Updated: March 12, 2021
Originally Published: Jan. 29, 2021
Throughout my life, I’ve faced a continuous struggle with food. As a teenager, my conflict revolved around depriving myself of meals as a form of self-punishment. It’s often said that restricting food intake is an eating disorder, rooted in the need for control. If that’s true, then I was desperately trying to manage how I viewed myself, hampered by deep-seated self-loathing stemming from trauma.
I concluded that I was unworthy of anything good. My internal struggles felt like a chaotic storm, leading me to place undue value on my appearance. I believed that a flat stomach, a slim waist, and sharp cheekbones were the keys to happiness.
SPOILER ALERT:
None of these physical attributes guarantee joy.
My meals often consisted of a few Triscuits and half a cup of orange juice. Eventually, the intense hunger pangs would overwhelm me, and like a raccoon rummaging through garbage, I’d give in and binge on whatever I could find. This would leave me feeling bloated and defeated, reinforcing the belief that I was just as worthless as I had always thought.
Honestly, I can’t pinpoint the exact moment my mindset shifted. One day, I realized that a mere four crackers and juice couldn’t constitute a meal. So, I resolved to heal myself and began eating whatever I desired, whenever I wanted.
But my body had different ideas.
My anxiety levels soared, and my stomach grew increasingly sensitive. Soon, I could only tolerate pre-packaged Rice Krispie treats, saltine crackers, and water. The more children I had, the more compliments I received: “You don’t look like you’ve had kids.”
All I could think was, “You’d look the same if you couldn’t eat.” I’d smile and respond, “Thanks, I’m just too busy to eat much these days.” Despite my pain, I felt a twisted pride in being able to function without food, with my body reflecting that struggle.
After several emergency room visits for severe abdominal pain, along with ruined family vacations and an inpatient stay, I finally underwent testing as directed by a gastroenterologist. I was diagnosed with Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS), a diagnosis that means there’s no other explanation for my symptoms. As someone in healthcare, I understood what that implied.
I was losing my mind.
I recall a physician assistant telling me, “For some reason, those with IBS have a sensitive GI tract. They can feel everything moving through their intestines.” I’m not sure if she meant to reassure me, but I nodded, feeling defeated once again.
They tried a medication to disrupt the connection between my stomach and brain, but all it did was knock me out. With young children to care for, I needed to stay awake. I began to realize that the issue likely lay in my mind, not in my body. However, when food makes you feel sick—whether it’s real or perceived—it’s hard to eat.
I developed a fear of food. Not knowing which meal would trigger pain, I avoided eating. I consumed just enough to quiet my hunger pangs and alleviate nausea. This anxiety extended to preparing food for my family, as I became wary of anything that could potentially harm them.
Cooking became an ordeal. I designated certain foods as “safe,” with no real logic other than my ability to tolerate them. We ate plenty of fruits and vegetables until they were recalled due to E.coli contamination. SIDENOTE: Recalls left me in a panic, desperately searching for alternative safe options.
Cooking raw meat from scratch felt impossible. If something appeared improperly frozen or defrosted, it ended up in the trash—an enormous waste of food. I couldn’t even imagine what I threw away in my overwhelming fear. Sorry, environment.
My husband, bless him, continually reassured me that providing nutritious meals for our family was not only right but essential. He truly is a saint. I even started having him smell foods before cooking them, scrutinizing them together for any signs of danger.
I never spoke of this fear in therapy; I didn’t know how. In fact, this is the first time I’m acknowledging it out loud. I would simply say prayers before cooking, pleading with God to protect my family and help me discern reality from my mind’s deceit.
Things have improved since I found effective antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication that calmed my mind and actions. This made cooking easier and helped me expand my idea of what foods were “safe.” I learned to tell myself that food is nourishment, not poison—a necessity for functioning.
As I began eating more, I also started feeling better, which led to significant weight gain. I stopped weighing myself when I gained over 30 pounds. For someone who has always valued thinness, this was a tough pill to swallow.
I had to remind myself that numbers can be deceiving and don’t define my health or worth. If they did, my non-eating, deteriorating self would have been “healthy” and all the therapy I underwent to redefine my value would have been misguided.
TO CLARIFY:
That’s sarcasm.
Yes, the pounds have added up; my clothing size has increased, and my face has filled out. Honestly, I’m not thrilled about that aspect. But I’m grateful for therapy, which reminds me that I’m worthy of being myself and that hunger is not a weakness. I don’t need to punish myself for the emotional scars from my childhood. My worth isn’t diminished by stretch marks or cellulite.
I won’t lie—I still have certain foods I refuse to eat due to the excruciating pain they caused. I’m uncertain if it’s an actual intolerance or a product of my mind’s turmoil.
But the triumph lies in the fact that I now eat. I nourish my family with less guilt and fear than before. I’ve come to understand that my larger size does not equate to lesser worth.
Yes, I give myself daily pep talks and utilize coping skills from therapy. They’re working, and I am healing.
But it’s still challenging.
This article was originally published on Jan. 29, 2021.
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Summary:
The author shares a deeply personal journey of struggling with food-related anxiety and the impact of trauma on self-worth. After battling an eating disorder and being diagnosed with IBS, she reveals her fear of food and the challenges of feeding her family. Through therapy and medication, she learns to redefine her relationship with food, finding empowerment in nourishing herself and her loved ones while navigating the complexities of weight gain and self-acceptance.
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