These Demons

Chapter Fifty-nine

It turns out that this institution only has doubled rooms because, at least according to their program, that's the best way to succeed at gaining weight.
When people with eating disorders are alone, they apparently tend to keep up with their 'distorted' behaviors such as late-night exercising or hiding of food, when two people share, they tend to behave healthier because they either actually want to get better or, more realistic, both behave healthily because neither wants to let the other one be the sicker one and unconsciously threatens to tell staff about the other one's cheating which keeps both from doing it- a concept that doesn't make any sense, but, weird enough, is a concept I can relate to, unlike the whole wanting-to-get-better thing.

And group rooms? Well, according to the rude nurse with the loud voice whose name I refuse to remember because that would make her a person instead of a monster, groups turn their rooms into dorms and form cliques, start sick projects, competitions, conspiracies, are way too loud, way too rebellious or who knows what else.

Whatever it is, it's supposed to be problematic and we're all walking problems already. At least those still able to walk. Some seem to have starved this ability away somehow, tied to wheelchairs or under nonstop ward watch. I'm category two.

Arrived at my ward I'm afraid I'll have to call my home for quite a while, I'm finally picked up by someone to show me around, but instead of staff, it's another patient and I haven't made a choice whether this is a good or a bad thing yet and feel uncomfortable when dropping off all of my luggage on the unused bed on the right side of my new room, the person standing in the doorframe, arms crossed. Jennifer has a great body. Not a starved one.

Having introduced ourselves to each other, the first thing she notes is, "you're anorexic," to which I automatically reply, "you're not."
Tilting her head as she watches me put my stuff down, disregarding how visibly stressed I am because she's staring at me, she nods.

"They try not to let anorexics guide other anorexics," she explains, no emotion in her voice, and I try to stay just as casual even though I feel like my skin is burning and I want to take it off right here and right now like a cheap winter jacket. "Why?"

"Cause you guys seem to love giving each other bad ideas, you know? There've been cases when you people showed each other all the ropes around cheating successfully and stuff. They can't have that." I quickly check if I have gathered all of my stuff, relieved when I realize nothing is missing, and turn around to face her. "And bulimics don't do that?"

Something flashes in her eyes when I naturally assume she's bulimic, but then she just shrugs. "You can't make use of our tricks. The only ones who'd be into are the ones you already know." I'm burning to find out what she means to make sure I know it too, I'm not missing out on tricks I might use sometime, but when she doesn't reveal anything voluntarily, I don't dare to ask. "Right," I just comment and she stares at me for another second.

"Well, you're gonna share your room with Mike," she suddenly blurts out and I wrinkle my forehead. "Who?"
"He's alright. You'll get along," the young woman promises, probably a bit younger than me and obviously not worried, but I am. I have absolutely no information and now I'm supposed to, what, live with some dude named Mike? "You'll meet him at dinner," she says, avoiding telling me anything. "Where is he now?" I inspect his side of the room from where I'm standing, the blank space, completely vacant, the bed flawless. No photos or personal objects whatsoever, only a few books on the single bookshelf above the bed revealing someone lives here. A closer look shows they're all unbearably boring ones about economy and science. Nothing anyone would actually want to read about. I'm not sure I want to meet this guy.

"Oh, he has the afternoon to go wherever the fuck he wants to go. Reached his goals and shit, you know?" She makes a vague gesture and is seemingly not one to be careful with her choice of words. "Right," I repeat and continue to look around, but there isn't much to see. The room is bigger and warmer than those at hospitals, but not too exciting. Two wooden closets, matching nightstands and beds, a blue carpet and a tall window that's locked when I try to open it.

"They unlock those when they choose to trust you," Jennifer speaks up from behind, still watching me from her spot at the door. "What does that mean?" I fail to understand. "It's a fucking window." She chuckles. "Some people do crazy shit here. If you don't, you get all the fresh air you want." I'm not sure I want to know what crazy shit she means. Looking through the dirty glass, I can see the street I took to come here in the distance, wishing I could go back.

"You're supposed to put your weekly plans and schedules up on your whiteboard," she continues, pointing to the board above the empty bookshelf I didn't even notice on the white wall, "but as you can see, not everyone sees the point in doing that." My roommate's board is completely blank too.

"Are there any, like, consequences when you don't do that?" She shrugs again, brushing some loose strands of her thin dark hair out of her face that reaches down to her shoulders. "He lost some privileges at first, but they kinda gave it up. Most people aren't that lucky, though, so don't follow his path. He's just a bit lost, I guess." "What privileges?" She catches my confused look. "You haven't read your folder yet, have you?" I throw a glance at the thick blue one on top of my stuff on my bed and shake my head mumbling, "didn't have the time yet."

She rolls her eyes, skin sparkling in the golden rays of sunshine coming from the afternoon daylight through the window, and turns back to the door, closing it behind us. "Read it as soon as I drop you off here again," Jennifer orders with a serious expression and I just nod again, clueless what else is there for me to say.

We walk down the hallway, passing by a dozen of closed white doors, two red ones informing us they're bathrooms in between, and then we reach what Jennifer calls the common room, a space I quickly passed by when I came in here because it's right in front of the closed door to the nurse's station which is next to our ward's closed front door, but neither seem to be locked.

"This isn't a room," I point out the obvious and she chuckles again, surprising me by not being deeply caught up in hating herself and the world around her because that's what I usually do and imagined everyone with such illnesses do too.
"Well, yeah. It's supposed to be an open and free space for everyone."
"Literally."

More of those leather couches I saw at  my doctor's office earlier are spread out here, no specific order or system visible, and a few beanbags in bright colors were thrown on the floor that's covered in the calming blue carpet I have in my room too, and photos in different sizes of different areas of California are hanging framed on the walls, a big TV screen next to them showing the news with the sound muted, the remote laying around on a long wooden table below in front of the wall, a few games and magazines next to it that nobody bothered to organize. It's shockingly quiet.

"Well, on the other side is the second hallway with the other half of the rooms. Not very exciting. And I'm sure you already saw the bathrooms. Every hallway gets two, meaning twelve people per bathroom," Jennifer tells me while I look around.

"That..." I start, trying to hide my shock because I need to share my bathroom with twelve other human beings, and to make it worse, they're twelve human beings with messed up heads like me. I never had to share a bathroom with anyone other than roommates in my entire life.

"Sucks," she finishes my sentence, "but you get used to it after a while. I promise." I very highly doubt that. "Is there some sort of system? When there are so many people?" She nods. "You're only allowed to use the bathroom closest to your room when you're inside the ward and everyone has their own drawer with a name tag for their stuff, but don't keep valuables in there because there are no locks anywhere in the bathroom."

That hits me like a brick on the head. "Not even the stalls? The showers?" While I begin to feel seriously sick, she is bemused by my panic. "You're such a newbie," she observes, "so dramatic because of such ridiculous things. Believe me, there'll be worse than unlocked doors while you poop."

"That's very motivating," I reply sarcastically and her smile widens. "You're sweet. Don't look like it." I raise my eyebrows and she adds, "You know, nose ring, tattoos, Auschwitz survivor weight..."

"Right." Refusing to meet her eyes, I turn to the front door. "Are you gonna show me this place or what?"

"The starvers are always moody," she comments, but follows me out the door and down the stairs anyway.

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Velvet Underground - Run Run Run