Nothing to Lose

Author's Note- Turning Point

I feel the need to point out that at the time described in the last chapter, I was a very different person than I am today. From the somewhat self-centered and altogether delusional belief that I was above basic human necessity and maintence, to the gripping depression that results in being locked up in what is essentially a looney bin with a strict meal schedule, I was a nut case. But something you must understand is that at the time, it all felt so very real. In fact, the monotony of my life was nearly tangible- a constant, repeating loop of crying and desperation for some sense of normality in my life. Sometimes there were blips in my oh-so-busy schedule of alternatingly feeling sorry for my self and giving up on ever having/deserving a happy life, like when I recieved a balloon bouquet or someone would send me the obligatory, "Hey I heard you're in the hospital are you still alive?" text. 

These were reminders that I was being remembered, at least a little bit. I was fully aware that I was not the star in anyone's movie- my life was led as a background character. But being one who got a bit of a subplot to be checked up on gave me something to smile about whenever it happened.  At the same time, I was afraid that what was happening would be seen as a cry for attention and nothing more. I hung in a purgorty between wanting to reach out to the people who still lived their lives back home and wanting to just reappear one day acting as though nothing happened. I took a middle of the road approach- if people asked where I was I'd simply say I was hospitalized for my heart. Simple enough, and true enough.

Looking back, though, I'm horrified. There are many things I don't remember from this time. I have to believe that this is a combination of not being in a great state health-wise and being in a traumatic environment. Lucille Packard was not a happy place. They could post as many inspirational posters and success stories on the walls as they wanted to- but this was a place where anorexia went to die. 

Should that not make it a happy place?

What you must understand is that to many, if not most, of the girls in the ward felt a deep emotional attachment to their disorder. Watching the control and the power it (seemed) to give you be ripped away was like mourning the loss of a friend. It was something you had. It was a statement of the control you held over the decisions relating to your body. Not a healthy one, of course...but we are controllers by nature. We have a compulsive and constant need to feel power over ourselves, a way to manipulate our world so we feel as though we are steering this vehicle. But we weren't- we're slaves to the disorder. But it's so conniving in that way. It will always convince you that you are deciding everything when, in reality, you're victim to a sweet talking mental illness.

Those thoughts were not mine. Perhaps that's why I feel such a disconnect to them in my present life. And that phrasing is so intentional. There was a turning point for me not too long ago when I was able to acknowledge that disconnect- able to begin to draw the line between me and the illness. I never really was that monster caged up in the CCP ward. 

And yet, during my stay and beyond, anorexia was all I could see in the mirror. Even long after the color returned to my cheeks and my hair started to slowly regrow. The physical representation of my illness would fade long before it would really die.