Misogynoir and Binge Eating Disorder: Hope after Harm
Another comment about the “look” of my hair at work and I feel the familiar sinking feeling in my stomach. I am right back to the Spring of my sophomore (and last) year in high school. I’ll explain.
I had carved out my niche existence as a bookish but better-than-average athlete (in my school and district). Other Black students referred to me as an “oreo”, but because of my athleticism, they did so jokingly instead of harshly. I was a thicc but straight sized 15 year-old who was viewed as competition for boyfriends by the girls, and too hard to ‘control’ by the boys. I existed in a purgatory of a type, which could have been worse, so I didn’t complain too much to my parents.
That spring, I appealed to the local school board for early graduation. At the March meeting, after listening to my parents present my case, we stepped outside while they voted. We honestly thought the procedure was a mere formality. We were called back in and told that the motion to grant me a new class rank and diploma was denied. I squealed out a question asking why. After some silence, one of the members plainly stated that none of the white kids had ever done it. And no outside Black girl would be the first.
I looked at my parents who gave each other some ‘looks’ and then flashed some looks at the only other two Black faces in the cafeteria — both Black men on the school board of 9 people. Their sheepish expressions told my parents what they needed to know, and they escorted a crying teenager home.
For context, the year was 1993. This wasn’t some event in the distant past. Little did I know that the sinking feeling I experienced in that moment would fuel self-doubt, shame, and low self-esteem for most of the next two decades.
I felt completely defeated and betrayed. Betrayed by my parents who said, “Leslie, we will find a workaround. Don’t be so dramatic. We endured much worse during segregation. You’ll be alright.” Betrayed by a society and culture that affirmed hard work with access to education, to class mobility, to the American Dream.
Betrayed by my body because it had been born a Black, female body. A body in which I had no say in; a body that I could not change to white.
During the next few years, I learned that while I couldn’t change my race and gender, I could do other things to increase my proximity to whiteness.
I could access higher education. Check.
I could go to graduate school. Check (two master’s degrees, tyvm).
I could master code switching. Check.
I could straighten my hair. Check.
I could shrink my body to conform to that ideal standard. Check. Uncheck. Check again. Uncheck again…
I always hoped that I would get to my goal weight and somehow stay there. But it was never like that. I exercised to the point of and past injury to my feet, knees, and my back. I would restrict my eating for months at a time. The weight loss would happen quickly and be noticeable. Compliments and attention flowed. All was right with the world and then something would happen and there I was in a binge eating cycle. Thinking, hoping, pleading with the universe that I could binge this one time and be able to regain control and get back on track the next day. And sometimes, it would be like that. Other times, I would pass up outings with family and friends so I could stay home and enjoy my binges in effing peace.
Finally, after engaging in this binge eating behavior for years, a friend and fellow over-exerciser (I use this term now, but we did not consider this negative or a problem at all back then!) were swapping diet stories and another friend said that she thought we needed help. She was in a clinical psychology program and talked about a new binge eating cycle disorder (BED) on the horizon. I almost didn’t get help. But by this time, I was exhausted. Deep down, I had noticed how my binges were becoming more frequent and how much angrier and sadder I had become with myself and with food and with everyone. I wanted to live in a different way.
It was during therapy that I had the opportunity to go back to that day in March of 1993 and tease out what was a life-changing traumatic event. That trauma is called misogynoir. Coined by scholar and activist Moya Bailey, misogynoir describes the unique trauma suffered by Black women that is informed by both race and gender. And thanks to journaling, I had a record of countless microaggressions and consistent misogynoir tied so completely to my eating disorder.
The harm that I endured that day deeply fractured my self-worth. It was a trauma recorded by my body, and every time I was harmed in that way, I felt that sinking feeling in my stomach. It would be a long time before I would trust that what others saw was what I wanted or hoped they saw. It would be a long time before I felt worthy of intimacy, ease, and joy again.
But one day, I asked myself: Why is who I am not good enough?
I feel that there has been some soul wound that has caused everyone struggling with an eating disorder to ask this question of themselves. That hurt, that fracture, or even a complete break separates us from our highest, truest selves and the disorder is there to help one cope. I feel that Black women are suffering with misogynoir and BED in silence. But there is so much hope!
I spent a good part of my recovery looking for evidence that I wasn’t good enough. I realized that I couldn’t prove that, so the opposite must be true. When I started looking for evidence to support the belief that I am good enough, my recovery journey shifted completely.
I was good enough to leave high school in the spring of 1993 – with my GED and full scholarship to a university. I was good enough to heal those soul wounds. I have experienced so much freedom and ease as a recovered person that I want to share the hope of recovery with everyone.
And that is my wish for everyone fighting for themselves in recovery. That you, like me, will find overwhelming evidence that you are worthy of life, of joy, and of recovery because you are.
