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My Abusive Relationship
So I took each bite off the Oreo ice-cream bar with anger, agitation, and awareness, as if I were making a statement. The Asian guy sitting next to me at the computer booth had a huge cup of cookies and cream flavored Häagen-Dazs on the desk. I almost wanted to cheer with him to the sheer coincidence. I even phrased a legitimate reason to combat those who might quarrel: that ice-cream melts slower in a snowy weather.
The past few days haven’t been well. I was inundated by an overwhelming desire to shop. Binge ate a couple of times, well, four times to be exact—I recorded all I ate on notes on my iPhone, tagged those days as “BAD”. I didn’t have my laptop with me this afternoon, so instead of writing my history short response, which I missed one lecture in the morning, I opted for a box of fries, with pico and queso sauce. They weren’t that satisfying, a little over-fried. So I walked to the opposite counter to get some roasted rosemary chicken that I had my eyes on long before, when I was waiting for my fries. The black woman asked me if I wanted leg or some whatever else part. I said legs please but she gave me an apparently less appealing one, which made me quite peevish eating them. I definitely wasn’t ravenous after the fries, but I must looked so, or I believed I looked so, with all the pieces falling off upon my plaid shirt. So I didn’t look up and say hi to someone I know coming to sit at the next table; instead I just randomly grabbed a stack of napkins and hurriedly searched and met the fallen meat on me. I tore that chunk of meat off with skin, chewed or not, swallowed, then munched on the no longer crispy croutons with a forkful of Caesar salad.
No eye contact with people the whole time, just with the food. Not even with the food, just at my phone screen.
The point of emotional eating is not about eating anymore. It’s about a form of expression, a release of propellants, a mere sensual interaction between your tongue, your nose, your eyes, and the other to-be-consumed being, your captive, the submissive. The food is your love-and-hate mate, you are stuck with each other through cycles over cycles of torture and hatred. It is vicious and you know it, you resent and shame upon yourself every time after you calm down, when the trigger was appeased. Overall you two just know each other too damn well.
