My spouse gave me a Coffee Crisp. It’s been years since I’ve had one. I broke a piece off yesterday to savor along with my coffee. I ate another piece today and still have half for later.

Am I restricting? Am I “cutting food in small pieces”? or Am I enjoying a once forbidden treat and honoring my appetite for it? These are the kinds of questions I must ask myself everyday in recovery from anorexia. 

It was the 90s. My mom pulled in front of the small convenience store in our sleepy little town for gas. An attendant walked out to meet us at the pump and my mother rolled down the window to pass her a $10. I was 7 or 8 years old, just picked up from school.

“Can I get a chocolate bar?” I asked, staring at the colorful candy shelves I could see through the storefront. She reached back into her purse. 
“Any candy you want if you get a half gallon of milk too,” Mom grinned and dangled a $5 in front of me like a carrot. I was a bashful child. I indicated my age with my fingers whenever anyone asked until I ran out of fingers.

I wanted the chocolate—maybe a Milky Way or a 3 Musketeer, I hadn’t decided—but did I want it enough to face a stranger in the convenience store by myself? I’d have to think about that.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to think. My mother’s patience was evaporating with every click of the rotary dial numbers on the gas pump. 
“You want to go in or what?” I shrugged in the passenger seat, cheeks burning. Mom gave her terms. Firm. “If I go in, I’m only getting the milk.”

Social anxiety be damned, I snatched the fiver from her hand and scooted inside, head down.
The milk was in a cooler at the back. The floors were hardwood, the path taken by hundreds of customers through the store throughout the years was worn into the boards.

I scanned visually for efficiency. Orange cap, cow on label: that’s the one my parents always buy. I reached up on the tips of my toes, grabbed the handle and yanked one of the white cartons down. Then I scuttled to the counter. I could barely see over it. 

An older smiling woman with a black apron and glasses greeted me by name. She knew my mom. Of course she did. Everyone knew everybody in this town. I think her name was Sue.

“Will that be all?” She asked, already punching the buttons on the register before I lifted the carton onto the counter. I panicked and slapped a Mr. Goodbar on the counter with the money. I almost rushed out without the change, suddenly embarrassed that I’d wanted the candy in the first place. But I did it.

The only problem was, I didn’t like Mr. Goodbar. Or peanuts. Whenever my parents bought a can of mixed nuts I picked out the pecans and the almonds, then left the rest. 

“Did you check the date,” Mom quizzed. 
“Of course I checked the date,” I lied. Mom shifted the car in drive and I opened the candy wrapper with my teeth. I didn’t particularly want to eat it, but it was there and I’d gone through all the trouble of purchasing it on my own, so I nibbled around the nuts.
“Did you forget that’s the one with the peanuts?” My mom asked casually. 
“Something like that.”

A few years later, I was studying the nutrition labels on everything. Turns out, candy offers more calories than I thought and, when I read the label, I started to panic. I wanted a full-size chocolate bar, but did I want it enough to add the calories to my daily count? I’d have to think about that. How many calories was I willing to consume? I divided the numbers. Divided the bar. Spread out one chocolate bar over days of tightly controlled longing and indulgence.

The pieces gradually became smaller until eventually I refused to eat chocolate at all. I felt ashamed for even wanting chocolate. The thought of eating it struck the same panic in me that I felt in the convenience store, grabbing a Mr. Goodbar by mistake because I thought I wanted chocolate badly enough to talk to a stranger for it. 

When I was in college, I traded anorexia for bulimia. I’d gone years without tasting real sugar and suddenly no chocolate was safe around me. Now, many years after that, I’m in recovery. I can keep chocolate in my house and I don’t give a second thought to the calories in Reese’s cups, Coffee Crisp, or any food. 

So why am I still breaking chocolate bars into pieces and eating only a fraction each day? Is it just a habit? Is a relapse on the horizon? I don’t think so. I think after years of refusing chocolate, berating myself for wanting it, and then stuffing myself sick with it, I feel proud that I can enjoy it in moderation again.

I once thought anorexia was giving me control. The real control is choice. I know I have half of a Coffee Crisp in my cupboard. I can choose to eat it if I want, or I can choose to save it for later.

There are some phrases I hear that still bother me: “I’m going to be bad and order dessert,” “I shouldn’t have another, but…”
Eat whatever you’d like. You don’t have to finish your plate—it’s okay to ask for a box. Eat dessert first. Eat leftovers for breakfast and breakfast for dinner if you want. Just don’t panic buy a Mr. Goodbar unless you actually like peanuts.

There are no rules in recovery.