From Happy to Hopeless: A Look Inside Manic Eating

About a month ago I asked my friend to contribute to my blog. When she asked what, or how, I replied that it didn't matter, so long as the subject had something to do with food. I even encouraged her to get creative and challenge the traditional notions of form and content. When she emailed me a week later, I must admit I was surprised; I didn't expect such a candid, dizzying confession, one that depicted food as the enemy, of sorts, and revealed the narrator to be, well, human, for lack of better words. There was no doubt that the writing intrigued me; it was honest and expressive and even a little bit nutty. So after about a month of going back and forth, edit here, edit there, my friend, who requested she remain anonymous, put together a version that communicates what it is she wants, and perhaps needs, to say. The following is that version, which is just as cooky, just as vulnerable, as the original. You might even find it exhilarating, in a roller-coaster ride kind of way...

WHY I EAT the way i do

Self-indulgency is never better than when eating chocolate, cheeseburgers or simply feasting beyond my body’s capacity, or desire. It’s an absolute mental state that starts out oppressively asphyxiating me with ration and reason, and then implodes in this same natural state screaming inside some corner of my brain after realizing that, as not only an American, but a fucken New Yorker, and a hard-working one at that, I have every right to eat and feast as I damned well please! And not only on the last piece of cake, not only because my brain is high off the sugar, not only because it is better –or not as self-destructive- as cocaine or alcohol, but because it fucken makes me happy. A happiness like no other. I put the last heavenly bite into my mouth and, “Ahhh frosting as sweet as my thirteenth birthday”, rendering me into a completely plugged-in-void-of-empty-hollowness, altered and extreme state of happy.

A happy that leaves me alone and determined to block off the reality of my very real life outside my head, and the desire or need to confront it.  A happy that is manic, euphoric and near orgasmic, and lets me know it’s ok to be alone, and to feel lonely too, and all I need is something tasty to chew, and/or a satiated belly. Food is king, and queen, for I listen to her, to them both beckoning me every one to two hours, summoning me to masterfully inspect the fridge all over again, scourge through the shelves and racks of a cluttered kitchen blooming with vegetables and fruits near every available spot, that have been strategically placed to remind me that these healthy options do indeed exist and have existed, but why eat clean when my mind is dirty with temptation, and my soul is toxic with vice? Why eat clean at all when there are no clean foods left? My choices speak for me and themselves when I opt for bagels instead of whole grain toast. When I opt for ginger ale, though I should be drinking more water. When I visit Popeye’s, knowing that I’ll regret its aftertaste in my head, but never in my mouth.

I feel lonely, I am alone. Last week while watching the evening news, a commercial comes on about chocolate, and next thing I know, I’m craving a chocolate donut. A very specific chocolate donut from Dunkin Donuts; it was all I could think about. I couldn’t’ stop until I was dressed, walking towards D&D in the frigid cold to satisfy my unnatural urge. Is that crazy? Is that a food addiction? Or is it symptomatic of something else inside? Do I care? Yes. Absolutely. But some pains are harder to figure out and eliminate than others, and food is a simple, albeit temporary, fix to the long-term solution needed.

Food is colorful, hot and cold, small and big, and necessary for survival. Food is my friend and enemy, and doesn’t judge me, though it can make me feel rather bad about myself if I have too much of it. Food can also be poison as much as it is nourishment, and compulsory when it need not be. Food is not merely a feeling, but an enormously paranoid and needy sensation requiring instant engrossment. I answer its demands without questioning its validity. I surrender to these demands without thought to the consequences or extravagance of its indulgence. I acquiesce with scorn and spite, yet smile profusely in the warm reception of its gifts. The alternative is unbearable I say to myself. The voice inside me agrees, food comforts the lonely, frail heart and battered spirit.

So if I wrote this correctly, you know by now that I don’t eat for pleasure, but for survival. A survival purely defined by a justification that it could be worse, or I could be dead. I justify my binge-eating like an alcoholic rationalizes his drunken stupor. But if I eat too much and get behind the wheel of a car, I won’t kill anyone. I just get happy. Happy beyond care or concern. Happy because I am full, and now I don’t feel- anything at all! Happy because this food coma is putting me to sleep, and now this dreadful day is over, and I can’t wait to begin anew with tomorrow’s sunrise. A manic happy controlling my portions, like it controls my denial that my life, at this moment, really fucken sucks. And it sucks so bad that only a cheeseburger or a chocolate donut can make me feel just a little bit better about it. How’s that for insanity? How’s that for food for thought?

-anonymous binge eater