So, the inner dialogue goes like this:
"I'm hungry."
"So, eat something."
"There's nothing I can eat."
"So, don't eat."
"But I'm hungry."
"Maybe a cracker?"
"I could eat a cracker. That would be ok. But what about the salt? I'm not supposed to have a lot of salt."
"True. Maybe skip the cracker."
"Ok. What about yogurt?"
"You're not supposed to eat that either. Dairy is no good for you."
"Yes, but I'm hungry. Maybe half a yogurt?"
"Do you really want to risk it?"
"No. You're right."
"I could have a sandwich. Like maybe with just lettuce?"
"A sandwich takes too long to put together. Maybe you should wait and re-visit this at lunch."
"Ok. Good idea. A sandwich will just make me fat anyway. Bread is evil."
And, at lunch, this conversation will occur again. And at dinner. And at breakfast the next day as my stomach eats a hole into itself and my back aches from it. I take my stomach medicine so the acid doesn't come up during the night and choke me. I sleep with little straw next to my bed just like the doctor told me to. The straws will open up my vocal chords when I am struggling to breathe. I keep the straws everywhere. I look like I have a cocaine problem.
It started with gynecological conditions. Dairy and meat went away. Autoimmune disease - no fried foods. No sugar. Nothing inflammatory. Then, high cholesterol. No more oil. Interstitial cystitis - no coffee, no tea, no nightshades, no nicotine, no citrus, nothing spicy. Kidney stone - no nuts, no calcium (ok some calcium, but not TOO much), drink lots of
My weight goes down, but it's great because it's not anorexia this time, I'm just following doctor's orders.
I get an x-ray because everything hurts. The tech wraps the x-ray shield around me and proclaims me small. I am confused. The doctor then weighs me and says I don't have a weight problem.
Quacks.
My life, to my great glee, is once again revolving around food restriction.
I am depressed. My doctor gives me Lexapro. I do not take it. It will make me fat. I'm sure of it.
I contract a stomach virus. As I vomit violently, I think to myself that I can't wait to weigh myself in the morning. I lose three pounds. That's all. I am still too heavy. I am sad.
Enter the saltines again. This is what one eats when they've had a stomach virus. I eat this for the next two days - just in case. I do not drink the ginger-ale. It's not good for my reflux, interstitial cystitis or my liver. Water only. I vape obsessively. I was told to quit by my doctors, but I resent them for taking everything away from me and fuck that shit.
I have total control and none at the same time.
Food addiction and related eating disorders are the most difficult ones to treat in my opinion. I am not minimizing the hell of alcoholism and drug addiction, but you cannot avoid food. You have to have it to stay alive. It's like telling any other addict you must have some heroin every day, but not too much.
This morning, as the room spins, I decide on oatmeal. It is simple. It's one thing. The instructions say one cup. I obediently dump exactly one cup into a bowl. Well, that's ridiculous. That's way too much. I take out 1/3. I eat 1/2 of the 1/3. I am suddenly good at math.
Now, I'm hungry again. What the fuck is wrong with me? I just had breakfast! Animal. Go vape and get that shit under control.
And, just like that, I'm sucked back in. It was sneaky this time. I wasn't dieting. Yes, I believed (and believe) I was fat. But I was in remission and doing great (liar).
At best, the recovery rate for eating disorders is about 60%. At worst, you die. As with any addiction, you are never "cured." You are always in either a state of remission or relapse. It is always present. It follows you around, skulking in your kitchen and under your bed whispering - pretending it is your best friend and is trying to help you. It knows everything about you and uses that knowledge to "feed" you lies.
Even as I type this, I am contemplating the applesauce cups on my kitchen counter. But I just had oatmeal, so I elbow those thoughts in the face and move along. I overfeed my children, along with anyone else's because I have no idea what a normal amount of food is and children can't just eat crackers.
I was afraid to write this. I was afraid that anyone who didn't know this about me would feel sorry for me. Or think I was crazy. Or think I was just being negative and attention seeking. But, a co-worker and I were discussing mental health yesterday, and how the secretiveness of mental illness is a death sentence in the big picture. Sometimes we have to bring out the ugly - the scary. Sometimes we have to speak it, not because we want to, but because we don't want to hide in the shadows clutching the illness' hand trying not to be found.
And then there is the fear of those dreaded words that, without fail, always make an appearance - "Well, you don't look anorexic." Side note: the correct term is "anorectic", which is also a misnomer because we are really fucking hungry. Don't let us fool you. We could out-eat Kobayashi.
Sometimes you want to let that grip go for a minute and say, "You wait here. I have to go talk to someone real quick, but I'll be back". I don't want to go back, but if I don't, it will find me anyway.
And, it will be pissed.
