Eggs

I once overheard a conversation in which one woman told another that "the best way to lose weight is to shut your mouth." I took the stranger's advice to heart and, at fifteen, frustrated with a body that insisted on changing in ways that made me fret, I stopped eating.

I had been unhappy with my figure since puberty- breasts and hips coupled with what my mother called lingering baby fat made me feel overly plump and swollen. When I complained about my bloat, my mother would say, "Don't worry, you'll lose that eventually," but I didn't. 

Then, as the stress of being a teenager alongside my parent's dysfunctional marriage and the emotional abuse of my older brother, grew, so did my waistline.   

I wish I had known to be kind to my body through my struggle. I wish I had known to love myself through all the changes and to look for stability in strength, but for someone who grew up in the era of "The Biggest Loser," I was convinced that a shrinking body was the key to emotional healing. Or, at the very least, I knew that in a world where women are judged by their size, losing weight would not just help me fit into my old clothes—it would help me fit in, period. So, it was then that I began my starvation.

Anorexia took over my life shortly after that, and no matter how much weight I had lost, I continued to starve due to addiction, a need for control, and a neurological dependence on compulsive behavior, often ruled by stress, anxiety, and depression.

I finally sought help because my life was hanging from the thinnest of threads. It was clear that weight loss, starvation, and control were creating an abundance of problems and solving none, so in my mid-twenties, faced with an ultimatum from my fiance, I sought treatment with a therapist specializing in Eating Disorders.

After six months of one-on-one therapy, my doctor gave me a new ultimatum: meet with a nutritionist or find a new therapist. Four months later, I lied and said I was finally ready to do as she had asked. 

I sat in the nutritionist’s office terrified, and while I squirmed in what felt like the most uncomfortable chair known to humanity, we brainstormed a meal plan that was supposed to “work for the both of us.” Our back and forth would have anyone thinking we were negotiating world peace. I fought her on every item, every serving size, and every meal. I did everything in my power to avoid eating. I even feigned a plethora of food allergies, but the woman saw right through me. My body had no substance- why would my lies? 

An hour and a half later, defeated in my efforts to remain empty, I stood up from that chair and left the office, clenching a grocery list that put a pit in my stomach and sent a trembling of terror down my spine. Nothing about the list was odd. But still, the thought of eating even the most unremarkable pantry staples and farm foods loomed over me like a death sentence. 

I armed myself with courage, knowing it was time to put words into action, and drove my green Subaru Outback to the grocery store while tears ran down my cheeks and my heart beat out of my chest.

I must have changed my mind a dozen times during my short walk from the parking lot to the sliding glass doors of a Rochester Wegman's. I knew that each step closer to the food on that list was a step further away from the eating disorder I had been fostering and relying on for over a decade. Each step forward was one step closer to a life I didn't know how to live. Still, I forged ahead.

Once inside, I paced the dairy aisle so apprehensively that you’d think I was contemplating jumping into the abyss—I was petrified. Eventually, someone asked me if I needed help. "Oh, I'm just looking at the eggs," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. I grabbed a dozen and quickly replaced them for a half dozen before exchanging them again for the entire dozen because I couldn't commit to something most people find ordinary. 

After what felt like an eternity, I neared the register as if walking on death row, holding a cardboard carton of farm-fresh, free-range eggs in my sweaty hands. "Just the eggs, hon?" Asked the sweet white-haired woman with a gold name tag. I nodded, my jaw tight, chin trembling, and tears puddling.

The following day, I dreaded the first item on my to-do list—"Eat scrambled eggs for breakfast."

I stood by the kitchen counter in my flannel pajamas and worn-down slippers, unenthusiastically whisking eggs in a small bowl, pondering how long to let them sit in the hot pan. Well-done eggs would remind me of my father, while softer eggs were how my best friend's mom made them when I slept over as a little girl. I went with soft- better memories.

  While sitting motionless at the table, I stared at the scrambled eggs in front of me with disdain. Food had been my enemy for years- starvation my ally, and here I was, in a face-to-face duel, feeling I was about to lose the battle.

I will never forget that first bite. My life came rushing back to me, a stampede of sensorial memories that could not be stopped. Flashbacks to a childhood I had loved and cherished- until I didn't because it all fell apart. The remembrance of binging and purging, all because I had convinced myself I did not deserve long-term nourishment, physical or emotional—a lifetime of self-abuse in the name of self-preservation. 

Terrified of the creamy scrambled eggs in my mouth, my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in and screamed, "Spit them out, run, make this stop." But I followed through and swallowed, defiantly refusing to lose the true battle, the one where I was fighting for my life.

It has been over fifteen years since that first meal, and while recovery has not been a walk in the park and often has setbacks, I have never looked back. That first step led to another: breakfast opened the door to the rest of my life. 

Today, I am grateful that after such abuse, my body is alive enough to feel, taste, and savor so intensely. What magic it is to travel through time by way of taste buds.

Last November, my husband and I celebrated our anniversary with a twelve-course tasting menu at a Michelin-starred restaurant near Bryant Park. As an anorexic, I could not have imagined that I would ever enjoy food so profoundly.

With each course I ate, I experienced a kind of mindfulness and connectivity that underlined the beauty of what it is to live fully.

The first course had me savoring memories of sharing soup with my late stepfather in a cottage in the Alps. As I spread Foi Grois on a toasted baguette, I relived my mother's smile in Paris- when she was the happiest I would ever see her. One course brought back the warmth of my childhood's old Ecuadorean farmhouses, and another had me feeling as free as a child running through a field of wildflowers with the wind in my hair and the sun warming my back.  

Every bite of food moved me. It did. I’d bring the food to my mouth, and as soon as it touched my lips, an electric current lit me up. In the span of three hours, I time-traveled through my life. Some bites had me consumed with delight, my hands and arms looking for ways to express the inexplicable joy and wonder I felt while all I could mouth was “mmmmm”. And other bites filled me with melancholy, and I closed my eyes, put my hand on my heart, and quietly paid tribute to memories that are more difficult to sit with. And that’s the beauty of living, knowing that every step can be different and a meal with a loved one can move us beyond words.