My dad just called me. He asked how I was. Then he asked: “What did you eat today?”
I got pissed. My response was: “Why are you always asking about my eating?”
On Thursday I had a very important appointment with R, but that all changed when dad called me later on. He called and asked, in what I know he thought was a loving and caring way: “Are you eating alright? Are you plump now from so much eating?”
I was in rage. My response: “What kind of a question is that?”
Before leaving for this apartment he took me aside and told me we needed to talk. He told me: “Promise me you’re going to eat.”
My pissed-off response: “Why? What makes you say that?” He never answered, but I knew the answer.
And even before that my mom saw what I was eating recently and said: “You’re going to eat all that?”
My response: “It’s just crackers with peanut butter for dessert…” while internally screeching at myself that I was a FAT WHORE.
Fast-forward to the next day, and she asked me: “That’s all you’re going to eat?”
My response: “I’m late! I don’t have time for breakfast!” It was true, but I really didn’t want to eat either. And I was angry she was asking me.
I can’t take it much longer. I really can’t. And those are just a select few gems from these last two weeks.
My dad is paranoid about my eating habits. I feel like I have a hawk over my shoulder all the time. Sure, I don’t have a healthy relationship with food. Sure, he probably suspects that already. But holy FUCKING FUCK. LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE. PLEASE. I BEG YOU. If that’s what he’s like when my behaviors tide is low, I don’t want to know what he’s like when my behaviors are severe. He’s gotten worse in a span of weeks and I haven’t even lost a fucking pound to justify it all.
I feel absolutely SUFFOCATED.
G tried to take up the topic of food with me this week. It went sort of ok, but I got bitchy in the end of the session. By the time R’s appointment rolled around, I was too tired to put up a wall. After handing my diary to R this Thursday and waiting the awkward few minutes while she read the entries, she told me there’s a “disconnection” in my family, a communication problem. She said: “The only way your family communicates is if the topic is food-related. Otherwise, there’s no communication. And it makes you angry, because they just ask you things about food.”
She sat very still, looked me in the eyes, and slowly proceeded:
“What are you going to eat?
Are you eating all that?
Is that all you’re going to eat?
Do you want to eat this or that?
What did you eat?
Are you going to have dinner?”
Oh my god….that was horrible to endure, having R say those things. I squirmed in my seat and looked away. I was so triggered when she said those questions out loud. I don’t know if she noticed, but I was SO uncomfortable. I felt an incredible amount of RAGE toward her in those few seconds, because it felt like my mom or dad were right there in front of me, asking me all those things. And I didn’t tell her, but I felt like screaming at her in that instant. I wanted her to stop. It was torture, and I felt she was betraying me. Don’t do this to me, R!
Then she stopped. I couldn’t look at her. And she explained:
“You’re angry they’re not asking the ‘right’ questions.
You’re angry they don’t ask you about you, about your life, about the abuse, about what happened with The Ex.
You’re angry they just ask you about food.
And your way of ‘responding’ their questions is by not eating.
It’s a non-response.”
I wanted to die in that instant. She was so right. And I felt so stupid, so small, so pathetic. I was hating her. By the end of the appointment she asked me if the things she said made me angry. I said I was just a bit angry at her. I still don’t know whether I lied or not. I just know I sat inside my car afterward for what felt like 15 minutes outside of her office because I was so tense I felt I couldn’t drive or move at all.
And then my dad asks what I ate today. Of course. Right after I had dinner. Of course. Instantly making me feel like a fat ass fucking glutton. Of course. I want to purge now. Right. But I’m too afraid to do it. Chicken. A pathetic coward.
Fullness swimming in my abdomen. A fullness that reminds me of all my parental-related frustrations, the non-communication in my family, The Ex touching me, my being overweight last year….FEAR. TERROR. The horror of it all.
I want it out. And I want to cry afterward. And I want R to hold me while I cry.