By Her Hands

I left on a clear October Monday. Seated at the bulkhead, my elbow rested next to a man who asked if I was going to Chicago for business. I lied, nodding my head yes. Ambivalence prevented me from updating my second-generation iPod earlier in the day, leaving Missy Elliott and Usher to comfort me. A leathery skinned smoker picked me up at baggage claim. She drove me forty-five minutes to our rural destination while I imagined what happens when car doors open and bodies land on I-55 at seventy-five miles per hour.

My tears from the backseat car ride dried up at our highway exit. I was afraid of my own anxiety and felt it bubbling out of me from a cellular level. I worried these professionals would send me back, call me a fraud, and laugh at my perceived trauma. A theatre whore, playing off of my scene partners was my strength on stage. I didn’t know the part I needed to play here.

*

My maternal grandmother, Ganna, was a towering beauty bolstered by poise and manners. Her accessory drawers were well organized with colorful necklaces and earrings. Christmas was her favorite season, and she shopped year-round for gifts and decorations. She was a fast driver and appointed me the lookout for the local patrol officer she named “Sneaky Pete.” She wore coordinating pants and blouses, and her hair was coiffed in a wash-and-set perm, always cut just under her ears. I spent after-school hours and every summer weekday with her until I could drive. Our weekly routine included losing ourselves in the library stacks, relishing one chocolate cupcake from the bakery, and Mexican restaurant dates with my grandfather, Pops. Ganna taught me how to make cucumber tea sandwiches, host summer croquet parties, pick out fabric, patterns, and give myself a manicure.

“You can always tell a lady by her hands,” she said, a phrase passed down from her British mother.

*

Oliver was the one thing I didn't want to run from. His fifteen pounds of soft, silky fur was white and reddish brown. Cavalier King Charles Spaniels are lap dogs and Oliver was no exception. His thrones were in the bend of my knee, curled like a cinnamon roll, in my lap on any chair, or the little spoon in bed. I was his sole caretaker. My husband spent time in the minutiae of medical school learning life sustaining medicine and procedures, but he ignored Oliver’s water intake. I came home from work, restless from the insignificance of my job, and found the bowl bone dry. Some days the empty blue ceramic bowl made me laugh, but other days, annoyed resentment would creep up from my stomach and into my mouth. We were playing house, but a child would not have believed us.

The manicured stone entrance mocked me, the women on the other side trapped by themselves more than any guard gate. The grounds were gorgeous. A young, faceless admissions assistant greeted me. I smiled, sat down and looked at my hands. Hands that wrung, overwhelmed by food choices. Hands that purged. Hands that held packaged food by my thigh to hide reading the labels. Hands that restocked the same packaged food. Hands that did the tango with pretzels on the snack aisle. Off the shelf. On the shelf. Off the shelf. On the shelf. I smiled while handing over my health insurance cards, bank account information, and freedom. Suffocated in shame, I held onto the ruse of control a little longer.

A nurse in plainclothes led me from intake to the medical office. Vitals, weight measured standing backwards from the numbers, blood draws, and thousands of questions on the suicidality scale assaulted me. How many attempts? How many thoughts? Let’s quantify it. Over four and there was no hope. Under two and surely, I wasn’t sick enough, right?

Filling my dog’s water bowl was the only thing between me and my ideations.

*

Ganna saw the same nail technician, Jan, for decades until her death. Jan and her sister, Ann, also a nail tech, exchanged holiday gifts, school photos, and laughter with Ganna. Jan gave extra attention and long hand massages. I waited in plastic chairs, legs stuck to the seat, reading while the ladies gabbed. When Ganna aged and isolated herself, Jan became one of the few people outside of our immediate family with whom she conversed. I'm confident she never envisioned a Vietnamese woman being a lifeline — Jan, with her work hardened hands.

*

Anorexia doesn’t lodge overnight. Body dysmorphia pitched a tent before I reached a double-digit birthday. Eating disorders were not discussed in our house outside of Karen Carpenter’s untimely death from a heart attack brought on by starvation.

For a while, my life was a well-made bed with an army fold. Until the corners came undone. Anorexia has a high mortality rate, second only to opioid overdose. It’s not simply a fixation on untenable beauty standards plaguing teenage girls. Restriction, often in the context of childhood trauma, leads to changes in the brain. Over time, hunger cues disappear despite food thoughts dominating the conscious mind. The threat of weight gain is a matter of life and death. I have no memory of deciding to restrict. It happened in a flash flood. One day I was in puddles with cute rain boots, and the next, I was drowning.

It’s about control, right? Oh, don’t we ALL have eating disorders? Well, you just can’t make her eat. It’s for attention. She’s just small boned. She needs to be body positive!

People assert any cause over a narrative to cloak their contempt.

I tried therapy, psychiatric medications, acupuncture, exercise, dance, reading, deep breathing, yoga, date nights, long walks with my dog, Oliver. I did it all. And yet. My red-eyed, wiry haired anorexic side kick grew stronger and stronger inside of me until hers was the only voice I listened to. And she did not negotiate. Deciding to seek treatment felt like a failure. Like giving up.

*

My new residence, Maple Lodge, was not a wellness retreat, but it sufficed celebrity addicts. It was a single-story building with heavy doors, a large vestibule, windows with keyed locks, and cameras. The milieu, a large open area, sat in the center of a T of hallways and held four conversation groupings of furniture; two sofas, four chairs, side tables, all bolted to the floor. No lamps or accessories. A small TV room to the side only saw life for special occasions, like when we watched Nightmare Before Christmas on Thanksgiving.

A child takes more to summer camp for one week than we were allowed to bring with us. My swimsuit, razors, bobby pins, low rise jeggings, digital camera, and nail polish didn't pass the belongings inspection and were confiscated. My cellphone stayed at home in our guest room where my husband triaged inbound messages.

Each room had three single beds and three dressers with a shower stall in the corner. My bed lined the locked, tinted window. Years of stymied sobs escaped, and I laid down with my back to the center of the room. I ignored my two roommates' attempts to engage in conversation and refused to leave the bed. My emotional regression commenced. Every morning at five a.m., a tourniquet squeezed my bicep for blood draws. I learned to keep my eyes closed and alternate the arm I surrendered.

*

Errand days with salon visits included trips to Piece Goods, the local fabric and sewing shop. Ganna made my summer uniform; patterned shorts and skorts with matching applique tops. My favorite, seashell shorts with a shell applique on my shirt, evoked applause from Ann and Jan. We froze our fingers in front of mini tabletop fans for fifteen minutes. After one more coat of quick-dry clear, we smoothed our clothing, and I placed Ganna’s purse strap on her shoulder. Our wrists flexed at our chest, and we pranced to the car. A chorus of giggles erupted when we approached our greatest challenge: the seatbelt. My small, nimble fingers were no match for this foe. The final click gave way to squeals. Ganna lifted and released her shoulders, seized the wheel at ten and two, turned to smile, and we were off.

*

The girls fighting drug addiction yelled TRIGGER when I told them my name. They had no sympathy for my plight and rolled their eyes until I, like the rest of them, gave way to group therapy, twelve-step meetings, dialectical behavior therapy, cognitive behavioral therapy, dietician meetings, psychiatric appointments, restorative yoga, equine, and art therapies. We oozed with privilege and the opportunity to heal. My roommate said, “You know they think you’re Amanda Knox.” Amanda who? Months later I stared at the non-resemblance. How disappointing for the staff to admit so many regular, fucked up, rich, white women.

*

Before Ganna transitioned to weekly spa appointments, she did them herself in the off weeks. She pulled out two folding TV tables, and we sat on her green sofa in the TV room. She laid out a red washcloth and next to it, placed a small plastic bin neatly holding her nail supplies. Her organization skills rivaled the current rainbow trends, but this was a time before the industry monetized OCD. She placed a cut crystal bowl filled with warm, soapy water in between us to soak our cuticles. She instructed me to wait until I was older to cut my cuticles and to keep my nails short and round. Rush Limbaugh blared from my grandfather’s radio while I watched her paint her own nails cherry red. She painted both her right and left hands with ease, hand-dominance indecipherable to any admirer. I wedged in between her chest and underarm; her Jean Nate powder settled in my nostrils.

*

It took two weeks for my weight to reach the health requirement to walk up the hill from Maple Lodge to the dining hall. A resident of another lodge played Adele on an upright piano in the middle of the cafeteria every evening. Rumor has it she lived there eight months before I arrived. I wondered if her family didn’t want her back.

Outgoing phone calls were allowed after dinner. Incoming calls were prohibited. The phone booth room consisted of eight phones; the base bolted to the wall with less than a foot of cord to the handset. I overheard many muffled conversations delivering bad news. The spouse couldn't do it because it wasn't what they signed up for. The money for treatment was gone. They were just the drug dealer or the friends who liked to get high. The new healthy life wasn't going to fit in with the old ways.

*

I never called Ganna. I couldn’t control the pain my demons would inflict on her own compulsions. Mental health was not recognized in her upbringing, and I believe she tried her best. Her coping skills kept her alive, after all. Her primary care physician prescribed medicine to help with the tinnitus in her inner ear. Xanax. At first, it gave her the ability to attend events again and get back to cooking her specialty meals. But it soon led to a debilitating dependence. My mom drove up and down Monument Avenue between our house and Ganna’s at least twice a day to dispense Xanax, one pill at a time. I watched her become unkept, manipulative, and a character I refused to accept. Thousands of yards of fabric collected dust. Her nails were unpainted. I was furious she couldn’t fix herself. I judged her while I baked cakes for cast members and watched them eat it, my own stomach remaining empty. It was years before my mom and I whispered the word addict. Because addiction shut down our life like a flipped switch. We missed the chance to fix it and forgot the light ever turned on.

*

I stood, clutched my throat and praised my new life. I took my first bite of dry chicken breast with reckless abandon!‍ ‍

Except, I didn’t. I have no memory of the first bite entering my mouth, clambering to recovery.

Acceptance first feels like food stuffed from your toes all the way to your esophagus. Wheat bread barely chewed, peaking out of your mouth. Bowels stagnated. Three full meals, three snacks, and a nutritional supplement drink. Two pros, three chos, two fats, one fruit, one vegetable, one Boost. Three times a day. The bathrooms were guarded by the Behavioral Health Specialists. It took a few weeks before they trusted you to shut the door. I wondered if they got off hearing my constipated pushes.

*

Ganna knew how to put on a show, like me. She hid her struggles and saved her anger for my mom, never once losing her desire to project perfection. Her diet shrank to white bread, whole milk, and Whitman Samplers. The pharmacy would not deliver her Xanax on demand, but she could wrangle a Whitman’s out of anyone. White lies were easier for me and my mom when she asked about our weekend plans on my wedding planning visits. She stayed in bed, laying on her good ear, her sports talk radio turned high. Her Singer sewing machine sat silent and lace she collected for years for these very occasions became obsolete.

The week of my wedding, Ganna treated me and my bridesmaids to manicures with Jan and Ann. I chose a rounded, natural French manicure and pink pedicure. Ganna peered over her nose from her lazy boy massage pedicure chair, raised her eyebrows, and nodded her head in approval. My hands and feet were ready for marriage.

*

My roommate kept finding ways to hurt herself with a ballpoint pen or a rogue paper clip. No security or straitjacket was needed this time. Her bed was cold for three hours. I didn’t welcome the new girl. I graduated from the first level of therapy and was a Very Important Person at Maple Lodge. An administrator decided leadership positions built self-confidence.

He came to visit me. My stomach turned in knots to see my biggest supporter. I was terrified he wouldn't like me. I hadn't always been this sick. My behaviors were on pause during the honeymoon phase until it all collapsed. I’m told this happens when the psyche is in a safe space. When it feels truly loved. What a sick joke. You finally feel loved and reward this person by falling apart. If I died to my addicted self, had he fulfilled his ‘until death do us part’?

*

Eight hundred miles away, Medicaid separated Ganna from her companion of six decades. My grandparents were trapped in a loophole. The VA deemed them too wealthy for aid but my grandfather’s need for skilled nursing surpassed what they could afford if they went together. He moved out and she took to the bed. Xanax was what remained.

*

Field trips were the only carrots they offered when the support team deemed you ready. These trips included restaurants to practice eating out, shopping trips to Kohl's to try on clothes, twelve-step meetings out in the community — nail salons. Therapists liked these outings because they provided opportunities to encounter triggers for relapses in real situations within the safety confines of a treatment team. No one got out of Maple Lodge without outings. They were our gold stars for emotional progress.

We rode in a white, unmarked, ten-passenger van to the nail salon. Outside life bombarded me with emotions I used to numb. Our driver broke the rules and played the radio.

Sexy and I Know It by LMFAO blared. After a brief pause, we looked at one another and laughed. Hard. For the first time, I saw a way forward.

The nail tech looked at me and waited. I looked down at my hands, my knuckle bones flaunting fatty flesh.

“Rounded nails. Cherry red, please.”

*

A fall sent Ganna to a skilled nursing facility. Just for a few months, she thought. The facility increased her Xanax, ‘given her condition.’ After a year of re-reading her favorite books, over-medicated naps, and bedside manicures, my mom called to tell me she only had a few days left. She looked so small under the thin sheets against the blank walls. I climbed into bed next to her and rested my head under the weight of her arm. My mom and I sat with her for hours, reading to her, singing to her, and holding her withered, creative hands.

*

Maple Lodge shuttered. Finance bros wagered it unprofitable. While we followed their advice to never contact each other after treatment, background checks were chopped from the budget, giving way to devastating acts of trauma on beautiful souls.

No one tracks people in recovery, but statistics suggest many of us are dead. Trees fall from storms, coffee cups crack on countertops, babies are born, hair greys. Nothing goes back to before. A lone, wallet sized polaroid of a self-portrait is the only tangible item I have from Maple Lodge. It never leaves my wallet.

I have no interest in returning to rural Illinois, but I need the land there to hold all our unearthed traumas up to the light. I need a burial ground for my red-eyed, wiry haired girl.

-Mollie Brookshire

Mollie Brookshire lives in Nashville, Tennessee. She explores issues of identity, mental health, spirituality, and motherhood. She has been a grant writer, fundraiser, and elementary teacher. When she isn't writing, she is learning to say no to excessive volunteer solicitations and can be found belting Broadway tunes while driving her three boys around town.