Content Warning: disordered eating
I remember standing in my mother’s kitchen on Christmas, shoveling cookies into my mouth—one after the other. The buttery, flakey kind. The kind with sprinkles and frosting. The ones with chocolate that melted in your mouth. The taste would still linger on my tongue as we opened presents and sang Christmas carols.
But this Christmas, the cookies my mom baked sat on the counter, untouched. Because I couldn’t bear to eat them.
I remember going on a camping trip with friends. We’d roast marshmallows by the bonfire until they turned black around the edges, then smush them between crackers. Every bite was equal parts sweet and sticky, the stringy white goo falling down my chin. I’d even lick the melted chocolate off my fingers as we told ghost stories and laughed at silly jokes, the fire flickering off our carefree faces.
But this summer, the bag of marshmallows went untouched. Because I couldn’t bear to eat them.
I remember my dad’s homecooked lasagna. The ricotta cheese oozed from the cooked noodles, ground beef complementing it. I’d fight for the last piece of bread with my brother through a rousing game of paper-scissor-rock, so I could sop up the remaining sauce with it.
But this Sunday, I took my serving home. The hefty slice my father specially packed for me ended up in the trash. Because I couldn’t bear to eat it.
It seemed simple to deny at the time, to say “no” to the cookie. To sit still by the fire. To let food secretly rot in my fridge. I only saw food as calories. As something dangerous. Saying “no” was easy and safe—because I convinced myself food was my enemy.
But I didn’t say “no” to the cookie, I said “no” to Christmas tradition. To a carefree camping trip with friends. To home-cooked meals and good conversation with loved ones.
Through the process of saving calories and “protecting” my body, I lost my appetite. I trained myself to solely think about how I could avoid eating, considering food is the centerpiece of every gathering. But it wasn’t about the food—it should have been about the people. I should have focused on what was important.
Because, in the process, I didn’t only lose my appetite for food.
I lost my appetite for life.
Emily Rae Russo (she/her) is a writer, designer, and marketer living in Ohio, US with her husband and two shih tzus. She is represented by Maria Whelan of Mushens Entertainment. Her short stories are published in various magazines, including CrayfishMag, Verdant Wonders Literary Journal, and Penumbric Magazine. She is a proud member of Literary Cleveland and serves on the committee of her local literary nonprofit organization. Emily also runs The Writer’s Website, building websites for fellow writers with the mission of giving authors an affordable, professional, and easy-to-manage website.
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