A Fork in the Road

TW: Anorexia Nervosa

“Are you hungry?”

Out of the giant fluffy cloud where I had just gotten the chance to lay my head on, I’m transported into a dark abyss. Waves of color path my vision, as I flow through a whirlwind of tunnels and into the great unknown. 

A bundle of assorted polygons begin to fill my line of vision as I keep treading forward into a desert path, wondering where my thoughts will take me next. 

I can begin to make out the outline of a figure standing directly over me: one circle for a head protruding several strands of thin hair, letting me know that I am not alone. In an attempt to lift my head off of said cloud, my world begins to spin out of control into a storm of white light, letting me know that something awful has happened. 

“Are you hungry?” I am able to make out again, as the smell of stale bacon makes its way into my nostrils.

In a second attempt to lift my head up, I am met with a strong surge of whiplash that sends my head crashing down, creating a stabbing pain down my spine. 

“There there, stay down. I’m taking care of you.”

I can slowly begin to feel the soft surface underneath me begin to elevate, and as the room around me slowly stops spinning, I find myself seated in an upright position. My vision has now cleared, and I suddenly realize where I’ve ended up... again. 

I close my eyes as the words “Eating Recovery Center” flash before me, words all too familiar for me to have forgotten all these years later. As the memories from the day before begin flooding back, I slowly begin to feel the silicone tube protruding from my nose, sighing in disbelief. 

“Refusing all food and supplements, starting nasogastric feeding.”

I glide my finger down the tube, reaching for the Ensure pouch hung up on the stand next to me. 

“Hold her down.”

It’s cold to the touch, much like my body has been for the past six years. 

“Inserting now.”

“Don’t touch that,” says the care assistant in front of me. I quickly bring my frail hand back underneath my warm sheets, keeping it safe from the cold outside. 

“Sorry,” I say, as I glance down at the breakfast tray in front of me. 

I haven’t been faced with this amount of food since the last time I was here, being put on the highest meal plan possible in order to get my weight up again. It's overwhelming to say the least, creating a pit of impending doom in my stomach.

I never stopped mourning the loss of my sick body. Losing it was like being stripped away of an identity I had so long associated myself with. If I didn’t fit the part of the poor anorexic girl, then who was I? Who was I without looking the part? Although eating disorders don’t have a certain look, it was almost as if the fact that people knew I was sick from looking at me on the outside, my illness was validated. 

It wasn’t until I was back in that same body that the grieving stopped.  

“Alright, time for breakfast. You know the drill: you have forty-five minutes. We’ll sit with you for support the whole time. If you refuse your meal or if you don’t finish in the given time, then we’ll feed you through the tube. Understand?”

I nod my head with tears in my eyes. 

I knew that what I had been doing to myself would surely bring me back here, but it felt like such a distant possibility. Abusing behaviors was the only thing that I felt would bring me closer to self-acceptance, so it’s all I’ve known for the past six years. 

“Alright, go ahead.”

I stare down at my plate, millions of thoughts racing through my mind. 

“Just eat a burger.”

I pick up my fork and push around my potatoes. 

“Skin and bones.”

I never much liked them, although the fact that I haven’t had them since the last time I was here isn’t a good judge of that.  

“She’s doing it for attention.”

Once my whole plate has been greased up, I drop my fork with a clank, making the plate vibrate. 

“So tell me about yourself,” says the care assistant, “it might be a distraction from the negative thoughts.” 

She smiles at me. A smile so wide I fear her face might contort. I smile reminding me of the void in my life created all those years ago. A smile she’s probably repeated to countless other patients, meaning that mine is nowhere near as special as her first. 

The question of whether or not she actually cares about what I have to say lingers on my tongue, but I contain my judgment and give her a stale answer instead. 

“I’m 16, I don’t want to be here, and I’m not eating this.”

My mind derives pleasure from seeing her smile slowly fade, as if what I’ve said has truly shocked her into a state of silence, leaving me to peacefully sulk in my misery.

I can’t really put into words what being here makes me feel. For the past six years, I haven’t been able to live an ounce of life, while it’s been taken over by this eating disorder. I haven’t been living, but rather surviving: barely getting by each day and dreading every second of the hour.  

“How about we start by picking up our fork?”

My blood boils. 

“Our fork?” I say, my mind fuming from the hatred that I feel. 

The care assistant's face turns a certain shade of white that is all too familiar, almost like looking in a mirror: a lifeless, empty corpse. She clears her throat, adjusts her posture, and gracefully walks out of the room. 

The room is left silent, with an empty hole left in the chair where the care assistant was just seated. A breath lingering in the air where she had just sighed out her last straw, and the shine of her teeth from her piercing smile lighting up the room as a whole. 

I come to find that her presence is missed, and being in the presence of this food is awakening something in me that I didn’t know was there. 

After a short while, the door to my room is creaked open, and in walks the care assistant holding a breakfast tray full of food. She takes a seat in the chair next to my bed and drops the tray next to mine. 

“Yes. Our fork,” she says.