How I Healed My Relationship with Food- Pt. 2
As I said before, my name is Michelle, and I am a recovering food addict. (Hi, Michelle.) Until a couple years ago, I had a lifelong, unhealthy relationship with food. To read more about my struggles, check out this post.
The day that all changed was March 13, 2020.
Earlier that week, we had made the tough decision to pull our children out of school, as fear of a new virus swept the community. But that Friday the 13th, I was working in the classroom anyway, without them. There were only eight students present that day, attentively listening to a story when the teacher’s phone began vibrating over and over again on the table nearby. I pulled my own phone out of my pocket. An alert in ALL CAPS screamed: All schools in the county would be closed for two weeks. When the final bell rang- the last bell I would hear at our school for almost two years- I immediately headed to the grocery store. The store was surprisingly busy, and there was an undeniable energy of fear and panic. I grabbed whatever I could think to grab- rice, peanut butter, cereal, eggs, bread. I knew I needed to get home as soon as possible. The fear response was powerful, and I could feel my body tensing up, feel the cortisol being released, feel my heart pounding. When I got back to the car, I started crying. I didn’t know why I was so scared, why I was having such a dramatic response in this one moment, but I let the tears come so that I could get it over with and be calm for my kids when I got home.
Even if you don’t live in California, you may remember what came next. Santa Clara County’s “claim to fame” was that we were the first to shutter schools, and they remained closed or partially closed for about 17 months. Overnight, I became my children’s teacher, sports coach, therapist, and what I affectionately call “cruise director”. At first, we tried to keep the atmosphere fun and light. We had family movies nearly every night, complete with pillow fort, popcorn, and movie theatre candy. We joined the nation in online baking events, we perfected our bread techniques, and I finally learned how to actually, truly cook. Whatever we did, the highlight of our day usually involved food, glorious food.
All the while, I kept my true feelings, the fear and anxiety I felt about what was happening in the world, very close to my chest. My job was to assure my family that everything was going to be okay. I stuffed my emotions down my throat and into my stomach, along with plenty of buttery popcorn, soda, and Milk Duds. Remember my late night trysts with Old McDonald? Those sneaky little meet-ups were hard to maintain during Deep Covid. I switched to Starbucks, in the morning, to appear more normal and avoid detection. Remember the 60 extra pounds I told you about? About half of that weight was gained during this time. So much eating, so little movement. Eventually, as our new reality began to stabilize, I knew I needed to do something about what was happening to my body. Like many of my neighbors, I started to walk, every day, up and down the streets of San Jose.
It was on one of those walks that Point B finally became more visible on the horizon, in a very unexpected way. That summer afternoon, I was casually strolling, enjoying the neighborhood flowers, listening to a podcast, etc. when I suddenly became a character in one of the oldest cliches in the book. I stepped on a rusty nail. I stepped on a short, pointy, rusty nail that went through my shoe, and into my foot. In the twenty-first century. In 2020. Yes, that’s a thing you still have to watch out for, kids! After a while, I ended up in the place I feared the most during Covid- the hospital emergency room. I braved it out, got my medication, and settled back in at home. I kept telling myself, “This is fine. This is all fine.”
Narrator: It was actually not fine.
Around 11:00 that night, while watching television with my foot elevated, I realized something was not right in my body. I could taste metal in my mouth, and started feeling an intense, profound feeling of dread. My heart began pounding at nearly 200 beats per minute (thanks, Apple Watch) and never stopped. My throat closed up, and I began taking deep, choking breaths to try to get air into my lungs. I assumed I was having a heart attack, and my sweet, frightened husband frantically drove me (back) to the hospital. On the ride, I told him that I was sorry, that I didn’t mean for this to happen, that I didn’t want to leave him this way. I told him I loved him, and to tell the kids I loved them. I knew that I was dying. I passed out.
I was revived only a few moments later, and after we rocketed into the hospital loading zone, the emergency staff quickly began assessing me to figure out what was going on. I was trembling so hard, I couldn’t stay still for their monitoring instruments. Eventually, they realized that, hey, this woman is actually not dying! The next obvious option was that I was faking my symptoms, was actually seeking drugs, and needed to be treated as such. (Kaiser Permanente- Five Stars for Service!) I was crying, sweating, and begging them to keep me alive, to not leave me alone, when it finally clicked with a merciful, observant doctor. This was not a drug withdrawal, this was a panic attack. In a surprise twist, they gave me a lot of really good drugs after that.
Having a panic attack, a true, acute panic attack, was the realest, scariest thing that has ever happened to me. I woke up the next day a changed person. Over the weeks that followed, I did some soul searching, for really the first time in my life. How did this happen? I didn’t have anxiety. I’ve never had anxiety. Everything was fine! I was fine! Wasn’t I? I was a psychologist; how could I be so blind to my feelings that I could be caught off guard by a panic attack? Answers were starting to form, and I didn’t like where a lot of them seemed to lead.
But there it was, the truth.
I was completely out of touch with my mind, body, and soul.
This realization lit a fire under me that was fueled, in the beginning, by fear. I was afraid of what happened to me, afraid of the possibility of another major panic attack, another hospital visit during Covid, another traumatizing evening for my family. I would do literally anything to stop it from happening again. So, I did what I usually did in moments of uncertainty.
I began to read. I read everything I could about panic attacks, about the psychological mechanisms that were associated with them, about anxiety, about techniques to calm anxiety, about breathing, about meditation, about the nature of the brain and reality, about ALL OF IT. This self-help reading journey eventually led to another late night scrolling session on Amazon, where I found The Book That Changed Everything. (Check out this blog post to learn more about the book in question.) And the book that changed everything, led to what is commonly referred to as a spiritual awakening.
I promise I am getting very close to the part of the story where my relationship with food shifts, and the part of the story with some ideas for how your relationship with food could shift too. But blog writing happens to not be my current profession, and I need to attend to my actual J-O-B now!
To be continued…