We’re going to travel back in time a decade for this post to my first stay in rehab. This particular rehab was new and needed credentials, like all, to open and begin charging patients to stay. Myself and three others were the lucky free guinea pigs. My first step on the scale I weighed, I believe, 110. Being 5’9 I KNOW I’m underweight, but to hear a nurse mumble under her breath a grunting “eeck” is hurtful. Being the stubborn and outspoken (when I need to be) girl I was, I looked at her and asked “is something wrong?” I got no response, just a blank stare as if I should know I look gross. I remember everything about this place and the three others, aside from their names. Two older women and a boy my age who was obsessed with narwhals and skaa music. I grew close to them seeing as it was just us all day and night. I remember eating breakfast, lunch and dinner and being watched by nurses to make sure I ate. One of the older ladies had something wrong with her jaw so every single bite she took there would be a loud popping sound coming from her mouth. Imagine a faucet dripping while you’re trying to sleep, how annoying it sounds? That’s how I felt every time we sat down to eat. Not only did I not look forward to eating because of my disorder but now I really didn’t want too because I couldn’t stand to hear her chewing. The sound still haunts me today. My doctor was a nice man who was easy to talk to, but come to find out didn’t know what he was doing. He ended up prescribing me anti-depressants that you shouldn’t to a person with an eating disorder which led to future problems I’ll discuss in a later post. I had a black cat at the time named Kiki. She was my world and is even tattooed on my body today. I owned a black pair of cat slippers and would wear them around and as crazy as it sounds, I would sleep with one at night pretending it was her. I still own ONE of those cat slippers now. Our therapist, who later saw me during outpatient, was great I thought, until I showed up for my first visit and he couldn’t even remember my name or why I was in rehab in the first place. There was one day we were sitting around watching t.v. and one of the other older ladies was drooling with her tongue hanging out of her mouth. Being a concerned human being I grabbed a nurse and was simply told, “It’s just her xanax, she’s fine.” I was dumbfounded. How is this helping her? What am I doing here? So, I decided I want out. I ate everything they gave me, smiled as much as possible and faked my way out of the front door. This wasn’t the only time I would do that either. I have more, even worse, horror stories. I’m not sure what the purpose of this post is, but to maybe give a little glimpse at what goes on sometimes that you don’t see. I know plenty of people have positive experiences and are rehabilitated properly. This, unfortunately, is just my story.