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9:36 p.m. - 03/20/03 I need to talk about That Thing again. I need to say that yesterday, I watched something on the-n that wasn't Daria, which I can never stand to do. And the girl on the show was anorexic, and then she purged, and that's when people realized she really needed help (sound familiar?) and this one girl pushed the sick one to get help. They got into a fight and were taken into the guidance counselor's office, and he left them to talk for a few moments, and the girl with the ed asked the other girl why she was bothering with all this, and the other girl said, she'd had a friend nearly die from an eating disorder. (And I was like, "nearly"...? That's the best they can do? Most deadly psychiatric disorder, and people really do die, and sometimes they're your roommate, and you used to watch them pick out clothes in the morning.) The other girl said she admired the girl with the illness for never being scared of anything. (Oh, god.) And the sick girl said that wasn't true. She said, "I'm terrified of food," and I wanted to cry because I know what that means. It means I'm terrified of food and feelings and myself and everyone else and all of that together. It means, I'm in so much pain I can hardly breathe, and this is how I buy three stress-free seconds a day. It means the memories are spinning around in my head again, complicated by the facts. I was in the hospital, and Sara would get better if she were, and Shan is going to McLean, and what does all of this mean? Girl on tv? Fictionalized character...I expect her to have the answer for me. I used to be really, really sick. I used to think that I was poison, and that I needed to die to keep from corrupting anyone else, and I needed to die to save myself from the pain (not that I deserved that.) But I couldn't make myself die, I couldn't quite go that far, and so I tried to just "contain" - to just "counter" my badness as much as possible. I didn't add to it, didn't let it grow by way of sleep or food or anything else, and I didn't nurture it at all. I kept myself shut off. I blanked myself out. I thought, if they knew, people would want the same things to be done that I was doing. If they honestly knew me (if I hadn't misled them so horribly) they would want me cutting and starving and vomiting my food because they'd understand what a risk I was. If they got close enough, they'd see the poison, and that terrified me. I didn't want them to see, and I didn't want to lie and say I was anything else. It got worse and worse and worse. I quit talking, quit sleeping, quit eating, quit digesting, quit feeling, quit life. My dad caught me purging and forced me into therapy, which I'd wanted forever, except for the small matter of I didn't want to talk to anyone, and I certainly didn't want to talk about painful things. I went to a therapist, and a dietician, and a psychiatrist for eight months, and I still hadn't restarted all those things I quit. I went to NY and took a vacation from recovery. I felt safe when I was too malnourished to stand firmly, when I fell. I felt safe when I injured both my hamstrings running obsessively. I felt safe when I was on the treadmill, when it crept closer to certain numbers. I felt safe but never safe enough. That way, I would keep going. Another lap, another mile, another skipped meal. Maybe I didn't feel safe after all. I didn't sleep some nights because I was terrified that my heart would stop. I went to school rarely, and sometimes panicked so much as I started my first class, that I'd go to the nurse and play physically sick until she let me go home. My brain is in my head; I can call this a headache. I know why I feel queasy, but I can claim it all the same. Then they started talking "aggressive" and "behavioral commitments" and I wrapped up in blankets, cold and terrified. They couldn't attack the illness without attacking me. I couldn't do what they wanted, and I had to do what they wanted. I had to get better, and it wasn't possible for me (for me!) to get better... The first days at Rogers were hell. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't speak, I knew everyone hated me for how antisocial I was, and how little I was eating. I sat in corners and tried to think of ways to stay upstairs during meals because I couldn't possibly go into the kitchen. Once, they let me, and I picked at fruit, and Dave came and sat right next to me, and we talked just the two of us. He was leaving for the weekend, and he was giving me a pep talk. People hugged me, people encouraged me, people told me I could do it, and I wanted to believe. They said tell your story, when I didn't have the voice. And I choked it out anyway. The important parts. Name. Age. Location. Diagnosis. I tried to smile when they joked because I didn't want them to hate me. I tried to eat at the meals because I didn't want to break the rules. I stayed up late and woke up early, and I cried all the time. And Rae taught me how to crochet, and everyone who came into a room introduced themselves to me, excitedly, and I still didn't believe I could survive the first few days. I still didn't believe I could get better, and I did I did I did. I did it- the impossible. And I'll get well, too. Not just better, well. But I'm in tears now because it hurts so much to remember, and to still be sick, and to love people, and not be able to alleviate any of their pain, to not know what they're going through, but know something too similar for comfort. It doesn't hurt to love; it really doesn't. It just hurts to have that love attacked by illness and distance and abandonment. I don't want to be in the hospital. I don't. But I want Dave to give me pep talks, and I want Stacy to intellectualize with me. I want Steph's daily dose of humor, and Brea's compassion, and Cindy and Rae and Oshiana and Rosie and Abby and Sara and Sara and Sara and Jenifer and Jen and Lisa and Brittany and Andrea and Molly and Erin and Katia and Dixie and Tracy and Jenny and Silje and love. I want to go home, and have it be there. God. If it were only geographical distance. If it were only eight hours away. If it weren't so much more complicated than that. I can't survive on stuffed animals, on tokens of memories of love. I can't keep doing this. Where's the support group for homeless teens who have a roof over their head? Where are the people to whom this all makes sense? No, I have those people. What I need now are the ones who hold me when I cry. I'm crying again. chord � � |