I’ve struggled with disordered eating, a lot more seriously than I’d like to admit, over the better part of my teenage and adult life. The thing is when we don’t feel like we have control over most of our lives we’re willing to grasp for anything to take control of, even if it destroys us. For a long time, I thought it was embarrassing that I couldn’t do something simple, like eating, the right way. What started as control quickly spiraled out and I just hid my dysfunctions from everyone around me.
As I’ve learned to listen to my body a lot more, it’s crossed over into my approach to food as well. I eat when, and what, I want to eat. Some days it’s chocolate cake, maybe even two slices. Other days it’s salad, fruit, stirfry. Some days my body wants things I think it shouldn’t, but I allow it instead of judging. I do my best to trust that in the end, it will all balance out. At the very least, in the end, it keeps me from binging, purging, restricting. It works for me but sometimes, it’s still hard for me to let people see.
Free Eater
At twenty-five years old I finally acknowledged my attraction to other women and let myself have a girlfriend for the first time, probably last.
No, it wasn’t a phase – it was two years, let’s call it an experience.
Two weeks – before we lived together, didn’t even need a u-haul – lesbian experience.
One of my favorite things about having a girlfriend was I found it a lot easier to eat. That might sound ironic, but it wasn’t meant to be until I heard how it sounded. Now I can’t stop laughing because I thought cat when I had meant Chinese food.
I’m not racist, but the joke is, I’m sorry.
I just wanted to steal attention away from the fact that I let myself eat, without worrying about what someone was thinking of me. Like, aren’t you too big, already, for a third treat?
Nah, bitch, I pound them so it gives you somewhere to grab when you pound me.
After she and I split up, the first boy I ate dinner around was easy only because I thought he only wanted to be friends so I ate like we would only ever be friends.
I don’t remember if when he made me dinner after the night we had sex, I remembered to eat the same way – something tells me I hadn’t.
At twenty-eight years old, one night my boyfriend told me to try the soup he got. We were sitting on the couch, no surface to stop whatever soup trickles down from the spoon as I would try to pull it to my mouth – I told him I didn’t want to. I explained that I didn’t want to try to eat it in front of him and he chuckled, turned away, and told me to taste it.
It was silly, perhaps dramatic, but we are, and maybe a little bit embarrassing – but it was good soup.
I haven’t made a big deal about how incapable I am of gracefully performing the human function of eating since then and I hope I never do.
I see so much love in his commitment to me enjoying an experience that maybe I cover my mouth when a too-big bite of pizza toppings and cheese is peaking out but only after I giggle at myself and I never ever want him to turn away.
I love to see his face, even as it’s laughing at me. I laugh too, every time.
After we stuffed ourselves at dinner, already had dessert, we buy ice cream on the way home and that night love to me looks like legs intertwined, two spoons, and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s while we laughed at stupid humor and I never, not once, had to stop to wonder if he thought I shouldn’t be eating so much.
Much love, until next time.
Madeline May I... 