Please Note:: ”Life of a Binge Eater” (LBE) is a series about my experiences with binge eating. Binge eating is a pattern of disordered eating which consists of episodes of uncontrollable eating. Many of the things I discuss could be extremely triggering if you are dealing with an eating disorder, so please read at your own risk. I am not an doctor or a therapist. I am simply telling you my story.

 

It would be easy to say that everything fell apart when my mother died. If you’ve been around for awhile on my blog, you know that her death had (and still has) a huge impact on my life. How could it not? I was 12 and had no idea who I was with out her. I was on the brink of teenagedom with seemingly no compass to guide me through the landmines of puberty, self esteem, or vicious (oh how they could be vicious!) girl”friends”.

It would be easy to place the blame on that tragedy, but not entirely accurate.

Even I assumed this to be true; that my binge-eating was a cry for comfort and love that I couldn’t get from a mother figure. The longer I sat with that thought, the more it didn’t feel right. While I do know I’ve binged out of sadness and loneliness, that wasn’t what triggered my eating disorder. I’ve mentioned it before: most of my food issues have to do with punishment. Punishment for what? Mostly just being me.

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I remember the exact moment I first heard someone call me “fat.”

There was a family member of mine (we’ll call her Gina for the purpose of some sort of privacy) that stepped up to help a lot when my mother passed away. She did our laundry, watched us when my dad was working, and did all the “mom things” that needed to be done; taking me to practices and appointments. At one particular doctor’s appointment, I needed to get a routine physical in order to participate in volleyball that season. We’re in the doctor’s office and my doc is wrapping up his notes. I’m swinging my feet on the table thinking about what homework I needed to do that night. I remember this moment so vividly that I can see the calendar on the wall (puppies, and a month behind) and hear my doctor’s sharp signature scratch across the “sports physical” release documents.

Out of nowhere, as I’m hopping off the exam table and slinging my backpack over my shoulder, Gina says “Doctor, don’t you think Emily is FAT?”

And that is when my heart stopped.

I. was. mortified.

I turned 10 shades of red as my doctor (who, of course, I found very handsome; fueling my embarrassment) fumbled over his words. “Well, she’s overweight, but perfectly healthy and very active … watch what you eat .. .stay active…” his voiced seemed to float in and out of my head. I felt sick to my stomach. (Even now, recalling this incident I feel nauseous, like suddenly the lights are too bright and my throat is closing up.)

Never before had it occurred to me that other people were looking at me and thinking I was fat. Especially not my family. I was always self conscious about my size, but in a very general way. “I wish I was thinner” thoughts would come and go when I saw the pretty popular girls, but fore the most part I was oblivious to the fact that I was “fat.” I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror as we left.

 

Have you ever been punched in the gut? Or had the wind knocked out of you? It felt something like that. I felt claustrophobic, suddenly too big for my own skin. It felt like someone had just lifted a veil from my world. My bright and sunny world full of happy people was now somehow a lie. In the face of my mother’s death I had tried to my best to be “normal” to everyone. No one wants be known as the weird kid who’s mother died. My one comfort – the fact that I liked myself – was turned into something ugly and judgmental. How stupid was I not to realize? I think this was the first time my head told me: Emily, everyone hates you because you’re fat.

I now know that I was probably having a minor anxiety attack. I don’t know how to better describe that moment. It literally changed the way I looked at my body, my confidence, and everyone else around me. I wasn’t safe anymore. I had created my own world view, and while it was maybe a little naive, it was all I had holding me together. Now nothing was protecting me.

Gina drove me, with tears welling in my eyes, straight from the doctor’s office to a Weight Watchers center and signed me up. No discussion. I remember choking back those tears as I hung my head in shame in front of the registration desk. I put all my focus into rolling a pen back and forth on the counter, trying not to feel all the older women looking at me on their way to the nightly meeting.

Adding insult to injury, we then headed directly to a bookstore to pick out Atkins diet books and a notebook, so I could write down everything I wasn’t supposed to eat. Gina must have had the whole staff helping us find the right books. I tried not to make eye contact with anyone as she asked for recommendations for “my weight issue.” I was her little project, being paraded around the isles like a sideshow act. “Do you see my ___ (insert family relationship) here? I need to find some materials to help her lose weight”

Food was now an enemy. There were “bad” foods and “good” foods. Points and lists. My own body was now the enemy. It wasn’t good enough. So, like any teenager … I rebelled. When you’re told not to eat anything, what do you do?

Eat everything.

 

 

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More from the LBE series:
Life of a Binge Eater: A Snapshot
Life of a Binge Eater: The Unraveling

As always, this is a place of sharing and respectful discussion.

Please feel free to comment, but please keep an open mind and heart to everyone. Thank you!