I liked the act of digging my teeth into something that took work to chew. I couldn’t taste a thing, but I detected texture. I ordered a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Glampfire Trail Mix and as soon as it arrived I dug my spoon into satisfying chunks of pretzel, chewy marshmallows and crunchy fudge-covered almonds. After days of not eating enough, I decided to seek it in a food that I used to love eating with my mom: ice cream. Chewing felt like a chore, and every bite took effort I didn’t want to expend. It was merely sustenance, and so I settled for the bland, bare minimum. I’d start to place granola on top of my yogurt, but uncomfortably familiar questions would stop me.ĭo you really need to eat that? Why waste the calories? I’d put one and a half slices of cheese on my grilled cheese sandwich instead of two and a half. When I would make my breakfast in the mornings after losing my taste, I’d forgo frothed milk in my coffee, opting to drink it black instead. Anorexia beckoned me, reminding me that I could shed even more weight off my already slender frame if I skimped here and slacked there. It always lurks in the background and I have to make a concerted effort to keep it cornered. The disorder secretly seduces me, satisfying my affinity for control and order. But some days, my mind still flirts with anorexia. Now, at 35, after 20 years in recovery, I’m far better than I’d ever thought I’d be. It’s what my family had told me, and so I believed it to be true. She’d been sick with metastatic breast cancer for three years, and even when it spread to her bone marrow, her liver and her brain, I was still convinced she’d get better. I was diagnosed with anorexia at age 12, the year after my mom died. I bit down on an almond-butter granola bar, sinking my teeth into the sadness of a reality I didn’t want to face. I put a strawberry in my mouth and could feel its seeds but couldn’t detect its sweetness. I started to make breakfast for my 4-year-old daughter and my 3-year-old son - maybe there I could find something with taste. When I sipped my coffee, all I could sense was its warmth. I brought a candle up to my nose, but it was scentless. In the bathroom, I untwisted the cap on one of my perfume bottles and couldn’t detect its jasmine fragrance. I started searching for smell wherever I could. I lowered my face to the surface of my mug and inhaled. I had been awake most of the night with chills and hoped I’d find comfort in its familiar aroma and warmth. The day after my family and I were diagnosed with Covid-19 last September, I made myself a cup of coffee.
0 kommentar(er)
