From Popcorn to Pill-Popping: A Tragedy

My introduction to the world of eating disorders was my mother's restrictive eating when I was in her womb. She gained a whopping seven pounds in her 40-week pregnancy and was proud of it. She told anyone who would listen about her newly-minted skill: disordered eating whilst gestating.

By definition, then, I was anorexic from conception. Once expelled from her womb, I yearned for  breastmilk but she would have none of that. And as a result, I would have none of that. It was bottled Similac and nothing else for this un-thriving infant. To my mother’s way of thinking, breastfeeding—all that slurping—was untidy and inconvenient.  

I somehow managed to have an unremarkable elementary-school epoch. I ate, played, made a mess and got in trouble, on repeat.

Cut to me at age twelve, though, entering the brave new world of debilitating middle-school depression. I flipped the switch overnight, from lively, bright and outgoing preteen to sullen, somnambulist adolescent whose most honed skill was avoiding eye contact. At some point, eating actual food became optional—and the one thing I could control.

I vividly recall sitting alone on a bench at my new high school in Culver City looking into a bag of popcorn when it struck me: I could eat one bag of popcorn for lunch, and nothing else, until my senior year. Despite its wholesale lack of nutritional content, popcorn became my only nourishment, day-in, day-out. I essentially swapped out friends for popcorn. Well, that’s not exactly true;  popcorn was not my only friend.

I had two besties:  Evy and Gay. They were cheerleaders, on the student council and in elite social clubs. Social clubs were a thing in the sixties. I was in a social club as well, but it was decidedly not “elite." Evy and Gay struggled with their weight. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the our options that ranged from Chef Boyardee to SpaghettiOs to the wonders of Jell-O, not to mention whole milk with all the hormones, thanks, and frozen TV dinners. I stayed away from Hungry Man and Stouffers. Evy managed her weight by taking amphetamines. I thought that was a nifty thing to do, so I periodically filched uppers from her backpack. I should have noted at that point that popping pills was far too easy for me. Instead I catalogued my new habit as one of survival. I was also keenly harboring a secret under my loose-fitting clothes: my weight teetered between 100 and 105 pounds, and I couldn’t get thin enough.  

I gave up my popcorn diet when I entered college at UC Berkeley and turned to drugs to keep my despondence at bay. Pop, pop, pop—stolen, prescribed (mine or someone else's), street—I  was not particular. Seminally, my lovely internist steered me to Percodan, an opioid, to relieve my cramps. It didn’t help the menstrual cramps I didn’t have, but it sure helped my depression. It also tamped down my appetite. I was light years ahead of Ozempic, just sayin'. Some days, I'd limit myself to one slice of Kraft American cheese. What was left of me, having winnowed myself down to 96 pounds by the end of freshman year, was often loathe to leave my residence hall for fear of others thinking: Look how fat she is. I could count the ribs on my back which resembled a xylophone. Ding. Ding. Dead inside.

The mind, once weaponized, can wreak havoc on decision-making. Mine was no exception. Over time, I leaned into my drug of choice, Valium, rationalizing that it was better to sleep than perpetually bounce around, unfocused. Never mind the addiction properties of my legit script! Opioids were not hard to come by back in the day and were practically state-sponsored. We've all seen Mad Men. The print ads were legion. It was easier to keep us medicated than to deal with us, after all.

My parents wanted me to be a teacher, a nurse or a secretary, none of which interested me. My interests, however, took a backseat to my parents' expectations, so (un)naturally I became a teacher. Deep down, I wanted to be a journalist. Without warning them, I enrolled in USC's journalism school. Upon arrival to USC, I had effectively swapped out three square meals a day for Valium. Too much Valium, hordes in fact. Crutch had a new name. I always had my yellow and blue buddies with me, along with the illusion that they would get me through anything. But that was a misguided falsehood.  I was so terrified of life.

I floated in an anorexic haze for 20 years before breaking the spell in 1983 when driving by a McDonald’s. I wonder what that would taste like in my mouth. I ordered a Big Mac, fries and a Diet Coke—of course a Diet Coke. The Diet Coke was the vestige of my anorexia; the Big Mac was the harbinger to my new eating disorder. 

Apparently, it was crucial to carry out the dye that was cast in my DNA. While I can't blame my mother entirely, I can cast aspersions. She made me. The New Me, at age 34, loved food without limit. I packed on the pounds. 

There was a new Char in town ... .