When Me & Food Started Dating

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If you have ever had a relationship with fat, you know that a relationship with food goes hand in hand. Though I realize my relationship evolved in many ways, at least know how it started.

My memories of those formidable years (birth to ten) are scattered. Children react to trauma in many respects, and I believe that the only way my body knew how to deal with them was to suppress them. I built a beautiful little house around those memories, to be stored away, like Rapunzel. I didn’t wait for the prince to save me, but I believe God gave me this blessing in disguise. It’s had its downsides along the way though. Sometimes there are things I wish I could remember; I just can’t. Some of the good got locked away with the bad.

I’m sure it started earlier than seven, but that was earliest I can remember when I learned about food. I learned very early that food was critical to surviving, but it was also used as psychological warfare.

I was invited to a friends house to play with her little oven that made real brownies. I wanted one so bad! We had a great afternoon playing with that thing. I got home, and the stepmom noticed some chocolate around my lips. She grabbed my arm and slammed me into my room and told me to stay there. The next thing I know she’s calling the friends mom asking her what I had eaten. The friends mom explained we were making little brownies in the EZ Bake oven, and the stepmom hit the roof. Not only did I get my ass kicked for eating a brownie from an EZ Bake oven, I lost a friend that day. I never saw that girl again. On top of that, the punishment would begin.

Punishment…… varied. One particular form of punishment Stepmom called “prison sentence.” It consisted of a small glass of water and a single piece of bread with butter. That was it for the day. She would open my bedroom door, put my “meal” on the table in the morning and shut the door. I spent long hours in that room. No toys, no books. I had a bed, a dresser, and a window with foil on so it would stay dark. I was in trouble. It was supposed to be “dreary”. I remember prison sentence for two weeks one time, and I had gotten so weak I passed out. I’m pretty sure I got in trouble for that too.

Trouble meant – either I got hit, I ate less (which was always less than half of everyone else as it was) or didn’t eat at all. I was always in trouble. Crying too loud would get me into more trouble. Continuing to cry after being beaten would get me into more trouble. Eating something that was “unsanctioned” would get me in trouble. Getting the mail would get me in trouble if I hadn’t asked to go and get it. If I laughed too loud, I would get into trouble.

If the brothers were given oatmeal or cereal for breakfast, I got a half of a grapefruit with a single packet of Equal on it. If dinner was spaghetti, salad with garlic bread, I was eating two forkfuls of spaghetti and a little salad. Seconds were not permitted under any circumstances. It wouldn’t be unusual for me to sit there and watch the boys eat. I had to wait until everyone was done with the first helping and then I could be excused to my room.

I got caught sneaking food one time as I always did when I was eight. I was so damn hungry sometimes I couldn’t think straight. *shaking head*…… We got home from church, and stepmom had lunch already at the table. She pointed to one of the head seats, I look down, and there was this massive metal bowl filled with salad and a pot of soup next to it. She told me to sit so I did, but then she proceeded to announce to everyone at the table that I was going to eat every bit of those two bowls.

I tried. I hadn’t made a dent, but I felt like I was going to pop. I told stepmom that I couldn’t eat anymore, and that didn’t quite go over very well. I got my head shoved down into the food while she screamed at me to eat the food. I kept trying to eat, but I just couldn’t do it anymore. I told her I was going to throw up, but that didn’t seem to phase her. The inevitable happened, and I puked all over everything in both bowls. You would have thought that would have stopped the punishment – but it didn’t. Having to put a spoon up to my mouth and continue eating my vomit, even at eight I knew it was atrocious.

I was just shy of my 8th birthday. I was in the bathroom watching stepmother comb her hair. Most people thought she was very beautiful and I must agree but she did kind of remind me of a Geisha. She had skin so light it was almost white. Long black flowing hair that almost reached her butt and dark green piercing eyes. I admired her hair and I wanted my hair to be that long too. I looked up at her and said “Look! My Hair is almost as long as yours!”. That was the wrong thing to say. She grabbed the brush I had in my hand and smacked me upside the head and told me that I didn’t brush my hair enough. She was pulling so hard on my head I was crying because it hurt. I started crying and she got mad – like she always did. She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the kitchen where she went and got a stool, threw me down in it, and she stormed out of the kitchen. She stormed around a lot – always stomping her feet in some ridiculous rage when she got mad at me. She came back into the room with a pair of scissors and started grabbing chunks of my hair. This was no ordinary hair cutting at Fantastic Sams. I could hear her grunting, shrieking and breathing heavy the entire time as she grabbed chunks of hair. I was crying the entire time, knowing full well this wasn’t going to be an ordinary haircut. When it was all said and done, I had short pieces, long pieces…… it was a complete random mess. She left the room and I sat there in the chair crying. What did I do that was so wrong? My father had to take me down to get a hair cut and perm at a local salon so that I wouldn’t look like a boy. I didn’t have much hair left.

There are times that even today as I write this I wonder what was going on in her head. They say, “this was the world you were given.” I can’t tell you how many times I cursed God when I was young wondering what in the hell did I ever do to him?

I think I am safe saying my early experiences with food would shape my entire life, and it would be up to me to unwind those first impressions. Me alone would have to seek deliverance…. of some kind.