An eating disorders unit is not a warm, fuzzy place. I spent Christmas there in 1999. I called it "The Ivory Tower" upon arrival, because it was actually in the top floor of a tower at the hospital. But the princesses trapped in this tower looked like they were dying. Some of them were. We were the only unit on the floor, because we were upsetting to other patients. People wasting away from cancer or other life-threatening diseases got angry at the pretty young women who were "doing it to themselves." We were doing it to ourselves, in a sense, but not one of us could stop it on our own. I was lucky enough to have my own room on the ward, but most girls had to share. The very first thing they did when I arrived was empty my bag on the bed. They dug through every pocket, looking for laxatives and sharp objects. They confiscated my razor and the scissors I had brought for art projects. They also took away two tea bags and gum, because my diet was about to be completely scripted for me. I was allowed zero control in treatment. It was an important part of my recovery, but at the very beginning it felt like a complete violation. Because I checked in after work, I had to eat my evening meal alone with a nurse. I ate half a cup of chicken noodle soup and left the crackers on the tray. The nurse then told me I had to eat everything on my tray. I had not eaten in weeks, so the dry crackers did not want to go down without a fight. I was 23 and crying over two stupid saltines. This was the low point of my life. I asked to go back to my room when I finished. The nurse told me I would have to earn the privilege to leave the day room. I was ushered into a glass-enclosed room with sofas and a piano where two skeletal girls were playing cards and another was flipping through tv channels. The nurses watched our every move from the other side of the glass (I later dubbed the room "the Fish Bowl," and covered the Christmas tree with origami fish). I spoke to no one and stared out the window. The people and cars eight floors below looked as small as I felt. At bed time I learned of a few more liberties I was not allowed. For my two weeks in the hospital, I was not allowed to pee without someone watching me. Any bowel movement would have to be measured and logged. They were concerned that we would vomit or exercise while unsupervised in the bathroom. I was not allowed to fidget because it burned too many extra calories. They took away my yo-yo for the same reason. I would not be allowed to shower until my heart rate and blood pressure returned to normal, which took about a week and a half. If I wanted to use the scissors I had brought, I had to do so with supervision. I could not close my bedroom door for any reason. Slamming it shut became my favorite form of protest, which was not mature, but when treated like a child, it is only natural to retreat into childlike behavior. We weighed in every morning. They didn't tell us the numbers in pounds, but the scale display was in kilos. They apparently thought we were idiots who couldn't do the conversion. We were all bitchy in the morning. It meant the beginning of a long twelve hour day in the Fish Bowl. Except we weren't even allowed to swim. My fellow inmates were all white girls, between the ages of 17 and 21. Then two new kids showed up. Kids. Seriously. The girl was twelve. The boy was nine. I was disgusted. Seeing those little kids suffering through what I knew to be incredible psychic pain made me so angry with myself! It was motivating. It also completely changed the dynamic of group therapy. I wasn't going to talk about my relationship with my mother, or the gruesome sight of my brother in the ICU before they pulled the plug, or the brutal rape I endured in high school with a twelve- and nine-year-old in the room. We spent all the group time convincing the little ones that food is necessary for survival, which was probably an improvement over the competitive I-used-to-gag-myself-this-way and I-only-ate-this-many-calories talk of the group before their arrival. We spent Christmas together in the day room. I made bracelets for everyone. Some people had day passes to be with family. Others had family visits. I stayed in my room. My family was banned from the hospital for being too triggering. Another low. After a week or so of doing and eating what I was told in zombie-like compliance, I was given some control over my menu. They gradually taught me to plan a real meal, which I had forgotten how to do. They taught me to use a meal plan, which gave me the same measure of control over my eating as the eating disorder had, but the focus was on eating enough, rather than eating too little. Once I mastered the meal plan, I was set free. I left the hospital on New Year's Eve. I thought this was deeply meaningful, and left sure that I would get my life together in the year 2000. A whole new life for a whole new millennium! It took another four years of fighting my body image, working the meal plan, and going to therapy before i began eating normally without internal conflict. Now, four years into complete recovery, I look back at that time with mixed feelings. I wasted years of my life on that stupid eating disorder! But at the same time, I have to honor the journey that brought me here, to a life of which I am very proud. I had a happy ending, eventually, but not everyone does. Eating disorders kill people. Worse, they kill the spirit. I and my fellow patients were zombies with no free will. There was nothing admirable or glamorous about the eating disorders unit. I know some girls with eating disorders want to be "sick enough" to gain admittance to an EDU. It's not a badge of honor, and it's not worth it. Early treatment can help you kick it. If it gets to hospital severity, it will likely haunt you forever. To this day, I have to be mindful of my food/exercise balance or the old behaviors creep up on me. So get help right away. It doesn't have to be an inpatient stay. There are tons of options. Somethingfishy.org is a great website with a referral feature. They can help you find treatment options in your area. Part III continues here: http://www.progressiveu.org/123842-making-edible-woman-part-iii-whats-name