Columbia Day Treatment Program
The scale sits against the pasty, white wall like an intruder ready to attack. I will not let her weigh me until I take off my gray, suede boots. And my socks.
Can I take off for my clothes? My socks? My hair-tie? Am I even sick enough to be here? I should just leave.
Minutes earlier I sat despondently in the tiny waiting room at the Eating Disorder Columbia Day Treatment Program in New York City. It is a chilly day in November 2009, and midtown is bustling. I wear dark skinny jeans and a pale grey sweater with a red trim. I cannot feel the jean material on my waist as I sit, so today is going to be a good day—and by good, I mean holding on desperately to a breakable thread, my weight my only valuable identifier. My ashy blond hair is thrown back into a ponytail. My blunt straight bangs barely touch my naturally extra-long, black eyelashes.
“Marilyn?”
A woman with a dark brown bob reaches out to shake my hand. It looks like she just came from a meeting and is overworked. Unfocused.
Marilyn? I think. How does she not know my name?
Every cell in my body was against coming today and she can’t even get my name right? I would have become fixated on this detail, but I am too numb to care.
“Meredith,” I say as I smile, my people pleaser persona jumping up to the plate. I don’t want to be here, but I certainly want people to like me. We go into a small office with no windows.
“What brings you here today?”
“Uhm. I have anorexia and I am not getting better.”
“I see.”
“I rarely eat. When I eat, I purge. I leave the house to go to the gym and Starbucks.”
“Go on.”
“I see a therapist, nutritionist, and psychiatrist in Red Bank, New Jersey where I live. I keep losing weight. And my parents think I need more care. I think they are being dramatic.”
I answer as my lithe body shifts uncomfortably in the wooden chair. My depression anchors my body down. My mind drifts to the scale settled by the bare wall.
You are a fat piece of shit.
“The PHP meets 4-5 days per week. This includes a primary therapist, therapy groups and meal support. We offer lunch four days a week and dinner two days a week.”
Hell no. I’m not fucking eating!
I continue to half-smile, but it is hard to fake. Alarms burst in my body.
I am not safe. This is a trap.
“I need to weigh you.”
I take off my boots and socks. I breathe deeply as I stand and cautiously walk the few steps across the office.
Please be low. Please be low.
The tension in my body drops as she shimmies the dial to the left and then to the left even more.
Lower is better. Lower is better.
“Your weight is low.”
No shit Sherlock.
I grin. Just like I want it.
The intake is brief. I am not sure what I expect. Maybe more of a reaction? A concerned sigh? An intense plea? I did tell her that I qualified for inpatient treatment at Princeton Hospital and was waiting for a bed to become available. She seems disinterested.
I nod to my parents as I re-enter the waiting room. They have driven from Scarsdale, New York to be with me. My Dad immediately stands up, taking charge. My mom remains seated, anxiety stricken.
“So, what is it going to be?” my Dad inquires, wanting to know my exact start date.
“Meredith has all of the information and plans to call me back if she is interested in starting.”
I imagine my parents are surprised that I did not invite them into the intake. Even at the age of thirty-five, I froze at the thought of disappointing them. My mind starts to get loud. A wave of sadness crashes over me.
Did I let my father down? Was I being mean? Cruel? Did I do something wrong? I am a terrible child.
A heavy discomfort weighs me down. I want to be in my bed—under my sheets, my comforter protecting me. I do not know how to navigate this world.
Can everything please stop!
“I’ll think about it,” I tell them, knowing my answer is no.
I hug them both tightly. I drive for ten minutes and let out a full exhale. Now I am alone with my anorexia for the whole weekend. No one or program is going to take it away from me. I escaped the threat. My eating disorder is safe. So why do I feel so alone?
