Katrina Kaye

We argue about food more than anything else. What we will eat, when will it be served, who will prepare it. I will never be the woman who cooks you a three course meal with bread and butter served promptly at six and sits beside you to delightfully devour every last crumb. I am content eating toast for dinner. I am content eating nothing at all. Food does not impress me. Does not tempt me. It means very little.

I don’t try new food. Not because I am afraid I will not like it, but because I am afraid I will and I will want more. I avoid family dinners not because of the company but the cuisine. It is hard enough to eat food, let alone eat in front of others.

I don’t know how to eat in front of people. I do it wrong. I eat too fast. I make a mess. You tease me and say, “I enjoy my food too much,” but the truth is I just want to get the process over with. I just want the eyes off me.

I have nightmares about food on my face, about not fitting into my clothes, about breaking chairs when I sit in them. You don’t understand how some nights I don’t want to be touched. I feel more comfortable in the shadows of our bedroom. I can break into tears when you call me beautiful.

I have panic attacks when my ring feels too tight. The ring you gave me. The ring that was too small for my finger on our wedding day. The ring you fumbled to place showing everyone my fingers were too fat to be worthy of a pretty love.

You never asked for this. I know I look like a healthy girl with a healthy appetite. The first night we spent together we ate a healthy breakfast of Huevos Rancheros without any hesitation. A healthy meal for a healthy girl not afraid to eat. What you didn’t know is that it was the only meal I ate in three days.

I don’t know how to make you understand. My boy with the healthy appetite for all things in life. Who eats every three hours and gets moody if he misses a meal. You see food as a show of love and care. You see it as a celebration. I see it as a weakness, a failure.

I know when I tricked you into falling in love with me, you didn’t know this side. But secrets dissipate in close proximity and I can no longer hide this from you. I wish I could. When you have lived with a secret since age eight, you learn to keep it hidden. And I do. I hide it from strangers, friends, family, co-workers, the daily acquaintances who pass through my ordinary world. It doesn’t come up in conversation. I do not offer this information.

But you have become something so much more. You have become precious to me. My partner. I can’t hide this from you anymore and I am sorry for it. I wish you could live in the blessed ignorance of strangers but I can only be with someone for so long before my mask slips. I can’t keep this from you any longer.

If you are going to stay with me, you need to know that I don’t know how to grocery shop. When you say, “Get something for dinner.” I don’t know what you mean. When you say, “Peanut Butter and Jelly, isn’t a meal,” it destroys my pedagogy. I am anxious looking over menus, fearful of portion size and calorie intake. I can’t pick a place to eat to save my life.

You need to know that I skip meals and lie to you about it. I neglect you to walk in circles until I reach my step goal. I believe every compliment is a well-meaning lie. You should also know that this neurosis means I still have hope. If I were to stop, that is when I become dangerous to myself.

I have learned to live with my illness. I hope you can learn to live with it too. That you can tolerant and accept who I am. In exchange, I promise not to give up. I vow to find a common ground and a compromise. I will continue to strive for self-acceptance and confidence. But there is no guarantee.

I gift you this confession. I pledge my honesty. It is all I have. I hope it is enough.

“To my husband:” is previously published in Light as a Feather; second edition (2019).