The Absurdist Reality of an Anxious Mind
Tales from a Life of Worry
I knelt in front of the toilet. A short respite between long strenuous wretches. My dinner had only spent minutes in my stomach before I had been compelled to purge everything. I don’t get ill often. It had been years since I had vomited last. It was the very predictable outcome of combining sangria, Red Bull vodkas, and beer.
As long as I’ve been on my own I’ve cooked for myself. In most of my relationships I’ve been the de facto chef. I have a habit of getting attached to a recipe and making it over and over, for months. Consequently, many of the things I cook I’ve made countless times.
Chicken cacciatore was one of my staple meals. It’s a simple and comforting dish. I’d buy a small whole chicken and break it down. I’d sear the meat and then assemble a basic sauce with tomatoes, chicken stock, white wine, onions, garlic, rosemary, and parsley. It would braise mostly unattended for a little more than half an hour.
One evening my partner and I sat over my preparation. We ate absently. Halfway through I noticed that a thigh on my plate looked underdone. My partner was untroubled, they reassured me it was fine. They went on eating. I faltered. My stomach began stirring. I tumbled down a rabbit hole of paranoia. I anticipated the rejection. Nausea gripped…
