The question in the title popped in my head but it’s wrong. “Is it worse?” is far more accurate. The answer: “Of course.”
Talking about my eating disorder again. I have nine hours until I eat. I’m telling myself I’m just dieting, but I don’t think people with eating disorders know how to just diet. As someone with anorexia, my restriction is significant in the best of times, extreme under other circumstances.
Sitting here in a café, I perked up when the barista asked if I wanted water: “Regular or sparkling?” I chose the latter, cheered that the bubbles will trick my stomach into thinking I’m consuming something more substantial.
Club soda is now on my shopping list.
I recently spent two weeks at the cottage and that “vacation,” a trip intended for relaxation has triggered me. Driving from the airport, I stopped at the grocery store and stocked up on my “safe” foods. I tend to treat myself to a few scones on vacation and I needed to know the fridge supplies had things that would somewhat offset my intake. This is what I always do when I go to the cottage.
The problem was this wasn’t a regular cottage stay. Normally it’s almost all downtime, just me and the deck, the beach below offering an inviting morning walk, the river suggesting a quick swim (when no one could possibly be watching).
Throughout the fortnight, however, I only had two dinners on my own. Friends and relatives were around me the rest of the time. It was all lovely. These are wonderful people. But, as is often the case, food is a central conduit for social activity. My eating disorder slithers on the sidelines in social situations. I don’t like to be a spectacle. I don’t want people seeing my small portions and pushing more food on me. When poked and prodded, the eating disorder gets worse. It doubles down. I eat even less. I refuse social invitations. I isolate.
I truly thought I was doing well. I ate “normally.” I socialized as best I could. I enjoyed the conversations. I appreciated the food.
The eating disorder was left to sit back and stew. It waited patiently for the visits to end, for the time to take over, guilting me and sending me into severe restriction mode. The opportunity came as soon as I drove to the airport. No farewell donut, no mixed berry scone. Not even that little baggy of pretzels on the plane.
I didn’t stand a chance in trying to dismiss the eating disorder. I was worn out. As an introvert, all the socializing left me exhausted. I was ignoring hunger pangs before I’d even landed back in Vancouver.
People talk about being too tired to eat. For me, it’s the other way around. Not eating makes me too tired. My afternoons are write-offs. No writing. It doesn’t seem to make sense—not much makes sense with an eating disorder—but the only “productive” thing I can do midafternoon is exercise. I never think about food when I’m working out. The exercise is another part of my disorder. It demands full attention. There are no excuses permitted.
I have several friends I’m supposed to contact now that I’m back. It’s been a week and I don’t have the energy to make any attempt to reach out. My social exhaustion is both separate from and woven into the eating disorder. The isolation helps me stick to my disordered behaviours.
As I’m sixty now, I wear the weight on my body differently. Even a year ago, some of the weight I perceive as gaining from pastries and full meals would have already dropped off. Only a little weight loss typically shows. Less than ten pounds under my standard weight and I start to look scary—gaunt face, protruding ribs, loss of muscle. The weight insists on lingering this time around. This will make my heightened eating disorder behaviours more established, perhaps even more drastic.
Yes, I’m thinking of club soda as a meal.
I’m telling myself this is just a rough patch. Some temporary tweaking. I should be so lucky.
