The Way We Get By

24 // Alex

I once read a statistic somewhere that fifty-eight percent of people will experience a panic attack in their lifetime. And that other forty-two percent, they're the lucky ones.

You see, panic attacks aren't always someone hugging their knees to their chest and hyperventilating because they got a little anxious. They're different for everyone and for every circumstance. Many of mine lately have been with food.

The most difficult thing about recovery is staring at the plate after I've finished and seeing the food that I've eaten. It creates guilt and shame; it makes me feel as though I weigh one thousand pounds. I feel fat. Disgusting.

I stare at the table below as a nurse picks up my empty plate. Today is what the boys call 'Freaky Monday', where John has everyone eat a food that they're afraid of. Last Monday I was relieved of having to partake in it because I was so new to the group home, and instead I just ate a bowl of tomato basil soup.

But this week I had to do it. I had to sit there and eat a slice of pizza and a breadstick all the while my mind screamed at me that I was absolutely repulsive.

"Alright, boys," I look up from the table at John, who's grabbing our attention with his determined voice. "Let's talk about this meal, I know it's a tough one."

There are only five of us boys left here, now. Callum went home over the weekend and now he's doing the at-home part of his treatment. I don't know if I'll ever see him again, but I also don't know how much I care. He was nice and all, but I really didn't know him very well.

So now, it's just me, Lamar, Martinez, Greg and Kaye. We're all sitting around the dining table as the nurses carry away the last of the food.

"So, we've got a couple 'a minutes to talk before parents start arriving for visitation. Let's start to my right. How do you feel right now?"

John looks to the boy on his right, Martinez, and patiently waits for him to answer. Martinez looks up at all of us with a guilty stare and shrugs.

"I—I feel okay," he says in a quiet, mousey voice.

John continues like that, moving around the table and asking each of us how we feel. Most boys give an answer of somewhere between 'I feel okay' and 'I feel unhappy with what I've eaten'. But when the focus turns to me, I freeze up in my seat.

"How do you feel, Alex?"

I open my mouth to respond with the basic answer of 'fine', but the word doesn't come out. Truth is, I'm not fine, and I know I'm not. My feelings are so conflicted, though, that I'm left speechless in my seat.

There's a part of me that feels accomplished. I've finally managed to eat a food that's been terrifyingly difficult for me to eat throughout my eating disorder. But then there's the devil in my mind telling me that I'm fat and that I've failed, and that I'll never be perfect. That recovery is just an illusion.

"I feel," I begin. Again, the words don't come to me. "I—I don't know how I feel."

I trail my eyes up to John, who's sitting to my right, and I see him nod.

"I understand, Alex. But do you feel okay with yourself? Are you okay with what you've eaten?"

I bite my lip and glance around at the other boys. They're all looking at me and waiting for an answer just like John is. I'm thankful that John is patient, though, and he lets me formulate an answer without interrupting.

"I think I am," I conclude after a pause.

John smiles at me, which shows that he's satisfied with my answer.