Vertiginous Spiral of Guilt

It is a lovely evening, as I sit with my sister Sarah, my nephew Aggie, and a friend of Sarah’s from college, Stella, and her husband and young daughter. We are at Duende, a restaurant in Burlington. We are enjoying the live music being played by my husband Mike and company, as we sit around a table talking. The waiter comes to the table, bringing along the menus. He announces that tonight the specialty is Ethiopian food.

He passes out the menus to each of us, and I watch as the adults open the menu and “oooh” and “ahh” over the plethora of unique choices. I choose not to open my menu, knowing tonight I will not be able to order any of this food. My stomach is in what I call “recovery”: when it is recovering from a “stuck” episode. That means I must eat with care, to keep it improving and to have it return to my normalcy.

I knew that when I suggested we go here, I would not be able to eat. Two days ago, after returning from a long car ride and trip, I was very hungry, much to my likeness. With some elan, I had made myself my favorite salad, and had a few bites of Mike’s cheesy pizza.  Perhaps the salad I made was too large; or that it contained two much cheese or nuts. The next day I woke up with that ugly “hungover” stomach feeling, with some nauseous feelings and discomfort. Now, two days later, I was still being careful not to upset this lymphatic organ of mine.

The group discussed what to order. It was decided a smorgasbord of items would be ordered, as the group was eager to try a variety of the inimitable foods.

“Since there are 5 of us adults and 2 children, we could probably order 5 main courses and a few appetizers,” suggested Stella.

I spoke up, “Actually I am okay- I am not going to have anything,” I said.

Slightly addled, Stella glanced up from her menu. “Oh, okay? Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I responded, “Thank you”.

It is in moments like these, with people I do not know so well, that I debate whether to speak up and become limpid about my digestive condition, or to remain quiet, with a cryptic silence.

Suddenly, a memory dawned on me that lead me to be fashed. It was 11 years earlier. Sarah and her partner were living in cooperative housing in Somerville Massachusetts with a bunch of their fellow recent college graduates.   I had spent the evening at their apartment, socializing and participating in the evening meal.

The next day, Sarah called me. “Rae,” she said, using my middle hypocorism,” Last night after you left Stella asked me if you are anorexic. I did not know how to answer.”

I can’t recall what I said, or how I reacted that summer day. I do recall feeling embarrassed, somewhat shocked and unsure where to go from there.

And now, here I was, 11 years later, still thin and refusing to order any food. “What did Stella think?” I wondered. Although a saga of event, unknown to her, had occurred in the past decade, here we were, in the same boat. “Was she thinking and wondering if I am still anorexic; that the eating disorder is a sempiternal state?” I thought.  

Of course, I know I no longer have an eating disorder. And should I really care what other people think? Moreover, I should not assume what other people think, either.

This situation was one of those times I was lead into a vertiginous spiral of guilt. Was having gastroparesis my fault? If I had not deprived myself of food for so many years, would my current digestion be so screwed up?

I tell myself I will never know the answer. I tell myself it is irrelevant; it does not matter. One can only learn from one’s mistakes.

I lean back in my chair, order a hot cider, and enjoy the music.