I was 28 when I discovered that I had an eating disorder. It happened inconsequentially and without much ado. I Googled something, there was a small “click” inside my brain, and then my life changed.
If you ask my family, I’ve always been a “picky eater,” but that explanation was never satisfying to me. For me, “picky eater” implies choice, and I’ve never felt as though I had that. But, I was also never able to develop another succinct way to describe what I was actually experiencing.
I could only use mouthfuls of words, like, “I avoid going to friends’ houses for meals and parties where they’ll serve food.” Or, “I need the name of the restaurant. I have to check the menu before we go.” Or, “I’ve eaten the exact same foods every single day for years, and I dissociate while I eat to avoid getting sick of anything.”
It was a feeling, more than anything, and nobody really knows what to do about those. Nor do many people have the patience to hear about them. So for a very long time, I simply ignored the problem and worked around it.
Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder is relatively new to the DSM-5 and used to be called “Selective Eating Disorder.” It primarily affects children, presumably because now, children can be treated for it and avoid carrying it into adulthood. And it’s characterized by what is essentially any number of food anxieties.
We’re worrying if the food was prepared correctly, if we’re going to choke on our food, if we’ll get sick from the food, or have an allergic reaction. We agonize over what a menu will be like and what we’ll do if we can’t find food whose texture, appearance, smell, and flavor all align with our very specific and narrow tastes. We have lists of safe foods and lists of “danger” foods. We have panic attacks over the mere thought of eating certain things.
And many of us do not want to live under the control of ARFID. We do not want to pick the restaurant all the time or to avoid them altogether. We want to go to a birthday party, or a cookout, or a first date, and not be concerned about whether there will be food we can eat. We want the thrill of trying a new food we’ve never tried before on vacation. We want to let it all go and enjoy eating.
For my entire life, I have avoided food as much as possible without starving. Feeding myself was a chore, a task that one must accomplish at regular intervals. I would often be frustrated that health science hadn’t progressed to the point where I could simply take a pill and be done with eating for the day. The only foods I ever really took pleasure in eating were baked goods and sweets.
I didn’t understand this almost sacred devotion to food that I would see in media or in other people I knew; I found the concept fascinating and alien. From a young age, I would watch cooking shows like Emeril Live, Rachel Ray, Good Eats, and Unwrapped. Later it became shows such as Hell’s Kitchen, Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives, Chopped, Worth It, and Parts Unknown.
I watched like an anthropologist, at times trying to imagine how the dishes smelled and tasted. Once, when I was in high school, I watched a marathon of Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives and made a list of all the meals Guy ate that sounded like they’d be tasty. It made my mouth water. But I made no move to actually attempt to eat any of it
Then at 28, I started to meet with Dr. Moss, a dietitian. She confirmed the diagnosis I had discovered for myself by mistake. And for the first time, someone asked me a lot about how food made me feel, and I told her: bad.
I told her about my childhood experiences, of friends’ mothers who wouldn’t let me sleepover. And about my parents making me sit at the dinner table all night when I wouldn’t eat what they served. I told her about the embarrassment of being a teen and young adult who can’t explain why they mostly eat chicken nuggets, even at Olive Garden. I told her I wanted to travel, or maybe be a vegetarian, but those things and so much more felt entirely out of my grasp.
I felt trapped by rules my body was making without me, and I was starting to lose interest in my small roster of “safe” foods. Every night before dinner, I was having emotional meltdowns over the prospect of having to eat yet again. I wanted to understand the joy of eating. I wanted to feel like less of a burden to everyone around me, but I was also terrified of what would happen to me if ARFID took my good foods away from me, too. I wanted to know why I was like this, but more importantly that I could change.
I took small steps, utilizing talk sessions with Dr. Moss and exposure therapy to “danger” foods--mostly vegetables--and slowly, I saw a change. Some of my fear began to drop away. Then the panic attacks before meals subsided. After over a year of meeting regularly, I began to see significant shifts. I was not only unafraid, I started feeling bold. Adventurous, even.
One day, I got an ad on TikTok for HelloFresh, the meal kit delivery service that probably all your favorite podcasts advertise. I’m not sure why this HelloFresh ad was so different than all the others I’d seen, but this one hit me hard.
This service would give me a list of meal options I could choose from every week, removing the anxiety I would get around deciding what to make for myself. They would deliver the ingredients for these meals weekly, so I wouldn’t need to determine a week’s worth of meals before going to the grocery store. I could select meals with foods I wanted to try in them. Because I would only get enough ingredients to make two servings, I wouldn’t have to worry about wasting a large amount of food if I didn’t like it (or couldn’t go through with eating it).
I would get to maintain complete control over every aspect of the meal, from selection to cooking to assembly, down to what on the plate I put into my mouth. I took the discount code and downloaded the HelloFresh app to order my first set of meals.
When I explained my plan to Dr. Moss the next time we met, her eyes went wide, and my heart fell. Oh no, I thought, maybe it’s too much.
“That…” she started slowly, “...is a really incredible idea.”
My first box arrived six months ago with four meals, two servings each. Preparing to make the first meal made me feel like I was on my own Emeril Live, despite never having cooked something that didn’t come frozen.
I got to use kitchen utensils I hadn’t previously known the name of and was surprised to see that I owned them. The recipe card instructed me to “pick fronds of dill,” and I had to Google what that meant--I understood fronds in theory but not in practice. I had to YouTube “how to mince.” Then, later, I had to look up, “is it true spaghetti sticks to the wall when it’s done” (no). But that night, I ate something I made from scratch, containing several things I would not have typically eaten, and it was delicious.
I was downright giddy. My partner high-fived me. The following night for dinner, I felt untouchable, like I had cracked the secret to life when I repeated the process. By night three, I found myself sagely nodding as I ate, finally understanding the reason why there is not a pill you can take to be full all day. I could see why people would not only tolerate but even enjoy eating. I was enjoying eating.
On night four, I decided to push myself and tried some broccoli. It was probably the world’s smallest piece of broccoli, but I cooked it, willingly placed it on my plate, and knowingly put it into my mouth. When I swallowed it, I almost cried with joy. It tasted so… green. And I didn’t throw it up! I didn’t take another piece, but I felt like I could have, and that in itself was such a delicious victory.
I felt so damn happy.
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