Reflection

I've been trying to figure out where and when this all started.  Maybe the admonishments from my parents when I was young to eat everything on my plate when I had told them I was full and didn't want anymore. My Mom says she doesn't remember saying this, but honestly what parent in the early 80s didn't say this to their kid?  I know there were more than a few times where I'd complain of a stomach ache and be told "eat something, see if you feel better".  

None of this was said or meant with ill intent, but I can kind of see where my spongy child brain would absorb these lessons and then twist them all terribly in my later life. 

Then there was the "eat in 10 minutes or don't eat at all" lunch time during high school. Which then became "eat as fast as humanly possible so I can take the baby from his father so HE can eat at his slow pace". 

Oh, and then there were the years of trauma and heartbreak and physical illness, topped off by being extremely poor. So not only did I eat for comfort, I had the feeling that I should was as much as I could when food was available because I didn't know when I'd get more. 

If we add in the oh so fun genetic component of this (I'm looking at you, paternal side of the tree), it's basically a recipe for disaster. 

It kinda pisses me off a bit. My Dad spent years warning me about how alcoholism has a genetic component and to be careful with my alcohol consumption and, hey. It worked. So where were the warnings that my Grandmother and my Father had binge eating problems and maaaybe this is something I should be aware of before I spiraled out of control. 

But what can you do. We're here now, and it is an issue for me, and I have to deal with it. It feels like now that I've given it a name and acknowledged that my eating is disordered it's been easier to work with it. But holy crap does it get hard in the evenings. So hard. One day at a time, eh?