The Choice

questions had anything to do with food. It is so hard for someone with
anorexia to see anything in life outside of food. I already knew from
her parents that her focus on food was controlling her family, that all
of their attention was consumed by her illness. I had a feeling she
expected me, too, to be interested only in her illness. With my
questions I was trying to shi her attention to other parts of her life,
and to dismantle or at least soften her defensive structures.
When I had worked through a day in her life, I asked her a
question that she didn’t know how to answer. “What do you like to
do?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“What are your hobbies? What do you like to do in your free time?”
“I don’t know.”
I walked over to the whiteboard that I keep in my office. I wrote, I
don’t know. As I asked her more questions about her interests, her
passions, her desires, I put a check mark for every time she said, “I
don’t know.”
“What are your dreams for your life?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you don’t know, then guess.”
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
“A lot of girls your age write poems. Do you write poems?”
Emma shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“Where would you like to be in ĕve years? What kind of a life and
career appeal to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m noticing that you say these words a lot: I don’t know. But when
the only thing you can think is I don’t know, that saddens me. It means
you’re not aware of your options. And without options or choices, you
aren’t really living. Can you do something for me? Can you take this
pen and draw me a picture?”