If I ate breakfast one day, I wasn't allowed to eat until lunch the next, and then dinner the following. With swollen cheeks, I feared blood on my toothbrush. It never felt as if I got "everything" out.
Lately, I feel that the way I've lived for years—in hyperconscious, hypervigilant awareness of everything I put in my mouth—no longer serves to quell my depression and anxiety. It actually exacerbates it.
My editors set out to humiliate me and make me physically ill by ordering me to go to an ice cream truck in Brooklyn and eat everything. I ended up face down in a gutter with sprinkles and ice cream allover my face and clothes.