Breakfast Time

Monday November 14th

Breakfast Time

I pour the required cup of full-fat milk

Over the two weetbix in the blue plastic bowl

Letting it soak in

Cold and mushy.

The nurse sitting at the head of the table

Keeps a watchful trained eye

Of the five girls at the table;

She inspects the sachets of spreads

Ensuring a minimum of half the butter is used

On each slice of toast

And every bit of jam, honey or peanut butter

Is scraped out of the pottles.

Thank God I don’t have to have toast … yet.

I slice my kiwifruit on top of my weetbix

And deliberately mix in the yoghurt

My mind calculating, analyzing, panicking.

Staring at the contents of the bowl

I try to mindfully accept the raging thoughts

The tight knot in my stomach

The panic coursing through my veins.

I scoop up a piece of kiwifruit

And lift the teaspoon to my mouth

With an effort similar to what it would take

If it was made of cement.

More food = closer to health.

Even though I despise my gaunt emaciated body

I want the opposite

To starve

To fade away.

As I force myself to swallow the mouthful

The nurse says something.

I realize it’s directed at me.

I have to use a big spoon.

Not a teaspoon.

I always eat with a teaspoon.

I put my head in my hands

And cry.