Lounge Meets

Food is the enemy.

At least, that’s what I’ve thought for the last almost decade. I would workout so that I would feel okay about eating. I was exercising to eat, not eating to exercise. Run thirteen miles? Great, I can treat myself to a piece of cheese. Didn’t sweat? No food for me.

Anyone who knows me longer than four seconds knows a few things – I am a fiend for organization, I love logs and tracking things, and I am highly detailed. Being anorexic falls in line with all of these character traits. It is an obsessive disorder, one that nestles into the mind and takes control over all parts of life.

Over the course of my disorder, I have gone through different phases. Periods of severe restriction – not eating anything for a few days were often followed by a binge where I’d eat up to two thousand calories in one sitting, making myself feel like shit. Then I’d restrict again and the cycle would continue. It’s been a silent battle that I’ve been dealing with – alone – for a long time.

Last November, I decided to get healthy. I was at res, trying to fit in workouts between our rigorous lecture schedule. It was insane. I was rushing from one place to the next, and wasn’t able to enjoy any of what a low-res program has to offer. Two nights into residency, I cried myself to sleep after I’d agonized for an hour about eating something. I was starving, but I couldn’t force myself to offer my body what it needed to keep going.

That was the turning point. I decided that I’d had enough of this bullshit eating disorder having control of my life. The next day, I sought out a fellow program member who is a therapist in her non-writer life. I explained my issue, and she told me that she’d already picked up on it. Ye Gads! I guess my anorexia was more transparent than I realized.

After res, I met with a therapist, and laid my cards as plainly as I could. Explained my periods of restriction, my logging and tracking of food. Thing is, I wasn’t completely honest. I didn’t divulge my incessant need to exercise, or the fact that without a sweat, I didn’t feel I’d earned the privilege to eat. I know, I know. That’s a whack way to begin a relationship with a therapist. It’s just … I couldn’t bring myself to be totally open with her because, well, I wasn’t ready to be open with myself.