Red. Green. Amber. The tables almost glowed with these colours. This childish traffic light lollipop system let everyone know just how ill you were. Green - you could be trusted with your food. You wouldn’t pop a bagel in your pocket piece by piece or snaffle a slice of cake into the sleeve of your cardigan. Amber - you were getting there. Mouthful by mouthful you were trusted more. The more you ate, the more responsibility for yourself you gained. You weren’t sure you wanted it. Red - you were not able to feed yourself. You had to be cajoled, watched or forced. Each excruciating bite lasted a lifetime, but you had forty minutes to eat your lunch.
At the time, I was innocent to this world. It was October and I was delusional about two things at least: my parents’ imposter status and also the eating disorder I flirted with over dinner. I was light, light enough to be assumed part of the eating disorder treatment plan on the unit by the other young people. Yet I was unaware of this, blindfolded by my soon-to-be-discovered eating disorder.
The girls and boy on the unit barely touched the ground, weightless yet energised by the silent power of their conditions. We ate biscuits in twos and shrank into the red sofa cushions, swallowed up by guilt as we sat for forty-five timed minutes after meal times.
We watched Hollyoaks, chatted about the inane, comforting minutiae of daily life on the unit. The staff we liked, those we avoided and the two or three we would never deign to see be marked as our daily key workers.
Not everything was pained, it was bittersweet. The friends I met were sweet girls. Glorious unanswered questions remain - where is everyone? Are they better?
Friends from hospital often break away - when we get better we want to forget. We’re not interested in drinking the hemlock of remembering.
I sometimes forget, though I don’t know if I want to.
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