Brought to you by the letter P

Pizza joints are to Newark what bars are to Athens - prolific. Mom-and-Pops, big chains, specialties: they're all here.

I should mention that I'm afraid of pizza. I know it's stupid. I've come so far, and yet it still freaks me out.

So far I've avoided the issue - when the other interns go out for a slice, I just say I'm not really a "pizza person." It's easier than explaining that my recovery isn't all-or-nothing; that parts of this are still a daily struggle. I don't really want my program coordinators to know about this part of me, either.


But sometimes I have to confront my fears. Today we had a "brown bag" session about survey methods that actually involved brown pizza boxes. There was salad as well. I knew this was on the schedule and I had tried to mentally prepare. I took a slice of cheese, of which I'm proud. Then I took off the cheese, of which I'm less proud. I can make excuses all I want - I ate a lot over the weekend, I'm going to be eating a lot this weekend, I've been eating more in general - but the fact remains that this 21-year-old woman is cowed by dough, tomato sauce, and mozzarella cheese. It makes no difference that the other interns can chow down without turning into Jabba the Hutt. The same does not hold for me - that gooey cheese will cause me to expand a la Violet in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I write about it like it's funny, but the reality kind of sucks.

Fearing commonplace foods like pizza is not normal. I'm not talking about dislike, I'm talking about genuine fear at the thought of consuming a slice. I know better than to tell anyone what to eat/not to eat, but if you're feeling this way about pizza or chocolate or bread*, you might want to talk to somebody.


*I used to be afraid of these, too. So I guess I've made some progress.