or when dinner comes round, and it is a chore to eat.
there was nothing wrong with the performance. the flaming onion volcano went perfectly, the massive fire of the hibachi was bright and warm, tickling my skin.
the food was okay, too. it tasted fine, but when i brought the fried rice to my mouth, something in my brain switched off. my tongue tasted the savory flavors of the cereal grain, but my throat wasn't having it. my stomach said no.
to please the audience and myself, i swallowed down as much food as i could. the rice, the steak, the chicken, down into my stomach. my head throbbed at the thought of willing myself to eat what i couldn't in the first place.
it was worse when they brought out the miniature scoop of rainbow sherbet, because of course they had to know the dinner was a celebration of my birthday. my mother gave me a smile, and i downed it all.
i felt like death.
i felt bad for being so short with my grandmother, and was aware as i spoke to her that maybe anger could be a side effect of the depression.
how can you be depressed? a girl in gym had asked me.
it's hard to explain, i had said, but meant to add, when your brain is as starved of life as your stomach wishes to be of food.
YOU ARE READING
Smart Girl
Non-Fictionthoughts from the smart girl. //the journal of wren// //highest rank #2 in non fiction// //all names of real people interacted with here are altered from their original versions for privacy's sake//
