What if Your Brain Made You Hate Food? My Atypical Eating Disorder
I am currently staring at a sandwich made exactly to my specifications, trying to convince myself to eat something since it has been over 24hrs since I’ve ingested a single calorie (and I’m required to eat 500 calories with my antipsychotic), when it occurred to me that most people don’t know about ARFID. I didn’t. I don’t usually write essays- I post one ancient journal a week, engage with notes, and read your work. I’m normally content with that but right now I have a problem: I have to figure out how the fuck I’m going to eat this sandwich.
Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder is usually diagnosed before age seven but mine is triggered by the psychosis accompanying my bipolar disorder. I didn’t understand that I had an eating disorder until I met a 10yr old girl so repulsed by food that she chose to spend hours every day with a feeding tube in her ‘port’ rather than put anything in her mouth. I understood her choice. Because I wish food could be a daily injection or capsule. I find it revolting.
My husband is an amazing cook and makes dinner often. He prefers everything to be fresh: cranks his own noodles, bakes his own bread, crafts tortillas by hand, boils tomatoes from the garden to make sauce- his love language is food. And I don’t speak it. Not in a manic episode. I’d rather have a sandwich I don’t have to pretend to like. When I’m depressed, I stuff my face so I can at least remember the concept of “delicious.” It seems unfathomable at the moment- enjoying something like food.
I’ve lost 62lbs since the start of this manic episode. I don’t count calories, or weigh myself every day, or criticize my body in the mirror. I don’t think I’m fat and I’m not self-conscious about the way I look. I don’t deny myself food when I actually feel hungry and I don’t use food as a reward or punishment. Which means, even though I typically only consume one sandwich a day, I do not suffer from anorexia nervosa. I don’t purge, so I don’t suffer from bulimia either. I don’t even suffer from hunger; I find food repulsive and feel guilty that my husband wastes his talent on someone who can’t appreciate his skills.
Here is a short list of what food tastes like to me: attic insulation, the gravel they scatter on hiking trails, damp wool that was left in the washer overnight, the powdery white type of campfire ashes, hay, hair, fingernail clippings, a brand new sock- I could go on. There is the single exception of a Perfect Sandwich, which tastes like the solid foundation of a house and completing a to do list and getting an A- on an important test.
This is what I’m staring at right now: a Perfect Sandwich. Something i can always choke down. I took my antipsychotic an hour and seventeen minutes ago and the last thing I ate was this exact same sandwich 25hrs and 17mins ago. It would be normal for me to be hungry. It would be HUMAN to feel that sensation but I never do; only varying degrees of nausea. My brain is too broken to perform this simple task: insert into mouth, chew, swallow- be fucken grateful.
So I stare, daring myself to eat and begging myself to starve at the same time. It feels better to be empty but I have an obligation to eat with my meds. I must be responsible. I must be healthy.
Still, I stare…