The door next to the desk whines as a woman steps out, of about fifty, in a pantsuit and glasses framed by short white hair. She calls my name. My heart jumps. It’ll only be an hour. One hour with her and then I can go. We get up and follow her around a corner, into a room with a couch on one side and a cushioned chair on the other. The pieces move into their assigned places. Here comes the classic psychiatry intro where my answers will always be the same: “Hope Magee. Fifteen. Pine High School. Yes that’s kind of far and I really enjoy my classes and no, nothing’s wrong. I don’t know why I’m here.” She smiles at me, saying I can trust her. How do I know? They want me to open up and reveal every secret and feeling I have ever had so they can label me as crazy and ship me off to the mental institute. “She went to the doctor yesterday.” Ms. Psychiatrist says to Mom, “How much did she weigh. Mom says 91.8 pounds. I bite my lip. She does not know how much water it took to fake that weight. The doctor purses her lips.
…show more content…
Ms. Psychiatrist says I am underweight. Ms. Psychiatrist says I am depressed. Ms. Psychiatrist knows everything about me. Ms. Psychiatrist is wrong. She is dead wrong. Next, we discuss eating habits. Yes, I eat. Three meals a day and snacks. Big meals. Huge meals. A feast every four hours. No, I don’t know why I’m losing weight. I must have some disease or something, but I’m okay. I’m healthy. I just have a stomachache, that’s why I’m not eating. Please leave me alone. Stop it. I am tired of the prying questions and condescending talk. I want to go home where I feel secure and can be alone with myself. The tears well in my eyes, threatening to overflow any second when she slaps her binder shut and looks at my mother with an empowered stare. “Your daughter, Hope, has a severe case of anorexia nervosa She needs hospitalization immediately.” She speaks with a blank voice. “River Oaks is the closest option. If you do not call the hospital now, in front of me, I will call Child Protective Services for neglect and have both her and her siblings removed from your care.” This is it. This is the end of everything—the collapse of my current life. Within the next week I will have to leave my home and family. The desolation pounding through me is tearing me apart. Everything I have worked for will be taken away, stolen and there will be nothing left to hold on to. I have lost the battle to that woman…that woman who dares to even suggest that my mother has neglected me. My mother, who has cried and screamed for me, watched me waste away. She was helpless. I have seen her swollen eyes after losing sleep due to worry, her begging my father to make me try to see reason. She, who gave me every opportunity to show that I can do this on my own, did not neglect me. The slim, white phone is already out, held in her nimble fingers. The number is already dialed, the tone repeating until a nurse finally answers. My mother speaks strongly and confidently, but I watch the tears run down her cheeks, the fear and hurt in her eyes. I ant nothing more than to say how sorry I am for causing her this pain and wasting so much of her time., but anger clouds guilt. I thought of the many weeks ago when she demanded that I eat in fron of her or She will make the call and I had a panic attack in front of her—pleading her to give me another change when I refused her request. I would do anything—anything but to give up the comfort I found in from starving. The call ended and the doctor quickly gave me the well-rehearsed sweet talk that I will be okay and that things will get better, that I am worth recovery and life. She is lying. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Every passing moment I can feel myself disintegrating, yet so ready to explode. There is flame in
Ms. Psychiatrist says I am underweight. Ms. Psychiatrist says I am depressed. Ms. Psychiatrist knows everything about me. Ms. Psychiatrist is wrong. She is dead wrong. Next, we discuss eating habits. Yes, I eat. Three meals a day and snacks. Big meals. Huge meals. A feast every four hours. No, I don’t know why I’m losing weight. I must have some disease or something, but I’m okay. I’m healthy. I just have a stomachache, that’s why I’m not eating. Please leave me alone. Stop it. I am tired of the prying questions and condescending talk. I want to go home where I feel secure and can be alone with myself. The tears well in my eyes, threatening to overflow any second when she slaps her binder shut and looks at my mother with an empowered stare. “Your daughter, Hope, has a severe case of anorexia nervosa She needs hospitalization immediately.” She speaks with a blank voice. “River Oaks is the closest option. If you do not call the hospital now, in front of me, I will call Child Protective Services for neglect and have both her and her siblings removed from your care.” This is it. This is the end of everything—the collapse of my current life. Within the next week I will have to leave my home and family. The desolation pounding through me is tearing me apart. Everything I have worked for will be taken away, stolen and there will be nothing left to hold on to. I have lost the battle to that woman…that woman who dares to even suggest that my mother has neglected me. My mother, who has cried and screamed for me, watched me waste away. She was helpless. I have seen her swollen eyes after losing sleep due to worry, her begging my father to make me try to see reason. She, who gave me every opportunity to show that I can do this on my own, did not neglect me. The slim, white phone is already out, held in her nimble fingers. The number is already dialed, the tone repeating until a nurse finally answers. My mother speaks strongly and confidently, but I watch the tears run down her cheeks, the fear and hurt in her eyes. I ant nothing more than to say how sorry I am for causing her this pain and wasting so much of her time., but anger clouds guilt. I thought of the many weeks ago when she demanded that I eat in fron of her or She will make the call and I had a panic attack in front of her—pleading her to give me another change when I refused her request. I would do anything—anything but to give up the comfort I found in from starving. The call ended and the doctor quickly gave me the well-rehearsed sweet talk that I will be okay and that things will get better, that I am worth recovery and life. She is lying. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Every passing moment I can feel myself disintegrating, yet so ready to explode. There is flame in