Playing with Food: A Reflection on Childhood, Neurotype, & Authenticity

[Content warning: eating disorder discussion, detailed food descriptions that some may find GROSS]

In a gestalt therapy training group some years ago, our teacher & elder Lu Grey asked us to consider the way we eat food a process that mirrors aspects of our internal worlds. She asked us if we tend to eat fast or slow, do we eat section by section of our plates or do we mix everything together into some sort of mush. Do we eat our favorite part of a meal first or save it until the end? And how does that mirror the ways we interact with ourselves, others, and the world?

As someone who has struggled with disordered eating since at least age 8 (binging & restricting), Lu’s thought experiment sent me (momentarily) to a sad, anxious, uncomfortable place. First of all, thinking about the way I eat was triggering in and of itself. Listening to my colleagues in the group describe their eating patterns was just as triggering. I swear, if someone mentioned starting their day with warm water and a slice of lemon I probably wouldn’t have been able to return to the group. 

All that aside, there were some helpful, albeit not new, reflections that came from this thought experiment. Like many of us, I learned my disordered eating behaviors directly from my mother. At age 8, my mother was 23 years old (yes, I have a young mom) and tangled up in diet culture. We had dieting books that spanned conflictingly from raw vegan to Atkins. My mom literally lined our kitchen pantry doors with photos of herself at her thinnest. This was, of course, meant to deter herself from grabbing a snack. Guess who else it deterred? And when it didn’t fully deter… when the photos weren’t enough to prevent us from a binge, the photos just caused deep shame and self-disgust. 

Reaching for food when I was hungry or seeking comfort, seeing these photos of my mother, then either binging or vowing to only eat x amount of calories a day, totally mirrors some of my internal processes. But this isn’t the point of this blog, so I’ll put it simply and we can move on: Early in my development I learned that I shouldn’t listen to my body, that I’m out of control and need to exert control over myself, and that what’s important is not how I feel or what I need, but how pleasing I am to others. And I’m sure, much more. 

Here’s what I actually want to write and think about: While there was sadly not any point in my childhood untouched by weird food messages, there was a time where I played with my food. Playing with food is what we usually call it, and I have no problem with that as I certainly was playing, but I was also exploring, processing, creating, and acting from a place of autonomy. At ages 4, 5, 6, here’s what I liked to do:

McDonalds chicken nuggets first had their outer crust removed. The crust went into one pile. Then, the meat was broken up into smaller, uniform pieces. I prepared all 4 or 6 nuggets at once before eating them. I ate the pile of crust, then the pile of meat dipped into barbecue sauce. 

A slice of pizza had all toppings removed. They were not put in a pile but rather eaten in order as I pulled them off. The cheese got pulled off, ideally in one layer. The marinara sauce was licked from the underside of the cheese. The cheese was rolled up, and eaten. Any leftover sauce on the crust was licked off. You know that soggy layer of dough between the cheese and the bottom of the crust? That was peeled off, carefully, then eaten - my favorite part. The outer crust was pulled off, peeled open to expose its fluffy center, then eaten. Then we were left with the plain, sad bottom crust, which I rolled up and consumed. 

One more example for you: grilled cheese sandwich dipped in pickle juice (this was a thing in my family). The grilled cheese was broken apart into smaller pieces. My grubby little palms rolled each piece into a smooth ball. These balls were placed into the pickle juice in batches to soak and were removed just when each ball had fully absorbed the juice and just before it became soggy. Then I ate each ball, optionally dipped in ketchup. 

We could have a dietician, an early child development specialist, an occupational therapist, and whoever else share some wonderful (or alarming) analyses of my childhood food play. But here are some of the patterns from my three examples that jump out to me:

Food items were broken up into component parts. 

Food items were dealt with linearly, from outside in, or from top to bottom.

Items were made into smaller, more tangible pieces. 

Each component was dealt with in a highly tactile fashion. 

Each component was given individual attention and consideration.

Items were taken apart and turned into something new.

Following Lu Grey’s inquiry, how does this all mirror any aspect of my internal process? Well I break down ideas into smaller, categorical parts. I get to know a concept by examining its layers. I focus on the details of an experience. I collect information and turn it into something new. I turn processes into rituals. I am hands-on, playful, organized, and I follow my interests and curiosity. I don’t take things at face value. This feels like the most flattering, strengths-based description of my neurotype that I can imagine. 

I came into the world with my own unique way of processing information and navigating whatever I came into contact with. So did you. In my work with clients, I love asking how they moved their bodies/stimmed in early childhood, and seeing if any of that can be reclaimed. I think there is an interesting parallel with food. I’m not going to start rolling my grilled cheese chunks into balls, though I won’t lie: I still eat my pizza in layers. But how can I allow myself to reclaim that sort of processing and approach to life? Before the photos on the pantry door told me that I can’t trust myself to follow my inner impulses? 

This is what we all must do if we seek an uninhibited, free expression of ourselves: recover and follow what has been in us since the beginning. Before we were taught that we can’t trust ourselves, that we’re bad, that we’re not good enough. It’s our birthright, and I think, our responsibility to do so.