I never told anyone about my addiction until this year. I've always been ashamed; I've felt like a freak, a disgrace, and a low life as far as this part of my life is concerned.
Humans are so quick to judge. Even if someone suffers from the same addiction as you, tell them what your problem is and they're likely to criticize you for your reasoning while justifying their own.
Maybe they think their sufferings have been more painful than yours and therefore it's okay for them to struggle with a particular addiction, but if you do it you're a horrible person.
My addiction always seems to be one of the worst addictions as far as other people are concerned - one of the most unacceptable addictions.
To this day, I hear people speak more harshly about people who have my problem than people who have "common" addictions.
People can smoke cigarettes, marijuana, or even meth; people can have a gambling addiction, a porn addiction, or a drinking problem. Those are all considered "normal". They're all bad, but apparently people with my addiction are not equal to people whose addictions are one I've already mentioned.
Please note these are only my personal experiences. I have an open mind and I'm not saying this is the case for everyone, but it's certainly the case for me.
Somehow I found comfort in food at a very young age. I couldn't tell you why if you asked me, but I remember feeling peaceful when I was eating as early as four or five years old.
I have a few guesses as to how this came about:
It could be because when I was two years old my Grandma Karen would take me to Sonic and order a foot long chili cheese dog, cheddar peppers, and cheese sticks and I would sit down and eat every bit of it every time.
Then, on weekends I would eat dinner at my dad's house; he would take me home to my mom's house after dinner and then I would eat dinner again when I got home.
I specifically remember when I was six my dad took me to a restaurant and ordered enchiladas for me. The waiter said "Okay, a kids cheese enchilada meal?" and my dad said "Oh no. You better bring her an adult plate. Trust me."
I was clearly eating way too much way too early in my life.
I'm sure that paired with a haunting childhood helped turn this into an addiction.
Growing up I was terrified to break rules. My dad was mean, hateful, and terrifying. My mom had (and still has) a mental illness and was even scarier than he was. I spent nearly every second of my life from ages 5 to 17 grounded for doing tiny things that were unintentional.
With that being said, I was terrified to smoke a cigarette, drink alcohol, smoke marijuana, etc. As angry as my mother grew over simple things, there was no way I was going to let her catch me doing something illegal... but I was so depressed.
I ventured further and further into my relationship with food.
I was aware of my problem and I didn't want others to catch on, so I would eat meals as normal around others, but then I would sneak back to the kitchen when nobody was around and I would gorge myself. I would stay up late at night just so I could go eat twice as much dinner as I had already eaten. I would eat dinner and then lie when I got home and would say I hadn't eaten yet so I could eat again.
If I was raging angry, I would eat. If I was depressed, I would eat. When I was scared, I'd eat. When I was actually happy... I would eat.
My mom cussed me out? Okay, no problem, I'll go stuff thirty pizza rolls in my mouth.
A boy sexually assaulted me? Okay, I'll lock myself in my room and eat chips and pizza until it hurts to breathe.
I was elected the Secretary of Student Council?!? Wow, nobody at home is going to give a fuck, so I may as well devour a box of Lil' Debbies while I anticipate the stress that's going to come with holding down a job, keeping my grades up, and attending community service events for Student Council all year.
It only grew worse as I became an adult. In fact, I think my adult life has had even more downward slopes than my childhood did, which forces me to eat more and more.
What do you think I've done about it?
I've tried to help myself. I could do better. I can't afford professional help, but I believe in self help and I think I can make the changes I need to make soon. I think things are too stressful right now for me to make any huge chances, but I can try baby steps.
Maybe that's why I'm writing this; maybe I'm using you all for accountability. My partner helps as much as he can and I don't expect anything more than that.
Sometimes he tells me I'm perfect the way I am and that doesn't help because it gives me the idea that this food thing is okay. Other times he acknowledges that it's a health hazard, but then I curl up in embarrassment and fight back tears; then when he's out of sight I cry where he can't see me.
One reason I struggle talking to others about my addiction is because I feel like people are uglier towards "fat people" than they are towards others.
"Stop being so fucking lazy and go to the gym."
"Get off your ass and do something with your life, fat ass."
"There's absolutely no excuse for being fat. It's disgusting and nobody wants to look at that. You shouldn't even leave your home where other people can see you if you're fat."
I don't even know if I'm "fat" in everyone else's eyes... I just know that the world hates fat people and the moment I tell someone I have a food addiction people are going to tear me to shreds.
I would be more socially accepted if I would just smoke cigarettes instead. I'd almost rather smoke cigarettes and look "normal" than eat all day and have it show.
I'm not justifying it. Now that I'm an adult and I'm still addicted to food, it's 100% my fault.
Everyday when I wake up I ask myself, "Is this the day I'm going to change? Will I be proud of myself today?"
The answer to both of those questions is always no.
What kind of person is ashamed of their body, and then turns around and eats until it hurts to breathe? I'm not unintelligent. I know how overeating works. So then why do I do it?
It's a disease. That's all I know.
Thank you very much for reading.
