8 pounds

My memories of being at the Renfrew Center are quite fuzzy.  I remember it was 1998.  I was living in Atlanta.  My father had driven to Atlanta from Saugerties to pick me up.  He brought me to Saugerties for a few days.  Then he and my mother drove me to Philadelphia where I was planning to spend 30 days in a residential treatment facility for women with eating disorders.  
I lasted about 24 hours.
I vaguely remember being in a restaurant the night before my admission.  I'm not sure what it was or what I ate.  I remember debating whether or not I was going to start my recovery that night and actually digest my dinner or if I was going have one last bulimic hoorah.  It is interesting that I don't remember actually eating but remember the mental debate that took place prior.
Driving up to the facility was like the opening scene of a Lifetime movie.  The emotionally unstable daughter in the backseat looks out the window taking in her surroundings with a glimmer of hope while her parents sit quietly in the front seat full of anxiety and fear.
The campus was beautiful and consisted of several buildings.  I remember stone walls.  The dormitory had two floors.  The girls who were confined to wheelchairs were housed on the first floor along with the nurses station, counselors offices, and kitchen.  There was a lounge on the second floor and a few pay phones.  The pay phones would later become very important to me.
I was introduced to my roommate only she was being discharged that day.  She happily packed up her things.  She shoved her clothes in her suitcase and quickly collected all of the 'art therapy' crafts she had made during her stay.  I imagine now she was probably in such a rush to get out of there so she could binge or something.  Something like an alcoholic who can't wait to get out of rehab so they can have a drink.
After she left I had the room to myself.  My had a bathroom that connected to another room with two women. One of those women was a 50 something compulsive over eater.  She looked depressed.  A permanent frown and dark circles under her eyes.  She was very whiny.  I did not like her.  I don't remember her name.
I remember very little of the admission process.  I met with a nutritionist.  We made a meal plan together for the next 7 days.  For two days I would eat 1,500 calories a day.  For the remainder I was required to eat 2,000 calories a day.  Kitchen staff would 'grade' me at the end of my meals.  Calories I did not consume in my food I had to make up with Ensure at the end of the night.
The girl next to me at lunch dipped every bit of her food in a cup of hot black tea.  That is all I remember from the meal.  I recall eating a veggie burger.  I'm not sure what else.  And in a room full of women with bizarre eating patterns all I remember was the girl and the black tea.
After our meal we had a group meeting.  I think it was called 'mealtime support' or something.  It was held on the first floor in the room of one of the wheelchair girls.  She was extremely thin.  Much thinner than me.  Her eyes and teeth looked way too big for her head.  I remember she cried and said how bad she felt for being in treatment and not at home helping her mom with her younger siblings.
There was some downtime where I was instructed to go to the lounge and spend some time with the women. The girls sat around and painted their nails while watching the Food network.  I think the name of the show we watched was Two Fat Ladies.  One of the residents went on and on about them and what they cooked and how they cooked everything in lard.  The same girl had gotten a letter from her boyfriend that day.  In it he put a photo of himself holding up eight of his fingers.  He was proud of her for putting on 8 pounds.  She probably needed to gain 8 or 35 more.  I often wonder if that girl is still alive.
I started to freak out toward the end of the night.  My parents came back that evening for an open meeting of some kind.  One of the patients was being discharged and moving on to an outpatient level of care.  She was really pretty.  Much younger than me at the time.  I remember thinking I wanted to be like her although I didn't know anything about her except that she was taller and thinner than me.
After my parents left I made a few desperate phone calls to my 'boyfriend' back in Atlanta.  I use the term 'boyfriend' loosely to describe that relationship.  He was relieved to have me out of state.  In some sort of treatment.  Off of his shoulder crying all of the time.  He was watching a movie with a friend.  He was probably relaxing for the first time in months.
We had an evening snack scheduled every night.  We all had to meet back in the kitchen.  The women who did not eat everything they were suppose to had to make up the calories with Ensure.  Some of the women had 4 or 6 cups of that stuff in front of them.  They also dispensed fruit flavored Tums at this time so we could get some extra calcium.  The woman I sat by at her Tums like a cookie. Like it was 10 times its actual size.  Who needs to take bites of a Tums?
I called my sister.  I think she got in touch with my parents who were at a hotel and planning to drive back to NY the next morning.
I smoked alot of cigarettes.  I didn't talk to any of the girls who tried to find out what was wrong.
I went to my room and did sit ups.  Sits ups were not allowed.  Neither was going to the bathroom alone after a meal.  I did sit ups for at least an hour.
I did not get out of bed when I was woken up by the nurse for a 6am weigh in.  I stayed in bed.  The older woman who shared a bathroom with me gave me a hard time about missing meals and weigh ins.  She kept telling me I wasn't 'allowed' to do certain things.  I wanted her to shut up and mind her own business. She disgusted me.
A few counselors came in at different times.  They tried to talk to me.  Convince me to give it a shot.  Talk to the women.  Etc. Etc.
I told them I wanted to go home.  I wasn't like these other women.  I needed to get back to my job.  I needed to get back to my cats.  I needed to get back to my strained relationship.
I don't remember if I talked to my parents or if they had just spoken to staff at Renfrew and my sister.  They ended up showing up at some point in the day.  I told them I wasn't going to stay.  I remember my father brought me a carton of cigarettes.  I think that is kind of funny now.  Marlboro Lights were just about the only think in life that brought me joy at the time.  And I think my father just really wanted me to be happy.  It was the only way he knew how.
We met with a counselor.  I didn't say anything.  She and my parents spoke about me in third person like I wasn't there.  In some ways I really wasn't.  I remember her saying that if I was refusing to participate it was silly for them to leave me there.  Especially at $1000 a day.
I packed my bags as quickly as my roommate did the day before.  I threw the bag over my shoulder and headed past the patients in the lounge as quickly as I could.  I made no eye contact but could feel them all watching me.
I wonder if my discharge was considered AMA.  In the medical field AMA stands for against medical advice.  My admission to Renfrew was not a medical admission it was a behavior health admission.
I guess it doesn't matter.  I'm just curious.  I wonder if I could get my hands on my medical record.  It would be interesting to see what they thought of me.  And if their assessment would bring back any more of my stay there.    

Wait...Why don't YOU move over?

Recently I went to IXL in Rhinebeck to take my favorite class with my favorite instructor, Jen.  I walked in a little late.  I took off my coat and shoes, put my hair up, and headed for my 'spot' - to Jen's left in the front row.

In the mirror I could see the woman behind me getting closer.  She asked, "Could you move over?"  I was blocking her ability to see herself in the mirror.  I'm abnormally territorial and wondered why she didn't move over.  I moved over and ended up standing where the two mirrors meet which completely distorts what you see.  More so than my already distorted view of myself.

While  we warmed up I realized I recognized this woman.  I have not seen or thought about her in almost 20 years.  But I have thought of her often since that night a few weeks ago.  She definitely kicked up some shit.

When I was 20 years old I worked at Gold's Gym selling memberships.  .  The owner of the gym said he needed 'someone attractive' to go out into the community and represent the gym.  To this day I wonder if his idea of 'someone attractive' was a 5 foot 7 inch girl who weighed under 100 pounds and why anyone would buy a gym membership from someone looking like that.  Whatever.  I just needed money to buy cigarettes.

I loved working at Gold's because I got to work out for free.  I was extremely unhealthy at this time in my life and although I was smoking, drinking, and starving myself, I think the exercise helped a little.  However, it was a challenging environment for a mentally and physically unstable 20 year old.  The men at the gym loved me.  I was young, cute, flirtatious, and had no concept of boundaries.  The women at the gym hated me.  I was young, cute, flirtations, and had no concept of boundaries.

A few of the women I worked with were very rude to me.  There were times they would try to steal sales from me and blame me for work related mishaps.  The general manager was constantly trying to compete with me which I found kind of annoying.  Many of the women who were members at the gym were equally as mean.  This woman who was now standing behind me in Barefoot Bunz was one of those women.

I do not remember her name.  Yet I remember her coming into the gym  wearing a full length fur coat with two little boys in tow.  She came almost daily.  She didn't engage in much exercise while she was there.  My guess is that it would mess up either her hair or her makeup.  She had a perfect tan year round.  My assumption was that  she did not work.  She would whisper to her posse of other 40 something housewives when I walked by.  I remember alot of eye rolling.  Some of the gossip got back to me from a few male employees I was friendly with.  I don't remember exactly what the hostility was about.  But my guess is that it was about nothing more than my age.

I forgot all about this woman until I watched her in the mirror behind me.  Struggling to do burpees.  Unable to hold warrior pose.  Stopping to towel off the sweat on her forehead every other drill.  She still had a nice tan.  Her outfit matched perfectly.  I kept wondering if she would recognize me in the mirror.  Why would she?  I'm sure I did not have a profound effect on her.

It is interesting to realize that I have a resentment with a stranger and the resentment isn't really about her specifically.  It is about all of the older, theoretically wiser, women who were catty and bitchy to me when I was clearly in need of some help.  Rather than try and reach out to me and give me some guidance they chose to mock me and make me feel small.  These were grown women.  Women who were the age I am now.  What an immature way of behaving.  Shameful really.

Part of me wanted to turn around and address her.  To ask her if she remembered me.  And remind her that I am still 20 years younger than her.  But that would be catty and bitchy and make me just as bad as her.

Blogs can turn into books...

When I started blogging about Rocco my sister told me that blogs can turn into books.  I've always secretly wanted to write a memoir.  I love reading them. But I think there is something narcicistic about.    Writing a memoir is kind of a ballsy move fuel by ego and grandiosity.  Who really cares what I have to say?  

Lately I have been praying ALOT for God to show me where to go with my career.  And since I started praying I have had an insatiable urge to write.  Maybe God is telling me to start writing for some reason.  Maybe someone will care what I have to say.  Someone will want me to write a book.  And then make a Lifetime movie about it.  And then I can quit working and become a part time yoga instructor and spend all of my time blogging about Rocco.

I am no writer.  But I definitely have a story to tell.  Here it goes...