The constant opening and shutting of the fridge became a routine activity in itself; was I expecting an apparition of some snack stashed away? Hunger became the solution for boredom and boredom a gateway to anxiety. This anxiety has been largely two-fold. First, the uncertainty regarding the availability of groceries encouraged hoarding; especially for oddball items that were never bought before. (Why did I buy jars of jam and several packets of coffee? I like neither.) And second, people were running helter-skelter in anticipation that food may either run out or prices may multiply rapidly; an exercise induced only by paranoia. For me, binge eating or emotional eating has been the only way to react to this incomprehensible reality. This encouragement to own the kitchen meant that I could now cook or bake all my cravings. Restaurants shut down for an indefinite period? No problem. I could whip up a cake in a few minutes. Craving some freshly fried donuts? Recipes were at my beck and call. If I had an emotionally rough day, my hands would magnetically (and magically) reach out to the ice cream in the freezer. This discord in my eating habits and the glaring lack of structure in my meal timings has been undoubtedly accentuated by the disruption of a schedule. Not just that, the arbitrarily programmed timings for the opening and shutting of grocery stores meant that I was no longer spoilt for choice.I, the gullible child, who previously had no cravings for that cake now look at it longingly.
As a consequence, I have shed all farces of being a picky eater – a privilege that can no longer be exercised. But I’m not alone in this battle; many like myself have had a similarly polarised reaction to the pandemic. But who can really be blamed here? It has been the easiest way of keeping in touch with the outside world. With every funky restaurant at my fingertips promising to deliver meals in thirty minutes, it has become the currency with which I reward myself. The minutest inconvenience in my life prompts me to “order something nice” for myself because “I deserve it”. It has never been easier to develop this dependence on food and it has entered my life all guns blazing.Hunger became the solution for boredom and boredom a gateway to anxiety.
As someone who is tremendously passionate about food, I still share a hot-and-cold relationship with it. I often indulge in cooking things I like, studying food at a scientific level, watching videos of people exploring this shared passion, even my comfort watch is MasterChef Australia. Wherever I turn, I am inundated by food-driven content. In my pre-pandemic life, eating right was a lifestyle decision. There was a healthy inclination towards meeting all my macros and then congratulating myself with a dessert maybe once a week. My eyes would rapidly scan over all fried foods as if that part of the menu was not applicable to me. But now, I am convinced that those french fries and that finger lickin’ good chicken is made just for me. During the lockdown, I have been tied to my couch and physical activity has been embarrassingly low. With every bite that I consume, I am taking mental notes of how this fat is going to deposit itself in some unstrategic part of my body. The symbiotic connection that I had with food has gotten lost somewhere in this ordeal. Through all of this, what really grinds my gears is the fact there is nothing else that I can turn to. Food has held me hostage because it knows the ways in which it can reign over me. I need it to survive. According to Dr Campbell, “[T]he brain cannot function without appropriate nutrition. We have to feed the brain, so the brain can fight the eating disorder.” What an antithetical relationship of codependency.The minutest inconvenience in my life prompts me to “order something nice” for myself because “I deserve it”.
What makes my dilemma worse is the restriction of movement initiated by the lockdown – the solitary thing that could have helped maintain the equilibrium between being healthy and feeling healthy. At home, I don’t have to suck my stomach in. When clothes tighten their noose around my waist, I just slip into something more comfortable. My only ray of hope (or lack thereof) is the seemingly eternal nature of the pandemic. I know it’s not breaking up with me anytime soon so perhaps, I need to stop swallowing that spoonful of sugar that makes the medicine go down.The symbiotic connection that I had with food has gotten lost somewhere in this ordeal.
