Food
should be simple. It fills your
belly. It gives you energy. It keeps you alive. But it’s so much more than just that. Food is the one constant in your life. It’s the one relationship that will literally
last a lifetime, growing and developing as you do. Some people have a more…dysfunctional
relationship with food. I count myself
in that group of people.
My
parents have greatly complicated how I view food in my life (which is at least
adheres to the stereotype: I’m a teenager; we’re supposed to blame our parents
for everything, no?). All of my life,
they’ve hovered over my shoulder as I select my meal and kept a running
commentary: Sarah are you sure you want to take that much that’s a lot of food
I really feel that you shouldn’t eat so much we’ve been talking about needing
to bring down your weight that really won’t help here have some salad
instead. And, conversely, if I only have
one small serving or opt for a salad over fries, their commentary is
disgustingly full of pride: wow you’re making such great choices I’m so proud
of you you’ll be thin in no time.
It's a miracle that I don’t have
an eating disorder.
The vast majority of meals in my life, I’ve walked away with a vague sense of guilt. My parents’ voices echo in my head, counting calories and chastising me for eating so much.
The vast majority of meals in my life, I’ve walked away with a vague sense of guilt. My parents’ voices echo in my head, counting calories and chastising me for eating so much.
Yet,
despite all the encouragement of the contrary, food remains the only thing that
without fail will calm me down and make me happy if I’ve had a bad day. The more fattening the food, the better: Cupcakes with a light and sugary frosting,
creamy bars of chocolate, ice cream melting under hot fudge; I have an endless
list of comfort foods. Just the first bite
will immediately make me smile. It’s
more than just being comfort; it actually gives me a genuine feeling of
calm. Maybe it’s the placebo effect, or
maybe the taste transports me back to a simpler time when I’d get a cookie to
soothe a scrape. (Or maybe my dopamine
is just completely out of whack). Whatever
the reason, food consistently offers me a comfort that little else can.
There
is still another dimension to how I view the function of food in my life: the
purest form of rebellion. It’s right up
there with swearing and staying up late streaming shows on the internet (I know;
I’m a badass). My parents have spent so
long telling me no no no in response to food, that perhaps the most satisfying
thing in the world is my mother’s face as I take that second helping, or
another brownie, or say yes to regular soda instead of diet. Earlier today, we were in Subway and I
ordered a foot-long sub because it was dinnertime. My mother glared at me and calmly suggested
that, perhaps, I should just get a six-inch since I don’t actually need a whole
sub. I went ahead, drawing faint
satisfaction from her annoyed glare and the tightening of her jaw. Later, when we got to the car, she looked me
dead in the eye and told me to only eat half, so naturally I finished the
sandwich.
I know
logically that they’re so restrictive because they worry; they don’t want me to
be “overweight” or diabetic later in my life, and they don’t want me to get
teased or bullied because of my weight. But
the constant policing of my food has left me with what is almost certainly a
distorted view of the act of eating. I crave
a cool, laid back attitude towards food, but I truly believe that that sort of
view is something completely out of my reach.
