A grandmother gives her 7-year-old granddaughter a plate of fresh baked cookies after being chased home from school by bullies. A mother gives a broken hearted 8th grader a candy bar from her own private stash when her first “crush” announces he wants to break up to go out with the girl’s best friend. A roommate brings in a bag of microwavable burritos to survive finals week.
Fear, abandonment, stress…are they all treatable with sugar, carbs, and salt?
Your boss imposes a ridiculous deadline, denies you a promotion, or puts you in charge of a massive computer system upgrade. Your main romantic squeeze is seeing someone else on the side and, as painful as that is, you still can’t bear to let go. Your insolent teen spits and swears in your face, then tears off into the night, leaving you shaking in the dark in anger.
Tears are for whimps. Doritos® are for survivors of life, love, and trauma. Why experience an emotion that can be dulled with chicken wings and blue cheese dressing? Let someone else eat the carrot and celery sticks. In childbirth they offered me medications to “take the edge off.” If life, I self-medicated with snack food.
It’s a predictable pattern. I go over and over the scenarios in my mind. What my boss, husband, or daughter said. What I should have said. The venom of the exchange seems to bubble up from deep inside, becoming worse with each rendition. The only thing to do is to block its egress by stuffing my mouth and my stomach. I might as well be pushing a cork into a bottle of soda and shaking it up.
It’s a ritual of repetition. The hand to plate to mouth over and over again. Inside phrases echo over and over again. “I give, give, give…and what do I get?.” “I gave up everything for those kids.” “He’ll never find another woman that loves him like I do.”
Like a dog chewing on its own stitches, it’s a way to gnaw and stew on your own wounds. If humans had more stomachs, I could just get a cud. The sour regurgitation I salivate over is there because I am unable to digest or fully swallow it.
A bit of crackers and cheese will cheer me up. How about a few pretzels? Maybe something sweet? The pursuit is endless. Limited only by what remains in the cupboards, fridge, and freezer.
For those precious moments of consumption, the pain is squelched. But as soon as the pity party ends, it comes back like an unexpected wave as the tide comes in from behind you. Crashing over your backside without warning, leaving you wet, cold, and shaking.
What have I solved? What have I done? I doubled the pain and tripled the damage. Take this box of Cheez-Its away from me. I cannot be trusted with them.
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3 years ago
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My mother often said, "I can't eat when I'm upset." Ergo, my mother was always in great shape. I have the opposite problem. And it's her fault. She also told me (with a laugh), "When you were a baby, every time you cried, I stuck a bottle in your mouth." She didn't believe in pacifiers, not the plastic or rubber kind. Thus the beginning of fat cells and the 'food pacifies' reaction. I had a wonderful mother. She just didn't know. This happens to so many babies.
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