I followed the Weight Watchers diet. Sometimes I lost weight, but if it was lost, it was soon found. I felt disappointed and hopeless about the numbers on the scale. The immensity of these feelings increased my appetite, and I'd pig out even more.
There were times when I tried to be bulimic—in part to lose weight and in part to relieve indigestion—and, thank goodness, I was not successful. Although I'd put my fingers down my throat, I was not able to regurgitate the large volume of food I had consumed. Instead, antacids became my trusted ally, eventually easing the horrendous pain in my gut from gorging.
At an early age, I lost my sense of self and became more interested in what others felt or needed. I thought of myself as a chameleon—you tell me who you want me to be, and I'll be it. As long as others were happy, my needs were inconsequential. (It sounds like initiation for martyrdom.) I negated my own feelings, pushed them down, and gave them no importance. Out of touch with myself, I didn't know how I felt most of the time. I was conditioned to put on a happy front no matter what happened. To keep up this charade, I was compelled to consume an enormous amount of food.
I felt a lot of guilt and shame. The shame intensified when I received critical comments from my parents such as “You're the oldest—why would you even ask such a question?” or “You know better than that!” or “Why did you do that? What kind of example are you setting?” I became hypervigilant—seeking to anticipate my parents' every need rather than be reprimanded. It wasn't enough, however, because their voices took residence in my head, and I used those messages to rebuke myself, often by calling myself stupid. Is it any wonder I turned to food for love? To feel full? No, actually, to not feel.
As a high school English teacher, I taught the poem “Richard Cory” by Edwin Arlington Robinson. Richard Cory seemed to have it all—he had money, he had friends, people admired him and wished they could be him. I thought my life sounded a lot like Richard Cory's: People liked me and respected me and thought I was very responsible—an image I had worked hard to create. But Richard Cory went home one night and put a bullet through his head—and I understood. I realized the outward appearance might just be a cover-up; I knew his pain. On the outside I had everything—a nice home, a hardworking husband, two cars in our garage, enough money, plenty of food. Yet inside I was tormented. I told myself over and over that I was inadequate and defective, and that I was a fraud.
I knew I was a sneak eater, and I knew I ate to the point of physical distress, but I didn't know until recently that I had a binge eating disorder. The mental health description of binge eating disorder includes the following:
1 Eating a large amount of food in a short period of time
2 Lack of control over eating during the binge episode
3 Eating until uncomfortably full
4 Eating large amounts of food when not physically hungry
5 Eating much more rapidly than normal
6 Eating alone because you are embarrassed by how much you're eating
7 Feeling disgusted, depressed, or guilty after overeating
I easily identified with each aspect:
1 Yes, I could pack it away.
2 In the midst of a binge, I would command my hand to stop shoving cookies into my mouth, but it wouldn't stop.
3 I would eat so much that my stomach ached intensely. I'd chew a few Pepto-Bismol tablets and curl up in the fetal position until the pain subsided—and then I'd get up and feast some more.
4 I know I ate because of emotional, not physical, hunger.
5 I inhaled my food.
6 I always preferred eating alone so I wouldn't be judged.
7 Disgusted, depressed, or guilty? Yes, yes, and yes! I was often all three. That's why I became a closet eater in the first place.
When I was twenty-nine, a friend told me she had attended a Twelve-Step meeting for people with weight issues. “There really is a place like that?” I asked incredulously. Many years earlier, as a child, I had seen the teleplay Days of Wine and Roses, which depicts the total devastation of an alcoholic's life before he achieves sobriety with the help of Alcoholics Anonymous. At that time, I thought, “Wow, I wish there was a place like that for me—I'm a foodaholic.” That's what I'd called myself since the age of twelve. I knew that whenever I started to eat, I didn't want to stop. I had to contain myself or get scolded for eating too much. I knew I had an emptiness no amount of food would fill. Actually, I didn't know that then. But I know it now. Thinking back, I wonder if my appestat (the area of the brain that controls the appetite) was broken.
I accompanied my friend to the next Twelve-Step support group and, right away, made a decision to follow the 3-0-1 food plan: three meals a day, nothing in between, one day at a time. What a struggle. It was almost impossible for me to refrain from eating between meals. Whenever I drove past my favorite bakery, for example, my car would automatically turn in. At the beginning, over and over again I fell off the wagon, which is how I saw it in my mind. As I continued going to meetings and working the Twelve Steps, I began to get truthful with myself about my feelings and started to let go of the ludicrous notion that I had to be flawless. And, lo and behold, the emotional eating began to wane. When, months later, I drove past the bakery and didn't stop, I was elated. After that first success came many more, and soon I could drive past all bakeries without pulling in.
Committed to not eating between meals, I developed a technique to delay immediate gratification: If I really wanted a particular food, if something “called” to me, I gave myself permission to have it—tomorrow, and with a meal. For instance, if my husband decided to eat popcorn in the evening while we watched TV and I wanted it, too, I told myself I could have it . . . with a meal . . . tomorrow. And that worked for me. Sometimes I devoured that coveted food with my very next meal (such as popcorn for breakfast!). But at least it was planned for my meal, rather than a binge. Often, though, since I didn't immediately act on the craving, the obsession went away and I forgot all about it.
As a member of a Twelve-Step Program (and following a specific food plan), I eventually stopped the emotional eating by
strengthening my spirituality (a belief in a Higher Power who loves me unconditionally),
becoming honest with myself,
facing my feelings,
having a support group,
admitting my faults,
making amends,
journaling,
healing my Inner Child,
calming my Inner Critic's voice,
white-knuckling it.
My eating behavior now is a far cry from my eating behavior as a child, teen, and young woman, when I was using food as my “fix.” Food used to be my best friend, my savior, my everything. Now food is just food. I enjoy it much more today than when I was rapidly shoveling it in without stopping to savor a single bite.
Twelve-Step Recovery was my first undertaking in finding myself. I entered those support-group rooms a shame-based woman with low self-esteem, but I presented myself as better than everyone to cover up the inferiority I felt. I had a deep inner desire to let others know
