Overeating since the age of eight has held the greatest capacity for self-hate. What would I do without it? How could I hate myself then? It is my shield against the truth, that of being a target in a family rather than a member who is loved.
I eat to escape. I eat to find love, always at the tip of the spoon held out to me by my mother. I eat to rape my own virtues. To tear down anything beautiful. That is the outcome, not why.
The real why is survival. Not the survival of hunger that others around the world suffer, true physical hunger, but an internal starvation that only food fills by numbing.
Oh, it could be alcohol, or shopping, but I like to keep my over-doing down to one vice. Dabbling with them posed risks too, but they are kept in check as eating to tame feelings too big to feel remains the drug of choice, the slayer of dragons.
I don’t see this changing. Nothing yet has changed this pattern of turning to food to survive. Not stomach surgery, not nothing. The urge to numb myself, then hate myself, is strong, taking up each day as the pattern continues.
A myriad of other successes keep me going with my head above water, but this, the one thing wanted since age eight, eludes me. Normalcy. To be like others, look like others, to eat to nourish my body, not my soul.
Like other things during the ages of 8-11, the basics of living life and loving it were ripped from me never to return again; sex in a warm, loving capacity? Never. Thoughts of rape creep in, always have. Closeness in physicality? No, instead- fear, coldness, and a strong urge wanting to escape to my own bubble of safety.
All that is humanly pleasurable was shredded by callous hands. How am I to feel normal? Like others? Like my friends, all thin, eating tiny amounts then stopping when full. I am not full until it hurts, then I like it.
Before I die I would like to feel normal, to have a connection to my body that says, no thank you to food instead of wanting food, food, food, to feel OK. To eat in conjunction with my body’s needs, not try to escape from it.
To lose weight not by white-knuckling it, as I’ve done over and over again, but naturally, instinctively. Yet my instincts say EAT, and eat a lot. That is the only way I feel full.
There is nothing natural to constantly feel on edge while awake, wishing to be asleep, or dead as I once used to long for. There is nothing natural about what happened to me as child which tore away safety for life.
They have died but their ghosts live on scaring me. Memories, shadows of them are welded into my gut, food used to blot them out. If I put my mind into this, there has to be a way, with hopes of finding it, secrets yet to understand, talons of yesteryear to release, unclench, and let go of.