I’ve always said I eat because I love food. And yes, I do – all the flavors and combinations thereof in the world – it all amazing to me. But my weight issues are not due to my love of food. Maybe, just maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe it’s my hate of food. I don’t remember but I think food was used as a weapon or tool when I was a child. I’m sure we were a “clean you plate” kind of family. I’m sure food was used to soothe (oh you have a booboo – here – have a cookie). My dad called me fat (not to my face but within earshot) when I was perhaps 9 years old. I remember sitting at the breakfast table reading cereal boxes while working on probably my 2nd bowl of something. My dad told my mom I was getting fat. That stuck with me. Obviously – here I am at 51 yrs old writing about it for the first time. I was put on weight watchers for the first time when I was a kid. I lost weight. Gained it back – because I didn’t know why I became overweight in the first place. Then along comes the teenage years and Seventeen and Glamour mags with their unrealistic images of how we all should look. And if you didn’t attain that image – well you might as well be dead. What did I do to soothe my feelings of inadequacy? I ate. And ate. And ate. Except for that short period of time when I didn’t eat. And passed out in the library. I think I was in 8th or 9th grade? Mom had no clue why I passed out.
So – here I am with this twisted body image. If you saw me you would probably want to slap me. I’m 5’5”. I weigh 150#. What’s wrong with that??
To be continued…..