Monday April 8 2019 I am so fed up with myself that I am desperate for help. Friday night I had coughed up bloody pieces of tissue after making myself throw up, for the second time in as many weeks, and told myself, “Okay, this really has to be IT, and you really have to stop this.” Then. Sunday night, less than 48 hours later, in my night-time zombie-daze, I found myself at the gas station buying candy to satisfy my night-time sweet tooth, feeling like a robot slave to sugar.
The only thing I could do the next morning was research help. I looked and looked and looked, online, going to every website and search engine I could think of (and I’m no slouch in that department) trying to find someone who could tell me what to eat, how much of it to eat, and when, and how often – in other words – a dietitian or a nutritionist who specialized in eating disorders, or a treatment center or clinic who had one that could see me privately.
Nothing.
I live in a black hole of eating disorder treatment – a person had to drive several hours north, south, east, and, or, west, to get to a city that had qualified care for this population. A general hospital nutritionist who helps cardiac and diabetic patients eat more health would not do the trick – most ED patients that I’ve heard or heard of, read, or known, know as much or more about food and nutrition as those clinicians and if their expertise could help we’d have helped ourselves long ago. This person needed to specialize. My old car couldn’t handle long commutes so my singular local option was River Centre Clinic. So there I was on their website. Again.
But. Something New. The Garners had sold the clinic to a new company. His name was still present but clearly he had less power there. And, those same three clinicians that I’d seen for over ten years, now – meaning, combined, they had as much experience treating eating disorders as I had being sick with them. Maybe one of them was “the assistant” mentioned earlier, but his wife hadn’t been there in a long time, which to me seemed less dysfunctional. In fact, I’d considered seeking her out for specialized ED help, but…old car…long commute. At any rate, they had withstood a storm and were still standing. So I filled out the form online again and this time when they called, I talked.
LATER I would learn that this person was highly trained to specifically talk people into coming to treatment. (THEY call them “Admission Specialists” but I call them “Recruiters.” Like for the Army.) LATER. After I was discharged. And no called to check on me for at least 4 weeks. Or even responded to my emails or phone calls. LATER I would realize the manipulative tactic she used saying “just think how your kitties feel when they see you throwing up.”
No, I’m not joking. She actually SAID that. And wanted to schedule me for an assessment but I held out. So she called back the next day. LATER I would realize the discrepancy between how attentive she was prior to admission – compared to how thoroughly cut off you were after discharge.
I agreed to an appointment but still she called me back again the next day to make sure I was showing up for it. My head spun to actually be in their parking lot. My world, even farther tilted, to be on their porch opening their front door. Too lopsided and disoriented to act when I noticed that contrary to my belief David Garner’s wife and mistress had a healthy separation, No, his wife’s Name was right up there on the board with the those same three other long-timers. I look back, now, and think, “Yep. That’s when I should have turned around. It’s just too sick.”
Nor did I turn around when the clinician who was assessing me sped in front of me instead of walking beside me. I accused myself of being judgy, when really it was quite indicative of a problem. It’s only now as I’m typing it that I wonder if it was manipulative when she told me how hard it was to end an assessment wondering if she would ever see the person again or whether or not they would be all right or live or die…I did take pause, though, during my tour of the facility, (after I’d agreed to admission) that she behaved as though she had never been in the adult unit before, exclaiming over a collective patient scrapbook she claimed to have never before seen. LATER, after she received a promotion, and LATER, after this private-between-patients-only scrapbook was prominently laid open for a public open house, I wondered if how excited she seemed was due to how much she knew ahead of time and if so, why I was assigned a therapist who would run out of the building, for good, crying, chased by this person who appeared so delighted to thumb through this artsy scrapbook.
In other words.
Don’t believe anything you read online.
And if any small or large part of what you’re told is important to you, get it in writing ahead of time.