B.E.D. But there’s still stir fry in the wok

Dinner last night was a tasty chicken, broccoli and rice stir fry. My husband is a good cook. I’m a good cleaner-upper. That’s the deal – whoever cooks doesn’t clean and vice versa. The bigger deal is that if I don’t cook, I’m not faced with having to make choices about food. It just shows up and there’s a better chance that it’s not too horribly bad for me.

There were some extra items in the kitchen that were going to go bad or get used. That meant making a batch of something that’s larger than dinner for two. Leftovers.

I hate leftovers.

Not for the usual reasons that some people hate leftovers. Not the “Oh, I just hate re-heating something. It never tastes as good. Oh, I always forget that I have leftovers until it turns green and fuzzy and I have to throw it away anyway.” None of that.

I hate leftovers because as soon as I’m finished with my dinner, my eating disordered brain is calculating when I can eat all of the leftovers. How full am I? Can I eat more now and just claim that I was extra hungry? Can I eat most of it when I’m cleaning up? Can I eat a little more now and pretend to snack on it when I pass through the kitchen for the rest of the evening?

I hate leftovers.

Why does my brain go there? Reasons. Many reasons. Many, many reasons. It all boils down to fear. Here’s the train…

• Food = love and care that I didn’t get growing up.
• More food = feeling numb
• Feeling numb = not feeling fear
• Fear = the number one thing I did get growing up and now the number one motivator in my life and with more food, I don’t have to feel it.

Fear of what? Lots and Lots and Lots of things.

I have two choices.

Let’s be absolutely, crystal clear. I don’t really have two choices. I have an eating disorder. My only choice is to experience and deal with it.  Please do not be confused into thinking this is a matter of will-power. It’s an eating disorder.

But, for lack of a better word and to attempt to communicate a far more complex situation than can be fully illustrated in one pithy post, let’s call them choices. They are…

1. Let the train run. It’s easy and familiar. I’m quite good at it. Practically no effort.
2. Choose to be conscious of the miasma in my brain and to think about how I feel. I hate this choice. It’s not my default. I have built solid blocks against it even occurring to me. Here’s how it goes.
   1. Sit still while my heart pounds in panic while I pick apart the fear.
      1. What specifically am I afraid of?
         1. Am I in imminent danger?
            1. What do I need to control in order to assuage the causes of the fear?
               1. And lots more.

Choice number 2 is very, very hard. Even when I have the fortitude to choose 2, it doesn’t usually work. Then, I default to choice 1 – which isn’t actually a choice.

Now?

Now, I try to choose 2. I hate 2. I suck at 2. But, I try.

Sometimes, it works.

Last night, it worked. Fist bump with the fluttery finger thing.

The leftover chicken, broccoli stir fry is in the fridge. I’ll probably eat it all for lunch today, but that’s another choice. That’s Future Susan’s Problem.

 

I’m Susan Scot Fry, the author of “A Year of Significance”. In 2020, I take on the greatest nemesis of my life: Binge Eating Disorder. With a side of aplomb sauce. Honest, occasionally humorous and sometimes I swear.