A Menu to Fear

She had trouble sitting still. Her demeanour was one of twitching discomfort born from frustrating indecision. Her mouth was uncomfortably filled with a rush of saliva but no matter how much she swallowed her throat was still dry. She clenched her teeth and her fists in frustration; her mental battle so tumultuous it spilled over into physical reactions. Occasionally she would mutter silent curses to herself as she swung, a pendulum in the wind, from choice to indecision. She weighed the pros and cons as if her life depended on it, as if her happiness did. It was a fight between instant gratification and later consequences; or discipline, regret and maybe a chance for self-acceptance, however slim.

She searched the faces and conversations of her friends across the table from her, looking for guidance without requesting it. Unbeknownst to them she did this often; she relied on them to be her deciding factor, her moral compass, her restraint, or her ‘fuck it’ attitude. But none of them were struggling with the same contemplation, none of them had to choose to side with fear or freedom in this pointless to-and-fro she was subjecting herself to.

She turned inward again, assessing; weighing the consequences of a decision incorrectly made. Every time she felt she had reached the answer a thought would slip and derail the stability of her choice, yet another reason for hesitation. She glanced up and realised that she had been disengaged and silent for some time now and she was afraid someone had noticed, but the voices still danced around her and their eyes were still filled with laughter. For a moment she was caught in the revelry, for a moment she forgot to care. Her ‘live in the moment’ light outshone her hesitation.

“Does anyone want dessert?” She blurted.

As soon as the words were out, regret joined them. She hated that she cared so much. She hated that she relied on second-hand permission from others in order to permit her happiness or administer her restraint.

“Oh god no, I’m so full.” The immediate response was punctuated with an exaggerated belly pat and a sigh. The emphatic words and utter lack of hesitation stung. Her thoughts instantly soured; of course, how stupid, she was just being a pig. She gazed over her beautiful friends, her skinny friends, and internally punched herself for being so stupid. They could easily eat dessert without the consequences, but they didn’t. Maybe that was why they were a calibre above her own, maybe that was why she used them to restrain herself from what she 'wants' back into the bracket of what she 'needs'. She knew they struggled with their own problems, but the bitter voice in her laughed and reminded her that even their demons were skinnier and prettier than her. She shrunk into poisonous thoughts and bubbled away silently; raging that they controlled her with unwavering dominance. In that moment she despised herself.

“Do you want to split one with me?” The question was so innocently offhanded, so simple. There was no way they knew the vial thoughts that were rampaging through her or how those words validated her in some tiny way. It was small interactions like these that made her love them more, because sometimes, even in ignorance, they helped her.

She gave a shy nod and pushed the refusal away. This was the only solution to possibly quell the tide of bitterness - moderation and forgiveness.

When the cake arrived she couldn’t avoid her restraint, not wanting to appear the glutton she feared they all saw her as. She watched the fork slide through chocolate laden sponge and creamy frosting, they paused to add a small portion of ice-cream to the fork before the mouthful disappeared behind smiling lips. She was encouraged by the bliss displayed on their face to hesitate no more. She was careful to take a small piece, reminding herself that dessert was for joy and flavour, not for consumption to survive. She was sure to chew slowly, savour the sweet freshness of the cake on her tongue and leave the last few bites behind.

She ignored the consideration of what it must be like to never have to contemplate cake as if it were a bomb to be disarmed; tried to ignore the fear that this would topple her from content into the kind of full that made her drown in guilt. She was proud that she could manage the restraint that came so strenuously to her but she was terrified of feeling so heavy that she was buried in reproach for her slip and would regret her choice for the rest of the evening.

Tomorrow she will do better. Tomorrow she would avoid cake, carbs, sugar, everything. Tomorrow she would tighten her restraint and ignore the pang of jealousy she felt every time she watched someone else choose a snack without a mental essay of why it was ok to do so. Tomorrow she would probably slip into bitter thoughts of how she wished she had the strength to be anorexic because at least then her body would reflect her struggle, but she knew those thoughts were wrong.

She smiled now though, so that everyone who may have felt her inner torment in their peripheral, were put at ease. All the while she tried to conceal the fact that she was hiding her stomach, afraid that others would see her the way she did.

She was unsure she would ever win this battle.