I ended my relationship with my best friend Ed this month. I believe we were 33 years in at this point, give or take a few minor break ups and moments of sanity. Never did they leave me. No, it’s always been me that has recognized the toxicity of our relationship and solemnly swore to leave forever, and yet, I’ve continued to find my way back. So, this time may just as well turn out the same way. We’ve been down this road before, me throwing away reminders of the partnership, finding questionable substitutes, and hiding my jittery nature with long walks.

Hi, I am an addict and have an eating disorder.

As far as eating disorders go, Binge Eating Disorder (BED) is a relatively new addition to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Those of us afflicted used to be classified EDNOS, or ED Not Otherwise Specified. I used to tell myself the “NOS” gave me some street cred among the Anas and Mias I idolized; I rationalized the NOS made my disordered habits a delightful mystery (about as much mystery an obese 19 year old could command, at least).

BED is all about an overconsumption of food with no compensatory behaviors to undo the damage (i.e. we don’t eat and yeet). We lose control at the first bite. We solemnly swear to ourselves that we are committed to eating this/not eating that/fasting/eating tiny meals all day/capping our daily calorie limits, only to be undone without a moments notice. My body often bore the ugly scars of the disorder, from bloated mornings to angry stretch marks clawing down my sides, soliciting weight loss advice with each red-striped peak from under a shirt. A common (though not necessary) side affect of compulsive overeating is obesity - I managed to meet that threshold by age 19, about a year after getting sober from drugs and alcohol. Seems like I replaced drugs with hugs and a caloric intake of an Olympian.

Getting sober from drugs and alcohol was child’s play compared to drying out from binge eating. The first time I tried, I had full on withdrawals, flu-like symptoms and all. I cried, I hurt, I paced the floor of my home, staring at my roommates’ food, now off limits. Over time, I managed to release the weight and rest at a normal weight for my height, but the insanity was still there: a goal weight achieved means I’m cured, right?

Fact: Cured is reserved for meats, not addicts.

Now known as formerly obese, with my friends and family proud of my achievement (She’s not fat anymore!), my ego couldn’t let me return to that place again. But, as an addict, justifying behaviors and controlling how others see me is a relapse’s bread and butter (and I fucking love both). As any other food addict does, I began justifying extra amounts of moderately healthy food and shuffling around the rest of my meals to accommodate the extra intake. A little binge sandwiched in a week of portioned out eating does not return one to an obese state, and it was easy to justify these little slips because they resembled the habits of a normal eater. Who doesn’t like a quiet night of eating Doritos in bed? Plus, I actually go to the gym and enjoy walks, so it’s fine.

Narrator: She was not fine.

Fast forward five years to the present: Two years of economic insecurity at work, major home repairs draining the accounts, and a deeply depressed spouse led me right back to straight up binge eating. The crazy part was that I wasn’t even binging on delicious, savory, foods. One of my last binges included two small bags of chips, the rest of the “grain free” (#health) granola, and old crackers (not grain free). I physically couldn’t stop eating once I started. I still dont know what the trigger was, but I knew I was in trouble. Thoughts of purging, a habit I once did for a hot minute back in 2005, surfaced weekly, sometimes daily. The shame spiral was growing. But the reality was that I was only 15 pounds heavier than my goal weight, so the justifications and rationalizations to continue forward with the insanity were so goddamn hard to refuse.

Deep in my heart, I knew that 15 pounds was just the beginning, and if I didn’t seek help again, I would either be back in obesity territory (and with that, a return to being pre-diabetic and pre-hypertensive at a minimum), or begin the shittiest love affair with bulimia.

So here I am. Weighing and measuring my food. Emailing a food sponsor my meals for the day and committing to them in advance. Doing step work.

The hardest part is retraining my brain to see the work I’m doing as recovery, not a diet. Taking each day one meal at a time, sometimes one hour at a time in between meals. My heaviest security blanket has been lifted. There’s some relief in knowing I don’t have to spiral out again, and I have concrete examples of how controlled binging, sneaking food, and compensating with exercise does not work for me. I hope I don’t forget how awful it feels to dry out again.

I’m 14 years sober, and I feel like I’m starting all over again. This is recovery.