Exercise Bulimia: How Much is Too Much?

What do you mean I can't run the stairs anymore?" I asked, confused. The girl with the clipboard shrugged: "I guess the neighbors complained and..." Before she could finish, I set out to find someone superior—someone with a headset or a walkie-talkie, preferably male. They can't do this to me, I thought to myself. They just can't.

It was only the second day of filming on the then yet-to-be-named reality show Stylista, and even though I knew it wasn't in my best interest to let my high-maintenance flag fly so soon, given the circumstances, I had no choice. Before I'd arrived in New York City, even before I'd signed the confidentiality agreement, I'd inquired twice—once each of Casting and of Production—whether I'd be able to exercise during the shoot, scheduled to last more than four weeks. Both informed me, in writing, that it wouldn't be a problem. But on day one, not only had gym access "fallen through," but it was also too late to rent machines for the cast apartment, and, because cameras had to be on us at all times, running outside couldn't be accommodated.

And now, apparently, no stairwell climbing, either. Later that night, I slipped away from the common room where the other 10 contestants were snacking and socializing and locked myself in the upstairs bathroom. There, for the next few hours, I sat on the floor having an emotional breakdown as quietly (so as not to rouse cameraman attention) as I could manage.

At 5'7" and 127 pounds, I neither look nor am, according to my doctor, physically unhealthy. For the past 11 of my 29 years, however, maintaining my weight through a meticulous, real-time tabulation of calories consumed and burned has been my modus operandi. Eating and exercising are, for me, a single, fused activity; there is never one without the other, and more specifically, never an adjustment to one without an equal and opposite readjustment to the other. Just as it did in high school and college, where I was a disciplined rower, my social schedule revolves around my daily exercise, which is always at night, always just before bed. If a 7:30 p.m. dinner is pushed back to 9, I find a reason to cancel. If I can't, I hit the gym as soon as my food is digested, sometimes as late as four in the morning.

Until Stylista, I hadn't gone two consecutive days without rigorous exercise since I joined the swim team in the sixth grade. I worked out regardless of illness, injury, heartbreak, vacation, or work deadlines. Exercise might not have always been convenient, but it had never been unavailable- until now. Compounding the problem was that before filming began, I had just come off 18 straight months of training for four back-to-back marathons.

I could be addicted, literally. Tufts University's Robin Kanarek, PhD, lead author of a study published last August in Behavioral Neuroscience, found that intense exercise triggers the release of neurotransmitters in the same way many addictive drugs do, resulting in a similar, albeit natural, chemical high.