Chronicles of the Crazy Ward

Life on Repeat.

2006-02-16T20:15:00.000-08:00

Well, I don’t think anyone is actually reading this, but I feel like writing, so I will.

I feel like my life is a broken record. Or maybe another version of Groundhog Day, or one of those Merry-Go-Rounds that just keeps going, the scenery never really changes.

Example 1. Today I am talking to a friend.
Me: “I don’t know what to do with my life right now, or my summer.”
Friend: “Get better.”
Me: (in my head, not out loud) Didn’t I do that last summer?

So I’m not better. But I don’t want to be. And I can’t tell anyone that. I can’t think of any good reason why not to get better. I mean, don’t get wrong, being in Inpatient helped me in a lot of ways and I don’t regret it, but I also don’t think I regret leaving early. Well, part of me does. But not the dominant part.

Being like this, getting through everyday is stressful because I constantly worry about how I’m not going to eat, and when I inevitably do, what it will be. If I don’t eat enough will something happen? What about meal times in public? What about later? Everything is so complicated and draining.

I don’t want to be sick, I just want to be one of those people with complete control….like eat in front of others but nowhere else. But I eat the most when I’m alone. I eat disgusting amounts out of bags and boxes. I sit on the floor with a loaf of bread in my lap, start picking at it in weird ways, and then eventually it’s gone. I am repulsive. I should be massive beyond belief, but people still think I am small.
I think they must be lying. But I know they’re not, really. I am medically underweight- if anyone even cares about that anymore. I just feel massive in my mind, because I am a constant failure. I need to succeed, and the most concrete way I can do that is by losing weight and staying small. Why is this “success” also the source of my downfall and distress? Only negative things come of it, accept for how I feel. What??

Example 2 of the cycle.
Last year I had a friend that things got to be really stilted with. Finally, I brought it up and we had a really good talk about how my eating disorder/weight loss made her uncomfortable and she just didn’t know how to act around me. Anyway, she was great during treatment- visiting etc- and I thought things were good. Now it’s like the sequel. She puts off spending time with me, acts like she doesn’t have time, we pretend we’re both to busy, and I end up feeling unwanted and not good enough for her, and I have no clue how she feels because she pretends it’s normal. I don’t want to lose my friendship. Not every social event needs to be set around food. Not every conversation has to be about it. Why can’t we just hang out?
So now, do I have the same conversation again?
It was hard enough the first time. When is this going to be old news? Pushed to the back for awhile?
But I don’t want to lose my friends. That was what got me into treatment in the first place. But I couldn’t finish it for them, because, ultimately they all have other people and I am alone.
That’s how it feels.

I wonder if I’ll be alone forever. I think it’s a definite possibility. I am getting older and am too scared and ashamed to really show myself to anyone. I have friends but there is no one- not even my therapist- that I am completely honest with. I just can’t be…because it’s too horrible and I don’t want them to think I am beyond help and I don’t want them to push me into something I don’t want.

I forget how to just be. I can’t read a book. I can’t watch a movie, really. I can’t stay away from food even when no part of me wants it. And I can’t eat with other people and feel ok. I can’t eat and feel ok.
But I can’t not eat either.

But I don’t want help. I do and I don’t. I want things to change but I don’t want to gain weight.
I am so petrified of what would happen if all of the bars I put myself behind just evaporated and everything was available to me. What is everything poured out of me, and then I was left vulnerable, dumb, and rejected. Not smart enough or interesting enough, and not even thin enough anymore.

The world is screwed up. I am screwed up. In a screwed up way, there is a place for people like me. I don’t like it, but it’s better than just getting lost. Misery is something. Even if it sucks.

Post Ward

2006-01-21T09:28:00.000-08:00

Several months have passed since my time in the pseudo-loony bin. I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to end up back there again—I refuse to—but things are hard. I hate feeling the way I do and I have trained myself to think that loosing weight makes them better. The ‘crazy’ part of me can’t trust a scale or family or friends. I am huge. Scales are inconsistent and people want me to be ‘healthy looking’ which means fat. They’re allowed to be thin and I am not.
They’ll surpass me.

The truth is, the whole time I was in the program I had a secret plan to take advantage of my newly feuled metabolism when I left and drop a few. I anxiously awaited the day when I could revert to fat-free yogurt, leave the butter behind, and forget all about massive desserts, pop, whole milk, and disgusting supplements. I stored these thoughts—romantic notions of skipping a meal here and there if I didn’t feel like it, and eating a low-fat muffin if I chose to eat a muffin at all. I let these ideas sit in my mind until I was out of the program and able to use them again. I wanted the control I had been forced to relinquish. I wanted it back. I am still trying to get it. Did I ever have it in the first place? I thought losing weight was easier. I have lost, but I don’t feel like it. I feel like a failure- not recovered and normal, yet too fat to be good at having a disorder. I am bad in both worlds, and sometimes I want neither anyhow.

I know I am irrational. I am ruining my own life and I know it and I won’t stop. Because what if my life doesn’t work out? What if I am just average or unsuccessful? I’ll be thin. I’ll be little. I’ll be able to dissapear.
If I keep going in this direction anyhow. I’ll never feel thin, but I’ll be it. I guess.

It’s weird- the first time this happened I never thought it would ever get to the point where I’d be in a treatment program. Yet there is an odd feeling of accomplishment and a massive feeling of self-hatred when it happens. People must have made a mistake- I am too big and dumb to need such severe treatment. Yet, I do. How did that happen?

Now it’s like I just couldn’t go through that again. I did the treatment (most of it) so I’m done. This is over. I want to be thinner and thinner. I am afraid of food. But I’m finished. I will never let others make me gain weight or eat like that again. I want to find a medium so I can be normal. Or part of me does. I want to avoid the hospital. All of me does.
I want to hide this but it is too physically evident. I want to hide but I can’t.
Sometimes the smaller you get, the more people notice you. But not usually for the things you want them too.

So much of me wants to be small. But I want to be happy. I need to figure out that one doesn’t result in the other.

Yes, we have gross bananas....

2005-07-09T15:42:00.000-07:00

July 4th
Yes, We've All Gone Bananas
Back in action.

Today something funny happened.
Not the kind of funny that makes a regular person laugh or slap their knee, but the sort of funny that can have seven girls with eating disorders laughing and giggling for hours. And around a dinner table at that.

So here's what happened.

The bananas were green.

Not your regular sort of not-quite-ripe-yet-green, but bright, vibrant, Martian-slime-green. These bananas were nowhere near the prime of their fruit life. Nor did they ever live to see that prime, since we ate them anyways. That's the way it goes here.

Have you ever peeled a bright green banana? Why would you have? Who, in their right mind, interrupts a banana's lifespan so prematurely and tragically, before it has become all it can be? And in that I mean edible. Bananas have few responsibilities. One is to sit still. Another is to remain calm. A third is to be yellow and mushy. A forth is to be edible. A banana, once it becomes merely a peel, should also seek to avoid the floor. There is no need to cause unnecessary slipping accidents in the world. Yet, this responsibility is strictly optional. Just as there are some people who delight in going against societal structures, the odd banana peel likes to rebel as well. Hey, it's a free country. Ever heard the saying that is every banana was the same the world would be a boring place? Hence the mystery of the reason behind every person that has ever slipped on a 'misplaced', floor-ridden banana peel is solved. Fight for your rights.
Go bananas.

So the bananas at dinner were green and we laughed and laughed. Case closed; joke over. That's all there is to it. Maybe with all this time in the psyche ward we really have gone a bit crazy. It was bound to happen sooner or later. One always takes a part of their surroundings in, in some way. How else would we develop?

We laughed watching each other struggled to remove the peel that simply did not want to come off. It just wasn't ready.
We laughed watching the disgusted facial expressions that appeared, mirrored across the table, in response to the feel of a hard, gritty, banana in between our teeth. The bananas weren't ready to be exposed and eaten. They hadn't been adequately prepared to perform properly.
All in all it was quite hilarious.
The sticky, stiff peels. The rock-like mounds being smooshed with lots of effort from our hard-working jaws, not accustomed to such vigorous demands and activity. I'm surprised we didn't get in trouble for burning calories from exercising our mouths too much. Perhaps that's the one muscle that one can never be exercised too much in a program like this.

So, yes we have no bananas. We've all gone bananas today.

At least it's a collective craziness.
It's nice to not feel alone in your senselessness for once.

Who knew a green banana could actually make a meal more enjoyable?
But don't tell anyone I said that.

Given the right attitude, the most meaningless, disgusting thing, can be flipped into a smile. Give that it's smile shaped to begin with, of course. It's just hard to see it that way.

Human Being

2005-07-02T15:07:00.000-07:00

Here's How It Works....

I figure before I get back to my hospital home tomorrow night and get swept up in the white walled world of insanity I would let you in on a few program details.

So this is how it works. The world of eating disorder recovery requires more sharing of feelings than anyone should have to do in their entire life. All I do is share my feelings. Which is probably healthy, but sometimes can be quite irritating for someone like me who prefers to live mostly in their head. Now I really do sound crazy.

What I mean is it is hard to express yourself intimately as it is, let alone in a room with nurses, social workers, doctors, and other patients. It is something I would've said I could never do, and am still struggling with now, going into my fifth week of recovery, after I've had more hours of group therapy than I care to calculate (I don't think I could if I tried). I bet even Gandhi didn't do this much self-exploration. And he didn't even have to eat at the same time.
So, learning how to bear my soul (ok now I'm being melodramatic…but I think I'm entitled) is becoming a little more normal. Which is a lot more frightening.

My weekday consists of three torturous meals, two trying snacks, and a whole lot of therapy. Groups are focused on relationships, family, self-image, and a bunch of other topics that all sort of meld and disappear into one-another. We also do a lot of planning, some grocery shopping (which I thought would be like supermarket sweep but was sadly disappointed), some of our own meal preparation (which I thought would be like Iron Chef but was tragically disappointed), and a little fencing and drag racing to keep things exciting. Just kidding about those last two.
One can only hope.

During free time we hang around the ward. It's about as exciting as it sounds. For your first week you aren't allowed to leave that single corridor at all. During that week I forgot what the fresh air (or smog in this case) smelt like and clung to anyone who visited from the outside world. I think hell for me is probably being stuck in a psyche ward having to eat cold cheese omelets from the hospital while listening to the same Abba song over and over for all of eternity. But don't even get me started on the food. Or Abba.

So throughout the week I eat, talk, sit, sleep, and listen in short. Sounds fairly normal if you disregard the topics and environment. Maybe even like a vacation, given the lack of things like homework, filing, and hardcore man-labour. Yet, there are many days I would much rather be laying bricks or herding cattle.

But where would that get me in the long run?

Intro to Insanity

2005-07-01T17:15:00.000-07:00

The Chronicles of the Crazy Ward

I begin my chronicles quietly in the comfort of my own home. On my own bed. In my own room, in my own house. Safe from my other life. The other life that has developed over the last month. The life where I am an inpatient in the psychiatric ward.

Surprised yes? Sure I sound fairly normal and regular. I mean everyone has their own little things. Like enjoying a clean kitchen or liking a celebrity a little too much. Last time I checked that wasn’t enough to get you admitted to the psyche ward. Not that either of those apply to me, So you’re probably thinking I must’ve done something really crazy, but I’m just one of those people who is super good at hiding their crazy nature. Than all at once it will come out-BAM- and you’ll cast your eyes away and go running to you mother. I hope she is close by.

If you passed me on the street you probably wouldn't notice me. You might knock into me, I might slip by, I've heard I am much smaller than I think.

Fair enough that I might make you nervous.
I did do something fairly ridiculous to get myself admitted. Something I’ve seen a lot of other people do, many to lesser extremes, and thought: “what’s up with that?” or, “that’s pretty dumb,” or “that’s a crazy, gross thing to do.” But then I did it too. I don’t know why I did it. Part of me wishes I hadn’t, and I guess the other part of me is the part that’s still crazy. So watch out for that part. I guess I can't control it yet. I take comfort in it, sometimes.

My crazy nature is probably not what you think. I’m (probably) not a pathological lair, I don’t see things that aren’t there (as far as I know), and I have never once been visited by the body or spirit of Elvis, though I might enjoy that.
I don’t particularly like fire, I have never stolen a massive number of cars in one day, and I generally don’t pose as someone who once lived on another planet. Though I am at times unsure of that one.

Has that covered all of the regular reasons you might have suspected for me to reside in a psyche ward?

One would certainly think so.

So then why am I there five out of seven days of the week?

I have an eating disorder. I hate to admit that. I hate the way the words feel in my mouth more than I hate the feel of cold, greasy hospital food I have sadly become so used to over the last month. I hate typing them because it seems so permanent and real. But it’s a proven 'fact'. It has been diagnosed, so it must be official.
I am in the hospital to recover from anorexia nervosa. It is for that reason that I live next to a woman who wears a backpack all of the time but never goes anywhere or says a word, for that reason that I regularly run into a man who watches children’s television shows constantly while laughing hysterically and wearing a hospital gown in many different styles and fashions—some more revealing than others--, and for that reason I reside down the hall from a woman who believes that the artist formerly known as Prince is her one and only true soul mate.

Life is crazy right now to say the least. There’s always a new story to tell. I think I finally feel ready to begin.
Stay tuned, would you?

Chronicles of the Crazy Ward

2005-07-01T16:48:00.000-07:00

Currently I am a patient in a General Psyche Ward, in recovery for an eating disorder. When I agreed to take on the challenges of recovery I had no I idea of the people I'd meet and the things I'd see while living in the company of about twenty other psyche patients. This blog is meant to document my stay in the hospital, and give a glimpse into the mysterious world of white walls, blue gowns, an meals on covered plastic trays. Who knew being "crazy" would be so..well crazy.

This stuff is just way too good not to write down. It's about time I started.