Hunger
From an early age, I learn my hunger is something to fear. To control. Temper.
My first memory of hunger starts like this: I’m in first grade. I’m in my mother’s classroom—alone. I stand on tippy toes in my white Keds and reach for her big jar of M&Ms, the one I’m not supposed to eat from by myself. I’ll just take a few, I think, unscrewing the lid.
On a student’s desk, I line them up side by side: red, orange, yellow, green, brown. One by one I pop them into my mouth. I munch along, the candy shell and milk chocolate intermingles on my tongue. The forbidden moment more delicious than the taste itself.
By the time Mom’s back, I’ve almost eaten the entire jar. My stomach bulges underneath my shirt. I feel like I could throw up. I don’t recall what happens next, only the heavy weight of regret.
***
I keep a diary the summer before junior year of high school. Inside I paste magazine clippings of beauty tips, celebrity crushes and workout advice. Glamour is my Bible.
Two themes dominate my entries: boys and my body. “My parents say I’m not fat or skinny,” I write, thinking of the popular girls at school, “but I know I have a booty.” What I want, more than anything, is to be pretty and thin like them. Under the heading, “Stay healthy,” I neatly copy six rules for eating and exercise.
Later I scribble, “I ran a lot this summer and got skinnier—yes!”
***
Two months before my wedding, I’m running alongside my friend Stefanie when I feel a sharp pang in my stomach. With every foot strike, it grows, first a grumble, then a roar. I turn my head toward her and try to focus on our conversation
“How are you feeling about the big day?” she asks as we stride up the Lakefront path.
I groan. “I still have so much to do—seating arrangements and adding to our registry and, oh, the DJ isn’t returning my calls … On the bright side, I lost another pound.”
“Ooooh! Well that’s good news!”
The path curves and Fullerton beach comes into view. Stefanie’s cadence quickens. I want to say more, but my labored breathing stifles me. Driven and competitive, one summer Stefanie trained for a marathon by herself. Though she’s had countless boyfriends, she hasn’t yet met The One. We pass a sea of tanned, lean guys spiking volleyballs in the late summer sun, and I sense we’re both famished. What I’m fantasizing about, however, is dinner.
My legs grow heavy and I silently curse my low-carb wedding diet for wrecking another run. I used to run for fun. Ignore it, ignore it, I tell myself. Remember: Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.
But I can’t take it—my body is screaming for reprieve so I blurt out, “Hey Stef, can we stop for a minute?”
“Of course,” she chirps. We slow to a walk. My torso collapses over my legs and I suck in air, willing it to fill the void.
***
My new headshot startles me. Sitting in my office, I stare at my chubby cheeks on the computer screen. Disgusted, I snap my mouse and close the offending image. How did I let this happen? I shut my eyes and think.
Months ago, on a cloudy October day, I married my college sweetheart, Jay. He looked handsome in his gray tux. I wore a cream dress accentuated with a satin sash and lace cutout on the back. Whenever I noticed my reflection in the mirror, I beamed.
On the arm of my new husband, I floated through the ceremony, pictures and reception. I ate and drank little. The feeling of weightlessness was intoxicating. At the end of the night, my cheeks hurt from smiling.
After the wedding, I’d hidden our scale and relaxed my extreme exercise/diet regimen. My pants had been getting tighter, but I’d ignored it. My eyes flicker to my planner. I scrawl “WORKOUT” in the margin. I shouldn’t have ignored this.
Back at home, I unearth the scale and reluctantly step on it. Peering down, I gasp—ten pounds over my wedding weight. Jay’s traveling for business so there’s no one to tell. I retrieve my journal and sketch out a plan to fix this. “Get it together,” I write to myself. “You don’t want to be a big wife.”
***
I’d worked hard to meet goals in the past. This time, my efforts backfire. I restrict for days at a time, eating “perfectly.” Then I cave and indulge in gluten or sweets and call the day ruined. Disappointed, I binge on unhealthy foods.
Eventually I start to purge. I figure, if I purge, my mistakes don’t count. Purging feels like Communion. When my stomach is empty, I’m forgiven.
For a long time, I refuse to acknowledge this is a problem. More than once I tell myself this week I’ll turn things around. Late one night, I sift through a vegan food blog for healthy recipes and discover a series of posts about binge-eating. The more I read the more I see myself in the blogger’s story. Alone in the dark, illuminated by the glow of my laptop screen, I sit completely still, crying.
Afterwards, I resolve to ditch my ridiculous food rules. I try tracking the days I don’t binge. I try making sure I’m never by myself, planning friend dates when Jay’s traveling. I try working late too. Through each failed attempt to break my bad habit, I think, if I could just get over this and get back to being perfect, I would finally lose those ten pounds. I would finally be happy.
No matter what I do or try, I end up relapsing.
I tell no one.
***
My knees press into the icy bathroom tile as I grip the edges of the porcelain toilet bowl and gaze into its swirling center. I stick my tongue to the roof of my mouth—tastes like vomit. My empty stomach aches and my head throbs, but my mind is clear. I believe I’m at rock bottom.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I whisper to no one in particular, maybe God, maybe myself. I cannot keep living like this, trapped in this shameful cycle. The tears come fast, and I let them drip off my cheeks into the clear water filling the bowl. I look closer and see my pained reflection shimmering back at me. “God, help me,” I cry out.
The hardwood floor creaks under my feet as they creep across the hallway. I slink inside our unlit bedroom, sidestep the laundry basket and glance at my phone on our nightstand. It’s 2 a.m. when I burrow under the covers, careful not to disturb my snoring husband. But fresh tears, then sobs overtake me and soon Jay rolls over, confused.
“Babe? What’s wrong?” he yawns.
Wiping my eyes dry, I stare at the ceiling and confess it aloud: “I have an eating disorder.” The tightness in my chest loosens.
“What do you mean?” he asks, snapping awake. Jay pulls himself up on the pillow and searches my eyes. An engineer, he’s usually quick to analyze problems and pose solutions, and I can see his gears spinning. He knows I have body image issues from my constant asking “Do I look fat in this?” This confession is a revelation.
“I binge. And throw up after,” I mumble. “Look, I’ve been hiding it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was just … so afraid.”
His face softens. “Babe, I’m sorry,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. I tell him about my food rules and the vegan food blog and feeling trapped. I tell him everything. When I’m finished, he asks, “Do you want to get some help?” I nod and relax my head on his shoulder, unable to speak. We stay that way for a long time, held by the silence.
***
Over the six summers I worked as a lifeguard, I learned to rapidly spot a flailing swimmer. Their heads begin to bob and their arms flap at the water’s surface. I’ve never seen what happens next because by then I’m jumping into the pool with my red rescue tube. I’ve saved half a dozen people from drowning, and while every person and scenario was different, what binds them together is the facial expression someone has when they realize they are being saved. First, a mix of bewilderment, relief and gratitude—then, overwhelming joy.
This is how I feel when I meet the therapist who helps me unravel my shame around food and my body. Like I’m coming up for air.
“Tell me how you’re feeling today,” she says kindly.
I sit upright on the couch in her office, knees pressed together. Even after three months of sessions, I find this part awkward. I train my eyes on the grey carpet and struggle to summon a descriptor.
“Umm, stressed?” I answer. Work is out of control—my bosses are fighting and my colleagues are gossiping. I consider the giant bag of popcorn I consumed on the commute to therapy. I open my mouth to launch into the story.
For the first time in many sessions, my therapist stops me.
“Erin, I need you to understand stressed is not a feeling—these are,” she says, handing me a worksheet. My eyes grow wide scanning over the words: angry, anxious, disappointed, jealous, afraid. A whole new vocabulary of emotions I’d ignored. “I want you to review these words this week and try to frame your feelings with them. Just report without judgment.”
I want to taste one in my mouth, so I ask, “Can I try right now?”
“Sure, of course,” she answers.
“I think …” I start, staring at the sheet, “I am angry. And afraid.”
***
Two years later, I peck at my keyboard from the desk in our sunroom. Next to me my two-month-old son dozes in his rock-n-play. My husband is traveling for work, and I’m on maternity leave.
I sip my lukewarm coffee and glance out the window. It’s nearly spring in Chicago, and new buds are peeking out from the snow-spotted browned grass.
I check the time. I have 10, maybe 20 more minutes and then I’ll need to nurse my son—a task I’ve come to love.
I type quickly, filling the screen with sentences, painting pictures of my life before I became a mother. I’m writing a story about pregnancy, motherhood and releasing my obsession with diet and exercise. About recognizing my body’s innate strength.
My stomach growls. When was the last time I ate?
Breastfeeding often leaves me ravenous, and while I’m still learning to live with my hunger, of this, I’m certain: it no longer scares me.
I rise and walk to the kitchen. Leftover Chinese food sounds delicious. Plus a lactation cookie for dessert.
Some people like the taste of skinny. I wonder, have they ever tried unafraid?
Guest essay written by Erin Strybis. Erin is a Chicago-based writer and editor who believes deeply in the healing power of stories. Her writing has appeared in The Washington Post, The Everymom, Mother.ly, Romper and Gather, and she’s currently working on a book proposal. Read more of her stories at erinstry.com or on Instagram.