I’m falling in love with food.

Yes it’s a sentence written by ex-bulimic.

One may wonder wasn’t life always about food? Oh, yes. It WAS.

I thought I liked food and I liked it too much. I mean I was thinking about it every moment. I was spending all my hard earned money on it. I was willing to drive 20 miles out of my way for my favorite snack. I was over the moon about food. I loved food. I really thought so. Boy I was wrong.

The connection between me and food was so close, deep and affectionate – it seemed like love. However it was not. It was some screwed, abused based relationship – sick passion with the trace of despair, emptiness and hearted for life.

I wanted out of this relationship. I wanted it to be over. Permanently.

But of course, I couldn’t give up eating altogether.

I knew I had to change my connection to eating somehow. Thus I thought I needed to start enjoying it less, not more!

WRONG. WRONG. WRONG.

As soon as I started recovery I ate crap. Some plain chicken breast with broccoli. Tuna inn brine. Fat free yogurt. I hated it.

Then again I had no idea how to fix my relationship with food.

One afternoon  while spending  time with my BF, after not seeing him for whole three days, I was thinking of how much I loved him, and how dear  the time that we were spending together was. Then it hit me:

I had never loved food. I had not actually liked it at all.

I mean when you love something, you spend time with it. You pay attention to it. You enjoy it. And although I thought incessantly about food, I used to consume meals as if they were stolen pleasures. As if I was not really allowed to have them, let alone had rollicking times eating them.

For me food was not allowed to be itself: a source of pleasure, joy, and nourishment. Instead, food was the middleman between feeling something I didn’t want to feel and numbing or distracting myself from feeling it. I did not eat for enjoyment, taste, or particular sensations, I ate for the effect the food had on me. Food was my drug of choice.