What do you call a place you stayed at while but never called home? What do you call a state you never filed taxes in but spent over a year living there? I call that place - Arizona.
If you were a stranger and were to ask me how well I knew Arizona, I would say I know it almost as well as my home state of Ohio. But I would not tell you how I know that because no one hardly speaks of these things.
When I was 19 years old, I was sent alone on a Southwest Boeing jet, to Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport where short stoggy women with grey hair and scrubs picked me up in a mini-van and drove my frail body and soul me to a horse ranch slash treatment center just outside of the Pheonix metro area.
At that point in my life, I had been in-patient treatment for my diagnosis of anorexia nervosa four times before this time. My case was severe enough to get insurance to cover some of it - but traditional psych hospital stays no matter how much weight was restored to my frame never stuck. So, my mother tried sending me to the other side of the country to try to get well, while surrounded by my childhood obsession: horses.
There used to be a certain time of year when I could viscerally remember how the days on the ranch felt. Now, I have polka-dotted flashes of memory here and there. I remember the days there were just that - days. The sun came up early, and I would arise with it to come out of my lodge room in a hospital gown to another room to be weighed on an analog scale backward. The sound of the scale weights tipping and clanking twice - a sound that triggers my anxiety to this day. Once weighed, I would walk into the kitchen dining area and grab a large mug of coffee already prepared - the coffee always tasted like chicory, and still drank it black. Occasionally add soy milk.
After weights and coffee, I would go back to my room and dress for the day, usually something baggy because my body was changing and clothes touching me was the last thing I wanted.
For most of my time at the ranch, I had an NG feeding tube down my nose into the throat. This was therapeutic - not as torturous as it sounds and I would clip the end of the tube up into my ponytail during the day. At night, my tube and I were hooked up to a feeder kind of like an IV but to my stomach - it would drip a calorie-dense formula into my stomach - feeding me the calories I needed to restore my weight without me having to eat more than what I was physically comfortable with.
At a certain time of year, the air in the Midwest smells like the ranch. Something thousands of miles away will smell like the dry heat of rocks and sand or the whiff of javelina in the bushes.
There were more than just horses on the ranch, wildlife persisted within the fences. Once, one of the health techs had to kill a nest of diamondback rattlesnakes in the backyard close to the smoking area. There was a tarantilla in the shower area - I remember being unphased knowing that I could outrun it if needed. Perhaps I was also dealing with fears greater than my own arachnophobia (minor if at all). Eating three square meals with snacks and talking about my issues was enough for one day. You gotta pick those battles.
Somewhere I still have menus from the meals that were served - the food was not terrible but it often came in odds pairings like pizza with a side of green bean casserole or spaghetti with a side of ham. Something like that at least - snacks were carbs like grapes, cookies, or pudding (so much pudding was consumed). Breakfast was always the easiest meal to eat because I had some degree of hunger for it. Every time it was available to order, I would opt for the giant bran muffin with a side of cottage cheese and orange juice. A pairing I still crave today although I have never been able to find or duplicate the muffins. Maybe they were closer to a Morning Glory muffin. Either way, a very specific food for a very specific place.
I spent two months at the ranch my first time. And almost six months my second time because I was a little worse for wear. The ranch in many ways felt like camp when it wasn’t work. I imagine part of me wanted to stay because I was never lonely there - and I got to interact with horses and delicious muffins. I had a really good therapist my second time around - it was my first time having a male therapist and I imagine he told me some truths I needed to hear. Truths I hope I’ve been able to see a little more clearly as time has gone on.
I love going back to Arizona as a normal person. I’ve been to Sedona and Phoenix over a half dozen times since my last time in treatment in 2004. It is a reminder of my survival. For so long life was about just staying alive (all while talking about/doing hard things). And then it was about starting to live once I got there. 20 years later, it is about expanding life to be as full and beautiful as possible.
I never filed taxes in Arizona but I think I owe it some credit - for showing me something more than the state I was in and how far I could go to stay on this planet.
Be well.
