Sometimes I have to play a little trick on myself. It’s similar to the kind of trick a mother plays on her toddler; instead of referring to the vegetable as “broccoli,” the clever mom will declare it “little trees,” much to the delight of the previously skeptical 3-year old.
It’s not veggies that I rename, though. It’s dessert. Most people with eating disorders are pretty anti-dessert, and I was no different. Part of my recovery has been to relearn to enjoy the after-dinner sweetness, the reward for a long day. I can eat a brownie now, or a bowl of ice cream, or a piece of pie. That’s a pretty big deal for me. The thing is, in my head, I can’t say “brownie” or “ice cream” or pie. I have to pull a fast one on that mean, skinny bitch that still hangs out in my mind. I have to think of those items as “carbs,” “calcium,” and “fruit.” I have to assign a nutritive name to anything that passes my lips, even if it happens to be a gargantuan Cinnabon with two cups of icing (grains and glucose).
I know it’s silly. It’s weird to rename food, and it’s slightly ridiculous to rename it to yourself. But it works for me. It allows me to relax a little, soothes the anxiety that inevitably arises. “It’s okay, Cass. It’s only some calcium. You didn’t have enough milk today anyway.” If that’s the little white lie I need to tell myself in order to indulge, so be it.
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