Throughout my life, I’ve faced a constant battle with food. As a teenager, my struggle revolved around depriving myself of nourishment as a form of self-punishment. It’s often said that restricting food intake is a sign of an eating disorder, and if that’s the case, I was merely trying to exert control over how I saw myself. Burdened by self-hatred stemming from past trauma, I concluded that I wasn’t deserving of anything good. With my internal struggles festering, I started placing value solely on my appearance.
I thought that a flat stomach, a slim waist, hollow cheeks, and prominent collarbones were the keys to happiness. Spoiler Alert: None of these attributes guarantee joy. My meals were limited to four crackers and half a cup of orange juice, until the gnawing hunger became unbearable. In a moment of weakness, I’d rummage through my pantry like a raccoon, indulging in anything available until I felt bloated and defeated, reinforcing the belief that I was just as worthless as I always thought.
I can’t pinpoint the moment my mindset shifted, but I eventually realized that four crackers and juice didn’t constitute a meal. I decided to heal myself and began eating whatever I desired, but my body had other ideas. My anxieties intensified and my stomach grew increasingly sensitive, leading me to a place where I could only handle pre-packaged Rice Krispie treats, saltine crackers, and water. As I had more children, I received compliments like, “You don’t look like you’ve had kids.” All I could think was, “You’d look the same if you couldn’t eat.” I’d smile and respond, “Thanks, I don’t have much time to eat these days.”
Despite the pain I was in, I felt a strange pride in my ability to function without food, and others would nod in apparent understanding, saying, “You have your hands full.” They were right, but my mind felt even fuller.
After numerous emergency room visits for excruciating abdominal pain, which left me feeling labeled as a drug seeker, along with canceled family vacations and a hospital stay, I underwent tests as directed by a gastroenterologist. Eventually, I received a diagnosis of Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS), a label often given when no other explanations fit. As a healthcare professional, I understood the implications of IBS. It meant I was a bit “off,” as a physician assistant once phrased it, stating, “For some reason, people with IBS have a sensitive GI tract. They feel everything moving through their intestines.” I nodded, feeling more defeated than reassured.
Medications were prescribed to help regulate the communication between my stomach and brain, but they only left me drowsy. With young children depending on me, I needed to stay alert. It dawned on me that my struggles might be more mental than physical. But when food becomes a source of pain—whether real or imagined—it creates an aversion to eating.
I developed a genuine fear of food. With no way to predict which foods would cause debilitating pain, I limited myself to just enough to stave off hunger and nausea. Cooking became a challenge; my trust in food had eroded. I designated certain items as “safe” based on my tolerance, which led to a diet largely consisting of fruits and vegetables—until those too started to be recalled due to contamination concerns.
Cooking raw meat became a nightmare; anything that felt off went straight to the trash. I can only imagine the financial waste this fear caused. My husband, bless him, consistently reassured me that nourishing our family was essential, that nutritious food wasn’t the enemy.
To cope, I began having him smell the food before I cooked it, inspecting it with me to identify any invisible threats that could harm our family. I never voiced this fear in therapy; I didn’t know how to articulate it. For the first time, I’m sharing it openly. Now, I offer silent prayers before preparing meals, asking for guidance to differentiate between reality and the deceitful thoughts in my mind.
Fortunately, I found the right antidepressant and anti-anxiety medication that calmed my mind and actions. It has made cooking more manageable and helped me expand my safe food options. I’ve learned that food is nourishment, not poison. As I’ve begun eating more, I’ve also started to gain weight. I stopped weighing myself when the scale tipped over 30 pounds, a challenge for someone who has always equated thinness with worth.
I’ve had to confront the lie that numbers represent health or value. If they did, my unhealthy, starving self would have been considered “healthy.” Let me clarify: that’s sarcasm. As the pounds accumulated and my clothing sizes increased, I struggled with the changes. But counseling has taught me that I am worthy of being myself and that my hunger does not signify weakness. My worth isn’t diminished by stretch marks or cellulite.
I won’t lie—there are still certain foods I refuse to consume due to the pain they caused. I’m unsure whether they truly are intolerances or if they stemmed from a mind trapped in invisible agony. But the silver lining is that I now eat. I nourish my family with significantly less guilt and fear than before, recognizing that my larger size doesn’t reflect my worth.
Yes, I engage in daily pep talks and apply the coping skills I’ve learned in therapy. They work, and I’m on the path to healing. But it’s not easy.
For more insights on this journey, you can check out this post from Home Insemination Kit, which offers additional resources on related topics. If you’re exploring home insemination, Make A Mom is an excellent authority on the subject, and Parents provides a fantastic resource for pregnancy and home insemination.
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In summary, I’ve navigated a complex relationship with food, rooted in trauma and fear, but I’m learning to find balance. Through therapy and medication, I’ve started to reclaim my love for food, recognizing its role as nourishment rather than a source of pain.
Keyphrase: overcoming fear of food
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