Empty Shelves: How the Pandemic Reignited My Body Dysmorphia
By Christina Berke
I’d never noticed the colors of the shelves at my local grocery store. It wasn’t until last March when I walked in and saw that they were black. My eyes went quickly to all of the empty shelves. I was angry. I was hungry. I panicked.
Growing up, my mother had told me about the 1973 coup in Chile. People waited in line for hours to get rations. But by the time their turn came, nothing was left. It seemed so distant; a past that I was far removed from.
I’d never thought that I would experience a similar event when I went to the grocery store. Trader Joes was a comfort and by 2020 I had my staples; zipping around the store efficiently, I could eye the best apple, feel around for any bruises, and select only the crispest. I’d buy my frozen brown rice, always there, stick it in my freezer, ready for a quick side to a dinner. How privileged I’d been.
When the coronavirus came to my neighborhood, grocery stores implemented new guidelines to follow: masks, limiting the number of people inside at a time, hand sanitizer, gloves. It seemed no matter what time of day or what part of town, I stood in line, waiting six feet apart in fear and silence, hoping food wouldn’t be too picked over. Hoping I wouldn’t have to come back again the next day.
Once finally inside, I was not prepared at all for what I saw. No bags of pre-washed lettuce. No to-go hummus wraps. No coffee samples. The frozen foods section was completely cavernous. I didn't know where my next meal was coming from. What would I eat tonight?
And then I felt the familiar prick of anxiety in my throat. I was worried about my body— but not about getting the virus. The gyms were closed. Would I gain weight? This is a global pandemic, a public health crisis, and I was worried about my bikini body. A deep-seated fat phobia was suddenly reignited, along with guilt and shame.
Going to several grocery stores and seeing them barren was frightening, panic-inducing. Not only were my “healthy” foods gone, but absent, too, were my comfort binge foods. There was plenty of alcohol, but that never did it for me. It was the food. The frozen gnocchi, the dried mango, the various sugary treats. I ate when I was sad or angry or tired or happy or hopeless or feeling fat and ugly.
It felt like all of my old issues that I thought I’d licked had come back much more exacerbated. My food once again became out of control, as if all of the work I’d done over the years was deleted in my brain. Because I no longer had access to familiar foods, I stopped going to the store. Thinking I could just wait my hunger out, I kept my cupboards bare. But soon the day grew long and I was ravenous. I started eating fast food. It was counterintuitive to be leaving the house more often than I wanted during an unprecedented pandemic, and eating foods that made me feel heavy, but my mind felt scrambled.
The rhetoric on social media that came out during the first months of the pandemic was intense. Much of it was, I think, supposed to be inspiring. There were countless lists of things to do while you’re bored at home (though maybe the right word is anxious, scared, or lonely). People all over were filling their days, stuffing themselves with TikToks and live workouts and Zooms.
At first, I wanted to be that person—the one who is motivated to learn how to crochet and make sourdough. But I was already empty yet full.
My priorities orbited around my body and only that. Pockets of free time were spent looking in the mirror, completely absorbed in my head. I was stuck in old thought patterns that played endlessly for only me to listen. This mental weight depleted all energy that might potentially dig me out of this wallowing hole. I looked at myself obsessively not because I had nothing else to do. Instead of it motivating me, it depressed me. I’d get so upset by what I saw that I often canceled plans.
Once, a friend said, “If you hate your body so much, why don’t you do something about it?" I didn't have the energy to explain my history of eating disorders, body dysmorphia, and depressive episodes. To her, I was fat and just wasn’t disciplined enough to get in shape. This rhetoric is often endorsed by media, and the diet industry is counting on this buy-in. It’s worth $60 billion, profiting from people like me who can’t figure out how to eat.
Even though eating disorders and body dysmorphia are one of the deadliest mental health issues, and almost 30 million Americans struggle with it during their lifetime, I was more lonely and isolated than I’d ever felt. I didn’t see a community of people talking about the issues I was going through.
People with eating disorders tend to like to be in control of their food; it is not so much about the actual body size as much as it is the mental obsession. For years my brain was preoccupied with disciplining it enough, more, finally to get it to be smaller. Was it willpower I lacked? Self-discipline? Time? Energy? Money? Not wanting it more than I wanted freshly baked chocolate chip cookies with an almond-milk chaser?
After several months, I finally came across a post that validated my feelings. That one post resonated with me so much that I was able to delete Instagram, if only for a few days, and take a breath. It gave me the space and permission I needed to grieve this loss of life the way I knew it; to help me regroup and implement some healthier coping tools.
We don’t have to emerge from this time as if we were some sickly little caterpillar. We don’t have to scramble to acquire a new skill. We don’t have to learn a new language or try a new recipe or log in to someone’s livestream hyper-exciting workout video. There’s nothing to prove.
While it's very generous for people to spread positivity, to create community, and to help others have something to look forward to that day, it can also feel even more lonely and somewhat competitive. Sometimes… and actually most days…it is okay to just get out of bed. It's enough to shower. To put on clean clothes.
My weekly outing to the grocery store has become easier. My body has remained healthy and my mental health is restored. The shelves are fully stocked and I’ve almost forgotten that throat-panic of emptiness. All I see are the possibilities for dinner tonight.
Note: If you or someone you know is experiencing issues with mental health or disordered eating, please reach out to NAMI Nevada https://naminevada.org/
Photo/Christina Berke.
Christina Berke is a teacher and a Libra. Her previous work appears in Literary Orphans and Ed Surge. In her spare time, she looks at dog adoption websites and tries out new skincare products. Follow her sporadic Tweets @christinaberke.
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