LITMIR.BIZ

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I found excuses to go to my next-door neighbor's house, where, when no one was looking, I'd head straight for the candy drawer, which was always filled with chocolate haystacks and other mouth-watering goodies.

      Although the portions were substantial at our family meals, I always wanted more so I would feel satiated. When I'd ask for another helping, Mom or Dad might remark, “Didn't you have enough?” or, more emphatically, “You've had plenty!” The only way I could consume enough to feel full was to eat in secret, and early on I developed my talent for sneaking food to not feel so empty. For example, my mother would sometimes bring home a loaf of fresh, warm, Jewish rye bread, and I'd creep into the kitchen and snatch slices from the middle, pushing the ends closer together so it just looked like a smaller loaf. I'd gobble the bread down as fast as I could—without ever tasting it—so nobody would see me.

      When I was ten, I entered a pancake-eating contest and easily won. And I could have kept on eating—I only stopped cramming in the pancakes because they had already named me the winner. I liked those eating contests. They were the only times I would allow others to see how much I could consume.

      Somehow I fooled everyone about my eating behavior, and no one seemed to know the quantity I consumed. It was important for me to eat in secret because criticism shattered me. Jarring words cut into me like a scathing sword. I chose to be good and look good to avoid harsh judgments and disapproval. At one point, I even wished I had a tapeworm. I thought it would be the perfect solution—scarf down as much food as I wanted and let the tapeworm eat it so I wouldn't gain weight. I also considered swallowing Mexican jumping beans—maybe the larva inside each bean would consume my fat!

      When I look back at early childhood photos, I don't see a grossly fat kid. Yes, sometimes a little chunky, but not obese. My parents, however, believed I needed to lose weight, and the diets began at age eleven. They took me to the family doctor, who put me on my first diet and gave me a shot once a week. I became stoic, rolled up my sleeve for the injection, and never complained. Although I kept my feelings submerged, I still felt them. I believed I was inferior and defective—land mines for compulsive overeaters like me. And, though I lost weight, I was never able to keep it off.

      As a teen, I identified with the lyrics of a popular Platters song, “The Great Pretender”—pretending to do well but really feeling very alone. I saw myself as an impostor. Every day in seventh grade I'd walk home from school with classmates, and we'd always cut through the local department store. Meandering through the Juniors department, the other girls looked at the size 5 and 7 clothing. I feigned looking at the size 9s and 11s, as if I wore that size. Who was I fooling? I was squeezing myself into a size 15.

      Yes, I pretended a lot. I pretended it didn't matter to me that my daddy was gone all week and I felt abandoned. I pretended I didn't care if no one gave me a compliment or if I wasn't asked out on a date. I got so used to pretending that I lost track of what was real and what was the world I invented or pretended to live in.

      Since I had mastered the art of closet eating, I knew I was tricking others into believing I was constantly on a diet and ate only low-calorie food. When eating out with friends, I'd order a small meal and never anything fattening. But I had to eat something substantial beforehand in order to pull off this charade. If I had consumed solely what I allowed others to see me eating, I probably would have weighed 90 pounds!

      But I didn't weigh 90 pounds, and I had a strong reaction to the numbers on the scale. If the scale read 125–130, my spirits were high and I loved life. When the scale read 150, I hated myself, verbally lambasted myself, and everything looked dark and bleak. It perplexed me how my weight fluctuated 25 pounds—it felt as if I'd get up one day and the numbers on the scale had mysteriously jumped way up.

      As teenagers, my friends began dating, but I spent my Saturday nights babysitting—a job I loved. I was in compulsive-overeater heaven: unlimited use of the phone, my favorite TV shows, and snacks galore. I convinced myself it didn't matter that I didn't date; I had my babysitting job, so I was alone with my real love: the food!

      I tried “diet pills,” which I found out later were speed. But instead of feeling wired, I felt extremely tired. Several of my friends loved these new pills and seemed to get skinnier by the minute. Once again I felt defective. Why did these pills work for others but not for me? What was wrong with me?

      During a routine physical, I was diagnosed with an underactive thyroid. I heard this with great excitement and hope—thyroid medication was, I thought, the magic pill I had been looking for. Now the weight would fall off. No such luck—I took the thyroid meds, but the weight hung on.

      I was continually on the lookout for the latest diet craze and was filled with high expectations when I discovered Metrecal—the first diet drink. Used as a meal replacement (except by my grandmother, who misunderstood and drank it with her meals and then wondered why she didn't lose weight!), I drank it for lunch each day. But I didn't achieve the much-desired weight loss. I tried fad diets and other diet pills. I chewed on AYDS (an appetite suppressant tasting so much like chocolate candy that I ate many more than the recommended one piece). I went to Diet Workshop. I followed the Weight Watchers diet. Sometimes I lost weight, but if it was lost, it was soon found. I felt disappointed and hopeless about the numbers on the scale. The immensity of these feelings increased my appetite, and I'd pig out even more.

      There were times when I tried to be bulimic—in part to lose weight and in part to relieve indigestion—and, thank goodness, I was not successful. Although I'd put my fingers down my throat, I was not able to regurgitate the large volume of food I had consumed. Instead, antacids became my trusted ally, eventually easing the horrendous pain in my gut from gorging.

      At an early age, I lost my sense of self and became more interested in what others felt or needed. I thought of myself as a chameleon—you tell me who you want me to be, and I'll be it. As long as others were happy, my needs were inconsequential. (It sounds like initiation for martyrdom.) I negated my own feelings, pushed them down, and gave them no importance. Out of touch with myself, I didn't know how I felt most of the time. I was conditioned to put on a happy front no matter what happened. To keep up this charade, I was compelled to consume an enormous amount of food.

      I felt a lot of guilt and shame. The shame intensified when I received critical comments from my parents such as “You're the oldest—why would you even ask such a question?” or “You know better than that!” or “Why did you do that? What kind of example are you setting?” I became hypervigilant—seeking to anticipate my parents' every need rather than be reprimanded. It wasn't enough, however, because their voices took residence in my head, and I used those messages to rebuke myself, often by calling myself stupid. Is it any wonder I turned to food for love? To feel full? No, actually, to not feel.

      As a high school English teacher, I taught the poem “Richard Cory” by Edwin Arlington Robinson. Richard Cory seemed to have it all—he had money, he had friends, people admired him and wished they could be him. I thought my life sounded a lot like Richard Cory's: People liked me and respected me and thought I was very responsible—an image I had worked hard to create. But Richard Cory went home one night and put a bullet through his head—and I understood. I realized the outward appearance might just be a cover-up; I knew his pain. On the outside I had everything—a nice home, a hardworking husband, two cars in our garage, enough money, plenty of food. Yet inside I was tormented. I told myself over and over that I was inadequate and defective, and that I was a fraud.

      I knew I was a sneak eater, and I knew I ate to the point of physical distress, but I didn't know until recently that I had a binge eating disorder. The mental health description of binge eating disorder includes the following:

      1 Eating a large amount of food in a short period of time

      2 Lack of control over eating during the binge episode

      3 Eating until uncomfortably full

      4 Eating large amounts of food when not physically hungry

      5 Eating much more rapidly than normal

      6 Eating alone because you are embarrassed by how much you're eating

      7 Feeling disgusted, depressed, or guilty after overeating

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