The Rat
‘Honey, have we got a rat?’ is the last thing I want my lover to ask me in the morning. But as I observe a careless arrangement of gutted silver chocolate wraps all over the carpet, a curious collection of caramel mini pools in the bed and mysterious nut dust clouds in the air, I realize the ‘rat’ reference is neither a question nor a joke. I realize, with alarming clarity, that I had to endure the waxing (in 6 places!) in vain because the ‘rat’ reference is a metaphor for none other than the puff eyed, suddenly moonfaced creature in the mirror with waffle crumbles stuck to the blushing, no-longer-chewing cheek and pink hives of guilt rising up the throat.
The rat is me.
The Roots
Ever since I could remember myself I got up to eat at night. I would get up grumpy and ashamed in the morning, hands shaking, heart jumping, a pool of acid in my mouth, the thought of food making me sick until high noon. I would get hungrier as the evening approached and hit rock bottom when with my eyes closed, my PJs stuck to my body from the most recent nightmare, of which I had many, I ravaged the place for anything edible at 3 or 4 in the morning.
By 1997, when I was fifteen, I routinely got up at 3 a.m., heated up a bowl of chicken soup in the microwave, opening my eyes only when absolutely necessary, consume it, my eyes closed, then gulp down a large dish of beef casserole, and finish up with a nice plate of vanilla ice cream. Oh and there was orange juice, lots of orange juice; in the morning my face looked like it was fished out of an aquarium, my eyes buried under the viral-looking lids. I would go hungry all day, constant nausea and light-headedness as a result.
I thought I had anorexia. The good type. The one in which I didn’t die.
The Unofficial Diagnosis
No one could tell me what it was in 1997 because Night Eating Syndrome emerged as a semi-recognized eating disorder only in 1999, despite the fact that it allegedly affects 6 million Americans and God knows how many people of other nationalities, because, to tell the truth, NO ONE REALLY KNOWS.
I thought many times about all those people who knew about my condition, how it annoyed/entertained the hell out of them, bringing grown men to tears and engendering suicidal panic in them, and yet never asked the question: ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Do you need help?’
3 letter words: N.E.S, S.E.X., S.O.S.
The only sexual partner NES is compatible with is the pot head who sticks his head into the fridge 5 times a night on average, can eat a bucket of borsch in one gulp, and that’s just the entrée.
Another NES-tolerant type is the artsy nerd that has no food in the house except salted vegetable juice (his idea of vitamin intake), dines out at posh places three times a day, complaining profusely and never tipping anyone, and waits for the cleaning lady to take out the salted vegetable juice boxes, piling up in the kitchen and robbing the table of the only practical function it serves (clue: it’s not food preparation).
When I grew out of potheads and nerds, I realized I had a problem.
I had a pillow thrown at me after the salad ‘my neighbors cooked for me all day’ vanished without a trace come busy work morning after a busy ‘work’ night. (FYI: The neighbors were mommy and daddy. It was doomed).
I had angry accusations hurled at me ‘Do you come here for the food?’ after I managed to destroy all the soft cheese pancakes the landlady prepared for one busy guy, one busy foreigner guy with a fancy education and bright future, because only educated foreigners have their land ladies bring soft cheese pancakes to them.
Trying to explain that I didn’t even like pancakes at all was useless when I was caught in the act, 6 a.m., in my slightly sugar dusted birthday suit, munching away at my dignity and the fucking pancakes, right next to the person I had certain hopes for. And no, my closed eyes did not suffice as an efficient alibi.
I had to present two anorexic slices of cake to a man I had baked for the whole day previously swearing ALL THE WAY I would not as much as touch the opulent creation, all chocolate and sweet sour cream. Two puny slices (that I had snatched out of the insatiable gut of wicked NES), surrounded by the sticky shadows of their chocolaty siblings, smothered on a gigantic dish of shame.
I had to sleep in the other room, because the constant hopping in and out of bed (to eat and drink, then pee, and after that eat and drink – cuz, let’s face it, I was already up, duh! – and then pee again, of course, after a terrible nightmare) turned the cuddle craver into Hannibal Lector.
Yes, it’s sad. The normally promising phrase ‘Get your ass in here and I will eat you’ is more 28 Days Later than 9 ½ Weeks in my world (and people wonder why I am in to zombies).
The consequence is the same: men seek professional help, their shrinks seek professional help; together they live happily ever after. Without me.
The Scary Stuff
When it stops being funny, it gets a little scary. Because I know that if I don’t have cookies I will eat bread, and if I don’t have bread, I will eat bread crumbs off the plastic bag, together with the bag, I don’t have any edible food in the house. Did I just say that? Edible food? As a consequence, I catch myself looking for food in packs of tea – because all the rest are either dry (pasta and legumes) or frozen (meat and fish) but my mind screams I have to eat SOMETHING even as it knows there is NOTHING TO EAT.
By day I am a perfect paragon of healthy eating, all spinach and salad, sun flower seeds on top. At night I will eat anything I wouldn’t normally eat during the day, which gets really bad if I am visiting or if someone is visiting (and they haven’t received the EDIBLE PRESENTS FORBIDDEN rider).
One time in a friend’s house I went to the kitchen to get a snack at night and when my host got up to pee at the same moment, 4 in the morning, I ran back into the room (with an apple, yey!), my steps a little too loud on the wooden floor. I simply shrugged my shoulders when she voiced her concern about a ‘person running in the yard last night’… I didn’t even crack when she went shopping for a fence the next aftrernoon. I know. Less than human.
The Boring Stuff
I go to the store two to three times a day. If there is anything left to eat for breakfast (yeah, I will eat baby food, kid’s vitamins and cough drops) I have breakfast. I know the system works as long as I don’t have to put up with another (grown up, opinionated, hairy) individual under the same roof. It works in the city only, with the shops open around the clock. I have seriously considered locks and a confidante to safeguard the key. I don’t know how long before the band aid begins to stick away.
The Way
It gets kinda lonely at times. The only advice I ever got from professional therapists who are ‘specialists in addiction’ was ‘drink water instead’ or ‘say a prayer’. Maybe no one cares about NES folk because we don’t notoriously die out like the anorexics or the bulimics. After all, they don’t call it abuse unless you have bruises all over your face.
Does it really have to go that far?
I hope not: I have a brand new Night Eating Syndrome blog and the NES Facebook page – because I am tired of being alone. Because the first step to dealing with a problem is recognizing it.
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