On Mondays the day and night staff switch shifts, new admissions are brought in. The schedule starts over, and so do the meals. I know this by now; this is my fifth.
Monday morning also means a debrief of my weekend successively with the therapist, the nutritionist, the psychiatrist. Their own weekends they spend away from eating disorders and 17 Swann Street. They probably have brunch, cocktails, go to yoga classes or on runs. Not that they speak of those with us.
My session with Katherine is scheduled, as usual, post–midmorning snack, at ten thirty. That meal is particularly rushed today; I was delayed by the Julia affair. At least it is incident-free; I am used to the yogurt at this point. I sprinkle granola and swirl it into the vanilla. Both no longer scare me. Too much.
Ready, Anna?
Last bite, then yes. Direct Care checks my empty bowls and nods. Then walks me to the now-familiar office. I take my usual place on the couch.
Katherine comes in.
How was your weekend, Anna?
This time I am ready for her.
It was actually wonderful.
I tell her, in detail, about the evening I spent with my father.
She hears me talk about dinner and dessert. Asks:
How did the ice cream taste?
Painful, but worth it. You should have seen the look on my father’s face when I ate it.
So you would have it again?
A loaded question. I contemplate it and the window.
Yes, if it means that I get another evening like this with him.
She looks up from her intensive note taking to smile genuinely at me. For a second, Katherine the therapist disappears and Katherine, just Katherine, says:
You may get more than an evening, Anna. You may just get your life back.
But she seals that crack swiftly and her next question is professional again:
Would you say you want recovery now?
Another loaded question. I balk. Rather, part of me does, clinging to the safety of the anorexia I know. The other part answers:
I would say I want to try.
At what cost?
She pushes,
Dairy? Protein, fats, and sugar? Eating those every day?
She leans forward and asks:
Anna, do you think you are ready for Stage Three?
Silence. In my head too. I have no idea what Stage Three entails. I tread cautiously:
What exactly does that mean?
Katherine reaches for the patient manual, flips it open, and reads:
“Stage Three: Patients at this stage still require daily medical monitoring and treatment for their eating disorder, but have demonstrated their commitment to their recovery and collaborating with their treatment team. They have experimented with instances of limited autonomy and exposure to eating-disorder triggers, and have performed satisfactorily.”
I suppose both meal outings were experiments, and my performance was satisfactory.
“The focus is now on a protracted and gradual increase of patient autonomy and exposure to normal life circumstances—”
How so?
I interrupt.
“By downgrading treatment and supervision to ten hours daily.”
Meaning?
She looks up at me and translates:
Meaning you would still have to come in for full treatment programming every day, eight to six, but would no longer be required to have dinner or sleep here.
The air and thoughts race through my brain as it registers that last sentence. I am surprised at my first reaction: No, I am not ready for Stage Three.
I have only been on two meal outings. I had one ice cream cone, once! Forcing myself to eat dinner, every day, unsupervised, on my own?
No.
Her professional face does not stand up to this. Katherine is genuinely shocked:
What do you mean no, Anna?
No I am not ready.
But I thought you said—
What I said is irrelevant! Now I am panicking.
I do not know how I managed it! It was just an outing with Papa! I cannot do this every day—
But don’t you want to?
The softness of her tone nips the anxiety in the bud. She lets the question float. I contemplate it, and the image of me having a meal on my own. She looks back at the manual:
“Patients at Stage Three must begin taking action independently…”
She pauses to look meaningfully at me.
“… despite the discomfort this elicits.”
She closes the manual.
What are you afraid of, Anna?
I am afraid of myself. Of spiraling out of control and falling into anorexia again. Of throwing away all the hard work I did this month because old habits die hard. Of leaving the treatment center at 6:00 P.M. and never coming back. I am afraid of dinner on my own.
I do not trust myself not to relapse.
She does not brush away my concern. I am grateful for that.
Instead, she says:
That may be the most honest sentence you have said to me since you came here.
I think of that. She may be right. To her and to myself. I decide to keep going, wobbly, down that line of thought.
This weekend was a one-time act I performed for my father. I cannot do this every day.
What other choice do you have?
Silence. None.
Do you want to stay here forever?
No!
Why not, Anna?
Because … Emm. Because I do not want to be Emm.
Or Julia. Or Valerie, but I do not tell the therapist that. Instead I say:
I am scared.
She nods. She is human again:
I know you are, Anna.
She changes tactics:
Let’s say you weren’t, why would you want to leave?
Because,
Because I want to buy my own cereal. Maybe even Lucky Charms. I want to go to the bathroom without asking for permission from anyone. I want to take a shower in the middle of the day. A long hot bath, actually. I want to go for a walk. Alone. I want to turn right instead of left.
Because I want to keep walking aimlessly till I discover a sidewalk café. I want to sit at a table outside and order sparkling wine at 4:00 P.M. I want to listen to someone play the guitar as I read and sip, soak sun and air, looking at the people passing by.
Because,
Because I also want to want something more than a walk and my choice of cereal. I want a goal. I want to make a list of goals. I want to have purpose again.
I was ambitious once. I was a dancer, a dreamer. I was loved, I was in love, I loved life. I once had books to read and places to see, babies I wanted to make. I want to want those again.
Because I think I want to live,
that life Katherine mentioned I may get. Hazy outlines of family Christmases; children; basil, mint, and thyme in clay pots.
I want more weekends like the one I just had,
more time with the people I love.
And what are those weekends worth?
Everything, I realize. Everything.
Worth eating?
Yes, worth eating.
Worth the weight and calories?
Yes.
And the pain and the anxiety at every meal?
Coffee and croissants, a conversation with Sophie. My father’s famous omelettes. Crêpes on Sunday mornings with Matthias, stealing bites from his fork.
Yes,
because a birthday cake means a birthday celebration and ice cream means a good date. I can swallow the pain and anxiety if I can see that.
She looks at the clock; our time is almost up.
Let me summarize Stage Three: Patients continue treatment every day from eight to six. That will be at another facility. You will be assigned a new treatment team. You will take part in programming with another group of girls, and be responsible for your own dinner and evening snack.
Suddenly, I notice something. My head begins to spin.
I get to sleep at home.…
You get to sleep at home,
she says with a smile.
I get to sleep next to Matthias again.