text: Stabbing, fierce pain woke me up. I knew I was awake as I could feel the hollowness of my stomach and hear the yowling of my intestines. I struggled to open my eyes though despite the perniciously bright sunlight which was desperately trying to force me to see through. At that instant I did not really know where I was, which day of the week, month or year I was supposed to be in. I could not remember if I was meant to be sleeping, was I on my own or if I had anything to do. All I could remember was the crispy sugary crust of that waffle I had had. Yes, that waffle... My last meal before I was wherever I was. It must have been quite a while since then as my appetite was screaming like a starving hyena in a desert. My imagination was rotating around a pile of those waffles poured over with maple syrup, sweet-scented cinnamon, chopped bananas, whipped cream, hazelnuts, hot chocolate... This reminded me of how incapable I was of consuming any of those scrumptious delights. I am sure many of us are susceptible to certain allergens and it is a common issue and tedious task cafes and restaurants must deal with to satisfy the whims of annoying customers. That’s why some brands have special sandwiches for people intolerant to either gluten, or dairy, or nuts, or sesame, or sugar, or eggs, or seafood etc. It is very much rarer for someone to be intolerant to all of those listed. Yes, you guessed, I am talking about myself. One of the reasons why I avoided to go to parties in high school, have lunch with my friends or dare to go out on a date was my frustrating intolerance towards pretty much every food I would try in those gatherings. Food tends to unite people, reinforce relationships, save the starved or just to make your day slightly more exciting sometimes if the new flavour of your favourite cereal has come out. But for me, food created mostly pain, especially when it involved others. How I had to triple check the labels of the snack bar every time before my lunchbreak and the disappointment I would endeavour when I discovered that the college café had no dairy free milk, sugar-free syrup or gluten-free bread. The potential exasperation my mum had to go through if I happened to not tolerate her soup despite her efforts to make it impeccably suitable for me. The number of times I had to say no when someone offered me a slice of cake on their birthday. No wonder I almost said no to Asha’s birthday invitation. Almost? The epiphany of my current condition hit me with a firm thrust. It was when the opening of a door followed by its sudden slam distracted my appetite and I could finally see gigantic tubes attached to my veins and nauseating smell of chemicals. A tall, slim, middle-aged man with a prematurely wrinkled face and bald forehead was observing me with concern as if I held the response to his perturbation. “Kamilah,” he uttered while painstakingly checking a list. “Mhm”, I did not even have the energy to speak. He adjusted one of the tubes which was flowing into my bloodstream and sat on the grey chair next to my bed as if he was about to interrogate me on a bunch of trivial issues until he reached to the pinnacle of his dissertation. “You must be pretty exhausted. We almost lost you. Your heartbeat was dangerously slow. You are lucky that we took you to the current state you are in. Your parents and friend Asha are very worried about you...” “But...”, I had to tell him the truth before anyone had jumped into assumptions and thrown a mass of accusations on me and my unsatiable greed and irresponsibility. “However, I thought”, he didn’t allow me to interrupt him, “that you will need more rest before everyone starts bothering you with questions”, it felt for a second as if he was on my side which made my breathing normalise, “It is better if you eat something first. You must be starving”, at the same instant a chubby nurse entered in the room carrying a tray which reeked of beefy soup, and I spotted a dry bread roll peering on the top. Did my parents not inform them about my gluten intolerance? At the end of the day this is the reason why I was here... “Let me speak first”, I almost yelled to terminate the brisk enthusiasm with which the nurse was approaching me, “I ate something I should not have. And I know that my mum is very mad at me and she has just forgotten to let you know about my allergies. They were staring at me with empathy for the first time and I felt as if I was actually going to be understood. I took a deep breath, ignored the incessant present of hamburger in my thoughts and tried to cultivate my energy so I could tell them everything I knew. “Everything began yesterday when I decided to go to Asha’s birthday party. She is the only person I relied on as she always understood my situation around ‘fussiness’ with food and tried to even adjust her diet according to my food tolerance. For the first time I felt the presence of someone who was patient enough with me. Even my mum is tired of cooking food for me sometimes as I would either get a rash, or stomach-ache or even end up in a hospital as it is happening now...”, I needed a long pause before I continued. It may have been even an hour until I managed to put my words together and state the truth. “Asha created her birthday menu according to my allergies so I could enjoy the party in the same way everyone did. Like normal people”, tears started shuddering from my eyes, “There would be vegan, gluten-free, sugar-free waffles. Meat-free burgers. Dairy-free cheese. More fruits and vegetables. Healthy snacks. And plant-based cake. I was looking forward to that day for weeks. It was...finally going to be a normal celebration. More normal than mine. Not thinking about the labels of food and just live in a world where the risk of my life being totally messed-up is to the very minimum. A world where food allergies do not exist because no one creates food which makes someone die,” I smiled and I saw how the man and the nurse reciprocated it as if they had experienced something similar before,” But everything proved to be an illusion once I tried Asha’s waffles. Initially I was simply indulging them in the same way I was indulging my trust towards her. But once I tried the burgers, I felt like something was not right. My hands started quivering and I felt dizzy. I went to the toilet and on the way back I overheard the conversation of Asha’s mum and one of the guests. They were in the kitchen and discussing the menu. Having had already a tone of doubts about the food I had consumed, I started listening with attention. The guest was apparently impressed by the quality of the food and asked about the ingredients of the waffles. I heard Asha’s mum mentioning something like 400 grams of sugar and one kilogram of white flour... I don’t remember what happened afterwards. I must have lost conscience”, I, myself, was shocked about what I had just said despite being aware of it earlier. My best friend had tried to poison me after I had bestowed her with my ultimate trust. The simple fact of my life being under danger did not matter to me to the slightest. It was the betrayal which brought me to the hospital. No one really tried to counter or acknowledge anything I had just stated. The man continued signing some stuff on his list and the nurse retrieved with the stinky tray without forcing me finish my meal. Hours passed and nothing was changing. The nurse never came back with a tray full of food appropriate to my needs. My parents did not visit me, and my stomach never stopped complaining of how empty it felt. I did not have the strength to leave but if I got the chance to the preoccupation of finding a food place which responded to my needs at the very instant was stronger than the exhaustion I was carrying. Maybe a week passed after I finally took the courage of asking what was going on. Was I about to die? Was I in a camp or prison? Why was no one talking to me? And why did no one care that I had been poisoned by my best friend or that I had not eaten for days? “What the hell is going on here?” I burst into tears as the pressure of my voice and the way the nurse looked at me made me even more emotional, “Why are you not paying attention to what I am telling you? I am starving to death, and you would not even bring me a piece of fruit? Where are my parents?”, the nurse seemed frightened. She left the room quickly. In a few minutes the tall slim man walked in and sat on the grey chair next to me. This time it was me who was seeking a response from him. “Good morning, Kamelah”, he smiled, “Lucy told me you didn’t sleep very well last night. What can I do for you? “Tell me what is going on! Who are you and why are you not letting me out? Why are you not letting me eat?”, I uttered with the last gasp I had kept for this moment. I just wanted to liberate myself from...everything. I wanted to listen. “Dear Kamelah”, he finally began, “I am doctor Leora and I am a qualified psychiatrist for eating disorders. You have been in the clinic for eating disorders for the last week and a half due to a heart failure you experienced as a result of putting yourself under a drastic meal plan. As far as I understood from your parents, the party of your friend Asha was a month ago and they told me that you had literally stopped eating after then. When it comes to your accusations towards Asha and her plans to ‘poison’ you, there hasn’t been any evidence in the records of you displaying any forms of severe allergies apart from your minor intolerance towards full fat milk which makes you gassy sometimes. You did not come to the hospital because you have experienced a seizure from an allergic reaction. You came to the hospital because your heartbeat almost stopped after you putting your body under so much strain. You have been diagnosed with anorexia nervosa and will need to remain supervised under intensive care until we decide where to transfer you for your recovery period.”