Mail time was always my favorite part of the day, because I was able to have contact with the outside world. It reminded me that there were sane people in the world who weren't hell-bent on destroying themselves, which was always cheering.
I wasn't a big cryer while in treatment, but getting letters from my family always made me cry, because it was one of the only times I allowed myself to think about how much I really missed them. Leaving my son last year was especially difficult, and that's putting it lightly. It was the worst thing I've ever done. To him and to myself. Man I suck.
With each stay in treatment, I received less and less mail, which was always more than a little disheartening. My mom faithfully wrote me, but my siblings, by my third round of treatment, didn't really bother. This, of course, bugged me a lot, but who can blame them? I suppose it'd be tough to have a sister who they never thought would get better. Brandon (the husband) wasn't always the best letter writer, either. He faithfully came to visit me every week, and we talked on the phone twice a week, but letter writing wasn't one of his strong points. I tried not to be offended by this. I remember once I even wrote him a completely scandalous letter that was pretty much porn, seeing if I could get a response. I did, but not the written one I was hoping for...
After mail time is over, it was time to get ready for Nia. Oh, Nia. How I hated this with a fiery passion. Really I had a special hatred I reserved just for this crazy, modern, eclectic dancing the CFC called therapeutic.
I always loved the first month or so of treatment, because I didn't have to go to Nia. This was because I wasn't exercise approved because my heart or electrolytes were out of wack or whatever. But as soon as I was healthy enough, (I took this to be fat enough) going to Nia was mandatory.
Thus began the longest hour and a half of the entire week. We'd go down the exercise room, wearing shorts and gym shirts and feeling fat and insecure. Many girls loved Nia. I could never get into it. I wasn't about getting "in touch" with my body and depicting my pain and rage or whatever through dance and movement.
Cue weird, creepy music, and it was time to start moving. Our exercise routines included things like making clouds and hearts with hand gestures, marching around like robots, leaping around with scarves, holding hands and running in circles, and doing tribal incantations.
I could never keep a straight face, and always tried desperately to claim the back corner of the room before another self-conscious freak did. I was never more painfully aware of how tall and fat (I thought, at least) I was than when I was leaping around like a monkey, all arms and legs in all their lurpy glory.
The over-exercisers loved Nia, and would always go above and beyond the routine to burn the maximum amount of calories possible, while I, on the other side of the spectrum, tried my damndest to move as little as possible, which mainly consisted of me looking at the floor with my arms crossed and shuffling my feet.
Nia was excruciating. Worse than excruciating. The one positive thing about it, however; was that often I was able to sufficiently work off enough food in my stomach that I wasn't so full I would burst by evening snack.
Because it was next on the schedule.
One more chapter, folks, and this crazy epic will be complete! I wonder if it is you or I that is more thrilled about this? It's debatable, I'm sure.