do that,” he says, and Kitty immediately bursts into tears, burying her face in one of Ms. Susan’s overstuffed pillows. “It would be a lot easier for me to say nothing,” he continues. “But I’m trying to take care of you, and I need to bring up the difficult things.”
I am moved, as I have been so often this fall, by his willingness to not just show up but stand up for our daughter. It’s hard to say these things to Kitty right now. It’s hard to watch her fall apart. I think it’s especially hard for him, because he comes from a family of enablers and avoiders. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t seek out conflict. Our roles here have flipped; I’m usually the confrontational one, always up for challenging the status quo. But I find it so painful to articulate what I’m seeing these days that I’ve retreated into silence more and more. Kitty’s lucky to have him for a parent, though she may not feel that way right now, or for the foreseeable future. About either of us.
The day after our session, Kitty seems much calmer, more relaxed. After school she works on a jigsaw puzzle with Emma and me, though she says she doesn’t like puzzles. She’s nicer to me, giving me a spontaneous hug in the kitchen as I make tea. Most of all, she’s clearly making an effort to eat more of what’s on her plate. We measure her progress in crusts and crumbs, and keep going.
December is busy, as usual. There are school concerts and neighborhood potlucks and holiday parties, and every one of them involves food. This year we attend as few as possible: Emma’s violin concert, my office holiday party. Kitty hits a couple of rough patches: finals are looming, and Ms. Susan thinks some of Kitty’s anxiety comes from the pressure she puts on herself to not just do well in school but do perfectly. On her advice we pull Kitty out of school two weeks before the end of the semester and have her guidance counselor let her teachers know she will not take finals for medical reasons. Immediately Kitty seems more relaxed, better able to eat.
“People with eating disorders don’t tend to do well with stress,” Ms. Susan reminds us for the hundredth time.
No. Well. Neither do their families, at the moment.
The second rough patch has to do with sleep—or rather, the lack of it. Kitty’s had insomnia on and off since last spring. The psychiatrist has tried a variety of medications, none of which have helped. In early December, Dr. Newbie prescribes Ambien. It’s not particularly helpful; Kitty falls asleep fast but still wakes up several times during the night. And she’s groggy in the morning, even though I’m giving her only half a dose.
After a couple of days on Ambien, Kitty’s still not sleeping well. She complains of anxiety, says she can’t concentrate or read. One evening she starts to hallucinate, rolling her eyes, backing away from some invisible threat. I don’t give her an Ambien that night. The next day I call a friend who’s a psychiatrist, who tells me that Ambien can cause paranoia and a psychosis-like state, especially in children. Why didn’t the psychiatrist mention that when she prescribed it? Or the pharmacist, when we filled it? Someone should have told us to watch out for a reaction like this. Shouldn’t they have?
I toss the Ambien. Better living through chemistry isn’t the answer here. Alas.
Our days take on a semblance of normality, one that includes the regular, predictable landmarks of three meals and two snacks a day. But by mid-December, Kitty’s weight hasn’t budged; after nearly five months of refeeding, she’s still ten pounds below her target, in part because she continues to grow.
I’ve spent time recently on a couple of online forums for families with eating-disordered children—one that focuses on the Maudsley approach, and another, bigger site that’s more general. It’s a relief to know we’re not alone, that other families are doing what we’re doing, and succeeding at it. But it seems like other people’s children gain weight much faster than Kitty.
I realize how much like an anorexic I sound—competitiveness is a hallmark of the illness. The truth is, I want this to be over. For fourteen years my daughter has been a daily part of my life, and I miss her. I miss the small moments most. Occasionally we’d walk arm in arm to the grocery store or park,