I need to work on not adding a preamble to all my posts. Let them speak for themselves yada yada. But I do feel this needs some context. Or rather, I’d like to provide some. This is out of my comfort zone – not to write, but to share. In the endless sea of disordered eating narratives centering white women (i.e. most of them), shockingly, I have always struggled to see myself in any of the representations. No description or portrayal ever felt as raw, disturbed, or revolting as I felt. So needless to say, tw for unfiltered description of ed related things 😀

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There I lay – the air is thick and rotten with stale flatulence. My limbs are stiff, each joint feels rusted, inflamed. My stomach distended, flesh tender and bulging. Craving the skeletal figure I’d been only a few months ago, I mourn. For death is not delicate and fading, atrophy and withering; it is expanding and bloating and rigid. And then I realize the worst thing of all, I am not dead. Though my body resembles a corpse on its third day of decomposition, I am alive, and I have to be at work in 40 minutes. It is time to dress the body for open casket. I develop a true appreciation for morticians and their art as I try to pass off this cadaver as myself. A pair of jeans that once reliably slunk around my hips are tight against my middle. My face is round with sodium. Salty snacks and salty tears. Do morticians use ice rollers or gua shas on their subjects? Do they wash their faces? Do they wash at all? I turn the lights off to shower. It is too painful otherwise.

At work I auto pilot my way through conversations. “What were you up to last night?” I ate a loaf of bread, jar of peanut butter, bag of granola, and 2.5 donuts. The other .5 is sitting in the trash. “Oh not much.” I can feel my bra strap, my waistband, even my socks dig into me, taunting me. Not fair there’s no closed casket in real life. That was corny. Hmmmm creamed corn. Corn bread. What’s for lunch. I’m so hungry. But also not at all. My dietician said I should still eat. My stupid dietician. Stupid skinny bitch. I can’t believe I’m here again. Again. Again.

Home I am antsy. I cook dinner with an urgency reminiscent of our ancestors fleeing from a pack of hyenas. I strain the pasta while it is still crunchy. Al dente I tell myself. My hands are shaking. This is too much food. I will eat half and pack the rest for lunch tomorrow. I eat on the couch, noting with each bite how much closer I am to that dreaded half way point. Maybe another bite. I shouldn’t restrict myself. Food is fuel. Fork scrapes against empty bowl. My hand is in the trash. The .5 donut. It smells of the cheap perfume I doused it in to prevent this exact moment. The stale, sticky thing hits my tongue and it tastes like 8th grade trips to Victoria’s Secret. What else is there. Some old popcorn, a tub of yogurt, half a jar of jam. Not ideal but it’ll have to do. I roll into bed and pray I don’t wake up. Unfortunately, the body is far too resilient.

I am on the StairMaster swiping through Tik Tok. “Being fit is hard. Hating yourself is hard. Choose your hard.” I’ve heard this before. You either endure the strain of discipline required to maintain your desired physique, or you suffer by doing what may be comfortable but ultimately leads to the kind of mental wasteland that generates a Tik Tok For You Page like mine. But alas, the twenty something woman with the six pack and fat ass on my screen neglects the true reason so many of us haven’t “chosen” the hard that she has. It isn’t a binary. Once you “choose” the “hard” of self discipline, you aren’t then granted the reward. You must release the comfort of the vice while still reaping the repercussions, seeing in the mirror a figure you are desperate to escape, feeling the elastic around your middle, showering in the dark to ease it all. And you know too, that discipline and restriction are sometimes indiscernible. And when you think you’ve cracked it, it isn’t until you are rummaging through the trash for half eaten donuts that you realize you are only digging yourself further into the restrict and binge cycle.

“As someone who’s struggled with binge eating…” says the size 0 influencer. Fuck off.

“Hi my name is Sage and I’m a compulsive overeater.” I say to a zoom room of 6 people. I turn my camera off so I can eat my dinner. Funny. OA, AA for overeaters, follows the same premise that we are subject to our addiction. Hearing the language used to describe this level of helplessness was meaningful but scary. I often think I feel like an alcoholic that must have a few drinks per day. I haven’t returned to another meeting.

I could write about this forever. Food and my body are nearly my every thought and have been since high school. I hate what it’s taken from me. I mourn the person I could be if I’d used the mental load reserved for hating myself and how to eat – if I eat x calories for x days I will weigh x by x date….– for literally anything else. I hate how unoriginal it is. I hate that despite all it has taken from me, I’ve gotten very little in return. I hate that there are others suffering like me, but who are thinner. Who actually got what I want. I hate that there are people who have recovered and gotten to stay thin. I hate that I think like that. I hate that I wish some days to be back in the hospital, weathering away; I hit an UGW in there. I hate that there’s an acronym for that. I hate that every person I see I assess their figure, their habits, I diagnose in my head. I hate that I am always comparing. Not just to others but to myself. To my photos from yesterday, last month, last year. I hate it all. I hate that I know when I am older I will look back to now and wish I’d let myself live regardless. I hate that I know when I am older I probably will still care. I see it in every woman and frankly most men. There is no obesity epidemic, there is a disordered eating epidemic. I hate that I know most people who read this will relate to some part of it. I hate that if they reach out, I will ultimately try to assess their suffering, their “success,” and their “failures” against mine. You still can, but I warn you of that.

This is scary to share and yet it feels so necessary because as little as I have shown to others, and this blog itself barely scratches the surface, I would argue this history with myself, my food, my body, is so much of who I am. In hiding it I’ve hidden myself. So perhaps this will serve as a catalyst to being known and that will help with it all. I hope so.