Me and food have always had a chaotic relationship.
As somewhat of a perfectionist, I am almost guaranteed to have some level of dysfunction when it come to all things edible. There is no set figure as to how much is just right for the individual and there is no real way to quantify health ie. a pretty perfect recipe for disaster.
Sure, BMI gives a vague number which will put you in one of three main and very vague categories. Body measurements are even more confusing. There is no way to achieve perfection so I guess I have instead always preferred to control and abuse food.
To make it clear, I have never received a diagnosis of an eating disorder though would hazard a guess that at various points in my life I would have met the criteria for one.
The reason that I have chosen to write about this, is that the therapist that I am working with currently won’t stop going on about it. It being food. I feel as if I am being ambushed. I love food, I hate food and unfortunately (as most humans are)I am reliant on food.
Food, food and more f***ing food.
This won’t be an eloquent post but shock-horror, I’m not particularly eloquent when it comes to my emotions either!
What I am attempting to do is to write down what I really should be saying to my therapist. I want to scream out that the motivation behind all of this dysfunction is not and never was to look like Kate Moss or any other model with stick-like proportioning despite the media chucking it down our throats.
It was certainly never a cry for attention or an attempt to get the love that I craved. When my eating was at its worst no-one had a clue. It went on like that for at least three years- unnoticed and destroying every part of me.
At school I would bunk class to puke in the girls’ toilets. I would act moody and have an awful attitude rather than risk my weak legs give way whilst doing a rigorous PE class. I was branded lazy and problematic. I preferred that then ever let anyone how I would cry in secret every lunchtime when it came to deciding whether or not to break my fast of three days.
I was not losing weight or putting on weight so how would have anyone known? But it does anger me that the therapist I am working with now is taking my attempt to lose weight so seriously. Were was that help and concern when I really needed it?
I sometimes question whether I’d be in a better place now if I had starved myself when I was twelve. Perhaps someone would have seen the pain and chaos and actually helped. Maybe I would not have been driven to more bizarre and risky measures.
I guess that I am really comparing and consequently invalidating my current and residual difficulties with food with those that I had over eight years ago. But I know that I am angry.
Not much has really changed.