DeBlasio is Disordered: He ate Pizza with a Fork-

Yesterday I went through the motions of having eaten my way through the residential center’s highest meal plan. I woke up today expecting the weekly Sunday night dinners of pizza. Pizza is a ubiquitous late-night meal option, especially as a born and raised New Yorker. The significance and reasoning behind this ritual was and is not lost on me. In fact, I appreciated its moxie at challenging thoughts of restricting the traditionally Italian dish and then compensatory exercise if I had successfully not acted on the urge to restrict. I felt enthralled by the idea of actually consuming pizza instead of holding the cardboard box on my lap in order to warm myself when I was underweight and my body operated at a perpetually lowered body temperature. I used to inhale deeply, as if I was actually eating its contents.

Memories surfaced of those Fridays when my mother and I would eat at Singa’s pizza - a New York City franchise known for its flavor-packed personal pan-sized pizzas that come in a variety of unique, novel, but also complementary flavors. The employee would present the pizza in front of consumers and taking a sharp-edged hand-held knife, a steel rendition of a Boomerang, would slice and dice the pie in the shape of an “X” before slicing again, right down the middle, to create 8 equal slices. I would eat at least one and a half pies, one of which was always the Greek variety - diced tomatoes, olives, feta cheese and minced garlic scattered the pie in an array of colors.

There was also the corner pizzeria that we frequented growing up - my brother, cousins, and I not to mention the rest of the neighborhood, opted for this take-out option because of its taste. The economical part was just a fringe benefit. Each slice was $1. I remember when it was 75 cents. The pizza makers and proprietor were Italian and true to form - the crust was thin as paper and the ratio of cheese to home-made tomato sauce was seasoned with discretion.

Yet, despite me expecting pizza, a regular cheese and tomato slice never arrived. Instead, I came face-to-face with a slice of pesto pizza - its corners levitating above the table, cradled by my round paper plate. The green slice was served alongside two pieces of crusty bread, both saturated with oil. On the slice, two large round circles of white mozzarella, akin to eyeballs, had red bell peppers splayed on top like dilated capillaries. Small chunks of garlic riddled the cheese slices like small cysts that come and go as tear ducts become unclogged with a good cry.

As usual, I decided to tackle the most challenging task - the carb-laden sides of bread first. It was challenging because part of me had expected and perhaps, secretly hoped, I would receive a side of garlic knots to comply with my highest-tiered meal plan. The strong garlic aroma conjured up nostalgic memories of a young girl with voracious metabolism, choosing to consume an order of garlic knots alone (6 came in an order.) I loved the slight spice that lingered on my tongue from the potent garlic. I always had a slice with these little pillows of dense dough made from white flour. They were like water balloons, such that once you bit into them, a burst of flavor and oil coated the inside of your mouth, acting as a sort of sealant.

My lips became slick with grease after I had my first bite of dinner - the congealed, hardened cheese garlic bread. The bread was a sponge that soaked up oil, mimicking the garlic knots of my past. These pieces of bread were crusty and not even close to being pillow-like. I felt as though that one bite was me gaining a pound of tangible body fat. The pizza struck me as being more balanced: a trifecta of carbohydrates from the crust, tomato sauce, protein, as well as calcium from the cheese, and fat from the oil that helps with the absorption of vitamins and minerals. The calorie-count isn’t too high fora slice, all things considered. And yet the slice had remnants of cheese hanging off of it. There goes extra, I thought.

I then became laser-focused on the rivulets of oil that formed in the creases of the cheese and the schism craters formed by dough being cooked, bubbling at higher temperatures, before settling down. I was consumed by distaste for the absence of nutritional value, with every bite. The pizza was cold, mellowing out the robust seasoning, and the bread and crust were inexplicably hard. I was overcome by the lackluster opportunity to engage in recovery. I had failed in my mind. I was so excited and that all fell short before coming to a screeching halt. I sat outside and dwelled on having eaten something so anticlimactic. Part-taking in the normalcy of grabbing a slice for nourishment and memories’ sake, a step in recovery, didn't prove satisfying.

I didn’t die from it, though. Still, I kept imagining the ways in which the meal would surface and become part of my visual impact - my physicality. I had trouble deciphering the first of multiple weekly pizza nights, and one of many higher meal plan days. After all, I still had a snack after - the third one of the day - and my first challenge - choosing a new, savory snack option. This snack included yet more cheese. As a result, I decided to call my mom. I felt like an unbalanced teacup, spout spewing out 40 minutes worth of fear, commitment, will, disturbance, and surprisingly, found solidarity.

The snack thereafter proved difficult physically, but eased my mind even more so. I had it with a cup of black decaf tea - one 2 of which are allowed per day, and the only hot beverage option we have.

The meals are proving more difficult the more that I see others partake in activity. Eating at the highest meal plan on the basis that my metabolism is “probably” on overdrive, according to the dietician, does nothing to quell my anxiety. If anything, it exacerbates it. The fact that I latched onto that adverb for her explanation for why I was on such a highly caloric meal plan, tells me I have work to do. That fact was never lost on me.

Then again, the aromas of pungent garlic again hung in the central air conditioning. The vapors filled my nostrils and oxygenated my brain with reams of memories filed away. The different flavors were woven into the molecular knots of fabric in my clothing. I kept the tastes alive on my tongue, not permitted to climb up the stairs to my bathroom to brush my teeth. Before this second garlic-laden dinner, I again entered a trance-like state, enamored and intoxicated by the roasted allium. The lunch that day consisted of another allium that hung on the tip of my tongue, raw onion, diced and tossed in a macaroni salad reminiscent of my mother’s own.

Today, I ate outside at the local greasy spoon. I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, buttered and basted: A block of Swiss cheese that seemed to be jipped by the very fact that there were no discernible holes in the slices, lodged between two slices of white bread. The sweet potato fries were like test tubes filled with crisco. I never had a bowel movement prior and now, I am nauseous. My head is reeling. I taste the oil in my mouth, in the crevices of my molars so reminiscent of the oil liquid bodies that flowed in the circular slices of mozzarella. I smell the oil on my fingertips despite having washed them with soap an innumerable amount of times.

This week I found out that I was again being placed on the highest meal plan not only of all the clients, but the highest available option offered in the house. This week I found out that I am still not permitted to move - the only one of all the clients. I am sitting with not being able to move and having consumed this meal. I am sitting with the fact that the sole “privilege” I do have for my second week here is the option to have “surprise snacks,” which means that of the 3 snacks eaten per day, one or more can be chosen at random by the recovery coach on call. I would be expected to eat whatever it is. I am sitting with the fact that in 20 minutes’ time, I will have to eat the snack of their choice after just having had the grilled cheese and fries.

I had banana with oatmeal this morning - a carbohydrate saturated meal. I had a carbohydrate-saturated lunch and yesterday I had potato at lunch and dinner - the quintessential carbohydrate. All I managed to find out about my snack is that it has dairy. I am thinking it is yogurt with granola, hopefully without the optional addition of a banana, and not cottage cheese. I am hoping it is not cream cheese. Perhaps it is ice cream, and I am so nauseated that the idea of sugar-saturated ice cream is invoking silent screams in my head. I feel empowered, nauseated, disappointed, regretful, and positive again. I hope it is not cheese sticks, but then again I would rather have that then - I am thinking too much and I am in my head.

The psychologist said that it takes 180 days, 6 months, to rewire the brain and 10,000 hours to master a skill. He said one day at residential treatment equates to a week in real-time. That means I have about 8 more weeks or 2 months before the percentage of gray brain matter lost is developed once more.

I can do this. I can do this because I want to do this.