Food stuff
When I was spending weekend with mate he kept commenting on how little I eat. I don't think I eat little. I think he eats a lot.
I think of myself as a glutton, I have this perception that I am eating all the time and it kind of suprises me when i notice that I am losing weight. I think I may have gone down another clothing size or am well on that route.
I feel horrible when I eat. And on days like today, when it feels like all I've done is eat I really hate it. I wasn't even hungry. More nervous and unhappy and bored and eating just seemed like a good idea at the time. Because I feel almost constantly queasy nowadays, and the taste of food helps mask that for a while.
Three slices of cheese. Three slices of bread one of them with butter. A piece of fatty fish. Three fruit yoghurts. Two biscuits. I just see it as this mound of sugar and calories and carbs looming large and threatening in my brain. I don't know how much said articles of food have calories but it's about twice as much as I felt comfortable eating.
Food feels really bad.
For once this is not so much about fat as the fact that in my head food seems bad.
And that eating makes me a bad person somehow.
That I am wrong for doing it.
Without food my body feels calmer, cleaner, purer. Less weighed down with stuff and itself.
I'm remembering a lot and some of it is difficult processing. How food was used to shut me up and as a manipulative emotional tool by my grandmother. To show love and hierarchy. The food chain. Those she loved got the best pieces of what she cooked. Those she didn't love got the scraps.
I remember a time when my grandmother pounced on the piece of meat on my mother's plate and snatched it from her shouting: *Witch! You took the best piece for yourself!* as though this was a crime, even if it were true. I remember my father walked away from the table. But I didn't. I just ate what was there.
I remember when I was twelve and first came to live with my aunt who decided I was too fat and put me on strictly rationed portioned out food. One slice of marble cake or two slices of french bread with ham for breakfast. At each communal mealtime a portion allocated to everybody in accordance to how thin or fat they were.
I remember eating secretly for years, from the age of about 12 to 17 and how dirty it made me feel but how I also didn't stop it. It was something hidden and shameful and helplessly alluring, like masturbation. To feel good was to be bad. And I ate, hid food and ate as though I was seeking something intangible or trying to fill some great void inside myself.
Most of the times when I eat, it feels as though it is not food but some pollutant I am ingesting.
Hatred and fear and secrets and lies.
I think of myself as a glutton, I have this perception that I am eating all the time and it kind of suprises me when i notice that I am losing weight. I think I may have gone down another clothing size or am well on that route.
I feel horrible when I eat. And on days like today, when it feels like all I've done is eat I really hate it. I wasn't even hungry. More nervous and unhappy and bored and eating just seemed like a good idea at the time. Because I feel almost constantly queasy nowadays, and the taste of food helps mask that for a while.
Three slices of cheese. Three slices of bread one of them with butter. A piece of fatty fish. Three fruit yoghurts. Two biscuits. I just see it as this mound of sugar and calories and carbs looming large and threatening in my brain. I don't know how much said articles of food have calories but it's about twice as much as I felt comfortable eating.
Food feels really bad.
For once this is not so much about fat as the fact that in my head food seems bad.
And that eating makes me a bad person somehow.
That I am wrong for doing it.
Without food my body feels calmer, cleaner, purer. Less weighed down with stuff and itself.
I'm remembering a lot and some of it is difficult processing. How food was used to shut me up and as a manipulative emotional tool by my grandmother. To show love and hierarchy. The food chain. Those she loved got the best pieces of what she cooked. Those she didn't love got the scraps.
I remember a time when my grandmother pounced on the piece of meat on my mother's plate and snatched it from her shouting: *Witch! You took the best piece for yourself!* as though this was a crime, even if it were true. I remember my father walked away from the table. But I didn't. I just ate what was there.
I remember when I was twelve and first came to live with my aunt who decided I was too fat and put me on strictly rationed portioned out food. One slice of marble cake or two slices of french bread with ham for breakfast. At each communal mealtime a portion allocated to everybody in accordance to how thin or fat they were.
I remember eating secretly for years, from the age of about 12 to 17 and how dirty it made me feel but how I also didn't stop it. It was something hidden and shameful and helplessly alluring, like masturbation. To feel good was to be bad. And I ate, hid food and ate as though I was seeking something intangible or trying to fill some great void inside myself.
Most of the times when I eat, it feels as though it is not food but some pollutant I am ingesting.
Hatred and fear and secrets and lies.