I often try to look back at the precise moment I began to fear food.
The first time I had that intolerable discomfort, that gut-wrenching fullness.
The very moment that I learned there is no comfort in eating.
In that instant, my relationship with food was tarnished.
My body, once my friend, was no longer. It was unpredictable. It didn’t work.
My body wouldn’t do the simple tasks that most people take for granted.
I felt alone.
Endless medical tests, probing, invasion.
No answers. No hope.
I tuned out of my body, and drowned in my solitude.
I had to survive in a world where food was the source of connection, of love, of joy.
I faked my love for food. I talked a lot about food.
The only person I was fooling was me.
Over time, food became something to avoid entirely.
To me, the answer had become simple: if food hurts me, eat less.
As the food became lesser, so did my body, my sense of self, my will to thrive.
There is solace in hitting rock bottom; there is comfort in feeling powerless.
I wanted to be free of responsibility.
I wanted to be free of pain.
I wanted to be free of me.
I was drowning in a sea of rage.
I blamed myself. I blamed the world. I blamed whatever version of God might listen.
I had come to believe that my illness was my fault.
Somewhere deep down, I did not believe I was deserving of more.
I often try to look back at the precise moment I saw potential for change.
The first time I believed in myself. The first time I whispered, “I want more.”
The very moment I began my fight.
In that instant, I began to be me.
Learn more about Crohn’s disease here.
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Assitant Ed: Judith Andersson/Ed: Bryonie Wise