I Stuff The Sadness With Food
I Stuff The Sadness With Food
By Bea SheftelI stuff the memories by eating otherwise I'd cry, maybe I'd never stop. Eating too much is a viscious cycle. It makes me fat. The more I eat the more I want to eat. The more I eat, the more of a bad habit I have of overeating.
Can I sit around and cry? My tears don't make sense. I cry for my father who has died. I cry for the years he was a toxic dad when he pushed us away with his anger, when nothing we did was ever good enough for him.
I remember being 14 and standing in front of him in the kitchen. "I made the honors list for my science project," I said. No one had helped me. Lots of the other kids had parents who helped them but mine never had time. Even so my project had won honors and I was proud of that. "You should have come in first," my father said. I blinked. I couldn't even imagine coming in first. "I did my best," I said, trying to vindicate myself. "It's not good enough. Next time do better." Next time? I won't even enter next time, I thought. Nothing I did ever pleased my father. He was never satisfied. "I know you can do better," he said. Did he really believe his put down would help me achieve more?
The one thing that never let me down was food. I loved potato chips and cake the best. Candy, too, but cake was my favorite. When I ate cake I felt good inside. I wasn't second or third best. It was just me and my cake; a total acceptance.
Even in high school I was conscious of gaining weight and of being heavier than most of the other girls. I wore a tight girdle at assemblies and was never comfortable. The stays bit into my flesh and made me grit my teeth. I thought the girdle made me look slimmer. I also wore a long line bra to keep in the flab under my breasts. It also pushed my breasts out to sharp points in front. I thought it made me look nice. We were only allowed to wear dresses on special occasions. Other than that we wore school uniforms which had bib tops that disguised our breasts, and full pleated skirts way down past our knees. We could wear stockings or white socks with our blue and white Oxford shoes. Under the bibed dress we wore white cotton blouses with 3/4 length sleeves. Nothing about this uniform made any one look good. We all were frumpy whether tall, short, skinny or fat. It didn't help my lower self-esteem to wear these clothes but they were required. Worse than that was the cost which was much higher than any other clothes I wore. So mom only bought me two outfits and I wore those for years until the Nun complained about the shine on my skirt. It was time for a new ugly uniform outfit.
Because I had a uniform for school, mom didn't buy me many other clothes. Once in awhile she'd take me on a shopping trip and let me buy on sale. In those days the sale items were the left overs, the clothes no one else wanted. I never felt pretty. I didn't feel loved. I was the oldest of three children and had responsibilities I was too immature to accept.
My little brother and sister were always at war with me. I can't blame them. I was the mean one who took out my frustration on them. When they called me fat and left me in tears, I knew I could compensate for the dead feeling. I could eat. Mom was at work. She left money for us to buy something to eat after school. I bought danish pastry at the deli and gouged myself until I felt complete inside. Once in awhile I tried to diet. No one understood. No one but my aunt helped me at all. It was up to me, a kid of fourteen or fifteen, to figure out what I should eat, to limit my portions while every one else gouged on their food.
Mother was not a really good cook. Her idea of a meal was to fry everything on a high flame. Every night we had some version of fried food. We rarely had salad. Every meal ended with dessert. And yet the only overweight people in my family were my father and me.
My sister and brother were very active. Rick played Little League. My sister Ginny roller skated. They were always outside playing while I'd stay inside and read or watch TV. My favorite place to go was the library. Being inactive didn't help. I consumed way more calories than I needed. In my mind I equated love with food. If you fed me, you loved me.
I knew my parents were disappointed in me. Mother often remarked she couldn't find me nice clothes because I was too fat. It was a viscious circle. Eat to feel good. Get fat. Put up with disdain of school mates and family.
I dreamed of growing up and joining a program to help me lose weight. Perhaps I'd go to a fat farm and get slim. I wanted to join a gym but my mother said we couldn't afford it. I tried walking up the Avenue briskly as my exercise. I tried substituting bullion soup for my snack when I came home from school instead of cake. I was always hungry.
My father barely looked at me any more. He didn't come to school to see me in plays or to recitals. The only time he seemed proud of me was when I graduated and he could brag I'd been accepted to a good college. I basked in those times no matter how short.
It wasn't until I went to college and could wear real clothes, and met boys, that I started to lose weight in earnest. When I was thin my father paid attention to me, but sometimes that attention frightened me. He made me feel as if my new figure was the avenue to immorality, that I'd attract the wrong kind of boys. It didn't matter that the boys I dated were good Catholics like me, who came from other strict families and were as determined as I was to remain virgins until marriage. When I was thin my father didn't trust me.
I didn't know what I could do to please him. Instead, I failed miserably and disgraced him further. I gained weight again and too refuge in food. Why couldn't he love me for myself and accept me as I was? I never got the answer to that question.
Bea Sheftel is the former editor of the Coventry Journal. She teaches writing online through Painted Rock for Writers, and through the Manchester Adult Education. A freelance writer for many years, her feature articles, short fiction, poetry, and personal essays have been published in regional and national periodicals. She is content editor for three webseed sites: http://www.amishfamilies.com http://www.memoirwritersonline.com http://www.aboutcivilwarwomen.com
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