Confucius Never Credited Confusion-

My mouth is running dry and the cavernous oral cavity is laced with the air-conditioned air that is thick with social awkwardness. I am attempting to converse with two dieticians in tow. I am attempting to milk every moment for what it’s worth by parsing out rituals I have dabbled in before - like brushing my teeth to cleanse my palette before and after each and every meal in order to not combine tastes and flavors. I brought attention to my progress, from isolating different components of an entree, like an English muffin breakfast sandwich, to taking whole bites, to eating at a pace that I want to instead of elongating the duration of eating in order to savor different flavor profiles. I felt as though I was trying to convince them what a challenge this would be because they were so unknowing about the type of niche cuisine I chose for my first outing to eat a meal. For all they know, I could have lied and chosen something that was not challenging- something that I would not normally order.

This is not where I am from, I kept trying to tell them. My father is from the opposite end of the country, however, I grew up eating this type of cuisine because it was a popular eating out item for my parents and I. I would love going down an artery of Flushing, the heart of Queens, New York, that was dotted with Hindu temples and narrow two-way streets that are blocked by public buses occasionally stopping and picking up, acting as proxy police to dismantle the faux parking spots formed by those double-parking, sometimes for a quick prayer or to attend a community gathering. We ate in a hole in the wall that was written up by The New York Times, revered, and yet never bothered having been renovated. The last time I went, a decade a ago, the tiles were a stark white vinyl to match white painted walls over buckling plaster. A ragged piece of white paper, cut into a square, and written in black permanent marker, “Cash Only,” is taped onto the cashier. A portrait of a yogi, spiritual leader with orange garb and a faux fro’ hangs alongside depictions of Hindu dieties. On the glass exhibition topped by a counter, there sits a laminated computer print-out that advertises a Healthy Dosa. I sometimes would order an appetizer of onion bhajia, or pakoras, fried, and battered onions. Think a hash brown made of alliums instead of a nightshade root.

All of the memories ran through my head. The drive, the serendipitous plan, the impulse ordering, the anticipation of tastes, and the cultural complexity that is second-nature to the native New Yorker. This time, the drive was so organized as to be documented via sign-up sheets, contracts, and clinical consideration. This time, I was sitting in the backseat of a messy car, two women in the front seat, determining how much those with eating disorders should be eating. I saw and heard their cognizance when the cell phone’s map application started dictating directions, detours, and traffic developments. I started tracking our route verbally, pointing out landmarks and flash backing to the times I went to stores.

The dietician’s famous icy blue, almost transparent eyes, contrasting with her dyed strawberry red hair, narrowed as I glanced her briefly making eye contact with me through the rearview mirror. Had I gone to this restaurant before, she asked? I had not. I had never entertained the idea of sitting down in any of the restaurants in this area. I was familiar with the area because I occasionally had walked the route before, or had seen it either as the passenger or diver of a car. This was not easy for me. In fact, I had anxiety the evening before, about having to complete an entree that may or may not be larger than what I would have had if I had just stayed at the house for lunch cooked by the chef who I credit for the majority of the reasons for why I chose this treatment facility.

I started to smell the aromas cooked up by the chef prior to leaving. I guessed she was using Adobo seasoning - the sodium-laden amalgamation of spices combined and used abundantly in Latin and South American cooking. She said that many spices were being used, but that the cuisine was off by some bodies of water. She made a Greek salad and protein concoction, either chicken or the vegetarian magical meat option, with tzatziki sauce and pita bread. In my anxiety, I had opted for snacks I did not necessarily wanted since we are supposed to choose our three snacks at the start of the day from a never-changing menu aside from the inventory of protein bar flavors and cereal we had. I never chose the cookies so the different Oreo flavors never concerned me; the same holds true for Pop Tarts. I chose the former variety of snacks because I thought they would provide me with more protein and fat versus carbohydrates which comprised the majority of what I would have for lunch.

I had trouble with the idea of eating dosa - the crepe cooked over a ghee - clarified butter-sealed cooktop. Crepes were either made of rice flour or rava - semolina flour. The former is cylindrical and lays latitudinally, the length of a small table, or it could be conical, standing longitudinally, its height equivalent to that of a pointy witch’s hat. The latter is porous, like a sponge or sourdough bread, and is folded in on itself to create a large square. I noticed they had yet another, rare, variety of dosa known as ragi. The batter consists of urad dal or lentils, and a combination of millet - an ancient grain- and idli - fermented rice, batter. This trifecta of ingredients though more caloric, also has more protein and unadulterated carbohydrates with its fiber in tact. I was overthinking everything, but it was still abiding by concept of healthy. I then asked the server a third time to confirm: Did this dosa choice come with the two chutneys like coconut and peanut chili, as well as the sambar or spiced vegetable broth? Did the dosa come with masala - the boiled and seasoned potato mash with onions cooked inside the crepe? He answered affirmatively to all of the above.

The dietician asked me what I would recommend, to explain what paneer - cheese - was and which was spicy. I forgot the specificities of the different varieties of a niche cuisine from the southern tip of India at the opposite end of the country from where my family hailed from. I did not identify with this region’s language, faith, culture, or cuisine. It was a popular fast-food, our outside option to eat when we were out and about without opportunity to cook. I tried my best to ascertain what would be better options than others. They seemed skeptical at my lack of knowledge, but then again, my mind was in overdrive and I had denied myself of the flavors I enjoyed for so long that my memory muscle had also been eaten up and used for energy in the absence of carbohydrates.

They asked if I ordered any drink to pair with my meal. I would, on occasion when I was much younger, entertain the idea of a Fanta or orange soda, swearing that the slender glass bottle in which it came and was sold at the old Queens haunt, had a more fresh, tangerine flavor and more mellow degree of carbonation. But for the most part, I drank water to ease the spice. They then asked if I ordered anything after the meal. There were dessert options on the menu - Indian sweets that I loved even more than the food. The sweets were confections that reflected my girlish persona. They were akin to an ambrosial nectar which holds particular significance in the Sikh faith. Known as Amrit, or holy water, that is sweetened with sugar, was provided to those baptized in the faith, although anyone can have it.

Growing up, on occasion, after dining, my parents and I would cater to my daydream of being in India, driving along dusty roads surrounded by storefronts with Sanskrit-originated writing. We would travel to a sweets shop and purchase rosewater-spiked orange spiraled deep-fried simple syrup that remained a viscous wet texture when still hot or crystallized more definitively when cooled. We would also entertain the idea of milk fudge, and cottage cheese-like U.F.Os that floated like survivor rafts on ebbing waves of sweet cream filled with rose essence, sprinkled with slivers of pistachio, and decorated lightly with saffron threads. The South Indian kitchen were not privy to these delicacies, despite the one we were dining at, in Long Island, New York, including a menu filled with other regional Indian fare.

I had seen a small metal bowl with bright orange carrot shreds, sweetened and cooked with golden raisins and khoya or thickened whole milk curd. On top was a dollop of either mango or some other ice cream. I did not entertain the idea of possibly swapping one of those options in for the regularly scheduled snack at the house. I didn’t think it fit. After all, I was intolerant to grapes, and possibly raisins, as well as mango. As it is, we were running late. I saw the dietician glance at her watch in between sniffles that came from the gunpowder spiced interior of her crepe that matched the minced tomatoes mixed in her choice of potato masala. I remarked about the red scattered constellation on her crepe. She glanced up on me mid-chew and I immediately regretted bringing attention to her eating. I remember the degree to which my blood pressure elevated as soon as anyone provided commentary about how I ate. She and the other dietician, Julia, were making sure not to draw attention to me eating.

I was full and did not want to continue eating the sambar like before when I had not eaten prior to the meal, however, I wanted to taste the sambar one last time - one last time before I left from residential. I wanted to prove to myself that one more spoonful of sambar was what I needed to heal, to move on, to know that I did not have to be directed to have more but that I could have more. And just like weight gain is less adding on as opposed to restoring, I was not having more but instead was having what was right in front of me.

The visiting dietician then spooned up more and swallowed it with abandon, in an attempt that I believe was to benefit me. I awkwardly hugged the dietician and thanked her profusely. I felt a rush of adrenaline. I felt like I was on a high, empowered, entertaining the idea of purchasing a snack at Starbucks, and then thinking better of it. I was in disbelief that I did it. I knew that if my parents were there, they would be expecting certain things, like finishing the entire meal. And yet I wanted them to have witnessed the feat.

I ate the dosa with abandon. I ate with ease, with hunger, and with appetite. I didn't feel immediate regret afterward, and though my stomach’s gastric juices felt more acidic than ever before, I felt anxiety creep in later that evening. Instead of me thinking I ate more than what I would have, I began thinking I may have eaten less and that frightened me. I did not want to go backwards. I felt full, a bit uncomfortably so, but nevertheless, it felt warranted. This surprised me. It surprised me how keenly aware I was about my health. It delighted me still when my father said that I would eat a vat, or something like it, of sambar, laughing with glee. It made my mom smile, my therapist too, and I felt an elation measured in equal amounts with emotional overdrive.

Why had I eaten that much before? Was it due to disordered eating when I would not be hyperaware about the contents of food, honored cravings, but also restricted, saved calories for later, and was extremely active? Was it that my body truly needed that amount? Could I do it now? Did I want to now that I was eatening balanced throughout the day? The final question struck me with a dose of reality. That was the truth. I fed my body as it should be. Starvation mode never had to be keyed up. I was living. I was liberated then and I am now. I am free.

On My Own Two Feet -

It has been two weeks at the residential center and I am still unable to participate in light movement or any activity. I accepted it and disregarded any false misconceptions about compensatory measures being necessary. I convinced myself that if I had a single lingering thought pass my mind, even as a follow-up to my primary intention for introducing activity - to acclimate to the normalcy of life - then it was a good thing that I sat with discomfort and uneasiness. I don’t want to satiate my doubts and cynicism regarding the treatment team having negative intentions. But all I can feel is nausea and gastric discomfort - a fullness that cannot be emptied and also isn’t whole.

I start to feel stale, my age is pulling one up over me. That is to say, I am living with a bunch of young women - emphasis on young, me not included. I feel like Robert diNero in The Intern, except I am a 29-year-old who loses her autonomy, like he does in his career trajectory, to a perky, bright-eyed and thick-maned boss. The recovery coaches, think Oprah’s life coaches, are younger than I am. They are in relationships and own homes. They tell me how to eat a slice of pizza and quiche. They won’t let me use napkins when engaging in finger food meals. They dictate that I dip my apple wedges into the peanut butter. They said I should chomp down potato skins like paper sanding the edges of my teeth.

I am surrounded by talkative clients who read off their pride and joys like the children they don’t yet have. They talk incessantly and cite scholarly literature mandated by their academic institution, in an attempt to prove their entitled intelligence. And the psychiatrist tells my parents I am quiet, in comparison to the incessant chatter delivered in quick succession by the school-going man and women I am forced to be housemates with. It is as if I have dabbled in the risky millennial budgeting world of car-pooling via a mobile phone application.

Yesterday evening, we took a leather-interior automobile with black tinted windows, a visible cross dangling from the rearview mirror, and a windshield decal that read in all caps lock, “Praise The Lord,” booked via an account with a car service. The destination was a bookstore with a cafe inside. There we could purchase censored books, puzzles, a decaf beverage, and a bakery item if we so chose to and so long as we had the privilege to do so. The car arrived late and though the driver promised to wait all of twenty minutes for us, he departed, leaving a group of people seeking to recover from eating disorders, in a parking lot in the thick of summer humidity. We ended up eating our evening snack an hour later than scheduled. I had to acclimate to not adhering to my rigidity and following schedules. I had to acclimate to having my roommate dictate her preferences. I have to bear with gritted teeth hearing these persons listing off their accolades like the bullet point of items on a supermarket list created in the days before their eating disorders.

Yet in spite of all the progress I am making, I cried out my discontent. I cried out. I cried about my poor digestion, my aching gums and teeth, my yellowed nails, and the indented callus on my left pointer finger. I cried out about them, my parents, not trusting me. They wouldn’t hear of me being active. According to her, my mother, I will be cradled, all 60 pounds of me, once again to Westchester, New York. The hot tears spilled from my welled up bottom eyelids. I told them I was unhappy -still. It was not the same darkness that clouded my mental clarity. Instead, it was the dark space far into the distant future.

My father still calls me sad. He is still trying to convince me that I should participate in social work, to keep afloat. I feel like a lost case - lost at sea. My mother still thinks I can drop weight, almost agitated at her not finding it so easy a task to be featherweight.

I notice the new clients are walking around the house, both outside and inside. I notice them going up and down the stairs for no particular reason. I want to scream and shake the staff. And then I don’t because I think that at the end of the day, they will be sabotaging themselves. I am here for me. I am here to recover and I will neither enable nor hinder what anyone else wants to do.

Let me be. Why can’t everyone let me be? “Reshmi, can you come over nearer to the kitchen so I can talk with you?” Sure, I answered, precariously. Is anything wrong?, I asked with a steadied beat. “No. I just need you to finish the crumbs on your plate.” Infantilized? Certainly. Yet, I ate it up, just as I did that snack, over-portioned out of spite, by the recovery coach who caught me off guard about my evening snack being an allergen. I understood the significance of the mandate. When I was ill, very ill, I would leave a little on my plate one day, a little bit more the next, and mores thereafter. The process of leaving edibles on a plate would become a cycle. You can fool me once and twice now, but three times no more thereafter. This is temporary. I am resilient.

I half-expected to see my parents come back in after they walked off. I half-expected my parents to enter through the doors of the group meeting room. I thought I would see them come in after the group had ended. Part of me thinks they are going to come in the minutes before the gong rings for dinner at 6 pm. With every knock on the door, or door opened, I expect to see them. I find myself staring out the window, walking down the gravel driveway, imagining the gray hybrid car parked. They abandoned me then and they abandoned me now. I met with my therapist and thought that I would perhaps have missed their arrival as I sat downstairs in the basement with her, confessing again to being unhappy. She told me that it was a valid feeling. How could anyone be happy showing the toilet bowl to other adults? She understands. I think she understands and that puts me at ease.

I say that I am at peace. I think I am at peace. Piece by piece I feel fragments coming together, coalescing into a whole. I am not damaged. I am whole.

One of the first things a woman on the path of recovery from disordered eating must do is to reframe her concept of who she really is. She must begin to assert, both to herself and the world around her, that she is not defective. She must begin to review and retell the story of her life from the understanding that there is nothing wrong with her, that although she has been hurt, she is not damaged goods. Her disordered eating behavior is not evidence that she is a faulty human being in desperate need of repair. (p.18-19)

I never was wheeled on a stretcher or wheelchair. I always stood on my two feet.

My feet always took the beating. It was jaundiced and white - the blood not circulating toward the end of my feet. My feet has tiger stripes - they are the tattoos I don’t need to etch onto my skin. The stretch marks are my tattoos - my constant reminder of survival. The stripes are akin to a heart rate reawakened. They are akin to the eyes’ capillaries, indicative of blood flow. They are indicative of life.

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.

The Residential Reach -

The metal claw-like contraption sunk down into the stuffed animals and doo-dads. My reflection staredback at me. Time and time again the claw came back empty: empty-handed. The process of trial-and-unforced error was addictive.

Rob, the chaplain at the acute inpatient unit for eating disorders just outside of the city, said that anorexia was an addiction not unlike alcoholism. Rob was tall, dark, and no doubt handsome, but I only saw him as a father, not to be confused with the Roman Catholic use of “father.” Rob was married and had a small son who he openly regarded as perfectly imperfect. I always wondered why people swooned over him, particularly the adolescent girls and young women on Unit 2, all serenely underweight and most likely without a libido.

I told Rob that I faulted myself for damaging relationships, sabotaging possible job offers, forming a wedge between my parents’ love for one another and questioning their altruistic love for me. He replied that I was addicted to running on empty, meaning I had an adrenaline rush from restricting food intake and compulsively burning energy. He translated this self-inflicted destruction as a conduit for seeking contentment, happiness, and peace. Like other addicts, my addiction to restricting food and liquid intake as well as exercise, was a less than savory means for attaining a peace of mind - even if only transitory. With that said, how could anyone fault someone for choosing to be happy? That is not a flaw.

I asked the secular chaplain a pointed religious question: Why is it that people use fasting as a means for attaining closeness with the divine being? I remember my father questioning me with pointed anger: was I trying to be some sort of tree-trunk squatting ascetic? Even more ironically, in Sikhism, fasting is classified as a ritualistic behavior that is not conducive to honoring our self and our life and that such an action was not a means for becoming closer to God. Rob said that some chose to dabble in drugs or perform other harmful actions with the purpose of sacrifice. They claim to see delusions and hallucinations. He asked if I did and already smiling, knew my response would readily be “No.” No, I had not sacrificed anything. I was high off of the flatness, or rather, concavity of my abdomen. I felt light on being lithe. I felt delicately light-footed, fluttering about like the silent batting of butterfly wings, slipping past narrow spaces, and in so doing, also slipping through the cracks.

More than 30 pounds later, I am rounding out. My cheeks have returned in both manners: the face and the bottom half of me. I am aware of my thighs as each foot moves forward. I have a bosom that I again immediately try to hide. Today I put on clothes that though are not pajamas, are for the first time, still forgiving. The lacy bralette, less so. And yes, it is as if I am hitting puberty again. After so many years, I need to wear this undergarment again. I am not happy about my body changing, but I’m also not so viscerally upset. I am disturbed, for certain. I am conflicted by my newly onset womanhood that predates my period’s second-coming. I am conflicted for now carrying extra baggage around. But then I remember, the weight gained is not extra. It is what needs to be there, what always needed to be there, and there is still more left to be received.

I hear the lawnmower outside cutting the grass. I catch glimpses of the man roving around the yard. I avoid his line of sight by any means possible, dodging his periphery from the inside milieu. The whirring of the landscaping equipment rattles me, and after a long time, I’m rattled to the core not because I am so frail as to literally be shaken physically. Now, I am shook by the prospect of roving eyes. Now, there is no going back. My meal plan has increased. I have already asked for my missing required sides with each meal. I have already chosen more carb-saturated snack options and have already witnessed people performing higher level yoga that me, mandated to remain on the floor.

I am excited for my family to see me now. I want to see them look at me with brows furrowed because they are tired out from smiling too widely for far too long. Their brows furrowing will no longer be due to sporting a concerted face caused by concern. And just as I typed that out, I pictured myself in a room, trying in earnest to squeeze into Indian garb that no longer fits my body. I see myself grow frustrated and ashamed, discouraged from making my appearance. Appearance or not, I know it is my presence that is missed. And a split second later, in my effort at describing to you my thoughts as they surface in real-time, I visualize my bedroom that I had not seen for any more than 15 minutes. I came home as a pit-stop to freshen up between inpatient hospitalization for 6 weeks and residential treatment.

Through tears that were for a best friend I had left at the hospital, tears that were for the fear of the unknown, for the hurting and pain both physical and mental, for the sheer bittersweetness of progressing but not yet recovering, I was able to catch sight of my wrought-iron, handmade in India, shabby-chic console-turned vanity table in my bedroom. Underneath was a new pure-bred calfskin patchwork rug worth thousands. The natural gray shades matched the black painted closet doors and rainy, cloudy gray paisley wallpaper from London. I saw my closet organized, my cherry wooden floors clean. The still not yet deflated ‘Welcome Home’ balloon remains on my wall from when my parents met me at the airport after I came back from my first international reporting trip during the depths of anorexia.

I flossed after weeks of not being able. The result? Bloody gums. Before brushing my teeth numerous times, showering even more times, shampooing multiple times while scrubbing my scalp clean, and conditioning for full effect, not to mention shaving newly grown slivers of leg hair so unlike the past when shaving in 5 minutes or less could never be a possibility, I ran into the library room. That’s correct - I ran, my newfound ability to move after weeks of being sedentary and under constant observation, unrestrained. I took the scissors and cut my hospital wrist band and allergy band.

My arm, chunkier now that it can no longer be encircled by my thumb and adjacent pointer finger touching, just has to be extended out. All I have to do is extend my arm, reach out, and grab recovery. It’s right there in front of me. It is right there for the taking. I have said this at least twenty times since right before my hospital discharge and admission to residential. One of the other residents, the only other person older than myself - a beautiful woman blessed with a beautiful family showed me a passage from a book popular in the eating disorder culture, Eating in the Light of the Moon. The old English fairytale reads:

Every evening, just before falling asleep at night, she would lie in her bed and gaze out at the stars through her bedroom window. On stormy nights, they wouldn’t show their faces at all even though she suspected they were still there, hiding behind the clouds.
One of the fairies began dance around her, and with a high, sweet voice said, “Since you are so determined to find the stars, I will tell you how to reach them: If you will not go backward, then go forward.”
They were not easy to climb. But she moved slowly and cautiously, inching her way along. As she became wary she would occasionally lose her grip and slip backwards. It was cold and she was surrounded by darkness, but she pressed on until she reached the top of the arch where she was surrounded by brilliant light. At last! There they were - the stars in the sky! She reached out with her hand to touch one of the shimmering stars. As she reached farther and farther, she suddenly lost her balance, and with a sigh that was half regret, half contentment, she fell, slipping and sliding, farther and faster into the darkness below.
When she opened her eyes, it was morning and she found herself in bed.”I did reach the stars, didn’t I?” she wondered. “Or did I only dream it?”
Then she looked at her hand that was still tightly clenched into a fist, and as she slowly opened it, she saw a speck of stardust. (pp. 24-27)

It’s almost as uncanny that my high school’s motto, in Latin, was: Ad Astra Per Aspera, which translates into, “through hardships to the stars.”

Week 3: The Beginnings of The Beginning -

Today is the first day of my 3rd week here. My brother made the trip out here. His initial reaction was guarded and yet expectant. He was guarded so as not to expect too much, I suppose, pleasantries out of this visit, and instead expect the same old, same old, primarily because my parents were here. When we’re all together, arguments ensue. They plan to eat out and I either throw a fit, opt out, or opt in to such a degree that I alter the menu item to my disordered, unhealthy, and irrational preferences. The lowest-calorie option that isn’t Sushi-grade ceviche? Count me in.

My father and I stood up as the familiar fraternal face sauntered in with cautious eyes. My dad asked, “Hey, son, how are you,” before taking my brother in a bear hug. You know those hugs: The type of hug where bulging testosterone-laden vessel-covered biceps are extended outward at a height lower than shoulders, as if in Bras Arrondis Devant, or first position in ballet. My brother and I then hugged- he standing in an upright posture as I nestled the profile of my embrace in a Hollister- tee. I moved aside so he and my mother, still sitting down, could acknowledge each other. He walked toward her, and she reluctantly asked how he was doing before her maternal instinct bridged the space between them and they eventually hugged as well. My brother sat next to her. I sat on the bed. And my dad sat opposite of me. My mom and brother formed the base of a triangle, and my father and I formed the hypotenuse. But honestly, it was a lovely trapezoidal connection that drew us together.

I immediately leapt for the board game my mother had brought from home. It had bittersweet memories - that brainiac adult game my brother purchased on a whim sometime before my eating disorder really manifested itself. Back then, during the down-time in-between my turn, I would immediately recline backward from my cross-legged position on the floor to having my feet firmly planted on the ground in front of me with both knees bent. I would do crunches, counting in my head, my brother agitated that I was not paying attention, my parents, unsure of the gravity of my actions. I had not yet dropped too much weight.

My brother shrugged, my father not surprisingly, readily agreed, and my mother said no immediately. After all, we were expecting extended family to visit shortly. I then opted for the next best go-to time-suspender, the traffic or lack thereof. My brother swiftly silenced us with his short answer. Not much traffic, it turned out. He parked in the parking lot, no matter where the cost. In his opinion, it is a waste of time and effort to expend on looking for a more economical parking option.

I was flustered a that fact. My mother asked him if and what he had eaten so far. It turns out he ate a light breakfast, and a very early one at that. I remember having spoken to him several days prior and asked about whether he would consider coming into “the city” or what I made synonymous with New York City, the borough of Manhattan, since I could not venture out to his neck of the woods in New Jersey with my parents, as planned before my hospital stay. The post-Fathers Day celebration could be resumed at my penthouse overlooking the water body separating new-school hipster Brooklyn from the old-school hipster Lower East Side.

“What would we do there,” my brother asked somewhat surprised at his own question. After all, who would know most about what to do in a hospital room? My parents, me, or him - the M.D., a surgeon constantly rotating between hospitals in the Garden State. I reasoned that we could play Monopoly in the family waiting room area that I had only just discovered I could venture to as well, with my one-on-one chaperone trailing behind. That and my parents could take him out to lunch while I had my own multistage-lunch in the confines of my neutropenic hospital room - a room quarantined off for solitary confinement because the patient is immune-compromised. That is to say, my low neutrophil and total white blood cell count made me susceptible to catching contagious diseases. My lunch consisted of a protein shake, a wrap, a cup of coffee, and a smoothie. Rest assured, I would eat as they would in their choice of restaurant.

My parents ventured to a Thai place- unheard of in the past several years. It was located a block and a half away from the hospital. My brother quietly accepted the invitation at the mention of a dining experience. Yet my parents started saying that they would - as they always do - combine meals into a single sitting halfway between their sunrise-breakfast and sunset-scoop of Ice Cream. My brother was noticeably turned off and said that he would just eat whatever and head back early to his place. Clearly let down, I eyed my father who was pushing for a later meal in anticipation of visitors. He acquiesced and they quickly made their way to lunch/dinner.

I finished up my protein shake in their presence and began to eat lunch in their presence once more, at the happenstance moment when they returned. All eyes were focused on me as I consumed the wrap I usually loved to savor, void of any enjoyment. I later on hardly managed to finish my second smoothie of the day. Sickened at the thought of my next meal, I agreed to order early a starchy carbohydrate alongside a protein source in addition to the whey protein packet in my smoothie. I too was sickened at the thought of a protein bar. And then I was further sickened by the fruit containers thereafter.

I had a feeling that I did not eat enough, but my massive distention and nausea, pulsating blood vessels, double vision-inducing migraine, deceivingly made me think otherwise. The fullness was uncomfortable. It seemed like the absence of bowel movements and occluded shrunken stomach, would never make this feeling of post-meal satiety, dissipate. Even the nightly anxiety at having possibly not eaten enough to lead to next-morning weight gain, had done nothing to instigate consuming more. The next day, I had not lost nor had I gained. I plataued for two days but not before hearing my mother remark about signs of possible faltering again: Stopping when supposedly full - leaving little pieces here and there, snapping back with irritability, and lack of rest, like standing on already swollen feet as opposed to sitting and elevating it. I realized how quickly things could spiral out of control and like a rubberband stretched, quickly snapped back into place.

For I am gumby, hear me roar. Slinky, stretchy, and robust. I am ready to show my striped, to have my stretch marks, and to deal with the vicious hellish cycle that is recovery.

Weeks 1 & 2: Semantics, Politics, & Technology - An Elective Course for a Degree in the Science of Eating Disorders

The team of doctors, nurse practictoner and registered dietician and nutritionist, staged (what could appear from the outsider to be), an intervention upon my arrival at the hospital’s general medicine unit. They gathered in front of my bed. One of the members appeared a few days later for the first time, as part of the sector of doctors whose specialty I still remain cynical about. He is less a doppleganger and more so a sibling of Jesse Tyler Ferguson. Red hair and hipster haircut and glasses frames that are reminiscent of the 1960s, he is the most straight forward person in his clan. For some reason, when I made eye contact with said person, I trusted him, just as I had trusted the attending doctor despite my initial impression being one of cold vacancy.

I do not know if I am seeking palliative care from this bunch. I am unsure if I want their validation because they are fellow academics, or are the authorities by role and position, or if there is something more altruistic - like the abstract concept of kinship and trust. I seek their guidance and resist the urge to be considered another patient all at the same time. I feel like I am just another patient, or perhaps case study, rather than a proxy family member. What exactly my expectations are from these people is lost on me. They are simply the bearers that be.

They are Leos - renditions of that fictional character on Aaron Spelling’s Charmed. His character is mortal and immortal all at once. A former armed forces physician, Leo dies at war but is awarded with wings - angelic wings - and becomes a white-lighter- someone who heals and guides. His love for one of his charges, could be made parallel to these doctors and one of their patients. This fictional requited love, however, is against the rules of Heaven. In the fictional character’s case, he has a love for one of the Charmed Ones, Piper, and a brotherly love, (not to be confused with Philadelphia because the Halliwell Manor is famously located in San Francisco,) toward Piper’s sisters, Pheobe played by Alyssa Milano, Prue played by Shannen Doherty, and later, Paige played by Rose McGowan.

The attending physician who graduated from medical school after my brother had, and likely finished his 2-year internal medicine residency not even 2 years ago, seems to think I am seeking the aforementioned bond between me and the members of “the team,” a circulating cohort that has a weekly and sometimes, daily, turnover. I look him squarely in the eye, turn my neck slightly and motion toward my parents with a crooned neck, and upward-directed gaze. I tell him I have all the connections I need. That part of my life was not lacking. What was lacking was medicine and its ingestion. Food and beverage was and is my primary form of medicine, the second was a sedentary lifestyle, and the third part was medical monitoring for possibly fatal repercussions that are part and parcel of re-feeding.

I have been ordering from avant-garde places in Manhattan - places that I have always wanted to try. I have had my two full pieces of toast, my favorite protein bar that though is calorically dense, is also exactly like eating a bar of freshly battered fudge, my favorite cashew butter that could be mistaken for icing or even frosting, to the naked eye. My parents have been shuttling food back and forth since my hospital arrival. I have had delightful cups of NYC-deli coffee - light, smoothly roasted, and full of flavor. I have had smoothies - first once a day, then twice, and now three times. They consist of 1 cup of whole milk and half a cup of vanilla ice cream with whey protein powder and fruits. I have remained seated or reclined - movement is nonexistent.

As I see the numbers on the scale slowly creep upward, I become motivated. As I see my cheeks plump and fill out in multi-planar directions, I start to fake-smile in the mirror to a less alien-like demeanor facing me. My outward appearance and energy do well to mask the nausea, bloating, distention, and gastric distress that I feel. The clawing at my bowels - once emptied - is indescribably harsh. I feel like my innards have been scraped and sanded down to a vacuous tube, a barren gut, and it is as if I shaved my legs without any type of lathering or soap so that the razor scrapes the legs.

All is ok.

Week 2: Dropping Legal Bombs on that Hospital Care

Anorexia nervosa is an eating disorder that is chalked up to the mind. It is clumped into psychiatric illnesses despite the immediacy and urgency of its physical consequences. I am a perfectionist, and I am unnecessarily disciplined. My mind is the spout that produces cerebral fluid, what can be considered as the water that showers the seedlings of genetic predisposition. This predisposition is then awakened; The dormant gene that has resulted in me sprouting; the disordered “Me.”

I was the unfortunate leaf in the family tree. The tree was a hybrid, the exact origin of said seedling, unknown. My father and mother attempted to locate the exact coordinates of the constellation that foreshadowed the eminent misfortune. They had, as it were, no luck.

I cannot say for certain that this enchanting disorder was a matter of luck, or chance, or cards that I have been dealt. Hell, the deck of cards volunteer services provided me with are still in their plastic shrink-wrap. I have been handed, however, legal documentation stating that I must be kept on watch with a one-to-one assigned person who works in 12-hour shifts. They’re here to make sure that I do not run off and exit the hospital grounds and instead follow their suit - card pun intended - by agreeing to go to an inpatient eating disorder treatment center. They even set one in place for me - a dual Ivy League institution. Believe me when I say that that irony was not lost upon me - dual Ivy League-degree holder myself. I don’t tire of saying this nor do I willingly avoid mentioning this because I will not be taken for a dummy. I worked too damn hard.

I am forced to converse and constantly entertain these observers, most of whom identify as Caribbean or Hispanic. I converse with them in a blend of Spanish and English. They cannot believe that I identify partially as one of them. But I am not theirs and they are not mine. I hear gossip and chatter around me but tune them out. It’s petty and I am indifferent to their incessant gossip. I don’t heed their commentary about eating a lot or how using the bathroom can make someone lose weight. I’m not so impressionable that I would have their dialogue influence my decisions.
I am in control.
And clearly, I am in control. That is what this disease is, after all.

My admission is to a four-person room on the penultimate floor - the gradbag or miscellanous unit. The young woman in front of me has a heart-healhy diet because she has heart disease. Yet I overhear her menu options and they are above and beyond what I am consuming. Her prognosis is dismal. I had thought that she was younger and perhaps she is, but I overheard that she has a small son. That resason for which she has to live and accept the prescribed operation for. She is Dominican and her all-female family members that visit cast annoyed glances at everyone, swiftly and rudely sidestepping, sideways-glancing, and cordoning off their beloved daughter.

Next to her is a Chinese woman who has dementia and is bedridden. She speaks Mandarin, on the rare occasion that she is prompted to speak,. She is in her final days. The idea of hospice is discussed. On my right is a robust Polish woman with fluid in her lungs. She coughs, hacks is more accurate, with brute strength. She gargles and spits. She roars at all hours without covering her mouth. She consumes sandwiches for lunch and dinner when the menu passes around and I cannot fathom why. One day she opts for the special ribs they have and takes a salad as an appetizer.

I hear my mama bear argue and viscerally tear a part the psych team here who ambushed me with unsigned papers. I let her continue, equally proud and prudent of the possible backlash. She rips them a part and says that they don’t know me. I am her daughter. They didn’t know me from Day 1, Day 0, from conception. They did not know what love had brought me here. I hear her and I cry inside. I cry at having hurt her. I cry at our damaged relationship. I cry at the psyche that warped my mind to thinking the worse of the two persons who love me the most.

I meet with the social work advocacy pair who swiftly come afterward. They listen, they empathize, and they advise. They vow to side with our decisions the best that they can but forewarn of the long battle ahead. This whole scenario could play out in a T.V. movie or a Grade A cinematic made for the big screens. It’s Not Without My Daughter meets John Q.

I wear a mint green hospital gown with a slurry of patterns. The next day my parents bring me food and clothes, and the next, and the next. I keep thinking that I will get discharged. They tell me I will. But the heart rate dangerously dips into the thirties in the off-chance times that I fall asleep for an hour. I’m shaken awake with a grip on my shoulders.

Electrolytes fairly balanced, the overall white blood cell count, the neutrophil count, is low. It is so low that I am susceptible to infection. I am moved to a single-person bedroom. I have to wear a mask when I exit. I have my own bathroom and fridge with windows that overlook the F.D.R. There is a T.V. that I never turn on. My fridge is stocked with protein bars and jammy eggs still in their shell and that I requested my parents boil, leave unpeeled, and bring with them for breakfast the next morning while I am here and they are working. I have a few compost trays that came with the meals served here. For me, that tray has a cup of disgusting coffee and water bottles as well as a slip of paper that lists my allergies.

The window sill is filled with disposable cutlery, toiletries, hospital socks, paper towel roll, Gilmore Girls DVD Set, my free Sephora birthday gift, a change of freshly laundered clothes for a couple of days, and a ball of dirty clothes. I took a shower under a mounted fountainhead that lacks any pressure, exacerbating the length of time it takes to bathe. The pressure from the sink is hard so the water splashes everywhere, projecting Mother Nature’s display in a man-made attempt at mocking my unforeseen entrance into the outside world.

I speak to the female psych alone for the second time. This time she doesn’t roll her eyes at me. I see warmth growing in them. And after an hour-long back-and-forth, I let the well of tears roll over in tides. She silently stands up and leaves as I wipe away my tears without so much as a goodbye. Part of me thinks she took off before tears started to fall from her eyes as well, on the sly, in secret, perhaps while walking away from my room, or on the elevator, or on the ride home. Perhaps she didn’t give a crap. I somewhat suspect her to quickly type up her observations for a future academic case-study.

Throwback Thursday (90s Ed.): CRT+ALT+DLT: Exit and Start Anew

I deleted my previous blog post. But prior to doing so, I made a duplicate and saved it as a draft - unpublished. I have a rule, (not surprising, I know), to never take back that which you put out to the world. It is what I consider to be a form of transparency. Transparency is one of the foundational tenets of journalism. I am not ashamed of transparency because it is a way of proactively informing and communicating to an uncensored audience. And yet, I feel like I have found a pigeon-hole to this self-imposed, some might say obsessive, rigid, perfectionist and trivial rule. That said, I didn’t delete the post in totality. It is still here and is floating in space. The point is, is that it takes up space. It is matter. It matters, because it happened. I truly felt that way. Things transpired. Words were exchanged. Tough love could not be more accurately defined.

All my mother wanted was for me to take up matter. She wanted for me to exist. I have apologized to her multiple times. My father as well, and my brother too.
Tears streamed down my face, with such frequency, such force, day after day, that another day came as no surprise. But this time, the tears surfaced from subterranean altitudes. They didn’t surface from the surface. They were 2-D - planar and artificial. I could have bottled them up and become a millionaire off of the first human-grade re-wetting lubricant eye drops: Out with ReNu and in with ReShmi.

2-D: think of a stick-figure. That is what it felt like when walking on the days leading up to my third-Anorexia-related Emergency Room visit. I was walking on stilts. There was no cushion around my pelvic bones, or crotch. There was no insulation on my coccyx or tail bone - the skin of which was dry and cracked - black - bone threatening to protrude from beneath my skin. My right knee felt like it was buckling and would give out. I stealthily had fetched the Icy Hot roll-on from the medicine cabinet in my parents’ bathroom so as not to stir up concern.

On the day of scheduled plans and unforeseen circumstances, I dressed in olive green sweater tights, monochromatic pleated tea-length belt-waisted skirt, and a short-sleeve white button-down collared shirt with multi-color piping tucked in. I threw my Citizens of Humanity denim jacket over it. Multicolored stitching etched on the back and along the sleeves. Despite the warm temperature, I swept and swathed a Kashmiri silk scarf around my neck. I put on my sequined bubblegum pink Mary Jane shoes and opted for my heavy leather backpack in order to save another trip up the stairs to fetch a more dainty purse that could prove fatal. This act proved counterproductive because the backpack ended up being heavier than I had ever remembered it being. Two magazines, a half-filled water bottle, wallet, and cosmetic bag, felt like I was carrying my Apple laptop, a brick or two, and 2 two -gallon containers of milk: Whole milk - because that’s what my altered mind had equated the beverage as being - weighing more in caloric units of energy and a force opposing gravity.

I entered the car and despite the beauty of the day, swaddled myself, arms wrapped around me in a sulking embrace, loosened hair freely blowing in a curtain as I leaned forward, top of head facing the forceful wind from the front seat windows that were open. I nestled my neck into the wound up scarf. My eyes were shut tightly, though I suspect they were still slightly ajar because the skin was tugged tautly outward to such a degree that the spherical eyeballs seemed they would jut out at a moment’s notice. I envisioned my portrait on the cover of R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps, eyeballs about to fall out, hanging by sinewy rose-pink vessels.

The temperate warmth that prefaces a late Spring birthday and the forthcoming Summer was one of my favorite times of year. I was enamored by the idea of a road trip, especially through the ventricles of Queens and into the heart of NYC, headed toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s steps. I would have loved to roll down all the windows and let me hair billow and bounce about alongside my profile.

In the years prior to a diagnosis, I would sit proudly and somewhat arrogantly, in an effort to exhibit my outfit to the driver’s seat side of the adjacent cars. And now, especially after being home bound and alone, I wanted nothing more than to engage with the elements. My mind craved to see the sights pass by and my lingual glands longed to taste the lingering aromas of ethnic cuisine in the air.

But instead, I sat in a version of the fetal position in the backseat on the passenger side. My father slowed to a rolling halt before I squinted and caught sight of the first verdant greenery marking the forthcoming season. It was the street sign that read, “Museum Mile,” before I quickly saw the lush green canopies of Central Park’s trees’ tops. I saw the MET’s steps materialize and suddenly became that Gossip Girl fan from high school who had adorned her ponytail with a bow and/or stroked her bangs back with an embellished headband.

My mom and I had been arguing and so she quickly exited the car and clamored up the steps. I slowly followed, a puddle that seemed to extend as far as the eye could see separated me from the car and the MET. I took my time, gingerly sidestepping out of the car, as if to save my shoes from disrepair as opposed to what I was actually doing: trying to figure out just how to not step in the puddle. I finally hopped successfully as my mom gazed on.

She sat at the far left of the expansive steps. I managed to make it to the stairs and then gravity pulled me toward the ground with the force of God tugging just so from above so that I could still glide along Earth’s surface. I slowly made my way up one step, hand firmly gripping the rail in an effort to pull myself up. After what seemed like the gargantuan American Ninja-level task of climbing up a vertical wall perpendicular to the ground, I stealthily made my way toward my mother who looked horrified.

I slowly sat down next to her, my flat and bony butt gently rocking on the concrete. She looked at me dead-on and said, “You cannot walk. Something is terribly wrong. You’re dying. I’m taking you to the hospital.” I looked at her, and knew she was right, yet I kept saying no. I kept answering no. And I continued to disrespect both of my parents as we finally reached our destination: the Emergency Room.

From Dead Bug to Warrior Pose: Moving on Up-

Today I performed yoga - all of five minutes - in front of my parents. My mother performs yoga almost daily - 30 minutes combined with some recently added in fire hydrants, leg raises for working glutes, abdominal crunches that I still do not believe are performed as they should be, plié squats, and lunge squats. During this time, I leave her be, not bearing to witness her workout as I am forbidden from participating myself. Well, that and squats literally kill my already dying body.

Today I performed true yoga - the yoga that prospective instructors have to undergo hundred of hours of trainings for. I’m talking the type that doesn’t refer to poses or salutations but instead refers to “aasanaas,” meditates on breathing, speaks of intentions, and is based on mantras. The mind-body connection instead of the exercise is the focus of true yoga. It’s the type of movement that while profound, I never had equated with anything, preferring intense cardio and heavy lifting for physically evident results: the loosening of pants and shrinking waist.

Today was the low-key National Eating Disorders Awareness Walk. Today is a week from the first time I felt like my heart rate had dropped so dangerously low, my bowels so obstructed, my stomach on fire, my head about to burst, that I was close to death. My ears became popped. Sounds were muted. I think I lost hearing in my left ear- as if blood had ceased to circulate there. My vision was clouding over. I was blacking out after yelling over my parents who were mandating me to eat one of my childhood favorites: cinnamon-scented Puerto Rican Farina- a fortified and enriched cream of wheat mixed with boiled milk, a pat of margarine, and a spoon of crystallized brown sugar. I feared the refined sugar crystals, the non grass-fed and lactose-free equivalent or ghee, the carbs of the gluten, and the whole-fat dairy. They refused to let me go into the kitchen to see how the food was to be prepared. Minutes passed. An hour passed. My mom said she wouldn’t make the Farina nor eat herself and ran upstairs. My father would go without eating. And then after one last yell and cry, my body shut down. I was unbalanced, stopped in my tracks and called out, “take me to the hospital- now.”

I never said that. I never laid down or rested my body during the day like I had that day. I laid down in front of the fireplace, frozen and in pain. I was immobile and I asked my father to go upstairs and fetch a blanket to put over me. Usually I would match others’ steps by following them upstairs for no particular reason other than to ensure my peace of mind- that I had burned as many calories as they had. My parents knew something was wrong and on that day- they kept a watchful eye over me. Not so secretly they were giving me kisses and checking in on me, their ear to my mouth and chest, the back of their palm on my forehead. My mom made a plan. I would eat this much at breakfast, that much at lunch, and have dinner with her. She checked my bowls, opened up my napkins, and dug into the garbage.

She went grocery shopping with me and mandated rice, protein bars, and pasta. She made me purchase salmon like I used to. She was trying to make sure I didn’t drop off the face of the earth. She knew I lied. She knew my motivation would dwindle, my old habits would return.

It has been a week and I cooked unmeasured amounts of vegetables after years of craving but not having them. I tasted herbs and a few spices again. I indulged in the act of cooking for myself, of going to sleep early and waking up early. It has only been a week and I cannot day I haven’t cut some corners. This weekend was particularly tough.

My brother came home, and he went on two two-hour walks. He watched his portions and subscribes to dated, old, diet myths to try and lose weight. He doesn’t eat balanced meals. And that is where my competitive spirit comes out in both good and bad ways: I am more knowledgeable than the all mighty surgeon but I want to out walk him and to eat less.

My mother and I had a plan to cook paella for my brother while I have my salmon and vegetables. But just then he asked my mother what she was making. Apparently it didn’t meet his standards of what a paella is and so my mother asked what he wanted. It was all too clear- he wanted out. She played right into his hands- we would eat “real” paella at the Cuban restaurant I detested, even before my anorexia. My face fell and grew stone cold. The reaction was not lost on my mother who assured me that it was ok. That I would order salmon as if I was at home. She told me not to cry and then the shallow breaths, the hiccups, the tears came down in an anything but steady stream. My face was flushed- redness from my newly acquired nourishment was wasted on depression.

I restricted that day. I thrived on the lightness of being or rather, not being full, but after all was said and done, I was not satisfied either.

That day I went on an over an hour walk after my brother had taken his, cutting it extreme close to our reservations.

I called the restaurant and orchestrated a complex plan to be carried out with Juan Carlos - his actual name- the manager. I would get an undressed salad with two hard boiled eggs, olives, tomatoes and greens. No salmon, no salsa, no sugary mango, no garlic vinaigrette. In short, back to no flavor profile and deprivation. The waiter got confused and messed up the plan before magically “having it covered,” after I spoke to Juan Carlos on the sly- leaving the table to ‘go to the bathroom.’ My parents suspected, but I denied it.

At the end of the dining experience going smoothly otherwise, my mother said she was disappointed in me and that they spent $22 on something like 200 calories.

I didn’t sleep that night - last night.

Today was not too much better, but improved, except for the fact that I just lied again. I would only have fruit, not a protein bar for snack tonight.

But I do remember what the honorary speaker said at the walk. She was 26-years-Old and gained so much more than weight -a fiancé, an education, exercise, and travel.

And then before the walk, we all performed yoga. The sun shines down and the breeze was light. The temperature was tepid. My tears came down, my mom said we had to do it- I had to recover.

My bowels are still obstructed. I kept thinking all night about what my parents would eat for breakfast and did I have time to go out and purchase something. I found Pilsbury rolls and in the oven they went. My mother refused to eat, saw the sliced bread was old and decided on crackers. She was still in the midst of straightening her hair so I quickly shut the oven, ran out the door with my open jacket, pajamas tucked into sneakers, grabbed my car keys and sped to the closest market two minutes before they opened at 7 am to purchase the 130-calorie per slice bread instead of her favored 90-calorie slice one.

I came home in 5-minutes flat and left the bread on display on the kitchen island where we eat when guests aren’t over. She didn’t see it and asked my dad to buy her the confectionery coffee roll from Dunkin Donuts. My mouth fell in shock, my body weak, my mind catching up to my body. That was a plot twist. I wasn’t expecting that. So she wasn’t going to diet. In the mean time I had neglected to get my breakfast ready, my schedule already running later than I like.

Last Sunday I was notified of moving to the second round for my dream job- deadline Tuesday when assignment given on Monday. On Monday I was immobile still and didn’t start until hours before it had to be handed in. I wonder what will happen. I won’t expect much. My hope should subside.

This is recovery. This is an uphill battle. This is my reality. This is anorexia.

Take Note.

Let's Start Again. This Time, Using Arabic Numerals. 1. In the City Where This Sun Sets:

I’m in Sint Maarten. Why? Well here’s some background. A journalist set to cover a music festival on the remote island forgot about it, passed, and confirmed flight and accomodations had already been booked. Instead of incurring an astronomical cost and ill will, the offer was up for grabs among a flurry of writers the morning of . Conveniently, and thanks to my mother, I was out and about, showered and dressed , in a car accompanying her to a follow-up appointment post-regularly-scheduled argument and cry, refreshing my phone screen for the first time in an effort to fade out of the atmospheric ire and inevitable ensuing argument. The radio wasn’t enough.
It was the morning of Valentines Day. There was my editor’s name. I immediately opened up the email to see what work, if any, there would be for an unpaid freelancer. All it read was, “Anyone want to go to ?”
”Trip” stood out to me in the subject line. I read St. Martin and then “SXM Festival". I immediately jumped on the opportunity, wrongly thinking that the misspelled location was a city in Texas or elsewhere in the Southwest for a mainstream music festival - perhaps the South by Southwest® (SXSW®) Festival and SXM was some kind of abbreviated abbreviation? I know - ridiculous. Two minutes later I accepted the offer.

It was only after my parents and I thought something had finally hit in my favor that research proved me wrong: Sint Maarten was an international trip - a half Dutch and half-French dual nation in the middle of the ocean. The festival was niche - for dance/techno raving. I grew anxious. YouTube videos from past festival goers suggested a scene completely out of my comfort zone and the little available coverage left me a bundle of nerves. I turned into a malignant tumor - my health already dire. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Nil information of the island aside from some post-Hurricane coverage meant a wide-open market for reporters to make their make and share untold stories.