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“I know you may be tempted to fixate on it,” Dr. Larsen said. “But instead, try focusing on the fact that your body is working again, which will allow you to grow and thrive and have a full life after you leave here.”
I nodded, trying to block out ED’s roaring voice screaming at me about what a colossal failure I was to allow myself to get to this point. Thankfully Dr. Larsen was there to beat him back.
“Is he giving you a hard time now?” she asked me.
“Yes,” I admitted.
“We’re going to do something,” she said.
“What?” I asked.
“Come with me.” She led me outside to the ranch’s deck, where we stood facing the Santa Monica mountains. “On the count of three, let’s shout at him, ‘You’re dumb!’” she said.
“Shout at him?” I asked.
She nodded. “One, two, three …”
“YOU’RE DUMB!” we screamed together.
It was so simple, but it felt good, really good, to scream at him. I kept shouting “You’re dumb!” over and over again, and for those brief moments, my voice drowned his out.
I finally stopped when my throat felt sore from screaming.
Dr. Larsen put her hand on my shoulder and told me, “I’m proud of you, and I know your mom is too, wherever she is.”
As soon as she brought up my mom, my mind immediately returned to familiar, restricting thoughts. After Mom died, all of my focus and energy had been on ED, so I didn’t have to deal with the pain of losing her. But I couldn’t run away from that pain anymore.
Well, Icould. I could return to restricting my food to avoid the unbearable thought of living in a world without her, but I also knew that I didn’t want to end up like Emily—a life of hospital stays and treatment centers that ended in death.
Dad started visiting me twice a week, sometimes alone, sometimes with Rascal. We talked about Mom, about how much we missed her. He also reminded me of how much she loved me and how proud she would’ve been of the hard work I was doing.
After a while, I was able to remind myself on my own. When our visits ended, I always told him I loved and thanked him for visiting me, and he always hugged me and told me he loved me too.
Every bit of love, grace, and care people showed me over the subsequent weeks allowed my voice to grow louder whenever ED tried to harass me. Saying no to him became easier. It was a slow process, but I was beginning to learn how to fight ED on my own. Every time I told him to take a hike or let him know how dumb he was, I grew taller. I was starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel, and that light was my life.
CHAPTER33
IHATE HOSPITALS. THEantiseptic smell mixed with air freshener trying to cover it up. The cries and moans that come from the rooms. The loud machines rolling down the corridors. The hollowed-out look in the eyes of patients and visitors who roam the hallway.
I’ve been to the hospital three times in my life. The first time in high school, when I fainted and had a feeding tube inserted. The second time when Dad was dying of cancer, and a doctor told us we should prepare for hospice care at home. And the third time, after I miscarried and was admitted for a D&C when they scraped my uterine wall, leaving it an empty cavern.
I once shared my aversion to hospitals with a therapist due to my history. She pointed out that hospitals can also be places where people get help, begin to heal, and even get a second chance at life.
Her words didn’t land because, in my experience, they had been places where a person went to try to fix irreparable parts of themselves.
I step inside the first hospital on my list and immediately tense up, so I’m relieved when the man at the informationdesk lets me know that the records department is in an office building across the street on the sixth floor.
I quickly exit and walk there as a brisk autumn wind hits my cheeks. I step inside the building and take an elevator upstairs. When it opens, I spot a receptionist with a buzzed, military-style haircut sitting behind a desk.
“Good morning,” he says. “How can I help you?”
“Hi,” I say. “I’m trying to find out whether my late mother was admitted here as a patient in 1997.”
“That kind of request takes at least two weeks to process,” he tells me.
“Oh,” I say.
“But I can make copies of your paperwork, and someone will get back to you if the records department has anything on file for her,” he says.
