No Steak Knives on Steak Night: Part One

Preface: This series reflects on a mental health disorder and my personal journey from surviving to thriving. During my journey, I kept a comprehensive journal—some of my best writing as it was real, honest, fierce, vulnerable, and raw. While there are no references to numbers or behaviors, the content can stir up feelings and thoughts. If you are struggling with an eating disorder, seek professional help. No names are used in honor of AA anonymity; however, if you were there with me, my Catalina herd mates, then you know exactly the recovery process.

No steak knives on steak night, no razors or tweezers for grooming, no cell phone, and no personal reading material. If it is giving grippy-sock vacation vibes, you would be correct. Many, many years ago, I found myself in a very difficult place in my life. My 17-year relationship had come to an end and I was living on my own for the first time in a long time. No cats; no kid; just me and my thoughts, trying to make sense of all the changes in my life. I had just returned from an intense tree dieta in the Amazon Jungle where my whole existence, right down to my atomic structure, had been reorganized and changed. I was definitely feeling some major intensity even though I was trying to be normal and do regular life things such as work, be a parent, and open a business. One evening after returning home from Peru, I went into the kitchen to make some dinner. When I opened the cabinets to get out my pots and pans, I realized I had none. Instead of being a normal person and cooking something else, I just went back to the couch and started watching The Walking Dead (the irony of what I was watching on television did not escape me). Simply put: I stopped eating and I began over-exercising.

After three months of watching my cheese slide off my cracker, a very good friend grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and said I had two choices: die or go to treatment. I chose life. At the time, I still did not understand the nature of my problem. I just knew that it felt good to be disconnected from my pain and my body. But the truth of the matter was that a very private coping mechanism that I had used throughout my life came back with a vengeance. This “not eating” thing was nothing new for me and my denial of my problem was bizarre. Over the years, in my mind, I thought that when I was going through emotional things, not eating was just a byproduct, if you will, and not an actual problem. As the saying goes, denial is not just a river in Egypt. Come to find out, my problem had a name and it had a treatment plan. My therapist, my nutritionist, and my friend somehow, managed to get me on a plane to Arizona and it was there that I spent 45 days learning how to eat again and more importantly, how to manage my feelings.

Upon arrival, I went into the medical holding to make sure I was stable for treatment. The first thing that I had to do was a breathalyzer. I jokingly said, “Oh cool, let me know what I register”. The nurse looked at me and he said, “You drank before rehab?” I said, “Yes sir, I did.” (Like who doesn’t drink before rehab? And besides, I had a layover in Vegas...) And he goes, “What are you here for?” and I said, “Sometimes I don’t eat.” His whole demeanor changed. He weighed me, making me turn away from the scale so that I did not see the number. I was immediately very triggered and my anxiety went through the roof. Thank goodness I had a light beer buzz because I was starting to feel trapped without my cell phone and without an exit plan. Next, I was led into my room and I had to strip down to nothing and have two female nurses note my body and go through my belongings. For some reason body oil and my soccer shorts were sent back home along with my good tweezers and razor because God forbid if you are properly groomed in treatment. Soon after, I realized I was really tired and about to lose my shit; so, I went to bed but not before having a serious melt down about not having my asthma inhaler on my bedside table. The nurses wanted it at the station and I was like “I am a grown ass adult with occasional asthma. Get whoever needs to clear this so that we can move on with the program.” They gave me my inhaler and I went to bed praying that this was all a nightmare soon to be over.

The next morning, I was feeling much better. I had breakfast with another patient who had an assistant to watch over her. I didn’t understand what was going on with her but they were both pleasant to talk to while I ate a hardboiled egg and drank as much coffee as I could consume. In my head, I was like, “this is going to be easy”.  There was no reading material in the medical holding except AA and treatment approved self-help books. I kept pestering the nurses and pacing around the medical lobby as there was nothing to do. I kept talking to them about what they did and where I was from and asking how long I was going to be in medical holding. The psychiatrist finally came and did her assessment and boy oh boy, she clocked me immediately. Thankfully by 2 pm, I was released into “gen pop”, the regular treatment population, and I spent time orienting to my surroundings.

The facility was located in the Sonoran Desert with the Santa Catalina Mountains to the east and wild animals seen throughout the campus (bobcats, Gila monsters, deer, coyotes, etc.). The place felt like a small community college with dorms, a big dining hall, recreational facilities, a pool, stables with horses, a very Zen labyrinth, a track, and spa-like rooms for massages, chiropractic adjustments, and so forth. The atmosphere was made complete with “students” hurrying between classes and lectures. But this was no college. The students were patients. The classes were AA focused lectures, group therapy, and/or individual therapy.

I located my dorm and unpacked everything in my semi-private room. I also got an opportunity to meet my roommate who was an alcoholic and very much into The Big Book and all the 12-steps (Hi! My name is X and I am an alcoholic. I replied, “Hi, I am Dianne and I am in denial”). I thought I had stepped into a cult because what did AA have to do with helping me recover from an eating disorder? It was all very confusing and weird and strange and foreign and oh so uncomfortable…until dinner.

Somehow, I found out that the eating disorder patients ate in a small dining hall. A small room with a big rectangle table. For eating disordered patients only. I had no clue what to expect but I was overwhelmed with my recovery mates. There were roughly 14 to 16 patients in the program and I was the new kid on the block so to speak. There were both men and women in the ED program and varying ages. We ate our dinner and then we had to sit for 30 minutes at the dining table to “rest and digest”. I did not know or understand the rules; so, I started getting antsy as I was tired of making small talk. I finally threw my hands on the table and loudly exclaimed, “HOW MUCH LONGER DO WE HAVE TO SIT HERE???” Everybody looks at me in shock; some laughing; some in understanding; some scared. The ED technician said, “We are almost finished and then we go to ED group to process our feelings.” In my head, I was like, “wha’ da fuck???” (days later, I was given the ED program guidebook and I found out that we had to sit at the table so that the bulimics didn’t go and purge). My first real meal in 3.5 months and then group therapy to process feelings. What fresh hell did I get into?

(to be continued…until the next installment, stay true to your heart and your journey).