CONTENT WARNING: The following includes descriptions of disordered eating.
Hiding is a form of lying.
It’s a tough pill for me to swallow, to admit that denying what I’m doing to myself is bending the truth.
I’m grateful that I am miles from where I used to be. And yet, I still have issues with food. I haven’t squashed the urge, the gut reaction to turn to food in times of stress, pain, sorrow, and even joy or celebration. I’m not sure I ever will.
Like most things in my life, food for me is all or nothing. There’s no middle ground. I use it to quiet my racing mind, listen when I’m stressed, keep me company when I need to decompress. I also weaponize it, pointing to it as evidence of my lack of control, reaffirming things I tell myself I don’t deserve.
My binges are cyclical, with each phase blending seamlessly into the next. I’ve found they’re most prone to strike when I’m exhausted, but feel like I can’t slow down.
- Phase One: Panic. Something snaps: I run out of steam, something goes wrong at work, someone cancels on me. I blame myself, no matter how far-fetched.
- Phase Two: Blackout. My mind leaves my body. I unconsciously burst into the kitchen, and inhale whatever I can find. Nothing really matters, not even the growing physical pain from getting stuffed, because my mind is finally blank.
- Phase Three: Awake. The eating ends when there’s no food left. My brain jolts back into my body, the pink cloud evaporating. I’m enveloped in thick, steaming shame while assessing the damage..
- Phase Four: Reset. I plot how I’ll right this wrong. I commit to hours exercising, baking in a sauna until my head spins and my mouth runs dry.
- Phase Five: Restrict. I deprive myself, thrilled as my cheeks shrivel and my belt cinches tighter. But I miss the hit of sugary, salty delights, the craving growing the more I refrain.
Recommence Phase One.
When I finally settled into New York last year, my habits from home occasionally resurfaced. Dreaming and daydreaming of food, wanting to eat until I couldn’t breathe. I’d gulp glasses of wine in place of dinner, hoping numbing myself would chase away the urges. This of course backfired, disrupting my sleep most nights. I’d wake up at 2 am, groggy and starving, inevitably giving in to my body’s demand for sustenance.
During the cycle, my ability to show up for others deteriorates, even those I love and care about most dearly. Back home, I ruthlessly canceled plans when I binged, even within hours within events. I knew I was overbooked and stretched from work, but didn’t want to admit I couldn’t have it all, and couldn’t handle having plans outside of work. I turned to binging to cope with the busy schedule, then backed out of plans out of exhaustion, embarrassment, and the need to right the wrong before anyone saw me.
I see how comprehensively the cycle poisons my mood and drains my energy. I thought moving would force me to change for good. Yet, I still have days when I revolve my schedule around the cycle. But I won’t talk myself out of social engagements and know it’s not sustainable here, with an intense job and passions for singing, writing, and finance. I want to honor my commitments and friends. Consequently, that means resetting even faster.
Though I’ve made progress on attending events consistently, I know I’m not my best self when I’ve binged beforehand. I can’t relax and enjoy myself, because all I can think about is what I did to myself to get there. I stumble through conversations, nodding and smiling blankly, asking follow-up questions. I want to connect, but can’t focus with my heart jumping out of my chest, my choppy breath, my head light like helium.
Do others notice?
I’m forward with loved ones after a binge, when I’m clear and have space to view it retrospectively. But I don’t acknowledge the urges while they’re forming or unfolding, because admitting they’re real would confirm I have a problem. I even refuse to write, allowing them to fester and brew. Writing this is my first attempt to break that cycle. There is tribulation in recovery and change. It’s not a pretty or linear path forward; there will continue to be miserable moments, days, and even weeks. But the messiness and rawness make it real. Going forward, I will show my journey in its entirety – the joyful milestones, and the lonely lows. No more sugar coating. No more hiding.