I'm Glad My Mom Died(78)

I wring my hands with agitation.

“You seem upset.”

“I don’t want to be weighed.”

“This is just part of the process, and I totally understand how it might be upsetting. To be honest, your reaction is mild compared to a lot of what I see.”

“What do you see?”

“People start sobbing, sometimes they yell, someone threw her purse across the room once. That was fun.”

I laugh.

“Facing your emotional experience is going to be the most transformative part of your recovery. That starts with facing your emotional experience around food, eating, your body, and yes, getting weighed. I’ll be here to help you through all of it, but if you want to get better, you’re gonna need to face all of it.”

“Doesn’t sound like there’s much wiggle room, Jeff.”

He chuckles, and then his chuckle ends abruptly and he doesn’t say anything. He just keeps looking at me.

Jeff is tall—six foot three, maybe—with kind blue eyes and a perfectly trimmed blond beard to match his perfectly styled blond hair, neatly swept to one side. He wears slacks, a checkered button-down with a tie, and a black belt with a silver buckle. His gestures are as exact as his phrasing—no uhhs or umms, in speech or in mannerisms. This is an umless man. I respect him. It takes a lot to be an umless man.

I get up and walk over to the scale. I shut my eyes and take a long inhale, then step on it. I hear him make a note on his clipboard.

“You can step off now.”

I do. I return to the couch and sit on it. Jeff smiles at me—there’s a little warmth to his smile, but it’s more so the smile of someone who means business.

“Let’s get to work.”





79.


“I CAN’T BELIEVE I EVER thought I was Jesus,” Steven says with a laugh, as he eats a fry.

We’re sitting across from each other at a table at Laurel Tavern, a bar in Studio City. I’m nursing a mezcal mule and taking in Steven the way I used to take in my mother after any of her brushes with death that she survived. It’s a pure way of taking somebody in. There’s a grateful astonishment. They’re here. They’re still here.

I thought Steven’s trip to the psychiatric ward might be the last I’d hear from him. But as soon as he had access to his phone again, he called. We both wept. He sounded like his usual self, sort of. There was more lethargy to his tone, a numbness that didn’t used to be there. He told me this was due to the lithium he was taking and that, with time, he’d get back to his old pre-diagnosis self. I wanted desperately for that to be the case.

And now, sitting across from him two months later, I’m starting to think it might be. We’re living together again, and he seems to be doing well. He’s actively seeing a therapist and psychiatrist. He’s on medication. His vow of celibacy is over and we’re having great sex. He’s making light of his schizophrenic episode the way you can only do when the thing you’re making light of is truly a thing of the past.

“I can’t believe it either,” I agree.

Steven takes my hands in his from across the table. His fingers are greasy from the fries. I don’t mind.

“That must’ve been so scary,” he says.

“It was.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“It’s okay. I really couldn’t be there for you either, honestly. With everything going on.”

“I know. But we’re both working on our stuff now. We’re gonna be able to be there for each other. It’s gonna be so good.”

I nod. I believe him.





80.


I’M STARING AT THE PLATE of spaghetti in front of me. I’ve been staring at it for at least ten minutes while I process all the thoughts and emotions that are coming up for me before eating it.

I pick up my pencil and start filling out my worksheet.

Thoughts: I want this spaghetti, but I don’t want this spaghetti. I’m terrified that this will make me heavy. I don’t want to feel bogged down. I don’t want to feel heaviness. I’m tired of feeling so much heaviness. I’m scared of eating. I don’t want to throw this up.

Feelings: Dread—8/10. Anxiety—8/10. Fear—7/10. Lust—6/10.

I take a deep breath and then I take a bite. More thoughts. More feelings. Always more thoughts and feelings. Exhausting, constant thoughts and feelings. I go back to my worksheet to start writing them down.

Thoughts while eating: Mom always said sodium made my face puffy. I’m scared my face is gonna be puffy tomorrow. Mom would be mad if she saw me eating this. Mom would be disappointed. I’m a failure.

Feelings: Sadness—8/10. Disappointment—8/10.

I start to cry. I set my pencil down and let the tears fall, as instructed by Jeff.

I’ve been seeing Jeff for three months now, and the progress is slow but steady. We’ve done so much work it’s hard to keep track of it at this point.

The work started with me throwing out all diet foods (Lean Cuisine frozen dinners, diet cranberry juice, diet teas, etc.), as well as all gym clothes. No working out during this phase of recovery. Stretching and reasonable walks are fine, but no half-marathons for me anymore. All indicators of diet had to go.