Perfect Little Existance

     With my gaze fixated on the passing trees outside, my thoughts wandered as to what would become of me. It was still winter, although it was March, well passed being considered winter. Through the window, there was only a blur of sparkling white with the exception of a few patches of green. It was all moving so fast that all I was aware of was the fact that I was the one moving. If I pressed my face close enough to the glass, I could feel the invigorating cold. I was currently resigned in the backseat, earbuds in and away from reality. As of right now, reality seemed more fiction than my imagination. Mom was driving, her face tense with anxiety would turn towards me periodically, almost as if in fear that I would wither away. Luckily for her, I was far past the point of deterioration therefore her worries were unnessicary.

 

     March 17th, 2017, a day commonly known for being Saint Patrick's Day. The world is decked in green. All can be seen with a shamrock shake in hand, sipping happily away and wondering what good fortune awaits them. The day of good luck. I couldn't stop myself from scowling at the very thought. As the rest of the world is living their lives as normal, my life on this ironic day was about to be flipped.

 

     Prior to this little vacation for me, my life was in a state of inner chaos and turmoil. I don't mean to dramatize or exaggerate, but honestly, my story is one that seems like a complete exaggeration in itself anyway. Ten days after my birthday, February 20th to be exact, I was formally diagnosed. After a careful and strategic evaluation of my person, literally head to toe by several people, there seemed to be no doubt in their mind as to what was afflicting me. The people in question picked at my brain, drawing any information possible to back up their claims. Days and days went by, doctor visit after doctor visit, it was becoming quite tiresome to be truthful. Nothing was wrong with me. Nothing except the growing irritation I had for these people who were questioning my every action. Anorexia Nervosa sounded more intimidating than I ever thought it would, especially coming from the mouth of a specialist. So does Generalized Anxiety, Major Depressive Disorder, OCD, and Mood Instability. After these strong diagnostics, I was taken out of school and enrolled in the Renfrew Center's Day Treatment Program. I was shocked that they believed I was so sick that I needed to halt my education in order to pursue "recovery" in their words. When I questioned them on the extremity of this decision, I was met with the most horrid, sympathetic stares I've ever seen.

 

     "You're too sick to be in school. This is for the best.", she said in forced gentleness. Sick? There was no fever, no medical complications (as far as I knew), so why was I sick? Sick meant physical weakness. The way they said I was "sick" made it seem like I had a terminal illness, which was unnerving to me. I remember, sitting in the counselors office still frozen in shock at the news of my new life, telling myself how this would be temporary. I was thoroughly convince that after a week of treatment, they would see my exceptional health, bid my goodbye, and send me back to my perfect little existence. Wrong. Dead wrong. So wrong, in fact, that I was led to a situation I never thought I would be in. Four weeks I spent at Day Treatment, and I sucked at it. There really is no other way to describe it. I was absolute crap at recovery. This threw me for a loop for one egotistical reason: I haven't been bad at something for a long time. To elaborate, in school, I was what others would refer to as an A student athlete. I was a runner, but still kept my grades up on top of this. I was very proud, if I do say so myself, but little did I know that I was shortening my own lifespan while being disgustingly perfect. I was a Barbie Doll, my plastic painted on face melting in the heat of my own ignorant self destruction. I was a time bomb, but I never knew just how close I was to exploding and demolishing all things around me. Renfrew saw through my impeccable ability to deceive everyone, including myself. I was warned that if I continued to be self destructive, if I stayed on this path, that they would send me to that place. This, to my ears, sounded like a threat. A challenge. One thing the eating disorder gave me was the irresistible urge to accept all challenges that came to me, and I mean this in the worst possible way imaginable. I forced myself to stop eating what they gave me. Looking back on this in retrospect, it may as well have been an act of petulant defiance. I was not going to let them control me even though I was oblivious to the fact that I was already being controlled by a dark fiend.

That horrible, but sickly energizing day passed. I was feeling but a shell of myself. I refused to gain weight because if I did, then I knew I would never. Be. Happy. They were appalled by this, and  I was sent away immediately. Not only was my act of starvation killing me, it was also noticablely a terrible influence on the other patients. This was so much so that I began to see people resent me for so willingly giving into ED.

 

     During group therapy that same day, my mind, fuzzy and numbed from little to no nourishment, I was called to my then counselor's office. What followed would seal my fate for the next two months.

 

     She didn’t even greet me, instead went right to the point. "We have all noticed how much your struggling, Ashley."  Her eyes were so full of disappointment, so much so that looking her in the eye proved nearly impossible.

 

     "I know." Was all my reply. I knew that they watched me every second I was there. But my muddled mind saw this is a light normal people wouldn't.

 

     We stared at each other for an agonizing minute. Her gaze burning into my skin like a branding iron.

 

     Then she spoke. "What do you think is going to happen?", she stated hauntingly calm. I knew what was going to happen. I knew what they were going to do to me. It was so palpable what she was thinking that it was such an elephant in the room to me.

 

     I didn't hesitate, there was no reason. "You're sending to Residential." My voice sounded odd to my own ears. It sounded…dead. So mirserablely dead.

 

     She merely nodded. I wasn't sad. I wasn't happy. I wasn't angry. I was numb. I was viewing myself outside of my body. I was the audience to this horror movie. What was going to happen to me was inevitable. That night, I packed my bags full of clothes, books, and most importantly my journal which would serve as such an asset to me living.  That night, the last night I would spend in my home, I treated as any other night. The news of me leaving wouldn't hit me for a while. I was convinced that I would spend a week at Residential, they would see I'm fine, bid my goodbye, and send me back to my perfect little existence. Wrong. Again, dead wrong. This was my life for the four weeks I was at Renfrew. Little did I know that at Residential, my life would forever change for the better. And the worst.

Author's Note

If anyone see this having the potential of become a book, I would appreciate any comments on it.