A Little History, A Lot of Pain

I'm reading a book. It's called "The Beck Diet Solution" by Judith Beck. It is designed to help you change the way you think about food using Cognitive Therapy Skills. I am more than hopeful that it can help me change the negative patterns in my food life.

To begin with, even though I was thin as a youth; I'm not sure that I ever really thought about food in a healthy way.

My mother struggled with depression. She may have, perhaps, even been bi-polar. Nobody diagnosed those things in those days. It just wasn't talked about and there certainly was not medication to make life easier. She spent days sleeping on end, locking my sister and I out of the house during the long summer days so we wouldn't wake her up. The neighbors were all aware, but it was only years later that I understood that they were dealing with their own problems. This was the 60's and you just didn't stick your nose in other people's business; even when you saw their children being neglected.

At any rate, there was either too much food around or too little. One quickly learned that if it was there, you had better eat it because it wouldn't be there tomorrow. When I was quite young, five or six, she would often cook dinner. However, this ritual became less and less frequent as I grew older and older. When she did cook, she did it well. The food we ate was often exotic compared to what my friends ate in their homes. No green jello or stewed tomatoes for us. When she cooked, we would eat chicken cacciatore or sweet and sour pork. My friends had to subsist on meatloaf or gravy with roast.

Holidays were especially centered around food. Birthdays were a day long feast of homemade pizza with fresh mozzarella, pepperoni, and Italian sausage. She would triple the recipe and we would start at around 4:00 p.m. and she would cook pizza after pizza. Finally we would finish with birthday cake purchased from a bakery, slathered with that rich, sugary frosting made with tons of shortening. That is still my ultimate favorite food, in part I am sure, for the good memories it brings.

Then there was Thanksgiving. My mother truly outdid herself. She wasn't a fan of potatoes and gravy. Homemade rolls were not an important part of the feast. Instead, she would make turkey with rice and pecan stuffing, dips made of blue cheese and crab, candied acorn squash, homemade cranberry sauce and spumoni for dessert. No pies for us; just not exotic enough. There was enough food to last for days. However; it rarely did since my mother was a closet eater who could put away a lot during the long night. Those were the good food days.

On the bad food days, we would often be sent to the local hamburger stand where they sold the cheapest, little burgers 5 for $1. That would be dinner for my four sisters and me. We would barely sit at the table, wolf down our little burger, and be off to play with hunger pains barely assuaged.

I remember being hungry. I would forage for food. Since my mom didn't shop regularly, there just wasn't a lot to eat. I remember trying to eat toothpaste to stop my hunger pains. It didn't work. I would eat raw spaghetti. I ate raw onions once and they made me very sick. If we had apples, I would eat every part, even down to the core; spitting out the seeds. I remember eating oranges, eating the flesh, then the pith and finally the peels. The acid would leave my mouth tingling.

And then she would go to the store. There was an in store bakery that carried "Alligator Jaws." They were triangle shaped, deep fried donuts, filled with whipped cream, glazed with chocolate, then topped off with more whipped cream to form eyes. Frankly, I thought they were disgustingly sweet. But my mom would buy five, six or seven of them. We would each be given our own. I would eat one or two bites, wrap it up and set it aside for later; only to find it gone when I went to eat it.

My mother would frequently eat late at night, while we were sleeping. She never seemed to eat in front of us, and often didn't sit down to dinner with us. But sometimes when I woke up in the middle of the night, I would head for the kitchen for a drink of water. When I got to the open door, I would see my mother, sitting in the dark, stuffing her mouth as full of food as she could. I would tip toe back to my room, so as not to disturb her.

She led a very sad life.

The lesson learned was to eat food while it was there. My father worked for a frozen food distributing plant and was sometimes allowed to bring home cases of food that had some damage. That was jackpot time. We would eat frozen boil 'n bags of chipped beef, TV dinners, and Sara Lee cheesecake. My sister and I could put away an entire cheesecake in the course of a day, eating sliver by sliver. And I don't think Sara Lee cheesecakes were as small back then as they are today! I loved the full feeling it gave me. My metabolism was such that I could burn it off and it never showed up on hips or thighs. Surprisingly, I had a cast-iron stomach and never ended up with a belly ache.

A part of me longs for that time when I could eat what I wanted and never feel the effects. But when I think about it, I never really could eat what I wanted when I wanted....until I became an adult. And then the fat came on.

Joey, Joey, Joey

Joey, Joey, Joey
Joey, Joey, Joey, Joe

You've been too long
In one place
And it's time to go
Time to go.

Joey, Joey, Joey

Joey, travel on.
You've been too long
In one town
And the harvest time's
Come and gone.

That's what the wind
Sings to you
When the bunk you've been bunkin' in
Gets to feelin' too soft and cozy.

I sing, Joey
Joey, Joey
Joey, Joey, Joe

You've been too long,
In one place,
And it's time to go.
Time to go.

Joey, Joey, Joe

My mother used to sing that song to me when I was a child. I think that she was like me in that one word will set off the memory of a song and it keeps playing in your mind until you have to let it out. Since she heard my name often, the song probably played pretty regularly in her head. I thought she'd made the song up until I was twelve and one of my friends mother's sang it when she heard my name for the first time. Catchy tune.

But the song fits. I've been in one place too long.

As a child, I was the skinniest little thing you ever saw. My dad used to joke that I had to jump around in the shower to get wet. I was always wafer thin until my early twenties, garnering comments from friends, family, and even strangers; usually "You need to eat more."

And then something happened. I'm not quite sure what. But the 30 years since have been marked by dieting, losing weight, being thin, gaining weight, being fat, and then starting all over again. And it all began with wanting to lose five pounds!

I am weary with the cycle. What are the metaphors that fit? Merry-go-round, roller coaster, treadmill, battle. Whatever the metaphors, living the life has been unrelenting.

I have often said that my relationship with food is the most complex relationship of my life. Food is the friend. Food is the foe. I spend way too much time and way too much energy on this relationship. Often this relationship is the priority. Sometimes other relationships have suffered because of it. This is the relationship that drains me.

However, it's not food that is the problem. It's not my body that is the obstacle. It's how I think about food that is the tether. It's my thoughts that hold my body prisoner.

So here I am to chronicle the journey as I redefine my relationship with food, my relationship with my body, and; ultimately, as I redefine Joey. This is my travelog.

I'm going to learn how to let go of the fat girl who has lived in my head for way too long. And you, dear reader, are invited to come along on my journey.

Come on. It's time to go.