affirmations, "I'm glad I'm here... I think. I mean, I'm glad I'm not alone. I'm so glad I'm not alone in this anymore." The nurse came in and she introduced herself as "Liz." No "Mrs.," no formal last name, not even "nurse Liz," just "Liz," and I remember I liked that. Liz had a sweet face and a warm smile. She had short, curly, salt and pepper colored hair, with probably more salt than pepper (a sign of wisdom, no doubt), and her eyes hid behind a pair of small framed glasses. She had a very halcyon presence and I instantly felt calm when I was around her. She told me it was time for the "awkward part" of the day, as she had to examine my body, but said not to worry because it would be over quick. I liked that she just called it like it was... "awkward." Maybe it wasn't awkward for her since she has examined numerous people's bodies over the last however many years, but assuming that I didn't have numerous people examine my body on a regular basis, ever, it was kind of her to express that she understood how I felt.
I followed her to another room where I handed her my clothes and of course felt awkward and exposed. I knew I was hidden in a place where no one could see me, and I trusted Liz, but I still couldn't help but feel ashamed. I hated what I saw, so I stared at the white-washed brick wall. I looked up and down all over the room as Liz just looked me all over. She wrote down every scar and bruise that made itself known to her. The questions entered my mind again, "Where am I? What am I doing here? Why am I here? How did this happen?" I remember clinching my fists and almost feeling unable to un-clinch them until I got my clothes back. Liz was kind enough to make small talk while I stood there without them, but even the sweetness of her voice wasn't enough to make me comfortable in that moment.
I thought I would be fine as soon as it all was over, but once I got comfortably back into my clothes Liz told me it was time for lunch. "I think I'd rather stand here naked," I thought to myself. When I walked out of the "examination room", as I came to call it because you knew what was going to happen anytime someone went in there, the once quiet lobby that I had first walked into was now loud and filled with girls of all ages. I was so overwhelmed by everything going on around me. I didn't want anybody to talk to me, but at the same time, I didn't want to be alone.
Usually at meal time all the girls were escorted to the cafeteria to eat, except for the ones who misbehaved, they had to stay behind and eat in the lodge (where I was at this point). The other exception for girls who couldn't go to the cafeteria were the girls who were on exercise restriction and the girls who were new arrivals. New arrivals were on lock down for 24 hours, meaning they couldn't leave the lodge at all. Technically, we were always on lock down since we were locked in, but after 24 hours from the time you arrived, you were allowed to be escorted to other parts of the campus, making you feel at least slightly above a prisoner.
And so, Liz walked me to the kitchen in the lodge where a few girls were already sitting. I sat quietly and looked at the other girls. I sort of smiled in way that said "please don't talk to me even though I'm desperately lonely and need a friend." Before introductions began a guy walked in with a styrofoam to-go box and placed it in front of me. I hesitantly opened it and almost cringed when I saw it... lasagna, peas, and a baguette roll. "I'll eat the peas," I said to myself, "but nothing else!" On the outside I just smiled and began eating my peas. The guy who brought my food in sat down at the table next to me and introduced himself. He said his name was Nic without a 'k,' which I really liked because I always tried to explain to people that my name was Jennie with an 'i-e' not a 'y.' I hate when people spell my name with a 'y,' and I was sure Nic understood how I felt since, like most other people, I probably would have spelt his name with a 'k' too had he not have told me.
As I was "eating" I was very aware of two other girls in particular sitting at the table. One who was sitting at the end of the table, rocking back and forth with her head down and whispering something to herself (at first I thought she saying grace before her meal, but when she didn't stop I had a feeling that was not what she was doing), and another who was just staring at me. I had that feeling again of "where am I?" followed by "are these people crazy? Am I crazy?" The one girl who was staring at me finally asked me my name and I quietly told her. The girl at the end who was rocking herself lifted her head and said "that's a pretty name," then lowered her head back down and went back to rocking and whispering. The other girls introduced themselves too, I think about 5 all together, but it was those two girls that I specifically remember. The girl who was staring at me then started getting loud and boisterous and all the other girls followed along. "Misbehavior, " I thought to myself, "plus they seem way too comfortable to have just arrived." I could tell the once staring, now loud girl had a heavy influence on all the others, at least the ones in the kitchen, so I was going to make it a point not to associate with her so as not to conform. At the time I didn't realize I could be a friend to her without conforming to her lifestyle, but I don't hold it against myself because at the time I could barely think clearly enough to survive.
"My mom hates me because I love women," the girl yelled, and everybody started laughing. "I'm serious, my mom hates me. And I love women!" I felt sad, and uncomfortable. This was my first time living somewhere outside of southern culture where even if women did love women, no one dared to say it. Mixed in with being sad and uncomfortable was a small dose of admiration for her honesty. Nic told everyone to quiet down, then very nicely addressed the girl who was rocking and whispering at the end of the table and told her it was time for her to stop what she was doing and start eating. The other girls then began to encourage her and she slowly started to lift her head and smiled as she began to eat. Upon seeing this, my heart softened a little bit towards the other girls because I realized that even though they seemed intimidating, they really cared about this girl and maybe at some point they could even care about me. The funny thing is that I was older than most of the girls in the kitchen, but I was coming from a place of such bondage for so long that I felt like a child in their company.
I finished my peas and began to close the box and then Nic told me that I had to finish everything. In fact, what I soon found out was that the reason he was in the kitchen was not only to monitor the girls' behavior, but to make sure certain girls, myself included, ate everything on their plates. My heart sank and I literally went into shock. I almost felt like I couldn't breath. "I watched the other girls eat and they didn't finish everything," I thought to myself, "how come I have to? This isn't fair!" I was literally freaking out on the inside, preparing a rebellion in my mind, yet on the outside I was cool and collected. No one ever would have thought I had a care in the world. It's scary how good I was, and even sometimes still am, at that... pretending. I quietly asked Nic why I had to finish what was on my "plate" and why the others didn't (they were all done and out of the kitchen by now). He said it was because I was on a meal plan and they weren't, and until I met with a dietitian, who didn't come in until the next morning, I just had to eat what I was given. I was screaming on the inside and I began to tear up; the tears were the only thing I couldn't keep in or hide very well.
Nic asked me if I was OK and asked what it was that I didn't want to eat. I thought his asking meant he was going compromise with me, but it didn't. He was literally just asking, which is when I first started to realize that guys don't actually use hidden messages... what they are saying is actually what they are saying. "Really?" I asked myself, "it took me coming to this place to figure that out?"
I did as I was told and ate everything I was supposed to, but it took me almost 2 hours. Nic told me since it was my first day he understood it taking so long, but then said that by tomorrow I would have to finish my meals in an hour, and if I wanted to go to the cafeteria at all, in under an hour. He said it very gently so as not to hurt my feelings, but I was still upset. I cringed again, "how can they expect me to do all this? This is too much, too fast, this is ridiculous!" I was pissed. I hated every bit of how I felt. I was so uncomfortable that I couldn't stand it. My stomach was so full it physically hurt and I thought for sure these people had no idea what they were doing. I thought about the ingredients in the food that were now in my body and it drove me insane. I hated not knowing what each ingredient was and I hated not knowing how many calories I just ate, though I had a pretty good guess, and I hated that it was all just sitting there in my stomach; but more than all of that, I hated not having control. I hated it so much that it consumed me. That is was what I think really drove me crazy, and that is why I ended up exactly where I was in that moment.
To be continued...
So on this cold February morning in Warrenville, IL, I packed up my bags, waited for my dad outside of our hotel room and the two of us headed for the place that was going to change the course of my life. In some ways this was my hope, and in some ways it was my fear. I so desperately wanted change from the life I had been living, but I was so desperately afraid for the change to actually take place. I wanted to be at a point where I could look back and say "look what I've come through, and look how I've healed from it," but I didn't want to actually go through what it took to get to that point. I wanted the title of a champion, without having to fight for it.
Despite my desires to skip the process, my body moved forward while my mind dragged behind. I got in the car and I remember the drive being really silent. It was about 30-45 minutes from where we were staying and everything was covered under a white blanket of snow. I remember being in awe and hoping that the drive would continue on without ever stopping. It's quite a paradox when I think about it now: while staring out of the car window that day I wanted the journey to never end, with no destination in sight, at least in the external, physical sense; but while looking inside of myself, I just wanted to get to my destination of being healed without ever having to begin a journey. It's funny how two such opposite feelings and desires can co-exist within the same person. I have often considered myself a walking contradiction, but that day certainly sticks out in my mind as one of the most aggressive wrestling matches between my thoughts.
As we neared the town I would be living in for the next two months, I began to feel a bit more anxious. I had no idea what to expect. I remember passing a large Buddhist temple on the way and thought it would be the perfect opportunity to stop and sight see, but dad thought it might not be the best idea if we wanted to make our 7am "admissions" appointment.
Admissions. I hadn't heard that word since I was in high school when I applied for college. What was I doing at 23, a college graduate, seeking admissions again. It might seem acceptable, even admirable, if it was admissions to a great new job, or even a graduate school of some sort, but it wasn't. And so I didn't feel acceptable, or admirable, or even lovable. I felt alone, and lost, and completely worthless, which is probably exactly why I needed to be admitted... to some place, any place that would accept me as I was, without a resume of great accomplishments or picture perfect credentials. In fact, it was in my efforts to strive for perfection that landed me in the place of feeling worthless and not good enough and in the very seat where I was sitting at that moment.
So dad kept driving. His spirit was as calm and peaceful as the quiet, white snow on the ground, and it was his peaceful presence that helped calm my anxiousness. I remember the exit. I remember driving over train tracks and into a section of town that looked like abandoned warehouses and it made me nervous. "Where are we?" I thought to myself. "I should have gone to California."
We turned into a gated area, maybe there were signs for the place, maybe they're weren't, I don't really remember, but what I do remember is the long driveway up a slight incline, surrounded by trees that were covered in snow. I was fascinated because to me they were more than just trees covered in snow; to me they were childhood stories coming to life! And whether that be because I had never really seen trees covered in snow or because my imagination was less grown up than it should be at 23, I was enchanted by my surroundings. I grew up hearing stories of the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and all the chronicles of Narnia, and in that moment I remember feeling like we were driving into Narnia (that is, if Narnia could be driven into). I remember seeing a lamp post and actually picturing Mr. Tumnus standing beside it, shivering in the cold. I smiled to myself, not because it's funny to see a faun shivering in the cold, that would be quite rude, but I smiled because for a split second I had the thought "we found it!" and I wasn't worried.
The second passed and we pulled into a parking spot outside of a big building. Nothing brings you back to reality more than a parking lot full of expensive cars. "Parking lots, big, fancy cars... Oh right, we're in America," I thought to myself. I closed the car door and I followed my dad up the wet, wooden stairs. We had to wait outside to be buzzed in the front door. The inside of the building was kinda of dark, with a little bit of natural light coming in through some skylights... at least that's how I think I remember it. There was a big staircase in the middle of the room and some benches and large fake plants. "Narnia would never have fake plants," I jokingly thought, so as to keep myself from the reality of where I was. The rest of my time in that building is still a haze. I remember paperwork and talking, but not much else.
My dad and I got in the car and followed someone to the other side of "campus," which wasn't really far enough to justify driving to. We should have walked but I guess between the suitcases and the snow, it was probably a good idea to loop around a few feet away from where we were. We approached two sets of double glass doors, both locked and alarmed, only to be unlocked and disarmed by the person we were following. My heart was pounding. I followed in behind my dad, and standing there in a row were what seemed like 20 adults (but it was really only like 7), two of which had on white lab coats. It was eerily quiet and a bit intimidating. Introductions began all around... doctors, nurses, behavioral health assistants. I didn't remember any names that day, but a few of the faces I grew fond of over time.
I met with each of the people standing there and talked about the same thing with each one of them. I was really quite tired of repeating myself and thought that perhaps they should do a better job of communicating between themselves instead of asking me to repeat myself seven times. The last meeting my dad sat in the room with me, where he did more talking than I, thank God. They told me my dad was going to leave and I was going to have to stay. I wanted to respond with "I'm 23, I know how this works," but I very quietly said OK. I think I appeared to be more scared than I actually was, but after my dad left and as the day went on, I realized I was more scared than I actually appeared to be.
My dad kissed me goodbye and I sat silently in the room, waiting for a nurse to come and get me, as I was told. The silence was so loud. "Where am I?" I kept thinking to myself, "how did I get here? Why am I here? How did this happen?" My questions were followed by affirmations, "I'm glad I'm here... I think. I mean, I'm glad I'm not alone. I'm so glad I'm not alone in this anymore." The nurse came in and she introduced herself as "Liz." No "Mrs.," no formal last name, not even "nurse Liz," just "Liz," and I remember I liked that. Liz had a sweet face and a warm smile. She had short, curly, salt and pepper colored hair, with probably more salt than pepper (a sign of wisdom, no doubt), and her eyes hid behind a pair of small framed glasses. She had a very halcyon presence and I instantly felt calm when I was around her. She told me it was time for the "awkward part" of the day, as she had to examine my body, but said not to worry because it would be over quick. I liked that she just called it like it was... "awkward." Maybe it wasn't awkward for her since she has examined numerous people's bodies over the last however many years, but assuming that I didn't have numerous people examine my body on a regular basis, ever, it was kind of her to express that she understood how I felt.
I followed her to another room where I handed her my clothes and of course felt awkward and exposed. I knew I was hidden in a place where no one could see me, and I trusted Liz, but I still couldn't help but feel ashamed. I hated what I saw, so I stared at the white-washed brick wall. I looked up and down all over the room as Liz just looked me all over. She wrote down every scar and bruise that made itself known to her. The questions entered my mind again, "Where am I? What am I doing here? Why am I here? How did this happen?" I remember clinching my fists and almost feeling unable to un-clinch them until I got my clothes back. Liz was kind enough to make small talk while I stood there without them, but even the sweetness of her voice wasn't enough to make me comfortable in that moment.
I thought I would be fine as soon as it all was over, but once I got comfortably back into my clothes Liz told me it was time for lunch. "I think I'd rather stand here naked," I thought to myself. When I walked out of the "examination room", as I came to call it because you knew what was going to happen anytime someone went in there, the once quiet lobby that I had first walked into was now loud and filled with girls of all ages. I was so overwhelmed by everything going on around me. I didn't want anybody to talk to me, but at the same time, I didn't want to be alone.
Usually at meal time all the girls were escorted to the cafeteria to eat, except for the ones who misbehaved, they had to stay behind and eat in the lodge (where I was at this point). The other exception for girls who couldn't go to the cafeteria were the girls who were on exercise restriction and the girls who were new arrivals. New arrivals were on lock down for 24 hours, meaning they couldn't leave the lodge at all. Technically, we were always on lock down since we were locked in, but after 24 hours from the time you arrived, you were allowed to be escorted to other parts of the campus, making you feel at least slightly above a prisoner.
And so, Liz walked me to the kitchen in the lodge where a few girls were already sitting. I sat quietly and looked at the other girls. I sort of smiled in way that said "please don't talk to me even though I'm desperately lonely and need a friend." Before introductions began a guy walked in with a styrofoam to-go box and placed it in front of me. I hesitantly opened it and almost cringed when I saw it... lasagna, peas, and a baguette roll. "I'll eat the peas," I said to myself, "but nothing else!" On the outside I just smiled and began eating my peas. The guy who brought my food in sat down at the table next to me and introduced himself. He said his name was Nic without a 'k,' which I really liked because I always tried to explain to people that my name was Jennie with an 'i-e' not a 'y.' I hate when people spell my name with a 'y,' and I was sure Nic understood how I felt since, like most other people, I probably would have spelt his name with a 'k' too had he not have told me.
As I was "eating" I was very aware of two other girls in particular sitting at the table. One who was sitting at the end of the table, rocking back and forth with her head down and whispering something to herself (at first I thought she saying grace before her meal, but when she didn't stop I had a feeling that was not what she was doing), and another who was just staring at me. I had that feeling again of "where am I?" followed by "are these people crazy? Am I crazy?" The one girl who was staring at me finally asked me my name and I quietly told her. The girl at the end who was rocking herself lifted her head and said "that's a pretty name," then lowered her head back down and went back to rocking and whispering. The other girls introduced themselves too, I think about 5 all together, but it was those two girls that I specifically remember. The girl who was staring at me then started getting loud and boisterous and all the other girls followed along. "Misbehavior, " I thought to myself, "plus they seem way too comfortable to have just arrived." I could tell the once staring, now loud girl had a heavy influence on all the others, at least the ones in the kitchen, so I was going to make it a point not to associate with her so as not to conform. At the time I didn't realize I could be a friend to her without conforming to her lifestyle, but I don't hold it against myself because at the time I could barely think clearly enough to survive.
"My mom hates me because I love women," the girl yelled, and everybody started laughing. "I'm serious, my mom hates me. And I love women!" I felt sad, and uncomfortable. This was my first time living somewhere outside of southern culture where even if women did love women, no one dared to say it. Mixed in with being sad and uncomfortable was a small dose of admiration for her honesty. Nic told everyone to quiet down, then very nicely addressed the girl who was rocking and whispering at the end of the table and told her it was time for her to stop what she was doing and start eating. The other girls then began to encourage her and she slowly started to lift her head and smiled as she began to eat. Upon seeing this, my heart softened a little bit towards the other girls because I realized that even though they seemed intimidating, they really cared about this girl and maybe at some point they could even care about me. The funny thing is that I was older than most of the girls in the kitchen, but I was coming from a place of such bondage for so long that I felt like a child in their company.
I finished my peas and began to close the box and then Nic told me that I had to finish everything. In fact, what I soon found out was that the reason he was in the kitchen was not only to monitor the girls' behavior, but to make sure certain girls, myself included, ate everything on their plates. My heart sank and I literally went into shock. I almost felt like I couldn't breath. "I watched the other girls eat and they didn't finish everything," I thought to myself, "how come I have to? This isn't fair!" I was literally freaking out on the inside, preparing a rebellion in my mind, yet on the outside I was cool and collected. No one ever would have thought I had a care in the world. It's scary how good I was, and even sometimes still am, at that... pretending. I quietly asked Nic why I had to finish what was on my "plate" and why the others didn't (they were all done and out of the kitchen by now). He said it was because I was on a meal plan and they weren't, and until I met with a dietitian, who didn't come in until the next morning, I just had to eat what I was given. I was screaming on the inside and I began to tear up; the tears were the only thing I couldn't keep in or hide very well.
Nic asked me if I was OK and asked what it was that I didn't want to eat. I thought his asking meant he was going compromise with me, but it didn't. He was literally just asking, which is when I first started to realize that guys don't actually use hidden messages... what they are saying is actually what they are saying. "Really?" I asked myself, "it took me coming to this place to figure that out?"
I did as I was told and ate everything I was supposed to, but it took me almost 2 hours. Nic told me since it was my first day he understood it taking so long, but then said that by tomorrow I would have to finish my meals in an hour, and if I wanted to go to the cafeteria at all, in under an hour. He said it very gently so as not to hurt my feelings, but I was still upset. I cringed again, "how can they expect me to do all this? This is too much, too fast, this is ridiculous!" I was pissed. I hated every bit of how I felt. I was so uncomfortable that I couldn't stand it. My stomach was so full it physically hurt and I thought for sure these people had no idea what they were doing. I thought about the ingredients in the food that were now in my body and it drove me insane. I hated not knowing what each ingredient was and I hated not knowing how many calories I just ate, though I had a pretty good guess, and I hated that it was all just sitting there in my stomach; but more than all of that, I hated not having control. I hated it so much that it consumed me. That is was what I think really drove me crazy, and that is why I ended up exactly where I was in that moment.
To be continued...
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