One Easter my grandmother gave me a giant pink egg decorated with blue spun sugar. When I think of it now, I want to vomit. I was ten and it was almost as big as my head. I was already pudgy – the only granddaughter of Italians from the old country. Nonnie fed you because she loved you. Food equaled love. I was very loved and I ate it up. I was a stupid fat kid. That’s why the kids at school called me a cow. And a dog. Because I ate that giant egg and I liked it even though it made me sick. Even though I felt regret as soon as I swallowed a bite.
A couple of months ago my doctor sent me to the dietitian in her clinic because I was gaining the weight back. And now I have to sit in an office and talk to someone about food and dieting and I hate it. I hate it because ice cream makes the pain in my chest numb and she doesn’t want me eating sugar. Or carbs. Or eggs or tomatoes or gluten or oats or legumes or fruit.
My life is so out of control. I can’t control my feelings or my yearnings or my desires. I can’t control my family – my father who is dead and my mother who is mentally ill and talks to people who don’t exist. I can’t control the lack of relationship I have with my sisters and although I’ve always blamed my mother I have no one to blame but myself. I can’t control my guilt. All I have is the control of what I put in my mouth and how much I exercise and I don’t like someone telling me what to eat and how much to work out. She’s taking away all I have.
A few years ago I ducked back into the dark comfort of my eating disorder. I’d eat then work out. Then eat and work out. Then pass out in the hallway. My husband ignored it for a long time because he knows acknowledging it only feeds the beast. He also knows he can’t make me eat. And I know he can’t commit me because I know the law. It’s on my side. I’m not a danger to myself or others. Not yet, and I know how to skate that line.
I try really hard to be good. I try to follow my dietitian’s diet but when I don’t lose weight she sits back in her chair, crosses her arms, and says things like, “Are you afraid to be thin?” “No,” I say, looking at my lap. I’m not afraid of being thin. But I’m afraid of everything else. I’m afraid I’m too old to lose the weight. I’m afraid I’ll lose weight only to gain it back again. I’m afraid that I’ll get thin, but look in the mirror and see only ugly, like all the other times. I’m afraid of failure. I’m afraid of myself.
I think it’s my fault that I’m fat. I think maybe if I had worked out more in my twenties, or if I hadn’t starved myself in my teens, or if I hadn’t had that bowl of ice cream the other day that maybe I’d be thin. I think that if I hadn’t been such a bad person… If I hadn’t been so consumed by selfishness and addiction in my twenties I wouldn’t be paying the price now.
And now I live with regret. Regret over eating a giant sugar egg twenty-eight years ago. Regret over the dessert I shared with my girlfriends at dinner tonight. I can’t log that dessert on my food log. I just can’t. I don’t want to hear, “Are you afraid of being thin?” Instead I’ll work out twice as long tonight and keep it a secret because I am ashamed. I’m ashamed that I was out of control and control is all I have.
A couple of months ago my doctor sent me to the dietitian in her clinic because I was gaining the weight back. And now I have to sit in an office and talk to someone about food and dieting and I hate it. I hate it because ice cream makes the pain in my chest numb and she doesn’t want me eating sugar. Or carbs. Or eggs or tomatoes or gluten or oats or legumes or fruit.
My life is so out of control. I can’t control my feelings or my yearnings or my desires. I can’t control my family – my father who is dead and my mother who is mentally ill and talks to people who don’t exist. I can’t control the lack of relationship I have with my sisters and although I’ve always blamed my mother I have no one to blame but myself. I can’t control my guilt. All I have is the control of what I put in my mouth and how much I exercise and I don’t like someone telling me what to eat and how much to work out. She’s taking away all I have.
A few years ago I ducked back into the dark comfort of my eating disorder. I’d eat then work out. Then eat and work out. Then pass out in the hallway. My husband ignored it for a long time because he knows acknowledging it only feeds the beast. He also knows he can’t make me eat. And I know he can’t commit me because I know the law. It’s on my side. I’m not a danger to myself or others. Not yet, and I know how to skate that line.
I try really hard to be good. I try to follow my dietitian’s diet but when I don’t lose weight she sits back in her chair, crosses her arms, and says things like, “Are you afraid to be thin?” “No,” I say, looking at my lap. I’m not afraid of being thin. But I’m afraid of everything else. I’m afraid I’m too old to lose the weight. I’m afraid I’ll lose weight only to gain it back again. I’m afraid that I’ll get thin, but look in the mirror and see only ugly, like all the other times. I’m afraid of failure. I’m afraid of myself.
I think it’s my fault that I’m fat. I think maybe if I had worked out more in my twenties, or if I hadn’t starved myself in my teens, or if I hadn’t had that bowl of ice cream the other day that maybe I’d be thin. I think that if I hadn’t been such a bad person… If I hadn’t been so consumed by selfishness and addiction in my twenties I wouldn’t be paying the price now.
And now I live with regret. Regret over eating a giant sugar egg twenty-eight years ago. Regret over the dessert I shared with my girlfriends at dinner tonight. I can’t log that dessert on my food log. I just can’t. I don’t want to hear, “Are you afraid of being thin?” Instead I’ll work out twice as long tonight and keep it a secret because I am ashamed. I’m ashamed that I was out of control and control is all I have.
