Keep It Down

Working in Food When You Have an Eating Disorder

CAUTION: this post contains fairly graphic detail about living with an eating disorder. If you are going to find it triggering, please do not read this. Do something nice and gentle for yourself instead.

I’m a little nervous about writing this one. Not because the contents are a secret - I’ve been very vocal about living with bulimia in the past - but because this could be the crumbling of a façade that I’m currently trying to maintain: that of a 34-year-old man who has been through some turbulent years, who is now sober, who is now married and getting his life together, who is now launching a business after turning his back on a 12-year career in television. But I’ve always said, to anyone who has sought my advice on this subject, that eating disorders thrive behind a veil of secrecy. So, fuck it: I’m all of the above, but the above isn’t all that I am. I’m also still struggling in my relationship with food.

I can’t remember exactly when my bulimia began. I think it was some time in college, when after the odd binge on a Domino’s pizza I’d stick a toothbrush down my throat to relieve myself of the guilt of feeling full. It wasn’t a regular pattern of behaviour, so as far as I was concerned, it wasn’t a problem. But that’s where I was wrong; the very first time anyone purges, a problem is born. It may lie dormant for years, but once you associate feeling full with a need, want or compulsion to relieve yourself of that sensation, there may be trouble ahead.

Over the years it became more regular, especially in times of stress. I’ve written fairly in-depth about it in my memoir, Dancing on Eggshells: kitchen, ballroom and the messy inbetween, so won’t document the progressive malevolence of it here. Suffice to say, my disorder insidiously took over my life.

I don’t know why I do it. I know that I am deeply afraid of getting fat. I’m afraid that if I put on weight, I will be undesirable; not in a sexual way, but socially. I fear that if I get out of breath while walking alongside friends, they’d judge me (I know my friends, and they would be the first to slap the toothbrush out of my hands and reassure me that they’ll love me no matter what, but the mind plays tricks on us). I fear that while reading a diet book by the side of the swimming pool on holiday, a child might point at me and say to his friends: “look at that fat man reading The Abs Diet!” (true story - Egypt, 2009).

I also think that we live in a time when eating disorders are proliferated by the calorie-dense, nutrient-lacking junk foods that are so readily available. Our brains are designed to root out and find the most energy-rich foods possible (there are some brilliant books on this topic, a favourite is Unprocessed: How the Food We Eat Is Fuelling Our Mental Health Crisis, by fellow Bake Off alumnus Kimberly Wilson), so when faced with supermarket shelves that are piled high with foods that offer more simple energy than nutritional value, it’s so easy for anyone to become hooked on the bad stuff. And I’m not talking about a slice of homemade cake or brownie here, I’m referring to the foods that are pumped full of ingredients that are difficult to pronounce, the origin of which would require a degree in chemistry to be understood.

It is those foods I reach for when I binge. I would never eat so much fruit salad, roast beef or Greek yoghurt and berries that I feel so full I need to get it out of me. A slice of homemade cake may indeed trigger a binge - my eyes glaze over and I am set to autopilot and immediately hunt out more food - but more often than not I rush to the corner shop and spend £20 or so on breakfast cereal, Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, and mass-produced confections. Not even the half-a-mile drive (yes, I drive, because this demon inside of me makes it the most urgent thing in my life in that moment) to the shop offers enough space or time for a rational, loving voice to say: John, my darling, you’re damaging yourself. Stop this now. Turn the car around. You’re beautiful in whatever shape and size you come in.

Even if my husband tries to comfort me - which sometimes he does, but he’s come to learn that he’s best staying out of my way when my eyes glaze over, or he could easily be burnt by the tongues in which I speak - it doesn’t work. I ask him to leave the room, to leave me to it. What I, John, truly want, is for him to rip the box of Shreddies out of my hand and throw them away. For him to take the car keys off me, to pin me down and restrain me until the demon gets bored and leaves. But in the moment I’d only fight back. I’m helpless. And it isn’t for him to play the part of saviour when it could easily descend into a bigger issue for our relationship.

Stress is undoubtedly something that makes my bulimia worse. Recently I’ve been putting in 14 - 16 hour days, establishing my brownie business, Ruff Puff Brownies. If not testing recipes, I’ve been liaising with suppliers, organising the website, working out an efficient production line and process. It has been invigorating, but it has plucked me from any routine I may have carved for myself. As a result, any moment of stress - particularly if a brownie recipe I’m testing doesn’t quite turn out right - and the demon enters. Before I know it, I’ve inhaled six or seven brownies, and I am driving to the shop for my usual binge foods. The vicious cycle bites again.

The hardest thing to grapple with, is the damage it is doing to my body. The 15-plus years or so of this disorder are taking their toll. My teeth are starting to become infected and sore, needing dental work and antibiotics. My face is getting puffier every time I throw my food up - sometimes I get little burst capillaries around my eyes from straining so severely. There are financial implications, too. Some weeks I spend an extra £100 on food that I throw up. I know that’s wasteful, I’m judging myself severely for even writing that, but please remember that this is an illness, I’m not in control when it takes over me.

I don’t know how to conclude this ramble, because there isn’t a conclusion. I fucking wish there was. But there isn’t an end in sight to this thing that haunts me, sometimes two or three times a day, but sometimes not at all for weeks on end. That is what can be so jolting about it: I can be doing just fine, living with a healthy routine for days, then suddenly, like the silhouette of a shark it arrives out of the grey nothingness, and I’m helpless.