Purge Page 7

  “I notice some new faces here,” she says. “Let’s go around the circle and introduce ourselves.”

  We do the Twelve-Steps intro: “Hi, I’m Janie, and I stick my fingers down my throat after I eat” kind of thing.

  “Thank you, everyone, and welcome to the group. Have any of our new members ever done psychodrama before?”

  I think about some of the rehearsals for The Diary of Anne Frank, and, believe me, they got pretty psycho at times, especially the dress rehearsal where one of the tech crew put a rubber iguana on the window ledge of the attic where Peter Van Daan and I were supposed to be staring dreamily out at the stars thinking of what it would be like to be free of the Secret Annex. Instead, we ended up in hysterical laughter. Mr. Holly, the director, went ballistic. I swear I’d play Anne even better if we did the show again, because now I really understand what it feels like to be trapped somewhere, longing to be free on the one hand, but scared to death of what’s on the outside on the other.

  I don’t think any of this is what Helene means by psychodrama.

  “Well, I’ve acted in plays, quite a lot of them in fact, but I haven’t done the psycho stuff,” I volunteer. I hope this doesn’t mean I’m going to have to go first.

  “The difference between acting and psychodrama is that when you’re acting, you’re taking the role of someone else, whereas here we take off the masks we wear every day, the masks that conceal our deepest feelings from the people around us, and keep us from expressing our true emotions.”

  O-kay. I wonder if she’s on some kind of trippy flashback from Woodstock or something.

  “Yeah, we learn to express our true emotions to a chair,” Callie says. “Like that’s going to help us in real life.”

  The look of annoyance that passes over Helene’s features is so brief I wonder if I really saw it. She takes a deep breath and it’s like she’s determined to be nice to Callie, despite the fact that Callie seems equally determined to get her riled. I really don’t know what’s up with Callie. I wonder if even she knows. I’m kind of worried about her, to tell you the truth. It’s like she’s this walking storm of pain these days, lashing out at everything and everyone around her.

  “Well, Callie, although this might not make sense to you immediately, I think over the long term you’ll find that it’s been helpful. Or at least that’s my sincere hope.”

  Callie isn’t giving an inch. She’s got her arms crossed defensively across her chest, and rolls her eyes as if to say, yeah, right.

  Helene scans the group and her eyes land on Tom.

  “Tom. Why don’t you tell us a bit about what led up to your decision to come to Golden Slopes?”

  Whew! I feel sorry for Tom, but better him than me.

  “Uh … it wasn’t exactly my decision,” Tom says. “It was my doctor’s and my parents’ — well, my mother in particular. My dad wasn’t so into the idea.”

  “Why was that, do you think?”

  Tom flushes.

  “Because … well, because he doesn’t believe in anorexia — at least for guys. He thinks it’s a girl’s disease.”

  I see Royce nodding, and I’m not sure if it’s because he can relate or because he thinks anorexia is a girl’s disease, too.

  “What does the group think? Is anorexia a girl’s disease?” Helene asks.

  “Yeah, it is,” Royce says.

  “Well, obviously it’s not, because Tom’s anorexic,” I retort. I don’t know why Royce seems to have it in for Tom.

  “But more chicks are anorexic than guys,” Royce argues.

  “That doesn’t make it a chick disease,” I say. I take it back about him being sensitive; he’s obviously a typical chauvinist after all.

  “Janie is right, Royce,” Helene says. “While it’s true that the number of women suffering from anorexia is greater than the number of men, the number of men with eating disorders is on the rise.”

  She surveys the group, which is pretty light on the Y chromosome, so you can sort of understand where Royce is coming from, even if he is a complete chauvinist.

  “About twenty years ago, there were thought to be ten to fifteen women with anorexia or bulimia for every one man. These days, it’s more like one man for every four women with anorexia, and one man for approximately every ten women with bulimia. So, Royce, anorexia isn’t a chick disease.”

  Ooooh, Royce. Consider yourself served. I guess Royce’s use of the word “chick” offended Helene’s hippie women’s lib sensibilities.

  Helene turns to Tom, who has been sitting staring at the floor and looking really uncomfortable while this whole conversation is going on.

  “And, Tom — you are not alone.”

  Tom’s face reignites now that the attention is focused back on him.

  “So tell us a bit more about what precipitated your arrival at Golden Slopes,” Helene asks him.

  “I was training with my dad — you know, for soccer in the fall …”

  Missy interrupts, “Yeah, the soccer you don’t even want to play!”

  “Allow Tom to finish, please, Missy,” Helene admonishes.

  Tom looks like he’d be quite happy for Missy to interrupt some more so he doesn’t have to continue, but there’s no such luck so he carries on.

  “Well, we were down at the track doing wind sprints and it was pretty hot, and I guess I passed out.”

  He stops as if he’s done, but even a psychodrama newbie like me knows there’s no way he’s getting off that easily.

  “You wouldn’t be put in here just for passing out because it’s hot,” Tinka says. “There’s got to be more to it than that.”

  “Well, yeah, there is, I guess. Mom was already pretty worried about me — she knew that I wasn’t eating a whole lot, especially for someone with the kind of workout schedule Dad keeps me to, and so when Dad brought me home, she insisted on taking me to the doctor. Dad said she was being a typical neurotic mother and overreacting, but she just ignored him and bundled me in the car.”

  “And what did the doctor say?” asked Helene.

  “After he lifted up my shirt to listen with the stethoscope, he made me get on the scale. Turns out I’d lost twenty-five pounds since my physical last year. So he and my mom had this big talk while I was in the waiting room, and then Dr. Lipton called me in to his office and started asking me all these questions about how I was feeling mentally and stuff. Mom was all teary-eyed and Dr. Lipton said that he thought I was anorexic and I needed inpatient treatment.”

  He lifts his eyes from the point on the floor where he’d had them fixed through this whole speech and looks straight at Helene.

  “And the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “How did your father react when you got home from the doctor’s office?” Helene asks.

  Tom opens his mouth to answer but she holds up a hand to stop him.

  “Wait — I want you to be your father as you tell us about his reaction.”

  She takes two empty chairs and places them facing each other in the middle of the circle.

  “Come sit here, Tom,” she says, pointing at one of them.

  With extreme reluctance, Tom shuffles over and sits. He looks beyond uncomfortable, and I don’t think it’s just because his butt is so skinny that it must hurt him to sit on it.

  “Who was it who told your father — you or your mother?” Helene asks.

  “My mother,” Tom says. “With me sitting there, wishing I could be somewhere else.”

  “Okay, so you are your father, and I’ll be your mother telling him,” Helene says.

  It’s a stretch. You really have to use your imagination to think that earthy crunchy Helene with her Indian-print skirt and long gray braid is Tom’s slender, blond mom. It’s equally a stretch to imagine skinny Tom as his tough, muscular dad.

  “I can be both of them,” Tom says.

  “If you prefer that,” Helene says. She’s nothing if not accommodating.

  Tom takes a deep breath and becomes his m
other.

  “Bob, I need to speak to you. We need to speak to you.”

  “Can’t it wait till after the game?”

  “No, it cannot, Bob. It’s important. Please turn off the television. It’s about Tom.”

  “Okay, okay. I just hope they don’t score any runs.”

  Tom turns off an imaginary TV with an equally imaginary remote and leans back, looking irritated.

  “So what’s so goddamn important it can’t wait until after the game?”

  “I took Tom to see Dr. Lipton this afternoon to have him checked over. Dr. Lipton said that Tom is anorexic and he needs to be admitted to a hospital.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Mary,” Tom says. Or rather Tom as his dad says. “Tom just got a little hot doing wind sprints and passed out. He doesn’t have anorexia, for chrissake! Only girls get that — and last time I looked, all his tackle was intact.”

  “But, Bob, he’s lost twenty-five pounds since his last physical. Can’t you see he’s emaciated?”

  “Mary, you’re being your usual overanxious, overreactive self. The kid has just slimmed down from all the training we’ve been doing for soccer.”

  “Bob, listen to me, goddammit!” Tom as his mom says. He’s scarily good at being his mother. He’s pretty good at being at his dad, too. “Dr. Lipton said he’s anorexic. He needs treatment. In a hospital. Dr. Lipton wants him checked in to Golden Slopes today.”

  “Tom, you’re not anorexic, are you, son? You don’t want to go into some mental hospital — you’ll miss soccer practice.”

  Tom stops and glances over at Helene. “I need to be me now.”

  “Be whoever you need to be,” Helene says.

  “Actually, Dad — I don’t know, but … well … I think I might be anorexic. I’m not sure, but …”

  “What are you, some kind of faggot? That’s a girl disease.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Royce smirk. What the hell is his problem? I mean, just because Tom isn’t Mr. Mattawan Wrestling Super Jock, it doesn’t mean the guy is gay. And even if he was, that’s no reason to smirk.

  Meanwhile, Tom’s getting to be like a comic who does all the different people’s voices, except Tom’s voices aren’t funny like a comic’s. They’re sad. Really sad.

  “That’s it! I’ve had enough. Tom, go pack a bag!”

  Tom stops. “That last one was my mom. As I left the room to go pack, I heard her asking Dad how he dared to call me a faggot. I went upstairs before he answered. I’m not sure if I want to hear the answer anyway.”

  He gives a short, bitter laugh. And then I understand.

  “So there you have it. The sordid story of how Tom Jackson ended up at glorious Golden Slopes.”

  “That was excellent, Tom,” Helene says. “How did you feel when your parents were arguing like that over you?”

  “Not so great,” Tom says, in what clearly is in the running for Understatement of the Year.

  “But what Enquiring Minds REALLY Want to Know is: How did he feel when his dad asked him if he was a faggot?” Callie says.

  A deep red flush starts on Tom’s cheeks and slowly moves down his neck until he looks like he’s the one-man cause of Global Warming.

  “I don’t know … I mean, I hated that my dad was saying that — especially in that tone of voice … like, I don’t know … like … to him, being gay is worse than being a serial killer or something.”

  He sighs and looks at Helene.

  “But I’ve felt like I’ve been a disappointment for him as long as I can remember. My wind sprints are never fast enough; I can never score enough goals or make enough assists. I feel like Sisyphus most of the time.”

  “Sissy-who?” says Royce.

  What an ignoramus!

  “Not sissy, you moron,” I tell him. “Sisyphus. He was this guy in Greek mythology who was sentenced by the gods to roll a huge rock up a steep hill, but whenever he got to the top it would always roll right back down. So when Tom says he feels like Sisyphus, it’s because trying to please his father is a no-win proposition.”

  “That’s kind of like how I feel when I try to please my parents,” Tinka says.

  Now that I think about it, it’s kind of how I feel when it comes to pleasing my parents, because I know that no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be as good as my sister.

  “That’s an interesting point Janie’s brought up, although next time, I would appreciate it if you would refrain from calling other group members ‘moron,’” says Helene.

  “Sorry, Royce,” I mumble, although to tell the truth, I’m not sorry at all. He deserved it for being mean to Tom.

  “Yeah, whatever,” he grunts.

  “But to get back to Janie’s point … there are always going to be people in our lives whom it is impossible to please,” says Helene. “As much as we want to, it’s unlikely that we’ll change their behavior. Trying to do that really is a Sisyphean task. It’s the proverbial butting your head against a brick wall.”

  She looks at Tom, with kind blue eyes. I suddenly think that she must have been really pretty when she was younger. Or maybe it’s just that her kindness makes her seem prettier.

  “And how does it feel when you stop butting your head against a brick wall if you’ve been doing it for some time?”

  “Fucking awesome!” exclaims Missy.

  “Numb,” calls out Bethany.

  Tracey is raising her hand like she’s in grade school, despite probably being as old as Helene — if not older.

  “Yes, Tracey?”

  “It’s frightening,” Tracey says in a voice so quiet it’s hard to hear her.

  “Why do you find it frightening?” Helene asks, fixing Tracey with her kindness beam. You can almost see the positive energy arcing from Helene’s bright eyes to Tracey’s haggard-looking old-crone face.

  “Because … because I’m so used to the headache, I’m afraid of what it’ll be like to not feel it. Because like Bethany says, without the pain I just feel numb. Like there’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “Well, we’ve certainly brought up a lot to think about today,” says Helene. “And unfortunately we have to stop now. But I want to leave you with a few ideas, which I’d like you to think about and perhaps explore in your journaling.”

  She gets up and starts walking around the circle.

  “Firstly, we can’t force someone else to change their behavior ….” She pauses dramatically in front of Tom. “So, for example, if Tom can’t change the fact that pleasing his father is a Sisyphean task, then what are his choices?”

  “Duh!” exclaims Callie. “He can stop trying to please the bastard.”

  “That’s true,” Helene acknowledges. “Or he can choose to continue trying to please his father, but with the full knowledge that it might be a hopeless task. It’s all about choices.”

  “Or maybe Tom stops doing the stuff he’s doing just to please his dad, and starts doing things that he enjoys,” Royce says.

  I stare at him, amazed that he’s actually saying something constructive where Tom is concerned. I just don’t know what to make of this guy. One minute he’s a shallow, bigoted jerk and the next minute he’s Mr. Sensitive and Perceptive. Which is the real Royce?

  “You’ve all come up with interesting alternatives about how we can handle a difficult person in our lives,” Helene says. “In your journal, I’d like you to think how this might relate to your own life, and perhaps we can explore some situations next time.”

  She smiles at Tom. “Thank you, Tom, for sharing. That cannot have been easy.”

  “It was fine,” Tom mumbles.

  But as he and I are walking out of the room, he says, “I feel like a used dishrag. I just want to go to my room and nap.”

  “Don’t even think about it, Tommy-boy,” I warn. “It’s lunch time. You don’t want to incur the Wrath of the Barfers, do you?”

  He gives me a wry smile.

  “No, it’s bad enough to have incurred the wrath of the gods …
and my dad. I’m not sure which is worse.”

  Neither am I, Tom. Neither am I.

  July 25th

  As much as I hate to admit that I can relate to anything Royce says, his observation about how Tom should stop trying to please his dad keeps running through my brain like that annoying ticker at the bottom of cable news shows. I kept zoning out because I was trying to imagine how it would be if I gave up trying to meet everyone’s expectations of me all the time. If I said, “Okay, so Jenny has cornered the Perfect Market — what can I do to be different and special?” Tracey was right, though — it’s scary. I’ve spent practically every day of my life worrying how I measure up in Dad’s eyes in comparison to Jenny — usually with the knowledge that it’s not favorably. Sure, I might feel better if I stopped beating my head up against that particular brick wall … but what would be the alternative?

  It comes back to the mandala. If I had to put down my essential Janieness in the center, what would it be? If I’m not always trying to impress people — my parents, my friends, Matt Lewis — if I’m not afraid to be myself and don’t always feel like I have to keep up this perfect façade, then who am I? It’s almost a joke to say I’m afraid to be myself when I don’t even know who “myself” really is, isn’t it?

  Right now, all I can see is the black hole. How do I go about shining the light into that black hole and figuring out what’s in there? And what happens if nothing is there?

  That’s what’s so terrifying about letting go of bulimia, the thing that’s defined me for so long — I’m afraid that without it, I’ll crumple into a heap of nothingness on the floor.

  But on the other hand, what if letting go is like being unshackled from leg irons that have been weighing you down? What if doing it makes you so light and free that you can fly?

  When we’re let loose from the dayroom after our post-breakfast no-puke period, I decide to brave the pay phone to call Kelsey.

  I keep dropping the quarters when I try to put them in the phone because my hands are shaking. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. She’s my best friend, isn’t she?

  I guess I’m scared she’s still mad at me for not telling her I was bulimic. The day after Perfect Jenny’s wedding — right before I ended up here — Kelsey came over and we had the mother of all fights. I cringe to think about it, even now.