REASONS TO EAT ICE CREAM

I've always found it strange when someone refers to their eating disorder in the past tense, treating it like a urinary tract infection or a sprained ankle, with a cure and an end date. Unfortunately, there isn’t a magic pill you can pick up at Rite Aide or a fail-proof protocol you can follow on Web MD. Disordered eating is a disease more akin to alcoholism, where recovery is a lifelong journey that takes vigilance, effort, and grace.

While we can place a lot of the blame on society, systemic racism, and inherited trauma, I believe that some of us are just more predisposed to addiction than others. I’m not an alcoholic like other members of my immediate family, but I have the same obsessive-compulsive tendencies and dopamine-seeking behaviors. Regardless of whether I’m restricting, bingeing, or just breathing, food is always on my mind.

And throughout my life, a cycle of indulging and subsequent shame has followed me.

Am I in a better place mentally and physically than I was when I was a struggling actress eating Splenda packs in my twenties? Most days. Do I still struggle with transgressions? Do I still hear voices in my head that try to sabotage my efforts? Of course.

Two days ago, I took Sid and Lazlo for gelato. I wasn’t planning on getting anything. I typically don’t. But in the days leading up to this outing, I’d been craving ice cream. It was officially summer, and I’d been seeing soft serve trucks all over the city. I wanted to experience the unparalleled joy of face-planting in a creamy vanilla cone. But I was shooting the next day and didn’t want to risk the hit to my self-esteem.

The boys ordered their cones and then waited for me to pay.

“Is that it?” The man behind the counter asked.

I thought for a moment, then made a decision.

“No. I think I’m going to have a small cup of the vanilla and the chocolate.” I said, bravely.

Sid smiled, shocked but elated. Lazlo just stared in disbelief.

I could almost feel an invisible weight lift off my children’s shoulders, which broke my heart into a thousand rainbow sprinkles.

The three of us sat in front of the store, eating and talking. Aside from mentioning about how yummy it was, we didn’t discuss the gelato. It wasn’t presented as a reward that demanded effort or as an indulgence that necessitated sacrifice. It was just an experience we were sharing.

As a mom, I'm constantly working on how to model a healthy relationship with food. I don’t want my kids to suffer in the ways that I did. But in order to do that, I need to not suffer, which is easier said than done.

While I’m not a boomer like my mother, who talks about her body or verbally shames herself after eating, I’m still not fooling anyone. My kids know what I’m thinking and feeling, even when I try to hide from them. If I want them to believe that my relationship with all food is equal, I have to engage with all food.

My current work involves more than just avoiding my triggers. Unlike alcohol, I can’t abstain. I need to be able to let go and be okay with the feelings that follow. I have to sit in the discomfort in order to get to the other side.

I know that I can’t protect my kids from everything. But at least I want their problems to be different from mine. I want them to be like me, 2.0 or 5.0, or just fucking better.

It’s a process. It’s a practice. It’s a life-long journey.

If you are like me, a mom who wants to heal but doesn’t know where to start, my advice is simple: Close your eyes, and face-plant into the damn ice cream.

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