I'm 100% serious about instagramming food, in case you took that as a lighthearted "stop being such a millennial lol!!" self-jab. No one who partakes in the Internet and social media is dumb enough to think that someone's social media presence = a 100% accurate representation of their life. Yet, I feel like I'm lying the most when I upload a photo or video of a yummy meal onto my Instagram Story (my most "active" platform, weirdly or not).
Here's the thing: eating fucking sucks — there I said it. But because eating is the most common form of ~social outing~, it's inevitable that I eat out. It's moreso the company I enjoy, but I still get sucked into showing off all the "drool-worthy" food I'm eating. Is it actually yummy? Sure. For the first five seconds. After that, every bite feels like the last mile of a marathon. I just feel nauseous. Disgusting. Like throwing up. Like I just finished an eating competition and feel like I could do without food for a long time...but after 1/4 of a meal. I try not to post permanent pictures of food on my Instagram at all. A rare exception to that is a recent compilation of my favorite food from my California trip, which included a casual-but-actually-quite-serious "I don't have the best relationship with food" note in the caption, if mostly to comfort myself and "justify" the post. Like, what? Tell me if that makes sense. It shouldn't.
Time to start going backwards in time because this is my blog and I can give context whenever I feel like it!!! In college, when my depression hit full force, I drowned myself in food and my unlimited dining plan. I couldn't say I didn't feel sick after each dining hall visit, but the sheer volume I ate proved I could at least physically stomach it. Now, you couldn't force-feed me a normal amount of food if you tried (also, don't you dare). And then I came back from a quarter abroad in Paris, the rest of junior year happened, and my appetite shrunk to mouse portions. Eating became a bothersome chore. I became dependent on frozen meals, preferably Lean Cuisine because I couldn't let myself go, oh no. From then on to now — almost four years later — it's remained the same. Going entire days eating one meal, feeling RAVENOUS only to stop eating and feel totally full after a few bites, boxing huge portions from a meal out — whatever the case it is on a particular day, it doesn't amount to much. Sometimes, it's just enough so I don't feel faint or to make my brain feel more grounded and like it has juice to run on.
I don't check my weight, except for a few times out of curiosity when there's actually a scale in my vicinity (aka my old roommate had one and there's one back home in Illinois), but now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure I weigh the same now as I did in high school, at my lightest ever. That's extremely weird to process. Me at 16 and me at 24...the same. The only time I went through a crazy diet and exercise phase was during junior year of high school when, despite the free school lunch I got thanks to my hardworking mom, I instead ate a measly salad (and you should understand that I despise 99% of all salads) with a few pieces of grilled chicken that, BECAUSE DRESSING IS SOOO FATTENING (**sarcasm**), I just dipped separately in ketchup. That's right, folks. Lettuce, grilled chicken, and ketchup. Minus most of the lettuce — because past Sarah hated lettuce just as much as present Sarah. ::upside down smiley emoji:: I'd leave lunch period basically starving and spend the remaining few periods thinking about the apple I'd make my mom peel and slice for me when I got home. I read labels (mostly calorie counts) more carefully than my required school readings. I actually took advantage of daily gym classes and pushed myself during cardio days, even though I fucking hated treadmills (and still do). During badminton season in the spring, I tried to eat as little snacks as possible, because there were plenty of them being passed around on the bus, during games and tournaments, etc.
The point is, that year was an anomaly. The year I actually cared about the ~health content~ of what I ate. The fact that I eat at all is a mountaintop climb-worthy feat nowadays. Despite that, I still occasionally feel fat/blubbery...at my very consistent 107-8 pounds (based on when I weighed myself last). Going home makes me happy because I do genuinely miss my mom's bomb-ass cooking, but I feel pressure to eat more than usual. Like my usual portions won't go unnoticed, which they don't, and which I try to explain without freaking out my always-food-first mom. I keep telling my parents (and everyone else, silently) that I'm not purposely restricting myself from food — that's the furthest from the truth. I just...can't eat enough most days. Instead, I shovel in (pretty unhealthy) food whenever my body absolutely can't go without it. The concerning part is not really how much I eat, but how sick and gross I feel when I should feel satisfied and happy. I'm constantly left wishing and hoping I had a normal appetite, but truth is, it's been too long for me to remember what that feels like and maybe I'm accustomed to this now.
I don't know what the purpose of this post is besides simply checking off something that's been weighing on my mind for the past few days. For the amount of time food has been a problem for me, I haven't really taken the time to record anything about it. So here it is, being open or whatever. Maybe one day my body will learn how to enjoy food again. It's not that dramatic but yes, it's still pretty concerning sometimes.
P.S. In my dismal drafts section there is a post titled "Food Poem" and it just says
"mental emptiness is magnified when i'm empty physically sdfjdlkfdkfjdfddfldflkdfjfdfeerieerewrerereeirjerkerjerwerdkfj"
LMAO who knows what I was thinking. A gem the world will never see.