Detox Mansion ch. 3

Winston sat at his desk on Friday night after Group, typing on an old desktop Mac. “Proposal for Lita’s recovery”, the document was titled. He’d make a list of activities that would function as mild exposure therapy. Experiences with different kinds of food, activities to draw Lita out of their shell a bit. Next to him were some brochures from the Thoreau Center explaining different eating disorders. Off the top of his head he knew that anorexia was starvation, bulimia was a cycle of binging and purging, then there was binge-eating disorder, and myriad other variations of restricting food and over-exercising. Some eating disorders had nothing to do with the desire to look acceptably thin, another pamphlet read, this one about people who avoided food out of fear of getting sick or poisoned. Winston didn’t want to pry into Lita’s problems; he would let Lita tell him on their own terms.

Winston didn’t consider himself a gourmet, but he’d lived long enough in the Boston area that he knew of the best food experiences. Inevitably, some of those experiences had been tainted by copious amounts of alcohol on the side, so he hoped he could go back and create new memories to replace the old ones.

So far, his list read:

-Dim Sum at Chinatown (unfamiliar foods, maybe discover something new that they love)

-Swimming? Is wearing a bathing suit a trigger?

-the indoor farmers market. They have the best gelato anywhere.

-day trip to Vermont. Long car ride but worth going to the farm to table place I know up there. also, ben & jerrys

-Any place with a good record store, obv.

-is there still that big hispanic supermarket near the Arboretum? i should take Lita there and they can give me recs, and there’s piraguas too

He didn’t have much, but there was a month’s worth of activities on there at least.

Meanwhile, at Lita’s house, they were being grilled by their overbearing, overprotective matriarchs.

“Who’s been dropping you off?” Lita’s mother asked, while Lita was trying to unwind with some mindless Netflix.

“Just one of the group members who lives near me, he gives me a ride.” Lita answered curtly then put back their headphones.

“He? This is a man?” Lita’s mother pressed forward.

“Yeah he’s like dad age, no biggie.” Lita kept their eyes on the screen.

Lita’s mother went over and slammed their laptop shut. Lita yelped but their mother gave them a fierce stare.

“Can’t you take public transit? You can’t trust strange men like that.” Across the room, Lita’s grandmother did the sign of the cross and pulled out a rosary.

“He’s not a stranger, mama, he’s someone I know from group, he’s a friend. He’s like me.” Lita protested. “And he’s harmless. He’s married, he has a kid probably…” Lita actually didn’t know if the latter was true.

“And he’s my friend. We actually get along really well together, we have a lot in common, with the disorder and all.” Lita gave imploring glances at their mother and grandmother, whispering Hail Marys in Spanish.

“I need to meet him.” Lita’s mother said firmly, leaving to the kitchen. Lita knew that was the final word on the matter.

For Lita’s whole life, living just with their mother and maternal grandmother, they had been overprotected with fear and paranoia. In their backpack’s front pocket, Lita carried a rosary on the insistence of their grandmother that it would protect them. They weren’t allowed to leave the house without abuelita administering a splash of holy water and a blessing, and if abuelita wasn’t around, Lita would receive a phone call in the middle of wherever they are, making sure they weren’t dead in a ditch somewhere. Lita grew up with a strict curfew of 8 pm, 9pm if it was summer, even earlier in the short winter days. Group was stretching it, but the matriarchs made a dispensation for Lita’s therapy. Back when Lita had friends, they had to pass the approval of mother and grandmother. And not all of Lita’s friends made the cut.

Saturday was a hot, beautiful mid-June day. Winston pulled up in his beat-up red sedan covered in snarky bumper stickers about being a writer and an atheist. Lita ran out to greet him with a breathless warning.

“Before we leave my mom needs to meet you. She needs to make sure you’re not going to kidnap me and slit my throat. She and my grandma watch a lot of TruTV and they’re convinced that everyone is out to get me.”

Winston smiled wryly. “I’m not sure I can convince them.” He was dressed casually for summertime heat in a Hawaiian shirt and frayed cargo shorts.

“Also, they’re, uhh, super Catholic. Crazy Latino Catholic.” Lita sad, eyeing the back of Winston’s car with apprehension. A sticker proudly announced, “Jesus is my favorite zombie ”.

“I’ll try not to catch on fire, but I can’t make any promises.” Winston said as they climbed up the stairs to the entrance.

Winston was unusually shy and withdrawn around the Zamora women. Immediately upon entering there was a cabinet topped with religious statues, dried roses, and a bottle of holy water from the Vatican. He introduced himself as “Winston from Group Therapy” who shared Lita’s love of classic rock and understanding of their shared mental illness.

“Es guapo.” Lita’s grandmother, who only spoke Spanish, gave Lita an approving look. Lita grimaced, of course her grandmother would assume he was an eligible bachelor.

“So where are you two going?” Lita’s mom asked kindly, with a firm edge.

“To the indoor farmer’s market in Boston. There’s a really good gelato place that I think Lita would really like, along with good food in general.”

Lita’s mother and grandmother exchanged delighted looks.

“Go on then, have fun!” She beamed at them.

Lita and Winston smiled conspiratorially as they left the house.

“I think they’re just relieved that I’m going out to eat and getting ice cream.” Lita said as they got into the car.

The market was bustling with crowds of people who all had the same idea of escaping from the heat in the cool, cavernous building.

“Let’s go for a round and check out the different options for lunch.” Winston suggested, leading the way.

The market was like Faneuil Hall but four times larger, like what Lita imagined Pike Place in Seattle or Chelsea Market in NYC must be like. Boston had theirs only recently but it was full of wholly unique food stalls representing every style of cuisine and every region of the world. Lita very quickly became overwhelmed.

“See anything you like?” Winston asked.

“Oh God, there’s too many choices.” Lita groaned. Currently they were mentally debating between falafel or tacos. The crowds of people buzzing was making everything worse. Lita clenched their fists, hunched over, and began shaking all over.

“Well, the Thai stand looks good, and I recommend the burgers at-“ Winston had been trying to make friendly conversation but Lita ignored him and blitzed through the crowds to the restrooms.

In the gender-neutral bathroom, there was a moment of silence at last. Lita screamed for a good while, then burst into tears, then splashed cold water on their face. That was something they’d read about long ago; that splashing cold water onto the face could be good for panic attacks. And Lita was having a textbook example of one right now. Beginning to calm down, Lita took big, shuddering breaths and eyed themself uneasily in the mirror. They had their hair in a loose ponytail with hair falling out by their ears, and they had on an old, soft Pink Floyd shirt. They had on some eyeliner, which was running a bit, but with some water and paper towels, Lita managed to wipe it away.

Lita came out of the bathroom still blotchy and red-eyed from the panic attack.

“Hey! Are you alright?” Winston had been sitting at the bench outside the restroom and immediately sprang up when Lita emerged.

“I had a meltdown because I was overstimulated.” Lita stated calmly, matter-of-factly. No use hiding what was obvious.

“I’m sorry.” Winston looked away, feeling guilt creep up. “We can leave if you want.”

“No, I don’t want to leave, I—oh!” Lita exclaimed. Out of the corner of their eye they saw a familiar logo above one of the food stalls.

“I want to go there.” Lita pointed at a stall called Juice Mama, the logo playfully decorated with cartoon beets and kale.

Winston’s face remained expressionless, but inwardly he cringed. So this was Lita’s preference in food.

But this outing was about them, about having an enjoyable experience with food.

“I don’t think I told you I was vegetarian.” Lita said as they waited in line.

“No, I didn’t know that.” Winston replied. “I’m more of a steak guy, myself, but my arteries could use a break. I could go for some green juice.”

Lita explained to Winston that they worked every Thursday for a few hours at their Cambridge location, as a juicer. Often, Lita could take home extra portions of brown rice, quinoa, veggies and organic condiment sauces made of tahini and almond butter. They ordered confidently for the two of them: a King of Cups bowl for Winston, an Ace of Wands bowl for Lita and cups of green juice for both of them. Taking a seat at vintage tin chairs, Lita was eagerly chattering away, in their element.

“Isn’t it neat that all the dishes are named after Tarot cards? I am fascinated by the Tarot.” Lita chirped.

Winston merely smiled and nodded. He wasn’t impressed by the bowl of grassy tasting quinoa, steamed broccoli crowns, tofu cubes and miso glaze, or the bitter green juice, but seeing Lita devour their bowl was worth it.

“Does having too many choices overwhelm you?” Winston asked after a bit of silence. They had finished eating, and remained seated for a little longer.

“Yeah..” Lita mumbled. “It’s the worst. I just want to pick between A or B. Or better yet, have no choice to make.”

“So for gelato, the best flavor is honestly just espresso so we can get that.” Winston got up and stretched.

The line for gelato snaked around the walls of the market. It would be several minutes, but they were game for waiting. However, almost like clockwork, Winston was sure he would have a freakout of his own when his ex-wife wheeled up to the line with a two-year old in a stroller.

Lita noticed the young mother first. She was haltingly beautiful, with a model’s high cheekbones and wide-spaced eyes. Somehow she had both evenly tanned skin and a perfect sprinkling of freckles. She wasn’t wearing bland new-mom clothes either, but looked effortlessly chic in a maxi summer dress. Even the baby’s stroller looked high-end, to the best of Lita’s extremely limited understanding of baby acoutrements.

“Hi, Winston.” She spoke with a smooth, refined voice.

Winston involuntarily jerked and turned around to be face-to-face with his ex wife and the baby that wasn’t his after all. Lita looked on in puzzlement, at how someone pale and wraithlike as Winston had once been married to, for all intents and purposes, a supermodel.

“Oh hey, Peggy!” Winston shrugged and stiffly waved his hand.

“Who is this you’re with?” Peggy smiled warmly at Lita.

“This is my friend from the Group, Lita. You could say we’re each other’s sponsor.” Lita nodded heartily.

“I see.” Peggy said, raising an eyebrow with disapproval. Feeling the tension, Lita focused their eyes on the baby in the stroller, who was looking around with enormous blue eyes and had adorably plump cheeks. Lita tried to smile at the baby, he merely looked back with a blank stare.

“I heard the best flavor here is espresso.” Lita said, cracking a nervous smile at the two ex-spouses who stood in fraught silence. They ignored Lita, launching into their own conversation.

“So how’s it been?” Peggy asked, sincerity softening her voice.

“Pretty good actually.” Winston replied. “I go to meetings three times a week, and I’ve been smoking less too,” he gestured to Lita, “they’re helping me quit.”

Lita grinned and waved. “I’m like his accountability buddy.”

Finally it was their turn to order. They got two espresso cones and parted ways from Peggy.

Once outside, Winston was walking briskly with his long legs outpacing Lita who jogged behind him. He was taking giant bites of gelato and had polished off his cone long before Lita. He leaned against a wall outside the train station and ripped out his package of cigarettes and lighter.

“What are you doing?” Lita protested. “Don’t start smoking now!”

“I’m a nervous fuckin’ wreck.” Winston grumbled, clenching a cigarette between his molars.

“Okay, so you smoke when you’re stressed out,” Lita ambled around, waving their hands as they thought out loud. “Why don’t you do something else?” Winston had already began taking a few puffs.

Lita was frantic. They couldn’t fail Winston, but they also had no idea what it was like to have a craving for smoking. The closest thing Lita knew was a craving to do what the Group called “behaviors”, a blanket term for any eating disorder behavior or self harm.

For Lita, it was an urge to not merely look at their reflection but scrutinize and criticize it. An urge to take a bite of a food considered “bad” and then run to a bathroom or trash can to spit it out. The overwhelming need to immediately run around the block or do rounds of push-ups after eating a meal.

“Uh, uhhh, why don’t you try screaming?” Lita shrugged. Sure, they were in a public space, but the street was busy enough with people, and it wasn’t entirely unheard of to hear someone screaming in Downtown.

“FUUUUCK!” Winston bellowed, leaning his forehead against the wall. “That’s it,” Lita raised their hands like a conductor, encouraging Winston along.

“Fucking Peggy, man!” Winston continued yelling. “She waits until now to tell me that kid isn’t even mine.” He calmed down and slumped to the ground. Lita squatted next to him.

“This is why I never go out.” Winston sighed. “Because at any given moment she could show up and remind me of how badly I fucked up. I guess it’s my own fault for staying in Boston and going to all the old places we used to go on dates to.”

Lita had been so preoccupied with helping Winston that streams of melting gelato ran down their hand. Cat-like, they licked around the cone and took large bites of rapidly . The gelato was delicious but it was more of an afterthought as Lita focused on Winston.

“I know, I’m afraid of running into people from my past too.” Lita looked at Winston, then at people passing them by on the street. “This city’s too small. Sometimes I see the girl who called me homophobic slurs in the check out line at Star Market and I feel like dying.”

Winston looked up at Lita.

“Next time we can go somewhere farther afield, for our sake.”

One of the various journal prompts Lita had was to write about a recovery goal. Back home, full of quinoa and gelato and a good day with Winston, Lita stretched out in bed thinking of how their life could be better.

“Living in recovery mode, I could move forward with life. I want to move out of my mom’s house and live independently. I’m not sure I want to go to college, because there isn’t anything I really want to study.”

Lita was deeply unimpressed by the college visit they’d taken fall of senior year with their class. About half an hour from Brighton High School, the state school was deep in the forests and office parks of suburbia. There wasn’t even a nearby commuter rail station. You had to take a college shuttle bus to the station. Or to the local suburban mall. Lita was trying to escape the suburbs, not lodge themself deeper in their isolation. It was bad enough that they lived at the westernmost edge of Boston. Lita, accustomed to their own cozy bedroom, scoffed at the spartan bunk beds and simple wood furniture of the dorms. There were shared showers and bathrooms where one had to wear flip flops out of fear of foot fungus. Worst of all was the dining hall. Lita recoiled in horror as the tour guide cheerfully rattled off different offerings at the buffet, including an all-you-can-eat ice cream bar with daily rotating selections of toppings. Blithely, the tour guide mentioned that Freshman Fifteen was a common occurrence.

Looking back now, with three weeks’ worth of therapy, Lita was in the process of deprogramming from years of toxic messaging about diet culture. So what if someone gained 15 pounds in freshman year, they thought. It was a stressful environment. Adjusting to college was challenging for most, traumatic for some. It was important for students to be eating enough, and this college was generous enough to provide unlimited food to anyone with a meal plan. But even without the dining hall, the environment felt suffocating to Lita. Claustrophobic, trapped in a prison surrounded by pine trees, with their inmates being the same types of people who bullied Lita their whole life.

At the tour, Lita had asked if there were any art programs. The guide had said they had a general art bachelor degree, which seemingly incorporated every discipline. Lita had pressed further, was it in sculpture? Photography? Painting? Was there a program for cartooning or animation? The tour guide, feeling the pressure, shrugged and responded that it was “just art in general”. Lita was disgusted, though didn’t show it outwardly.

“Maybe I’d like to go to art school.” Lita wrote, just after having written that they weren’t sure about college at all. They wrote a bit more. “All the good art schools are in L.A., I think I’d be happier there. Far from all the people who bullied me, and all the places I have bad associations with. Plus, I hear that L.A. is full of good vegetarian and vegan places.”