Mom,
I don't know if you have noticed, but I've been very isolated and have stayed in my room a lot in the past couple of months. You've noticed that I have lost weight, and I have, but I have probably lost more than you think. You and dad don't notice when I don't finish my dinners because I've been good at hiding things and lying about my actions. Mom, I think I need help. I feel like I'm going crazy. I can't let myself eat. I planned to do this, to lose weight, but it has gotten out of control. It feels like there's a monster inside of me telling me what to do. Its voice makes my decisions and I'm really not myself any more. I don't know what to do. I don't look like those girls you see on TV, the ones that are dying, so you probably don't believe me. Do you? But I needed to write this to you. I didn't want to tell you because you'd probably laugh or say it's not true. And this isn't for attention, either. I think something is wrong.
♥ Erin
The night after I wrote the letter, I joined my mom while she was sitting in the living room watching television. When a commercial break came up on the screen, I walked over to her and handed her the note. My head bowed down and I shuffled back to my seat, the tears already starting to form in my eyes. She opened the letter and read silently. I held my breath as her eyes scanned the page.
As she was finished reading, she looked up at me with a nondescript expression on her face. I did not know what she was thinking and it took her a moment to speak.
"I don't know what to say to this." She skimmed the letter once more. "Are you sure? You mean, you think you have an eating disorder? How...wh...I don't get it."
The tears started to drip down my face, despite my efforts to hold them back, and I did not know what to say to her in response. I was afraid of her not believing me, and it sounded like she did not.
"Yeah, I think so. I don't know, I just need help."
Her eyes caught mine and she finally saw some of the pain, yet was so caught off-guard she had no idea what to say, either.
"Well, ok...."
I continued to cry and she stopped talking, focusing back on the television. I was not sure if she was concerned or not. I was not sure if I had just made a stupidly bad decision, or a decision that was in my best interest. I still did not know if she believed me or if she was pacifying me in the moment. I was confused at her reaction.
My tears slowed and I began to wonder if telling her was the best decision. Maybe I was supposed to keep quiet.
Days passed without any communication between us about the subject. I avoided the topic on purpose and she failed to bring it up. I sensed that she was still taking everything in and did not know how to talk about it. After three days of the situation not changing, I cautiously reminded my mom of the note.
"What do you think I should do, mom?"
"Do? About what?"
"Umm. Well...about what I wrote to you. How I think I need help or something." My voice shook a little as my nervousness increased.
"Erin, I don't know what to tell you. I don't know a lot about that kind of stuff. And you hid everything well so it's all been a shock to me. Maybe you could do some research and see what you find."
I was not thrilled with her answer. I wanted the stereotypical television mother-daughter sympathy reaction. She was supposed to tell me that she would fix everything and that it would all turn out okay. But then I realized that I was an adult, technically, and it was my problem. It was my job to fix myself and I needed to help myself.
Responsibility had always scared me. I never liked holding the responsibility for different projects because I was always afraid that I would fail. Failure was never an option for me. Now it was my responsibility to take care of myself and I was still afraid that I would fail.
After our brief conversation, I logged onto the internet in hopes to find some information about treatment centers, eating disorder facts, anything that could help me in my journey. Not too long after I started searching, I found a place not very far from my house that treated those with eating disorders. Many other centers were located throughout the country, although, I felt that it was best for me to stay close to home. After reading about the facility and its options, I came across reviews online at a different web site, where previous patients wrote about their experiences. There were a few negative reviews but the majority were positive. Reading their words made me feel not so alone, and it showed me that maybe I made the right decision to step in the direction of getting myself out of the mess.
I first thought about how others would react if I mentioned that I needed to go see a psychiatrist. There was so much taboo around the subject and I knew that others usually poked fun at just the thought. Going to see a psychiatrist meant that you were crazy, an outcast from everyone else in the real world.
Maybe I was crazy. I was in my own little world full of destruction and pain and I did not want to step into the real world. But I was not the kind of crazy that was shown in movies, the kind that were so mentally ill that they needed to be locked up and sedated on medication. I knew that the majority of those with mental illnesses looked and seemed perfectly normal, only I was afraid to be compared to the insane, unstable basket cases.
I wrote down the phone number to the center and grabbed my cell phone out of my bag. My fingers quivered as I dialed the numbers. In an automatic nervous response, I hung up the phone and took a deep breath to calm myself. It was a huge step for me to make, to start making the changes in myself in order to take a different path. I dialed the numbers again, that time staying on the line until someone picked up on the other end.
"Hello, Stafford Center for Eating Disorders, may I help you?"
8
Beginning of the End
I have no idea what to expect. I fear that I won't be seen as sick enough for help. I'm terrified of this whole process. "If only I were skinnier. Everything will be so much better!" Well, I'm skinnier, and nothing has changed. Actually, things are worse because I can never indulge in foods I used to love. Or if I do, I feel so guilty about it and only make up for it by restricting even more the next day.
I know I'll never reach my perfect weight, because I'll just want to keep losing more and more. I thought I'd stop when I lost 10 pounds but then I wanted to lose more. I just kept on going. It doesn't stop. It will never stop without help. It's gonna be very difficult to give up this crutch of horrible eating habits. It's a horrible way of living and I need to get out before things get any worse.
But what am I supposed to do without it?
The appointment had been made with the Stafford Center for Eating Disorders and I had no idea what to expect. I was not sure if I would be taken seriously; that was probably my greatest fear. Since I did not look like the stereotypical girl with an eating disorder that everyone saw in the media, I was afraid that I did have to look like that in order to warrant professional help. Even though I knew I was going to see professionals about my problem, I still worried that the stereotype was real even in doctors' eyes. I kept picturing the doctor laughing in my face after telling him that I think I needed help, and in response, he would say, "Why are you here??" The monster was trying to trick me and it seemed to be working. Was I really sick enough to need help? I felt like death a lot of the time, but I was sure that there were others who needed more help. Would I be wasting the doctor's time? I tried to rationalize my habits in order to try to skip out on the appointment, but eventually, I knew I had to go through with it.
On the day before my scheduled time, I drove by the hospital where the center was located. I did not want to get lost on my way and be late to see the doctor so I made a test run. It was not hard to get to the center, but as my car drove by and I looked at the building, I felt my heart beat harder. It was the place where I would be coming for help. Was I really ready for it? I imagined what it looked like on the inside and tried to picture the different patients locked in on the other side of the door. I wondered if any of them looked like me, thought like me, was alone like me.
That
night, I could not get myself to fall asleep. Thoughts kept popping into my head and my anxiety rose with every ridiculous fake situation I imagined. In order to calm myself and focus on something other than my intrusive thoughts, I turned on the television and hoped that the background noise of people talking would put me to sleep. It did not work. I tossed and turned in my bed for hours, going back and forth on my decision to drive back to the center in the morning. There was a 24-hour notice cancellation policy, but I wondered if I could cancel if I came up with a good excuse. The problem was I had no excuse. I was going to have to bite the bullet and go. With four hours of hopeful peaceful rest ahead, I finally closed my eyes and drifted off into dreamland.
When I awoke the next morning, I forgot for a minute that the appointment. Until my mom came in soon after my eyes opened to the morning light and reminded me. If I had to go, I didn't want to roll out of bed a few minutes before and look like a slob, so I sat up, wiped my eyes, and got out of bed with enough time to take a shower, properly get ready, and try to relax.
My mom came with me to the center for moral support, as she did not need to be with me since I was over the age of 18. I was legally an adult. I did not want to be by myself in a strange place. She also offered to drive which gave me a chance to calm myself down and prepare for what was about to happen. When we arrived, my mom turned off the car and looked at me.
"This is a good thing. I'm glad you're doing this for yourself." She seemed genuinely satisfied with my decision, despite her overwhelming confusion through the whole process.
"Thanks." I half-smiled and gripped my hand around the door handle. "Ok. This is it."
We both exited the car and walked towards the center. It was an old, red-brown brick building that stood on a plot of carefully manicured lawns. I imagined the building as an old horror film scene, as if there were stormy skies and bats flying around the rooftop. It may as well have been from a horror film, based on my fear. My palms were sweaty and I could hear my pulse thumping in my ears. Once I took that step in, there was no chance of turning around again. I was about to be led back on the path of which I tried to avoid in the first place.
The waiting room was darker than most waiting rooms I had encountered in the past. The paint on the walls was a deep, dark blue color, and the furniture was very modern for an office setting. My eyes roamed around the room and I spotted a few other girls sitting, waiting for their appointments. None of us made any eye contact; I just assumed it was common practice to avoid anyone at those types of places. I asked myself if they were embarrassed to be sitting there or if they really wanted to be there, because I myself had a twinge of embarrassment at the pit of my stomach.
I thought it was silly to need help for not eating. Eating was a simple human function and it was not normally a difficult thing to do. That is, until the mental part came into the picture. I did not want to be seen as crazy and I did not want anyone to know I was there.
Even though we did not make eye contact, I noticed their bodies and could not help but to compare mine to theirs. They were all skinnier. I was the fattest one in the room. At least, that was the truth in my head. Were they judging me or did they think I was fat? I walked over to sign myself in and was asked whom I was there to see.
"Dr. Hoffman. It's my first time here."
The receptionist looked down at the schedule sheet.
"Ah, yes, you must be Erin."
I nodded as she opened a drawer and started flipping through papers. She grabbed a sheet, then another, and still a few more, and placed them all on a clipboard.
"Here you go, you have to fill all of these out. Just bring them back to me when you're finished, alright?"
"Ok. Thanks." I was lucky I brought my mom with me because I was now worried that there would be questions I did not have the answers to. We sat down and I started to fill out the papers, making sure to print neatly so it was legible. As I continued to write, a few more girls walked into the waiting room and sat down. It crossed my mind that there were many patients coming to the center, which surprised me. I did not know anyone else but they seemed to be doing very good business with the amount of people walking through the doors.
After I completed all of the paperwork, all I had left to do was wait. The minutes passed by slowly and I looked at my watch multiple times to make sure time was still moving. I flipped through several magazines sitting on the coffee table next to me but the reading material did nothing to distract myself from the wait. Without noticing, a man in a dark suit appeared from the hallway.
“Erin? I’m Dr. Hoffman, nice to meet you. Come on back.”
I followed him through a maze of narrow hallways leading to the back of the building. The décor matched the waiting room -- it all went very well together. He led me to his office and allowed me to choose which seat I wanted to sit in. To the right of me against the wall sat a young woman.
Dr. Hoffman directed his hand toward the stranger.
“This is Dr. Whitley, she’s here observing today. Do you mind if she sits in with us?”
It was my first appointment and as if I was not nervous enough, I had an audience, too.
“No, I don’t mind.”
The doctor pulled out a packet of papers that were stapled together and looked up at me.
“So. Tell me why you’re here.”
That was a loaded question. I did not know where to begin so I started babbling about my desire to be happy and attaching that with being thin. The more I spoke, the less I made sense. I felt like I was pleading my case to a judge and I was failing miserably at it.
He seemed to understand, though, and he started asking questions from the papers he sat in front of him.
“I have a lot of questions here and it might take a while, but these are for us to get to know you better, so that we can help you in the best way possible.”
The questions varied from family history to my current food intake to how I was feeling to past histories of any other deviant behavior. No doctor had ever asked me so many questions and I had never revealed so much about myself before. Now that he knew everything, I was worried that he would dismiss me from his office and tell me that I didn’t need to be there, that I was just on a silly diet. I was sure that he had seen many patients in his career that were far worse off than I was, so why did I think he would have time for me? I was not in grave danger.
He glanced at the evaluation and asked me to go back to the waiting room while he reread my answers. I was sure that he sent me out so he could think of a gentle way to tell me that I was being ridiculous and that I was wasting his time by being there.
I sat down in the waiting room once again and told my mom everything that had gone on.
“I don’t think I need to be here. I don’t think I’m that sick, I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.”
My mom took my hand in hers.
“You’re not wasting anyone’s time. If you think you need to be here, you need to be here.”
But I was not completely sure whether I needed to be there. Could I kick the obsession on my own? Did I really need professional help? Many people were able to get rid of bad habits so why was I not strong enough to pull myself out of the trenches? I was not strong enough for anything. Just as I completed my thought, Dr. Hoffman strutted down the hall again, his tie swaying back and forth with the motion of his stride.
"Come on back again, Erin."
I once again followed him down the hallway, passing multiple closed doors and a few pieces of artwork. Once we stepped into his office, I sat in the same chair that I chose before. I did not like change. Dr. Whitley had not moved from her seat, only her position changed from the last time I saw her.
Dr. Hoffman pulled out my papers yet again in order to remember what he wrote down.
"So, I've looked over all of your notes and after consulting with a few colleagues, we think it would be best for you to go into our Intensive Outpatient Program. Would you be willing to do that?"
&nbs
p; My eyes stared at the floor as the panic began to increase within me.
"Do you think I need it? I mean, I didn't think it was that serious, I just needed some help."
"Yes, I think you need it. No one has ever told me that they think their case is serious, no one ever feels sick enough. But I'm telling you, you do need help and it's best if you get it sooner rather than later."
"Well...what is the Intensive Outpatient Program?"
"The Intensive Outpatient Program, or IOP for short, is our program that runs from Monday through Thursday for four hours per day. You'll have dinner there and you'll have a few groups. I can have Dr. Whitley get you a copy of the information, if you'd like."
"Yeah, that'd be good." The young woman stepped out of the office and returned very soon after with a thin packet filled with information about the program. "Well...I'm not sure. You see, I don't have health insurance right now, and this would be really expensive. I'm not sure if my family can afford it." I told him the truth, although I was secretly relieved that I had a legitimate excuse.
"I'll tell you what. I'll give you a chance to improve on your own. I'll set you up with a therapist and a nutritionist, and you can see me in about a month. We'll see how you do on your own and then we can re-evaluate after. I can't force you to do the program, your parents can't force you to do the program, although, I would highly recommend it if your situation gets any worse. Alright?"
Restricted: A novel of half-truths Page 6
