A Room of Their Own Rakefet Yarden (top 10 novels of all time TXT) 📖

don’t want to stay here anymore.” I suddenly felt strong. I was so proud of myself for managing to speak and to express myself. I felt a surge of strength bursting from within me.

“What is it that you find difficult?” the psychologist asked.

“I don’t know. Everything. The disconnection. The lack of purpose. The intense and endless dealing with weight, calories, the meaning of life. I don’t want to sit here and think about life. I want to live it.”

Another long silence followed, and then Dr. Tzur’s deep voice cut through the air.

“Let me tell you what I think about it. I think it’s a very bad idea. It’s a bad idea and you’re deceiving yourself, your loved ones, and us. You’re telling us that it’ll be different but in reality, it’ll be exactly the same. You’ll go back out and lose weight again and you’ll discover that nothing’s changed. So then you’ll either make peace with your situation and with your disease’s decree and continue living underweight in acceptance, or you’ll lose weight more and more until you can’t take it anymore and you’ll return here in an even worse state. The way I see it, those are the only two options. So if that’s what you want − no problem. No one can force you to stay here, but you need to know that you’re not fooling me. I’m not buying it.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. I felt like a knife had slowly penetrated my stomach and now I was stuck with it deep inside me and didn’t know what to do. I felt that I was under an unexpected attack, and then came a sense of hurt, or humiliation, which was slowly swapped by intense fear. Fear that maybe he was right, that I was actually just deceiving myself and the world.

My eyes remained lowered. The room was silent. The dietician then said a few more things, but I was no longer listening. I got up and left the room, and while walking down the hallway, my fear turned to anger. I decided that no one will ever make me recoil into my shell again. That I’d show Dr. Tzur and the whole world that I can do it, that there is another way, and that their strict method might not be suitable for everyone.

I went back to my room. Sarit was sitting on the bed and crying. They hadn’t agreed to drop things from her menu, and she was scared she’d gain weight.

“They don’t understand that I can’t, I absolutely can’t gain weight. I don’t need to. I came here in order to lose weight,” she said with tears streaming down her face.

“What’ll happen if you gain just a little bit?” I heard myself saying. I’d managed to get myself together enough to talk.

She looked at me, surprised. “I don’t know. I’d just feel awful.”

“Okay. And then what?” Well done, me!

“I’d gain more and more uncontrollably, and what did I even come here for?”

“For dealing with your eating habits. For treating your eating disorder. For understanding that five pounds more or five pounds less isn’t really the issue.”

She was bewildered and stayed quiet. I didn’t know if she was shocked by what I’d said or by the abnormal flow of words coming out of my mouth. But at least she calmed down and stopped crying. It seemed to have made her take a step back and think for a bit.

“You’re right,” she suddenly blurted out.

I didn’t say a word, hoping that she’d continue.

“Worst case, if I do gain then I’ll probably lose it later. And anyway, that’s not the main issue. Maybe it’s actually these episodes of hysteria that I need to work on. I hate myself when I’m this way.”

“Exactly,” I ruled. I didn’t know if I was feeling proud and satisfied because of Sarit’s fast realization, or because I’d managed to speak, thereby really being there for someone and helping them.

A Time for Freedom

Every morning at 7:30 sharp, a nurse entered the room, said good morning to the two of us and asked, “Bowel movement? Menstruation?” The first time she asked me, I was lost for words. I mean, it’s obviously nobody’s business, and how dare anyone ask that question out loud, in public? Also, the answer was obviously “No.” After all, I’d arrived here extremely underweight, and everyone knows that extremely underweight girls don’t get periods.

In any case, this morning I knew that it would be the last time I’d ever have to answer those two embarrassing questions, which had already become a matter of routine during my three weeks here. I knew that today I would dare to leave.

I’d already arranged for Tal to pick me up at 12:00. I hoped that by then I’d manage to say goodbye to the two nice girls who’d become my close friends here, and that I’d speak to the doctor and get prescriptions and recommendations from him as well as pack the few things I’d brought here and the stuff I’d accumulated. And also get a few antidepressant pills from the nurses, just to have for the next few days, until I got my bearings.

I knew that this morning would be filled with attempts to persuade me to stay and not stop the treatment. Attempts at explaining that I’m making a mistake, that I’m giving in to the disease, that it’s the voice of the sickness controlling me . . . and other such claims. But something inside me knew very well that this was the right thing to do and the right time to do it. That this time I wasn’t about to reach my expected weight and wait around for my release date, and then, after months on end of being closed off in the ward, try to rebuild my life from the few crumbs of hope I’d managed to gather. This time, I was determined to resume my life and grow from within it. I strongly felt that something inside me