Mealtimes were another song and dance within the ward. About ten minutes before mealtime, the staff made the announcement; we were herded into the hallway, told to line up, and wait. Standing there, anxious and restless, we had no idea what the mystery meal would be. But with nothing better to do, we waited.
Once we were herded into the cafeteria, we waited again while some of the staff painstakingly served each patient—some took forever, the choices had to be repeated, ingredients noted. Soup or salad, veggies or not. By the time food reached our trays, fifteen minutes had already passed, leaving only another fifteen minutes to inhale our food.
The meals themselves were usually awful: cold, soggy, and often unrecognizable. For me, the salad was the highlight, a small bright spot in an otherwise gray routine. My go‑to was asking to drown my salad in dressing. I liked it that way—my little bit of control. During my first week, there was Pepsi to drink—my caffeine fix; I was addicted—but it ran out a week before I was scheduled to leave. The sudden loss brought migraines that no one seemed to notice or care about. I was desperate for even a little relief. The nurse gave me Excedrin, but it only helped a little.
I ate mostly out of necessity, but I learned the art of scavenging: seconds of anything edible were stashed in my pockets for later, a quiet rebellion against the unrelenting routine of the institution. I would carefully smuggle them back into the unit and hide in my room while I decided what to do with my extra provisions.
Snack time was a much‑awaited reprieve, happening twice a day. The in‑between meal. A bonus. The MTs would shout, “Snack time!” and we’d all come running like we hadn’t eaten in forever. Crackers, cookies, chips, a cheese stick, coffee or juice—never much, but it was something to do, a tiny spark of normalcy in the monotony.
Just enough to keep us tame.
Still hungry,
K.
Read more about the mess I’ve been trying to survive, →
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 