I had been admiring it from across the room all night.
I’d walked through the buffet line and served myself a pile of stuffed shells, garlic bread, roasted broccoli, and bacon-wrapped scallops, only to find the dessert table at the end, taunting me.
It wasn’t yet socially acceptable to take one. People would notice if I did.
I sat at the table and realized I had forgotten to get a napkin. I took the long way back to the front of the line to retrieve one. My mouth watered as I eyed the mini cannoli (my favorite), the cookies & cream cake (also my favorite), the lemon cake (my absolute favorite), and the Italian cookies (which I hate, but which I will eat anyway if they’re on the dessert table).
I don’t need dessert, I decided, turning my eyes away from the sweet pastries. I’m not going to have any. I’ll fill up on my dinner, and then I won’t have room for dessert. I grabbed another slice of garlic bread.
As I ate my dinner, nagging at my children to eat their vegetables and trying in vain to focus on the adult conversation, my eyes kept drifting toward the now-forbidden fruit.
I cleaned my plate, soaking up excess marinara sauce with my second piece of garlic bread, and all the while I could feel that creamy, sugary goodness calling to me.
People started to get up, to drift toward the place that I had deemed off-limits. “I’m stuffed,” I said to my husband as I stood to dispose of my plate.
The trash can just happened to be next to the decadent display of baked goods.
“Ooh, I don’t think I can resist a cannoli,” said another guest. Casually, I turned my head toward the desserts, as if I’d just noticed them for the first time.
“Yeah, it’s the best bakery in town,” I said, plucking one up for myself. Okay, but just this one.
I returned to my seat and ate the cannoli, very responsibly. I then dusted the powdered sugar off my hands and followed the sound of my children’s gleeful cries into a different room.
I watched the children play. I scrolled through my phone. I listened with one ear to the spirited conversations around me . And, after a few minutes, I wandered away.
I found myself back in front of the dessert table without quite knowing how I’d gotten there.
The room had cleared out save for one of the caterers, who was bustling back and forth, disassembling the hot dishes and walking them out to the truck.
With a plastic knife, I cut one of the lemon cakes in half. I never get to eat these. And they’re my favorite, I said to myself.
I’ll stop after this, I promised. I unhinged my jaw and shoved the entire thing into my mouth, so no one who happened to enter the room would see me eat it.
By the end of the evening, I’d had a cannoli, one of each type of cake (including the second half of the lemon), and a generous handful of cookies. And all of this was in addition to a dinner that had already left me feeling uncomfortably full.
This is binge eating disorder.
Binge Eating Means I Can’t have just a little of anything
Beginning at age eleven or twelve, I would often open and finish a box of crackers or cookies in one sitting. Ever since I can remember, on the rare occasion we had a home-cooked meal — and especially when we visited a buffet-style restaurant — I would eat until I needed to undo the button (and sometimes the zipper) on my pants. More than once, I have systematically eaten an entire bag of candy, even the flavors that I don’t like, just because my eyes fell upon it. If something is almost gone, even if I don’t want any more, I’ll finish it. I am a card-carrying member of The Clean Plate Club.
My compulsion extended to sex, at a very early age. I went out seeking it, and I consumed it, pretending the invisible hand guiding me was my own. And, as with binge eating, I felt like shit afterward. I knew that I shouldn’t have done it, and I couldn’t understand why I’d done it anyway.
It was no different with drugs. When I was sixteen and started using cocaine, I quickly learned that people who use cocaine are not finished until all the cocaine is gone. I should stop. I should save it for later. My friend is coming over and expecting for me to share. I’ve had too much. Nothing was loud enough to drown out the voice shouting, “Just a little more.” But, always, eventually the baggie would be empty, and the dread would set in, and I would feel so distraught that I couldn’t imagine living another day.
But that never sat quite right with me. If I used food, and drugs, and sex, so that I could feel in control, then why does it so frequently feel as if I have no control at all?
Why is it that, while my mind knows what I should be doing, my body is unwilling to cooperate?
If I know I’m causing harm to myself in the long-term, why can’t I just short-circuit the shame and the guilt by not doing the binge eating that’s slowly killing my soul in the first place?
There are some cracks in my foundation
One of the first and most enlightening things I learned in my teacher preparation program was Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, which is essentially a ranking system for human needs.
Maslow’s hierarchy takes the form of a triangle. At the base of the triangle are the foundational things a human needs for survival, like food and shelter, and above them, safety and security. At the middle is the need for love, belonging, and esteem, and at the tip is the need for self-actualization and enrichment.
As the story goes, we humans can’t concern ourselves with our high-level needs if our low-level needs aren’t being met.
But, it’s a little more complicated than that. In my case, while some of my base needs were being met, others weren’t. The result was an uneven, lopsided development, grown out of a foundation that could support me quite strongly in some areas but not at all in others.
For example, I’d been told how smart I was since the day I was born. That part of my psyche was nurtured and enriched, and as a result I have always been precocious and intellectually curious. I always earned really good grades, even when my mental health was in the toilet. I grew easily into the top of Maslow’s hierarchy, in this one area of my life.
My inability to reliably obtain the basics like food, security, and love, however, stalled a large part of my development in the base of the triangle. Because of this, for much of my life, I’ve been on a perpetual quest to find protection and love—typically from sources that couldn’t (or wouldn’t) provide it, at least in the long term.
Binge eating is a vicious cycle
That compulsion to seek became ingrained in my unconscious behavior, long before my rational brain developed. Each dessert I ate; each acknowledgment I received from a guy; each line of coke or speed — they all gave me this quick hit of elation, and that became all I knew of pleasure.
But then after a day, or an hour, or a minute, the joy would wear off and the seeking would begin again, and if I couldn’t find what I needed, I would drown in both desperation and shame.
The things that I had unconsciously seen as a means to exerting some kind of control over my life, began to control me instead.
Now that I know all this, why am I still Binge eating the entire dessert table?
As I got older, cleaned up, and began a healthy romantic relationship, food was the only thing left for me to contend with. And, as a woman living in our society, I have been the unwitting recipient of vast amounts of “truth” regarding self-control and food.
Contrary to what diet culture will tell you, willpower is not the panacea of food health. It exists only in limited quantities, and for people like me, who suffer from binge eating disorder and live in a constant state of survival mode, it is not always available when we need it.
When I am most anxious, most escalated, most vulnerable — that is when my base-level adaptations come out, and my inner five-year-old is incapable of understanding that the sundae I eat now will leave me feeling bloated and miserable later, or that if I eat a sundae a day, my long-term health goals will be compromised.
Simply put, my need for that quick hit of pleasure often still trumps my long-term desire to be fit, healthy, and happy. And it’s not about willpower at all.
It’s about that little girl who slipped through the cracks while the rest of me grew up.
And, now that I know all this, I can begin to patch those cracks so that she can grow up, too.
This story was originally published on Medium.com.
Years of psychological abuse by my “friends” took a toll
Are you still friends with me? I wrote on a scrap of paper. Below, I wrote the words Yes and No. I folded the note and wrote Amber’s name on the outside.
When our third-grade teacher turned toward the chalkboard, I nudged the boy next to me, reaching out with the note and motioning toward the girl with chestnut-colored hair seated in the front row. I watched the note progress up the aisle, my heart thumping in my throat, fearing both the consequences should I be caught passing notes and the possibility that the girl who I considered to be my best friend might circle No.
The teacher turned toward the class. I snapped back to my task, trying to will my eyes away from Amber and toward the work on my desk.
A moment later, the scrap of paper dropped down in front of me.
Maybe, she had written in.
I felt sick. This was even worse than No, leaving me on the hook to wonder what I would have to do to make her like me again.
Amber was capricious in a way that I had never been able to predict or comprehend. One day, we would be catching grasshoppers and braiding each other’s hair at recess; the next, she wouldn’t even acknowledge my existence. We had sleepovers together from time to time, but at school the following Monday morning she would often refuse to talk to me, or, even worse, she would tease me — a pastime in which the other kids gleefully participated.
Each day, as I arrived at school, dread pooled in the pit of my stomach as I waited to see whether or not Amber “liked” me that day.
I was an innocent kid, sheltered and naïve. Trusting. I was also desperately lonely. I can’t remember a single friend I had in first through fourth grade, with the exception of Amber. It made me a perfect candidate for psychological abuse .
“Hey, Nikki, do you want a bite of my banana?” Amber sang one day. As I reflect over the decades, I imagine her face in caricature: beady eyes; brows angled to a cartoonish degree; a smirk on her lips.
In the moment, though, I took her at face value. She had never offered me food before, but I didn’t think anything of it. And, anyway, I’m not one to turn down free food.
I shrugged, leaning in. “Sure.” I don’t like bananas that much, but getting something from Amber was better than getting nothing.
I had already taken a generous bite before I noticed the crowd that had gathered. As the food hit my tongue, I twisted up my face in disgust and spit the mushy mess out into my hand.
“Ew!” I cried, holding the half-chewed bite in my hand as I grimaced at Amber, the taste still acrid in my mouth. “What was that?”
“Horseradish!” she guffawed, and as I ran to the nearest trash can, the rest of the crowd erupted in laughter behind me.
Another day, as I was walking with my hands full, she tripped me. I fell on my face, unable to catch myself, and split open the bottom of my chin. I never spent much time feeling my chin before that day, but it was sore for months afterward and I was convinced that the tip of my chin had been broken off.
Amber moved away sometime after that, but I still felt the force of her manipulation. Her psychological abuse still touched me even from towns away. She was the master to my puppet, tugging at the twin strings of my need for approval and the belief that I was unworthy of love.
Somehow, by the age of eight years old, Amber had learned how to exploit my deepest needs, my biggest fears, and I — praised daily for my abundance of conventional intelligence — was none the wiser.
I moved away, too, and I found another Amber without even looking. This version came in the form of a duo, with one clear alpha, Loreli, and one obvious beta, Kelle, who together were basically my only friends.
When Loreli liked me, I felt like my life was worth living. But there were some days when Kelle would whisper, “Sorry,” and then say more loudly, “We don’t like you today.” And I would then be alone, once again subject to the whims of psychological abuse by an abusive and unpredictable girl.
I didn’t agree with some of the things Loreli did, but I felt pressured into doing them too, so that I could remain friends with her.
Loreli smoked cigarettes. I did not. “What?!” she asked, incredulous. When Loreli came to sleep over one night, we stole some cigarettes from my parents and, from then on, I was a smoker.
I didn’t inhale, though, I told her later on.
“What?! It’s not even worth it if you don’t inhale.”
By the age of twelve, I was smoking — and inhaling— daily.
Loreli was sexually active — or so she said. I was not, though I’d been sexually abused by a relative the year before and was still — am still — coming to terms with that. “What?!” she said when she learned of my inexperience.
I lost my virginity before she did, it turned out, and it wasn’t until I learned this that I felt duped.
She was a liar. She was a manipulator. She had tricked me into doing what even she had been unwilling to do. It was psychological abuse, plain and simple.
I’m so stupid, I thought. I felt so worthless.
And to top it off, I had messed up my life to — what? To impress her?
Well, it’s too late to turn back now, I said to myself as, rather than acknowledging my folly and turning back, I crept ever further down my new path — even after Loreli left school and stopped calling me.
Amber and Loreli weren’t the only unpredictable women in my life. At home, I was watching my mother self-medicate and behave erratically, and I felt powerless and insignificant in that relationship as well.
Many of my first physical relationships were equally unsatisfying. I perpetually sought a love that was absent from the circles in which I was seeking it.
The closest I got to a real sense of belonging was with a group of girlfriends I had in seventh and eighth grade. There were five of us, and we were all very close for a time. We had nicknames for each other, and we spent time together before and after school. We called each other on the phone, and we even created a logo for our group.
These girls, though they’d grown up with her, hadn’t been influenced by Loreli the way I had. None of these girls was sexually active. (I was.) None of them smoked or did drugs. (I did.) And none of them arbitrarily exerted power over their so-called friends in order to make themselves feel loved and worshipped and worthy.
But I did.
I am horrified, looking back now, at the things I did and said to this group of girls. I intentionally excluded certain ones from the group and pressured them all to do things they were uncomfortable doing. (Mostly, mercifully, they resisted.)
The girls whose parents were most involved in their lives began distancing themselves from me.
“My mom says you can’t come over anymore,” Ashley said.
“My mom says you’re a bad influence,” said Carolyn.
“Fuck them,” I said. “Sneak out.”
Angela’s sister, who was five years older than me, threatened to kick my ass if I talked to her sister again.
I was so indignant about losing my friends, and so painfully unaware that I was the one driving them away, that I completely turned my back on all of them and continued to self-destruct.
My oldest daughter, today, is just about the same age I was when I met Amber. She has already been subject to psychological abuse by her peers, used as a pawn by a girl her age in a controlling relationship, and I am terrified it will happen again.
My path has already been set. I didn’t “Turn Out Just Fine,” but neither can I go back and change the way I behaved based on my early relationships. I’ve done a lot of work to unravel what caused me to relinquish my own self-worth so freely, but that’s not my concern right now.
Right now, my concern is raising two beautifully self-aware girls — girls who don’t fall into the same patterns of psychological abuse I did, because they know beyond the shadow of a doubt that they are worthy of love, and that anyone who tells them differently is not fit to be in their lives.
Author’s note: I cannot speak for the girls I knew as a child, but I do know that abuse is a cycle and that it is possible these young ladies were abused themselves. If you or someone you know needs it, help is available. Watch your kids for signs of abuse; it doesn’t always look like you’d expect it to.
This story was originally published on Medium.com.
In an abusive relationship, tiptoeing around others’ feelings means sacrificing your own
“Mom, you’re drunk,” I said from my place on the floor in front of the television.
“No, I’m not,” she spat from the sofa, her sentence punctuated by a click-hiss.
“Yeah, you are,” I said, leveling my eyes at her as she raised a fresh can to her lips. The M*A*S*H intro music wrapped up for the second time, which meant it was after midnight. My mother seemed to ignore my retort, and so I turned back to watch more cynical repartee between Hawkeye and Houlihan.
I was only allowed to stay up this late on the weekends; since my father had to work on Saturday mornings, he would go to bed early while Mom and I shot the shit until the wee hours.
Many of our best conversations happened as reruns of The Golden Girls and M*A*S*H played in the background. With each can of cheap beer, and each puff from the roach that sat in the ashtray, the boa constrictor of my mother’s anxiety loosened its hold just a little bit.
Her lips loosened, too. She said things I could never believe I was hearing — confessions of her bad behavior as a teen; tales from when she and my father first met; random details from her life that I hadn’t known before. I felt uniquely able to open up to her during those times, and though I never felt comfortable enough to tell her about the big bads that had weighed upon me for the previous several years, I got closest on those Friday nights.
I was only twelve and, while I would steal my parents’ cigarettes after they went to bed and chain-smoke them in the basement, I was categorically opposed to drinking. Something about the way it affected people just didn’t sit right with me, but I couldn’t quite place my unease.
Looking back, it seems so obvious.
As we talked, and she slurped down can after can of beer, my mother would get progressively more drunk. I, on the other hand, would stay sober and be completely blindsided when her mood shifted and a peaceful, even comforting, conversation, became a shouting match.
On this particular night, it would seem that I was beginning to understand the connection between the beers and the swords that took up residence in her tongue after too many of them. She’d snapped something baseless and paranoid at me, and I’d called her out on it.
“Go to bed,” she growled behind me, as Radar came into the frame.
“No,” I said, not taking my eyes off the television.
“Go to bed.” Louder.
“No. I want to watch this. I’m not going to bed because you’re drunk. I’m going to watch the rest of this episode, and I’m not going to talk to you anymore.” I was close to yelling.
We continued on like this for a minute before I heard my father’s footsteps thundering down the hallway.
“Go to bed,” he said, glowering down at me through slits.
“No,” I said, tears of fury streaming down my face. “She’s drunk. I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m going to watch the rest of this episode. She can go to bed.”
My dad was pissed. I don’t blame him; I would have been pissed, too. I cannot stand to have my sleep interrupted — just ask anyone who’s ever shared a home with me. And my mother was his wife, and she came first — both literally and figuratively — and what I do blame him for is letting that fact dictate what happened next.
I was not a light kid. I was over a hundred pounds at the age of twelve. But that didn’t stop my father from bending down, grabbing me by one arm and one leg, and beginning to drag me down the hall and into my bedroom.
I remember nothing else from that night; I don’t even remember if my father got me all the way down the hall, or if I relented and walked myself to bed. I don’t know if that was one of the nights that I was awakened from the next bedroom by my mother’s vomiting, though that happened more than once.
After dozens of these blowups, though, finally I saw that it would always need to be me who absorbed it. No matter how awful, how nasty, how hurtful, my mother was to me, Dad would take her side in this abusive relationship and my frustration would just compound.
My mother never apologized for these arguments. Maybe she didn’t even remember having them, or maybe her memory was so skewed by her intoxication that she believed I was the one who caused them. Or maybe she avoided apologizing because an apology would have been a tacit admission that there was a problem. And in our family, if we don’t name it, it doesn’t exist.
I was sitting on the couch, reading a book, when he came home from work.
I smelled him almost before I heard him; whatever had kept him out until 3am the night before was still oozing from his pores.
“What are you doing home so early?” I asked, for no good reason. I knew already, and also I didn’t really care. We’d been living together in this one-bedroom apartment for a year by this point, but things had been circling the drain for months.
“They sent me home,” he said, tears forming in his eyes.
“Like, for good?”
“I don’t know,” he said, sniffing. He disappeared into the bathroom and the shower turned on. A few minutes later he was back again. I could no longer smell the booze from the other side of the room. Progress. But he was muttering in a way that I reckoned couldn’t be healthy.
Finally his words came into focus. “I never did anything to you,” he said.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. I’d never done anything to him, either. He’d broken into my emails while I was out of town and gotten the idea that I was interested in getting back with the guy I’d dated before. (I wasn’t, at the time.)
I was so sick of this self-pity bullshit. This was not the happy-go-lucky, life-of-the-party guy I’d met at the local pub the previous summer. This was an unstable, mentally ill alcoholic who made up stories in his head and then spewed them at whoever would pay attention to him.
I had been tiptoeing around him for far too long in this abusive relationship, hoping that his paranoia would pass if I didn’t call it out. Today, though, I’d had enough. Today, I just needed to march right into it.
He repeated his refrain again, like I hadn’t heard him the first time. “I never did anything to you.” The tears flowed freely.
Oh, poor you, I thought, disgusted. I said, “And you’re so self-absorbed that you actually believe that.”
The air went out of the room. His already-red face turned crimson. He grabbed the closest breakable thing, hurling a drinking glass at a framed print hanging on the living-room wall a few feet from me. Both the glass and the frame shattered all over the floor, and there was now a hole through the print and into the plaster. He stared at me, eyes aflame, daring me to try and stop him.
“Get out,” I said to him.
My heart was pounding in my throat, and I stood there paralyzed for a minute, silently standing off with him, wondering what my next move should be.
I contemplated calling the police. He’d gotten a DUI a few weeks before, though, and I figured a domestic disturbance call could have pretty negative consequences if it went on his record. It would do more harm than good, I reasoned, and so I didn’t call the police.
Instead, I patted my pants pockets to be sure my car keys and cell phone were both inside, and I walked out the door.
I had stayed in this unhealthy and abusive relationship for months, like I’d stayed in so many others before it, because I didn’t value my own well-being as much as I valued the comfort of others. Following the lead I’d learned as a child, I tiptoed around issues that everyone knew were there, but no one would talk about, in an effort to keep people happy.
But I always ended up sacrificing my own happiness as a result.
When I walked out of that apartment and drove away, it was because I realized in that moment that my happiness was just as important as anyone else’s.
Thirteen years later, I still need to remind myself of this fact, each and every day.
This story was originally published on Medium.com.
I’ve been wearing the same clothes for three days, maybe four. The last time I exercised was… I can’t even remember. Three weeks ago, maybe?
It’s not that I’m being lazy. There just truly doesn’t seem to be enough time to get all the things done. And all the other things seem to be a much higher priority than…than my own needs?
Hmm… that doesn’t sound right. Feels like those should come first.
I’ve been doing some things to take care of myself. Each morning, for example, I make myself coffee and breakfast before I do anything else. The to-do list has also continued to be immensely helpful and, if I’m measuring my success by the number of boxes that are checked off, I’m knocking it out of the park. I color my hair every two months and blow it out every Friday.
It’s progress, but if I can’t find time to shower and exercise (which was on the list to begin with, but which I just gave up on writing in after awhile because it was so demotivating never to be able to check it off), then I’ve got a long way to go.
When my son was just a couple weeks old, and I was struggling to produce enough milk to feed him properly, I sat in his doctor’s office weeping behind my face mask.
“How are you sleeping?” he asked.
Sigh. “Generally, okay, but last night we were at my in-laws’ house and nobody got any sleep.”
“Why were you there?”
“Because our house is under construction.”
“And why didn’t anyone sleep?”
Fresh tears. “Well, it was hard to be in the house because my father-in-law just died.”
An understanding nod. “And how often are you pumping?”
“Every time he eats.”
“Every 90 minutes or so?”
“Is there anyone who can help you?”
I shook my head. “Quarantine.”
“Do you have a therapist you can talk to?”
I didn’t feel like I needed to talk with my therapist, though I’d had one until very recently and she would have been happy to help me with what was going on. “All the stuff is normal,” I said.
“Nothing about your situation is normal,” he responded.
And he was right. Everything was messed up right then, and it continues to be so. Nothing is normal. For us, with the home construction and my father-in-law’s death and the newborn, the messed-up-ness seems compounded a thousandfold. And the kids are home, and there’s nowhere to go, and their friends are all in their own houses, and we are all stuffed into two rooms, and my husband and I are both trying to work, and, rather than working like a valve to release steam gradually, my top just blows off from time to time from all the overstimulation and feelings of ineffectiveness and inadequacy.
I tend to believe this is just quarantine fatigue, because of everything that’s going on. When the construction is done, and when the kids go back to school, and when the baby gets a little older, things will be less overwhelming. They’ll slow down, and there will be fewer items on the list, and we’ll all be able to take a deep breath.
But what if it’s not just quarantine fatigue? What if this is depression and I’m minimizing it, as I’m wont to do?
I suppose the outcome would be the same. There would still be the same mountain of items to accomplish, the same coping strategies to try and avoid losing my cool with my kids, who are really innocent victims in this whole mess. Awareness really is the first step.
Actually, I think taking a shower should be the first step. I stink.