The Biscetti Incident

A few days ago I was given my discharge date: Friday, June 3rd. On that day I will officially leave treatment at the Eating Recovery Clinic. Since I live in Denver I plan to continue with their Extended Intensive Outpatient Program, in which I will have a lesson, a meal and a process group three times a week for as long as I desire (and insurance wants to pay). Of course I will still be seeing a therapist and dietitian at least once a week, as well.

In every process group we are asked to “give a feeling.” Yesterday, I opened my mouth and without even thinking these feelings poured out: proud, content, excited, and feminine. I had weathered this transition to the IOP program, moving into my new apartment, and starting my internship in such a way that I both respected the difficulty and found a way to make it less hard. I spent a couple days in purgatory, between second and third gear, and emerged on the third day rejuvenated. The beauty of these feelings is that they are not alone. I am also worried about making friends and finding a job. I’m also anxious when the thoughts buzz in my mind. I’m also guilty for getting myself here in the first place. I’m also…I’m also…I’m also… I can observe all of these thoughts and know that the day goes on. In fact, the day might be fun, and if I let these control me I rob myself of enjoying it. So I say “proud, content, and excited” and look back on the progress I’ve made.

Which leads me to the real topic of today’s post: the Biscetti Incident. Growing up, “biscetti”- or, in its mature form, spaghetti- was a frequent player in my life. It was cheap, easy and nutritious, meaning that my mom and dad made it often. I’m also from a large Italian/ Irish family where spaghetti allowed my cooking-disinclined grandmother to feed everyone something that wasn’t green. I think “biscetti” was probably one of my first favorite foods.

When I was in my ED I religiously restricted spaghetti intake. It’s true that I’m actually not that big of a spaghetti fan (I think curlier pasta does the red sauce greater justice). I avoided any place where I might be confronted with the devilish carb. I avoided dinner at my parents house or insisted on making myself “healthier” pasta with no sauce. I ceased to eat at Italian restaurants altogether and sidestepped that aisle at the store. Carbs, sugar and deliciousness, beware!

A few weeks into treatment I sat down at the lunch table, pulled my warming lid off of my plate, and then the ceiling fell on top of my head. It made my eyeballs pop out, right into the bowl of spaghetti in front of me. Spaghetti, marinara, chicken and memories. The spaghetti was like a magic elixir that recalled all of my shame, guilt, and true fear of food. I sat in silence and stared at my plate. The noodles rearranged themselves into the night when I took an hour to prepare my carefully engineered pasta alternative. Then they became the happy memories of my childhood and corresponding nostalgia. And nothing would be complete without ED, who told me that this might just be the one food I cannot and will not eat. “Drink a Boost instead!” it said. “All these carbs are disgusting and empty. They will make you unhealthy. You don’t deserve pasta!” Good ol’ ED, always there to lend some unsolicited advice. Fighting back tears, I lifted my fork.

I barely spoke during that lunch. I thanked the Lord that my table-mates were good friends and energetic that day. I listened to what they were saying, laughed and twirled the spaghetti around my fork. Twirl, insert, chew and repeat. As I ate I felt like my body was waking up. With each bite I realized a little bit more about my eating disorder and myself. I realized that it tasted pretty good, and that it definitely wasn’t killing me. I promised myself then and there that I would never restrict pasta again. I would never sit in the kitchen while my family ate so that I could make myself a “special meal.” I would never skip out on fun with friends because I believed pasta would affect my body in some ridiculous way. I never, ever, wanted to be controlled by my fears- especially fears about something my body really needed.

Before this day I did not understand the true meaning of “fear food.” I thought that I was afraid of some foods, like pastries. I am to an extent: I avoid them because I designate them “unhealthy.” But they do not bring up an emotional response like spaghetti marinara did. Spaghetti was the first food I thought that I literally may not be able to finish. It solicited in me a physical reaction: the fear made my legs tingle, my stomach turn into knots, and my heart race. Forcing myself to eat it was one of the most surreal experiences that I’ve ever had.

Ask me how I feel about spaghetti now. I’ll tell you: I can’t wait for spaghetti night at my parents. Give ma big plate covered in spiced marinara; Hell, even throw some meatballs in. Because I, Emily Stewart, am not afraid of spaghetti. The most interesting part of the whole experience was that as soon as I faced my fear it nearly vanished. Looking it in the eye and sitting through its emotions rid me of the negative thoughts I had developed around it. Comprehending that I had sacrificed a lot in developing those thoughts was a stepping stone in my recovery.

So pull out a big pot. Fill it with water and a little salt. Dump a handful of spaghetti in and stir the marinara with your other hand. Uncork a glass of red, pile the plate high, and sit down Italian-style. It’s biscetti night, my friends. Dig in.