By Michelle Wells, Remuda Ranch Alumna
It didn’t take long for Remuda Ranch to become my home and her
residents my family, but my stay there was temporary. I knew that from
the moment I arrived. Though letters from family and phone calls from
home were comforting and something that I looked forward to, they were
also a reminder that life beyond the ranch was going on without me.
That was good and bad, I suppose. One the one hand, it hurt. I had a
husband and five kids whom I loved and missed dearly. On the other
hand, it was in their voices, written notes and hand drawn pictures that
I found the inspiration to live. The countdown until discharge was
constant. The bridge that would get me there, Family Week, was a respite
I had anticipated from the moment I arrived.
After being away from home for weeks, the days leading up to Family Week
were exciting and filled with anticipation. The other participants and I
made welcome posters for our families. Laughing like school girls
preparing for prom, we picked out our clothes, then planned and
re-planned our days out.
In the quiet moments, though, I was nervous. Since our children were too
young to participate, my husband and I would be a family of two. With
the help of therapy and nutrition, I had changed a lot. Three concerns
haunted me:
1. Not only had I gained weight, I still had a feeding tube in my nose. What would my husband think?
2. My denial had been shattered. I was really sick. I had hurt myself,
but I had also hurt my family. Could my husband and our children forgive
me? I had also been hurt. Could I forgive my husband?
3. As much as I wanted to go home, I knew I could not manage
recovery
on my own. Could our marriage become what I needed it to be? Could my
husband love me the way I needed to be loved?
Learning How to Live and Love
When the big day came, I hung the posters and waited out front. As my
husband pulled into the parking lot and waved, the gleam in his eye made
his emotions clear. Kirk was happy to see me.
Though Family Week would be busy and challenging, our reunion was
magical. As he held me in his arms relief washed over me, a baptism, of
sorts, into our new lives. My husband still loved me. He kissed me then
traced my feeding tube with his finger. I pushed his hand away. My face
warmed, the heat rising to my ears. Tears boiled over and trickled down
my cheeks. “It’s okay,” he said. “You don’t need to hide anymore.” He
held my hands in his. “Besides, it looks kind of good on you.” We
laughed until we cried and then we laughed some more. We had a lot to
learn. Family Week would help with that.
The first couple of mornings were filled with education. While the
residents remained on campus, Kirk and the other family participants
spent the mornings learning about eating disorders, communication
skills, and recovery. These lessons provided a foundation for
understanding and insight, necessary skills for healing beyond Remuda
Ranch. Time for reflection and communicating with my primary therapist
helped Kirk gain insight. He, too, played a role in my disease. Though I
was the one with anorexia, we both had issues, individually and
together, that needed to be addressed in order for me (and for us) to
heal. In addition, Kirk found empathy and strength from talking with the
other families. He was not alone.
Just like residents were assigned to family groups at Remuda Ranch, we
were split up into small groups at Family Week. A few families worked
together with a team of therapist throughout the week. Some of that time
was spent doing activities. When words seemed exhausting, Art Therapy
gave us the opportunity to feel and put expression to our experience.
Years later, we still treasure a mixed media project we created
together. It is a precious reminder of heartache and restoration. Zip
Lining and Rock Climbing, essential elements from the challenge course,
pushed us to our limits, forcing us to trust and encourage each other
and the rest of our “family.” We also laughed a lot. Anorexia, the thief
that keeps on taking, had stolen our joy. We were taking it back.
Truth in Love
The most difficult part of the week took place behind closed doors with
our family group. At the time, we seemed like an odd match for our
group. We, two younger parents with little kids, were grouped together
with “older” parents of college-aged students. It is only now, writing
this, that I wonder if that was by design. It must have been. Much of my
own trauma had taken place during my high school and college years. I
learned and healed by watching and supporting the two other families
share their hurts and heal their hearts.
With the guidance of two therapists, each family took turns being the
focus. Kirk and I were scheduled to go last. This was beneficial for us
because both of us feel more comfortable after a time of observation. We
listened and heard what pain and healthy disclosure sounded like. We
watched and learned how to meet sadness and sorrow with compassion. We
witnessed forgiveness followed by restoration and realized we need not
be afraid. Through it all, we supported the other residents and their
families. By helping others we come to understand ourselves more
clearly. The message to both of us was clear: eating disorders thrive
in isolation; hope and healing are found in community.
When the day arrived for our “Truth in Love” exchange, I was petrified.
Introverted by nature, both my husband and I struggled to communicate.
Our sensitive hearts were hidden behind layers of quick wit and sarcasm.
Sharing on a deep level while sitting in front of others highlighted
every weakness. However, much like yanking off a Band-Aid, it was
necessary for recovery.
Kirk and I sat face-to-face and knee-to-knee. With the therapists at our
sides for guidance, each of us shared from notes we had prepared. We
began with a message of love, the foundation to which we could always
return. We proceeded with our goals, the signposts that would guide us
through the morning. Those were difficult but safe exchanges, baby steps
for the leaps of faith that would come later. Beautiful moments, to be
sure, but our knees were knocking (literally) because we knew what was
coming. We took a break to regroup.
After a quick dose of encouragement from my therapist and a few moments
to breathe, Kirk and I sat down again. My reserved husband sat in front
of me, looked me in the eye, and asked forgiveness. Mistake-by-mistake,
offense-by-offense, he admitted his faults. His voice stammered but he
had never appeared stronger. Line-by-line, I forgave him. My forgiveness
was real, but I remained stoic and still, shocked that my husband had
done anything that necessitated forgiveness. I, after all, was the one
at Remuda Ranch.
The morning was filled with stops and starts because I was still quick
to disengage and dissociate. The therapists proceeded at a slow pace,
careful not to overwhelm either of us. I shared my many wrongs, some
obvious and some secret, and Kirk forgave me. We chipped away at the
wall that dysfunction had built between us. We were choosing to forgive
and move forward. Together.
Since a traumatic exchange was pivotal in the development of my eating
disorder, our therapists had decided that a role play was important to
my recovery. With the therapists’ guiding us, we reenacted the event.
This time Kirk responded differently and acted as my protector. Although
the scene did not play out as smoothly or dramatically as they had
likely hoped, I learned and healed a lot. I understood that my husband
was willing to risk everything to save me. I knew I was no longer alone.
I realized that my family of origin no longer wielded power over me. I
could create a future that looked different from my past.
After the intensive family work, our family group talked as a whole
about our exchange. It was a valuable time filled with insight and
support, a chance to look inside at ourselves and our relationship and
an opportunity to learn from our experiences. By discussing what they
had witnessed, the other families helped me see things about my behavior
that I had missed. The others couples provided insight about our
relationship.
Some shared how they had struggled with similar issues. They praised our
strengths and challenged us in areas where we needed to grow. The other
patients encouraged me. They had witnessed the progress I had made
during my stay at Remuda. When we returned to campus, my Family Week
group encouraged one another and held each other accountable. Giving and
receiving support within the context of healthy relationships, I
learned, brings lasting transformation.
The Long View
Though we had both grown a lot during Family Week, there was much work
to be done, so before Kirk returned home we met with my primary
therapist. This gave us an opportunity to discuss my needs, the
importance of aftercare, and our plan for future treatment. An IOP would
be necessary as I stepped back into the real world. We would need to
continue working individually and as a couple, if I wanted to stay on
the road to recovery. Our time with my therapist helped us get a
realistic view of the long-term recovery process. I had been sick for a
very long time; it would be a long time before I was well. With a
concrete plan of action returning home no longer felt so scary. Kirk and
I both had hope for our future.
Family Week was an important part of our healing. My husband understood
much more about eating disorders, relationships, and recovery. He better
understood the severity of my illness, but he also felt more equipped
to build a future. Family Week helped us remember what it felt like to
love and laugh again, but it also gave us the desire to talk about the
hard things.
Family Week gave us a sense of community and family. We no longer felt
like “freaks” battling an unknown foe. Family Week remains in our hearts
as a time of healing and promise, a retreat to the desert where we
caught our breath, gathered our tools, practiced our skills, and built
our army. I now see it as a sort of boot camp. The lessons we learned
during Family Week continue to teach us and shape our relationship.
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