I’ve wanted to write on this subject for a while but just didn’t have the cojones to do so. This is not a juicy “tell all” reality special, but a real story about real issues; ones that I have fallen victim to.   

 

 

                I was 15 the first time my eating habits were questioned. My mother told me I was getting too skinny for her liking and asked if I had skimped on meals. I hadn’t, but a mileage jump during a warm July will trim the baby fat off of any teenager’s figure. She doubted my honestly so a spoonful of peanut butter was what greeted me after runs that summer. It annoyed me, but if I threw it away or put the scoop back in the jar, interrogation would have ensued. I remember complaining on a run about her antics, but truthfully I enjoyed the attention. Too skinny? Fine by me. 

 

                Years passed and the subject never came up again and actually, I didn’t really think about the conversation ever. I was young, active, and my metabolism was on Usain Bolt pace. I never thought about what I ate and how much I was taking down, I never really had to. That is until I took some time away from organized running the spring of my freshman year of college. I was drinking three nights a week (at least), taking advantage of the dining halls, and steering very clear of running. A month passed by and I started to become perpetually paranoid of weight gain. I researched the best things to eat and how to have a completely balanced diet. I became obsessed (April 2012: issue #1). I spent extra “swipes” just to make sure I had every food group covered, then would run back to my dorm for the feast, eating it all in under 8 minutes. Regret would come around minute 6 but I hate wasting food, so I devoured every morsel. 

               

                Next came the “punishment” phase of the meal where I would curse myself out and make empty promises about skipping the day’s lunch. I never held up my end of the bargain and the whole scene would reoccur at the next meal. Once the school year ended, things got “better” but the regretful eating didn’t stop. 

 

                The following fall I moved into an apartment with three of the women on the team. On one hand it was a great decision because I felt guilty for being a drunk so I drank less. They also were my motivation for getting back into shape to rejoin the team (thanks bucks). On the other hand though, it didn’t help my eating habits. These gals ate well. None of them seemed to overeat; they all made mostly healthy meals and were mostly good influences. In fact, I might have not tried a sweet potato if it weren’t for Janel – thank you so, so much. Everything seemed fine, except for the fact that I was so incredibly self-conscious of everything I ate, and did for that matter. I would make dinner, then go running to my room to hide and eat. Sometimes I’d start sobbing when I thought about going up for another helping (September 2012: issue #2). I was ashamed to be eating. I felt like everything I was doing was wrong, and wanted to eliminate the possibility of judgment at any chance that I could. What sort of judgment I thought I’d receive for doing normal human activities like eating dinner, I’m not sure, but the fear was there.

 

                That spring added a new stress to my habits. I was training better than I (and probably most of everyone around me) expected, and I hopped on the crazy train. This ride meant analyzing everything in my life. Friends? No time, had to focus on the next race. Walking? Only if it was necessary, had to save the legs for the next day’s run. Eating? Better only fuel with the absolute “best” (March 2013: issue #3). Sounds okay on the surface until I think back to eating broccoli at every meal. And having wimpy smoothies for breakfast even though I was starving two hours later. Maybe a peanut butter sandwich for lunch because that’s all that was guaranteed to stay down at practice. I was so meticulous with every food decision. Every calorie was thought about, every gram of fat analyzed. I also had enlisted these rules and regulations on my eating. Only one carb-heavy meal per day. If I overate in the day, 20 minutes of core before bed. If I wanted dessert that night, I would do a little longer cool down after a workout so I would feel like I had more of a caloric reservoir to fill. Trips to the grocery store took over an hour, comparing 4+ labels at a time takes a while. It was an exhausting regime to say the least. 

 

               

 

                Going into junior year, I felt a little more at ease. I learned to enjoy eating healthier over the summer, and I also learned how to balance running with social settings. Everything was under control, or so I kept telling myself. But eventually the stress of traveling seeped into my mindset and erased the summer’s progress (September 2013: issue #3). This is where things became a little more than just feeling regret or watching every crumb I consumed. I started stress eating. At first it was usually just a few days before a race. But then it was before every workout, and then before every potentially stressful day. I would eat anything I could get my hands on. Often I would want a little peanut butter but then I’d want to even out the scoop mark, but that meant eating more, and more, and more. I’d bring my head up and not even know how long I had been standing there. I had blacked out and once I came down from the caloric high, it had been too late. But I knew I couldn’t throw it up, that was too serious. That was an actual eating disorder; I didn’t have one of those. 

 
 

                Next thing I knew, I was spending at least 30 minutes each night doing core, and stretching, pacing, anything to burn off the binged calories (October 2013: issue #4). Big workout or race the next day? I would eat the portion size for three people out of some sort of fear of being hungry on race day or not having enough fuel to get me to the finish line. Yet after every huge meal, I was doing anything I could to “fix” what I had done without anyone taking notice. I would Google how many calories a person burned brushing their teeth, standing, foam rolling, any activity that wouldn’t draw enough attention to my actions for someone to ask what I was doing. I would take stomach pictures after eating large meals so I could self-hate and analyze them as a potential cure for the binging. It only added more emotion, and then I’d eat a granola bar to cope with the pain. 

 

                I wish I could say that once the stress dwindled away, so did the binging. Instead a new habit arose. I had come to terms with the binge eating and knew it was unhealthy. Therefore I tried stopping the habit midstride. I started spitting out food (February 2015: issue #5). I was addicted to the taste and the dopamine associated with the high. But I didn’t want to deal with the caloric intake so I would spit out every other bite of my food when I could catch myself binging. Savor one bite, chew and toss the next. I was fowl, I was sick, I was appalled with my habits, but I couldn’t stop. One night when I was going at it, one of my roommates walked into the kitchen. I was convinced she saw me spit into the trash so I covered it up by rambling on about how I thought my raisins when bad. She never questioned anything and I had successfully pretended everything was fine once again. I was really good at that, pretending.

                My 5th year went a little better. I still binged about once a week, I still took a few shame pictures, but I only spit out my food a couple of times so things were mildly under control. Now I can’t say the occasional binges have stopped, but they’re far and few between. I haven’t spit out my food since October of 2015, and I haven’t taken a self-shaming picture in 6 months. The issues with body image still lurk around the corner of every larger meal, and every poke to my side. I haven’t used the “F” word to describe myself in a couple months (fat that is) but yes I still refer to my “muffin top” as a member of my being. It took risking my health for me to realize that this stressful mindset wasn’t going to get me where I wanted. Because of my actions, I have acid reflux, which has worn down the enamel on my teeth to an alarming level for my age. I get these horrendous stomach aches that feel as if a mutant baby is tearing out of my diaphragm. And I’m pretty damn sure missing 8 months of my menstrual cycle during the worst of this all is a sign of some compromise in fertility.  

            Food was my best friend, yet my worst enemy for 4 years. I never asked for help, but I wish I would have. Maybe I was too proud to accept I had a problem, or maybe it’s the fact that even now, I’ve only referred to these issues as an “eating disorder” once. No it wasn’t bulimia, no it wasn’t anorexia, but any stature of meticulous behavior should be taken just as seriously as these headliners. It’s sad that the running community sees many of these issues. You hear stories all the time once encompassed by other runners. 

 

“Oh this team has at least 4 anorexics, their coach practically encourages it.”
“One time these girls all ate gallons of ice cream and then threw it up together.”

 

   I don’t have a date posted on my calendar for the day when I’ll be fixed, or better or whatever. I know it’s going to take some time, but I’m ready to make changes to my dietary routine. I’m ready to stop depending on food, and I’m ready to break free from these shackles. There is a fine line between being health conscientious and having a problem. I look forward to being on the right side of things again.