I think I am trying to get fatter. That is the only reasoning I think that is behind the insanity of my food addiction and binging. It seems that my unconscious wish is to become even fatter. Why else would I be shoveling half gallons of ice cream two times a week into the hole under my nose? This is self torture. I seem powerless to stop the internal evil from attempting to destroy me through the pleasure of tasty treats, eats, sugar and food in general. It goes beyond binging on junk to overeating on good things too. Tonight, I ate a whole zucinini and cucumber, a huge bowel of salad with a pint of red raspberries (a first for me–having raspberries on a salad, but they were on sale at Meijers 10 for $10 and the 11th free, so it made sense).
I do not know from what I am trying to run. Whatever it is, it must be very scary. It haunts me enough to make me run to the safe arms of my lover–food. It doesn’t matter what the haint is that haunts me. Running to food needs no excuse. I can be bored, happy, worried…ah! The list goes on and on. I think I run to food because I am desperately lonely, but if I had a man I’m sure I would find some other excuse for why I need to eat when I am not hungry.
I’m trying to figure out what caused me to turn so completely to food. What pain of heart break have I felt? What cutting words from others have I tried to bury? I believe I turned to food early–when I was 17. Before then, I was a fairly normal, although curvy teen and regular size child. I started working in dietary at a local small hospital when I was 17. One night one of the workers scraped day-old desserts into the garbage. I didn’t want to see the desserts go to waste, so I asked for them. I got a fork and started eating as many as I could so they would not go to waste. I wrapped up the rest and took them home with me to my parents. My parents started looking forward to me coming home to see what goodies I had with me. We would sit at the kitchen table and eat the treats. What we didn’t eat went in the refrigerator for the next day or later.
I branched out to bringing home main courses that were going to be thrown away. As we sat eating, I remember my father looking at me over a plate of something (not a dessert) and in a serious tone he said, “now I can make it”. I knew he was joking, but I felt so sorry too. My mother wasn’t a great cook. She was, on somethings, lower than average. Some of the meals she made in comparison to what I was getting at work and later, what I ate at college, was sometimes awful. Dad was right. He could make it now because he was eating good food. Good food meant lots of it, meant it had been cooked properly. I had inadvertently stepped into the role of provider for the family.
My father was a retired machinist–not a well paying job, but we made due. With my job in dietary I was able to put good food on the table. These are not pleasant memories. We did not go hungry, but once dad retired and with a child (me) still at home, he had to have a way to feed his family on his very tight pension and social security budget.
After big parties in the main dinning room, the menu was much more grand. I remember there were steaks and lobster tails and London broil and shrimp and many other good things. When the pan of lobster tails or steak came back having served the entire dining room with plenty left over for us, I snagged several to take home with me for my parents. I wanted them to taste the wonderful food too.
Food was a way for me to connect with them, to be an important part of the family. I was the youngest without talent and not much of a future. Food was a way for me to reach my parents especially my hardened, sarcastic father who didn’t seem to really like me. He was just a man who lived in our family home and I was in the way. True or perceived, that was how I felt. Bringing home food was my salvation and gave me a purpose in the family.
Now it’s my murderer.