When I was younger and on my parents' insurance, I got tested for everything you could imagine. Three different types of tapeworms, parasites with names you can't pronounce. Clean as a whistle. They checked me into a dozen, a baker's dozen, health clinics, each one with an eating disorder specialist that was sure they knew the cause. None did and, in the end, my mom and dad gave up. Made me get a part-time job as soon as could though, to help with the grocery budget.
That part-time job became a full-time job that stretched twenty years. I work at a plant that produces those takeout containers for restaurants. You know the ones. Generic white Styrofoam or plastic with the cheap lids. I know it sounds weird, but sometimes while I was pressing them down through the shaper, I felt like them. Those empty bowls waiting to be filled, only to be empty again. I identify with those containers, even more, when I come home after work. There are so many that wait for me.
