“Well,” he says, “for one, you have a good heart, and you’re sensitive. You’re not like other girls who only care about themselves, the way they look, or how others perceive them.
“I watch you with my sisters and they already adore you. I mean, you hardly know them and you’re so sweet to them. Two, you make me laugh, I have fun with you. I think you have fun with me. I think we get along really well.” And this is where he stops and kisses you on the bridge of your nose. “You need more?” he asks. “Because I could continue.”
“No, I’m good,” you say. You reach up and run your fingers through his hair, remembering what it was like the first time you saw him on the river, how your breath caught at the sight of him. “Thanks.”
“For what?” Ben asks.
“For making me so happy.”
And then you take advantage of the quiet of the house, the darkness surrounding you, the fact that you and Ben are alone on the couch snuggling, and you kiss him.
27
You’ve heard therapy starts out easy and then gets worse, and you’re seeing firsthand that it’s true. In one-on-one with Shayna, it’s mostly been discussion, but today she’s starting sensory therapy, where she is reintroducing foods to you.
She has brought in a bunch of foods she wants you to describe, including some safe foods. You’ll tell her your anxiety level with each item, what they look like to you, how they feel, which ones smell good, and which ones smell bad.
She shows you mushrooms, chives, beef jerky, eggplant, pineapple, carrots, beets, apples, cabbage, plums, garlic—and other things that you’ve only ever seen at the grocery store, things you’ve never imagined touching or tasting—and asks you to organize them from prettiest to ugliest, and then from best-smelling to worst. Some of it is fun, because some of the things are beautiful, like the smooth, shiny purple-black eggplant whose skin you can practically see your reflection in. Or the prickly pineapple: when you sniff at the bottom, you imagine a tropical island. Those are interesting foods that you have never considered touching or smelling.
Those things are easy for you to do. Because you aren’t tasting the foods. You are just looking, smelling, and touching. That feels safe.
But when Shayna asks you to think about smell and taste together, and to describe that, your brain can’t work that way. You actually like the smell of beef jerky but the idea of putting it into your mouth, of chewing something that is probably thick like a cord, and rubbery … You can’t imagine what that would be like. The thought of eating something as repulsive as beef jerky brings you no comfort. You see no point in putting something that unappealing into your mouth and chewing until you could finally get it down your throat to feed the monster. And you aren’t going to do that.
“I’m not asking you to chew and swallow foods today, unless you feel like you want to?” Shayna says. “If you want to try something, you’re welcome to taste. Maybe put a piece of something into your mouth and see what happens. See if something might surprise you?” she suggests.
It’s the first therapy session since school has started and you’re stressed. You tell Shayna you’re not ready, that you can’t focus on this stuff.
“School has been awful. I didn’t expect Alex to be in two of my classes.”
Shayna knows all about Alex and your hospital trip last year, so she understands your anxiety.
“Tell me what you’re feeling,” she says.
You don’t want to talk about this with Shayna right now—it’s been hard enough seeing Alex in English and Spanish every day. But talking about Alex is better than thinking about how beef jerky and plums might taste rolling around the inside of your mouth.
Still, you don’t say anything immediately.
Shayna nudges you on. “Want to talk about the breakup?”
You think about it.
Then you answer her question.
“I think it was all my fault. I couldn’t do the things a regular girlfriend could do,” you finally say.
“Why not?”
You break down. You know why. Shayna knows why too. It was because you weren’t normal. You aren’t normal.
“I couldn’t go out to dinners, or go to parties. I couldn’t be social. So it was pretty much all my fault that he broke up with me.” You wipe tears from your eyes.
It might not seem like a big deal to regular people. But you know how it feels, and when you can’t eat a normal meal, when you are scared of trying new things, and you feel like you can’t be social because there’s food involved, it suffocates you. You know this now. And you also know you can’t live this way anymore.
But you also know you don’t feel anywhere near ready to try the foods that Shayna has placed before you.
“And I can’t eat this stuff you want me to eat—obviously not today—and I don’t know when I might be able to. Shit, I can’t even eat a regular piece of pizza with cheese with Ben. I have to take the cheese off it.”
You’re still crying, hard, desperate tears, and Shayna watches you, lets you cry. Because that’s part of her job, to let you get the tears out. Then she hands you a box of tissues, letting you know the cryfest is just about over.
You take the tissues and blow your nose.
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Do what?” Shayna asks.
“I don’t think I can get better.”
Shayna says nothing, which is another thing you’ve learned that therapists do: they don’t have to say a lot and they get paid a ton of money. She’ll sit and wait until you feel like talking more.
“It’s like, I want to get better, but I’m afraid.”
Nod.
“I feel like I don’t know how to get better. I don’t want to eat these foods you’re showing me. Like ever.”
Another nod.
“I feel like these foods aren’t going to cure me. How is eating a mushroom going to make me more social?”
Another nod.
“And this has nothing to do with food, but I’m so stressed. School is hard. Therapy is hard. My parents stress me out.”
“The stress and anxiety you’re experiencing have everything to do with having ARFID. When you learn to eat, even if it’s just a few new foods, you’ll be more comfortable, and you’ll become more social, which will alleviate stress and anxiety.”
You think about this, then you switch gears. “The only thing I have going for me is Ben and since school started I’ve only seen him once.”
You realize that sounds tragic, like a Romeo and Juliet saga, but still, you’re afraid that you’re not going to see Ben as much as you want to, and he’s the only one who keeps you sane. He’s the only one who seems to keep the monster at a lull.
28
How about I pick you up after school?
It’s Wednesday morning and you’re on the bus and you feel your whole face light up when you read the text from Ben.
Of course!
OK, 2:30 by the front doors?
Sounds good.
See you then XO