I’ve started and deleted this post more times than I care to count.
Each time I convinced myself it wasn’t serious enough, that I was overreacting, doing it for attention, or simply too embarrassed.

The truth is, binge and secret eating has been a quiet constant in my life, a cycle I’ve minimised, joked about, and hidden behind “it’s not that bad”, yet the shame tells a different story.

I’ve had a complex relationship with food for as long as I remember: secretly sneaking a stack of biscuits and milk up to my room, struggling to know what was a reasonable amount (it wasn’t). Food was always a big part of growing up. I love the social side, the cooking. I’m half-Cypriot; we love a BBQ. Yet somehow it all gets complicated. How can that love for something end up being a shameful act? It’s confusing.

Even now, I can’t eat just one or two. It has to be the whole thing. The stop button in my head doesn’t exist. Rather than stopping and enjoying what I’ve had, it wants me to smash through the lot and feel disgusting afterwards. People may think, “Just stop after two.” I wish it were that easy. Anyone who knows this cycle understands how quickly the spell takes hold.

I get embarrassed at buffets. The tension of people watching and judging is off the scale, and I hate queuing for food. That’s another post though!

As an adult, the binges became more prominent. Being on my own or bored are huge triggers. It’s like a switch goes off and before I know it I’m rummaging like a raccoon through the bins. Nothing is off limits. Sometimes I stand in the kitchen going through cupboards or I’m up and down like a yo-yo. Just one more. The adrenaline surge and each dopamine hit keep me going until I’m bloated and sick.

I hate myself for it. Every. Single. Time.

The shame and frustration are brutal. In the binge state it’s pure instinct, like the red mist of anger, you don’t think, you just do.

Sometimes the binges are hidden entirely. Late at night, last one up, I’ll sneak to the cupboard for a biscuit with milk, maybe bread and butter, crisps, sometimes all of them. I moan about my weight and then sabotage myself. The cycle is always the same:

I’ve struggled with my weight for years. The only way I’ve felt slightly better is through 100 % clean eating and extreme exercise, like when I train for fitness events. That isn’t sustainable. The moment I ease off, the fear of ballooning returns, and the cycle restarts.

The scales deserve an honorable mention. I’m obsessed with the numbers, always disappointed. My weight behaves like fuel prices: sticky on the way down, rocketing up at the slightest excuse.

I accept I’m not the slimmest, I’m broad, years of rugby have left their mark, but I love nice clothes. The bloated feeling when they don’t fit just feeds the frustration.

I once believed I was just greedy with no willpower. “Just stop,” I told myself. I searched for help and came up empty. Later, understanding my own neurodivergence helped me see the dopamine link, but theory isn’t the same as change.

If you know this cycle, you’re not alone, weak, or weird (yes, I don’t always practice what I preach). Eating disorders don’t discriminate by sex or age. I just wish I could binge on help and support instead of mint Aero’s.

Thanks for reading.
Al x

If any of this rings true, talk to someone you trust. A GP, a therapist, or even just a mate. Quiet battles don’t have to stay quiet.

Join my Beehiiv list for bite-sized therapy tools and honest writing