Often, overeating is a way to punish yourself for the anger and

Host: The kitchen clock ticked in slow, deliberate rhythm — a metronome of midnight. The refrigerator hum filled the silence like a guilty heartbeat. Dim light from the stovetop glowed against a pile of dishes, and outside, rain tapped against the window, soft, relentless, like it knew the story already.

Jack sat at the table, hunched forward, a half-empty takeout box before him. Crumpled napkins, a fork stabbed into noodles, the quiet mess of an unspoken confession. His face was tired — not from work, but from living with his own thoughts too long.

Jeeny stood in the doorway, wearing an oversized sweater, her hair loose, her expression equal parts concern and knowing. The light behind her cut her silhouette — soft but certain, like truth dressed in patience.

Host: Between them stretched the kind of silence only two people who’ve known each other too long can share — not uncomfortable, but dense with things left unsaid.

Jeeny: “You’re doing it again.”

Jack: “Doing what?”

Jeeny: “Eating your feelings.”

Jack: “That’s a convenient diagnosis.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s an honest one.”

Jack: “Maybe I’m just hungry.”

Jeeny: “You’re not.”

Host: Her voice was gentle, but not forgiving. The kind of tone that cuts softly and still draws blood.

Jeeny: “Karen Salmansohn once said, ‘Often, overeating is a way to punish yourself for the anger and resentment you're feeling — either at yourself or someone else.’”

Jack: “Ah. Psychology by aphorism.”

Jeeny: “It’s not aphorism if it’s true.”

Jack: “You think this is punishment?”

Jeeny: “You’re eating like the pain owes you something.”

Host: The fork clinked against the plastic. He paused, the faint shadow of defensiveness flickering across his face.

Jack: “You ever think maybe people just… want to feel full? Even if it’s temporary?”

Jeeny: “I get that. But fullness isn’t the same as peace.”

Jack: “Peace is expensive.”

Jeeny: “So is self-destruction.”

Jack: “At least self-destruction gives you control.”

Jeeny: “Control? No. Just distraction.”

Host: The rain outside deepened, its rhythm quickening — like a soundtrack to everything they weren’t saying yet.

Jack: “You think this is about anger?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s about something you’re not letting yourself feel.”

Jack: “Maybe I’m just tired.”

Jeeny: “You always say that. You’re never just tired, Jack.”

Jack: “Then what am I?”

Jeeny: “Hungry. But not for food.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s tragic, not poetic. You’re feeding a wound, not a body.”

Host: He looked down at the food — cold now, congealed, a mirror of his resistance. The fork trembled slightly in his hand.

Jack: “You ever feel like it’s easier to chew than to think?”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s why people drink, smoke, scroll, binge. It’s not about pleasure. It’s about noise — drowning out the silence where truth lives.”

Jack: “So now you’re comparing noodles to addiction?”

Jeeny: “If the purpose is the same — yes.”

Jack: “You always did like simplifying my pain.”

Jeeny: “No. I just refuse to romanticize it.”

Host: Her eyes caught the light, revealing not judgment, but sadness — the sadness of watching someone you love build their cage out of comfort.

Jeeny: “Who are you angry at?”

Jack: “What makes you think I’m angry?”

Jeeny: “Because people who aren’t angry don’t eat like they’re trying to disappear.”

Jack: “Maybe I’m angry at everything. The world. Myself. You.”

Jeeny: “Start with yourself.”

Jack: “Why?”

Jeeny: “Because anger turned outward burns bridges. Anger turned inward burns you.”

Jack: “So what do I do with it?”

Jeeny: “Feel it. Don’t feed it.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, heavy and merciful, like a verdict wrapped in grace.

Jack: “You ever notice how food listens better than people?”

Jeeny: “No. Food just doesn’t argue back. That’s not listening; that’s silence.”

Jack: “Silence is easier.”

Jeeny: “So is denial. But that’s not healing, Jack. That’s hiding.”

Jack: “You make it sound like I’m broken.”

Jeeny: “We’re all broken. The difference is, some of us stop pretending the pieces taste good.”

Host: He let out a dry laugh — not amusement, but acknowledgment. It was the kind of laugh that only comes when truth lands cleanly.

Jack: “You ever punish yourself?”

Jeeny: “Every day I don’t forgive myself.”

Jack: “For what?”

Jeeny: “For waiting on people who needed to save themselves first.”

Jack: “Sounds familiar.”

Jeeny: “It should. You’re one of them.”

Host: The kitchen clock ticked louder now, as if the seconds themselves wanted in on the conversation.

Jack: “So what? I throw the food out, feel the pain, cry a little, and it all disappears?”

Jeeny: “No. You throw the food out, feel the pain, cry a little, and it starts to disappear.”

Jack: “You sound like therapy wrapped in truth bombs.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man mistaking punishment for penance.”

Host: The rain softened again — not gone, just steady, rhythmic, cleansing.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? When I eat like this, I feel powerful. Like I’m proving something.”

Jeeny: “You’re proving you can hurt yourself better than anyone else can.”

Jack: “You really don’t hold back, do you?”

Jeeny: “Not with you. Honesty’s the only kindness that works here.”

Jack: “And what if I don’t want kindness?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll keep eating until you realize hunger isn’t punishment — it’s a message.”

Jack: “A message saying what?”

Jeeny: “That something inside you still wants more than this.”

Host: Her words cut clean, but gently. The silence that followed was the kind that feels like breath returning after holding it too long.

Jack: “You know, I used to eat when I was a kid to stop thinking. Every spoonful felt like quiet.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now it just feels like noise I can’t turn down.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to stop mistaking silence for safety.”

Jack: “You really believe we can forgive ourselves for things we never fixed?”

Jeeny: “Only if we stop trying to fix them with food, work, distractions — and start fixing them with truth.”

Host: She stood, walked over, and took the takeout box gently from his hand. He didn’t resist.

She carried it to the trash, tossed it in, and turned back to him — her expression soft now, like dawn after a sleepless night.

Jeeny: “You’re allowed to be angry, Jack. You’re allowed to hurt. Just don’t turn it into appetite.”

Jack: “Then what do I turn it into?”

Jeeny: “Awareness. Accountability. Change.”

Jack: “That sounds hard.”

Jeeny: “So is self-hatred. At least one of them leads somewhere.”

Host: The clock ticked once more, louder this time, marking the moment — the second when recognition finally outweighed shame.

Jack leaned back, exhaling a long-held breath, the air trembling with release.

Jack: “You know… maybe Salmansohn was right. Maybe the punishment isn’t the eating. Maybe it’s what we avoid by doing it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: She smiled, not victory, not pity — just quiet understanding. The kind that feels like warmth after years of winter.

The rain stopped. The kitchen glowed softer now, cleaner somehow.

And in that silence, heavy with healing, something shifted —
not loudly, not dramatically,
but enough for both of them to hear it:

the first small sound of forgiveness.

Because as Karen Salmansohn wrote,
the hunger isn’t for food — it’s for freedom.