Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia by Marya Hornbacher

Author:Marya Hornbacher [Hornbacher, Marya]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Medical, Health & Fitness, General
ISBN: 0060930934
Google: qSCo-6o99hQC
Amazon: B000FCJYFK
Goodreads: 46815
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 1997-12-29T00:00:00+00:00

T

he doctor, one Dr.J.,

had been an army physician prior to his

advent in EDI (Eating Disorders Institute) as resident paterfamilias to a family of shrunken pygmy girls. We wondered aloud at what had moved him to make this odd career change, to stride, white coated and unsmiling, into our midst with his clipboard of questions and bottles of pills.

My parents remember him differently than I do. It is worth noting that I lived on the unit, they did not. My parents were (briefly) under the impression, as most people are, that treatment would fix me. Dr.

J. was seen, however unconsciously, as my potential savior. Dr. J.

has since gone into the medical insurance business, and I am sure that he is very good at it. He, as might have been predicted, was not very good as Christ.

To the best of anyone's knowledge, we were the most annoying crea

tures Dr. J. had ever come across. He did not laugh or smile, did not noticeably give a damn. To his credit, he did tell my parents that the only person who was going to save me was me. They did not, at that time, believe him. Dr. J. did not care for me much. I was difficult, mouthy, disruptive, “not receptive to treatment,” unpleasant, rude.

I did not much care for him, either. We saw him on his rounds once a day. He asked how you were feeling and granted or denied you a pass to leave for an hour or a day. He asked if you wanted prunes and bran with breakfast, and if you wanted happy pills. He determined whether you would be allowed to take a stroll with the nurses at noon. He peered at you, bemused. After rounds, girls sat, sullen, or quietly weeping, or screaming in their rooms. Partly the weeping, the screaming, came from predictable sources: Dr. J. had refused a day pass, or revealed their weight, or informed them that their caloric intake was being bumped up. The screaming also came about because he was an unmitigated ass.

We specimens slowly filed down the hall to physical therapy and lay on the floor stretching (watched very closely). We made moccasin after moccasin from kits with dull, wide-tipped needles. And we crocheted and latch-hooked little poodle rugs, cross-stitched and knitted, and made collages from magazine clippings that were supposed to express our very deepest selves. Occupational therapy is supposed to give you a sense of effectiveness by showing you that you can actually do something other than starve. We had assertiveness groups, where we practiced asking for what we needed, and nutrition classes where we sat, rapt, learning that a piece of pizza counted as an entrée (one protein, one bread). We played role-playing games where we said something we really, really wanted to say to some member of our family, using I-Feel Statements. And we did our morning checkin (my Goal for the Day is to write in my journal, ask Dr. J. for a pass, finish my milk)

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