Easter Weekend: A lesson in eating when you don't feel like it

Quote of the day~ "He is not here; He has risen, just as He said."

~Matthew 28:6

It’s Easter weekend and like most holidays, this one involves familial bonding over the course of a meal. If you struggle with an eating disorder, holidays can be hard. For some families, it may culturally be seen as a sign of disrespect if you choose not to eat family dinner. Of all the obstacles to face when struggling with an eating disorder, I find the worrisome comments from my loved ones when I don’t eat to be the hardest of all. Part of me was glad to spend Easter weekend at school without the pressure of having to eat substantial amounts of food in order to curb unwanted remarks from my family. At a family dinner, it’s not enough just to eat; you have to make sure you’re eating the proper amount. It matters not if that amount is too overwhelming of a portion for you to bear, but the thing about having an eating disorder is that it follows you everywhere. This weekend brought me much joy, but I still couldn’t escape the burden of having to eat well enough to impress friends and assuage their fears that I starve myself. Sometimes the hardest part about not having an appetite is seeing the disconsolate looks of panic on my friends’ faces when I don’t eat.

Friday

I spent Friday evening with my best friend Jen; it was our last supper of the weekend considering she was going home for Easter. Our plan was to grab dinner like usual. While I was decidedly not hungry having eaten an ice cream sandwich at Student Pubs before leaving to meet Jen, I knew it was best to eat in case I ended up starving the rest of the night. I don’t have much of an appetite, so it never occurs to me as an issue that I don’t keep enough snacks or food in my room. Of all the restaurants open on campus, Chick-Fil-A was the only place that fell in line with my list of foods to eat when I don’t feel like eating. I told Jen I could not stomach a Subway sandwich for the fifth day in a row, so it was decided a greasy, 8-piece-nugget meal and fries would suffice for dinner. As we sat in the near-empty food court, I concentrated on pleasant thoughts instead of the stresses of the end of the spring semester. There were things to look forward to in life: I had plans to hang out with *Cade (not his real name) during the weekend, V and I had planned a lengthy walk and there was much to look forward to as the Talisman’s incoming executive editor. I focused on the level of comfort I had in eating with Jen, who would never judge me for not eating, before breaking my food into small portions. Sometimes the sheer size of a meal can feel like the largest hurdle to jump when eating.

Saturday

When Cade first asked if I’d get breakfast with him on Saturday morning, I assumed we’d be venturing to Fresh, which was the only thing open this weekend. Instead, he drove us off campus to his favorite cafe that the Track Men, as Jen and I have dubbed them, frequent all the time. I consider Fresh to be one of the most anxiety-inducing restaurants on campus. There are too many options, and with the plethora of students in there at any given time, it’s easy to feel like people are watching you while you eat. I envision people wondering, “What is she eating? How much is she eating? Why did she get up and go for more? Why does she eat too little?” and the like. I’m aware that it is my anxiety causing me to feel this way and that my emotions are not based on facts. Still, the only thing more nerve-wracking than Fresh is a new restaurant, and I was blissfully oblivious to where Cade and I were going until I asked him after we’d driven around for a while.

My anxiety about food and living in general causes me to stick to eating specific menu items, but now here I was standing at a new restaurant in front of a menu I’d never seen before with a boy I knew would be concerned if I didn’t eat. I took a few breaths and decided to start small to introduce myself to the idea of food. I ordered a small, hot chai latte in order to blend in because in my battle with disordered eating, the most important thing is keeping up with the appearance of normality. Cade was yet again concerned that I wasn’t eating, and he told me I was missing out since the food was so good. I told him I wasn’t hungry because it was so early in the morning. He didn’t believe me, but he stopped putting up a fight momentarily. In an effort to curb future comments, I mentioned I planned on ordering something to-go. The owner came around to our table multiple times: once to greet Cade, a regular, a second to bring him his food and a third to surprise me.

“Did you get anything?” he asked when he brought Cade’s burrito to our table.

I smiled politely and answered that I’d ordered a chai latte. When the owner came to our table a third time, he slipped me a cookie.

“I didn’t want you to sit here and not eat anything,” he said.

I smiled again and thanked him profusely. Secretly, I felt burdened with the task of eating. Just a small cookie seemed overwhelming, especially in the presence of a close friend who constantly expresses worry over my eating habits. Embarrassment at my lack of desire to eat threatened to settle in, so I ate half of the cookie so as not to seem ungrateful. It was delicious, but knowing my habit of not eating was noticeable to others nearly brought tears to my eyes.

Soon after, I got up from the table and placed a to-go order of a chicken wrap as promised. I sipped on my tea in the meantime, and I wondered if Cade knew about my secret beverage-drinking measure to sedate an appetite I already don’t have. I was so used to treating teas and coffees as if they were meals. You stop eating regularly for so long that your appetite eventually dissipates. It becomes nonexistent, and its vacancy is a foreign, incomprehensible topic to those around you. Cade brought me my food once they called my name, and as I stood up to leave, he asked me a few times if I was sure I didn’t want to eat now.

“We can stay, and you can eat here if you want,” he said.

I wondered how many more times I’d have to dodge him before he’d stop asking me.

Sunday

Easter came Sunday. Contrary to what I’d told my family, I did not have plans to eat a large, church-like meal. I instead had plans to meet V, one of my other best friends, for a long campus walk. V and I met at Centennial and decided to drive to an off-campus Starbucks so we could start Easter morning with coffee and paninis. My order of a grande mocha cookie crumble frappuccino was a given, but when the barista told us they were out of the bacon and chicken paninis, I contemplated skipping out on food. It was early in the day, and I wasn’t incredibly hungry. Still, I knew if I didn’t eat then, I likely would go until the evening without eating anything besides a strawberry applesauce and a granola bar if I was feeling particularly kind to myself. Eating with my best friend was decidedly less high pressure than eating with a boy who has witnessed me either barely eat or not eat all four times. So I ordered a blueberry muffin, my go-to “I-likely-won’t-eat-for-the-next-several-hours” snack, in addition to a bacon and egg breakfast sandwich. Something new to practice recovery.

The best tip for how to eat when you don’t feel like eating is to take things day-by-day. Easter was a day to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection, but this year it also inspired me to eat when I didn’t feel like eating. Perhaps I should pray more that God delivers me from this horrible habit instead of trying to exact control over my anxiety by engaging with disordered eating. Eating may be more overwhelming on some days than others, but there is hope in the process. Having the courage to eat when I didn’t feel like it meant I was trying to get better, and it meant for the first time in several years, I’d lived through a holiday without the dread of having to eat.