You Can’t Treat an Emotional Problem Physically

I’ve been stick thin for most of my life. Before I started doing aerial arts and weight training and gaining muscle, friends and family would ask me with genuine concern if I had an eating disorder. I heard it all: eat a sandwich, put some meat on your bones, guys like girls they can grab, and on and on. It took me a long time to admit that maybe my relationship to food wasn’t healthy, but not for the reasons people thought.

I was a binge eater. I’d eat until it physically hurt. I’d eat even when I wasn’t hungry. Anytime there was food nearby, I was eating it. I’d stuff snacks into my purse and take other people’s leftovers home. I’d accompany my mom to the grocery store, pick out my favorite items, then stash them in my room once we’d gotten home.

I loved the sensation of eating, the taste of food, the feeling of it in my stomach filling me up (until it’s too late and too much). I’m not sure why I did this. Maybe it’s because my parents always told me to finish everything on my plate. Maybe it’s from the ROTC camps I went to as a kid where I’d be physically exhausted every day and only given fifteen minutes to wolf down my food. Maybe it’s simply because I love food. I live for it. I wake up every day looking forward to what I’m going to eat.

When I was in my late teens, my relationship to food was so unhealthy that when I was broke, I would still go to expensive restaurants by myself and max out my credit cards on $300 meals. Life’s too short to eat terribly, I’d rationalize. Food is an experience that I’m willing to pay good money for! It keeps me alive. When I couldn’t afford good food, I would binge on Costco mac and cheese, potato chips, and other junk food.

I also worked at a sushi restaurant. Because I could speak Japanese to the chefs and Spanish to the kitchen guys, I was a favorite of theirs and I’d often drop hints about how much I loved certain dishes. They’d happily cook something for me, and I’d spend all day stuffing my face with crispy rice and baked salmon rolls. When my shift was over, I’d put in a to-go order large enough to feed a small family and inhale it all at home. By then it was dinnertime, and I’d be off to try a new restaurant.

I denied my binge-eating habit for a long time. I wasn’t fat, so it wasn’t a disorder, right? Plus I rarely threw up. Sure, I would crumple up in a ball after a meal, holding my stomach in pain, waiting to slowly digest everything. But that wasn’t a problem as long as I was willing to sit with the pain and shame, right?

There was also the fact that my best friend ate just as much as I did. I used to joke that we both probably had tapeworms. We loved food and we could eat so much of it. Part of me romanticized the idea that two little Asian girls could eat as much as we did. Maybe eventually we’d be competitors in eating tournaments and put our skills to good use. I liked the disbelieving looks we received when we finished our plates and asked our dining companions if they were going to finish theirs. I felt oddly proud.

Then I started having serious stomach problems. Sharp stabs of pain would come from nowhere, paralyzing me for an hour or two at a time. At first it would only happen once a week or so, but soon it was happening almost every other day. I had no health insurance at the time, so the only doctor’s visit I could afford was the Internet. I tried drinking ginger teas and cayenne pepper–lemon juice shots, but those only made my stomach problems worse.

On top of this, my financial situation was getting out of hand: the majority of my credit cards were maxed out from taking myself out to restaurants. I’d be late on rent, but I refused to cut back on food. It was out of the question. I could die tomorrow. Did I really want my last meal to be mediocre and bland?

Then I went to a seven-day silent meditation retreat in Joshua Tree. Initially I’d been convinced by my then-boyfriend to attend. He thought it would be good for me. He dropped out at the last second, and since I’d already paid (a donation amount, but still), I decided to go anyway.

The retreat provided vegetarian meals for all seven days. I spent nearly every day waiting for when we could get food. I’d sometimes duck out of walking meditation and check in on the cafeteria, hoping for a snack. The spread was weak: apples, bananas, and almond butter.

On the retreat, I felt like I was starving. I wasn’t, of course, but when you’re used to being filled to the brim, anything else feels hollow and empty. I’d sometimes run to the cafeteria ten minutes before lunch started so I could be first in line. I’d wolf down my food, then discreetly step back in line to get a second helping. Occasionally a third. During the long days of the retreat, food was my salvation. Like it always was.

Though there was no talking among the attendees at the retreat, the instructors held daily lectures. On the fifth day, our lecture was on food. I was a little surprised. We’d spent the other days on more substantive topics: A teacher talked about his former drug addiction and how he found himself through meditation. Another discussed how childhood trauma determines a lot about how we view the world as adults. And there was one particularly moving speech from someone who’d had a near-death experience. Mindful eating? How underwhelming.

But as I listened to this instructor speak, I grew afraid. It was like he was talking right to me. He told the crowd how he was a binge eater. How he’d been skinny his whole life, so he’d never thought it was a problem. He talked about craving food the moment he woke up, and having an insatiable hunger that was only satisfied when it turned into self-disgust and physical pain. He was describing me. He was describing my problem. A problem I refused to recognize as one because the effects were invisible. Because who cares that a skinny person eats a lot?

I listened attentively to the rest of his speech. He encouraged everyone to eat their next meal mindfully. To chew slowly and relish each bite instead of inhaling their food. To breathe between bites and be grateful that you have food at all. To stop when you were comfortably full. That was the hardest thing for him to learn, he said—to stop when he was full.

We broke for lunch, and I didn’t power-walk to the front of the line. Instead, I told myself I was going to take my time. Though my reflex was to pile food high on my plate, I restrained myself, aiming for a portion that seemed right for my body size. I sat down and forced myself to take small bites. I chewed thoroughly. I drank water and breathed between bites. I slowed down and ate mindfully.

I ate the whole meal and waited for the feeling of fullness to come. I felt a dull weight in my stomach, but nothing close to the fullness I was used to. I glanced at the line. There were still twenty or so people in it. I could go back up and get another helping. Maybe just a small one. A half one. I didn’t have to get another full meal. I just needed to be full.

That’s when I realized I did have a problem with food. I craved the feeling of needing to get back up, of having to get more food. I was using food as a drug. I couldn’t control myself. Worse, it was an invisible problem. No one else could point it out because it was something that no one else saw. Only I really knew how I felt about food, how much pain my body was in after meals, and how desperately I needed to feed myself physically to feel emotionally satisfied.

Over the next few years, my attempt at mindful eating had its ups and downs. It was particularly hard whenever I went through an emotionally stressful time like a breakup or a career blow. Though I’ve vowed to cook more, I am still prone to immediately say “Let’s celebrate by going out to eat!” whenever something good happens, instantly thinking of all the restaurants and all-you-can-eat Korean BBQ places in town.

I’d often go to the other extreme—I would skip meals when I felt like I’d had too much for the day. This was a horrible idea. I’d just end up starving and then I’d binge again. My stomach grew and shrank, causing me pain and discomfort every time I ate.

Even though I’m now aware of my problem with food, I still love it. I grew up on steak and potatoes in a family that always encouraged second helpings. My father told me that the best things money can buy are good food and memorable experiences. My mother loved cooking huge portions, and we showed our love for her by eating everything on our plate. Food is still one of the things I am willing to pay good money for. Nothing makes me happier than trying a new Peruvian tapas place or introducing a friend to my favorite dish.

But knowing that I have this problem—and treating it seriously—helps me manage it. I no longer flippantly tell myself that it’s fine because I’m skinny or because I don’t throw up. I eat smaller portions. I drink more water between bites. I breathe and slow the hell down. Because my relationship to food isn’t just about loving to eat. It’s an insatiable, emotional craving. Filling myself up physically is just a way for me to temporarily feel okay emotionally. I’m trying to literally fill the void of emptiness. But just because my problem is invisible doesn’t mean I should ignore it. If anything, it’s an even stronger reminder to own up to it and be mindful about how I treat it.

Knowing yourself is the first step toward loving yourself. Embracing the flawed parts of who you are can only make you stronger. I know it sounds New Age-y and clichéd, but honestly, all I want is to be a better person. And I can only achieve that by realizing where I am now.