BAD PIZZA

I really like food.

They say that many anorexics, in contrast to what the disease would have you think are foodies. I agree with that wholeheartedly, at least where I'm concerned. I'm a foodie. I love food. I love cooking food and eating food. Good food. Food with depth and flavour and different textures that make me want to eat. And it doesn't have to be expensive or swanky, I'm (theoretically) just as happy with a really good portion of chips from a chip shop as I am with a ridiculously expensive, incredibly swanky meal.
And this is more relevant to me now than ever.
My relationship with food is at an all time low and it's really bloody hard to fight it and pick myself back up again, especially when 'safe' foods tend to be rather bland and definitely too repetitive to really be enjoyable.
Recently I decided that I missed eating out.
For all the anxiety it causes I really enjoy going out for a meal. I have no rational reasoning behind it although I do suspect part of me just likes the normality of it despite the fact that the anxiety and rituals around eating out are anything but normal.
So I decided I missed eating out and therefore we decided to go for a meal and try and make it a regular thing.
I have a list of places where I can eat, another list of foods I can eat there and then another list of foods I want to eat there (have I mentioned I like lists?). It's served me well, cravings aside. Although I can't remember ever having crossed the line that I drew for myself and ordered from the 'I want to eat this' list.
Depending on where I'm at in my recovery my safe list changes and varies, right now even salad feels unsafe. I'll force it, but I don't feel very good about it.

So the first meal out (Pizza Express) I ordered a pizza. And it was good. Hoorah!

And I immediately decided that I absolutely had to have another so that cemented the whole 'trying to eat' thing for me because I had eaten, the world hasn't ended and more importantly I really enjoyed the food.

Recovery is funny (except not funny haha more funny bash your head against a wall and laugh maniacally), it's very difficult to reinforce the positive emotions and experiences that will be beneficial to your wellbeing and yet one bad experience can reinforce every negative emotion, thought or feeling you've ever had and then chuck a few more dodgy emotions on top to boot.
I'd eaten the pizza, I'd enjoyed the pizza, the world was still spinning and I hadn't gained a stone by the next morning. It would make sense that after that a salad at home would feel somewhat safer. But no, of course not. That fight is completely separate to the eating out fight. Except it's not. It's separate when we're talking positive reinforcement, but absolutely exactly the same when a bad experience comes knocking.

Strada was next. My choice, because I wanted a pizza. This pizza sounded good, actually it sounded pretty dreamy. Caramelised onions, mushrooms, spinach, aubergine, sundries tomato, goats cheese and other pizzery things I can't remember. Anyway it sounded delicious. It wasn't. And it wasn't hot.

It's difficult to describe how I felt after eating that pizza without sounding a little crazy.

I was angry. Angry at myself for eating. Angry at the pizza for not living up to expectations. And angry at myself for not taking 'necessary precautions'.

I was anxious. The anxiety over the impending food wasn't squashed by enjoyment so it became overwhelming. Will I gain weight? Am I bloated? I feel bloated. I want to go home right now and cry, not continue with our day. If I do that I'll be the ruiner of all the things. God I ruin everything. Why can't I be normal? I bet Harrison wishes I wasn't here. Does he hate me? At the very least he thinks I'm stupid as hell. I am stupid though. Wait am I overreacting? Was the pizza that bad? God is my 
brain tricking me into thinking it's bad so I won't eat again? Maybe. But if it is it's because I'm bloody fat and now I've just made it worse.
I was upset. I cried because it wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth the anxiety and the effort. It wasn't worth feeling so horrible just to add 'uncomfortably full of yuck pizza' to the list.
I quickly decided that I should probably just never eat again (impossible and irrational I know) just to avoid the possibility of this happening again.

But then my mother and saviour suggested a jaunt to Pizza Express after a family party and despite having decided to never eat again a few hours previously I knew that I would absolutely make exception for that pizza. And I think somewhere in my spiralling mind I was hopeful that another positive could undo this negative. But in the meantime I had the pleasure of resurfacing tears over cucumber because the fear was back. The bad pizza had reinforced all the negative emotions surrounding food. And notjust food, negative emotions about myself, about recovery and even the people around me. It's strange to think that a bad pizza can suddenly make you question whether or not someone loves you.

Pizza Express take two didn't happen.
Spontaneous meals are not a strong point of mine unless we spontaneously end up somewhere on my list. And even then you can bet that I'll be anxious, edgy and order at least once extra glass of wine. Or bottle of cider in this case.
Spontaneous meals that take place somewhere that doesn't have any vegetarian salads are harder still. But after toying with my options, debating calories and density and fat/carb/protein/do I even care about this stuff? content in my head I settled on a Superfood pasta. Kale pesto, rocket, sundried tomato, butternut squash, soy beans etc. Weatherspoon's used to do a superfood salad but now it's a pasta dish. I chose it, everyone was happy because 'Holly ordered pasta!?' and I had cider and that was as close to happiness as I could get given the utter meltdown that was occurring inside my head.
It came. I ate it. It wasn't great. In honesty it wasn't even good.

I was angry. Angry for eating, angry that pizza express was closed, any for choosing this dish and angry because why the fuck is this happening again?

I was sad. Because I was overwhelmed. Because again the anxiety just was not worth it and again I was left with a brain that was screaming and no one could see or have any hope of understanding.
I was anxious.
I was beaten.

Another night filled with horrible thoughts. Another morning filled with anxiety and uncomfortableness. Eating is harder. Thinking about eating is harder.
And why? Because of an unenjoyable pasta dish and a bad pizza?
When I had the good pizza all that I gained was cravings for that pizza and subsequent plans to somehow eat it again. And don't get me wrong, that is a big deal. But aside from that accomplishment what did I really gain from it?
The irrationality of an eating disorder dictates that you can eat a (specific) pizza and not gain weight but it's entirely plausible (in your head) that you will gain a stone from half a carton of soup. Which is why the soup is still in my fridge.
Why do the good experiences, the good pizzas, not weigh as much as the bad ones?
I resent the bad pizza.
I resent the fact that it was able to drag me backwards down a road that I had been struggling to journey along. That a combination of dough and vegetables seemingly turned me utterly loopy. And now I've suddenly remembered Polly from the documentary THIN, she attempted suicide over a slice of pizza. It sounds so ludicrous, laughable almost. But it's so real. Like I said, recovery is funny.
I resent the bad pizza because it's made me paranoid.
I resent the bad pizza because I feel like it along with the unenjoyable pasta make me look fussy.
I resent the bad pizza because it's made me worry that people will assume this is just my anorexia rearing its ugly head again.

I actually really dislike the bad pizza at this point.
And what frustrates me the most is that there are so many good pizzas. And not just The Good Pizza. I have eaten a lot of good pizza in my life. There is so much good food. Just scrolling back through my Instagram I can see meals out that I enjoyed and I know that Instagram doesn't even scratch the surface.

 


But somehow the bad pizza comes along and eclipses the good pizza. And not just that, it smothers the Brie and cranberry crepes, the amazing  although overwhelming pasta, the chips, the salads, the brownies,

The reality of recovery for me is like walking up a long, immensely foggy road in a country that has long, cold winters, long nights and hardly any daylight.

Good pizzas are the sunrise, bringing light and hope that I need to continue in my journey. My children are the sunrise, my family, friends, Harrison, a clean kitchen. But I still spend most of my journey without. Ugh light, stumbling over obstacles I cannot see and accidentally leaving the road travelling down paths that lead me astray.
Bad pizzas are the sunset, bringing darkness, cold and fear that is just not welcome.

I'll always have the moon I guess.
I am the moon. Giving just enough light to keep my holding onto the road because. I have to.

How else will I eat another good pizza?