Appetite for Self-Destruction

On Monday morning, after I found out he likely had mere hours to live, I took a walk. I can generally remember the route I took, but I’m not sure what the destination was. As I walked, I sent messages to many different people — my sister, my aunts, a cousin, some coworkers. I’d stop and stand by electric poles, lean against parking barriers, sit on small brick walls, and type. I also stopped to call my boss so he could prepare for the likelihood that I would miss work the following day — Tuesday. (I haven’t been back. Currently, I’m not scheduled to return until Thursday. I’ll likely extend that.)

The walk was slow, and sunny, and hot. After heading back from whatever else I did, I gave up and bought lunch at McDonald’s. That was Monday, somewhere around 12pm. It’s Saturday, now — almost exactly 5 days after receiving the call that he’d died. I haven’t had a meal since. I’ve barely even eaten.

On the first couple days, I did feel hungry, I just didn’t want to eat. Since then, the feeling of hunger has fallen away. I don’t have an appetite. Food does not sound good. As always, I’ve been drinking milk tea (and the occasional can of Grape Fanta) — partially for the energy it contains, but primarily because I’m getting so little sleep that the caffeine is keeping me functioning, if you can call this functioning.

And I don’t really care. All told, aside from the drinks, I’ve probably had fewer than 3,000 calories in the intervening 5 days, and I’ve been walking a lot. It’s the shittiest diet of my life, but it is effective. I’ve surely lost weight; my pants have grown bigger. I’m just not interested in food.

I’m not interested in much, actually. I just feel numb.

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