**Trigger warning If you are currently struggling with an eating
disorder, the following post could trigger strong feelings. If you
choose to read on, please do so at your own discretion.**
At
7:00am we would wait with the other patients for the van to pick us
up. We were staying at an apartment complex about a mile from the
treatment facility. It was chilly that early in the morning in Denver.
Even during the summer. We would try to find a spot in the sun. We
would make awkward small talk. Some would smoke a cigarette. We would
talk about the previous day's drama or about the staff. We'd all keep
watch for the white van and try to guess who was picking us up that day.
This, was PHP
PHP
stands for Partial Hospitalization Program. Those of us in this
program were out of critical medical care and participating in
treatment all day, every day. Monday through Sunday. It was mandatory
we show up if we wanted to stay in the program. If we wanted our
insurance companies to continue paying for our treatment. If we wanted
to be released home to our families and friends. Most people who were
in the PHP came from the In Patient/Residential Program. A place were
they were monitored 24 hours a day. Others were "Direct Admits" and
were brought directly into the PHP. This program allowed us to leave
for the night, only to sleep in a strange place with people we didn't
know, and were constantly changing. But at lease there was some freedom
and a reprieve from constant watching eyes.
When we arrived at
the facility we were immediately separated into male and female groups
and led to the bathrooms. I would always feel a twinge of sympathy for
the one or two guys that were thrown in with this group of women. What
must it be like to be a man with an eating disorder? It's often
considered a "woman's problem." The men I met always handled the
overbearing population of women so well and gracefully. Form teens to
the elderly, all different races, religions and economic backgrounds, we
were all in this together.
Some mornings we would have to take a
breathalyzer test. I had never had to use one before "Keep blowing
until it beeps." We were then asked to pee into a cup. Every morning.
The sink would often be running for those that had performance
anxiety. We stripped naked. Put on a see-through mesh gown. Chatted
amongst ourselves, made jokes, tried to lighten the mood to comfort each
other while we waited for a staff member to join us. The staff would
test our urine. They were making sure we were not water-logging to up
our weight, taking any drugs we were not prescribed, and checking our
general health. We would be weighed backwards on the cold digital scale
so we could not see the dreaded number. We could wear nothing. No
socks. No jewelry other than the basic wedding ring or stud earrings.
We sat and waited for our blood pressure to be taken along with our
pulse and temperature. On Mondays we would shuffle down to the lab. We
had to give some blood before breakfast. I fainted the first time even
though I was already laying down. I would chat with the nurse and crack
jokes from that point on to keep distracted from the needles and vials
of blood. A profile picture was taken on our first day for our files. I
looked gaunt, gray and resolved to my situation. Broken. I remember
the purple striped shirt I wore in that picture. My collar bones
protruding. My face sunken and miserable.
After vitals were taken
we would each find our own spot in the facility to prepare for our
day. There were a couple of common rooms with TV's, couches, chairs.
We would meander, or chat, or isolate, or sleep while we waited for the
breakfast call. Our anxiety would grow with each passing minute. We
were dreading it. Begging for it. Afraid of it. Starving.
The
staff would announce our meal was served and we would trot like sullen
lambs to the dining room of doom. A place that brought up such fear,
such anxiety, that it was palpable. Our crafty name tags would be laid
around the circular tables like we were in kindergarten. A staff
member was assigned to each table along with 6 or 7 other patients. We
would stand at our named spots and recite a prayer of sorts. A
non-religious mantra about accepting things we cannot change. I would
hold my breath as I sat. We set an intention for the meal we were about
to have. "My goal is to not make faces at my food." "I am not going
to clock-watch today." We looked at the food that was prepared for us
carefully by the kitchen staff. Everything precise. Everything exact.
Everything according to our specific meal plans devised by our
respective dieticians in the previous meal planning session. We could
have nothing more...and nothing less. Everything was calculated down to
the amount of butter, syrup, ounces of milk, salt. We looked at our
plates examining, re-calculating to make sure nothing was slipped to us
that wasn't' supposed to be there. People knew down to the ounce how
much they agreed to have. Some of us would moan and grumble as we
picked over our food. Nothing could be changed. Meal plans which we
signed off on were often dug out and analyzed. "No, see you did order
your egg scrambled, not hard-boiled." "You didn't specify you wanted
melons excluded." Often we would take a big breath and accept the
reality of our plates Sometimes a patient would lash out or desperately
try to find a way to get around eating something in front of them. No
jackets, purses, bags or hooded sweatshirts were allowed. Hands were to
be above the table. Occasionally a breakfast bar or muffin was able to
be slipped up a sleeve or hidden in a pocket, but this was hard to
spot. We would glare with anger or jealousy at the whomever was able to
get away with such a move. Why did they get to sneak away their food
while we had to
eat ours? We reverted back to children. We
had become experts at concealing food. But the staff had become experts
at watching and seeing. Our plates were over-turned to make sure we
didn't hide a morsel. Little purple orchid blossoms were placed on each
of our meals to...I don't know, bring a smile to our face? Give us
something other than a pile of calories to look at? A time was written
on the whiteboard in the room. A time we could leave our seats.
Exactly half-an-hour to eat our food. Many of us struggled with the
clock. We had to learn how to eat at appropriate speeds. Not too fast,
not too slow. The digital clock would tick by. As we choked down our
food, we tried to play games with each other to pass the experience.
Name that celebrity or alphabet games. Anything to distract us from our
plates. When someone was struggling we would leave them be or ask how
we could support them. Sometimes one or two people could set the mood
for the whole table or the room. Some would finish early while others
would cut down to the wire and desperately shove the last bites in just
the nick-of-time. Those that did not finish had a choice: Drink the
calculated amount of calories of "Boost," a dietary supplement drink
shake, or sign off as non-compliant. We would have to do whichever we
chose alone with a staff member after the others left the dining room.
Each
day started like this. We learned what to expect quickly. The routine
became both irritating and comforting at the same time. This was just
the beginning of the day. The real work hadn't really even started.
