9
Alina
“Welcome, ladies and gents. Glad you could make it out to group this fine Tuesday evening. Be it your first visit or your hundredth, showing up is a step in the right direction.” Elijah, one of the Sheena’s Place facilitators, starts tonight’s group therapy session, his hazel eyes bright as he greets everyone and introduces the new members before taking his seat amongst the ten or so of us sitting in the circle.
It’s been a few days since Paisley told our band about the possible audition, and after Lucky returned home, he and I had sat down over coffee and had a good chat about the possible tour and what it might mean for my health. I decided that attending group tonight might be a good idea, as well, since I’ve learned to recognize when my anxiety levels rise, and they have been climbing steadily since Sunday’s possibly life-changing announcement. And knowing Elijah was running group tonight, I knew it would be a good one.
At first, I’d been reluctant to participate in any group sessions he ran. Being male, I wondered what he could possibly know about the goddamn uphill battle I’m trying to fight? But after Lucky convinced me to attend one of his sessions one night a few months ago, Elijah quickly became one of my favourite facilitators here at Sheena’s Place, because it turns out he knows all too well what it’s like to be in our shoes, and so do a lot of other men.
His story is an interesting one. Elijah started swimming three times a week, wanting to get more fit. He soon realized he was losing a significant amount of weight, and quite easily, too. He liked the feeling of control it gave him and the way he looked, so he increased his exercise, but didn’t up his food intake to counterbalance the calories he was working off. Soon enough, he was skipping meals entirely, weighing himself multiple times a day and—eventually—not eating at all in order to keep the high he was feeling from his new “healthier” lifestyle. At first, swimming and not eating was only a three-day-a-week routine, but quickly turned into a daily obsession, which led to him becoming anorexic. Thankfully, a friend confronted him and helped him to see he had a problem. He’s been in recovery now for about five years. Elijah went on to get a degree in psychology, because he wanted to help others like himself who might be suffering. He’s got a really cool and relaxed way of dealing with people, and I think that’s why he’s quickly become my favourite. Tonight, he’s going to talk to us about our body checking rituals.
“Hey, Elijah,” most of us greet him in return from our seats in one of the meeting rooms. Sheena’s Place is where they work with individuals seventeen and older who, like me, suffer from eating disorders. Sheena’s Place is here to help anyone who needs it, and I can truly say they’ve helped me. I was in such a dark place for what seemed like forever. Finally, after years of binging and purging, I’m learning to control things a different way, and see myself for who I am rather than who I am not.
“I’d like to jump right into tonight’s topic, which is body checking rituals. Let me put you all at ease by reminding you that we’re not here to judge, we’re here to listen, offer advice, and, hopefully, some coping strategies. Remember the rule, please. There are to be no negative comments directed at each other. We’re all recovering, and we all have our own stories, opinions, and recovery plan. Understood?”
“Understood,” we repeat back, after hearing the norms of group participation reiterated.
“All right, who wants to start?”
Abigail, a twenty-one year old university student pipes up. “I stand in front of the mirror for what seems like ages, turning this way and that way, angling my body in different directions, hoping that if I stand there long enough something might change.” Her admission earns a collective round of “yeses” from the circle.
“That’s a really common one, Abby,” Elijah shares. “It’s a hard one to break, too. I have a few suggestions I’ll share a little later, might be a place to start.”
“I step on the scale about ten times a day,” Nicholas admits, shaking his head. Belinda, a nurse and mom of three who’s been battling bulimia for fifteen years, moves her hand to his back and offers a few comforting rubs. Sharing and letting people into this world is hard. It’s personal, it’s gritty, and it’s embarrassing. Group therapy isn’t for everyone. It took me awhile to see its benefits, to be willing to open up and participate, to share my story, to feel how encouraging it is to see firsthand that I’m not the only person facing a similar fight.
“Don’t get down on yourselves for this.” Elijah’s voice breaks my reverie. “You’re here, and these checks are all still a normal part of recovery and are most likely things you’ll do self-consciously maybe forever, to some degree. The goal is to learn to decrease the amount of times we do them. Body checking rituals are sort of like being unsure. Think of it as that need to go back to check that the oven is off, that you’ve locked the door, or turned off your hair straightener. It takes time to shake those feelings off. It means retraining your brain to stop checking,” Elijah finishes. Looking around the strategically-set circular seating plan, I notice a lot of my peers sitting in their chairs nodding, knowing what he’s saying is true.
“I stand in front of the mirror a lot, too,” Lydia shares, looking defeated. “Just yesterday, I stood there for probably an hour, trying to see if I could see my ribs as well as I could the night before. I know it’s crazy, but I can’t help it. And when I say it out loud, it really pisses me off that I’m still doing it.”
This is the part of therapy I hate. That low feeling I get knowing I do all these things too, that feeling of shame that washes over me as I sit here wondering: “How the fuck did I get here?” Sitting here listening, I’m uneasy with the idea of sharing the things that I still do to test my weight, habits I’ve developed to make myself feel like I’m not completely giving up on weight control while I work to get myself healthy. Although I’ve not actually binged or purged in almost a year now, I admit each day is a struggle to see myself the same way those close to me see me, instead of as the fat girl I see each and every time I catch my reflection.
I’m getting better, though. Not only am I looking healthier, I’m laughing and being social more than I ever have. I even initiate outings with the girls, which never used to happen. I try to surround myself with positives, and things I enjoy doing.
Four years ago I’d had to drop out of the Applied Music program at Mohawk College in Hamilton, located about an hour-and-a-half away from Scarborough—having lasted only one semester. My illness had made it nearly impossible to handle the rigidity of the three-year diploma program’s workload, as well as to continue to successfully hide my illness from the other girls living on my floor. No matter what I might have pulled out of my arsenal of tricks, it had all just finally become unbearable. That’s when I had discovered the power of oranges. I’d take two into the communal showers with me late at night when I needed to purge. Once peeled, the strong citrus scent combined with the steam was usually enough to mask the strong odour that lingers when purging. But usually wasn’t always, and a few girls had confronted me, coming right out and asking me if I had an eating disorder. They’d smelled the stench over the scent of the orange peels and heard me retching a few nights before when I’d found out I’d received an “F” on one of my compositions and had engaged in a lengthy binge/purge cycle, and rightly had suspicions that something was wrong with me. Between the failing grade, and the girls coming so close to discovering my secret, I decided it was time to head back home, like the failure I was.
Eventually, I decided to try going to school again. It took a good chunk of time, but I did it. And today I work as a hairdresser at Paisley’s hair salon, Moxie. It’s a perfect job for me, with flex hours available as needed. As I continue to recover, I’ve been able to work longer and longer, slowly adding more hours to my week, and have managed to build up a small list of clients who ask for me specifically, which has definitely been a great ego boost.
Biting the bullet, I decide, “Piss it”, and decide to share tonight, even though I wasn’t planning to. “I test the size of my wrist a few times a day, checking to make sure it’s not getting fatter.” I take a deep breath. “I measure it by wrapping my fingers around my wrist to gauge the space, how loose or tight it feels, which fingers I can close around it. I do it when I wake up in the morning, and before I go to sleep every night,” I shrug, keeping my eyes downcast as I continue to admit, “and sometimes after I eat. Maybe even before, too…it’s a habit. One I can’t seem to break. And it’s stressful feeling my wrists getting a little bigger, even though I know that it means I’m starting to be a healthy weight again.” I blow out a sigh, feeling unsure, feeling that maybe this is just a weird thing I do.
“I do that, too,” Abby admits, rolling her eyes as if just the thought annoys her. I feel a weight lift, knowing that I’m not alone.
“Me too, still,” Belinda adds, shaking her head in agreement and looking my way. “Pisses me right off, too. I get so mad at myself for it.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Belinda. Like I said, breaking these habits might take a really long time,” Elijah says, reminding us, before taking a sip from his coffee mug.
“It’s just so frustrating. I think I’m getting better, then I do that, and I wonder am I really any better?” Belinda shares as an errant tear slides down her cheek, which she wipes away.
“I feel that way, too. All the time,” I smile, hoping it helps. A few others chime in, saying the same thing, and we sit in silence for a few minutes mulling everything over.
“I don’t do the wrist, mine’s my thighs. Oh god, it’s horrible,” Nicholas adds, laughing with relief. “I have an honest-to-goodness attack if I can’t wrap my hands around my leg as easily as the time before. I really need to stop. I think sometimes I’m harder on myself now than when I was Anorexic,” he says, rubbing his hands on his thighs, using a pet name for his anorexia. I’m pretty sure every single one of us feels the same, judging from the mutterings and facial expressions of those around me.
After a few more people share, Elijah thanks us all for being so open and offers some reassurance before moving on. “May I suggest over the next week you track how many times you look in the mirror, and for how long? Keep note of how many times you’re measuring a certain body part? Then, once you feel more confident, we can set up some goals so you can work towards lowering those numbers, to program your brain not to interpret these things as a comfort anymore.”
“That’s a great idea. I lose hours just standing there studying myself,” Abby says, chewing on a strand of her hair.
“And you’re not the only one, Abby. Trust me,” Elijah says confidently.
“Good idea,” Lindsay calls out, and I smile, sensing her determination. “I’m going to commit to tracking next week, and I’m going to pitch the two full-length mirrors I have in the front hall and my bedroom. I think that might help. I’m definitely ready to do whatever I can to stop this bullshit,” she harrumphs, shifting in her seat before reaching down beside her chair for her water bottle and taking a sip.
“That’s a great start, Linds,” Belinda smiles at her, and the group is quiet for a few beats.
“I sleep with my hand on my hipbone,” Amber—our newest member—stammers, breaking the silence. “It’s like my own twisted kind of security blanket.” She pauses, taking a sip from her Styrofoam cup before continuing. “And, honestly, now that it’s not as pronounced, it’s kind of freaking me out. I’ve woken up to panic attacks and the desire to starve myself so I can feel it poking out again. I know it sounds sick…” she trails off, trying to read our reactions. We all just nod, because we completely get it.
We’ve lived it.
“I did that, too,” Sharon pipes up. “It gets easier.” She offers Amber a soft smile. “My friend, Leigh, used to tease me about how I could do so much better than my own bone, that it was time to trade it in for a real boner.” She laughs and shakes her head, and the rest of us join in, needing the comic relief.
“Thanks, Amber, we all know the changes we’re seeing aren’t easy to accept. It takes time, and remember that it’s okay if you fall, just don’t dwell on it. Get right back up and try again. And I mentioned earlier, be it checking your weight everyday, comparing your body to another’s, mirror checking, wrapping your fingers around your wrist, using your hands to measure the size of your thighs, feeling around your collar bone for protrusions, even pinching your skin—these are all common rituals and aren’t limited just to people with eating disorders, either. The trick for us is to learn how to change those behaviours so they don’t become so compulsive,” Elijah reiterates. “We just have to teach ourselves to do them in moderation.”
“But how?” many of us ask, exasperated.
“Slowly but surely. Start with tracking. It will take time to break the cycle. The goal here is not to avoid facing your body, but to learn how to use the mirror in moderation, say when getting dressed to go out. Limiting our body checks to once, maybe twice, a day before we can find what works for us to wean ourselves off doing that behaviour all together. The tracking will allow you to see any patterns, and also serves a good tool for later when you start to see those once high numbers become lower and lower,” Elijah explains, and I find myself nodding again because it makes sense. I need to retrain my way of thinking. Grabbing my phone, I pull up my Notes app and create a heading titled “Body Checking Rituals”, deciding it’s time I track my own habits and their frequency.
“Excellent work, folks. Before we break for tonight, does anyone have anything they want to discuss with the group?”
After another fifteen-minute discussion, Elijah ends the meeting and I set off, heading to the place I go after each and every therapy session.
To find the beautiful.