Food was my life — until I tasted true freedom

As told to Miriam Bloch

E

ver since I can remember, my world revolved around food.

In retrospect, I don’t believe it was a problem I developed or something that someone did to me. I believe it was something I was born with. My mother always told me I was never done eating; even as a baby, I’d finish my bottle and want to keep going. I never didn’t want to eat. I constantly wanted more, and it was always a Thing — every day, every meal, between meals. My whole life was about food: how much I was allowed, what were good foods, bad foods, healthy, not healthy, this is what will make me fat, these are the quantities that will make me fat.

I still ate whatever I wanted.

My early memories are obscure. But I always knew this: I was different. I had something to be ashamed of. The rule in my head was: If I was fat, I was a bad person; if I was thin, I was a good person.

As an adult, I know that these messages were never intentional, but a conglomeration of the different things I’d seen and heard and been through as a child. The way I interpreted watching those close to me being careful with their food intake, their appearances….

Looking at pictures of myself back then, I didn’t look that overweight, but it was still a Thing. In third grade, when we had to weigh ourselves for a math activity, I was the heaviest in my class. The shame haunts me to this day.

I was always offering to take in the dishes at mealtimes so I could sneak more in the kitchen, because I knew that taking seconds was something to be embarrassed about. Whenever we went on school trips, my focus was on the treats I was allowed to take along. I needed to have it all — chips, chocolate, candies — or none of the fun was worthwhile.

At around 11, my parents tried taking me to Weight Watchers, two dietitians, and then a second weight-loss program. Later, a psychotherapist who specialized in eating disorders was added to the mix. Nobody knew what to do with me. All I could do was eat and eat, and all I tried to do was stop — but I just couldn’t. I had no sense of control, inside or outside. Every day, every moment, was a losing fight; every day revolved around this complete insanity of needing to eat more.

My family doctor couldn’t help me either; neither could the pediatric dieticians or nutritionists he’d referred me to. No professional I saw was able to “fix” me. I couldn’t attain any of the goals or food plans that were drawn for me. My story was an anomaly, and no one could figure out how to help me.

My family doctor couldn’t help me either; neither could the pediatric dieticians or nutritionists he’d referred me to. No professional I saw was able to “fix” me. I couldn’t attain any of the goals or food plans that were drawn for me. My story was an anomaly, and no one could figure out how to help me.

I remember one particularly stark realization I had when I was in my early teens: I wasn’t able to sit at a Shabbos table and listen to conversation or divrei Torah without picking at food… croutons, pickles, a slice of challah, anything within reach.