Deprivation vs. Overconsumption

Hint: They are two sides of the same coin

Like Janus, the Roman god of duality, I was a walking contradiction. A scruffy 6’3” paradox wrapped in a riddle stuffed into a gym rat’s body.

“No thanks — I’ll have salad,” I’d easily and politely decline the french fries as my side when out at a restaurant with friends or family. Then mentally count down the minutes until I could scarf down loaded cheese fries all alone in my apartment.

I thought my superpower was depriving myself of — well, everything. Fried food. Regular food. New slippers. A blanket when I’m cold. A seatbelt when I’m driving. And I thought my weakness was indulging in those same things.

I just have to “do better.” Be Stronger, I’d tell myself.

“There is no junk food,” a dietician once told me. “All food is food.” Why couldn’t I just eat what made me happy? It didn’t work for me because I didn’t know what that was. I had learned to repress and hate my desires, apparently starting from the crib, as my mom told me. She said I was “such a good baby” who never cried for anything. I learned it was easier to not want anything at all.

That was the secret of being able to deprive myself of food. The feeling of wanting becomes more uncomfortable than the discomfort of deprivation.

“Pain now, relief later” had been my life’s hammering principle. It allowed me to work, and work out, on an empty stomach.

The truth is: I liked riding the pendulum. Being at the bottom of a pendulum swing is where I come alive. Eating a shitty greasy meal is a reason to eat healthy the next time. Screwing up is a welcome, distracting rasion d’etre. A mission, a purpose—it staves off contentment, boredom, and death. You can tell me to have a nice day. That’s easy to ignore because it’s fake. But tell me to have a regular day? I will freak the F out. That’s my worst nightmare, my Sisyphean mountain, my impossible challenge. That’s why I needed the pendulum of highs and lows.

I rode that pendulum between excess and asceticism for a better part of a decade. Until my swings eventually swung full circle and I couldn’t tell which direction I was facing anymore: healthy or broken. It all blurred together. I was forced to face my reality (read: get help).

The pendulum swings eventually got smaller and smaller. They approached . . . balance.

There’s no hidden secret to recovery either. For me, balance came from the wild swinging. I guess I owe a thank-you to William Blake:

“You will never know what is enough, unless you know what is more than enough.”