Could not be more appreciative of all the support as this article runs. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a mixed bag of feelings to look down and see your name associated with the word “suicide.” To clarify: it’d be sensationalizing my eating disorder to state that I ever tried to end my life, but there were plenty of times that I looked at myself in the mirror and thought “this will be how I die. I’ll never get past it.”
Glad to be an example of recovery; what it is, what it entails, and all the beautiful ups and downs. Feeling so much gratitude and love as I leave this big apple city.
And of course, thank you to my friend Chase Williams for his sexy cameo. Don’t be surprised if the ladies of Cosmo come knockin’ my friend
“I’m not eating well today. Idk what my deal is I’m so bingey. All I want is all the cereal in the world.”
She called soon after and asked if I’d like to “talk it out,” but the truth I didn’t tell her, and only admitted to my best friend later- is that I’d already devoured 2 boxes of cereal over the past 2 days.
…Even writing just that, I almost lied and put 3 days instead of 2 so that whoever reading this wouldn’t think it was as bad as the reality is for me and cereal, even now 2 years into recovery.
This last week or so has not been stellar in terms of my binge eating. I go months and months without touching trigger foods, but what inevitably happens is that I convince myself I’m “fine” (like Ross in Friends when Rachel and Joey start dating “fine”) and fall right back down the rabbit hole of my own ED delusion.
…Because, likely, if you have an eating disorder you love Thanksgiving- but hate Thanksgiving food.
Personally, I have no problem admitting I am the scrooge of Thanksgiving (okay, fine. And Halloween… Costumes and Body Dysmorphia just DO NOT fly with me no matter if I dress like a slutty nurse or a Pentecostal nun.)
Anyways…
Give me your pilgrims, your Indians, your Thanksgiving Charlie Brown VHS, The corporate Vacation Days, Family small talk, The sweet smell of doughy rolls-
But my God, keep your stuffing, your pecan pie, your cranberry sides, your corn pudding like 1000 feet away from me.
There are times I wish I could use a get-out-of-jail-free card on my eating disorder; Thanksgiving is one of them.
If it were up to me, I’d sit at the ”kid table” far far away from the buffet of food and play airplane while someone feeds me a spoonful of carrot mash alongside my cousin’s 1-year old.
Alas, recovery- however- doesn’t exactly approve of carrot mash (although it might just be the ONE food item I actually don’t know the calorie count on…)
Anywho, despite my silent protesting- Thanksgiving feast occurs again- as it did last year and the year before etc., etc.
I’ve been trying to write this post for months but the truth is I detest writing about binge eating.
Anorexia? Bulimia? Drunkorexia? Sure thing. I’ll write about that till the cows come home ’cause a year and a half into recovery doesn’t change the surge of pride I still feel when I write about the lost days of thin.
Perhaps I’ll always have a twisted sense of validation when I write about the ”success” of anorexia. It’s like the boys baseball coach who’s still talking about his “1976 glory days” even though they’re long gone.
I worked hard at being thin; I spent hours feeling the bones in my shoulder as some sort of ritualistic celebration- so subconsciously I still have a tendency to talk about it with the same kind of nostalgia that Hemingway wrote about the Parisian Jazz Era.
As shameful as it “should be” to admit that I stuck my fingers down my throat, it’s actually far more vulnerable to publicly acknowledge the aspects of my eating disorder where I felt the opposite. Sure, I’ve made quips here and there. I’ve joked about binge-eating gallons of ice cream, but I’ve never talked about it in a way that mirrors honesty because it’s embarrassing to me.
And frankly, binge eating is not attractive… so we rarely talk about it. Face it: our culture LOVES looking at anorexics like they’re Madame Medusas with snakes for limbs.
Every now and then, I have a moment that I think to myself “my God- that must be what recovery is.”
Today, walking with my coworker- complaining about our long meetings, our torrid love lives, our mid-20s crisis-ing – she stopped mid-sentence- 5:45pm- and said “Yo I need a hot dog.”
“Huh?” I said, making a face.
“I need a hot dog,” she said, crossing toward the vendor. “We’ve passed like 5 stands and I want one.”
Standing there in Central Park, I watched her order a hot dog- mustard included- nonchalance on her face- and I had a moment that I thought to myself- “Shit, this must be what it’s like to grab food when you want it.”
For 8 years, I’ve passed fro-yo shops, 1$ pizza slices, croissants, muffins, falafel vendors- and thought “you want- but you can’t.”
1 year later- I still have moments that I want sometimes and think “Nah- it’s not time, you can’t eat till this time or that.”
It resonated today- such a simple act- because I think, mostly, that being free is allowing yourself the spontaneity of a hot dog. And I’d love to do that some day.
I can eat a handful of chips- a Dunkin Donut hole- a granola bar- even some Welch fruit snacks
But the awareness of it never leaves me- even now.
They teach you in rehab to listen to yourself.
To listen to your hunger cues- your stomach. Your intuition.
But what they can’t teach you is self-respect.
Flaming self-respect.
And that’s what lends you your ability to trust your intuitions- whatever they may be.
To trust your cues
Your impulses
Your needs.
And maybe I realize some days, that I am still working on that.
Spontaneous hot dogs people- it’s the small things in life.
