How PTSD caused me to eat 10,000 calories a day
Trigger warning: this post deals with PTSD and sexual abuse.
There is no one-size-fits-all way to describe post-traumatic stress disorder.
An infinite number of traumatic events can leave you feeling unable to cope.
Pizza Pilgrims will make calzones filled with your favourite chocolate bars
Symptoms could begin a week afterwards, six months later, or a few years down the line.
You may feel you’re getting better, then get triggered by something when you least expect it.
There may be certain times of day where you don’t feel functional at all, and this feeling may last for a long time.
The most common symptom of PTSD is re-experiencing the traumatic event.
This can be in the form of flashbacks, nightmares, distressing images or feelings, or physical sensations, like pain, sweating, trembling and nausea.
People may blame themselves for the event, and feel guilt, or shame.
Others may avoid being reminded of what happened, by not going to certain places, seeing certain people, or not discussing the experience at all.
Often, people try to deal with their feelings by not feeling anything at all. This technique is called emotional numbing and results in a person becoming withdrawn, isolated, and unable to demonstrate an interest in activities they used to enjoy.
In some cases, people will feel on edge, experiencing irritability, outbursts of anger, sleeping problems and difficulty concentrating.
Those with PTSD can sometimes have depression, anxiety or phobias.
They may also engage in destructive, self-harming behaviour, such as drug and alcohol misuse.
My story
I was severely sexually abused. I don’t believe in using the term ‘victim’ because it’s that exact word that made me feel worthless afterwards.
I dealt with it by engaging in destructive behaviour. Instead of drugs or alcohol, though, I numbed my pain by eating excessive amounts of food.
I didn’t realise how much I was eating for months. I refused to look in the mirror and acknowledge what I was doing to myself.
I realise now that I was punishing myself for what had happened. I thought it was my fault. That I could have prevented it, in some way. But because I didn’t, I was weak, and so it didn’t matter if I treated myself like sh*t, because I was sh*t.
This is what a typical day was like for me during the days when PTSD caused me to eat 10,000 calories a day.
A typical day
9am
It’s a Sunday. The skies are clear. I don’t have much planned for the day. I can relax.
I load my music and put my headphones on. I put the playlist on shuffle.
A song starts playing.
I was listening to this song on the day it happened. I can feel the sweat building on my forehead.
I press a tissue to my forehead to wipe the sweat away. Get rid of the evidence. Switch to a different track. Get dressed. Go for a walk. Just get out. Staying in means dwelling on it.
Food wrappers fall to the floor as I get out of bed. I must have finished off the box of cereal bars. Not to worry. I can get more when I go out.
The sweet wrappers fall to the floor as I lift up the duvet to make my bed. I don’t even remember buying those.
I gather all of the wrappers into a plastic bag. It’s bulging with boxes, cartons and tins I’ve eaten over the last 24 hours.
I leave.
10am
This was a bad idea. Whenever I go out, I end up walking the same route.
The route he followed me down before it happened.
I can still see his figure, feel his presence.
I turn around and walk the other way. Anyway, just to get away.
Someone shouts from across the street. I jump at the noise. Why do people have to be so noisy?
I finish my sandwich and put the wrapper in a bin. I was going to save it for lunch, but…it was there.
That’s all the excuse I need, these days.
12pm
I can’t remember when this happened, but it must have been going on for a while because my jeans won’t fit anymore.
I can’t look in the mirror. I’m stood in my bra and underwear, but I just can’t look at my figure, bloated out of all recognition.
If I look, that makes it more real.
That’s what I told myself when….
This has to stop. I have to stop eating so much. I have to take control.
But how can I, when I wasn’t in control that night?
Or the morning afterwards?
I wasn’t in control until he left. I had no control over my body. I felt like I became nothing. I am nothing.
So what does it matter if I fill my body with crap?
I feel like crap anyway. What does it matter if I add to that?
4pm
I fell asleep. I knew I would at some point. It’s not like I got any sleep last night.
Always the same nightmare. Being chased. Running. Fear. Adrenaline.
Feeling the footsteps get quicker and quicker, my own slowing down. Giving up. Defeat. Nothing.
I open a packet of crisps. The vinegar stings my lips. I lick them clean.
1am
I’m curled up in a ball on the bed. I changed the sheets, but it’s still the same bed. I need a different bed. I need a different room. I need a different everything.
But it is all the same, and I must remain in the same bed, in the same room.
No matter how empty I feel.
I can fill the emptiness, though. I can change something. I can feel better, for one short, sweet moment.
I open a box of sweets.
Realisation
I remember the day I took a good look at myself in the mirror. It was one of the hardest things I’d ever done in my life. I was about to graduate University, and I was obese.
My clothes didn’t fit. I’d kept trying to tell myself I was the same size and refusing to go to the shops and buy anything bigger.
In the background, on the floor, was a bin bag full of food wrappers.
‘This stops. Now.’
I thought it, and then I said it out loud.
Then I wrote it on a post-it note and stuck it to the mirror.
I sat on the floor and started emptying the bin bag. I had to know the truth.
I started counting up the calories on each wrapper, box, tin or carton I’d eaten that day. Then I wrote down the next. And the next.
Soon I had a list of the number of calories I’d eaten each day over the last week.
I was averaging 10,000 a day.
That was the moment I realised my disordered eating was doing exactly what my PTSD was doing to me.
I was letting the painful memories destroy my mind, and the mountains of food destroy my body.
Recovery
I sat in the therapy room opposite a woman I’d been seeing for a few weeks. I’d known exactly what I wanted to discuss, but every time I’d tried to make the words come out, they’d remained stuck in my head.
Instead, we’d talked about anything else that was on my mind. Day-to-day drama, small worries. Nothing that I couldn’t solve myself.
I’d briefly mentioned that I’d been abused, but hadn’t brought it up again since the first session.
We were about to finish for the day when I said it.
‘Sometimes when I get bothered by the abuse I had, I don’t know how to control my eating.’
I went bright red. Now she was going to ask a load of questions. Make me tell her exactly what I’d been eating. Gasp in horror. Brand me a greedy, disgusting creature.
‘What would you like to change?’
‘I just want to eat normally. But I don’t know how.’
‘I believe in you. We can work on healthy eating habits together.’
My eyes filled with tears.
‘Nobody’s ever told me they believe in me.’
‘Well, I do. You can do it. Do you believe you can?’
‘I….’
She was silent. I looked at the floor.
When I looked back up, she was waiting patiently for my reply.
‘I can.’
If this post has brought up any issues for you, please contact the Mind.org.uk information line on 0300 123 3393. Lines are open 9 am to 6 pm, Monday to Friday. You can also find help on their website.
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