Okay, you know how when we survive something traumatic.  “I’ll never do that again.   I’m going to put it behind me.”
– I think that’s self-defense.  The situation tested our boundaries or caused a potent emotional reaction that we don’t want to feel it, be reminded of it, or experience it ever, ever, ever, again.

Sometimes, when we forcefully forget these things, the situation becomes trivialized.  We’re defensive and try to pack up the experience into the smallest mind-box possible, seal it with duct tape, and lock it into our unconscious where it will sink as the years pass.  Sinking, but still pulsing.  Strong emotions cannot be ignored and, when bottled up, can explode causing the past to repeat itself.

So I’m going to share and remind myself some of the rules I was forced to follow at the House.  (The House is an eating disorder treatment center where I spent 3 months in 2016.)

Here we go:
*  The total lack of privacy.
—  Examples:
Someone — always — had to be at the bathroom door spying.   I know that this is probably for regurgitation reasons, but still… I mean, come on.  It’s nasty and embarrassing.
I slept in a room full of women… we had our separate beds… but there had to be someone watching us all the time.  There wasn’t a breath that I could take that wasn’t jotted down in triplicate.

*  Food rules
Part of the habilitation, I would assume, would be helping anorexics and bulimics develop a healthy relationship with food and, by extension, themselves.  This is far from the truth.

Examples:
— Everything on the plate must be eaten, least we be threatened by staff and potentially gossiped about by staff and other patients.  If we refused multiple times to eat 100%, which varied based upon the staff member and the mood she was in, the patient would be threatened to be removed from the House.  Reason?  The patient is not vested in becoming better.  Instead of understanding and assisting, demands were made.

* Being force fed does * not * help someone develop an appreciation for food.  It’s very intimidating.  The act of eating causes resentment – which could carry over once “treatment” is complete.

—  The food themselves had rules.
Waffles MUST have butter and syrup in every square.
Bagels MUST have cream cheese.  So much so that if the knife made a scraping sound, it wasn’t enough.
Salads MUST have dressing – but the amount was not based upon the patient’s taste, but rather the staff.  The amount of dressing – varied – based upon the staff member who was the closest.  If I was lucky, a reasonable about was used.  If I was unlucky, the salad would swim in a full-flavored dressing – and I had to choke down every bit of it.
Apples and watermelons could not be salted.

* Inclusion
If a commercial came on TV that could potentially be triggering, the channel had to be changed.  The morning news was an exceedingly rare option.  Shows, all but what comes on DIY or Animal Planet (and even some of those were censored) could be watched.  Personally, I think I was traumatized by the cute puppies show… whatever it was called.   It eventually made me feel ill when I heard the opening credits and the sickening-sweet announcer voice.

When going on outings — least the two I experienced — everyone had to stay in a big group.. which I understand… but we were not to interact with others.  It felt like we were leapers and carrying some disease that could be communicable.

* Censorship
Patients were not to use a computer or communicate with the outside world unless approved, save for a 30 minute scheduled phone call — which caused the best times to be fought over and introduced tension into the group.

I thought that the going off the grid months would be an excellent time to catch up on my reading – but not quite.  Attempting to catch up on my massive ‘one day I’ll read this’ list was mostly futile.  Reasons?   The books could be triggering, offensive to others, or just generally inappropriate. The restrictions readily knocked out all of my favorite authors.   The few contraband books I was allowed had to have a book covers and swore not to be lent out to others.

* Lack of consistency.
There was a not so funny running joke that everything runs on House time.
Scheduled appointments with therapists and other staff may or may not happen on time, if at all.  The meals could be random or ‘about’ the time they should occur.
Think of it like this —  I had three meals + 4 snacks a day.  That’s 7 times.   If lunch was late, I would find myself eating a snack about an hour later. Ready or not, here it comes and I had no say in the matter.  Again… force fed beyond anyone’s reasonable expectations.

The staff was also a source of inconsistency.   They did not treat everyone equal and their understanding of the rules was not consistent.  I quickly learned to dread when some staff worked her shift.  One, in particular, stands out.  Bed time was supposed to be around 9 (I think).  It was 9 or 10.  Before bed, those who took showers in the evening had a limited time to do so.  Okay, understandable.
—  But when this staff member opened the bedroom late — the bedrooms as well as the bathrooms where locked at all times — those who took showers in the evening may have approximately 5 to 10 minutes to jump in, do her business, and dress before lights out.  We danced to the staff’s tune.

* Stockholm Syndrome
This is when the victims sympathize with the captors and, essentially, become captors themselves.
Unfortunately, this happened to me, somewhat.   When a new girl would be admitted, naturally she would be scared… petrified… Being forced to eat, obeying rules, surrounded by strangers, weak, lonely, and removed from all she cares for…    It’s like being kidnapped… forced into an asylum.
—  Given that I’m the oldest of three and used to caring for others, I would try to guide the new person through the rules and attempt to help her shed the blanket she hid under.  I had the time to explain and nurture.  Hence, it was almost I became one of the staff… the Stockholm Syndrome.
—  I was often reprimanded.
Although the staff * did * rely on the patients to guide new girls through the finer points, I was forcefully told that I was not staff.  It was not my place to help this poor, crying, and confused girl.
—  If the staff had the time or inclination, my efforts would not have been needed.

——  By no means this is all that goes on in an eating disorder facility, but it is some.  Take it as you will.

No matter what, those who sought shelter an help became nothing more than puppets on strings.

I am trying desperately not to have strings on me ever again.