For much of my life, I’ve waged a constant struggle with food. As a teenager, that struggle involved deliberately avoiding certain foods as a form of self-punishment. They say that restricting food intake is an eating disorder tied to a need for control, and if that’s true, I was desperately trying to control how I perceived myself, steeped in self-loathing due to past traumas.
I convinced myself I was unworthy of anything good. With my internal turmoil wreaking havoc, I placed my worth in my appearance. Flat stomachs, slim waistlines, and pronounced cheekbones all seemed to hold the key to happiness.
SPOILER ALERT: None of those things lead to true happiness.
My meals often consisted of a mere four crackers and half a cup of orange juice. But eventually, the gnawing hunger would become unbearable. Like a raccoon rummaging through trash, I’d give in to any and all foods available, only to feel my stomach swell and my spirit crushed. I felt just as worthless as I had always believed.
I can’t pinpoint exactly what changed in my mindset. One day, I realized that four crackers and juice weren’t sufficient for a meal. I made a decision to heal myself and began eating whatever I wanted, only for my body to have different ideas.
My anxieties grew, and my stomach weakened. 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 would smile and say, “Thanks, I don’t have much time to eat these days.”
Even though I was suffering, I felt a strange pride in being able to function without food, and my body reflected it. Strangers would smile, nodding in what seemed like a shared understanding, saying, “You have your hands full.” True, but my mind was even fuller.
After multiple emergency room visits for crippling abdominal pain—often being labeled a drug seeker—and ruined family vacations, I finally underwent testing with a gastroenterologist. I received a diagnosis of Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS), which is often a diagnosis of exclusion; there’s no concrete explanation for my symptoms. As a healthcare provider, I understood the implications of IBS.
I remember the physician assistant saying, “We don’t know why, but for some reason, those with IBS have a sensitive GI tract. They can feel everything moving through their intestines.” I wasn’t reassured; instead, I felt defeated once more.
They tried a medication to interrupt the signals between my stomach and brain, but it only made me too drowsy to care for my young children. I started to realize that perhaps the only issue was in my mind. However, when food makes you feel sick—whether it’s real or imagined—it becomes challenging to eat.
I developed a fear of food. Because I never knew which food would send me into agony, I became hesitant to eat. I would consume just enough to quiet my hunger and stave off nausea. My fear of pain morphed into anxiety about cooking for my family. Meal preparation became daunting; I labeled certain foods as “safe” based solely on my tolerance for them. We consumed lots of fruits and vegetables until recalls made even those seem dangerous.
NOTE: Recalls left me paralyzed with fear, desperately seeking alternatives.
Cooking raw meat became impossible. If something felt improperly thawed, it would end up in the trash. I can’t fathom how much food I tossed out due to overwhelming fear, which surely cost a fortune.
My husband, being a saint, always reassured me that nourishing our family was the right thing to do and that food wasn’t the enemy. I began to have him smell all the ingredients before I cooked, examining them together for any signs of danger.
I never shared this fear in therapy; I didn’t know how to articulate it. This is the first time I’m voicing it. I offer prayers before preparing meals, asking for protection for my family and guidance to discern between reality and my mind’s deceit.
Things have improved since I found an effective antidepressant and anti-anxiety medication that calms my mind and actions. It’s now easier to cook and to expand my definition of safe foods. I remind myself that food is nourishment, not poison.
As I started eating more, I began to feel better. However, I also gained a significant amount of weight. I stopped weighing myself when the scale exceeded a 30-pound increase. For someone who has always valued thinness, accepting this change has been challenging.
I’ve come to realize that numbers are deceiving and don’t accurately represent my health or worth. If they did, my non-eating, self-destructive self would have been considered “healthy,” which is absurd.
To clarify: This is sarcasm.
Yes, I’ve gained weight. My clothing sizes have increased, and my face is fuller. Despite exercising and following hunger cues, my size rises, and honestly, I don’t like it. However, I’m grateful for therapy, reminding me that I’m worthy regardless of my appearance and that hunger is not a weakness. I don’t need to punish myself for past emotional wounds.
I won’t lie—there are still certain foods I avoid due to the pain they caused. Whether they were genuinely intolerable or simply the product of a troubled mind, I don’t know.
But the real victory is that I now eat, and I feed my family with less guilt and fear. I understand that my size does not diminish my worth.
Yes, I give myself daily pep talks and use the coping skills I’ve learned in therapy. They are working. I’m healing. But it’s still a struggle.
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Summary:
The author shares a deeply personal journey of battling food-related fears stemming from past trauma and self-image issues. Initially, she restricted her diet as a form of punishment but later developed a fear of food due to physical pain and anxiety. With therapy and medication, she is learning to redefine her relationship with food, recognizing that nourishment is essential for health and that weight does not determine self-worth. Despite ongoing challenges, she finds hope and healing in her journey toward a healthier mindset.