the diagnosis

(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...