An essay about redefining our relationship with food by Katherine Lopez

I always thought I was in control, until I wasn’t. I was not in control when I ate a whole jar of peanut butter in one sitting, when Sunday breakfast appeared to be a punishment, when I allowed myself to fall into a hole of both pity and remorse. 

The warmth that once surrounded me had faded. My vigor was unable to keep up with the long days, and even longer nights. It was when I tried to force myself hardest to be a machine, that my humanity screamed the loudest, when I let myself get lost in the granularity, when I began to reduce life into a perpetual series of tasks, that I gave myself an easy way out. Sitting on the cold tile floor, leaning over the toilet, my smile rotted, all I wanted was to be perfect. Was that too much to ask?

 

I’ve always been a bit of a control freak, I live my life by checklists. Every day I wake up, I eat, I shower, I take my classes, same thing day in and day out. I’m afraid of unproductivity; thus, I listen to podcasts on two-times speed, and complete tasks weeks ahead of time. I worship my Google calendar, and I try and try to reverse the laws of entropy with my own bare hands. 

As the Covid-19 Pandemic arose, I began to isolate myself like many. Detaching myself from the real world, I began to determine my self-worth. Like most teens, this was detrimental to the way I viewed and valued myself. I began to fixate upon a perfect embedded image of how I wanted to appear. Toxic perfectionism replenished my identity.

 

During this time of isolation, I began to focus on the rote mechanics of being rather than doing. I began to hate the act of writing. So much time was consumed waiting, fingers twitching, cursor blinking, for the elusive perfect word to fall from the sky and resuscitate my paralyzed mind. It became difficult for me to stay in control and guarantee the idealism of perfection.  Inevitably, I began to crack under pressure. Despite this, I romanticized my eating disorder; moreover I fell in love with the feeling of emptiness. I began to notice my bones bulging, hair thinning, and my color lifeless; however, I remained in denial. Nevertheless I became attached to my bad habits.

 

When I became aware of my body the summer before sophomore year, I felt as if my world was ending. I viewed it as another obstacle to conquer and another blemish to refine. I systematically starved myself until the world turned cold.

 

Soon enough a delicious Sunday breakfast looked like a punishment, two eggs, three bacon, and two hash browns were no longer a reason to feel blithe about a number. Suddenly my mind was a swimming pool of math. 521. Too many. 521 calories, too much. And I knew the answer to this equation. Not a decimal, not a fraction, but a toothbrush and a toilet. Perfectionism devoured me until I was hollow.

 

Sometimes the turbulent sea calms and sunlight peeks through the suffocating clouds, and in the brief tranquility I allow myself to hope. I began to accept that success is not final and failure not fatal.  Allowing myself to transport into my most vulnerable form was only the beginning of my reinvention. This breakthrough allowed me to value both my mentality and body. I began to take into account my well-being and self-acceptance. 

As a community I hope we can aid and advocate for teenagers struggling with eating disorders. They tend to lack exposure in many aspects. Providing necessary means of help for teens can create immense impact that can change their lives. Mistakes should be welcomed with open arms; perfectionism is only an idea, not a way of being. Newton's third law of motion states that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. When we try too hard to bend the unyielding universe to our own will, inevitably we’re the one that's going to break.

 

 

This essay is part of AP English Language with Ray Salazar.  

To send the student a compliment, email Mr. Salazar: rsalazar at cps dot edu.

He’ll forward it to the student.