HOW JEWISH CULTURE SHAPED MY STRUGGLE WITH AN EATING DISORDER
Written by Talia Bidner
I stood in the middle of my kitchen. An empty plate in hand. Carefully evaluating every food in an attempt to calculate just how much I would permit myself to eat. While everyone else was piling on mashed potatoes, brisket, vegetables, and everything else that my family had spent days preparing, I could barely move a muscle. I began to sweat; I could feel the piercing eyes of those who now felt like strangers staring me down. These weren’t foods that I was used to.
I had become so comfortable with the feeling of hunger that the thought of satiation was terrifying. I had become so comfortable with feeling like an outsider that I didn’t even feel like part of my family. I had become so comfortable with being left out that I was not ready to be part of something.
Judaism, for my family at least, was a culture. It wasn’t about attending synagogue or adhering to God’s commandments, but about celebrating a community.
During the high holidays, which usually fall some time in September or October, my family would gather almost every week to celebrate the holiday and spend time together.
When my family arrived, I was immediately greeted with comments about my body. What to everyone else might have appeared like a compliment had actually been fueling my disordered eating mindset. Comments like “you look so great” translated to thoughts like “did I not look good before?”; “wow you’ve lost so much weight” translated to “how can I ever go back to what I looked like before? I’m going to disappoint everyone.”
My mind was so preoccupied with the meal ahead that I did not know how to interact with my family. I was irritable, tired, and angry. I was not angry at my family for their stares or their comments; I was angry at myself for allowing something that began as an attempt to gain control to grow so beyond out of my control.
When it came time to eat, and I built up enough courage to challenge myself, I couldn’t help but worry what everybody else would think of me. Would they think I didn’t care about my body because I was eating all this food? Would they think I was losing control? And on top of that were my own worries. Was I going to gain weight from this meal? Was my body going to change because I’m not eating the foods that I usually do?
As if the holidays with family weren’t enough of an additional stress, being part of an incredibly small and tight-knit school community was an additional pressure. Since kindergarten, I have attended a Jewish private school. Though I am eternally grateful for the opportunities that this education has come with, it did come with a sheltered and sometimes overly high-pressure environment.
When I was in the worst of my eating disorder, I would have people coming up to me asking what I was doing to lose all that weight and complimenting my new figure. Though on their end it was a positive comment, to me it once again translated to expectations set by everybody around me to maintain my disordered practices.
Although characteristics of my faith contributed to my struggle with an eating disorder in many ways, other facets of my faith were the reason I chose recovery.
My small, close-knit Jewish high school was also home to an incredible network of the most supportive teachers, administrators, and friends. Whether by helping me make up work for a class that I missed for my nutritionist appointment or just sitting and listening when I needed to talk about my struggle, I always knew that I was loved and supported.
And although it may be one of the most prominent Jewish stereotypes, my overly-worried and cautious Jewish mother was one of my strongest supporters during my recovery. From her weekly (sometimes more) check-ins with my nutritionist to asking me multiple times a day to check in with her and let her know what I’d eaten, her unwavering support was essential to my recovery. And although we often fought about what I had deemed her being over-protective, at this point in my recovery, I am eternally grateful for her unconditional love and support. I truly would not have been able to do any of it without her being my number one cheerleader.
In addition to all of the support I received in my journey towards recovery, I believe the most catalyzing event was my summer at my Jewish sleepaway camp. Ever since I stepped foot off of that bus in 2014, I knew that this place would change my life. And little did I know then that it would save it, too.
Though everybody around me was worried that time away from home, away from my support system, would send me in a downward spiral, I was confident that this would not be the case.
I knew that the second I was surrounded by my best friends, in my favorite place, I would no longer allow my eating disorder to take over my positive experiences.
Whether it was sitting in the canteen with my friends eating raw cookie dough, or gathering around the campfire and making s’mores every Friday night, I refused to let my eating disorder take over my life. I knew that camp was what made me happiest, and that was one thing I would not allow my eating disorder to take away from me.
And when I returned home from camp having realized what life was like in recovery, I was ready to bring that feeling home. I started surrounding myself with people who I knew would be supportive of my recovery and began distancing myself from people and practices that were not. I learned that my happiness did not exist, and could not exist, as long as I was engaging in these behaviors.
Genesis 1:27 states, “And God created man in His image.” Though I am not sure to what extent I believe in God, I do know that the most crucial part of my recovery has been accepting the body that I live in and practicing gratitude for all that it can do. I have learned that letting go of my eating disorder and embracing recovery is not the scary part, but rather, continuing to engage in these behaviors is.
Talia Bidner (she/her) is a junior in high school on Long Island.