It’s a Friday night and I’ve just won a Magic: The Gathering card game draft, which is a tournament among eight people. I’m proud of myself - it’s been six years since I picked up the hobby, and I’ve never managed to win a draft before. My confidence in my performance at the event makes me giddy, reckless enough to agree to go out to dinner with some friends from the event.
The idea occurs to me, as I sit in the back seat of their car, that I don’t know where we would be eating, nor do these friends know about my… unusual eating habits. A polite way, I tell myself, of saying that I eat like a 5’9” toddler thanks to being afraid to try new foods for the majority of my life. The anxiety and obsessive thoughts that prevented me from trying new foods as a child are still there, albeit better hidden (most of the time).
It’s a few minutes past 10 PM, which means most places are closed. We look at a few places I’ve eaten at before, then my friends get the idea that we should go to a nearby Indian place that’s open. Some of the joy of victory slides away from me as I hope that I can be brave enough to try something that will let me keep my pride in front of my new friends.
I think of what usually happens when I don’t. If I just get a side dish or something plain, I get well-meaning but horribly obtrusive questions about my diet, weight, and lifestyle. I feel inadequate when I am asked these questions. Like somehow, even my best effort over the course of over twenty-five years has amounted to me eating a less varied diet than a grade-schooler. It’s a reminder of the roadblock between me and “normal,” even if friends, family, and therapists alike tell me I give too much meaning to that word.
I enter the restaurant anyway and check out the menu handed to me. It’s a pretty big menu, which is a good thing - higher odds I’ll find something I can eat. The sides appeal to me right away - I know I like naan bread and plain rice, but my friends are ordering proper dishes, and I feel ashamed. Somehow, the fear and the remaining joy from winning the draft combine, and I decide to try a new food.
I’ve never had chow mein before, but from the picture in the menu, it looks like it has noodles and onions. I can see from the allergen list that it won’t kill me. I can only pray that my childhood fear of any new food making me throw up is an obsession and nothing more. It’s a gamble, but I order and pay and sit down with my friends like nothing’s wrong. For a while, I live in the bliss of bravery as the food is prepared, not having to eat anything - but soon enough, the food shows up, and it sits there.
I notice immediately that the noodles are very skinny, much slimmer than I had expected. That is the first detail of many that throws me off. I’m used to a different restaurant, a different dish, a different everything. But I do recognize the onions, and force myself to pay attention to that.
My therapist tells me to pay attention to sensory details like this when I’m about to get caught up in my head, and in this instance, it works. It pulls me back to the conversation, which is still about the cards and the draft and the games we played and the games we hope to play in the future. I twirl the noodles around a plastic fork and pretend it’s lo mein or spaghetti marinara. I hesitantly take a bite.
It’s taken years to get to the point where I can do that - and it feels like a huge step to chew, acknowledge the mysterious spices in the noodles that I am utterly unfamiliar with, and swallow. I then look down, the portion seeming monstrously huge as I know each bite will be its own challenge. Nevertheless, I continue.
I gain a little more confidence as I eat more. I’m eating a new food, I realize, and it’s not killing me or hurting me in any way. The negative thoughts were wrong, as they usually are. I have the proof before me tonight - but at the same time, I know that eating a small portion of a new food is not going to make the next experience less scary. I will still have the ingrained fears. I will still need to use therapeutic techniques and positive memories to get through.
And yet, I will. I may not try new foods often, since this ordeal is something I prefer to avoid if possible, but the option of trying new foods has enabled me to participate in more social opportunities than I would otherwise have. It may be a fight every time, but it’s worth fighting to take yet another step on my road to healthy thoughts and eating habits.
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.