Bingeing is my oldest coping mechanism

Notes on the thrill of numbing out

As I search the cupboard for something to more to fill me, I’m filled with thoughts about how hard tomorrow morning is going to be.

Not just because I’ll be tired or groggy, but I’ll be tired and groggy and food hungover from what I’m doing. I know the risks, I know I’ll feel pain in my joints, I know I won’t have a good sleep, I know I’ll deal with inflammation. I know all of these things and yet I reach for more food.

Even though you can’t be addicted to food, the process of bingeing is addictive. Dopamine. You are my bitch lover.

I had my first binge when I was about 7. After the divorce we moved back into a city. Waking up surrounded by nature, cats, dogs, birds, squirrels and deer were now in the past. My surroundings consisted of cars, busses, trains, outlet malls and strip malls.

My babysitter Agatha was looking after us and something inside of me compelled me to eat. I couldn’t stop. I wanted more food than my small body could handle. I began asking for candy and I was given clear instructions.

“Upstairs in the white bag you can choose 2 things and bring them down.”

It was November, after Halloween and her candy was stashed in her room. As I made my way up there, I knew I wasn't going to obey this rule given to me. I knew I was going to take more than 2 items and I knew that it was wrong but I wanted it that bad.

I opened her door and found the white pillowcase, as well as two piles of candy on the bed. Separated. Specific. Intentional. I looked in the white pillowcase, it was full of candy I didn’t like. Caramles, tootsie rolls, shit like that. I wanted the stuff on the bed, it was forbidden. Prohibited. And I went for it. I started to pick out the colours of chocolate I knew I liked. One wrapper after another came off and the food went into my mouth. I was alone in her room eating, eating the things I shouldn’t be eating and I knew it was wrong but I couldn’t stop.

Eventually she came upstairs and caught me. I’ll never forget how she looked at me, I’ll never forget that I knew I fucked something up for her. My mom explained to me that Agatha had an eating disorder and while my kid brain couldn’t put it together, the candy was separated in meticulous ways and I fucked it up for her.

I knew it was wrong and I had to do it anyway. In no way, shape or form am I proud of this memory, but it is the truth of my experience.

As I grew up, food became more and more a part of how I felt good. As I began to gain weight and my body became the problem, I was told I had to ration. No problem. I will ration and then sneak food to my room and eat alone, eat in peace, be happy by myself, I don’t need to eat around anyone anyway.

Bingeing is my oldest coping mechanism.

I’ve worked on it in therapy many hours, days, months and years. I’m so much farther than I’ve ever been but it’s also still something that is an ally, a friend, a resource. It helps me. It’s there when no one else is. It’s there to celebrate me. It’s there when I’m lonely. It’s there I need protection. It’s there when everything is hard and I fail.

And it’s so incredibly stigmatized and judged.

But this coping mechanism has done more for me in my life than my friends, family, loved ones. It has done more for me than cutting or than my OCD compulsions. That feels bold to write but it’s true.

As much as my friends, family and loved ones mean to me, I don’t reach to them the way that I do food. I don’t let them help me, I don’t let them in, I don’t tell them the bad stuff or how much I hate myself. Food is such an easier way for me to exhale.

Even though there are profound repercussions.
Even though I must choose human connection over bingeing.
Even though there is pain after.
Even though there is life without bingeing.

Bingeing in a very weird way allows me to exhale.

Some people drink, smoke, fuck.

Pretentious people make art, they don’t binge. Okay, maybe they’re not pretentious… I’m just jealous of them.

Food is my cigarette. I don’t know how else to describe it. And I’m in a chapter of needing a few fucking smokes if you know what I mean. I’m struggling. I’m not dead. But I’m struggling. I’m okay. But I’m not.

---

Thank you for reading my work, you being here means a lot to me. If you want to support this writing, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Supporting writing like this helps me pay my bills and create more content. If that isn’t an option for you right now, consider subscribing, commenting, liking or sharing.

In gratitude and coping mechanisms,

K xx

---