Full

Lunch today was a delicious salad nicoise, not unlike the one pictured here. I ate nearly all of it, stopping because I was full.

Why am I telling you this? Because it's been about 7 months since I have eaten and felt full. Not because I'm starving myself but because I've been taking an anti-depressant that messes with my metabolism. I knew it would have this effect. I knew this intellectually, but still, over the last few months, I've struggled with various kinds of fallout from never feeling full.

You eat more when you don't feel full. Especially if you are, like me, a person who likes food and likes to eat. Normally food stops tasting good as you begin to feel full. But if you never feel full, the food keeps right on tasting good, and it's an effort of will and intellect to stop eating.

I say that I knew this medication would have this effect. What I actually mean is that I think it has this effect on me (and on others). But part of me didn't buy it. On some level I've been flagellating myself for the last few months for eating so much and never feeling satisfied.

We do such a good job in this culture of conflating appetite with gluttony, with greed, with being out of control in a scary way; I don't know if it's possible to think of appetite in neutral terms. Certainly it isn't for me. Certainly it's been tough to say to myself, "The little thingy in my brain that signals satiety is not working right now." Much easier to say to myself, "What a greedy, insatiable fill in the blank I am."

So along with that feeling of fullness today came another feeling: relief. It feels good to feel full. It's satisfying.

But it's disturbing to feel this kind of relief. I may very well have to back on this medication, or one like it, in the not too distant future. Part of me says unh-unh, never doing that again, I don't care what the consequences are. But is that really true? Would I rather be thinner and more depressed? Thinner and more anxious?

The questions make me think back to this study, which found that people would rather give up years of their life, be severely depressed, lose a limb, go blind, be unable to have children, if they could only be thin.

I think of myself as smarter than that. And yet--it feels good to be full again.

Why I don't fast on Yom Kippur

Millions of Jews around the world are fasting today, in observance of Yom Kippur. From sundown last night to sundown this evening, they will drink and eat nothing, in honor of the most sacred day of the Jewish calendar: the day your fate is sealed in the book of life for the coming year.

I am not fasting this year, or next year, or any other year. Not because I'm too gluttonous to give up food and drink for 24 hours. Not because I think it's irrelevant.

I'm not fasting because of what it means to be to be hungry, to be fed, and to be strong.

Let me tell you a story: My first Yom Kippur fast happened the year I turned 13--an adult for the purposes of Jewish law. I wanted to fast. I wanted to behave like an adult. I wanted to look pale and weak, to feel my stomach cave in toward my spine, to do my duty and sacrifice for the sake of holiness.

(If this sounds like the rhetoric of anorexia, well, keep reading.)

I made it through the night, the next morning, the next afternoon. Through hours of services, singing, breast-beating, and sermons. I was strong. I was proud. I was adult.

I was also very, very hungry.

In our house then, food was a kind of emotional currency. Food could be love or punishment; withholding of food could constitute either extreme. My mother was always dieting, which means that we ate, but always with the sense that we weren't really supposed to. The less you ate the better. Appetite was a bodily function that made you weak, and gluttonous, and fat. Appetite was to be squelched at every opportunity.

By 5 o'clock that Yom Kippur afternoon, I felt like I would faint if I didn't eat something. Anything. I left services and went around back, to the synagogue's playground (it was also an elementary school). I sat on the swing, went down the slide in my fancy new dress, and dug idly in the sandbox.

And that's where I found it: a half-eaten Milky Way bar. Someone had taken a few bites and then tossed it, wrapper and all, into the sandbox. It was food. It was my favorite candy bar. It was covered in sand and looked better than any food ever had to me.

I peeled the wrapper and took a bite of the uneaten side. I took another, and another, and soon had eaten the whole thing, sand and all. I felt guilty and ashamed. I was weak. I was unworthy.

I was also, later that night, sick as a dog, throwing up the candy bar and the break-the-fast meal we ate a few hours later. Retching and miserable, I had plenty of time to connect the dots: I had sinned, and I was being punished. Violently. Virulently. Righteously.

Fast-forward 35 years or so, to a night when my daughter Kitty was lying in the ICU, dying from anorexia. She was dying because she would not, could not eat. It took every ounce of determination and grief my husband and I had to help her start down the road to recovery.

That's when I connected the new set of dots: Not eating could kill you. Being hungry held no virtue. In the ultimate appetite sweepstakes, being hungry was the booby prize. You thought it was the goal, but really it was the punishment.

There have been plenty of times in my life since that Yom Kippur long ago when I have been hungry. But in the intervening years I've learned to honor my appetites--for food, for love, for compassion, for connection. This learning has changed my life.

And that's why I'll never again deliberately starve myself, for a day or for a month. There's far more virtue in learning to live with appetite and hunger than in shutting it down.