For personal reference, I mentally refer to the 11-week anorexia program as the House.

Think of it like this – out of the 11 weeks, I was unable to leave on outings or even join in the reindeer games on the back porch for about 9.  I was limited to a cheap blue wheelchair.

The left most corner of a beige couch was my personal domain.  Everyone knew it was mine. No squabbles.  The side table provided shared space for the books, papers, and hand lotion I was afraid to abandon.  After all, if I didn’t carry it with me – everywhere – I had no idea when or if it would be returned.  I suppose this was a negative perception – the staff would (eventually) retrieve my items, but only after a substantial amount of begging and patience.  I’d rather just take everything with me everywhere at all times, much to the mild annoyance of my caretakers.

When I “graduated” to the walker, I think the staff and sisters where more thrilled than I was. The walker granted the ability to actually allow the sunshine to strike my skin for limited, heavily supervised, and if staff was available, amounts of time.  Still, I wasn’t able to join the reindeer games with the other girls.

The walker came with, of course, an entirely new set of rules, stipulations, and humiliating butt kissing.  I — still — carried all of my items with me, although I was “allowed” limited freedom – but that varied wildly between the staff member, her mood, and which (if any) supervisor was on duty.

At this point, I think I was mentally and physically degrading.  The medical staff deemed that, for my own safety, staunch physical limitations.   There was little to no regard of how connections to the other girls could assist in personal resolve, create a more united community, and provide friendship.

The lack off physical movement actually derailed muscle improvement.  I was engaging in far less house activity than the physical therapist thought (or guessed) that I would be allowed.  So, while the body improved, I could have been advanced with more supposed freedom the therapist thought I had.

Bottom line – Why should I be happy?  Thrilled?  Proud?  from the perceived advancement to the red walker from the blue wheelchair?  Why would I be pleased for the so-called ability breath non-recycled air on the back porch?  How could I appreciate the supposed earned right to feel sunlight?

If anything, I became more enslaved to the House than before.  I want… needed… to take full advantage of them – but could only do so at the whim of the staff, scheduling, and paperwork.   Those three items where, as I found out, more of a priority than the mental and physical wellness of the girls – namely me.

Sure, every now and then, a staff member would take pity on me and complete her paperwork outside, forgetting the time, so I could simply breath and marvel at the green landscape.  Double bonus during my and Jason’s 16th (17?) anniversary.  I requested/begged from extra phone time — and — was allowed on the back porch — solo — for an hour long semi-private conversation.  I was doubly “blessed” by being granted so-called freedoms.

I know I seem on the ungrateful, ungraceful, misunderstanding side.

Think on this –
*  Part of what drives anorexia and other disorders is the lack of control – rather it be personally, spiritually, physically, and emotionally.

The refeeding process is, essentially, being force-feed.  People undergoing treatment continue not to have control in this area. Granted, it’s for the survival of the person.  This part is actually excusable.

The other activities, speaking to others without fear of staff judgement or gossip, being able to touch green grass, watch the sun rise… those are personal liberties others could (eventually) have and enjoy, rather they take full advantage of them or not.  The essential connections to other girls where heedlessly prohibited because I was ‘different’ and could not join in the chit-chat conversations  — which is a shame….  The best support comes from within, not without.  From comrades who have been on the front line – in the same situations – not from those who studied to pass tests in school.

So…  lesson learned.
Never, ever, ever, ever take anything for granted – no matter how small and insignificant it may seem.  The world of Ayn Rand’s Anthem is just a few potential pages away.