Binge eating disorder

Once upon a time, I was a competitive swimmer -- not a particularly fast one, though I worked my tush off in practice and swam as hard as I could at meets. There was a pretty sweet upside to six days of practice a week: I could eat mounds of spaghetti swathed in parmesan cheese, followed by an impressive bowl of ice cream every Friday night, and never, every worry about getting fat. I have three dearly beloved brothers, all younger than me, and I ate just as much as them.

Not only that, but I hardly had to train for cross-country running competitions because my swimming practices were enough to guarantee strong legs, good lungs, and an enviable VO2 max. And I was strong, healthy, with nicely toned muscles, and as slender as I could wish (though admittedly so geeky that it rather took the edge off these advantages.)

The trouble started in earnest in second-year university. As a competitive swimmer, and later as a runner, when I was bored or anxious, food was my drug of choice. Fortunately, I wasn't a particularly bad offender at the time, and since it didn't affect my waistline, it seemed perfectly harmless.

Then, on a three-month trip to Germany just before second-year university, I gained thirty(!) pounds. I defy most people to manage a weight gain like mine in so little time. Those months were three of the longest I've ever spent, not because of the family I stayed with, which was magnificent, but because I was alone with my thoughts.

Until then, I'd been able to shut out disagreeable thoughts about my sexuality. It was hard work, but doable, especially when I could distract myself with school, athletics, family and friends. In the northern German countryside, there were far fewer convenient distractions. The thoughts I'd kept at bay for so long
burst out of the proverbial closet door, menacing, malfeasant, and intractable. They ignored all hints, all remonstrances, all direct injunctions to go away and leave me in peace.

The fact is, I was prone to falling for women and ruthlessly distanced any guy who had the misfortune to show signs of interest in me. Realizing what this meant hurt. Badly. So badly that I wanted to die. I felt dirty, dangerous and utterly demoralized. How would I going to make it through all the lonely years ahead? How would I hide my secret so that no one would ever guess the truth? What were the chances I could get through life without ever falling in love again?

Alcohol was off limits, as were means of immediate relief of the lethal variety. This left one refuge: the fridge. In the three months I stayed with my kindly German family, I polished off pounds of cheese, cake, cream, bread and butter. Day after day, I snuck into the pantry and quietly opened the fridge door, looking for treats to soothe away my pain and guilt.

As you can imagine, it didn't take long for the results of my fridge forays, combined with a suddenly more sedentary lifestyle, to show. My clothes grew uncomfortably tight, my complexion changed, and I felt simply awful inside and out. Worst of all, I seemed to have lost all self control where food was concerned. I was always hungry because my insides always hurt, and food seemed to be the only thing that made the ache go away. And that's how binge eating disorder (B.E.D.) began for me.

Why am I telling you this story? Because many, many people suffer from B.E.D., and don't know what it is. Because I know how much hurt has to do with B.E.D., and that healing this disorder begins with accepting and loving yourself. Because before I explain how you can change your eating and thinking habits to beat it, I want you to recognize yourself and know that you're not alone.