My 22nd Birthday Was the Day I Remembered How To Feel
If only for a moment
Late afternoon.
I sat rigid on the edge of my hospital bed, my joints as stiff as the mattress below me. It had been two month since I was admitted to my first (but not my last) inpatient eating disorder unit. Two months and I knew nothing of the ward except the colour of the carpets and the medley of aromas that wafted from the hospital kitchen. Two months and I was petrified to look another soul in the eyes because then they would know that mine was broken.
My custom at the time was to keep my face hidden behind a cloak of long hair that cast a dark shadow where my eyes should have been. My gaze was constantly floor-bound. My hair was my shield, protecting me from the outside world and the outside world from me. But by denying myself the vulnerability of connection, I was also evading my chance to heal (a detail I did not recognise until much later).
Beyond my stranded barricade, my mother and father sat in uncomfortable silence. They were dutiful in their daily visits to my hospital bed, but it must have been torture. Their relationship was tense at the best of times, and this wasn’t one of those. They tried to make gentle conversation with each other, and occasionally with me. My responses were minimal at best.
