The first act my mom took to help me recover was taking me to see the family physician. I can still vividly remember walking through hospital corridor while questioning the need to be at the hospital. The main reason I was so reluctant to visit the hospital is because I was in denial. Like anyone else, I didn’t want to be referred to as a patient, nor did I want to accept that fact that I needed help.
When I was called into the doctor’s office, I kept looking down at my feet because I didn’t want to establish any form of interaction with the physician. I would remain silently sitting in that position, while the doctor diagnosed me and my mom worriedly rants about my eating habits. With every hospital visit, the amount of medicine in my cabinet increased. It was almost certain that I was prescribed some type of supplement or anxiety medicine with every doctor my mom took me to.
Although I was annoyed by the fact that my mom checked on me to make sure I was taking the supplements. After a few weeks, I started taking the supplements voluntarily because I noticed how it benefitted my mood as well as my productivity.
Coping with Food 