Anemia

The last few days have been physically trying. When I am sick to my stomach, and too nauseous to eat, I become frustrated. Even ill, I dream of wanting steaks, with a caramelized-by-butter outer layer, and a soft, deep pink center, with a smokey Bleu cheese pouring over the fat-crusted edges. I dream of eggs benedict with yolks over-medium, and a sea of Hollandaise smothering the life out of the Ovum. And my favorites, I dream of carbs and dairy. Potatoes. Cheese. Pasta. Cheese. Bread. Cheese. A perfect grilled cheese, an equilibrium of hot, stringy sharp cheddar tang, and the absorbent sponge of buttered bread.

The disappearance of my appetite is, for me, almost frightening. Sometimes, I feel my life force is directly connected to my literal hunger. And so when I am not hungry, I begin to feel unsettled and scared. Forcing myself to eat is incredibly uncomfortable as well. When my mother reassures me that the body doesn't need food everyday, I don't feel any better. When I think about all those cleanses and liquid diets, I become instinctively dubious. It seems totally unnatural to survive on liquid alone. Food is both necessity and pleasure, and I can think of nothing else in life that is as universally so. Emotional discord that leads to a lack of appetite is such an encompassing threat. These elements of life that cut in to the very act that both nourishes me and stimulates me are rejected. And soon, very soon, I will feast and feed with the vigor and enthusiasm hibernating inside.

There is no love sincerer than the love of food. ~George Bernard Shaw