I don't know the last time I had a completely unhindered relationship with food. It was probably about ten years ago. I could grab food anywhere, whenever I was hungry and eat it with gusto without anxiety about what it would do to my body and reading all the labels. Oh, to eat a piece of pizza...
In the last ten years my relationship with food hasn't been so carefree or healthy or comfortable. Over the last year I was able to repair my food wounds a little bit, mostly by discovering comfort foods (gluten free pasta smothered in melted goat gouda anyone?), eating a lot of greens and eating more meat and "junk foods" (gluten free pretzels and cookies in reality). I felt better, and I felt warm and cozy. I felt sturdy. There were places to grab onto on my body, a few curves to hug.
In the last two months at college my food life has taken a drastic dive. The dining hall claims to feed vegans and Celiacs but they're certainly trumped by the gluten free, dairy free, egg free girl. Therefore, I eat a lot of salad. A LOT. And a lot of cantaloupe and pineapple. My legs are polka dotted with silver dollar sized bruises, in startling shades of purple and yellow and dark blue. My pants slide down my legs without a belt and I can fit things into my bras. I'm hungry. Hungry enough to throw myself across my narrow dorm bed and moan for a few seconds while my hand rests on my growling stomach. I can hold off hunger with sleep as I always have but that strategy only works so long. The problem with all this hunger is that it makes me hungry for other things.
I'm hungry for comfort and spiritual stimulation and learning new things and hugs and sweet songs and whispered words and fall breezes and stability.
But really, a hamburger would be the first fix to all these desires.
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