Sucker Punch: Essays

by Scaachi Koul

I missed my eating disorder more than I missed my ex-husband. He brought me brief comfort, but bulimia brought me a way to hide. He saw me, all the time, for who I was, until he didn’t. By that point, he was gone. My eating disorder, conversely, never let me see myself. It was a shield. My ex was always feeding me. I want to remember him fondly and so I think of spaghetti squash with sun-dried tomatoes and pesto, cheddar-jalapeño biscuits, the mint chocolates his ex-girlfriend’s mother used to send him every Christmas, even after we got married. Then again, I ate whatever he served me: I consumed his version of events always, his side of an argument, his perspective of all matters big and small. I followed his routine and his timelines. There was never any force; I willingly gobbled up whatever he served. I ate in front of him, greedily and fast and sloppy, and felt loved for it. Finally someone who wants to feed me. I didn’t take any time to consider how much bullshit I had to eat in order to finally feel full.