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For well over a decade, I have been dealing with relentless digestive issues that seemed to have no clear cause. Countless visits with doctors, specialists, too many procedures to count, blood tests, stool tests, restrictive diets, medications, trial and error treatments, and THOUSANDS in medical debt – all just to push antidepressants and tell me I don’t drink enough water – which is kinda true… The frustration of feeling unheard and the exhaustion and fear of never knowing how my body would react to even the simplest food, has taken a huge toll on my physical and mental well-being.

I seemed to have always been naturally anxious as a child and struggled to feel comfortable around anyone I didn’t fully trust. I can vividly remember my first panic attack – the overwhelming terror that came without warning or reason – as panic attacks do. Experiencing such intense fear at a young age was both confusing and isolating. Anxiety and panic are often debilitating and difficult to explain but, for me, they became an unpredictable part of my reality and they still fuck with me to this day. It’s most frustrating when I can completely acknowledge an episode of anxiety and/or panic and still allow it to get me to a point of what seems like no return. I always come out of it but in that moment, I feel like I never will. Unfortunately for me, eating makes me incredibly anxious.

Food has always been an enemy of mine for many reasons. Actually, eating is my enemy. I love food. It mostly tastes great, it can be fun to make – although my husband is the chef in the house – and depending on where you go, it can be a true work of art.

As I’m sitting here writing this, I can feel my chest tighten as I get to the part of the story that I really don’t like sharing. I’m frustrated because it’s ridiculous that something as necessary as food and eating can make me feel this way or send me into what sometimes feels like complete dread. But, what’s a story without the most important key player? I have a crippling fear of vomiting which dictates my every move – to this day. This phobia deteriorates anything good in my life, overshadowing moments of joy, fueling obsessive compulsive habits, and serving as the core of my anxieties and disdain for eating. It’s a constant presence in my mind, shaping my decisions and limiting my sense of control that, at 30, I am still actively trying to obtain since I don’t think I’ve ever had it.

I’ll skip the hard part for now and jump to a time where food didn’t scare me as much – when it probably should have. This was a height of processed snacks and fast food galore.

I remember the first time I had Taco Bell. After one hard shelled taco I was completely mind blown with how good it was. I had my mom go back through the drive thru at least two more times to get more. Somehow, I engorged myself with 4 or 5 tacos and it was wonderful; no care in the world, just delicious tacos. Oh, and Doritos; Nacho Cheese Doritos. I could kill a bag easily with no regrets.

In freshman year of high school, I was part of the FFA. I couldn’t tell you what my part was or what that really meant other than hanging out with friends and not doing anything academic or important. We’d leave campus for FFA events or fundraisers – geez, I really can’t remember what we did… Anyway, on the way back from somewhere far away, we stopped at In-n-Out. I was dared, pushed, or maybe even volunteered to eat a 4×4, an order of fries, and a chocolate shake in the van on the way back home. And against everything I ever knew, I did it and I felt horrible. What’s most interesting about this very hazy memory is that I don’t think it scared me when it very well should have. Because if any type of eating would make me sick – it would have be this.

I had a turning point somewhere along the way where food and I didn’t get along again. I wish I had a better understanding as to why I was able to eat more freely and without terror at times. I do remember always feeling some sort of discomfort like acid reflux or just a general ick, and sometimes it was partnered with anxiety and sometimes it wasn’t.

Over time, I became a pro at not eating; effortlessly lying about meals I never had. Skipping food felt easier than facing the anxiety that came with it, and I learned how to make my avoidance seem unnoticeable; pushing food around my plate, spitting into napkins when no one was looking, making excuses, or claiming I had already eaten. Safe foods became an unhealthy comfort and offered little to no nourishment. My world of food became smaller and smaller, but in my mind, control over what I ate meant controlling my fears. The idea of harming my body consciously, wasn’t the idea at all. It wasn’t a body imagine concern, although it eventually became one. I just simply didn’t want to be sick.

Little did I know that subconsciously, I was making myself sicker than I could ever imagine.

My safe foods rarely change – bland is best to minimize the chances of making me sick. At my worst, while juggling a full clientele and managing the barber salon, my routine became pretty rigid. A block down from the shop was a cafe that we all visited throughout the day to either escape the client madness for a second or to get more caffeine. The cafe owners expected our patronage as we all became frequent flyers. Every morning, they would have a croissant and a hot ginger peach tea waiting for me. That single croissant and tea carried me through 10-hour shifts, with only a few fainting spells in between. If my blood sugar couldn’t hang anymore or keep me vertical, I’d have clients bring me another tea and croissant. I’d purposefully drop combs for an excuse to run to the back to try compose myself. I kept this up for far too long – I looked awful and I felt even worse.

I did have good days; mostly when the shop was slow and the stress died down. We would collectively order from local restaurants and eat something a lot more substantial than a croissant. It always tasted great but would still leave me in a panic. At that point, I’d disappear into the office and lose my shit for a bit.

The era of the tea and croissant was about 9 years ago and a lot has changed. My eating habits are much healthier but still far too little to provide adequate nourishment. As I mentioned, the years of disordered eating has left me with a plethora of health issues that I’ve been actively trying to understand and heal. It’s been terribly challenging and makes for what seems to be an endless search of how to feel better. In just the last month or so, I’ve made a lot of progress and remain hopeful in some kind of outcome. In the meantime, I’ve learned to dig a giant hole and drop my expectations right into it.

I find social media to be overflowing with garbage information. However, I have found a small community of people that share similar health journeys and have inspired me to keep advocating for my own. In my experience, doctors tend to do the bare minimum until you’re on your hands and knees – begging, especially when they see an eating disorder on my record.

You are under weight – you have to eat three balanced meals a day and drink half of your body weight in water.

Yes, I know and I get that. I’ve worked really hard to try and take care of the anxious and obsessive thoughts but unfortunately, my body was severely damaged along the way and eating has become painful. I need help fixing it. Meds are so easily pushed without definitive diagnosis and I think that’s ridiculous. Believe me, interim symptom management can be completely necessary but why does it always stop there? Take these meds – if they don’t work – double your dose – if that doesn’t work – here’s another – but, I can’t tell you what’s wrong with you.

I’m not a doctor, nor do I want to be. The complexities of the human body are beyond me but at this point, I have to do my own deep dives and rule everything out. It’s no secret that women have long struggled to receive adequate healthcare, often forcing us to take matters into our own hands. It took me going on Reddit, reading endless stories of symptoms, treatments, supplements, reading medical studies, reaching out to functional doctors, nutritionists, and more – all of it to then TELL my doctor to order certain tests and guess what – I have a diagnosis that completely explains what I’ve been going through.

So, here I am, reading labels and making my own food from scratch to try and heal my body from the inside out. I’m reading about all of these fad diets that may or may not work; carnivore, vegan, paleo, keto, low-FODMAP, to which I say: WHAT THE FUCK?! Influencers are quick to influence the next cure all supplement or diet. Most will jump on the bandwagon – and I’ve jumped on a few to then jump right off – because I just want relief. It is up to me to educate myself on me and what my body needs to functional properly. I don’t expect to ever feel 100%, especially in a world that won’t let you. I do expect to feel okay and eat without fear. Until then, you can keep your processed garbage and inflammatory foods while I make my homemade sourdough, granola, juices, and utilize the most natural ingredients I can possibly find. Read the labels – know what is in your food and where it came from!

It’s going to take time, more trial and errors, but now I’m less negative about prioritizing my health and look forward to feeling better.

E