Mental Health Checkup: Binge-Eating (1)
Introduction from the Editor
Welcome to our new series, “Mental Health Check-Up”. Here at The Magpie, we believe that mental health is as important as physical health. But the stigma and ignorance long-attached to mental health conditions has created an environment of fear and distrust when it comes to expressing their concerns.
To quote Judge Gregory Werner, “It is no secret that there is a large part of our population that has mental health issues. It’s also no secret that our country and our health system could do a much better job addressing mental health issues than it does.”
We wanted to create a space where someone experiencing their own mental health conditions could see themselves, regardless of their situation. We’re taking it one health concern and disorder at a time, because each deserve to be highlighted.
Our first check up will be about binge-eating disorder, the most common eating disorder in the United States. 1.6% of teens aged 13-18, 1.25% of adult women, and 0.42% of adult men suffer from binge-eating disorder in the United States alone.
In part one of this two-part piece, our contributor Sarah Jane recounts the dark side of binge eating: how it began for her and the challenges it presented. Part two will explore how Sarah began healing from it and manages her condition today.
If you or someone you know is struggling with an eating disorder, you can find a helpline and other resources through the National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders (ANAD).
I couldn’t stand the concept of being hungry. The lighter the food in my belly, the louder the pained thoughts in my head…
Part One: In It
By Sarah Jane, MOF Contributor
Sarah Jane is a tarot reader, retreat leader, and workshop facilitator who primarily works with women, although she also works with men. She believes spirituality, in addition to more conventional therapy and recovery programs, can help those suffering from trauma to release and become more whole.
TW: in-depth discussion of binge-eating disorder; references to suicidal thoughts, drug abuse, alcoholism, child death, rape, and sexual assault
“I remember when Sarah used to eat in the bathroom.”
We all have sentences that stay with us, and this is one of mine. It was hurled at me when I was fighting with an old roommate/friend. He picked a line he knew would wound me, and it did – I knew in my twenties, my childhood, my middle age, etc., that there is nothing more shameful than being fat.
I was actually a very skinny kid. I thought I always would be; but I had some sexual trauma as a child, and as I grew up and I started being able to feed myself, I realized how soothing food can be. In fact, until I picked up alcohol in junior high, food was pretty much the only thing that did soothe me. The feeling of being full, of my stomach expanding, became addictive.
I have some strange food memories. Some are as simple as fetishizing cupcakes at Halloween – vanilla cake with chocolate frosting and a candy corn pumpkin on top. Some are a little strange: I remember being home alone around age seven and eating uncooked rice just to have something to do. There was a panic that food would be taken away from me, and I have absolutely no idea where that fear came from – we never went hungry in our house.
But I couldn’t stand the concept of being hungry. The lighter the food in my belly, the louder the pained thoughts in my head; thoughts of being not good enough, thoughts of self-hate, and, even in childhood, thoughts of suicide. They would creep in around the margins of my brain and nestle there, taking root.
My weight started catching up with me in puberty when my family and I moved from the northeast to the DC area. The uncertainty of the move coupled with hormones started putting weight on me, and I began to fixate on it. I was probably only a few pounds overweight, but a well-timed comment from a peer could send me shame spiraling for days, and I would eat to quell the bad thoughts.
My friends and family were worried, of course. I felt them walking around the matter gingerly, as if I were a convalescing patient. They rarely said anything, but when they did it cut through my denial like a knife.
At age 13–14, I was sex trafficked. My “friend” group of older boys sexually exploited my young friends and me. My eating continued to calm me down and comfort me, and the weight came on steadily and loudly.
Then a drug problem in high school kept the weight down, with many days when I didn’t eat or sleep. I can remember being 16 and 17, and actually feeling pretty for the first time since early childhood. Sure, my eyes were red and bulging; but I was thin, and that’s all that mattered.
But then college came, and so did more trauma.
On New Year’s Eve of 1997, I followed an ambulance into my neighborhood. I was living with an old boyfriend, a roommate, and the roommate’s 6-year-old son. When we pulled onto our street, my boyfriend and I saw our townhome engulfed in flames. We saw them pulling our roommate and his son out on stretchers. My roommate barely survived. His son didn’t.
I was in shock for about two weeks. When that wore off, the panic attacks came. I was close to the point where I couldn’t leave my parent’s house. I was willing to do anything to get rid of the crippling anxiety, so I got off drugs.
This was during an abusive relationship with a man who preferred women with weight on them, so it felt like a natural fit. At 4’11″, I crept up to over 200 pounds for the first time. I remember getting on the scale one day, seeing the number, being horrified, then immediately getting ice cream.
There would come a day when I would long to be 200 pounds; specifically, the day that I discovered I weighed 300 pounds. I had been in denial for my entire 20s. Now my 30s were closing in, and I was smacked with the truth.
My friends and family were worried, of course. I felt them walking around the matter gingerly, as if I were a convalescing patient. They rarely said anything, but when they did it cut through my denial like a knife.
One day my father and I were at the movies, and he told me I needed to slow down eating the popcorn. And my mother, who has spent her whole life being supportive and proud of me, told me that she was worried that I would be confined to my bed and that they would need a forklift to get me out of the house.
And of course, the line that would forever reverberate in my head: “I remember when Sarah used to eat in the bathroom.”
My weight became the only thing I thought about, and everything in my life was perceived through that lens. I thought about the relationship that I was unworthy of, the airplane seats I couldn’t fit in, the cute clothes I’d never wear. I lived in fear of a stranger calling me fat and leading me down a dark road, the same dark road I traveled on in my preteen years.
My problem was also my only solution, so the only thing I could do was eat more. I was insulated: the weight was protecting me from imagined scenarios with men where I couldn’t use my voice, consent a vague and distant idea. That voice had been missing my whole life.
My weight had failed me. Even at 300 pounds, men could still hurt me. I knew I had to change. I went to an Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meeting later that day, determined once and for all to get sober.
In addition to food, there was drinking. Lots of drinking. I was living in a rowhouse in southeast DC with two male friends, (one of whom made the oh-so charming “eating in the bathroom” comment). I was wearing a groove between the couch and the fridge, drinking a 12 pack before we left to go to the bar, and eating anything that was available – my food, my roommates’ food, candy from the corner bodega, scraps….
But a night in February of 2008 changed everything.
One night we went to a series of bars on H Street. I drank a heroic amount of beer and whiskey, hit up a known drug dealer for cocaine, and proceeded to do drugs with him until 11AM, when I wound up having to put a chair under my bedroom doorknob to prevent him from attacking me.
My weight had failed me. Even at 300 pounds, men could still hurt me. I knew I had to change. I went to an Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meeting later that day, determined once and for all to get sober.
Sobriety cleared up the fog surrounding my health, and I knew that I needed to finally reconcile with my weight. It’s been my experience that the universe gives us what we need, and I needed a chance. I needed some hope. And one night I found it in the form of a tough woman in cowboy boots, who claimed she had the answer to my prayers. Meeting her was the spark that led to my recovery journey, twisted at times, but glimmering with promise…
Check back for PART 2 in March!