Ultimately, I decided the name doesn’t matter. A name is just a box we put ideas in. What matters is that I understand my relationship with food. Then I can start figuring out the consequences my environment, my thoughts, and my actions have on that relationship and make plans to manipulate these things to my best advantage. I don’t know what the official definition of addiction is, though I could look it up on dictionary.com or the DSM-IV (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders). I don’t know if what happens in my brain when there is leftover cake in the break room is the same thing that happens when an alcoholic is inside a liquor store or a smoker is inhaling second-hand smoke at a bar. It would be interesting to know, but I doubt it matters unless you’re working on a cure for addiction. Right now I’m just trying to cope with the way I am. Giving my problems a name seems less relevant than managing them.

It’s nice to have the name, for sure. Then you can popularize the term and it makes it easier to explain it to other people. You can say, “I’m an alcoholic” and people instantly understand what you mean. It would be nice to have scientific proof too because then you can point to the studies and the fancy medical speak and explain to people why you are the way you are. That would make them stop jabbering on about willpower and calorie counting and stop them wondering why these silly fat people can’t stop eating so much already. Once people see that there is a biological reason for the way you are, they get much more understanding and stop blaming you for a character flaw.

So, addict, compulsive overeater, or Lady Piggy McEatsalot, I don’t care what you call me, but at least I know what I am.

It was at this point that I realized I have a serious problem with food.

Gleefully imagining the voluntary installation of a colostomy bag inside my body is NOT NORMAL. Yet, there is still a part of me that longs for birth control for food, something that will allow me to indulge in all the pleasure I want to with little risk of suffering negative consequences. What do we have now?

• Bulimia – Not an option. It wrecks havoc on your body and the acid from your stomach erodes the enamel on your back teeth. Also, vomit, ew.
• Olestra – A fake fat substitute that your body does not digest, but leaves you literally shitting your pants.
• Alli – the diet pill that prevents your body from absorbing all the fat you consume, but again, leaves you literally shitting your pants.
• Artificial sweeteners (i.e. fake food) – I’ve found these helpful, but some people dislike the aftertaste and have concerns about their safety. There is also research that suggests they don’t help you lose weight because they leave your body unsatisfied and yearning for the real thing. That said, I drank Diet Pepsi the whole time I was losing 190 pounds.

My idea of a secondary stomach would probably have issues (besides the fact that it’s Kra-zee with a capital K). Food could get stuck in the switch or it could get stuck in one position or the bag could leak into your body, all making you very dead. Regardless of all the flaws in the above propositions, none of them fix the underlying problem. They are just patches of duct tape keeping the fender from falling off your car. They stop you from trailing sparks down the highway, but they don’t fix the actual problem. Until I can find a way to weld my bumper back on, I make do the best I can with the tools available.

I do think that our ancestors descendents will look back and think it an oddity that people used to write weight-loss memoirs and weight-loss blogs, just like I watch Moulin Rouge and think it bizarre that people use to die of tuberculosis. In the meantime, if I ever hear of Mexican surgeons illegally implanting secondary stomachs, I’ll know where they got the idea.

Thankfully, it’s been so long since I bought a Tombstone stuffed-crust pizza that they seem to have stopped making them, or my Marsh just doesn’t stock them, so that was one small chip of the iceberg my personal Titanic avoided. I did wander around the freezer section for literally 15 minutes trying to decide if I wanted to buy another pizza or a Lean Pocket or a box of mozzarella sticks. Ultimately I decided that if I was going to cheat I wanted it to be with the lover I wanted and not his ugly cousin, so I only purchased some paninis and fudge pops I needed anyway.

I’ve partaken in vampire eating habits more frequently recently. My cravings play nice during the day and bare their fangs at night. Even if I get rid of all my favorite binge foods, I just plow into what I can find. I’m trying to remember if I’ve always behaved like this, and I don’t really know. When I was younger, I didn’t give a shit about what I ate. I’d eat half a gallon of ice cream and didn’t feel bad about it at all because I never dieted. I also gained 200 pounds. The difference now seems to be that I actually care about what I shovel into my pie hole, especially if it’s a whole pie. I’m actually trying to resist the urges, which I didn’t really do before.

I’ve never known what to think about the concept of “food addiction.” Even after my abnormal binge, I’m still not sure what to think. The term “addiction” implies to me that you need to give up whatever you are addicted to. How can you give up food? When I read the definition for compulsive overeating at Wikipedia, it doesn’t jive with my experiences. Even when I was driving to Marsh, I didn’t feel out of control. I knew exactly what I was doing and I didn’t care. I also didn’t eat any quicker than normal during my binge. And I’ve never felt intense depression or guilt over it. I’m telling the whole freakin’ Internet. How guilty could I actually feel? Reflecting on the event now, I’m unhappy that it happened and I’d like to prevent it from happening again, but I don’t feel a need to apologize to anyone for it or to be ashamed for what I did. I like to eat. I probably gained two pounds. Whoop-dee-doo! I only felt guilty when I parked in a spot really close to the store. I usually park way far away and walk.

A part of me wonders if there’s anything wrong with going on a crazy binge every now and then. Assuming you have good cholesterol, normal blood-pressure, and all that jazz, does it matter if you stuff a box of cookies in your mouth once a month? If you get shit-faced drunk several times a year, is it really a problem assuming that you don’t drive drunk and you don’t cause liver damage? It’s a conundrum.

The only thing I connected with in the entry about food addiction is the theory that it is a mechanism to increase serotonin levels in the brain. On the day of my binge, I felt incredibly down for no reason that I could think of. I just wanted to sit around all day and I felt unmotivated to do anything (except eat, obviously). I don’t usually feel like that, but if I did, it’s possible I might go on crazy binges more often. I don’t know. I know some people are really into figuring out all the emotional and psychological issues associated with eating. Personally, I’m not that interested in it as long as I’m doing okay. If I get obese again, I’d probably explore it. I consider eating to be a complex behavior motivated by many components including emotion, hunger, and the content of your diet. Sometimes I wonder if thinking about food so much just makes me hungry, like catching an ad for McDonalds on TV makes me want to get a Big Mac.

BTW, this happened two weeks ago and nothing insane like it has happened since, so there is no need to reassure me or hug me or whatever. I thought about not mentioning it at all, but I prefer to be honest. I also want people to know that you can go completely off the rails sometimes and get right back on track. I’ve been exercising and eating well since then and I’ve lost all the weight I gained that night.