Eating Disorder

 I was asked recently if I could remeber the first time when I started to struggle with food. The answer to that was yes.  I remember being asked why I was eating an apple. An apple out of all things I could have grabbed from the kitchen that day. I grabbed a healthy item. Later on I remember asking my mom why would my step-dad ask such things?  She came up with excuses like “maybe it was too close to dinner.” Even if it was, there was better ways to approach a young girl in grade school about food. 

I remember in 2nd grade going to weight watcher meetings with my mom. I remember being told I needed to drink so much water. Day. I did my best in doing so.  Until I got that substitute teacher that told me I was drinking too much water. I needed to stop. I tried to explain to them why I needed to drink it. It didn’t matter. 

Starting in grade school I begin to have massive issues with food. I was already bullied for my weight. Now, let’s add on these two things. How am I supposed to have a love for food when things are like this?

By the time I was 16 years old I was running two miles a day and eating one meal. I felt like that’s what I needed to do, to lose weight. I remember a co-worker asking me if that was all I was going to eat. I sat there with a small cottage cheese bowl of mashed potatoes from work. I told them I’d just eat when I got home. I never did. Very rarely would I eat a second meal. Well, what was considered a second meal to me. 

When bulimia became a thing in the late 80s and early 90s I remember thinking about that. I remember feeling if I could just get sick.  Then things would be better. I remember standing over the toilet a couple of times praying I could just go through with it. If I could just go through with it, then I’d lose weight. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t like getting sick. In the long run it probably saved me. Instead of being a bulimic I self harmed instead. Not that it was any better. 

Sometime while I was in high school I remember hearing my uncle call me a fatass. I was so hurt by that. My mom brushed it off as you know he is. He didn’t mean it. He came back with it, it was a joke.  Ever since then it just made eating that much harder. Especially in front of people. Was this what people really thought of me?

In 2001 I was beginning to date my daughter's dad. I was at his place for dinner. I told them I wasn’t hungry. I sat in the other room while they started to eat. By then eating was very difficult for me. I was 19 years old. He came into the room I was sitting in. He sat on me and pushed a slice of pizza down my throat. I finally said I would join them. 

By 19 I was already skipping meals when I could. I had learned by then that eating was bad. There was nothing nice about food. I then was told I wasn’t allowed to sit on furniture.  Due to me being overweight. More times in my life I wish I could just get sick. It was my ex-husbands family that said it.  Then his neighbors. Nowhere became safe. 

In my early 30s it just got worse. I was told why I was eating something, why was I hungry, or whatever hateful comment came out of his mouth that day. Adding more to the fuel of not eating. When I wouldn’t eat he’d threaten to push food down my throat. Once again I ate when I had too. Despite what I felt. 

In my late 39s when I moved back home after my divorce my mom would say the same things as he did. I never did escape the hateful words. Food isn’t easy for me. So many days I want to get sick. Because of comments like these. 

Now, I’ll be 43 years old this coming year. I struggle even more. I can’t eat in big crowds. They make me nervous. I hear them talking. My mind says they are. When they really aren’t. What makes it worse is when people you know stare, say things, or whatever when you eat. You have to, too keep living. 

At this moment in my life I want to get sick every time I put food in my mouth. I finish my plate and I want to get sick. I don’t want to eat. I know I need to. I have friends to remember to eat. I don’t get mad at them. When I do they understand the frustrations I have. They know my struggles deep down. I wish it wasn’t hard. I wish life didn’t throw me this curve ball. It did. 

At times I go through phases I over indulge in food in private. I feel like that is the only time I can eat. So I overeat. Making me feel even more like shit. It’s been about a year since I have done that. It’s been months this time around. Where I don’t want to eat. This one has lasted the longest. I don’t know if it’s stress, the new building. What. 

I know when I walk in the elevator at work I feel huge. I feel gross. I step on it and it moves. Maybe it does that for everyone. For me, it’s like a kick in the face about how big I am. How food has just destroyed me. Maybe if I keep not eating, I’ll lose more weight, I’ll be ok. That’s not how it works, I know. 

Those thoughts, those feelings that have been ingrained in me.  Those are what sticks with me. Reminds me why I don't eat. Reminds me why I want to get sick when I take a bit of food.  The feeling is terrible. I can’t control it. The feeling of wanting to get sick gets harder to control some days. I also know if I go down that road, I won’t come back from it.