Sick Enough - My first day in a psychiatric hospital for anorexia

   

  

The foul smell of disinfectant smothers my nose, and I worry I may pass out. How can anyone voluntarily live in a place like this? The iodine odor, the cold to your bones temperature, the all grey interior decorations, it all makes me feel sick.

If I were thinking clearly, I would laugh at the ironic joke; admitting myself to a psychiatric hospital for anorexia is making me feel sick. If I had the strength, I would get up and run right out those automatic doors. But as terrible as it feels to admit, I don’t have the strength.

I surrender myself to the wheelchair that the admitting nurse provides me. “I’m Suzie,” she says. Her ebony hair falls messily from a high bun. Her deep brown skin is striking against her light blue scrubs. “Are you ready?” she asks as she grabs the handles of the wheelchair. I don’t respond, but the wheels start turning anyway.

We pass through two high-security doors, only opened by the badge on her waist, and we arrive at my room. This feels less voluntary with each passing moment.

My room is as bland as the intake area. There’s no art on the grey walls, nothing with wires or accessories that I could use to harm myself. They even took my shoelaces when I first checked in. In the center of the room is a twin bed with its standard issued white sheets, a thin white blanket, and a single white pillow. I wonder how many lost souls have occupied this bed before me.

My nurse is looking at me quizzically, and I realize she has been talking to me. I haven’t grasped a word she has said. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

I want to laugh; what a ridiculous question. “A bit cold,” is all I say.

“No,” she shakes her head, still peering at me with her bright brown eyes, “How are you feeling about being here?”

The answer is easy. I’m terrified; every inch of me has been since my eating disorder therapist told me I couldn’t make enough progress in outpatient and should consider an inpatient program.

“I don’t think I need to be here. I’m not that sick; my therapist was overreacting,” is what I say instead.

She gives me a small smile; even though we only met an hour ago, I see that she has genuine concern in her face. “That’s a normal response, but that doesn’t answer my question. How are you feeling about being here?”

She doesn’t take her eyes off of mine. She isn’t going to take the superficial answers my other doctors have accepted so readily.

“I’m scared,” I mutter, my voice shaky. I take a deep breath in a last-ditch effort to stop any tears.

“I don’t feel like I belong here. I’m scared everyone will be sicker than me, that they will wonder

to themselves, ‘why is this girl here? She doesn’t belong here.’” I have to stop myself from continuing because the tears have arrived, and they won’t be scared away by a stiff breath.

It’s difficult to admit, but in outpatient, I was the sickest one by physical standards, my weight steadily dropping week by week when it was supposed to be increasing. I’m scared of not being sick enough.

I drop my head to my chest; my vision blurs from the steady flow of tears. I see the outline of my nurse approach me and take my hand in support. “I think you will feel better after your first group session. I’ll give you some time to settle in,” and she departs. I’m left with a small number of belongings, mainly clothes, but ultimately I’m left with what I fear the most, myself, my thoughts, and the possibility of getting better.

-

Five women sit in various positions on a blue ‘U’ shaped sectional. Their ages range from a recent high school graduate to a soccer mom. The group’s attention is directed at a woman sitting on a single white plastic folding chair at the sofa’s opening. At least they aren’t looking at me as I enter.

My heart pounds with each step that I take towards them. I see an open spot at the end of the sofa and mark it as my destination. I never tear my eyes away from that point during my approach. The couch cushions sink easily as I take my place.

“Ladies,” the woman in the front says, pulling her eyes away from the notebook in her hands. Her brown hair is pulled back in a low bun. Her face is bare, with only mascara accentuating her deep brown eyes. She straightens in her seat, leans forward, and crosses her legs. Her tan slacks and blue button-up bunch with the movement. She smiles and looks at each of us.

“As you probably noticed, we had a new person join us today,” she says.

My cheeks burn as I feel the group’s eyes burrowing into me. My whole body clenches as I wait for a scoff or a laugh at my presence among them. I’m too scared to look at them, convinced I’ll catch one of them rolling their eyes. I stare intently at my hands as if noticing my fingernails for the first time.

Nothing. The group is silent.

“Brittany, my name is Annie. I run the group sessions that are held in the common room,” she waves her arms dramatically, reminiscent of Vanna White revealing a letter.

The large sectional sofa we occupy is the central hub of the dreary room. The couch faces a TV on a portable stand that I haven’t seen since middle school; the TV looks about as great as I feel. Various collapsible tables that host board games and in-progress puzzles assemble to the right of us.

Our dining area, where soon I will be eating five times a day, we sit and eat while being monitored, appears on the left. The three round wooden tables loom in the corner. No table clothes; your hands must be visible at all times. The walls are all white and bare of any artwork. One wall hosts a large glass window that connects us to the nursing station.

“Let’s each introduce ourselves; your name, a little on your background, maybe talk about your experience on your first day, and why you’re here. We can have Brittany go last.” Annie says.

Another silence.

“Ok, I’ll go first. My name is Kim,” a young woman across from me says, “and I have bulimia and anorexia.”

One by one, they each tell their story. Anorexia. Bingeing. Purging. Bulimia. Depression. Anxiety Disorder. PTSD. Bipolar.

And one by one, they explain how terrifying it was for them to come to treatment. How they don’t remember their first days. How they had panic attacks or got sick to their stomachs.

“My first week was a blur. I don’t think I stopped crying until day three,” Kim says.

One by one, I see myself in their stories. One by one, my muscles soften with each of their intros. The gravity in the room feels lighter. My lungs feel like they just learned how to breathe properly. Tears race to my eyes, but so does something else.

Something I haven’t felt in a while. Something I didn’t think I could feel—a smile.

My heartbeat quiets.

“Welcome to treatment Brittany, we are happy you are here,” the last woman says.

Tears flood my eyes, but it isn’t sadness. It’s gratitude. Relief. It’s hope.

“Hi,” I say, “my name is Brittany, and I struggle with anorexia. I’m thankful to be here.”