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I loved food as a kid. I was very chubby as a child, which made every day a
constant battle to gain my mother's approval. Often I felt that she wanted
me to be the perfect child, which included a certain standard of physical
beauty that I was afraid I'd never be able to achieve. I know that my mother
loved me very much-even if it was hard for her to translate her affection

in a non-destructive way-but the truth is that I feel that she adopted
me with the expectation of molding me into a living china doll.

It didn't help that, despite the fact that many of her relatives were heavy
bodied themselves, she was constantly criticized for my size. In some ways I
imagined that my weight was a badge of shame that I wore, but she
suffered through disappointment. Ironically this made me try to
compensate for my emotional helplessness with more eating.

My low self esteem hit an apex when the first boy I ever had a crush on told
me he'd consider being my boyfriend if I lost ten pounds. At the same time,
the thin veil of tolerance between my parents hit an all time low.

My father spent more time in retreat while I dealt with the effects of my
mother's alcoholism; I realize now that her effort to gain full control over
me may have simply been a side effect of the power she lacked over herself.
There are times when I want to believe that she took the brunt of her pain
out on me, but the sad reality is that she spared me from that. To imagine
how lost she was, to know how desperate she must have been, is a permanent
fault line in the volatile history of my heart.

At the time I just assumed she was a witch. I sympathized with my father
because I had seen him humiliated and emasculated so many times. I felt like
no matter what I did to win my mother's approval, what ever effort I made
to get to positive, the results always canceled out to zero. It was a
pointless equation being endlessly calculated with unbearable tedium.

The culmination of my rage, insecurity, and boredom manifested in
the form of cutting. It failed to make me feel any more alive and it raised
some uncomfortable questions about my mental health.

Then I stopped eating.

I filled the void fueled by my emotional discontent with physical emptiness.
There were a lot less questions, and I felt a perverted sense of accomplishment
when I received compliments-inspired by envy or affection I'm still unsure-
from my mother on how I was thinning out.

It's not a new story, but that was the start of my romance with self
loathing. Although I was always proud

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