When I was a little girl, I used to be applauded for putting food away like a teenage boy. I remember this especially well when I was at my grandma’s house. She would slave away over a made-from-scratch meal and we would all sit down promptly to eat when it was ready.
By the time I got around to ask for seconds (or thirds) everyone had already finished their meals and were on to something else (video games, TV, reading), which meant I got my grandma to myself. When I asked her for more food, she would use her soft, sweet, loving voice and cradle my face with her hands. In those moments, I felt wrapped up in her love like a cocoon. I loved being doted on by her and I wanted to show her I loved her, too (more than my brothers who didn’t ask for seconds), so I almost always cleaned my plate and went back for more.
My grandparents would teasingly ask me where all this food went because I never seemed to gain weight. They would ask me if I had a hollow leg. I would feel really full after every meal, like my stomach would pop if you put a pin to it, but that fullness was worth it because I got extra attention and this was the way I showed my grandma that I loved her. I was also proud that I could eat so much, I saw it as one of my talents: (Colleen’s 10-year-old resume: good tether ball player, expert tattle tale and competitive eater).
I still carry this attitude around food that by eating more, I will receive more love. Even though it’s been years since my grandma was alive. Even though I do most of the cooking myself.
The mindset that I could still eat whatever I wanted and not gain weight persisted well into my twenties. It became something of a game. I would eat and eat and eat until I was stuffed and then I would find ways to remove those calories my my body. Leg lifts, squats, walking around the house, jumping jacks, late-night gym sessions on the elliptical or treadmill. I wanted to rid my stomach of the full feeling and burn up the massive amount of food I just ate so it didn’t deposit itself on my butt or my thighs or my stomach. It was a race against myself.
During my undergrad years, I was extremely stressed out carrying a full load of classes and working two part-time jobs. I felt very alone. I had roommates but didn’t connect with them most of the time.
Many a late night while I was studying I would down two, three, four Clif Bars. It was compulsive. And then I would wake up early the next morning to burn off 1,000 calories on an exercise machine. I would watch what I ate the next day and cut back on my intake and then late at night, I would find myself again on my bedroom floor with books open all around me, feeling tired and wired and overwhelmed and I would open a Clif bar wrapper.
“Just one,” I would think. One turned into two and so on. And as I ate my third or fourth, I had decided I would work it off at the gym again. That’s how I rationalized a lot of my binges. I’ll eat this now and then I will do this workout video or go to the gym and spend x amount of minutes on the machine. It will be fine and I will live to see tomorrow not a pound heavier. But then I would watch TV and get sucked into a show. Or I would start to feel sleepy and the resolve would wear off. And the pounds would creep on.
When I went out to eat with friends or family, I would order things that I thought made me look in control of my weight. Look at me, I can order this 1300-calorie meal and put it all away and stay thin. “Jealous, aren’t you?” The following days’ exercise routines would belie my confidence in eating that huge meal.
My food order always needed to be weighed against those I was eating with. All the ladies are ordering a salad? I should order one, too, so I don’t look like a fatty. She’s ordering the large? I should order the large, too, so she doesn’t feel bad about eating more than me. Or she’s ordering that burger and fries? I should do the same so I don’t look like I’m trying to deprive myself or like I’m trying to lose weight. So much thought went into what I ordered and how I was perceived for ordering it.
Leaving food to take home almost never happened. And when it did, I would eat it out of the take-out container almost the second I got home or a couple hours later, not bothering to reheat it or — truth be told — enjoy it.
Dessert used to be a must after both lunch and dinner. Having candy or something with sugar in it after a meal was so natural to me that I couldn’t bear to go without.
I would try to hold out and end up obsessing over the Snickers bar I had denied myself. I usually wound up justifying its consumption later on in the day. And eating just a small amount of ice cream or cake or chocolate was like flossing the back half of your mouth and not the front. You can’t just do the back half.
After the binge, I’d agonize over how many calories I had eaten, doing my best to eat far less the rest of the day and get a headache or stomach ache or both.
I remember talking to the on-campus therapist and telling her about some of this behavior. I made it clear to her that I never purged by throwing up. I’ve never been bulimic, I proudly stated. That makes me better, I thought. She quickly pointed out that working out for hours at a time to the point of exhaustion was purging.
But the seriousness in her tone didn’t worry me. My eating habits were in control, I told myself. Enough to function, anyway. Enough to stay in the same clothing size. Enough to find boys who found me attractive. Isn’t that what mattered?
All of these thoughts bubble up as I read Geneen Roth’s book, Women Food and God, and as I ponder the mechanisms in my body that led to me develop PCOS.
After years of trial and error, of guilt and obsessing, of working out to burn off what I had eaten, of feeling out of control around food, I’m finally starting to respect my body.
I read in the book, The Blue Zones, by Dan Buettner, that the people in Japan (many of whom live to be over 100) eat to nourish their bodies. They choose to eat things because they are healthy, not because they taste good. Most of my life, I’ve only eaten for sensation, for that endorphin rush and that serotonin/oxytocin high. As I write that last sentence, I see that food was a drug for me. Though I’ve never really admitted it before.
I still have a craving for something sweet after lunch and dinner. I still struggle with obsessive thoughts about food. But I’ve made a lot of progress.
I look back and smile at the irony of what every single person penned in my yearbooks. “Colleen, you are the sweetest person ever.” Or the comments, “Mosquitoes like you because you have sweet blood.”
I still get my just desserts, but I see them as a reward more than a punishment now.
I eat what I see is a balanced meal and then I wait to see how my body responds. When I feel calm, full, satisfied, mentally alert and appreciative of the care I took to plan and prepare the meal and when I’ve slowed down enough to enjoy what I ate, I relish in that sweetness. No sugar-induced headache? No tiredness, lethargy or fatigue? No worrying about my next calorie-burning purge? Sweet nothing.
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