I will always have a complicated relationship with food. I love it and hate it. I have an eating disorder that tends to show up during stressful times in my life. My typical Sunday brunch of bagel and schmear becomes my ultimate source of anxiety. Like most mental illnesses, eating disorders manifest themselves differently. I know shits getting weird when my Instagram feed starts shifting from food porn to gluten-free, raw vegan.
As a kid, I loved food. I read cookbooks for fun. Emeril was a household name revered as much as Big Bird. Never one to shy away from the unknown I ate oysters, mushrooms, and greens fearlessly. My favorite food in preschool was chard. When we went out to dinner I would pepper the waiter with questions, always wanting to know how something was made. Instead of the kid’s menu, I chose the chef’s special, much to my penny-pinching father’s chagrin.
When my mother would cook us dinner at night it was always an adventure. She constantly experimented with spices and flavors, dinner was often more of a flop than a feast. However hard she failed, her indifference to domestic failure made me face new foods head-on. But my comfort foods, those I learned from my father. He would melt sharp cheddar on a cracker and top it with strawberry jam. The savory-sweet combo blew my mind and forever cemented my love of cheese and preserves.
But where did it go wrong? Where did my consumption of cheese, my affinity for the unknown, and my love affair with food start to dwindle? Instead of savoring every bite, I ate and ate. No longer enjoying an act in which food was the star. Around fifth grade, my body started to change. Hips, breasts, periods. It was awkward, terrifying, and not forgiving. I became a loner. With no one to talk to I turned to my old friend. Food. Waiting until everyone was asleep I would sneak into the kitchen and gorge myself on crackers, leftovers, and odd food combinations. Hoping to fill my loneliness with something at arm’s reach.
The summer before high school I started throwing up. Tired of the doughy awkward exterior I signed up for cross country running. I lost weight and with that weight loss came something I craved: friends. My teammates and I would gorge ourselves on pizza and pasta together, something that I would do alone in the past. We would run for miles the next day, using our carb binge as energy. But I kept bingeing after the race was over. Not wanting to lose my new-found place or attention, I started to purge after the binge. I could keep up my compulsive overeating and maintain my weight.
My love of food became destructive. I obsessively worked out doing hundreds of crunches a day. Punishing myself with food when I became lax. My disordered brain wouldn’t let me eat in front of anyone, let alone the opposite sex. I would only consume copious amounts of iced Starbucks in my Juicy tracksuit circa 2004.
My crumbling relationship with food coincided with my parents’ failed marriage, my mother’s constant drinking, and my father’s absence. Wanting to control something, my appearance became my only source of validation. Comments about my body fueled my fire. My new drug of choice.
The last day I threw up on purpose was the day before I checked myself into a treatment center. I thought recovery would be easy, unaware that it would be an almost ten-year journey. I googled treatment centers nearby and called the first one. After dinner that night, I sat my boyfriend down and told him everything. The hidden bathroom trips, the eating when everyone had fallen asleep, the pain, shame, and hunger. He told me he loved me and drove me to treatment the next morning.
The next three months were intense, hard and raw. Not like sushi raw, but skinned knee raw. As rough and difficult as it was, I met some of my favorite people in treatment. They’re all fighters, some are still with us, some aren’t. They taught me to see each bite as something new. I learned to enjoy laughter, friendship, and womanhood. I started to savor again. Not just my meal, but life too. I learned to name my eating disorder and think of him as a shitty 90’s bully. I learned that how I look doesn’t define me. That every meal doesn’t need to be a source of hatred, but of self-care. The sharing of an ice cream cone is rich with memory and not calories. And a wine-soaked kiss is just that. A kiss.
I’m not saying I’m cured. I don’t think I will ever be completely over the comparison game, but through honesty, the hunger subsides. I started reading cookbooks again. I’ve collected a bunch, some no longer in print. The Great British Bake Off is always on my Nexflix watch list, and I can make a mean chocolate chip cookie. I use my kitchen as my mother once did. My next experiment and project just around the corner.
I lost myself there for a minute, but I’m back. Hello food, my old friend. Bring on the oysters.
