My journey with food began as any other autobiographical story begins: with my birth. I remember none of this, of course, but in asking questions to my mother and father, I have constructed a picture of my childhood cuisine. As far back as they can remember, my early days were a blur of figuring out what milk I could drink (I was lactose intolerant for a good month or so after my birth) and, once that was sorted, trying to find foods I actually would eat. As I got older, I only became more incredibly specific: salty delights (my earliest culinary experiments involved shaking packets of salt into squelches of ketchup), white chocolate macadamia nut cookies, Kraft Mac and Cheese, bland cereals (I still have a penchant for unsugared Rice Krispies), and Sprite, which, later on, became, Diet Coke. This rather dull weekly menu comprised little excitement, aside from my rather mature reveling in an exotic favorite of mine: a cheese and mustard sandwich. To be clear, this was no culinary marvel, but a thing of lackluster joy. It was comprised of a slice or two of plastic-wrapped Kraft cheese and a thinly spread knife-full of French's yellow mustard squashed (quite literally) between two slices of Sara Lee Honey Wheat Bread. My mother's grocery brand choices were as immovable as my rigid palette. This sandwich was nothing more than a vaguely cheesy flavor nearly completely swallowed by a mustardy tang. This dull interior is all but masked by the oddly sweet bread, the texture of which is rather disgusting to recall, as I'd all but macerated the living hell out of it (only really possible with plastic bag bread) in order to make a grilled cheese like consistency.

I am, and always have been, the dreaded 'picky eater'. On occasion, I try and refine this derogatory term into 'refined palette', but the nitty gritty truth rears her ugly head instantly: I am picky, to a fault.

Moving into my adolescence, I discovered the glory that is Audrey Hepburn and instantly despised my figure: a rather plump concoction courtesy of my decidedly beige food choices. My diet turned more rigid, involving lean meats, water, broth, canned pineapple, bananas, Laughing Cow Reduced Fat cheese, and Special K. This diet was mechanical; it was a purely physical outpouring of control over my food. I felt no emotion toward the food, neither good or bad. I had merely taken what I saw as 'The Hepburn Diet' and tweaked it to fit my narrow appetite. The resulting weight loss was a detached point of surprise for me and an invested point of worry to friends and teachers. The only meals I can truly recall from this time are the bowls of Special K, a food I have never again been able to eat. The banality punched with an uncertain sweetness, the texture only nastier as it gets wetter. Even remote attempts at sugary flavors, such as Special K Red Berries and Special K Chocolatey Delight, only give brief twinklings of something akin to joy, only to be quashed by the astonishingly monotonous piquancy of the actual cereal. A random boost of confidence around the age of 14, rare for me, turned me into a plump size 8, and I was never happy with my figure from that moment forward.

Underneath this litany of limited food choices came a markedly opposite approach to my emotional relationship with food. Meaning, I absolutely loved it. I adored the Food Network, devouring Ina Garten and multitudes of Iron chefs with my eyes. I adored both their creations and the creative process, watching into the early hours of the morning. I imagined myself a regular Giada as I'd assemble one bland meal after another. However, it wasn't until thirteen, when hormones click into place and give off a radar signal as radiant and annoying as a muggily sunny day, that I recognized the great hypocrisy of my life.

True, my list of 'will not eats' was shorter than some of my fastidious tribe, but remained, with unfailing stature, a tall beacon of my incredible fraud: I was a foodie who didn't like food.

I didn't try an actual tomato until I was thirteen and prompted the recognition that I was, in fact, a foodie (as will be evidenced by the following description of a sandwich). It was in Panera's Tomato and Mozzarella Panini (a thing of beauty that has, for some ridiculous reason, been replaced by a similar, yet lackluster, attempt at a flatbread equivalent). I took my first bite timidly, a sense of terror raging in my lower belly: this could be disastrous. The worried thoughts of a picky palette needn't have concerned themselves: It was stunning. A real marvel of sweet, oven-roasted tomato slices, the sweetness matched with equal brilliance by the saltiness of the sun-dried tomato pesto. The entirety of the of the filling was covered by a deliciously creamy mozzarella, whose ambiguous milky flavor complimented the shock factor of dueling tomato components. The sandwich was grilled on ciabatta or focaccia, some amazingly fluffy, easily crispened bread with little flavor other than wonderful. A light peppering of fresh basil and arugula made this sandwich a true knockout. I was floored; tomatoes were good, hell, arugula and basil were good; no, not just good, exceptional. My shock gave way to an in-between period of food, where I tried some foods, not with wild abandon, but with enough to actually have more of a refined palette.

This next part is difficult to remember, as I've, thankfully, mentally blocked most of it. My sophomore year of high school, I got a lead in a show. I was fifteen, overly-sensitive, felt the pressure of doing well in the role, and was scared of...well, the world. What hadn't clicked yet was that I have social anxiety and a fear of failure. What did click was if I couldn't control my emotions, grades, or performance, I could control my food. Purging seemed a natural choice to me, I could eat whatever I wanted and just get rid of it later. This is very important to say here: fortunately, I never developed full-blown bulimia nervosa. For a while, I just developed a desire to purge. For several weeks, I'd haul myself up in a school bathroom stall and attempt, sometimes successfully, to purge whatever I'd eaten. Thankfully, in a tear-filled breakdown surrounding grades, I revealed this to my father. With the support of my family, friends, and teachers, these dangerous habits were quickly quelled and they have never again occurred.

From then on out I ate a great deal and, well, I got rather fat. I have broad shoulders in which the fat eagerly and willingly spread. With each calorie-filled bite, my already chunky legs gained a little thunder to each thigh. Any time I'd lose a pound or two on a particularly well-behaved week, I'd easily stumble at the first hurdle of a healthy pathway. It was during this time, the remainder of my high school years, that I did all the 'wrong things': ate because I was bored or sad, ate foods I shouldn't, ate too much, etc. I ate everything, and, yet, at the same time, nothing. There wasn't even a remote thought directed at health or well-being, just a want for more food. At my heaviest, I weighed 215 lbs, not an intense feat, but more than I needed to weigh. Then college.

I have already discussed this, but my first collegiate experience resulted in me transferring to my current school. However, what I haven't discussed was the pressure I felt to lose weight. Due to the intense levels of anxiety and stress which I felt at the school, it is impossible to say whether or not the pressure I felt to lose weight was real or just paranoia. What I did know was that I was the largest girl in my class, so I began the risky business of avoiding food as much as possible. I would 'forget to eat', 'not be hungry', and wouldn't eat in front of other people. Even more dangerously, sometimes meals would only consist of a Diet Coke or two. I would be so hungry that, every three or four days, I would eat one massive meal that I'd instantly regret. When the results of this, obviously, didn't include the quickest weight loss possible, I headed for a somewhat healthier, albeit incredibly austere, approach.

This is what I lovingly call the 'protein and fruit' days. I would eat like a bird, convincing myself that tiny amounts of food were all I needed. 'Mealtime' became a word for which my meals were a sorry excuse. I can recall one appallingly sad excuse for an Easter Sunday brunch consisting of one clementine and twelve almonds. I ate these as slowly as possible, convincing myself that the breath of vanilla flavor from the almonds and the cleansing wash of citrus from the clementine were just the right amount of raw sweetness to make that day great. When I returned home from school for the summer, my meals got a touch more substantial, the protein usually actually being meat. In a mere six months, I lost nearly 50 lbs. That's about 8 and a half pounds a month, which isn't healthy in the slightest. However, I was the most confident I'd ever been, but also the most paranoid I'd ever been. I returned to school and was a complete disaster. I didn't want to be there and this manifested in my food intake.

I developed a kidney infection, a very slight medical dilemma. However, after four months, it can really mess with your system. Due to the pressure from the kidney infection on my system, I developed gastritis. My stomach was basically a war zone. I couldn't eat. I remember taking a bite of a sandwich- a bland pre-fab thing from the dining hall- trying a second bite and vomiting almost immediately. This 'condition' made people think I was anorexic. I was most definitely not anorexic. Sometimes, a natural human response to the unknown is to run. I felt I had no friends. No one talked to me; I felt like I scared people, like I was hated. At one point, I was hospitalized. A spinal tap resulted in constant vomiting whenever I stood. I ate simply, trying PB&Js, hoping they'd stay down...I don't think I'll ever be able to eat another peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My dad came and got me, making me eat a toasted ham and cheese sandwich. This was, without a doubt, the greatest sandwich I've ever eaten. It was small, the meat perfectly salty in contrast to the deliciously creamy cheese and the bread, though nondescript, could've been made by Jesus himself it tasted so good. I have a random love for food eaten at times of extreme hunger, is it actually good? Who knows, but it always tastes like heaven. This happened to fall around Thanksgiving Break- the foodie's holiday- and I returned to eating meals. Back at school until first semester finals finished, I turned to an odd pattern: protein shake, turkey and cheese sandwich, and taco salad- a tedious, but filling agenda that got me through my finals and home for Christmas.

My family and I celebrated Christmas in Disney World. It was here, as I've already divulged, that I made the decision to not return to school. Disney World at Christmas is a truly wonderful place. Christmas Eve was celebrated in Epcot, where Disney World creates a World Holiday Food Festival. My dad, sisters, and I traipsed about the park, trying all the amazing treats. We drank a sweetly salted caramel, melted into a beverage from Germany, a delectable Panettone from Italy, and a true mulled cider from England that warmed your belly like no other. It was glorious and the kick in the rear I needed to get myself out of school and off for a semester.

These days food means mornings of oatmeal and Mini Wheats (I know, I am an oldie- they are delicious, though) swallowed down with coffee, usually, on healthier days, soup for lunch, or some kind of attempt at a healthy-ish wrap, and then dinner is a smorgasbord, dependent on how much was eaten the rest of the day, spanning anywhere from an actual meal (like: protein, carb, vegetable, fruit) to fruit salad to a repeat of breakfast. Food means writing recipe ideas to try when I go home from school, ideas like White Chocolate Pumpkin Pistachio Tart and Lemony Pork with Chorizo and Kale Polenta. Food means sharing a pizza with great friends. In those meanings, food means great things. However, it also means regretting dessert, worrying about calories, praying I get enough exercise to burn whatever 'mealtime' meant. Food, like love, is complicated. Therefore, a love of food while having food anxiety is like trying to survive a natural disaster.

Celebrating my love of food is something I rarely feel able to do. Somehow, I feel judgment, like I'm being watched. I know I'm not. Somewhere, in the deep hell that my mind can occassionally be, my worries tell me that eating is ruining me. Telling me, screaming at me, that if I'd just cut down on the food, life would be better. I stand in rooms of thin girls, beautiful girls and hate myself for loving food. I hate myself for loving to eat. I know that this needs to change. My heart loves food and so does my body. Now the battle is to convince myself to just love.

Love me; love food; just love.