Jealousy is normal, particularly within close-knit families. New houses, well paid jobs, new babies and proposals. Siblings, cousins, second cousins, aunts, great uncles, many living lives I should want, but I don’t want any of the deep, meaningful stuff. I just want what they have on their paper plates.

I don’t know paper plates, but I do know sample cups. Sample sizes, queues for the chemist, not the BBQ. Waiting lists for surgery, not for out-of-stock homeware. My hair extensions hide erratic hair loss, not a bad haircut.

It’s a Saturday in August and I’m starving hungry. There is an unsatiable hunger inside of me. And yet, I know that when they call out, “the food is ready,” they aren’t talking to me.

Following the smell, we file into a room decorated with first birthday banners and balloons. We sit at long tables with plastic tablecloths; chair legs clanging against one another to force more places in where they don’t quite fit. Each party goer taking their turn in the queue with paper plates in hand to stab plastic forks into greasy sausages. Serving spoons bend under the weight of pasta salads and fried rice. Stacks of thick-cut bread lean precariously on unlevelled tables. Burgers sizzle on high as the queue grows longer. Smoke fills the room through the open door because it’s raining outside, but it’s summer so we deserve meat over an open flame.

I sit at the table, waiting to begin our feast together. I’m silently wondering if breathing in the burger grease will upset my flare; as if it can seep into my pores and make me sicker. I take shallow breaths and retract my hands into my sleeves. They return one by one with limp, sodden plates. They cup their palms underneath to keep the structural integrity of the paper beneath the weight of the buffet.

When everyone is seated, they begin to look around the table at which delectable delicatesses others have chosen. What strange combinations have been created by the overwhelming trays and a desire to try them all. Worrisome of there being a station they might’ve missed, something they should’ve gotten—how awful it would be to miss out on something good.

Soon, eyes turn to me and the talking and laughter subsides, because I have no need for a paper plate. Instead, I pull a small lunch box out from my bag and unscrew the lid from my filtered water bottle.

Straight faces and pitiful eyes because I brought premade food to a catered party. Plain bread, no butter. No spreads, no oils, no fats, no taste. No flavor. No life?

The proverbial elephant in the room looms in the back of all family gatherings. Tender smiles and sympathetic arm rubs in an attempt to mask its presence.

Oh, you’re so good, Meg. I could never eat your diet.

You would if you were in pain. Moreover, and most importantly, you don’t have to.
What I wouldn’t give to shovel in forkfuls of tuna pasta and ravage the fairy cake station until buttercream aches between my teeth. Devour the spicy coating on a chicken wing and suck the bones clean. They don’t understand that I go to bed longing for the oily residue to coat my lips and fingertips; to sleep with a full belly.

Instead, I’m chewing my bread really well and sipping my water slowly; catching sad side-eyes. What a burden it is to exist sometimes, when I know I’m putting others off their lunch. Misunderstanding the simple fact that they get to wake up and just be. They don’t have to consider their diets, exercise, how much blood is too much blood to lose? Or the ever-looming questioning of: if I were an animal, would they have put me down by now?

That morning, I woke up at seven o’clock with a hot water bottle strapped to my stomach. To distract myself, I scrubbed and rinsed my Tupperware—the one that fits my bread perfectly. The plastic lunchbox with three extra compartments that always remain empty. Wondering, can I stretch for a little cheddar cheese with my bread today? It’s a party, surely, I can let loose a little too.

After a while, the chronic and the hunger pains blur into one. As does my lack of appetite and fear of consumption. My stomach growing weaker as it eats itself from the inside out; it’s just a normal Saturday.

After we feast, and everyone is well and truly ready to burst, that’s when things take a turn. Granted it’s a few wines later, but when someone in the group ultimately gets a stomachache, they always turn their panicked thoughts towards me.

God, I hope I haven’t got what Meg has.

As if my disease is contagious; as if my pain is limited to a mild tummy ache after overindulging. In these moments, I want to crumple the paper plates and watch the ketchup ooze between my fingers. Flip the folding tables and crush the plastic cutlery against my anaemic palms. Rip off the plastic tablecloth and wear it as a funeral shroud. You don’t have what I have because you’d know. You’d fucking know.

I don’t say that. Instead, I remain silent and obedient, removing myself from the conversation to stand in a corner. Burdening as little space as possible. My eyes glazing over as I scan the room for my mum because she understands; I never have to explain it to her. An unspoken agreement that it sucks but we don’t need to digress further.

It’s only when people begin to wave goodbye and head for the door that I’m filled with relief.

Heartfelt hugs and kisses as everyone makes their goodbyes. They squeeze the tops of my arms, gently, aware that I might break under the weight of their good health and better intentions. Because they mean well; they all mean well. Fingers caress my sunken cheeks and I fight back the welling in my eyes as they reassure me that things will be okay in the end. Jealousy courses through my weak arms as I hug them tighter because even on my worst day, I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Swallowing down air and lying to myself that one day I’ll eat from a paper plate.

Get well soon, they say.

Thanks, I won’t.

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