Note: This essay describes some of the symptoms and effects of eating disorders and may be triggering for some readers.
I remember first binge eating when I was 6 or 7. It was a Saturday morning, and I snuck an unopened package of Chips Ahoy into my bedroom. I ate the entire box while my parents slept in the room next to mine.
I don’t remember being upset or worried about anything, but afterward, I shoved the crumpled box under my bed, behind a folded quilt. I curled up in pain and willed myself not to throw up. I cried with my face in a pillow for what felt like hours, wondering why I’d done that and what my parents would say if they ever found out.
After that, bingeing became something I did regularly, pushing the boundaries of “full” further and further.
I wasn’t an overweight kid, but I also wasn’t thin, and I was acutely aware of that. I didn’t have great modeling when it came to appropriate boundaries related to food, though I also never witnessed anyone binge eating or responding to stressful events by eating. Most of the people I knew and loved who were overweight or obese were highly successful in their jobs, ate joyfully and shared large family meals. Even when they dieted, often regaining the weight later, I never saw or learned about eating in a way that appeared to be obsessive or compulsive. It seemed clear that something was very different about me, even as I exercised and concentrated on fitness: I always wanted to eat more. Even when my stomach hurt from overeating, after a huge dinner, in the middle of the night — I wanted more.
I didn’t think anyone else could possibly understand how horrible and disgusting I must be