Like Everyone Else
This past weekend, I had a very unusual experience that I tend to assume is normal for most people - I didn’t eat a single snack I packed for a family celebration, only ate what was provided.
Although this might not sound like a milestone, it’s something that I’ve never accomplished in my 28 years of life. And while I joke around that I eat like an overgrown toddler, the truth is that I’m very sensitive about my lack of “normal” eating habits and often get ashamed when people question me about why I won’t eat certain things that the majority of people do.
After so many years of therapy and medicine, I am proud of the fact that I can go through life “passing” as neurotypical. If I meet someone new, their first impression of me is not likely to be colored by the fact that I live with mental illness, and when I share this information with people I become more comfortable with, they are often surprised because I - for lack of a better phrase - seem to have my shit together.
But if someone’s first impression of me is at a restaurant where I’m not comfortable, things seem completely different. I’m anxious and fidgety. I read the menu over and over, almost as if seeing the words again will magically make them change into something I’m comfortable with. I watch the waiter move around the table taking orders with the same look on my face as if I was expecting to be served as the main course.
And then, I order “weird.” I don’t order something on the menu at all, or I order something like an appetizer that’s already pushing my limits but still get the same stares as if I haven’t ordered anything at all. I end up feeling like no matter how hard I try to blend in, I am conspicuous in my eating habits, and no amount of praying or hoping or discouraging can keep some people from interrogating me about why I eat the way I do and humiliating me in front of groups of people.
Even though my immediate family has long been accustomed to my eating habits being strange thanks to a lingering remnant of OCD that I don’t seem able to master no matter how hard I try, my extended family is not nearly so understanding. And although they don’t have to be, I still end up with a sinking feeling in my stomach when it comes to extended family events where I usually have to bring my own food and sneak away until I find an inconspicuous place to hide and eat. It’s not conducive to bonding with my family, as my thoughts and often my actual body are in different places from everyone - but it’s something I’ve learned to accept as inevitable.
As such, I was unprepared for a bar mitzvah I attended this past weekend to not only have food I would eat, but a variety of it. I didn’t have to be hungry at any point in the weekend, nor did I have to scavenge for snacks instead of sitting with everyone and enjoying the event to its fullest. After all, a 3-hour dinner doesn’t feel nearly as interminable when I am eating food like everyone else instead of dodging questions about pickiness and allergies.
It might seem like a small thing, but being able to eat what everyone else was eating - and eat together with them - helped me enjoy this event so much more than many others in the past. I was able to get out of my head and be fully present and participatory, which led to some great conversations with my aunts, uncles, and cousins. It was so much more enjoyable than I’d anticipated, all for this one simple reason that probably wasn’t even a consideration in terms of planning the event itself.
All this to say, feeling included is a huge part of feeling welcome in a particular space. It was a blessing for me to feel like part of something I don’t usually get to participate in and set aside my feelings of inadequacy for a carefree, fun time. If there’s ever a way that you can consider someone like me in your event planning, even if it seems like something small, it might mean the world to that person.
Ellie, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.