Get Me Out of Here (14 page)

I was cynical of the core-goodness philosophy since it was so often used as a weak justification for anything goes. What good were morals, what value was to be had in character if everything could be blamed on a bad background? Was everything inexcusable based on somebody's troubled childhood?

I felt very strongly about this and told Dr. Padgett so, fully expecting him to disagree, perhaps even attributing these thoughts to my father's legacy. He surprised me.

“I don't disagree at all with anything you're saying. As a matter of fact, I do believe there's a definite line between right and wrong and that there are people who cross that line and deserve to be punished and face the consequences. And it doesn't matter what happened in their childhoods. I believe in the death penalty in certain cases.

“But you haven't crossed that line. Maybe you've done some things in your life you regret; maybe you've done some things you
should
regret. But you've paid for them dearly and punished yourself much more than you've ever deserved.

“I'm not disputing anything you've brought up from the book. Yes, there are a lot of borderlines who will never recover. But I believe you are one of those people who can overcome this. Not just control it, but fundamentally change and be freed from it. If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't have committed to therapy. I wouldn't have chosen you.”

Chosen me
. Words I'd met with cynicism before were just what I needed to hear right now.

“What I'm trying to say is that borderline personality disorder is too broad a category to make any one-size-fits-all conclusion. Most psychiatrists think Adolf Hitler was a borderline, but they also think Marilyn Monroe was too. Can you see the difference there? I'm not going to understate how serious this is for you. It
is
grave. But the nuances and differences in borderline personality disorder are like stations on a radio. A radio can be turned up full blast, to the highest decibels of intensity, but the musical scores you hear when you tune from one station to another can be completely different.”

By the time the session ended I felt relieved, albeit only temporarily. The notion of borderline personality disorder was still staggering to me, and something I would be grappling with for a long time. But Dr. Padgett still believed in me, no matter how bleak the prognosis might be.

Perhaps one day
, I thought,
I can believe in me just as much as he seems to
.

The morning sun was burning through the bedroom window, the heat on my face a wake-up call. 7:30. Sounds of the shower were coming from the hall. The sheets were crumpled next to me; Tim was getting ready for work.

I tiptoed past the kids' rooms. Melissa, no more a morning person than I, was still sleeping soundly, a tiny little toddler's snore, her black hair peeking out from her Barbie blanket. Jeffrey was up but content with a dot-to-dot coloring book. I crept downstairs into the basement.

I went to the brand-new scale, digital and state-of-the-art. I'd purchased it ostensibly to monitor my weight prior to the hospital stay so I could keep the pounds from declining. Tim had been amenable to the idea; diligent monitoring was the way I had kept the postbaby diets from getting out of hand. But he had realized quickly that I was using the scale almost constantly to check the progress of my true goal: weight reduction. After seeing me step on it one too many times and disgustedly remark how fat I was getting, Tim couldn't bear to see me step on it any longer or even to see the scale itself. It was a reminder of his wife's emaciation and how helpless he was to do anything about it.

I'd told him that I'd given the scale away. But instead I tucked it into a storage corner of the basement. I would sneak down several times a day to check up on my progress. I had to sneak because it would kill Tim if he knew I was still doing this weeks after enduring the pain and expense of the voluntary three-week hospital stay.

As part of the ritual, I dropped my robe to the floor, took off my pajama top and bottoms and weighed myself. It read 101, a pound less than my weight when released from the psych ward.

All that time, all that pain, all that drive. A three-week separation from the kids. All for nothing. I'm just as anorexic as I ever was
.

I had actually been up to 105 a few days earlier but could not live with the number on the readout. I'd skipped breakfasts and lunches, picking at my dinners, tripling my workouts when Tim wasn't around. The big rock of anorexia hadn't waned a bit. It had only become far sneakier.

Then the demon within took over.

Hmm … 101, not bad. It's about time. Only two pounds from double-digits. Keep it up! You're not anorexic. They want you to be fat
.

The sessions since my hospital release had been dominated by dreams, the borderline diagnosis, and my childhood abuse and feelings. I hadn't brought up my weight, nor had Dr. Padgett. I had even been sneaky with him. I vowed that in today's afternoon session I would turn myself in and come clean.

I slumped in my chair, penitent-to-confessor again. The small little girl voice. The eyes downcast. A bad girl deserving punishment.

“Dr. Padgett, there's something I have to tell you. I weighed myself today. I weigh 101 pounds. I'm still losing weight. I've been exercising and skipping meals and checking the scale constantly, and I've been hiding it from everybody, including you.”

I braced myself for admonishment that didn't come.

“What are your thoughts on this, Rachel? What do you think is going on?”

“She's taking over, Dr. Padgett. She's taking over completely. I can't win. I'm trying so hard, and nothing is happening.”

“She?”

“The part of that wicked, little inner child, the one who hates me. She's trying to kill me, and she knows she's stronger than I am. She knows I'm weak, and there's nothing I can do about it. Please, can you help me?”

“The only solution is to put food in your mouth. I can't do that for you. Only you can.”

“But I could die. Don't you see that?” I pleaded. “You've told me that. How can you just sit there and do nothing? I thought you were like a father to me; I thought you cared, you loved me.”

“You're an adult, Rachel. You're twenty-nine years old, and you have two kids. You can control this. You can bring yourself to eat. You just choose not to. I can't make you do that; only you can.”

Where is he? Where is the man who said all those gentle loving words? Why won't he comfort me right now? Why won't he tell me some of those stories about his little girl?

“I don't understand this,” I began to cry. “This is horrible for me. Can't you at least comfort me? She's torturing me! How can you be so cold?”

“There is no she; there's only you. One you. And when you can confront your fears, you won't need to be anorexic anymore. I can help you face the fears but not if you don't participate. And right now you're letting the child take complete control.”

“I can't believe this. I thought you loved me. How can you just leave me hanging here like this and not do anything?”

A look of impatience flashed over his face then quickly passed.

“This isn't therapy right now. This is acting out. When you are ready to participate, I'm here. But I can't work with you unless the adult is present.”

How dare he lead me on the way he does and then turn on a dime
.

“You're right. This isn't therapy at all. This is a big scam, a rip-off. You think you can pick my brain, play me like an instrument, sucker me in, and just collect your goddamned fees. Well, fuck you! I don't need your stupid rules and your stupid limits and all the other shit you come up with to pull my strings like a puppet. How dare you call me a child. If I end up dead, it'll serve you right.”

“I call you a child when you act like one. You have to decide if I care or not. If you can't believe it by what I've done, then whatever I say or don't say isn't going to make a difference. I think you need therapy, and there have been plenty of times when you've agreed. But that's your decision too. I can't keep you here if you don't want to be.”

“I don't need you!”

“You say that, but you don't mean it. You need me so much it scares you. You're afraid your need is so vast that somehow it will swallow me alive or drive me away. But it hasn't, and it won't. The only way therapy will end is if you end it. You can leave before it's finished, before your needs are met. You can leave in a rage. But it will hurt you much more than it will hurt me.”

The rest of the session was a babysitting of sorts. I raged and roared, rocked and swiveled the chair with frenetic intensity, retorted back with every slicing insult I could think of and every string of profanity I could muster. But Dr. Padgett didn't return the outburst. He simply sat and waited and repeated the same points. He also didn't say the comforting words or tell the loving stories I so desperately sought. When time was up, I rose quickly, hurled the tissue box from the end table against the wall and stalked out. He didn't follow me.

I was still fuming by the time I'd reached my car. I wanted revenge. To land a blow on him that would take him down. But any revenge against him would be empty. That damned blank screen. He didn't even care enough to get pissed at me.

So I reached into my glove compartment, found a pen and pad of paper, and began to scrawl one more attempt at the last word, hoping somehow to destroy him. When I was finished, I walked over to the doctors' parking garage.

Doctors. I hated them all. Such pompous beings, always playing God. The lot was filled with BMWs, Cadillacs, and Porsches with a stretch of vanity license plates befitting the vain arrogance of physicians.
DOCTOR
.
DOCTR
.
DR-III
.
DOC
. Which one could be Padgett's?

Finally I found a red Mazda with a sunroof—
JMP
. John M. Padgett. This must be the car. The reserved-parking-space sign confirmed it. Rich sonofabitch, how dare he exploit me for money! Lifting up the recessed windshield wiper carefully, although I was tempted to break it, I placed my note right in front of the driver's seat where I knew he would have to remove it and read it. I stood there for a minute before I took my pen and scrawled a few more words on the outside of the folded paper.

I know where you live, asshole, and now I know what you drive!

By the time I'd reached home, the anger had faded and I felt some satisfaction in my eloquent revenge. I even ate most of what was on my plate, much to Tim's relief.

By sunset on this late spring day, I was filled with remorse. I wished that I could go back and retrieve the note. But certainly Dr. Padgett had left for home by now. The deed had been done. I needed Dr. Padgett. I didn't want therapy to end. I wasn't sure if I ever wanted it to end; perhaps this is what scared me the most.

But I'd threatened him, harassed him, and left the evidence. I had broken the law. He had the right to exit therapy now, despite his promises, out of sheer self-preservation. I'd gone into that session filled with love, the warm feeling in my heart of being cared for, the burning desire of need. And I had proceeded to leave the session filled with hatred.
I Hate You, Don't Leave Me
. Right down to the last letter. Filled with self-hatred, wishing I were dead, I finally fell asleep. Tim didn't know about any of this. I was afraid that if I told him, he would know what an evil soul lay within the emaciated figure sleeping beside him. The mother of his children. He would leave too.

The adult showed up to the next session.

I was like the parent of an unruly child, dragging her into the drugstore, making her confess to the manager about the shoplifting she'd committed the day before. I knew that there were no excuses, no disorder that could justify what I had done. No child within had done this without my knowledge or consent.

The greeting smile again. How could he do that in light of what I'd done to him?

When we entered his office, there, on the table, sat the white piece of paper with the words scrawled on top, still folded exactly as it had been when I'd placed it on his windshield. I was puzzled.

This time the little girl voice did not come out, nor did the defensive profanity of the tough guy. I neither leaned forward nor slumped backward. I looked him straight in the eyes.

“I'm sorry, Dr. Padgett. I was really out of line. I shouldn't have tried to hurt you like that. You didn't do anything to deserve it. I know I can't come up with any excuses, but I do want to apologize. I'm really sorry. I understand if you can't see me anymore. I crossed the line. I didn't mean that stuff, not really.”