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 unawar...
style adventures ft. a small human named Louise