Last summer, as I ate to cope, I pushed my body so far past itself that I caused some longterm damage. Five months of disciplined focus and hard work gave me a reprieve by Thanksgiving, which I thought meant that I was healed. A relapse a month later reminded me ‘you don’t abuse yourself that badly and go so far off course for two years and fix it in just five months.’
Because that’s the truth of it, and here is my confession to you, dear readers… the comfort-eating started with the primary elections in 2016. My fear, anxiety, sorrow, and discouragement was so all-encompassing that I began to eat my feelings because I didn’t know what else to do with them and every time I ate that king-sized milk-chocolate-almond bar, I felt myself let out the breath I was holding and sink back into myself. For the duration that I slowly savored each giant chocolate bar, several times a week, I could escape and feel some peace. The two things that I gave up nine years ago that I conclusively proved had no love for me and my constitution, sugar and dairy, became my comforting companions again. Any side-effects went largely unnoticed because it was a comfort I couldn’t consider giving up.
With my coping skills already long maladaptive (and harmful to my system) by the time I hit threat-level-midnight last summer, I was in no mental or emotional position to assess my situation and figure out how to get back on track - so I added potato and corn chips, La Croix, and more chocolate into my coping arsenal. Even as my body very clearly let me know there was a problem, I went on. Everything felt so out of control, and eating junk food (readily available at the office) was the only thing I felt like I could control. So I ate.
I ate my feelings until the end of June, the day we were scheduled to fly home from Hawaii, when I got hit with nausea that made me think I had some sort of devilish 24-hour bug. Nothing ever came of the nausea (but let’s be honest, it’s punishment enough) and I flew home on schedule. But I arrived home with the knowledge that things needed to change immediately. Being so out of touch with my body and with my anxiety on a hair-trigger, I knew that I absolutely needed the help of a doctor.