My turbulent relationship with food began when I was an infant. The
story, as my mother told it, was that she was unable to nurse and had zero
support with breastfeeding (not unusual for the late 60s). The pediatrician
told her to put me on a formula feeding schedule, and to stick to it, no matter
how much I cried.
Some variation of a schedule continued throughout childhood.
Mealtime was when I was to eat, hungry or not. If it wasn’t mealtime, there was
to be no eating, lest it spoil my appetite. I learned early that the availability
of food depended on the clock, not on a sense of hunger, which I was feeling
less and less.
Growing up in a family with chaos and often violence, and no
boundaries whatsoever, I often felt like I had no control over what happened to
me. And then I discovered as a teenager that I could control how much food I
ate. Or didn’t. And I discovered that starving myself gave me a kind of
emotional high, a temporary feeling of power that was intoxicating. By the time
I graduated from high school, I weighed less than 90 pounds, and I was thinking
that 75 was a nice number to shoot for.
Dieting was a common thing, growing up. My mother was frequently
trying one diet or another. She had these “candies” called Ayds (pronounced aids)
that I would sometimes sneak out of the pantry when I was really hungry. They didn’t
taste great, but they stopped my stomach from hurting.
In college, eating was a when-I-have-time event, folded around
writing papers and going to classes. In my junior year of college, in 1989, I
was eight miles from the epicenter of the Loma Prieta earthquake—the one that disrupted
the World Series, broke part of the Bay Bridge, and collapsed a double-decker
freeway in Oakland, killing quite a few people. We had so many aftershocks, I
was terrified to cook in my apartment kitchen. We had no running water and no
electricity for a couple of weeks. I survived on ready-to-eat snacks. I didn’t
realize then that trauma is cumulative, and that the trauma I survived as a
child meant that the earthquake trauma was that much worse for me.
After I got into therapy in the early 90s, as I began to deal with all
that had happened and how it affected my current life, I was put on antidepressants.
They helped with the suicidal thoughts (which I’d had—and acted on—since I was
sixteen), but they also caused massive food cravings and weight gain. I gained 70
pounds within a year.
During the next ten years, I struggled with infertility. Most
doctors blamed my weight. One doctor actually ran tests, and we discovered that
I ovulated—at best—twice a year. My hormones were out of whack. I had too much
cortisol, too much testosterone, and wildly fluctuating levels of estrogen. I
added these to the reasons I hated myself. My weight continued to increase.
In 2000, the stars aligned and I got pregnant. It was, early on, a
high-risk pregnancy. My blood pressure was too high, then my blood sugar
spiraled out of control. I was on bed rest for half the pregnancy. I had hyperemesis
gravidarum, a fancy term for morning/noon/night sickness, that lasted seven
months. The only things I could keep down were Welch’s 100% juice grape popsicles
and Betty Crocker Potato Buds instant mashed potatoes. I was on insulin until
the baby was born, when my blood pressure and blood sugar returned to normal.
I got pregnant a second time, only instead of high blood sugar
showing up at thirty-two weeks, it showed up in the fourteenth week. Four years
later, I got pregnant a third time, and developed gestational diabetes 48 hours
after I took a home pregnancy test, somewhere around five weeks pregnant. That
baby was stillborn at five months. A few months later, I was diagnosed with
fibrmyalgia.
In each of my pregnancies, because of the gestational diabetes, I
was put on a “diabetes diet” for pregnant women. Once again, I was eating based
on the clock, as well as counting carbohydrate grams and testing my blood
sugar. I learned what my body liked and what made my blood sugar soar. After
our daughter was stillborn, I gave up the diet. I figured I didn’t need it
anymore and I was busy with a toddler and a preschooler and running a new
publishing company.
In 2009, I tried a low-carb diet. I lost thirty-seven pounds in
nine months, had a lot more energy, but wasn’t able to sustain it. It’s hard to
eat so differently from everyone else. I already knew that, keeping kosher, but
within my own home, at the dining table, it was harder still, watching everyone
else eat bread and potatoes and I was stuck with a salad and a bland chicken
breast.
Fast-forward nearly ten years. I’ve been working with a life coach
for four years, doing in-depth healing for nearly as long, and in EMDR (eye
movement desensitization and reprocessing) for trauma therapy for two years. I fully
accepted that the loving people I’d been able to see and hear since I was three
years old—but no one else could—were my spirit guides, and when I stopped
arguing with them and really started listening and acting on what they said, my
life got better still. My therapists had questions for my guides, and were impressed
with the answers. They jokingly said that with guides like these, therapists
weren’t necessary. (They are. Sometimes I learn best from people “with skin on.”)
I healed enough emotionally and spiritually that it was time to
look at my physical health. I was about a hundred pounds overweight, if I went
by numbers alone. I hated to count things (carbs, points, calories) and I hated
the sense of deprivation I felt on a “diet.”
I took a year-long class on intuitive eating, based on the book by
the same name. I learned how to not base my eating on a clock. I learned for
the first time what hunger felt like. I learned to honor my body.
But I still felt unwell. I had frequent fibromyalgia episodes,
depressions, panic attacks, and debilitating fatigue. An author friend posted
about eating a keto diet, and recommended the movie Cereal Killers. I
watched it and was inspired. So I did something that had not occurred to me to
do earlier: I asked my guides for advice on how/what to eat, and if this way of
eating would help me. They were immediately forthcoming.
Don’t eat, they said, the following:
• Wheat
• Oats
• Rye
• Barley
• Spelt
• Sugar
• Artificial sweeteners (aspartame, sucralose)
• High glycemic-index fruits (oranges, bananas)
• Most beans
• Most root vegetables (potatoes, carrots)
• Most starchy vegetables (corn, peas)
Oh, I said. So, like year-round Passover, but without the matzah or
sugar?
Do eat, they said:
• Fish (no shellfish)
• Poultry (with skin)
• Beef (in moderate amounts, and grass-fed, pasture-raised,
antibiotic-free wherever possible)
• Green leafy vegetables
• Berries
• Avocados & guacamole
• Eggs
• Nuts
• Seeds
• Plain, whole-fat yogurt
• Cheese
• Natural sweeteners (stevia, erythritol) in moderation
My Passover comment came back around when I started eating this way
and within less than a week, experienced exponentially more energy, less pain,
better mood, and a disappearance of my cravings. I realized that every year during
Passover, I felt much the same way. I always figured it was because I liked the
holiday: the special dishes, special recipes, eating at home. Now I realized while
those might have been true, the real reason for my increased joy and energy was
because of what I was eating.
I began this way of eating in early May 2018. I found a
never-before-felt passion for cooking and low-carb/keto recipes. My guides told
me not to worry about counting anything. This wasn’t about maintaining specific
macronutrient numbers (as in a strict ketogenic diet). This was about eating
food that nourished me and testing other foods to see how my body responded to
them. I was to continue my intuitive eating—eating when I was hungry, not
eating when I wasn’t, no matter what the clock said.
Within five months, I’d released an unnecessary thirty pounds. (I
no longer refer to “losing” weight. It’s not misplaced and I don’t want anyone finding
it and returning it to me.) I felt better than I have in…probably decades.
And then came my first real test.
Within the space of a month, I attended two conventions and a
multi-day training workshop, involving flights to both Vancouver and Los
Angeles. At first, I was careful about what I ate, despite what I perceived as
limited options. But “just a taste” of one food became “just a serving” and
then “just a meal.” I continued to test my blood sugar, and was amazed that my
body didn’t respond adversely to a small piece of cheesecake and some rice with
my chicken. Maybe this meant I could loosen up a bit?
No. It did not. Just a small amount of wheat, and then oats another
time, sent my body into a painful spiral. For days at a time, living out of a
hotel, I was eating at restaurants, not all of which were keto-friendly. Several
times, I chose being with new and old friends over eating at a restaurant that
would support my way of eating. And because I didn’t value myself enough, I put
their restaurant preferences over mine. I didn’t advocate for myself, and they
never knew that I was going to pay with physical pain for eating with them at
that restaurant.
That was a disservice both to me and to them.
Once I returned from Los Angeles, my final trip for a while, it
took me three weeks to finally get over the carb cravings, regain my energy,
and stabilize my mood. That was a painful lesson in making my needs important.
I realized that I was also looking at my way of eating with some
judgment. I was looking at it the way my mother looked at my keeping kosher—as being
a “picky eater.” She had nothing nice to say about my keeping kosher, or eating
anything different from her, for that matter. If it inconvenienced her, it
was unacceptable.
I was expecting everyone else to see my way of eating as a choice,
something I could simply choose not to do when it might impact others. I
never checked that out with them, but knowing them as I do, and taking my own
judgments and pain out of the equation, they would have absolutely supported my
way of eating, up to and including going to a different restaurant.
Then I read a book about eating an anti-inflammatory diet. Recent
studies have strongly indicated that fibromyalgia (along with depression, bipolar,
and possibly chronic fatigue, among others) is caused by neuroinflammation in
the brain. Reducing inflammation in the body (and brain) by eating foods that
are anti-inflammatory and avoiding foods that cause inflammation can
drastically reduce symptoms.
How interesting that my modified-keto/no sugar way of eating is
nearly identical to an anti-inflammatory diet. The only difference is that the
anti-inflammatory diet has more carbs—mostly from beans, rice, and root
vegetables—than I can safely eat, given my blood sugar.
My brain latched onto this: now I can tell people that I’m eating
an anti-inflammatory diet for my health, and then it’s not a choice!
My guides shook their metaphorical heads. Why must I defend what I
eat based on an assumption of others’ judgment? they asked. Why is it not
enough for me to say that I eat what supports and nourishes my body? Why do I
feel the need to explain that I regularly test my blood sugar to keep close
tabs on what carbs I can and cannot eat?
Oh.
Here is another area where the lesson I learned well in childhood—that
others’ opinions matter more than mine—continues to play out in adulthood. The
wounded child is certain that friends would choose their preferred restaurant
over eating with me, thus proving my low self-worth, proving that I don’t
matter.
The reality is, any friend who would value their choice of
restaurant over eating with me is not truly a friend. It’s better that I not go
to lunch with these people. There are plenty of people who want the best for
me, who do believe I matter, and that what I need to support my physical
health also matters. There are plenty of those people. Even when the
hurt child within doesn’t think they exist.
We women are conditioned to play to others’ preferences and
interests, even to the detriment of our own. And anyone who believes deep down
that they don’t matter has it even worse. But your health does matter. My
health matters. We matter.
And now I’m going to go own that while eating my keto-friendly
lunch.
