the family night

(continued from previous post "the uncle")

To better execute the portrayal of Uncle Buddy's rescue scene, I need to introduce a few more characters, at least two for now.

Part of the treatment process involved many group sessions. All sorts of groups. It was as if they were coming up with group names just to keep throwing us into more and more groups. Some of the groups were led by inexperienced behavioral health assistants; these groups frustrated me the most. Other groups were led by top experts in their fields. Unfortunately, as you may or may not guess, it was the most beneficial groups that met less than any of the other groups.

One of those said groups led by field experts was psycho-therapy. While the duo that led this group were more than qualified for leading and facilitating the girls in group discussion, I often left having felt like I didn't get much out of it, but probably because I never spoke up.

Dan and Jen, or more professionally known as Dr. Dan and Dr. Jen were highly sought after by patients both in the facility and out. Psychiatrists with top notch credentials and rumors that Dr. Jen herself had personal experience with an eating disorder in her past, these two were the "big dogs," so to speak, on campus. I was originally disappointed to not be assigned to either one as my personal psychiatrist, seeing as many girls were, but I remained content with my pill pushing psychiatrist since I would be seeing the both of them in a group setting.

Prior to our first group I remember thinking it was going to be the best group the facility had to offer, but I soon realized that not much of it was actually going to be beneficial since there were about six girls in the group and each one of them would be vying for time. Problems don't get solved in an hour, let alone for six people.

Dr. Jen impressed me right off the bat. It seemed that everything I heard about her was true, including the rumors about her history with an eating disorder. In all honesty, I think what I liked most about her was not her intellect, her interest in the patients, or even her calm and confident aura, it was the fact that she looked like she still had an eating disorder. It was as if I wanted to tell her that her secret was safe with me; I wouldn't let on to the fact that she still had an eating disorder if she could help me figure out how I too could maintain my unhealthy figure with a doctor's title and credentials. It should be noted that while maybe in her past, in our current situation with her as our doctor, she didn't actually have an eating disorder. But, in all vain honesty, I was not impressed by her ability to help me, I was impressed by her ability to stay so thin.

Dr. Dan, on the other hand was less impressive, physically speaking. As I was sizing the two of them up in my mind's eye I remember thinking in regards to Dr. Dan, "you may be the head honcho in the psychiatry field, but I bet you don't know your way around a gym." Some of these thoughts are still difficult for me to write out, revealing how shallow my heart and mind were, and in many ways still are. Dr. Dan was an older man with a generous sized belly. He combed his salt and pepper hair over to the side, though I don't remember which side. He seemed nice enough, but probably because I started to feel a little bad about the judgments I made about his appearance.

More than anything else, What I didn't like about Dr. Dan was that he always seemed to be trying to stay awake in our group, as if we were boring him to sleep. He would try to hide his yawns by awkwardly smiling and showing all of his teeth, but I knew what he was doing. It seemed that his eyelids weighed more than he did as he struggled so often to keep them open. Because of this I found it hard to take him seriously and even more so to trust him.

Only a few nights after our group time went over time and cut into phone time, the parents of all of the patients were invited to a family night hosted by Dr. Dan and Dr. Jen. Parents and patients came together to discuss anything they wanted with the doctors, a great opportunity for any lingering questions or suppressed criticisms to be released. Seeing as how my parents lived in South Carolina, it was dear Uncle Buddy who proudly arrived as my father figure.

The evening started calmly enough, but as more mothers wanted to know when their daughters would either start eating again or stop using heroin, the heat kicked on and people started getting agitated. If there is one group of people you don't want to agitate, it would be a group of bi-polar, heroin addicted, starving women. Such a group would make for a violent street gang. To Dr. Dan and Dr. Jen's credit, some questions just didn't have answers, after all who's to say that the length of treatment for one girl is going to look exactly the same for another girl? Not even doctors can make that call, and so when they didn't, girls got pissed.

As girls got pissed, Uncle Buddy got annoyed. If there's one person you don't want to annoy, it's a macho Harley man surrounded by a group of bi-polar, heroin addicted, starving women. Such a man would wipe a violent street gang right off of the street. While girls yelled back and forth, the somber and barely to be heard Dr. Dan tried to get people to calm down but to no avail. Dr. Jen must have left by this point because I don't remember her being present. Uncle Buddy leaned forward in his chair and unclasped his hands, he put his hand on my shoulder and asked if I was okay. I said I was and I suppose that was all he needed to hear in order to get going, "ALRIGHT," he yelled in his deep Southern voice, "AYE, AYE, ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT!" His arms spread out wide as he yelled. The girls got quiet, the mothers bounced their eyes in his direction, I knew they were admiring more than his ability to command a room, Uncle Buddy is also quite easy on the eyes, it's a family trait.

"Look," he said as he sniffed and scrunched up his mustache while staring at Dr. Dan, "I get that you don't have answers for how long the girls are in here, especially seeing as how it's for all different reasons that they're in here..." Dr. Dan looked relieved as if Uncle Buddy was going to come to his rescue. Dr. Dan didn't know Uncle Buddy. "So, whatever," Uncle Buddy said as he threw his hands up, "don't give an answer for that, but give me an answer for this... when you tell me that there are certain times I can call and talk to JJ and I call during those times, why then was I told the other night that I couldn't talk to her?"

"YEA," the other girls yelled as they recalled their anger from that night before being given sleeping pills to knock them out. "That's true," a mother chimed in, "I tried to call my daughter during phone hours as well and they wouldn't let me speak to her. Isn't that the purpose of having phone hours?" Concerned parents started agreeing that they wanted an answer for what happened the other night seeing as how there was already such a small window for them to be able to talk to their children. Dr. Dan shifted in his chair, "well it's my understanding that the groups ran a little late which cut into the phone time..." "Then extend phone time," Uncle Buddy interrupted. "YEA!" the girls yelled growing more and more fond of Uncle Buddy.

"Well," Dr. Dan said looking increasingly uncomfortable, "we want the girls to stick to a schedule as much as possible and if we start changing up the times of free time and phone time then we start to lose structure..." Uncle Buddy remained calm as he interrupted a few more times, each time Dr. Dan giving an excuse for what happened the other night. As Dr. Dan was fumbling over his words, Uncle Buddy started to stand up, "LOOK," he yelled, "if our daughters are in here day in and day out and we only have a small amount of time to talk to them, then you better be damn sure that we actually get to talk to them! You say you don't want to change up their schedule when it comes to their phone time, but you certainly don't have a problem changing up their schedule when it comes to their group time by making the group go longer and cutting out their phone time completely! Part of their schedule and their treatment should be that they get to talk to their parents if they want to (his voice growing louder and louder), so if I'm told that I can call at a certain time and talk to my daughter and I call during that time, then DON'T tell me it's too bad because your group went over! Pull her out of the group or end group time, I don't care what you do, but when I call DON'T EVER again tell me that I CAN'T talk to MY DAUGHTER!"

"YEAAA!!!!" the girls clapped and cheered. The other mothers nodded their heads in agreement, one mother fanning herself. "UNCLE BUDDDDDDY," one of the more gender neutral looking girls yelled in a deep voice. I was elated with pride. My heart skipped a beat when Uncle Buddy called me his daughter and I felt protected in a way that I never really had before. I don't think Uncle Buddy was even aware of the cheering that was happening around him, he was breathing heavy and staring intently at Dr. Dan as if to say "I dare you to challenge me on this." Dr. Dan, the man who I felt barely listened in our group sessions due to his inability to stay awake, looked bright eyed and bushy tailed as Uncle Buddy commanded the "conversation," which Uncle Buddy reminded him wasn't a conversation because there was nothing to discuss, it was as simple as "when I call during phone time, make sure JJ has a phone!"

Dr. Dan ended the family night and girls and mothers alike came around Uncle Buddy to agree with and thank him. Uncle Buddy smiled his big smile and pulled me close to him as he enjoyed everyone's compliments. Here was this macho Harley man, relating to the mothers of bi-polar, heroin addicted, starving women. It was then that I realized I wasn't going to be the only person in my family to be impacted by my reluctant choice to go to treatment. Whether he was aware of it or not, Uncle Buddy found himself in a role he had never played before and relating to people in circles he had never been a part of.

Uncle Buddy coming to my rescue was so tangible and measurable that it only confirmed my suspicions that I didn't need God. God's silence didn't discourage my belief in His existence, but it did encourage my belief in His lack of caring. Little did I know at the time that God caring could look like a macho man in a Harley jacket, God seemed more like a Dr. Dan who was trying to stay awake as I was discussing my problems.

Sometimes you think you know everything, as I did and often still do, and sometimes you realize you know nothing, as I have realized in the last six years since being in treatment. Though I wasn't at the time, I am more and more convinced that should I see God visibly and tangibly walking the earth today, He or She would probably be wearing a Harley jacket, and would most definitely be my buddy.

To be continued...

the uncle

(continued from post 8/6/11 "the cries for help")

I don't remember much of the rest of that day other than getting extremely upset after every meal. I managed to throw away my salad dressing and a few other extra things, but I was still angry about the amount of food I had to eat. I explained to any BHA who would listen that my stomach literally felt like it was going to explode and there was no way it could physically hold that much food. I just kept saying it wasn't fair as I fought back the tears. 23 years old and I was crying at the dinner table because I had to finish what was on my plate.

Come dinner time the BHAs kept telling me to talk about it with the dietitian tomorrow. I felt like Princess Jasmine (minus the "perfect" body) in the movie Aladdin when the soldiers arrest Aladdin in the street and Jasmine, who's posed as a commoner, unveils her disguise and says "UN-HAND HIM! By order of the princess!" Everyone, including Abu, Aladdin's faithful monkey, is shocked that she's the princess and that she actually has a say in the matter regarding Aladdin's arrest. The soldiers kneel and apologize but the head soldier responds "I would, princess, except my orders come from Jafar, you'll have to take it up with him." The camera flashes to Jasmine and there she stands with her arms crossed and anger in her eyes as she says in a deep and disgruntled voice, "believe me, I will!"

As the BHAs told me to discuss it with the dietitian tomorrow I sat at the end of the table and replayed that scene with myself. I crossed my arms and with anger and disgust in my voice replied "believe me, I will!" I was trying to act like a bad ass, but at the same time trying not to laugh because I realized in my attempt to appear like a bad ass I was actually just re-enacting a scene from Aladdin, of all movies. Oh, if some people only knew what went on in my head... I might have stayed in treatment a bit longer.

Aside from the emotions in regards to my meals and exercise, the only other thing I remember from the second day is meeting with my psychiatrist. I don't even remember meeting with my therapist that day but a journal entry tells me I did and that I actually liked her. More on that to come.

My psychiatrist was a short, somewhat heavy set woman with just the slightest bit of curly hair on her chin. She appeared to be from the Middle East but seeing as geography was the last thing I cared about at that point I wouldn't be able to tell you from what part, but I would guess probably somewhere in the middle. She asked me so many questions though I sometimes felt as if she wasn't actually listening, but instead shaking her head and saying "ummhmm" right on cue. I told her about my anxiety and what I called "sort of depression." As a Christian I wasn't comfortable calling it depression because my understanding was that if you had Jesus then you shouldn't be depressed. But when I thought about the possibility of me not being a Christian anymore I started to feel more comfortable claiming the depression.

Once again, not being a Christian started to feel more freeing than it did lonely or scary. After all, not being a Christian was making me feel more honest than I had ever felt in my whole life. I didn't know it was okay to say "I am a Christian, and I have a problem," I always thought it had to be one or the other. I have since then realized that this is not so. Today my hope does not lay in the problems going away, my hope lays in the fact that I have Someone to carry me through them.

By the end of our session my psychiatrist, Dr. Lynn, had prescribed me to Prozac for depression, Buspar for anxiety, and Trazodone for sleeping. Before entering treatment I had previously been on medication for A.D.D., but since I had a history of abusing it in college she thought we might wait to see how I would do on the other medications before pumping my bloodstream with more... how kind. "Besides," she said, "prescribing Adderall to someone with an eating disorder is quite risky because it suppresses your appetite." Damn. I think she knew that was why I wanted it.

Though I did like the fact that Adderall suppressed my appetite, I also found that it helped me focus incredibly... I'm sure most college students would agree. I missed having that focus in life, even if it was chemically enhanced. Maybe my body needed the medication she prescribed me because it wasn't wired like everyone esles, but at the same time putting all those chemicals in my body without thinking I was abusing them was hard for me to accept. I trusted Dr. Lynn knew what she was doing simply because she was a doctor and I wasn't. I knew I didn't want to be on medication forever, but I also knew that I wanted to feel something other than nothing.

When I was actually experiencing emotion it was either anger or anxiety and I just couldn't do it anymore. The sleeping pill was optional and she told me I could take it as I felt I needed it, so I decided that I didn't need it, though I didn't tell her that. Like with my psychiatrist, when I first entered treatment I didn't say much of anything to anybody unless I had to. I mostly just listened and judged without saying a word. I kept thinking I wasn't as bad off as the other girls which I mis-led myself to believe that meant I didn't have a problem. People knew me as quiet and sad, but with spurts of "tamed anger" like my Princess Jasmine re-enactment at dinner. Only I knew that the anger deep down was so much more fierce than that of a Disney Princess, it seemed foolish to even relate it.

I remember before going to bed that night calling my aunt and uncle. Part of the reason my family decided on Illinois as the place for me to go to treatment was because my aunt and uncle, my dad's brother, lived 45 minutes from the facility. Seeing as there were not many options in South Carolina for treatment facilities, plus the fact that I just wanted to get away, my parents still wanted me to have family close by if I went off some where. If it had been solely up to me to pick a treatment facility I would have picked a spot nestled on the coast of California... give me the beaches and the warm weather any day. The idea of going somewhere as cold as Illinois was not appealing to me at all, but thankfully there was a greater plan than my own at work. Having my aunt and uncle close by helped me get through so much of my time in treatment. Girls often had visitors come to see them and I definitely underestimated how refreshing it was (and still is) to see a familiar face in a foreign land. I barely knew my aunt and uncle before moving to Illinois, mainly because of the physical distance between us, but during my time in treatment they became like a mother and father to me.

And now I introduce a most important character in this story...

Uncle Buddy. He is a man who has my heart unlike any other; not more so than my own father, and obviously in a much different way than a man I have fallen in love with, but Uncle Buddy's tough love brought warmth to my heart during a time when it was bitterly cold. Even if others were trying to say the exact same thing to me that he was, I never actually heard what they were saying until it came out of Uncle Buddy's mouth. He might still not know this, but those first few months of treatment seemed as if he were a translator, giving value to the words that other people tried to speak into my life. He's not quite what you would expect from the hard exterior, but the interior, which he would never admit to, is mostly warm mush. I think you might have to know Uncle Buddy a little bit better to truly understand what I mean. Allow me to try to paint a picture...

Picture Paul Teutul Sr. of Orange County Choppers (and if you don't know who I'm talking about click here), subtract some of the grey hair, take a little less off the mustache, but not much, add a thick southern accent (even after having lived in Chicago for twenty plus years), and combine the cooking abilities of Paula Dean, the decorating techniques of Martha Stewart, and the cigar smoking bad ass presence of X-Men's Wolverine, and there you have my Uncle Buddy. Some of it doesn't make sense, right? How can Martha Stewart and Wolverine be in the same category? I know, and you wouldn't understand it unless you met my Uncle Buddy. A true rebel at heart, with the physique to match, this man is not someone you want to mess with. That said, his capacity to love is overwhelming and his genuine smile makes Disneyland look boring.

Uncle Buddy and my Aunt Amy are the ones who suited me up in the flaming orange Harley Davidson jacket (see previous posts) . I'm not actually sure Uncle Buddy owns an article of clothing that doesn't say Harley Davidson. Not only does Uncle Buddy ride a Harley Davidson, he named his dog Harley David. If I were to play a word association game and the words "Harley Davidson" came up, I would say "Uncle Buddy."

So this macho man won my heart and my trust quite early on. His wife, Amy, loved me as if I were her own daughter, and the two of them welcomed me into their lives, not as a project to be fixed, but as a person to be loved.

My first month in treatment they called me every night before bed. One of my favorite memories of Uncle Buddy during this time involved one of his nightly phone calls.

Every night after snack we had our final group of the day to sort of do a check in before bed. After group we were allowed to have phone time for a short while which was always when Uncle Buddy or Amy would call. I don't remember the details, but I remember we were held in group longer than normal and we ended up losing phone time because of it. Uncle Buddy called and was told I was still in group. When he called again he was told group time went over and phone time was up, meaning he would have to call again tomorrow. As of the girls that night were upset that they didn't get to make or receive their phone calls. A few of them threw fits, and as I got more comfortable with my surroundings I cared less about what the staff thought of me and started to throw fits too. "My therapist told me I need to use my voice," I yelled, "so I am voicing that I need to use the phone! It is not my fault that group time went over, and it is not fair that I can't use it!" My favorite phrase when arguing in treatment was always to start my argument with "MY THERAPIST SAYS..."

I didn't win that argument, nor did anyone else. Extra BHAs were called in to calm girls down and take them to their rooms. After sleeping pills were distributed the night ended calmly, but I knew there was going to be someone who was going to be really upset, and I knew that if anybody could win that argument it would be him...

Uncle Buddy.

It was only going to be a few days later that I was going to see uncle Buddy come to my defense and make the director of the program think twice before ever cutting into phone time again.

(to be continued...)