Cooking for Control

Trigger warning: Mentions of disordered eating

I lie on my bed, switching my gaze between the ceiling and the stovetop where I just cooked my meal. I glanced over to my dining table, where I forced a plate of regret and shame down my throat. The decision to eat seems to have paralyzed my body. I am anxious and angry. I try to find comfort in my “digestion stretches,” per my therapist’s suggestion. I took my digestive enzyme pills and even a laxative. Nothing is bringing me relief. 

I now sit in front of my toilet. I run through the list of distraction tactics in my head: I could call my mom, but she’s working. I could call my boyfriend, but he’s with his friends. I could scroll through TikTok, but all I ever see are cooking and workout videos, which only make me feel worse. I know that purging will only cause me more pain in the long run, but that doesn’t matter right now. This feels like a trap. All I want is for this to be over. I am slowly digging my grave, as I dig my hands into my mouth, using my fingers like a shovel to retrieve food out of my body. 

We’ve all heard of the “freshman 15:” newly independent teenagers vegging out on pizza and beer. The move from Texas to Boston had an opposite effect on me. I was finally free from the family dinner requirements enforced by my mom, and I was no longer tempted by Tex-Mex or Chick-fil-A. Instead, I had the pressure of picking food out with an audience in the dining hall. And after one incident of receiving inedible food from the dining hall, I had an excuse to avoid it. I now vowed to only eat sparingly, hoping to lose weight. 

My daily life consisted of overexercising and restricting my eating. I avoided meals by drinking large sums of cold brew, going on walks, and going to the gym. People commented on my ever-slimming figure, recognizing the gaps in my jeans, and even how loose my face masks were becoming. 

Loving the new dangerous freedom I had, I convinced my family to let me live in Boston year-round. I signed a lease on an old studio apartment in Beacon Hill. This was truly the moment my disordered brain had been waiting for. I fantasized about a bare pantry. I figured I would be saving money and saving myself from calories if I never grocery shopped. I had full control over myself, my home, and my meals. 

Photography by Olivia Cigliano

This new space being all mine was exciting. One of the things I missed most was having a kitchen. I wanted to cook meals replicating my mom's recipes or anything I could find on Bon Appétit or Pinterest. I found conflict between wanting to play “house” with my boyfriend and my intense fear of food. 

Growing up, I often shadowed my mom and grandma in the kitchen. The three of us would be glued to the TV, watching Ina Garten, Martha Stewart, or Bobby Flay, then take to the kitchen to cook together. These joyful memories surrounding food came flooding back when I stepped into my own kitchen. I began to get experimental in the kitchen, realizing I was good at cooking and it brought me so much joy. I felt connected to my family in Texas, as we would text and chat about whatever successful recipe we tried and recommended to each other.

But, after cooking my food, it came time to eat the meal I just had so much fun concocting. I would take my plate to my table, turn on a favorite show, and forget why I was sitting at this wobbly structure. I would eat, find it delicious, then be hit by the seemingly inevitable wall of disgust. Nightly, my dinner found its way into the toilet, which I grossly justified as a way to “double taste” my food. Purging was comforting to me. And so was cooking. And this was the most confusing thing to me. One moment, food was making me happy, and the next, I couldn’t fathom the thought of it. 

I had been struggling with disordered eating since eighth grade. I had always been influenced by people’s perceptions of me, as the “bigger kid” in elementary school, prescribing to diet culture at a very young age. The idea of telling my family that I had been harming my body for so long was too much to bear, so it became a secret. I have always been an open book, but when it came to hiding my eating disorder, it felt like a double life. 

I began to feel the effects of my bulimia. I had no energy, I felt dizzy all the time, my life felt dull, and I wasn’t finding pleasure in cooking anymore. 

After being so exhausted from this cycle, I confided in my boyfriend. My honesty led me to the help I needed. I found strength in healing my body, making up for all the time I wasted on hating myself. I worked on finding ways to cook and eat food to make it a comfortable experience for me. But after being in such a dark place for so long, I had to unlearn a lot of my habits and behaviors, constantly being tempted to fall back into the cycle of a toxic habit. 

It has been a few months since I was working diligently on beating my bad habits. But sometimes, I am reminded of the “game” I used to play with myself: How long can I go without eating? Can I just drink another coffee instead of eating lunch? I didn’t work out yesterday, so I can’t eat today. And I fear that it will always be this way. It is scary, but it isn’t lonely. Every night, I return to my kitchen, eager to cook a new meal. There is no pressure here. As long as I cook, eat what feels appropriate, and distract myself after, I feel strength.