Jeremy Susi wears many different hats. He is a committed husband, loving father, dedicated teacher, passionate coach, and avid distance runner. He says, “Those are the obvious identities that the entire world can see with plain eyes, but deep down I’m just a human being trying to navigate this complicated thing called life.” Jeremy Susi writes more about his journey and eating disorder recovery on his Substack here.
Please note: Eating disorder behaviors mentioned.
“One… two… three… four… five…”
In the middle of a hide-and-seek game with my three-year-old daughter, it occurs to me how innocent these numbers are, contrasted with how harmful numbers had become in my life. In this moment, as I cover my eyes with my hands and count, the numbers are a form of play. Anywhere else, they bring on fear.
A pit forms in my stomach as I wonder when numbers had turned sour. Does not knowing the answer to this confirm that I haven’t dug deep enough into eating disorder recovery? I wonder if I had faced these hard-hitting questions when my eating disorder first spawned in high school, maybe I wouldn’t still be grappling with the beast at my ripe age of thirty-three.
“Six… seven… eight… nine… ten…”
It feels good to say that my last binge episode occurred over three months ago. Because prior to this stretch of relative success, it had been a few years since reaching a single month without a binge. With that comparison, I’d like to indulge in a little self-praise and give myself a pat on the back.
The work is working – you’re really doing the thing.
But just seconds later, I recall how I celebrated two years without a binge in 2022. This comparative perspective has me suddenly feeling worthless.
You’ve moved backwards, Jer. You’ve accomplished nothing.
And then a Bo Burnham-esque backlash to the backlash hits me: these are all just numbers passing through my brain. Why must I attach emotion to them? And why are they even a thought in the first place?
“Ready or not, here I come!” I announce.
While I search each room for my daughter, I appreciate a moment when my brain refocuses on the present. Of course, this is where I wish it remained in the first place. Is my daughter in her bedroom, or mine? Is she behind a door, or under a blanket? Did she find a new hiding spot, or is she in one of the same three locations she always seems to choose?
Wait, how many miles did I run this morning? Was it nine, or eight? Did I squeeze six more this afternoon, or was it five? Did those runs combine for the arbitrary 14-mile total I was hoping for today? And will that keep me on track for yet another arbitrary 100-mile week? My hand reaches for the phone, knowing a quick Strava check-in will provide the answers I seek.
“Tweet, tweet! Tweet, tweet!” my daughter squeals from another room. It indicates I’ve taken too long to find her, and she gives herself away willingly.
Father of the Year over here. I can’t even remain present for sixty seconds of play with my daughter. I was suddenly aware that meaningless numbers related to my binge-free streak entered my brain, and I spun them in a way to feel bad about myself. So I countered those meaningless numbers with more meaningless numbers about my current marathon training, hoping they’d inject a bit of confidence. But the self-realization of it all just leaves me feeling crummy at best. Besides, my daughter doesn’t have a clue what a binge episode is, nor a 100-mile week. Nor does she care.
“Now you hide, and I’ll count!” she commands. Three-year-olds love an opportunity to call the shots. And considering how often my wife and I dictate her everyday action, I happily oblige in this moment to help balance the scale.
Crouching down to fit under a table, I curse under my breath at how tight and creaky my limbs feel. But before I get too upset about it, I remind myself that my mid-twenties body was in worse physical condition. That was back when the binges occurred multiple times per week. Heck, at my worst, multiple times per day.
Back then I struggled to feel content with my life post-college. I had moved an hour away from home with no friends or family. I lacked a sense of purpose. I cycled through one dopamine-driven coping mechanism after another: Ninety-minute run before work. Heavy lift after. Local open mic nights in the evening. I tried to stay on the straight and narrow for as long as possible, but I inevitably reached a point where there was no more energy, motivation, or bravery left in the tank to pursue another natural high.
“One… two… three… four… five…”
In this game of hide-and-seek, my general life fatigue is nowhere near critical. But it only takes two or three self-care missteps to bring me there. And unfortunately for me, nothing seems to relieve stress quite like an all-out binge. It’s instant, it’s dramatic, and it requires virtually zero effort: Just turn the brain off for sixty minutes straight and plunge into every sweet and savory craving that I usually force myself to resist. A pressure valve releases, and I bounce from a burger and large fry, to tacos and a cheap gas station package of cookies and pint of ice cream.
Should I blame the manufacturers of these hyper processed foods for my utter obsession and inability to live without them? Or should I blame myself for not having the self-discipline to mutter the word “salad” while ordering? It’s neither here nor there, really. Are the real culprits the ones that preach low carb? Or low fat? Or no meat and dairy? As if black and white restrictions are sustainably reasonable in a complicated and nuanced world.
“Six… seven… eight… nine… ten…”
When I first learned how to read a nutrition label, the concept of counting calories felt more like a math challenge than a lifestyle. It was like the way I’d visualize a keyboard to achieve the highest words per minute in typing class. Math was always my strongest subject in school, so adding whole numbers and keeping a running tally in my brain seemed doable. Mix in the challenge of keeping the daily total under 2,000, and the competitor in me was hooked.
Before I could even say the word “addiction,” what began as a personal challenge transformed into an existential need. If I didn’t know how many calories were in something, I’d dismiss myself to the bathroom or pretend to send a text so I could secretly look it up on my phone. And if I couldn’t find an answer I could trust, I’d respectfully decline the unknown food and find something else to eat that had a number I could trust. It’s a shame how many homemade desserts I’ve passed up on, only to willingly eat crappy packaged versions later. And it was all because I simply didn’t know how many calories were in them.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” my daughter exclaims. (We’re still working on the “ready or not” phrase).
Keeping tabs on a binge-free streak doesn’t need to be harmful. Tracking weekly running mileage doesn’t need to be harmful. Counting calories doesn’t need to be harmful. Eating fast food, cookies, and ice cream doesn’t need to be harmful. Calculating macronutrients doesn’t need to be harmful. Making thoughtful, deliberate dietary changes doesn’t need to be harmful. Some of these statements once felt true to my heart, but I’ve since flipped a 180 on them. And for others, the reverse transgression applies.
Ultimately, I’ve realized the common denominator that tips the scale from harmless to harmful lies in rigidity. Perfectionism. Control. Like carrying an egg, both squeezing too tightly and holding too loosely will lead to the same undesirable outcome: a mess that could’ve been prevented with a simple, minor adjustment. But now it requires infinitely more effort to clean up.
“I found you!” she giggles while peaking under the table.
As we hug and prepare for another round, I remind myself that thoughts are thoughts, and that the story we tell ourselves about our thoughts are ultimately what drive the response. While we might not have much control over the initial thought, we certainly have a lot more control over the yarn we spin.
In this moment of strength, I’m able to set my phone on the table in an act of self-defiance. You might not be able to control the numbers that pop into your brain, but you do have control over whether they drag your state of mind away from the present moment with your daughter. Will this singular act relinquish my issues with counting and numbers forever? Surely not. But the more bricks I stack in my favor, the more grounded I’ll remain with personal morals, ethics, and goals.
