Part 2

It Was Food vs. Me ... and I Won
by Nancy Goodman

(Page 2 of 3)

At least once a week and usually more often, I found myself in unexplained, unstoppable, frenzied, and ferocious binges. A binge for me would reach many thousands of calories in a short period of time. Sometimes I would eat so much food that I would feel full and sick, only to go back and eat more a few hours later. The only way I can describe the sensation is to say that it felt like a switch had been flicked. Once it was on, there was no way to turn it off.

The cereal box had to be empty; the cookies had to be finished. Salty to sweet, bread and butter, crunchy to soft, then back to sweet again. I explored my cabinets, refrigerator, and freezer, searching to satisfy every craving. Since I knew I could not have these foods again for a long time, I needed to leave no container unturned. I must not leave anything out. I needed to enjoy all that food now so I wouldn't need it again.

Weekends were always disasters. If we had plans, I needed to have my weight at a certain number and that was my goal for the week. I would typically eat very little in the preceding days in order to prepare. Sometimes, as the weekend approached I ate out of control, not knowing why. Since that would make my weight go up, it led me to not want to go ahead with my plans. As I said, Sundays were never okay. They were the fight I never won. How I wished for a six-day week.

Wherever we were, no matter what time of day, if my bingeing had started while we were out, there was one more hurdle that made me afraid to go home: the kitchen. Coming home late at night, my husband would head upstairs. I didn't want him to stop me now. I'd wait to hear the water run as he washed up before going to bed, then I'd move into automatic. The cabinets were opened, the foods were pulled out, and then they were returned to their places. Like a good-night kiss that ends a day, I would turn off the lights and head up.

Then I would get ready for bed. Sick and defeated, devastated beyond reprieve. I just didn't want to be me. I would wash my face and look in the mirror to see the most distasteful girl. I leaned on the counter, close to the glass, supporting my chin in my hands. I talked to my face in the mirror, chanting the words "I hate you." I would lie in my bed and imagine the food traveling to the various parts of my body, feeling so helpless to stop their route. It felt like a poison to my progress, slowly killing my potential. Morning would come, a new chance to succeed with yet another goal to pursue. Don't eat. Burn it off. In a few days it will be okay.

I had a wonderful life. I loved my husband and inhaled my children. I appreciated all that we had. I didn't long for a change and actually wished it would stay the same. I was not unhappy about my life; I was unhappy about my weight. And I deplored my problems with food.

In my mind there was no hope to ever live a life free of obsessions with food. I didn't know anyone else who had this. I knew there were people with eating disorders who got too thin, vomited, or ate to obesity, but I had never heard of the kind of obsessing that I did. No one except my husband really knew, and he didn't know what to make of it or how he could help. And with all he knew, he knew only half. I was at a fine weight if judged by the standards of others. I worked out a lot in order to counter what I had eaten, so I had a decent figure. The days following "bad" eating, I made sure to eat very little. This would average out my weight. During the days when the scale went up, I pulled away from my life. I hid behind my kids' activities, wore bigger clothes, and buried myself under my secret.

As an adult, my weight had vacillated over the years. When I got married I was very thin, not that I could see it. I remember wishing I was just a bit thinner, and then I could have felt perfect. With my first pregnancy I put on more than forty pounds, and never lost all the weight. Depending on my binges and diets, I was between ten and fifteen pounds heavier than my prepregnancy weight. Had I been a hundred pounds more it wouldn't have made a difference. To me, it was insurmountable.

I used to look at thin people and decided they were one of two types. Either they were selfish or they were lucky, but both left me out of the picture. I would never be lucky enough not to need food, so forget any hope of that. And I would never allow myself that kind of freedom to let myself do what they did, whatever it was that they did. So forget hope of that one, too.

My life with food felt like prison. I felt like an inmate serving a sentence for a crime he didn't commit, waiting for some kind of break. Not able to understand how this could have happened to him, he dreams of the day he'll be free. No matter how long he's there, or how futile it seems, he has some hope of a release. One day someone will come to his cell, bang on the bars, and tell him it's time to go home. I prayed that day would come.

They say that prisoners, once free, repeat their crimes, due to a fear of life on the outside. Prison, while awful, has an element of safety due to the lack of choice and responsibility. It's structured and dependable. Freedom, while exhilarating, can be frightening. It leaves the door open to trouble and bad decisions. Prison can feel protective. And so can food obsessions.

To someone with eating and weight obsessions, food feels like living in an unsafe neighborhood, always in fear of attacks. It's an unsafe world of your own obsessions. You can lock all the doors, close all the windows, but there's nothing more to do. If they want to get in they'll get in.

The concept of life on the outside means taking full responsibility. The ex-convict would have to live honestly, and he hasn't a clue how to do that. For an ex-food convict, what would life be like without the food or food concerns? Would it feel like there would be nothing to look forward to, boring and sort of empty? Would there be an absence of comfort? Or would a life without food be the solution to the one last problem? And which is worse, the fear of staying in the prison or the fear of getting out?

© 2004 Viking a division of Penguin Putnam, used by permission.

About the Author

Nancy Goodman is a mother and wife who overcame her lifelong obsession with food. Her story was featured on the Web site of bestselling author Caroline Myss and got an overwhelming response that led to the publication of this book. She has created a health and fitness program for children called Core Kids and speaks to many women's and health groups.