The Problem with Food
As I write this, I'm trying to sit through the very uncomfortable feeling of fullness that accompanies eating. Just trying to process the discomfort--which, in my case, is both physical and emotional--makes me realize that it's not only been a while since I've tried to sit with these feelings, but it's also been a while since I've blogged at all about my relationship with food, eating, and hunger.
About an hour ago, I had a late lunch: a bowl of penne pasta with vodka sauce. Nat brought it home for me after being out for a little bit, correctly predicting that in his absence, I hadn't eaten. I'd had some pretzels (and what I consider a surfeit of junk food--a bagel with cream cheese for breakfast, and a salted caramel blondie, the last of a package of four Nat brought home on Friday). I wasn't particularly hungry when I ate the pasta, and now I feel almost sick to my stomach as a result of eating it. I felt obligated to, though. And therein lies the problem with food, especially when you're recovering from an eating disorder.
Food, I think it's safe to say, is widely viewed as a means of comfort; it's the centerpiece of family meals, a way to show sympathy in difficult situations (just think of how common it is to cook a casserole for a neighbor when someone in their family passes away), and a method by which people care for someone who might not be able to do the care-taking themselves. But seeing it in that context doesn't make it any easier for me to want to have anything to do with it. And in fact, all it really does is add a level of complexity to the act of eating that I really just don't need in my life. When I'm presented with a package of blondies because I had a long day at work, I'm grateful for the emotion that spurred the purchase. I can also appreciate the motivation behind coming home with ready-made pasta and a huge slice of red velvet cake. But I have a very hard time when I then have to deal with the fact that I'm meant to do something with these gifts (specifically: eat them). At times like these, I can't help but feel burdened by a sense of obligation, guilt, and expectation. If I don't eat the food that's presented, I'm not only rejecting a present that's been offered, I'm also caving into my illness.
Perhaps the hardest part of all of it is how difficult it is to explain to someone who doesn't have similar feelings about food the reasons why I'd prefer not to have to deal with edible gifts, especially given how appreciated and accepted they are by others. How do you tell someone you don't want a plate of cupcakes or cookies on your birthday, or that you'd prefer meeting for coffee instead of going out to dinner? When you're in the minority, it can be really hard to express to people that what they consider a warm, friendly gesture has the potential to come off as somewhat uncomfortable or thoughtless to you. Obviously I don't want to come off as ungrateful or accusatory, but it can be tiring enough when normal interactions with food are stressful. When you add the dimension of social obligation or expectation, the entire thing just becomes a mess.
I can't help but wonder if there is a way to get people to understand that although I appreciate the thought, I would prefer not to come home to find a slice of cake waiting for me. Or is it possible that as someone with admittedly disordered behaviors and thoughts about food, I should be responsible for adjusting in such a way that makes gifts like these more welcome? When (or if) I figure it out, you will all be the first to know.