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Getting Out of B.E.D.

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My Story

The following story of my childhood is an excerpt from one of the earlier chapters of Getting Out of B.E.D.

How Did I Get in B.E.D. in the First Place?

Now that I’m able to get out of B.E.D. more often than I choose to stay in it, I can look back upon my adolescence and trace the development of my unhealthy relationship with food. I can remember countless nights as a teenager when I left the dinner table feeling full, yet already looking forward to “snack time.” Around 7:30 every night, if our homework was done (and mine rarely wasn’t), my brother and I would settle down in front of the TV to watch “Wheel of Fortune”, each of us with a bowl of three cookies (or some other proportionately sized snack) to munch on. Although I always tried to make my cookies last as long as possible, when they were gone, I’d glance longingly at my brother’s remaining pile. I’d think, “How can he not have eaten them yet? Maybe he doesn’t want them.” Out of a desire to eat more but not be seen doing so, I devised various schemes to convince him to give me one of his cookies.

When he was young and extremely impressionable, I’d play mind games with him, pretending I was getting sick. I’d moan and groan, hold my stomach, and say something melodramatic like, “Pleeeease can I have one of your cookies? I’ll die if you don’t give me one.” (He nearly always handed one over in order to “save” his big sis, although nowadays he claims to have always known I was faking it!) Other times, I’d just wait and hope that he’d get up and leave the room (or if I was particularly impatient, I’d send him out of the room on a “mission” for me) so I could steal a bite—enough so that I could taste it but not so much that he would notice the missing piece. (Although a few times I stole a whole cookie and was then forced to vehemently deny that I did: “I did NOT eat one of your cookies! You must have eaten it yourself!”) If I was feeling particularly bold, I’d tiptoe out to the kitchen pantry with a pounding heart and sweaty palms to steal an extra cookie. I’d practically inhale my prize and then dart back to my place in front of the T.V., acting as if nothing had happened, and praying that no one asked me what I had done in my absence. Successfully nabbing another cookie or two usually left me feeling elated.

I engaged in such scheming and deceit not because I had a penchant for trickery or an evil streak, but because a large part of me worried what my brother or parents would think if I simply asked for another cookie. Even at the tender young age of twelve, I was terrified of disappointing others,especially my parents. Without them ever explicitly telling me to work hard and aim high, I did so. I was a “high-achiever”, a typical first-born child. I took on responsibilities without being asked. I set goals for myself and made sure I accomplished them. Throughout my adolescence and teenage years I did my homework on time, practiced flute and piano regularly and never stayed out past my curfew. I craved a structured and organized life, in and out of school. In fact, I never wanted to do anything that might upset the balance of my world. Little did I know, these traits were leading me towards an altogether unstable relationship with food.

By the time I was in ninth grade, what I ate or didn’t eat, how much I weighed, and what I looked like were almost all I could think about. One morning before gym class, I listened intently as my friend gave me diet and exercise tips in case I wanted to “tone up my love handles”. Seeing her as an attractive, popular, and thin girl, and desperately wanting to be well-liked, I followed her advice. (After all, I believed that she was popular because she was thin.) I grew more mindful of what I ate, counting calories and forbidding myself to eat certain foods. For two or three days I could eat “well” and feel good about myself. Eating well made me feel like I was in control of things; there was no way I’d get fat as long as I ate well. For a few days at a time, I could convince myself that I didn’t even like cake, cookies, or candy. But ultimately I’d “cave” and eat something I thought I shouldn’t. The first few bites were easy to rationalize: “I earned it for being so good these past few days.” Minutes later, however, I’d begin to feel ashamed, guilty, and mad at myself. In that state of mind, I turned to bingeing. It was both a punishment for having taken that first mouthful (which seemed like “the beginning of the end”) and also a way of packing in whatever I wanted because the next day I was going to “start over” with the calorie counting and food avoidance. (“And this time, I’ll be really good!”) So were the first few years of my stay in B.E.D.