Welcome to a series of stories that basically make up my autobiography. It’s not entirely thorough, but I’ll do the best I can with the memories locked away inside my head. Could be therapeutic for me. Could be humorous for you. Either way, enjoy…
Previously on Life Story… In 9th grade I took advantage of an educational opportunity that allowed me to have some pretty awesome experiences while forcing me to do a lot of extra work.
Right around Thanksgiving 21 years ago, things got a little out of hand for old Peckapalooza.
See, at the time I was still, technically, anorexic. Things had leveled off for me, though. Sure, this particular psychological illness was still an issue for me, but I wasn’t losing weight anymore. I was maintaining a solid 95 pounds, which, for a while, was good.
Apparently the pressures of entering high school began affecting me in much the same way being in middle school did. Slowly but surely, those maintained pounds began to slide back off. My weekly weigh-in sessions at the therapist’s office were becoming more and more depressing.
As I took this turn for the worse, my options were discussed. I knew that a time was coming when I would be forced to do something I wouldn’t want to do. In a word: hospitalization.
The Sunday before Thanksgiving, I was showering before church. As I washed my hair, it was coming off my head between my fingers. This is a common problem among people with eating disorders. As the body lacks the nutrients it needs to remain healthy, it starts shutting down unnecessary functions, one of those being hair growth.
I broke down. I decided then that I would make the call. I would fall on the sword and voluntarily go into a hospital for treatment. I knew that if I didn’t, the doctors would talk my parents into admitting me anyway.
I talked it over with my family and, later, my counselor. Together we determined that after Thanksgiving, I would go into a psychiatric hospital to receive treatment for my eating disorder. Next stop: St. Alban’s Psychiatric Hospital.