Food as an Emotional Tool

It seems only fitting that this is the first post that I share on my new blog. I turned 30 last year, and it really shifted my perspective on so many things in my life. Even as a time hacker, and someone who teaches people about managing their priorities and getting clear on the kind of life that they want, there were a lot of things on my plate that didn't bring me happiness.

One of my favorite philosophies on time is from Steve Jobs. He said something along the lines of "I wake up every day and I ask myself if what I'm going to be doing today will make me happy, and if the answer is no too many days in a row I need to reevaluate." I think about that often, and reevaluate often, as I think we all do as we get older.

I wrote this post a few weeks back shortly after starting my nonfiction, virtual, women-only book club, Lit Chicks, and beginning to dive deep into our first book, Untamed, by Glennon Doyle. 

Untamed is a powerful book about women and the beliefs that we have about how to be good, tamed, and fit into this world — and also about how to undo all of that shit.

Reading the book, I saw so much of myself in Glennon, just as I did when I read her memoir Love Warrior almost 2 years ago, and when I saw her on stage last March. Glennon was the first person that I felt like resonated on the same level as I do.

She was the first person I heard talk about being sensitive, having anxiety, the urge to write and connect and serve, and the uncomfortable feelings that exist for all of us humans, and as an empath especially, it was the first time I felt validated in my truth.

Glennon and I have many things in common, from our blonde hair and passion for writing, to addiction and eating disorders. That's one of the things that inspired this blog post. I'm sure I'll talk about it more as I keep writing.

But for now, I want to talk about food as an emotional tool, and how I am redefining my relationship with food not only as a tool, but as information for my body, and a source of pleasure. If you would've told 16-year-old me that one day I would love my body, love to cook, and be passionate about helping other people grow into their own skin I would've laughed.

C’est la vie.

Today I saw one of Glennon's posts from a Morning Meeting back in April on Facebook, and she was talking about how to live without regret, and how she got started as a writer. Her sister literally told her to write every single day, so she did. And as much as I want my blog posts to be polished, and linked properly, and around certain themes, what's true at my core is that I just want to write. I just want to talk about what it is that I see in the world and serve as many people as I can with what I know and what I'm learning.

I am a writer.

And it's time I start writing again. Sometimes my blog posts will be short, sometimes they will be long, but the one thing they will have in common is consistency. I'm going to blog every day, no matter what, and after an hour, hit publish. So forgive me if they're not perfect, and I so deeply appreciate if you decide to come along for this ride.

So let’s talk about Untamed, disordered eating, and how my relationship to food, much like Glennon’s, is always a work in progress.

Untamed is made up of about 70 stories that Glennon tells around how she became an untamed woman. In her story, aches, she describes the binge/purge cycle of bulimia, one of her coping mechanisms, as:

“Nothing but noise until I am on the floor, laid out, wracked, too tired to feel or think or remember anything at all. Perfect.”

This resonated so deeply with me because I've struggled with disordered eating for most of my life.

First, as a plus size dancer at age 10, getting bullied by a friend of the family and by the boys at school. Food was an emotional tool. Something sweet to self-soothe as I tried to be a good girl while hating myself.

Then, at 13, when I lived in a shelter where food was a source of power and hunger became something I could control. Something I could be perfect at no matter where I was living. Even if no one wanted me.

And then at 16, when I was put into a mental health ward for self-harming & had over 200 cuts on the body that I hated.

It was there that I met my roommate, Cat.

A girl so beautiful and intelligent and cool that I couldn't believe she ever felt ugly or fat. We'd sit crosslegged on our shared windowsill, knees touching as we shared tips on how to best avoid eating and get away with eating as little as possible.

The month we spent together taught me a lot about pretending and being in total control of my food intake and, by extension, my body. By then my body had betrayed me more than once, attracting good and bad attention since I was six years old and all I wanted was to disappear.

In that month I started to feed Cat, loving her and not wanting to see her wither away before my eyes. This kind of loving was something she deserved, but not something I could consider for myself.

Cat was the one who explained what our shared diagnosis - EDNOS (Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified) - actually meant. It was a bit of multiple disorders - anorexia and bulimia - and it was as if we could choose which tools we needed from our starvation toolbox depending on the situation. We didn't fit into a specific disorder, so catching us was a lot harder.

Starving, binging and purging replaced the emotional release I'd been getting from self-harming and was much easier to hide. I considered the fact that I was still fat while eating very little proof that I was winning. That my efforts to control my life were paying off.

After five different hospital stays and lots of psychiatric meds to tame the fire in my heart and the feelings that threatened to consume me, I gained more weight and by the time I came home I was 17.

At that point, controlling my food was much easier than addressing my emotions or my traumas.

For me, and for my family. In an effort to protect me from myself, I spent the first few months of my senior year of high school isolated in my bedroom, which consisted of a doorless room and a mattress on the floor. I could earn back my things – and my privacy – when I learned to behave. 

If I talked back, or caused drama, I would be grounded to my room, and dinner, a piece of bread with butter, would be brought to me. Food was an emotional tool. And I wasn't the only one who could wield it.

So I built up my armor and self-sabotaged any attempts when people try to connect to the real me. I didn't even know who the real me was, except that having emotions and asking questions was wrong. I knew that I was "too much" and caused everyone in my family stress because I couldn't keep my dark secrets and self-hatred hidden anymore.

And then I met my first love.

A narcissistic, angry, violent, destructive, messy man with serious mental and physical health issues. I can say that now, looking back. But at the time he was suave, cool, handsome, trilingual, and well-traveled.

He loved my body, and told me so. Now don't get me wrong, I'd been with others who liked my appearance, but most had either wanted only my body, paid for the use of my body, or, for the few who expressed genuine interest, I simply didn’t — couldn’t (wouldn’t?) — believe them.

He complemented me all the time and made an effort to touch me regularly, whether it was an affectionate kiss on the back of my neck or a comforting hug when I really needed one. Our love was passionate and in the beginning, I was happy.

My first love loved to cook and to feed me. The balance shifted again. Food was an emotional tool and a way to take care of another person, even though he didn’t take it very well if I didn’t like something he made.

By a stroke of luck I ended up discovering the first of multiple food allergies and my journey with food took another pivot. The food I had been eating was literally killing me and affecting my mood, cognitive function, emotions and multiple systems in my body. My diet had to change, and I had to learn to cook. I had to rethink my relationship with food and focus on cultivating a joy around nutrition and cooking.

I still forget to eat when I'm stressed sometimes, but now my relationship to food is totally different, as is my relationship with my body. I'm still creating layers of appreciation for my body, and food has become a way for me to love, nourish, and take care of her.

I still remember the nights on the bathroom floor, empty and unfeeling.

Proud of my self-control.

I still remember the first person who hugged me after a purge, recognizing that I was not okay, and giving me love I didn't know I needed.

I still remember that an apple has approximately 88 cal and fats/oils - butter, coconut, olive, whatever – have 120 calories per tablespoon.

I remember these things because the hurting, sensitive and overprotective little girl that lives inside my ache isn't gone. She's a part of me. And every time I honor her, she hurts a little less.

I'm teaching her that loving starts and ends with her and in the process the adult version of me is learning a thing or two as well.

Now, I’d love to hear from you. If you’ve ever struggled with disordered eating, how are you doing now? What’s the best thing you’ve learned from your relationship with food?