Food anxiety by Sana Vasi

As an exhausted college senior, scraping together the final remnants of my meal plan to purchase an overpriced Berry Bowl, I discovered last week that only the prospect of homemade biryani is enough to propel me through the rest of the semester and into the holidays. This year, in lieu of a traditional Thanksgiving feast, I decided to splurge on the variety of foods I missed out on while at Occidental — everything from chana masala, to matar paneer. I also scoured the pantry for microwave popcorn — the artificial butter left streaks of grease on the pads of my fingers — and snuck a bowl of Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream into my room as a midnight snack. Even as I write this, I can feel the anxiety start to stir beneath the surface of my skin. I love to eat, but the feeling of satisfaction that used to accompany an empty plate, scraped clean of crumbs, has recently been replaced by a relentless sense of guilt. “Put that cereal back,” I order myself in the morning, my eyes still gritty with sleep. “Just one cup has over 20 grams of sugar in it.” “Salads are safe,” I think at noon. “But avoid the chicken, cheese and too much dressing.” “You’re going to regret that,” my conscience prickles as I reach across the table for another dinner roll. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough today?” With nutritional information only a Google search away, it is easy to get stuck in a cycle of obsession and perpetual shame. MyFitnessPal, the calorie counter app on my phone, has made me hyperaware of the way my body softens and curves with every additional helping of dessert. Sophomore year, I refused to eat until exactly five p.m — waiting for the final chime of the bell-tower to reverberate and recede, before taking my first bite of the day. It was irrational, I know — but restricting my food intake helped me regain a semblance of control over my life. My empty stomach soon became a point of pride, a hollow victory signifying a mastery over my most basic urges. I felt a zing of approval every time my thumb and pinky finger overlapped the circumference of my wrist; a bitter thrill of satisfaction with each wave of hunger that twisted my body into knots. During the holidays, however, I find it almost impossible to keep up with these unhealthy habits — now incorporated into my daily routine. The last few weeks of December are laden with back-to-back parties and family get-togethers; all of which center on food. There is a strange cognitive dissonance during this season-of-giving. On one hand, we celebrate with large meals — ushering in the New Year with honey-roasted ham and homemade pumpkin pie. On the other hand, we are warned to be careful — to steer clear of sugar-drenched indulgences that will tug at our seams the following morning. We are supposed to eat, but we are also taught to feel guilty, to cultivate remorse and embrace self-loathing. We are told to maintain body confidence, to love ourselves and accept the imperfections that set us apart from airbrushed cover girls. At the same time, we are inundated with weight-loss secrets; swamped by surreptitious advice about how to get bikini ready in seven days and shed those extra five pounds before Christmas. Tabloids tout killer legs and flat abs as the ultimate ideal, then mourn the loss of a celebrity’s ‘incredible figure’ days after giving birth. Models like Kendall Jenner are called “too fat for runway” one year, and “too thin” the next. Magazines stress red carpet cleanses as the ultimate test of restraint, all the while imploring their readers to practice radical self-care. Those progressive enough to decry mainstream ideals of beauty are the same ones perpetuating these toxic values in the first place. The prevalence and normalization of body dissatisfaction has led to an uptick in disordered eating patterns, many of which go unreported. An estimated 20 million women and 10 million men in the United States alone have suffered, or will suffer from a clinically significant eating disorder at some point in their lives. Only 10 percent will receive treatment. “I wish I was skinnier,” is a common refrain — now echoed by 81 percent of ten-year-olds who are afraid of being fat. “I’m not good enough,” a sentiment expressed by the 50 percent of adolescent girls, and 33 percent of teenage boys engaging in harmful behavior, such as fasting or crash dieting, to control their weight. Media outlets like Us Weekly deny culpability, feigning outrage at the fat-shaming trolls that lurk on Twitter and Instagram. They revel in faux body-positivity, gleefully reposting Jennifer Lopez’s “sexiest selfies” and pictures of Khloe Kardashian’s “cheeky sunbathing session.” It is no wonder that 69 percent of elementary school girls concoct their ideal physique entirely from magazine images. We are raised to believe that our worth is inversely proportional to our size; that the key to happiness rests in the caloric content of a fat-free Chobani yogurt. It has taken me a long time to forgive myself for that thick slab of vanilla buttercream cake I gulped down on my birthday; for the generous scoop of tater tots consumed while hung-over one Saturday morning. I ruminated for hours on the nutritional benefits of olive-oil kettle chips, a snack I absentmindedly munched on during a screening of the Gilmore Girls revival. I still struggle with self-acceptance. Even now, giving into my hunger pangs feels like an inexcusable weakness. I wish there was a way to counteract this trend; to detach from the unrealistic standards imbued into our psyche. Unfortunately, there is no easy solution. To anyone who has resonated with my words: I hope you rise above the anxious thoughts that bookend this upcoming vacation. I hope you ignore the acrid voice that derides your right to exist just as you are.