I’m tucking away at the cake again because the people who’ve invited me for dinner have dessert. Dessert: the gluten-y, sugar-y, dough-y sweetness of relief from deprivation, the dopamine and serotonin rush when the food smashes against my lips, teeth and tongue and gets swallowed, in massive globs, into my stomach. The desire for more smashes maddeningly around my skull. Getting the next fix is all I can think about. I reach for another slice when no one is looking. I guess some people call this binging, a complete loss of control around “forbidden” foods. All I care about is devouring another bite, and feeling the euphoric blood sugar rush that flushes me with giddiness and good feelings before the shame sets in.

One I’ve begun to indulge, however, the voice demanding more exits stage left and is replaced with a little gremlin who fills my head with sneering and loathsome disparagement. It doesn’t speak in whole sentences, but rather in snippets, sentence fragments and hateful keywords. Sugarrr…. it hisses, gluten, bloating… FAT! Ugly, worthless…No control, no willpower, useless… failure…FAT! Not that the cake contains fat, but fat is what I will become when I allow the cake to become a part of me, the little evil voice suggests. Sometimes I can temporarily drown out his voice by eating more cake, which only makes him louder once all the cake is gone or my stomach groans with fullness.

I’ve come to realize that this cycle can be set off with feelings of boredom, anxiety and, most of all, hunger. A low-calorie diet, detox or a period of controlled eating leaves me susceptible to these binge lapses. It’s taken me the better part of 30 years to figure that out. However, stress can also send me to the pantry, digging out whatever sugary treats I can find. And so the cycle of loss of control followed by self-loathing begins.

The next day, or even within the next few hours, I feel fat.

Fat feels a certain way to me. It feels physical: puffy, bloated and sick. Most of all, it feels like I’ve done something wrong, that I am wrong. It brings with it feelings of lethargy and heaviness, not the light, perkiness I associate with health and femininity. I feel gross, unworthy of good things: attention, love, affection. I feel like I’ve failed. I feel like I’ve lost control of myself. For, if I can’t even control when I shove in my mouth, how can I have power over anything else in life?

However, a person can’t really feel fat. I mean, especially not after only a day of overeating.

And besides, fat is not a feeling.

Perhaps fat was a stand-in feeling for other difficult emotions my childhood brain couldn’t fully comprehend. Like the time I wrote in my diary, at the age of 8 years old, That’s it, I’m fat, I’m going on a diet. From now on, I’m only eating sandwiches. Funny and touching, but also sad, I wonder what 8-year-old me was really feeling when she claimed to feel “fat”. Perhaps she felt helpless, out of control, different from the herd and hopeless about fitting in.

If I pause to peer below the surface of “fat”, I find other words or cognitive connections that underlie it. When I feel “fat” I also feel out of control, worthless, lonely, like a failure. I sometimes feel sad and anxious. Sometimes I simply feel full, like I’ve fed myself, and as I’ve often heard repeated, “It’s important to leave a meal feeling a little bit hungry”, the feeling of being fed can induce feelings of guilt.

Everywhere we look, the media equates “healthy” with thin, glistening bodies. Fitness models with amenorrheic abs, bounce back and forth on splayed legs in front of a full make-up, costume, lighting and camera team to simulate the image of running through a field. “Losing weight” equals “getting fit” equals “being healthy”. As a society we’ve failed to ask ourselves what “health” might mean and instead deliver the whole concept over to impossible standards of beauty, making “health” as unachievable as the stringy bodies that represent it. While I intellectually know that this isn’t the case, that health comes in all sizes—and may actually hover around “plus” sizes, in actual fact—restriction has been imprinted in my brain as a sign of healthy self-control.

But, maybe the definition of health needs to come from digging within and asking the question What does health mean to you? Perhaps the body knows more than the marketing media does about what it needs for health. Maybe, just sometimes, it needs cake to be healthy. Maybe even the act of overindulgence is healthy sometimes.

Perhaps if I give my body enough of the healthy food and fuel it needs, it won’t go crazy the next time it sees cake. When we try to murder ourselves by holding our breath to stop our breathing, we pass out. The body deems us too irresponsible to control the precious task of breathing and so it turns the lights out on conscious breath control. Our very own physiology doesn’t trust our conscious thought if we abuse it. So, when I force my body to survive and thrive on restrictions, self-hate and negative talk, perhaps it induces a binge. Maybe I binge to survive. Or maybe my body loves cake as much as I do.

Instead of feeling like a failure, because I didn’t win the fight against my body, perhaps I should respectfully hand it back the reins and tell it, with my conscious mind, “I trust you, I respect you, I’ll listen to you more carefully from now on.”

And, like Marie Antoinette once granted her people, I can grant my body permission, and let it eat cake.