This clinic has weird ideas about helping people with eating disorders. Obviously, the bathroom restrictions and blind weigh-ins make sense, but why can't I get a hug from the therapist or at least not be punished for wetting the bed? Am I that bad? Will this make me better? Why did Mark want to dump me at this hellscape of a clinic? Is that what he wants? I can see why he would leave me to die in an institution.
For more reasons than bulimia, I want to throw up. But if I have any hope of escape, I can't. Disapproving stares attacked me from every angle. It seemed strange that we all got diet soda with our seemingly insubstantial dinners...and that the therapists would avoid me. Even the patients would give me weird looks or even comment on my appearance saying that I looked fatter than I did on TV. They probably don't realize that I'm covered in makeup with all my flaws edited out half the time.
I've been in the mental healthcare system before and let me say this: It sucks. We're supposed to be naming things we like about ourselves that don't have to do with appearance. I guess I'm an okay public figure and teacher. It's not like most people can do either of those things, let alone both. People say I'm nice, but most of the time it's an automated smile and a pre-programmed "hello". My throat felt sore. It was a constant reminder of the illness that I suffered from, something I brought on myself.
Celebrities are expected to have problems, but these problems are usually part of clickbaity headlines that are more about generating seemingly outrageous content rather than about helping regular people with similar problems. Some of them are even touted as quick fixes for body flaws. Every time a supermodel goes on some cayenne pepper ice cube diet or a rapper overdoses on cough syrup, it's either in some magazine for all to see and emulate or used as a justification to shame the pursuit of health and fitness. Can't anyone see that the people on TV are human too? Despite all the makeup, scripts, and camera flashes, we're not props.
Patients were led into a large room reminiscent of a cafeteria, but with no food. I knew that the air freshener was supposed to smell like flowers, but it was just a cheap imitation that reeked of despair. Patients sat with a therapist. I towered over everyone else, but I felt so small that I could go unseen.
"...I know." Mark's body language radiated composure and a sense of detachment, but his eyes said otherwise. He met me with a warm embrace and a few jokes about the horrible air freshener and thirsty middle-aged moms. For once, we were a normal couple with normal lives. Other than the therapist supervising the visit, we didn't have to deal with anyone else.
I don't know how, but Mark always knew how to meet me where I am. He listened as I told him about everything from the way everyone was avoiding me to how I felt with him here. I'm getting pretty suspicious of the facility owner, Irina Helpmann. She seemed to play favorites with a few of the patients and would whisk them away to some secret room before the rest of us went to bed.
