The very hungry writer

TW: eating disorders, throwing up, sickness, and food.

Please please please don’t read this if you’re not in the mindset to. I use a lot of language related to disordered eating, sickness, vomit, self-depracating thoughts, and a lot of icky things. This is venty and raw and probably should have stayed in the drafts.

Promise you’re not missing anything for skipping this one, please take care of yourself <3

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Sometimes I wonder if my relationship with food is different from everyone else’s.
Whether it’s good, or bad, or something in between.
It makes me feel bad, so I think I already know the answer.

When I caught the stomach bug for the first time, I was seven or eight. My mom and I got it after my baby brother’s birthday party. When she said “stomach bug,” I thought he had given me an actual insect. A creature with a thousand twitching legs, gnawing away inside me.

We spent the night on the couch, bodies folding over plastic buckets. I remember crying. I don’t remember sleeping. It was the first time I’d ever thrown up from being sick, and it terrified me. My body betrayed me. Everything hurt. I just wanted to close my eyes and stop feeling.

I think that’s when it started—emetophobia.The fear of throwing up.

At the faintest hint of nausea, I’d stop eating. I’d skip meals if anyone in the family so much as sneezed. Those twisted thoughts grew roots—If I don’t eat, I can’t throw up. If I don’t throw up, I’m safe.

When I was thirteen, that fear tangled itself with diet culture and became something else. Something darker. It wasn’t just fear anymore; it was control.

Skipping meals started to feel… virtuous. Holy, even. I had “self-discipline.” I was doing good. The gnawing in my stomach was proof of strength. The fainting, the brain fog, the nights crying into stuffed animals because of hunger. It was all worth it.

The secrecy became intoxicating.
No one knew.
No one caught on.

Curiously was brushed away with simple lies:
“I didn’t have time for breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry for lunch.”
“I’ll eat later.”

And when people asked, I’d blame it on nausea. Which wasn’t a lie. Looking at food did make me sick. It still does sometimes. The ache of emptiness twisting in my gut, both physical and moral.

So yes, emetophobia tainted my relationship with food. It still does. Those moldy thoughts live in the corners of my brain, whispering, manipulating, winning.

I wish I could enjoy food. Because I know what it means for others—how it connects to memory, to culture, to love. And I have a few of those memories, just enough to count on one hand.

1. Veggie pizza.

2. Jamoca Almond Fudge.

3. Broccoli.

4. Carne Asada.

5. Mint.

Five flavours. Five tiny anchors to a world I can’t quite reach anymore.

It’s been ten years. Some years were better. Some I’d pay to forget. Yet the thoughts remain. The addiction. The reward.

Sometimes it’s easy. Too easy. Skipping meals to save a few dollars, lying in bed with a hollow stomach that hums like victory. I’m saving money. I’m preventing sickness. I’m dieting. Three birds, one stone.

Other times, I feel like a fool. My roommate cooks a proper meal while I eat my fourth apple dinner of the week, pretending it’s enough. Pretending I’m mature, not lying to myself and everyone around me.

The worst moments are when my own body turns against me. When skipped meals morph into dizziness and nausea. Battles in my mind transforming into a war in my body.

Or when emetophobia tightens around my throat. A girl next to me in an exam gets up suddenly—the sounds of gagging echo down the hall. My chest constricts. I can hear it. I can feel it. The panic crawls under my skin like larvae. I’m scratching, gasping, spiraling. The world blurs into graphite and I start drawing spirals—dark, tight curls filling the page. They’re smooth and safe and predictable. I can’t get sick if I disappear into the page.

I count the seconds since she left.

Did she touch the doorknob when she entered the room?

Did I?

When did I last eat?

If I stay very still, maybe the bug won’t find me.

I’m useless. So fucking useless.

When a friend tells me she’s feeling queasy mid-hangout, I freeze. She’s the one suffering, but my brain screams louder. I can’t comfort her. I can’t touch her. All I can think about is how she hugged me earlier, how her skin touched mine. When she walks into the bathroom, I wait outside the door and try to breathe evenly. My hands itch with the urge to scrub. I want to peel off my skin.I want to run home. I want to be someone else.

And I hate myself for it. For being so afraid of something so human.

There’s a world where I can eat a meal without counting the hours since I last felt sick. Where my body doesn’t feel like a ticking clock, waiting to turn against me. Where food isn’t a battlefield, and hunger isn’t a badge of control. It’s a world I know I’ll one day live in. A world where my mind quiets.

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Thanks for reading! Hope ya’ll are staying safe and taking care of yourselves. I love you all <3