Food, My Parents, and Me

                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. 
 

                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.