A scheduled shift

I’ve got some weird anxiety going on right now about breakfast tomorrow morning. It started out that I thought I was worried about the Sunday push-back of meals because I didn’t want to be hungry in the morning and have to wait even longer to eat. The more I think about it though the more it seems like it has to do with the schedule and what I am used to.

On Sundays, to accommodate those who opt to attend a morning service that held in the building, breakfast is maneuvered from 8 am to 9. Waking up so early, naturally being hungriest in the mornings and the routine of getting meals at the same time every day causes this little fluctuation to not sit very well with me. I’m not, by any means, annoyed or angry about any of this. I know that the situation and the schedule blip are somehow making me anxious but mostly I’m curious about why it is exactly that I’m getting this anxiety.

Finding a routine to structure each day by was not something I set out to do. Yet i have lived by one set schedule or another of my own making for years and years. I know, too, that a good portion of this eating disorder has to do with following a schedule, self-discipline, and being strict with certain things. Ever since falling down the rabbit hole of anorexia my food and meal times have been what everything else gets scheduled around. Everything is laid out perfectly here too, meals and groups at the same times every day of the week. Even a large dry erase board in the hallway with it all laid out for us to navigate. Then along comes Sunday and its extra hour.

I know in my rational mind that everything will turn out just fine. I’m not even sure what I am worried about. Its only one hour. The day will seem like any other out of the week once breakfast is over since the rest of the schedule is spaced out between the other meals like normal.

As I lay in bed, letting sleep seep slowly in, I ponder these things. Something inside me has the drive to really understand the reasoning behind my own emotions. I don’t know if this sort of self analization is the right thing to be doing or not and I guess it couldn’t really hurt anything but, regardless, I will be bringing up these new ponderings with Annie, my therapist, the next time we meet.

Versus

I got to go outside yesterday for the first time in two. After each meal there is an alloted amount slot of time for “fresh air” and you have to have eaten 100% of the previous 3 meals in order to achieve the privilege. Since I had arrived I had always just assumed that “fresh air” time was more for smokers than anyone else and that all you did was stand around on the pavement out front doing nothing. It didn’t seem terribly appealing to me so I was pretty surprised to find that assumption proved wrong once again.

We elevated down to the bottom floor and exited at the side of the building into the natural light. It was the first non-rainy day in almost a week and the warmth felt great. By comparison our little wing of the hospital could have passed for an icebox. We stepped out onto a short walkway leading to a small lawn, a semi-neglected little garden, numerous benches and chairs, and a rather good view of the Hudson River beyond the highway. I don’t know if I’ll be going out every time the opportunity arises but I was definitely pleasantly surprised.

Towards the end of our little outing we were joined by 5 or 6 guys from the THC study that is occurring in a different wing of the building. Apparently there is a lot more going on here than I am aware of because fascination upon finding out that there was an actual study promoting the smoking of pot definitely ensued. Its like Wonka’s chocolate factory – you never know what going on behind the next closed door!

Back in the building again I finally got the okay to move into my new room. My roommate, Elle, had already established herself in the space closes to the window so I began unpacking my thing on the remaining bed next to the door. Twin sets of basic furniture decorated either side of the room and we each had a barren closet that I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with. Elle, who has been here once before for treatment, informed me that they used to come equipped with hangers but that privilege was taken away when one of the previous residents had apparently tried to hang herself from her hanger. So, with no real dresser as replacement, I finagled my suitcases into a make-shift tower for my clothes with a shrug. Heck, you win some, you lose some, right?

Oh, and due to the force of gravity vs. the strength of a plastic hanger I wasn’t surprised to hear that the suicidal girl hadn’t succeeded. This may be a semi-surreal setting compared to every day life but the laws of physics do still apply.