The Unbalancing Act Read online

  I head for the visiting room with the big double doors. Today I have my hair up in a high ponytail and I put on a pair of sweats and a pink hoodie. Damn it. If I’m going to be in the insane asylum, I’m going to be comfortable! I can’t wait to see my babies! I’ve only been in here for a few days and I miss them like crazy. The three boys are each holding a flower and they all look happy to see me.

  “Hello, my precious angels!” I say and I wrap my arms around all three at the same time. I get lots of hugs and kisses and a sharp pang of guilt tight in my gut and another one of sadness that I have missed out on almost two days of their lives.

  I look them up and down and make sure there are no scratches or bruises since I’ve been away. Since it is still a bit chilly out, they have probably been mostly inside and therefore not getting hurt. They look good and healthy. I finally bring myself to look at my husband.

  “Hey you, kid, how are things on the outside?” I ask. I elbow him playfully because I’m not sure how to greet the man I married, who has so strongly expressed his belief that I need professional help.

  “Oh Vadie, I am so sorry!” he says. I think a tear comes to his eye and he fights it back for a second. “Are you holding up okay? Are you eating well?”

  The questions continue and I answer each of them with as much honesty as I can manage. I quickly turn the subject back to the boys. Looking over at Ben, Max, and Jordan, I can’t believe how beautiful they are. Ben has Max in a headlock and Jordan is trying to draw on the wall with the slobber from his binky. Ben has a pretty good grip, and Max can hardly move until he manages to throw an elbow right into the chest of his older brother.

  “Ohhhhhhh….you stupid wiener factory!” yells Ben. His big brown eyes immediately look my way and he knows he’s said a bad word.

  “Mom, tell him he’s the wiener factory!” Max sobs and runs over to me. His blue-green eyes are now red with tears, and his face is radiating hot pink heat from a bitch slap that I believe may have occurred before the headlock.

  I’d like to tell them that I am actually the wiener factory, since all I can seem to produce are boys. I hug him even though I know they should both be in trouble and I look at my little toddling Jordan baby. He has these great big brown eyes and sweet little brown curls in the back of his hair that I just can’t bear to cut off. I always thought that curls looked dumb on boys until it was my kid. It’s kind of like ugly newborn babies. They are all kind of like swamp creatures until it’s your own and then it’s suddenly the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. His curls will stay. Just so we are clear...mine were beautiful newborn babies. Just sayin’.

  “Why are you fighting?” I ask. “Now stop that at least while you are here. For goodness sake you should be loving on me with your sweet faces instead of fighting. So knock it off.”

  This is part of my problem. Eric and I cannot talk. We cannot talk because when we try, our kids will start fighting, or crying, or asking for a drink of water. They will do just about anything to keep our attention on them at all times, and it works. Some mother I am. I’ve taught my kids letters, numbers, how to ride a bike, how to (poorly) make their beds, you name it. The one thing I have forgotten to teach them is how to shut the hell up. Seriously. That might sound mean, but they can’t shut up for one minute. Times that by three. Now, see if that doesn’t make you want to fling your shit like a chimp at the zoo. Yikes!

  “Boys, would you do me the best and biggest favor and draw me some pictures?” I ask.

  This is one of my glorious tactics to get them to stop fighting and calm down. It works. We all sit at the big rectangle table and draw. Eric tells me that nothing has been going on and that things are pretty dull around the house. My mother and his mother have been helping him with the kids. He tells me that he doesn’t want me to worry about a thing. I just need to concentrate on taking the time to get better so I can come home strong and healthy and focused. I just smile and change the subject to things like his job and some projects we’ll want to start when I get home. At this point the boys are doing fine. Ben has drawn what looks to be a ninja of some kind. Max has a piece of paper with six oval shapes and a vertical line down the middle of each one. I don’t have a clue what these are but I don’t want to hurt his feelings, so I just smile.

  “Your pictures are awesome boys. You guys are the best artists I’ve ever met and I love everything you make!” I say. They look at me with proud eyes.

  “Mommy, what’s that smell?” asks Max.

  “I don’t know baby, maybe Jordan needs a diaper.” I check and he’s clean. I really don’t smell anything, but start to wonder if I am just used to the smell of this place. It’s not necessarily bad, kind of smells like a new bandage when you take off the wrapper.

  “Can I keep these pictures to hang by my bed so I can look at them when I miss you guys?” They nod. “And Jordan, can I just keep you here with me to use as my pillow?”

  The boys all laugh as I take my darling baby and pretend to be asleep and snoring on his tummy. Jordan laughs and I kiss his belly and then his sweet cheeks that smell like baby soap and vanilla wafers. I love that smell.

  “But Mommy, don’t you smell that?” Max is insisting.

  I tell him again that I don’t smell anything and after much hugging and kissing and “I love you’s,” Nurse Katelyn comes in and says I have to go to my group session in five minutes. As I am watching the loves of my life walking towards the door, I blow kisses and tell them I will call them and that I’ll be home soon. Max stops and looks up at me. I’m feeling so much guilt and I think he is going to cry for me to go home with them. Oh no! This cannot be happening, because if he has a breakdown, it will kill me and I will have to give this place up and go straight home.

  “Mommy…I know what that smell is,” he yells with a smile “it’s all those butt cracks I drew on your picture.”

  Nice.

  My First Group

  It’s time to start some “real” therapy. The time I’ve spent here so have far has been mostly answering questions and filling out forms. Things are about to get a little more complicated now. I head down to the Solarium, which is actually a very beautiful room. They hid it on the back side of the nuthouse so that we can see out, but the curious people who want to get a look at the crazies can’t see in. The hospital owns a lot of land behind here, and you can’t see anything but nature from inside these walls. The room looks out over a sparkling pond with small, manmade waterfalls on each side. Flowerbeds and birdbaths and cheerful things decorate the courtyard outside. However, I do find it odd that there is a giant weeping willow that almost seems the centerpiece of the landscaping. I mean really? Really…or not? Did it not dawn on any of these people that a weeping willow is a really bad fucking choice? I don’t know why this strikes me as such a fail, but you take a bunch of wackos who are depressed, anxious, suffering from post-traumatic stress, and God only knows what else and then put a big weeping willow in the middle of their happy place! You might as well sit us all down to watch a funny movie and put in Beaches. Why not just show us all a sweet baby bunny and then feed it to a dog? Geez…but anyway, the room inside is light and airy. Beiges and creams with fresh pink roses and lilies on the tables. The couches are soft and there are even little treats set out, cookies and tea. I get it…but watch out for us bulimic gals. We’ll just throw it up anyways, right? That’s what this group is. It is the eating disorder one. I’m so excited about it that I could just puke.

  The ladies slowly make their way in and we all sit. You can see the ones who are sizing each other up. I could care less about their sizes; I’m just excited about the cookies. There are iced sugar and chocolate chip oatmeal. I’m in heaven. I can’t imagine what kind of therapy this will be. Maybe we’ll play a team building game and we can toss our cookies! I immediately grab a napkin and start munching. It’s not a bit awkward until I hear my name being called and I am still chewing.

  “Vada Bower?”

  “That’s me,” I s
ay, trying to swallow fast.

  “Would you care to introduce yourself and give us a little background?” says a rather concerned-looking counselor who I have not seen before. She has red-rimmed glasses and a blunt hair cut that sits right at chin level. This lady is small but looks like she means business. She looks at me like I’m going to dart to the ladies room as fast as possible and purge. She’s in a stance like she’s ready to catch me if I go flying. I wish she would calm the hell down. Her name tag says Rita, and all I can think of is a marga-Rita…on the rocks with salt. I try to focus.

  “My name is Vada, but some people call me Vadie. I have three little boys. I just got here two days ago and everyone’s been so nice. I’m not sure what to say, but I guess I’m just impressed by the whole place. I really like how clean everything is and it’s great to have such beautiful trails and huge trees...”

  “Mrs. Bower, I’m glad you are finding your stay here enjoyable, however in this group we are open to hearing more of your personal matters. If you are not ready to share then we will give you a free pass since this is your first session. We find healing to be a group experience. We don’t judge, we only listen and learn from one another. I myself am a recovering anorexic and bulimic, and I still struggle with staying healthy every day. However, it’s a fight I’ve been winning for six years now. Are you ready? Would you like to share with us your issues?” asks Rita.

  All I keep thinking is, RitaRitaBoBitaBananaFanaFoFitaMeMyMoMitaRita.

  “Mrs. Bower?”

  “Umm…yes. I have issues. I definitely have issues,” I say.

  I decide to take my free pass and they are onto the next girl. She’s a tall, stick-thin, and pretty little thing named Jessalyn who’s got to be about twenty-five or so. She begins to tell her story about how she’s been anorexic since she was thirteen. She started having problems with food after being molested by a sick, disgusting, pervert of a grandfather. She says that keeping that secret has caused her to be obsessed with being in control of her body. As I listen to this poor girl go into detail about her daily routine of avoiding anything to do with food, it makes me sad. She goes on about becoming socially withdrawn and has isolated herself from friends and family. I mean this poor girl. What an awful way to live.

  I cannot relate to what Jessalyn has been through, but I think I understand her. The group continues and I hear other numerous stories from these ladies who all have reasons for hacking twenty times a day, or not eating at all, and some of them even both. Each one of them is an eye opener for me. The truth to my story is not as dramatic. The truth to my story is this:

  One day this winter, I got into all the kids leftover Christmas candy. I ate a solid chocolate Santa, four of those delicious little peanut butter and chocolate Christmas trees, a piece of cherry pie, about a half a pound of cinnamon bears, and then I needed something salty so I made popcorn. I ate it. I had never in my life eaten so much and I felt like I was ready to blow. I thought about it for a second, and had what I felt was an epiphany. Why don’t I go puke this shit up and pretend like it never happened? That’s right. I’ll just start puking after I eat and then I don’t have to worry about the rest of this baby weight, it will fall right off! Brilliant! Why hadn’t I thought of this before?

  Now look, I am not body obsessed, but I am body conscious and I gained sixty pounds with my third pregnancy. I ate everything I could get my mouth around. I am normally about one hundred and ten pounds so you can bet I looked like I was a reflection in a funhouse mirror when I was nine months along. Even my eyelids were fat. My nose spread so far that the skin on it looked like an orange peel from my pores being stretched so far. I still have a few pounds to lose to fit into my “goal jeans” but for crying out loud, I’ve come a long way. Besides, I learned after my first baby, even if the weight comes off, the body parts don’t always shift back to the same place.

  Anyway, my two big boys were at school and the baby was napping. I went in to the toilet and of course wiped all the boys piss off with spray and paper towels to prepare for my glorious purging event. I stuck my finger down my throat and nothing happened. I did it again, further this time. What the hell! Why wasn’t this working? I thought it was my stance so I put one leg up on the toilet and gave a big poke down the back of my throat. Up came a gigantic gag…just a loud gag…but still no treats. I tried again, just a dry heave, and again the same thing. I shot a glance at myself in the mirror. My eyes were red and teary from the gagging and my face burned. I learned that I was the loudest non-puking-puker ever to walk the earth. I also decided, fuck this shit, the baby is going to wake up any minute and I haven’t accomplished a thing except now I feel shitty. Right then and there I had decided this bulimia thing was not for me. First of all, I suck at it, and second of all, I just plain don’t have the time for it. I wiped my eyes, and then I saw a figure move in the hallway. It was Eric, who had gotten home early. He had seen the whole miserable event. He looked as white as a sheet.

  “How long has it been, Vadie? How long have you been doing this?”

  “Just today,” I said, still wiping my eyes.

  He sat down at the kitchen table with his head in his hands and then looked up at me.

  “Don’t fuck around with me, tell me the truth! This is serious. I feel so bad that I didn’t even notice. What are we going to do? There are places that can help you; we need to tell your mom Vadie. How could I have missed this? You’ve been eating so much lately!”

  “Well thanks a lot, you ass, but you don’t understand. This is all so funny!” I couldn’t stop laughing. “I was just trying to see if I could do it, that’s all and I can’t, so it’s over. Don’t worry about it! Now don’t make me feel like I’m crazy or something.” I tried to grab his waist and hug it all better but he stopped me.

  “Vada, why do you try to make everything a joke? You are the mother of my children and I’m not going to let you do this to yourself.” He went on and on. I have to admit I was trying not to laugh at that point, but it did make me feel good that he cared so much. As I looked into his brown eyes filled with fear and his lip shaking like it always does when he is nervous, something came over me. I knew I wasn’t going to win this argument. I gave him a huge hug and gave in. I let him think that I needed help. I promised him that I would never do it again. I kept my end of the deal, but I know he never believed it.

  Sitting here now in this group I would never admit that. I’ll keep that information to myself. As far as everyone knows, I have an eating disorder. So that’s what I will let them believe.

  March 4th

  The morning sun peeks in the window and after my breakfast of medication and oatmeal, I decide I am going to try out the spa. How incredibly wonderful! I saw this in the brochure and it looked like a resort spa. I can’t wait to check it out for myself.

  I throw on some lime green French terry pants, a little white tank top, and my flip flops and follow the signs to “Spa Therapy.” I know they pointed me in the direction during my orientation, but I was too overwhelmed at the moment to pay any attention. After winding through hallways and following arrows, I see the blue sign with white letters, “Welcome to New Outlook Spa Therapy.” I pull the door open and the smell of chlorine and lavender hit my nose. I have a nose like a basset hound, so I’m surprised I couldn’t find this place by the scent alone.

  I see a friendly-looking woman with curly blonde hair sitting at a desk. There are curved hallways that wrap around each way from where she is sitting. I wonder where those lead. She looks up at me and smiles. She asks me to sign in on the sheet. I see a list of names with check marks by them, and I sign my name at the bottom. She reads my name and looks up at me.

  “Just one moment,” she says sweetly. “You can have a seat if you like.”

  I take a seat on a bench with some magazines and I feel like I am getting ready to get my hair done at the salon and just waiting my turn. I must admit, this place looks really freaking nice. It’s so calming. The floors are a rich dark h
ardwood and the walls are gray with white accent pieces. I start flipping through a random beauty mag, when Miss Front Desk looks up and says, “Vada Bower?”

  Hmm...being as though I am the only person in the waiting area and I have such a common name, I’m sure it’s necessary to use my first and last name because there must be at least a hundred “Vada’s” here. What a douche. I stand up and walk to the desk.

  “That’s me,” I say. (No shit) I would really like to ask her if she was looking for Vada Nicole Bower, or Vada Suzanne Bower, because if it was the Vada Suzanne, I would sit back down and wait for my turn. What an idiot.

  “Well, Mrs. Bower, let me tell you about our services available to you today. You are what the center classifies as a Level 3. It’s just the way we assess the risk level for our patients and what the hospital feels is safe for each individual.”

  She hands me a list of “spa services.” I look over the list and my options are limited to meditation therapy, massage therapy, and aromatherapy. Well, what the hell? I could use a massage. I guess I’ll take that. I realize that there are steam rooms and hot tubs here because I can smell them. Clearly, a Level 3 means they think I may drown myself. Fuckers. Well, it’s fine. I don’t much care for shared hot tubs. They are all probably full of fluidy infection anyway.