Disclaimer: Names have been changed for privacy. One of the most important lessons I learned in the eating disorder unit came from the lunchroom. Each and every day, the adolescent patients would line up ahead of the adults to wait for the dietitians to read off the exchanges for the meal. A quick background explanation for those who are unfamiliar with the urban dictionary of mental facilities. Exchanges are part of a system to replace calories as the measurement of food. It is through exchanges that one knows what they should be eating for their meal plan. For example, a tamale, instead of being X amount of nutrient of choice, was simplified into one starch and two proteins. The meal plan coincided with the exchanges in that there were a certain number of starches, proteins, fruits, vegetables, and fats that each patient is required to get per meal. Requirement of exchanges varied with each person depending on dietary needs. How the dietitians broke these categories down evades me to this day. Exchanges, as it turned out were the easiest part of this whole meal ordeal. To further complicate matters and keep everyone on their toes there was hyper normal eating. Just eating? Nah, that would be too simple. We adolescents needed something more exciting! Long ago, well before my fellow comrades in mischief and I had checked in to Hotel de Rehab, the great overseer of the facility had deemed it necessary that in order for true healing to occur one's eating must be "normalized." In theory I am sure this idea made sense but in practice it made almost every meal an elaborate dance; a dance in which the steps seemed to change just when you thought you had learned them. There were rules in place. Chocolate is no vegetable. You cannot have fruit with warm entrees. No cooked vegetables with cold entrees. If you ate a sandwich without chips let the heavens have mercy on your soul. (Unless you have received your dietitian's blessing. Then all is forgiven). Oh yeah, and the most important one. Pickles shall only be consumed with appropriate sandwich and chips accompanying them. Pickles are a privilege, not a right.
Now all this was good and well. I could abide by the chocolate rule, the sandwich and chips rule, and even the no sweaters at the table rule. The pickle rule? How about no. That was where I drew the line. Rebellion blazed in my soul brighter than the slightly burnt out Christmas lights my mom did not throw out last year; so not very bright, but still, this meant war. I knew what I had to do. From that day onward I tried everything I could to sneak pickles on my tray back to the gym room where we ate our meals. First, I casually placed the succulent vinegary treats onto my plate boldly between my hard won, only kind of bruised, green apple and plastic fork like a boss. Obviously, and to no surprise, this whole hide it in plain site tactic was a failure of epic proportions. I barely got to the water station before I was discovered. Then, I started to get smarter. Oh, that's how you want to play, food staff? Well then, time to turn up sneak game. I just needed a little expert advice. A brief consultation with Emily, the weeks in veteran and unit mascot left me convinced that if I could just tuck the pickled pieces of perfection down between my maximum allowed two napkins per person when plating my food I just might stand a chance. The plan was working so well, until the pickle juice began to seep through the napkins and gave away my position. I was sniffed out and made to take the walk of shame back to the trashcan. I shrugged nonchalantly at Emily as I threw away a part of my heart. No biggie. By this time, my pickle obsessing ways were old news back at the adolescent unit. I had drawn a comic demonstrating my love for pickles to my dietitian Clarissa. In group therapy, I howled my frustration at the woes that were hyper normal eating to anyone who would listen. Many more failed attempts at a heist were made and at times it seemed like I was right at the cusp, so close to savory victory, but alas it was a flavor I could not taste. A patient not that much younger than me named Maria would ask me every meal if I had gotten the pickles. Oh how I longed to say it was so! Slowly I began questioning my scheming abilities. Had I lost my touch? No. I just needed to try a new approach. And then it hit me. I turned to Maria and Cristi. My entire body radiated with such a mischief that instead of a "hi, how are you" that day it was a "you've got a plan and we want in." Emily wanted no part in this, understandable since she was trying to discharge ASAP. She did, however, agree to watch my tray while Maria and Cristi provided the few minutes distraction I needed to perform the retrieval. Go time. With two wet sliced dill pickles in hand and Cristi shooting me the hurry-up-we-can't-hold-em-much-longer look I did what any desperate and slightly crazy person would do. Come on now, this was some serious stuff here. Think of the children! Wait, what do children have to do with t- wait. Never mind. Focus. I looked at my tray to calmly assess the situation. I checked my options, thought about life, did some meditation. And then I panicked and shoved the pickles... right under my mashed potatoes. Yep. Maria and Cristi walked back from the staff when I stopped looking like I had just stepped on somebody's cat. Before we had time to exchange looks, Clarissa had come to walk us back to the unit and make sure we all had our proper amount of exchanges. As I picked up my tray, I nudged Maria's elbow and caught Cristi's eyes before smugly pointing at my slightly disturbed mashed potatoes. "Got it," I half hissed and half whispered. In a past life I must have done something really awesome because the universe was kind to me that day. The unit was set up in a way such that there were certain rules during mealtime. Everyone had to follow these rules, including the staff. One of the rules, and a crucial one to our story, was that once something is on your plate when meal starts you have to eat it. If you refuse any portion of your meal you get supplemented. Usually the 100% rule was at best a nuisance, but on this particular day it was just the loophole I needed. Once lunch started, no one could abort my pickle babies. Check. And so when time was called to begin eating I made slow work of extracting my concealed treasures from under the mushy fluffy stuff that looked more like rotting green cheese than anything edible at this point. I did not mind though, I had my pickles. I shared a conspiratorial grin with Cristi and Maria; this was a team effort after all, before turning my attention to open jawed Clarissa. Poor, sweet Clarissa, who had no idea what horrors I hid under my tray. Sensing she would soon recover from this initial WTF moment, without batting a single one of my self satisfied eyes, I recited the 100% rule for the entire table to hear. My gaze shifted from the crowd, which was a full house today of like five, back solely to Clarissa. Check and mate. Slowly and with an almost audible creaking sound I could hear her surprise shifting into amusement. This made me uneasy. Yes, on paper this woman was a dietitian but honestly she could have been a lawyer. True, she conceded, I had drawn upon the all-powerful 100% rule to justify contaminating perfectly good mashed potatoes with vinegar juice, and yes, the smuggled pickles could stay. But in actuality, none of that was necessary. Why? Because I was eating a hamburger. With a devious grin, Clarissa reminded me "pickles are permitted if said pickles are to be had with hamburgers." I slapped my forehead. Of course it was. The previous moments reverie at what really was a group triumph here was sucked out of the room. All the table fell silent, first staring at Clarissa, then at me, back at Clarissa, a little at Frederick the fly, and finally back at me again. "Eh," I said. I removed my hand from my face; it had been there for an awkwardly long amount of time now. "A pickle is a pickle." Just like that lunch returned back to normal. It was in this moment one of the most valuable lessons of healing was taught to me. Happiness is no passive affair. Whoever said the goal is solely the pursuit, or the pursuit is solely the goal? These are questions the urban dictionary of mental facilities cannot write for us. In writing this story I see it is both, the getting there and the being there. It is remembering the people that make you laugh out of nowhere and cry out of somewhere because you miss being in that moment. You miss being with those people. But you know its not over. No, not yet. Whatever it looks like, go chase your pickle. Just remember to get into a little bit of trouble with someone along the way. Just not too much trouble, -Soliuna
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