Faerie by Eisha Marjara Page A

Butterflying Woman
    I was still in Phase One, bound to my feeding pole and obliged to wear hospital garb, but now that my weight had begun to climb, I was permitted the scariest new privilege, which didn’t feel like one at all, and hit me hard.
    â€œYou’re going to have to learn to get comfortable eating in the company of others,” Dr Messer said. I now had “cafeteria privileges.”
    I was used to eating by myself. It allowed me greater control over how I could strategically starve myself and not be affected by the appalled and shaming reactions of others. But in a cafeteria with heavily medicated patients, I would have to find new and inventive opportunities to get rid of food. One of the better known side effects of some medications was an increase in appetite. I thought it wouldn’t be that difficult to lure a patient or two into relieving me of a piece of apple pie or a date square. This new privilege would work to my advantage—so I thought.
    On day one of enjoying my privileges in the Four East cafeteria, I joined the regular lunch line-up of fidgety patients with my tray in hand and felt their nerves reverberate throughout my body. The hall was steamy hot, and a humid sticky air of cooking clung to my flesh. I honestly believed that I was absorbing calories through my skin from the dense smell of food. It made me crazy. The sweaty server dropped a bowl of creamy mushroom soup onto my tray. Then she added a plate of turkey slices soaked in thick, mocha gravy with a mound of mashed potatoes and a dribble of mixed vegetables. I struggled to hold the tray up with one hand, as the other had to manoeuvre my feeding pole. The server then slapped two thick slices of white bread on top of the turkey. I froze, horrified, looking at my food. It felt like I had been assaulted, not served. An onslaught of objections went through my mind: I had never asked for gravy. And did it need to be so thick? I didn’t ask for mashed potatoes, either. Why the white bread? Why not brown? Why any bread at all? I looked up, and the woman behind the counter stared at me.
    â€œIs everything all right, dear?”
    I stared with rage but held my tongue. I expected the ordeal to be over, but then a bowl of carrot and raisin salad landed on my tray.
    â€œNO!” I screamed. The room went dead silent.
    A nurse rushed over and took the tray from my hand before it fell or got smashed into someone or something. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
    My body went hard, arms stiff along my sides, fists clenched. “No carrot and raisin salad,” I growled.
    She looked at my tray, then at another nurse who had joined us. Picking up the bowl, she said, “Salad. Gone,” and removed it from my sight.
    With my tray in her hands, she led me to my designated spot, where I could be observed closely by staff. I dragged my feeding pole along with me and sat, still in shock. The nurse bent down and looked into my eyes to examine my pupils.
    â€œYou okay now?”
    I didn’t respond. I noticed her scribble something onto a clipboard. A few moments later, when she left the report on the table to tend to another patient, I read: “12:13 p.m. Patient became extremely agitated when carrot and raisin salad was served to her. She calmed when it was taken away. Perhaps a trigger of a traumatic childhood incident?” I snorted in derision.
    Suddenly, Alyssa sat down next to me with her tray, oblivious to what had just happened. She smiled and nudged my ribs with her elbow. “You’re here! We can eat together now.” Alyssa dug into her meal. “No one ever wanted to hang out with me at the school cafeteria.”
    My body flooded with warmth; I was immediately comforted. Soon I began to experience the true benefits of public eating, thanks not to therapy, but to my new friend.
    Yet as my weight climbed, so did my anxiety levels. Dr Messer’s therapeutic visits had become surprisingly