Ever since I can remember, I have  loved food–cheesy food, hard food, sweet food, weird food. I just love food. You might even say I am infatuated with food. In almost every picture from my childhood, there’s a spoon in my hand or spaghetti covering my face.

I don’t know exactly when I fell in love with food. It seems like there has always been a deep chemistry between me and my food. I think that the connection strings from the fact that food is the perfect, an ideal “true love.” Food can’t leave you crying, alone. It can’t judge you based on how your hair looks that day or the shoes you chose to wear with that jacket. You don’t hear any domestic violence food cases; food doesn’t hit, it only loves. It adds to your life. I can’t tell you how many calories and pounds food has given me. It provides warmth on cold days and long lasting energy.

Although I believe my love for food is passionate, some might describe it as an “unhealthy relationship.” Whenever my brother was still in grade school and lived at home, I found myself hiding food from him or stacking up my plate high with all the macaroni and cheese. This wasn’t because I was super hungry and needed to eat all that food to be satisfied, it was because I didn’t want him to have it, and I wanted it all for myself.

On occasion, actually almost daily, I will eat the max amount my stomach can hold without making me puke just because I love it and want as much as I can. I don’t eat food for energy or to survive; it has become more of a hobby. Some might describe my relationship as an addiction, but I like to think of it more as a commitment or a passion.

After many talks with my parents and friends, I have learned that my relationship with food might be too strong and could lead to multiple health problems in the future. I have started to develop a form of portion control, but still eating as I please.

Although I have begun to wean myself off of my dependency of food, I still carry its love in my heart, as well as my stomach.