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By Root 1067 0

identify our own problems. I was drawn to a series of pages in particular that illustrated the roles people play in a dysfunctional family, along with their internal and external traits, and to what special assets, in good recovery, those traits could be converted. There is the Victim, the chemically dependent person who is hostile, aggressive, and self-pitying on the outside but filled with shame, guilt, pain, and fear on the inside. There is the Chief Enabler, who is emotionally closest to the Victim and who martyrs him- or herself to the Victim’s care; the Mascot, or the family clown, who covers his or her insecurity with childish antics and humor; and the Scapegoat, the family rebel who is always in trouble, hiding rejection, hurt, jealousy, and anger inside. None of these seemed to fit me, even though I could pin onto others the right assessment. Then I looked at the Family Hero, a responsible, high-achieving “good kid” who follows the rules and is super-responsible, while inside he or she feels guilt, hurt, and inadequacy. I suspected an outsider might think that one fit me, except for the part about following rules (I liked having my own way, thank you very much). But I didn’t feel like the hero child of my family; in fact, it felt more like a convenient label placed on me so as not to have to deal with me.

Finally, there is the Lost Child, who feels rejected, hurt, and anxious on the inside but to the outside world seems quiet and shy. He or she is solitary, lives in a fantasy world, seems mediocre, attaches more to things than people. Shy? Mmm. Mediocre? Not on your life. I pondered if my wonderful fairies, having Catherine the Great as an imaginary friend at age seventeen, fit the “fantasy life” criteria. I certainly went through a hypermaterialistic phase in high school, when all I cared about was the right type of clothes—anything with an alligator on it would do—so that I could fit in with my preppy friends. And I drew those elaborate houses in grade eleven, thinking I would be happy if I just lived in one like that. It passed, thank God, but I could identify. Then I arrived at the bottom of the list for Lost Child and found a characteristic on which I could absolutely hang my hat: “Pets are very important.” When I saw that one thing, I began to have trust in the treatment team. It was only one sentence out of all those pages, but it nailed me. I am a Lost Child.

That night I had a conference call scheduled, and all the bed-and-breakfast had was one old rotary phone, and my mobile didn’t have service. The call was important enough to me that it pushed me out the door, willing to approach and knock on a stranger’s door to borrow their phone, using a calling card. The first door I knocked on turned out to be Tennie and R.L.’s house. That was my first interaction with her outside of the group room, and I tried not to look too obvious, surveying her beautiful screened-in porch with a full-size bed as a swing, laden with inviting pillows. When my call was finished, we stood in a plush sitting room full of folk art and oozing family feel. We had a little chat. She asked me straight out if I was anorexic. (Knowing now that bulimia is about anger, I realize that if I had an eating disorder, I’d likely be bulimic.) I knew I wasn’t anorexic, but I told her, “I don’t know,” because I had already figured out that at Shades, a vigorous denial was the same as an admission! She said something about listening to the similarities over the course of the week, not the differences, or something comforting like that, nonjudgmental and inviting. I don’t really know. I just knew I wanted her to keep talking, even as I didn’t want to admit I wanted her to keep talking.

It was a brief exchange, but long enough for Tennie to make the strangest suggestion out of the blue: write my mother a letter with my nondominant hand. She said it would be awkward, illegible, slow, and that was fine, just to do it.

I woke up early the next day, well before I was adequately rested, with the usual brew of anxiety and pain. I thought, Well, I lie