This is a story about eating disorders, Dissociative Identity Disorder, disordered eating, and how I fixed my damaged relationship with food. Nothing graphic, but (unlike my garlic) I do not mince my words.
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I don’t have a microwave. Not since 2012.
When learning this, people usually respond with surprise, incredulity, and a touch of learned helplessness. They ask how I melt butter or re-warm leftovers; I tell them stovetop or oven, and, occasionally, toaster oven.
PeanutButter got rid of his when we moved in together, and neither of us miss it. In fact, when later encountering one in the office kitchen at work, I had no idea how to heat up my lunch.
"But, Motley, no microwave? Don’t you like convenience?"
Sure, I appreciate efficiency. But I had to fix my relationship with food, and that was the first step. A drastic step perhaps, but we’re no stranger to doing things differently. Or drastically. Or drastically differently.
Getting rid of my microwave got rid of instant gratification. Got rid of the ability to make an entire meal in less than five minutes. Made it harder to have seconds (or thirds, or fourths, etc.). It sutured the disconnect between my body, my mind, and my meals.
Let’s talk eating disorders, and disordered eating — both common in complex dissociative disorders and DID. Not gonna go deep into the subject as a whole, but I will give you a quick ’n’ dirty rundown of my own personal experience.
Disordered eating showed up young — some of it learned, conditioned, and engineered, and some of it my own attempts at control.
I was an average-sized child, but the collective snickers from my peers started in third grade. Pre-adolescence made me thick, toxic shame made me withdraw, and by my teens, I was easily overweight.
I started skipping meals at twelve. There was never enough time in the morning for breakfast anyway, and there was a legitimate fear of home-prepared lunches. The supper table was filled with mockery and bullying (and prods for seconds, thirds, fourths, etc.) so I’d hide in my room or stay out late enough to miss dinner.
The full-on eating disorder didn’t hit until my twenties, and I was bulimic for seven years.
It was something for which I never went into treatment, never disclosed to any therapist (though I did have it disclosed for me), and I never, ever shared it with anyone (except select online friends). This was my dirty, desirable secret, and I wasn’t going to let it get taken from me.
The fact that nobody knew became a source of pride and instigation, akin to my struggles with self-injury. And, looking back, that’s all this was, too.
I assumed I was in control, but different alters thought they were in control. We were waging an inner war with no idea how it started, with self-hating and punishment parts very prominent during this time.
Some alters would over-eat while some refused to take a bite, and different alters had different binging preferences and purging methods. Distant factions screamed at each other, each fighting to exert their will and desperation over the body. Any illusion of control quickly slipped away.
We knew something had to change.
Something drastic.
It helped to remove the convenience. Preheating trimmed away that pesky impulsivity. The more time, energy, and electricity spent preparing food, the less I would eat in both frequency and volume: a burrito is four minutes in the microwave, but forty in the oven.
I stopped buying instant, fast, and snack food, and I started teaching myself how to cook real meals.
Boiling noodles was easy. So was mashing potatoes, browning hamburger, bacon, and stew meat. I stocked my freezer with chicken breasts and bagged veggies and searched for copycat recipes of my guilty pleasures. And the first soup I made from scratch is still my current favorite (and since perfected).
Specific items aren’t allowed in our cupboards, such as high fructose corn syrup, and I am shocked at the difference that has done. I am no longer addicted to my food, and it’s really hard to explain (but you know I’ll try some day). I recognize artificiality by its flavor, and prior comfort foods are sadly but gladly verboten.
I never thought I’d be the person who reads every ingredient on the box. Never thought I’d turn up my nose at sweets or snacks. Never thought I’d be someone who chooses bowls of salad, grains, and seeds. Never thought I’d be someone who enjoys and is satisfied by it.
Every change I made stopped being about weight or control and instead became about health.
I wasn’t dieting; I was making permanent lifestyle changes. Wasn’t trying to slim down, but aiming to be healthy, fit, and strong. I wanted to be the best version of myself, one that didn’t depend on numbers or pant size, and I wanted it naturally.
I found it in intuitive eating, moderation, and balance. In paying attention to cravings, and giving my system what it asks for, physically and emotionally. Restricting, binging, and purging are habits of the past.
I eat better than I ever have in my entire life. What I eat has expanded exponentially, and I have made massive strides in how I view, prepare, and understand food. I don’t think I could ever go back to how it was, and a stroll down most grocery store aisles only affirms it.
Throwing away my microwave has increased my culinary skills, connected me with my body, and deepened my link to the planet and its offered sustenance. I’m healthy, strong, and (mostly) fit. The kitchen is a major stage for system cooperation and communication, and PeanutButter and I have a good time experimenting with dishes together.
We’re still uncovering the catalysts to our destructive eating, but I can confidently say we’ve been in the clear from our eating disorder for a decade now.
And that we’ll definitely be microwave-free for the rest of our life.
#EatingDisorders #DissociativeIdentityDisorder #MentalHealth
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