Why Pita Chips Made Me Question My Worth
Confession time, here’s what I got!
I eat bread. And sugar. And I haven’t counted a calorie for a year.
Most would think this hardly classifies as a confession. It’s barely a statement. But I feel real guilt and anxiety over it.
A few years ago, when I was in a terrible place in my life, I measured everything that went into my body. 1350–1700 calories a day depending on whether or not I had lifted hard that morning. No sugars. No bread or chips or rice. Cheese on rare occasions, with exactly 5 oz of red wine measured with a scale. It became a part of my identity, and I felt I had control.
It became an obsession.
I would never consider eating anything “bad” for me unless it was a previously designated cheat day. When trying to find other people who had the same diet as me, I came across Orthorexia Nervosa, which means “fixation on righteous eating.” At the time, it seemed natural to me, and I could never imagine living any other way.
Now that I no longer count calories, something that required me to delete an app off my phone and consciously avoid math, I have a knot in the pit of my stomach when I eat a Hershey kiss at work. If there’s candy out, I eat it and can’t stop at one piece. A bag of pita chips next to me as I relax in front of the TV is evil. I am a bad girl for eating them, but I’m hungry, so I do.
Thoughts like this, some of which I’m not proud of and most of which are haunting, run through my head:
I’m going to get so fat. I’m already fat; can you believe how much you weigh, Katy? Will anyone like you if you’re not on a diet? My butt won’t fit into those jeans. I don’t have money to buy new jeans. I should eat the leftovers because they’re free, but then I’ll be unhealthy and my arms will be big. My friends/sisters/cousins look better than I do, so they must be judging me. I’m happy, but isn’t that something fat people say to make themselves feel better?
I have no perception of balance or moderation.
I am trapped in these thoughts and wonder why no one else seems to be plagued by them as well. Or maybe they are plagued by them, but they’re stronger than I am. They resist. I am weak. Not only mentally: I barely bench 65 pounds now. My muscles have disappeared, and I am sad for the part of my life that I once treasured and had pride in is now gone.
Logically, I know that I have to let this go. That there’s a happy medium out there somewhere. But I can’t shake the feeling of shame that comes with eating anything that isn’t a raw vegetable, and I fear I will grow into someone I don’t like. Years of dieting, from age 15–27, are ingrained in me. I’m trying to learn to live as I please, to “listen to my body,” and to care more about my relationships than my waistline.
And I will keep trying. Because the life I have now doesn’t require distraction and obsessive behavior. It requires love, for my friends, my family, my partner, and for myself.
