TRIGGER WARNING: This story contains sensitive content regarding eating disorders.
For as long as I can remember, I struggled with issues of food and weight. Growing up, I was playing an endless, metaphorical game of tug-of-war with my mother: the more she tried to pull me into a “healthy” lifestyle consisting of diet programs and weight loss, the more I would resist and fight back. Food became a source of rebellion, and I didn’t realize or care that I was only punishing myself by using food as ammunition.
Throughout high school, my weight and self-esteem fluctuated. It wasn’t until I got to college that I realized my troubles with food were more complex than meets the eye. Food was no longer nourishment for my body; it was a drug that numbed the pain, a frenemy who pretended to be on my side but ultimately made me feel worse about myself.
Whereas many of my friends would listen to music or go for a run, when life got hard, food was my source of relief. I would take my babysitting money, walk to the local market, purchase enough groceries to last a family of 4 a week, and eat until I couldn’t feel anymore. These binges sometimes resulted in “blacking out,” where I wouldn’t remember what — or how much — food I consumed. Initially, I turned to food as a coping mechanism, but eventually my relationship with food became more serious than any of the earlier issues I was trying to mask.
After many years of struggling, I decided to seek out counseling, and in my junior year of college I was diagnosed with Binge Eating Disorder (BED). The American Psychological Association defines BED as as “recurring episodes of eating significantly more food in a short period of time than most people would eat under similar circumstances, with episodes marked by feelings of lack of control.” Binge eating disorder differs from bulimia nervosa in that the binge eating episodes are not followed up with compensatory behavior (i.e. purging or over-exercising). Moreover, BED is distinct from overeating in that these instances of overeating create psychological distress and are driven by emotional cues (like sadness), rather than physiological cues (i.e., hunger).
My eating disorder took a toll on my life — physically, mentally, and socially. I gained a significant amount of weight as a result of my frequent, caloric binges. Feelings of shame, guilt, depression, and anxiety also surfaced as my eating disorder prevailed. Additionally, my eating disorder put a halt on my social life. It prevented me from engaging in social activities; rather than going out with friends and enjoying all that college had to offer, I made up excuses for why I had to stay home because I was too embarrassed and ashamed to leave my room.
When I was finally ready to come to terms with my eating disorder, I searched high and low to find people like me who were struggling with these same experiences. Unfortunately, I found little to no information on BED, even though it is the most common eating disorder, affecting 3.5% of women, 2% of men, and up to 1.6% of adolescents in the United States. There are hundreds of articles and resources for people suffering with anorexia and bulimia, but minimal information and support for BED. This lack of information had me believe that my disorder, and my experiences, was less important than the experiences of others. I started to believe that my story did not matter. That I did not matter.
