When I was growing up, I learned that eating solved everything. If there was a death, we ate. If there was a wedding, we ate. If someone got out of jail/prison, we ate. If someone was hurt, we ate. No matter what the topic, subject, or life altering event, we ate.
I took that lesson and used it for everything that happened in my life. If I'm happy, I eat. If I'm sad, I eat. If I'm angry, I eat. If I'm depressed, I eat. I weigh 175, I eat to celebrate the weight loss. I weigh 315, I eat to celebrate the weight gain and the depression, guilt and shame I feel. Food is all important to me and my family.
When I get together with my older cousin, it's usually around something to do with food. We either go out to eat (she didn't get the cooking lessons that I did) or there is a feast at her house. When I first walk in the door, the first thing she asks me is if I'm hungry or if I would like anything to eat. When we go out and talk about family (I'm always the last to know anything in my family), we are eating. We do not discuss family without food around. We might discuss academics or her son's inappropriate behaviors, but never our family, without food. It always starts off by her making a comment of how much weight she has gained in the last few months. I either shrug and tell myself that's not a jab at my own routundness or I ask if she's knocked up. NO matter what the answer, we eat. We discuss that when she was in college in 1995, she weighed 50 pounds less, but some how marriage and eating out all the time (those damn cooking lessons) have added girth. We also discuss the horrid detail that her wedding dress was a size 16 and not a 8; a 12 would have been acceptable, but she couldn't get the dress past her shoulders.
So as we eat pizza, chicken, pasta, cinnamon rolls, cookies, chips, cake, pie, ice cream and guzzle down vitamin water and sodas, we discuss our family. What we never discuss is that my cousin and I are polar opposites of each other, but also the same. She's always been the thin athletic one and I've been the fat smart one. She was highly popular, I was highly smart. She got an athletic scholarship to college, I took out student loans because smart kids are a dime a dozen. She began working in the school system, I began working in the prison. She had a son, I got a bachelors degree. She got married to a wonderful man that everyone in the family loves and I got a masters degree. She's now pregnant with her second child and worried about how late life pregnancy will effect her waistline and I'm wondering when I can quit my job and get my doctorate. We are the same because we came from the same gene pool and inherited or learned that food and weight are extremely important.
I learned that no one wants a fat girlfriend unless it's winter and she learned that a man doesn't marry a woman that's fat. Apparently how much a man loves his wife is dependent directly on her size. I guess deep down inside I believe this. I mean my granny was a big woman, still is, but her and my grandfather were divorced. My mom is a big woman and last I heard still single. My cousin father, my mom's older brother, was married to my aunt, who also obsessed about her weight. I guess she never got to the right size because he cheated on her throughout the marriage (which still continues, so he's still probably cheating).
I know if my cousin read this blog, she would be more outraged that I put into actual English words that my mother's older brother, my uncle, her father, was not a good husband. The fact that we share these learned behaviors pertaining to love, food and body image would not phase her. While she is still trying to hold on to a body that was 15 years ago, I'm trying to find the body that I have now.
I can't keep waiting for food to save me from the inevitable--LIFE! I'm learning to distinguish real hunger from placating, cover up hunger. Do I want to eat because I'm hungry or because I'm stuffing my feelings down my throat? I have to ask myself this question every day, all day. What if it's both? you may ask. I doubt it will ever be both for me. When I'm truly hungry and ignore it, after about 30 minutes, I begin to feel physically sick and my body starts to shake. My body hates to be sick, so I have to make sure that doesn't happen. So when I'm at work and those ingrates piss me off and I just want to knash down on a cinnamon roll or a bear claw, I have to ask to I want something soft, sweet and slightly squishy because my feelings are hard, coarse and sour? Most people don't have to go through life this way, but I realize I do.
As my cousin worries about her late life pregnancy, I worry about her late life worries. I wonder how many diets she will attempt to get her pre-late life baby body back. I wonder how much time that will take in the space of her life. I think I have spent enough of my 34 years on this Earth obsessing if someone could love me even though I have six rolls on each of my sides and my back fat ripples and jiggles over my bra strap. Like I ask my clients, how can you ask anyone to love you if you don't love yourself, truly and honestly?
So now that I've sorted out the beginning, I am ready to tackle the middle, the meat (no pun intended) of the story, the place where it all really begins. Once again in to the mix......
No comments:
Post a Comment