TW: Discussion of eating disorders.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve held a devout love for food. Dinner time, my initial memory of food, was a moment of joy – a glimmer into a world I thought I’d never master. The extent of my culinary expertise right up until around 1 year ago was a disordered cacophony of pesto pasta, oven-baked ready meals and other assorted atrocities that shall pass unnamed here – I’ve a reputation to keep, I ain’t going to sully it further. Yet, as I learnt to cook, slowly but surely I began to surmount the once-alien world of cookery, along with it arose my own insurmountable hydra – a fastidious obsession with clean eating.

Gone was my love for hot chocolates, pastries and various other ‘unforgivables’ which extended to both baked beans and a full English brekkie. Why, you may ask, did these become my forbidden fruit? Through association, negative connotation and an all-round inexplicably irrational distaste for any and all things deliciously buttery or vaguely categorised as a treat. I drew a line in the delicate sands with a ten-ton bulldozer and if those foods dare cross it then they shall know my name as the lord! I will strike down upon these foods with great vengeance and furious anger! Those snacks who attempt to poison and destroy my – I’ll stop shall I? The irrational had become the rational.  Ritualising and obsessing over foods deepened as did my pious withdrawal from them.

Now I find myself in the present day – six foot four and all of a meagre eight stone and seven pounds. Yet still when I look in the mirror I see either an emaciated figure akin in frame to Shaggy Rogers or a stage-ready bodybuilder. The short of it is, restriction mitigates your ability to reason with what is ‘you’ and what is the disordered thoughts manipulating a once healthy mind. The ebb and flow regarding both hubris and hatred increase in potency with the ongoing presence of the disorder.

Now my blabbering orifice, when spared of my diminishing pool of safe foods – was occupied by chewing gum, avoidant behaviours consisting of excessive caffeine consumption and cyclical thinking related in large part to doom-scrolling cake recipes. Ever spent 2 hours looking at sweet baked goods recipes you’ll never make? Wouldn’t be me. And when the scrolling ceased, the weighing and logging of food and calories ensued. Whole meals could be discarded at their final hurdle if their weighed quota exceeded that which I had allotted in my calorie base. seeing themselves replaced en masse by bowls of quinoa, unseasoned chicken, innumerable veggies and perhaps a halved avocado – if I was really pushing the boat out. Sounds appetising right? Better than those pancakes glistening with the allure of maple syrup. Actually, I’m not willing to place a single penny on that bet…

I’m a walking antithetical, what can I say. If there’s one thing I do well – it’s that. It takes a single click to view the accompanying recipes right here on my blog, so you may be puzzled – how can I cook these foods, talk about restaurants with such deep reverence for their work and still have a disorder? Easy work. Enjoyed one of the greatest meals of your life the prior night? Well next morning you should (like me) eagerly await the inevitable guilt and restrictive phase. Enjoyment brings shame and shame became my only known state of mind. It is a mire, so let me provide a deeper insight into the facets of the disordered tenements which comprise a restrictive ED. That’s an eating disorder not – you get where I’m going here.

The doldrums of safe foods.

One thing that is overlooked during an eating disorder is the fact that eventually, whether I wished to or not – I had to inevitably eat something. So, what exactly were these foods huh? Well, hummus has been a daily staple for the last eight months, same with apples – that is erm, well this is awkward. That’s all that’s permitted for my snacks. Onto the main course! After the aforementioned variety in my edible exploits I bet you’re eagerly awaiting the recipes I’m gonna drop here! No? Oh well. Breakfast is a protein shake, lunch has to conform to a disproportionate amount of vegetables to one third carbs and a protein. Sauce? Nah! Flavour? Nah! Instead it is a meal that is tailored to be an orthorexic’s wet dream. Well, as close as you’ll get without getting into too much detail anyway. But what, I hear you ask, if you can’t make that lunch yourself? Well what ensues is a lunch-time frenzy in which I shall prowl like a hungered dog encircling its prey – the spots and dishes I know, I love even, are all but forbidden so what now? The scavenging for that which is most deemably ‘healthy’ resulting in a rather antithetical pivot into unhealthy behaviours. Whilst yes I may have acquired a salad over some pancakes after forty minutes of scouring the city centre, inducing further starvation, is this truly the image of picking the ‘healthy option’?

Though as these avoidant behaviours convey, what is quantifiably healthy for others, is far from healthy or sustainable for myself. For many regard the acquisition of a salad over pancakes for lunch to be both a reward for the soul and more nourishing than the latter option. Let me posit this thought to you, is it healthy if that pursuit stemmed from a place of self-malign? A place of fear rather than the prioritisation of health? That is unquestionably unhealthy, surely? Correct! However, despite the innumerable inner-dialogues held with myself, and they are equally vast and vacuous at this point, I simply cannot untangle the cyclical thought that prevents me from following my gut. It’s a mistrust, a one-sided cry for help for which the receiving ear shrivels in disdain for the calls it detects. So, to avoid this I ensure that I will have a meal ready in order to evade the inevitable anxiety that shall be spawned if one is faced with the heresy of choice.

Irrationality of the fear foods.

So I find myself consigned to the bowls and amounts that I ‘gift’ to my gut with malicious resolve. So just what’s wrong with having a pancake? Will I have one and become insatiably and hopelessly addicted to them? Sounds crazy, yet indeed I have tricked my conscious into believing that this is true. With one bit of this sugary delight my body will become reliant upon its delectable nature and I shall descend into a sugar-induced haze, years from now you’ll find me in the tenebrous confines of a deep chasm, hovering somewhere around fifty stone and coveting the last remaining pancakes on earth as the culprit for the worldwide pancake shortage is finally brought to justice – lifted to his cell via crane and finally put behind bars spaced three inches apart. And though to even write this out, making it manifest and visible to myself, I have come to realise that this is deemed rational by my disordered thinking. I grapple, daily, with this image of addiction to food, absurd as it is, comical even. To my irrational mind it has been rendered a plausible outcome from a singular indulgence in the form of a pancake.

Other irrationalities extend to an inexplicable aversion to foods many deem healthy. Let’s have a look at some shall we? Keep in mind a great deal of the foods listed here are also snacks and foods I have tried and know with absolute certainty that I love. Yet alas, that dreaded descent into hopeless addictive indulgence is inescapable, or so it seems. Hash browns have been deemed deep fried frisbees crafted by the devil himself, once tasted thy soul shall be his! Pringles! Once I pop I shan’t stop – the world shall be plunged into an internationality Pringle shortage as I make my way around the equator vacuuming up as many as I can find. Mwah hah hah! And the most dreadful of them all being the British staples of butter, crumpets, fish and chips and meal deals! The four horsemen of fear foods, the insurmountable indulgences that if a mere crumb were to pass my lips then thy body shall crave them for all eternity!

Well of course, it all seems rather daft doesn’t it? Irrational, even? Perhaps. Yet these cemented cycles of thought have become so impenetrable and inseparable from my identity, that they are indistinguishable from me. I feel that I have ventured onward for so long as someone who avoids any and all treats, who prides himself on avoiding indulgence has forgotten just what it really meant to begin with. To indulge is to break the standardised experience, instead tasting something new or that which you know to be delectable. For me, the breaking of this cycle seems so improbable that even the mere thought of indulgence seems like a Cromwellian atrocity. The joy itself is sinful! The act of treating oneself – an unforgivable foray for which self-induced repentance must commence with the utmost immediacy. For when my hand is forced and I have to break from this cycle, the ensuing days see me log, restrict, body check and ensure with stifling accuracy that I am atoning for this. This being an instance of happiness through the intake of food.

Becoming Myfitnesspal’s number one acolyte, calorie logging, obsessive thought and OCD

So enters the OCD and rigidity of thought that accompanies a disordered and starved mind. The hatred and obsession with food – the most bizarre dichotomy paired with inescapable moments of teetering between both ecstasy and impenetrable darkness. The reinforcement of structured thought and unmalleable rituals only increase as the disorder endures. IT becomes ingrained into one’s daily life and their mindset. I can attest. Having reached and subsequently surpassed two years worth of successive logging on myfitnesspal I can both check what I ate last week and what I ate when I first began my university degree – it was a pizza on the first day of uni before you ask. Last week was the usual aforementioned smorgasbord of ‘safe foods’.

This rigid way of thinking further solidifies itself as food becomes a resource for the body to covet and worship. For the everyday eater who does not have to face these thoughts then this pertains largely to expensive or short in supply foods. Yet the longer the body endures starvation the more foods become grouped in these sections. The mind does not know when its next meal is to come and thus it worships and ritualises when food is due. Times of eating become more inflexible, as does the rituals surrounding them. A green tea, then crudites and hummus, then dinner – due every night at 7’o clock. Any earlier and I shall be starving for bed, any later and I shall simply avoid food entirely. Yet in this order, it shall be consumed, always.

The initial acceptance of food being something that arrives with scarcity led to the birthing of consumption-perfectionism. This orthorexic behaviour of mine stemmed from the need to perfect what was once rare. As I began to eat meals, they had to be nutritionally perfect and balanced. If a safe food boundary was crossed, and my wary foot dared to tread into the realm of a treat then what followed was a devout ritualisation of breaking the cycle, a fastidious perfectionism regarding the circumstances under which consumption of said treat also followed. Be this in the form of mood lighting with a Lindor chocolate (singular), treats were to be consumed at an allotted time, and that time only or after the daily exercise quota had been met. At worst it extended to allowing a craving to be sated, solely on the basis that it became un-ignorable and cannot be remedied or suppressed with other ‘healthier’ means.

The reinforcement of food obsession has only deepend for me. The aforementioned trawling of recipes I shall never create, stirring within me both a fascination with and envy of that which I shall never know. I’m the camera guy going hungry filming Adam chomping down on that apple of his in the garden of Eden. Solely perceiving the sensations that I shall never know. Merely drooling over the forbidden nature of these recipes. I have an allegory for this, for as a child we are always warned of those forbidden fruits of adulthood for which we must await. I was always warned with stern resolve against the allure of cigarettes and despite these warnings and the innumerable hazards that precluded this initial encounter with them, I became addicted. We inevitably chase that which we know to be taboo, food is no different. Yet I am a food writer, always willing to locate and try new cuisines and restaurants in my city. Though if a dinner leaves me too full then the inevitable (albeit rare) purge shall follow. Be this in its quite literal form, or, a form of exercise which will see those calories vanish, returning me to my understood equilibrium that is starvation.

Body checking – dysmorphic thought and the fear of change.

To ensure that this state of starvation – and the physique to reflect it remains undisturbed there are a number of tactics which I have employed to retain this. Body checking is priority numero uno. Be it the prodding at one’s torso in the aim of feeling the protrusion of my ribcage, the ritualistic tracing of my face to check that indeed, my cheeks remain sunken. Exceptions to this rule are met with a restrictive phase of compensation which sees me ensure that through diligent checking of my form I am returning to a state of emaciation. It’s a long game, but it’s one I always seem to succeed in. The familiarity of body fat, or rather the sparsity of it, the reassurance that the muffin I ate yesterday shan’t manifest upon my figure is also mitigated through the haphazardly concealed list-ticking checks which I perform throughout the day and on into the night. Be it on the sofa, strolling around the city or first thing in the morning, the checks must be completed and shall return the desired feel of prominent bones, sullen cheeks and threadbare flesh.

Grim isn’t it? But whether it is a subliminal tick or a conscious checking, I know that those with negative or distorted perceptions of their bodies also engage in these behaviours as I have and, regrettably, continue to do so. I wish to state here that I am in recovery. Though this path has led me to the present day duality I exist in, yearning for new experiences in the realm of food all the while ensuring retention of safe foods, diminishing in variety that they are. This duality is one that has become solidified through seemingly unbreakable cycles of thought and restrictive behaviours. Each new experience I undergo must be met with equal resolve to mitigate its perceived impact it may have upon my body. What follows is the orthorexic obsession with clean eating. The facet of anorexia nervosa, for me at least, pertains to the irreparable anxiety that stems from the freedom of choice.

Recovery (?)

I do use mitigating tactics to avoid inducing these feelings, as starvation is thankfully a rarity these days yet the daily quota of food is achieved through the most minimal intake required. I am surviving as opposed to living. Though normality seems a lost concept in my disordered mind. The precursive existence I knew prior to my disorder still feels like a period of acting, the disorder feels utterly inseparable from me and thus tricks me into believing that I have now discovered what is ‘healthy’.  Evidently this is false. There was once a time where I could enjoy a ‘treat’. Indulge in those foods I liked and socialise around my friends as we shared pizzas, pasta and all those other ‘unsafe foods’. I’m on the mend, I like to think. Having acknowledged these disordered cycles of thought. What must occur now is a willingness to follow through with treatment and refeeding myself. One day I’ll be back to living, and know what it means to no longer just ‘survive’.

There is an unrealised version of me that I hope to attain in the future. A reclamation of who I was prior to the erasure of myself that the disorder has catalysed. There is a version of me who is freed of the adherence to fastidious, cyclical behaviours which trap me in the present day. Healing is a process which first necessitates acknowledgment. To even claim that I have disordered thoughts regarding food and my behaviour pertaining to it is a leap, albeit minor. There is a notion to experience that which is not this cell I’ve called a life, there is freedom from the slow cyclical demise of which I endure, yet that is not a sensation I am yet to know. One day, one day.