I pull into the Trader Joe’s parking lot and circle around a time or two. The lot is crowded with folks shopping for their evening meals and the rain is beginning to fall. As we walk through the lot, the water and dark sky mask the red blotches that have bloomed on Blake’s face from the tears he’s cried the entire short distance from his apartment. He feels like a failure – having left home four months ago to begin a new college career in a new city and dropping out after one semester.
“I’m completely unable to function,” Blake has told me on more than one occasion.
What I see differs from what he sees. I see success in having navigated the basics of day to day living. I see a future full of possibility. I see growth and more lessons that still can be mastered. But I also see something that concerns me – something I’m not sure my 19-year-old son is even aware of. I see his weight – or lack of it, that is.
Back at the Apartment
Before we leave Blake’s apartment, he phones his academic advisor.
“Um, hi. This is Blake Roberts. Is there anything else you need from me before I leave?”
As I stand behind him, waiting as he makes his call, my son’s almost-six-foot-tall frame comes into focus. And for a moment, it startles me. He is shockingly thin. His clothing hangs on him, making the weight loss look even more obvious. Did anyone at school notice that the clothes he arrived in at the beginning of the semester had become exceedingly large? He’d lost a good amount of weight before he’d come home for Thanksgiving. Has he lost more? It appears that way.
When Blake finishes his phone call, I focus back on our task of moving out. I file my observation away for later. How would I bring this up in a sensitive way? Would I even bring it up at all?
At the Store
Blake wipes his face and follows me into the grocery store. We’re here for food for the three days ahead of us. Because of food restrictions, eating in most restaurants is not an option for Blake. I want him to choose things he’d like to eat, but he seems uninterested when I point things out.
“Food just doesn’t seem interesting now,” he notes.
I know from experience that trying to force him to make some choices won’t work. Instead, I begin to pick things off the shelf and put them into my cart. I give Blake space and he wanders close by. After a time, something catches his interest. He picks it up, reads the label, and then adds it to the cart. Little by little in this manner our cart fills up. Blake pauses at an item – chocolate mint caramel popcorn (or something like that). He ponders it. I know he’s questioning whether to treat himself (something he rarely does).
“Can you add that to the cart?” I ask.
“It looks interesting. I’d like to try it.”
Blake seems reluctantly happy to comply. He puts it in the cart. We pay. We pack up the car, drive to our hotel for the evening, and unload what we need for the night. Before I’ve even shut the door, Blake has gotten into a bag of food. He eats with abandon. And I silently and gratefully take notice.
Are You Aware…?
Blake continues to eat this way over the next couple of days. He even treats himself to snacks at convenience stores we stop in along the way. Nearing the end of our second driving day, a day in which we’ve marveled at views and checked out historic downtowns, I decide to ask.
“Hey honey? I was wondering – are you aware that you’ve lost quite a bit of weight?”
“Yes,” is the answer.
“Was it intentional?”
“No,” – which is said in a tone that indicates he’s not offended, so I dare to dig slightly deeper.
“Was it because of mood, or was it because of having slept so much and missing meals?” I try to ask gently.
“It was a mix of those. Sometimes I was so depressed food just didn’t sound good. I just didn’t feel like eating. Some days, bed was the only thing that sounded good. It was like a warm hug and I couldn’t think of a reason to leave it – and I slept through mealtimes,” he answers.
“Thank you for sharing with me,” I say tenderly, and we continue on with some other topic.
Silently, though, I’m thinking what a thief and a liar both depression and OCD can be.
“Bed is the best thing in your life. Stay here! Feel safe and comforted. You don’t need to bother with such trivialities as eating. Ah, there. See?”
I imagine Blake sleeping through a day, tricked into believing that bed is best. When he can finally lie there no more and the cobwebs begin to clear, the depression takes the opportunity to dig in more and remind him what a failure he is. It steals his appetite, he mindlessly plays video games to numb the sting of the words his brain tells him about himself, and then it steals the next day of living by convincing him once again that bed is the only place worth being.
For now, Blake seems to be eating with regularity. Occasionally, he forgets a meal. I’m observing and trying to give him room to work this out. One thing I have noticed is that, like me, he seems to derive joy out of feeding others.
“Mom,” he says to me, “may I cook a lasagna for the whole family one night? I’d like to share one with you all.”
“I love that idea,” I say – and I do, much more than he will ever know.