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Authors: Kimberla Lawson Roby
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another evening all alone. I was also proud of the fact that I hadn’t touched that second set of fries either, which was another shocking discovery.
I stood up, took the rest of the food into the kitchen, sat it on the counter, and then poured the lemonade down the drain. And then it dawned on me. I was full because barely two hours ago I had stopped at the food stand just outside of Telecom’s building before heading up to the parking ramp. I’d bought and eaten a pretty thick polish sausage, a bag of potato chips, and drunk a twenty-ounce bottle of Sprite.
What was I thinking? And how had I forgotten about eating an entire meal so quickly? Was I now stopping at fast food places simply by reflex? And doing it whether I was actually hungry or not? Was I no longer able to distinguish between being hungry versus eating just because I could? Had I stopped at McDonald’s because I couldn’t imagine not stopping somewhere after work?
Before I could continue with my self-interrogation, tears flooded my face. I was a complete mess, and I desperately needed help. This was no longer about the foolish choices I was making, it was about me and what was making me act so compulsively. What made me think differently than women who ate normally, or more important, what made me the total opposite of women who were anorexic or bulimic? I’d read an article once that declared that my way of eating was an addiction. It had gone on to say that eating properly and exercising regularly was easy for some people, but that there were others who mentally couldn’t help themselves. For some, there were deep-rooted emotional issues causing them to act out irrationally. Some people gambled, some drank too much, some did drugs. But others, like me, ate everything they could get their hands on. They did what they had to do in order to satisfy a certain emptiness. They tried filling a void that forever nagged at them.
I walked back into the family room and lay across the sofa. I closed my eyes, and while I tried not to, I shed a lot more tears. I was so ashamed, so miserable, and disgusted with myself. I wanted to call Taylor, but when I’d spoken to her first thing this morning, she’d told me that she’d decided to take an early flight and would be in around six. And since it was only six-thirty, I knew Cameron had already picked her up from the airport and they were probably on their way home. It would have been nice if I could have phoned Charisse instead and told her how I was feeling, but I just couldn’t take any more of her criticism. I needed someone to build me up and not tear me down and I knew Charisse couldn’t help me with that. Plus, I’m sure she wasn’t all that happy about me bringing up her past the way I had yesterday.
I tried pulling myself together by searching for a decent movie to watch, but I stopped when I saw a commercial claiming that a certain pill could eliminate unwanted belly fat. It even claimed that the pill worked so well and so quickly that it wasn’t recommended for people who only had maybe twenty pounds to lose. I admit that it seemed unbelievable, but I had to try something.
Next, I found another channel broadcasting an infomercial claiming that their workout and eating program would give anyone the perfect body in just six weeks. Call me silly, but I sat down the selector on this one. Everything I’d heard so far definitely sounded too good to be true, but still I was all ears. My class reunion was happening in eight weeks, and if I could lose even fifty pounds by then, I’d be a happy sister. I’d still have to find an outfit tagged with double digits, but at least I wouldn’t have to look in the 20s section. Because at two hundred, I might even be able to wear a 16W. Not a 16, but a 16W, because there was a noticeable difference.
I listened closely, paying special attention to the personal testimonies and obvious success stories. One woman had previously been about my size and height, but
I stood up, took the rest of the food into the kitchen, sat it on the counter, and then poured the lemonade down the drain. And then it dawned on me. I was full because barely two hours ago I had stopped at the food stand just outside of Telecom’s building before heading up to the parking ramp. I’d bought and eaten a pretty thick polish sausage, a bag of potato chips, and drunk a twenty-ounce bottle of Sprite.
What was I thinking? And how had I forgotten about eating an entire meal so quickly? Was I now stopping at fast food places simply by reflex? And doing it whether I was actually hungry or not? Was I no longer able to distinguish between being hungry versus eating just because I could? Had I stopped at McDonald’s because I couldn’t imagine not stopping somewhere after work?
Before I could continue with my self-interrogation, tears flooded my face. I was a complete mess, and I desperately needed help. This was no longer about the foolish choices I was making, it was about me and what was making me act so compulsively. What made me think differently than women who ate normally, or more important, what made me the total opposite of women who were anorexic or bulimic? I’d read an article once that declared that my way of eating was an addiction. It had gone on to say that eating properly and exercising regularly was easy for some people, but that there were others who mentally couldn’t help themselves. For some, there were deep-rooted emotional issues causing them to act out irrationally. Some people gambled, some drank too much, some did drugs. But others, like me, ate everything they could get their hands on. They did what they had to do in order to satisfy a certain emptiness. They tried filling a void that forever nagged at them.
I walked back into the family room and lay across the sofa. I closed my eyes, and while I tried not to, I shed a lot more tears. I was so ashamed, so miserable, and disgusted with myself. I wanted to call Taylor, but when I’d spoken to her first thing this morning, she’d told me that she’d decided to take an early flight and would be in around six. And since it was only six-thirty, I knew Cameron had already picked her up from the airport and they were probably on their way home. It would have been nice if I could have phoned Charisse instead and told her how I was feeling, but I just couldn’t take any more of her criticism. I needed someone to build me up and not tear me down and I knew Charisse couldn’t help me with that. Plus, I’m sure she wasn’t all that happy about me bringing up her past the way I had yesterday.
I tried pulling myself together by searching for a decent movie to watch, but I stopped when I saw a commercial claiming that a certain pill could eliminate unwanted belly fat. It even claimed that the pill worked so well and so quickly that it wasn’t recommended for people who only had maybe twenty pounds to lose. I admit that it seemed unbelievable, but I had to try something.
Next, I found another channel broadcasting an infomercial claiming that their workout and eating program would give anyone the perfect body in just six weeks. Call me silly, but I sat down the selector on this one. Everything I’d heard so far definitely sounded too good to be true, but still I was all ears. My class reunion was happening in eight weeks, and if I could lose even fifty pounds by then, I’d be a happy sister. I’d still have to find an outfit tagged with double digits, but at least I wouldn’t have to look in the 20s section. Because at two hundred, I might even be able to wear a 16W. Not a 16, but a 16W, because there was a noticeable difference.
I listened closely, paying special attention to the personal testimonies and obvious success stories. One woman had previously been about my size and height, but
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