Eating and Shame

Thinking about my addictions, I do have some really funny drug and alcohol tales. My 38th b’day was an endless party at an all night tapas bar in NYC. The pictures are hysterical and everyone remembers that night, nearly 15 years later, as one of the best spontaneous parties they’ve been to. Our sangria bill rivaled my car payment. In those years, my friends and I fell off a lot of bar stools together and cracked each other up about it. And a good hangover can be pretty funny too.

Even my drug years allow for some crazy stories that I can shake my head and laugh at now. AND, even as messed up as I was, I loved that weight loss.

But not with food. I have no happy, funny memories of bingeing. There are no good starving/fainting stories. I don’t laugh about sophomore year in college when I gained 70 pounds in 6 months. I can’t illicit a chuckle about eating out of garbage cans and making myself throw up in strange bathrooms. And when I’d drag myself into work after a night of bingeing and puking and sick as a dog, I didn’t tell anyone about the “escapades” of the night before and wait for them to jokingly say, “over-served last night, huh?”

The guilt, shame, pain, disgust and remorse of my eating disorder are unrivaled in my life. Blessedly, it is this pain that allows me the desperation to give up and accept a new way of life, which includes a new way of thinking about food and of course, a new way of eating.

More about that this weekend.

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