Cole Kazdin - Whats Eating Us: Women, Food, and the Epidemic of Body Anxiety

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For my family

And for every woman with a bodyits not

in our heads, and were not alone

I would not at all be surprised if Im this ninety-year-old badass woman whos done a lot of good things and is still, like, Ill just have a quarter of a cookie.

GLENNON DOYLE

Let me see if theres anything here I can eat.

My friend Lex flashes a smile, then turns her attention to the menu with the focus of a World War II code breaker. Oh, good, salmon, I could do that, she flips the page. I lean back in the wooden booth across from her, quietshe needs to concentrate. Besides, I arrived early and already know what I want. Its an Italian restaurant, so Im getting pasta and for five fucking minutes letting myself enjoy a weekend lunch without thinking about gluten or oil or whatever the next terrible thing is. I took a rideshare so I could have a midday glass of wine and not worry about driving. This is one of my favorite spots in Los Angeles, especially at two oclock on a Sunday, virtually empty, all the brunchers gone. Nothing fancy, just delicious, simple food. Sky-high ceilings, a bartender whos very attractive once he stops talking about his acting career. At night, they project Fellini films on the giant blank wall above the windows; beginner language tapes play on a loop in the bathrooms. Buongiorno. Grazie. Io voglio la pasta .

But Lex doesnt vuole la pasta . Shes explaining her new diet to me and then, in detail, to our server, who just wants to take our order and get back to flirting with the bartender (you really have a small window before he starts up again about his last audition). Lex describes the book she ordered from Amazon thats arriving today, the friend who lost weight on this very same diet. After the server leaves, Lex catches herself and apologizes, remembering who shes talking to: me. I know, I know, she says. Knows that I was anorexic and bulimic on and off for years before we met, that Im mostly, but not all, better, that Im doing my very best not to ruminate about food and my body to a point where it runs my life, but who are we kidding; doing my very best is the operative phrase here. Some days I feel like Im winning, meaning that the critical voice in my head quiets. Or at least Im able to override it, listening to my body instead. Winning means if Im tired, I may walk around the block instead of forcing myself through an hour of weights and circuit training at the gym. Or make a lunch date with a friend and decide ahead of time that Ill enjoy my favorite pasta and not feel bad about it.

My mental scaffolding is delicate, though, and it doesnt take much to crumble and return to those past, disordered feelings. That voice isnt just inside my head. Its everywhere. In the car on the way here, radio spots for diet apps ( Et tu, NPR?). Billboards with false promises of new workouts. I avoid social media, carefully curating my Instagram feed to close friends and Lizzo, but, still, images squeak through reminding me that I could be thinner (better!) if only I applied myself.

Its Lexs voice, too. This very moment. Shes listing foods shes allowed to eat, and half of me silently curses her, but the other half wonders if maybe I should order that book, too? Because according to herit works! Plus, my mom just told me I look like Ive gained weight, she adds. And not that it matters, but let me take a moment to say that Lex has not gained weight. Shes a tall, blond, thoroughbred mare, the type that velvet-rope gatekeepers say Right this way! to instead of Er, may I help you? as they often do to me.

In the booth behind us are two men chatting about some IPO, and Im thinking that if we werent talking about protein, maybe we could eavesdrop and get some hot stock tip and be billionaires. I say this to Lex and she agrees. Youre right, Im so fucking tired of thinking about this shit, and then her salmon arrives and she eats half.

Her daughter, home from college, picks her up, and they offer me a ride. Your book, she hands over the Amazon package to her mom. Ooh! Lex rips it open, the daughter rolls her eyes and then catches me for a split-second in the rearview mirror, knowing my history. Lex closes the book in her lap. We were just talking about how stupid this is. She clarifies, though, that this isnt a diet. Its about health, feeling better. Even though the word diet is in the title of the book.

Id only had one glass of wine, but my head is swirling, and once Im home, I go online to check out the book for myself. Lose weight. Balance hormones. Boost brain health. In twenty-eight days! Yes to that, right? I add it to my cart, delete it from my cart, then close my laptop and scan the room. Im alone. I cant put my finger on why, but I feel like shit, and for the first time in a long time, I want to go to the bathroom and make myself throw up lunch.

I forget if I did or not. This would seem like an important detail to remember. But in my memory, what stands out is the inescapable feeling: You are out of control. Do something.

I used to be so good at this, I tell myself. And by this, I mean having a feeling of command over my body and my weight. In the old days, I could drop five pounds in a week, easily. And by easily, I mean: with my eating disorder.

You look amazing! friends and coworkers gushed constantly back then. Whats your secret?

Heres the secret: Starving. Throwing up. Exercising compulsively. I never said that, of course. Id just beam with pride, laughing it off as if I were one of those people who could eat anything she wanted and not gain a pound (Do those people actually exist? Has one ever been spotted in the wild?).

Now, over a decade out of treatment, Im recovered. Ish. I no longer starve myself or make myself throw up. But I still think about ways to be thinner, even if I dont always act on it. Sometimes I do. Starting a new, demanding workout regimen, or restricting food, replaying last nights dinner in my mind like a pro athlete after a loss: What could I have done differently? How can I do better next time?

My recovery is apparently so fragile that lunch with a dieting friend sends me into a tailspin. Its difficult to imagine a world where Im not thinking about food or my body, where Im not wanting to change it in some way or fighting against those feelings. If I applied all that time and focus elsewhere, I could have learned Italian. And Japanese. And quantum entanglement. And World War II code breaking. But my eating disorder never left. Its always there, lying in wait like a trained assassin.

An actual assassin.

Eating disorders have the second highest mortality rate of any mental illness, at this writing, neck and neck with opioid deaths (the two illnesses vie for first place, depending on the day), yet we dont talk about eating disorders nearly as much or in the same way as we do the opioid crisis.

I dont want to be still consumed with weight when Im seventy. But when I was in my twenties, I told myself that I didnt want to be consumed with this shit when I was forty. And yet here I am.