of achievements

Wednesday evening, I slog my way through the wind and snow and slush to the big glass doors. I am still trying to straighten my wind blown hair with numb fingers when I approach the reception desk. Today it's the only guy. He has a silver piercing that glints in one ear and hair that makes me jealous. He looks up, smiles, and says, "Hi, Kay!"

I bristle. 

I don't want to be known by name here.

I stomp up the stairs and sit on the couch right in front of my dietitians door. Her door is closed, but I know what's behind it. The thing I've dreaded since my first day. The meal plan.

She finally emerges, but something is different. Someone else is lurking in her office, and there is a question on her face. I know what she's going to ask even before I see her lips form the word "intern."

My answer is no.

I feel guilty as she returns to the office and tells the young girl waiting that she cannot observe me. I feel resentful of that guilt as the girl walks quickly past me and down the stairs. 

She's just trying to learn. You've been an intern, you know. How's she supposed to learn if she can't observe?

I am already so many things. I don't want to be someone's science experiment, someone's research project, someone's homework. 

My dietitian reassures me several times that my answer was totally fine. It's my choice. If I don't want an intern sitting in, that is ok. My guilt fades quickly anyways because I am far more anxious about the sheet of paper in her hand.

We start with one meal. I get to choose, and I pick lunch. Lunch feels the safest. She slowly crafts a plan based around what I am already eating, and it's so simple, I feel suspicious. The plan is this:

1 serving of grains

1 serving of fruit

1 serving of vegetable

1 serving of protein

I am free to pick and choose whatever I want to fill in those categories. I just have to consume a full serving as detailed by the nutrition info. 

I am so relieved, I relax a little.

Then she starts trying to convince me once again to stop weighing myself at home.

Frustration boils over until I suddenly just tell her the truth. If I don't know my weight, it triggers me so much more. I assume I've gained a ton of weight. I assume I'm obese. 

She starts to argue with me, but then suddenly, she stops.

"Would it help you if we talked openly about your weight every time?" She asks.

I open my mouth to say no, but I pause. "Yeah." I say instead. "That would be....that would help."

We both look at each other, and we both know something has changed. I am suddenly no longer certain she's the enemy. 

I step on the scale. She tells me my weight. And we talk about it. 

I am not happy with the number. She asks if I have a number I'd like to be, and I do. I want to weigh what I weighed a couple weeks ago. So I tell her. She frowns.

"What if I told you that was an unhealthy weight for you?" She asks.

I start defensively explaining that all the charts I've looked at online say it's just fine, but halfway through I realize how foolish I sound. In the face of a licensed dietitian, my internet facts suddenly seem rather weak.

We don't reach an agreement, but when I leave, we actually smile at each other. Driving home, I am overwhelmed by something that feels like achievement.

...

Thursday afternoon finds me in a large room full of couches and chairs and kleenex boxes on every side table. 

I am the second one to arrive. Slowly the rest of the group files in, and I am shocked that I am nowhere near the oldest one there. There are a few younger college students, but most of the group is made up of women in their 30's, 40's, and even 50+.

We are a terribly strange arrangement of women.

I am not the skinniest. 

This nags at me, despite the fact that it's really only one girl. She sits shivering in the chair next to me and tucks handwarmers into her gloves despite the moderate temperature of the room. I am not cold, and this makes me ashamed of myself.

Most of the group are what would clinically be called "overweight." I find myself feeling superior to them, and I am ashamed of myself.

I check my purse for the fifth time. The small notebook is there, hidden inside. I think of all of you who suggested it and feel a little better.

My very first DBT group begins with a Mindfulness exercise. 

We each take a smooth stone from a bowl. We set it down in front of us. We observe the stone with our eyes, taking in the shape, the color, the irregularities. Then we pick it up and do the same with our hands. 

Inwardly, that cynical part of me is majorly rolling her eyes, but I try to follow the prompts. And it is relaxing in a way to put all my focus on one object. My rock is smooth and cool and white with streaks of soft orange like sherbet. I start picturing it as an egg, and soon I'm lost in my own imagination. I miss the last of the prompts, and suddenly the exercise is over. I reluctantly return my rock to the bowl. 

Of course, next we are instructed to talk about how we felt about the exercise. The responses run from love to cynicism to extreme dislike. I try to aim for somewhere in the middle. 

There is a check-in where we answer questions like what is your mood? What skills did you use this past week? What is a victory and a challenge you encountered? Do you have any safety concerns? What ED symptoms did you struggle with? The current group members read off their diary cards and talk about the goals they made last week. Along with the other new people, I answer what I can and try to be honest.

Then comes the binders.

In all of my life, in all of my education, I have never owned such a gigantic binder. It is terrifying in size and overwhelming in nature. But I don't have much time to panic because the leader announces a 15 minute break.

"We strongly encourage everyone to eat their snacks now." She says.

I eat my low calorie granola bar and try not to feel like a kindergartner. 

What comes next is basically a lecture. Since we are in the first module, "Mindfulness," it is pretty basic. There are no shocking realizations or life changing epiphanies, but the information is something that I not only understand, but can relate to. I do take notes in the binder, my own notebook staying in my purse, and I do find it interesting. When we are finally released two and a half hours later, I am ok.

I am not super excited to go to these groups every Thursday for the next six months, but I am also not afraid or dreading it anymore. 

Perhaps that makes two achievements in one week.