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The connection

Wow.  So I knew it had been awhile, but I did not know that I was nearing thirty days since my last blog.  I know I have repeated it over and over again.  I could say it is because we are busy (we are, very), I could say that it is because of kids activities (it is, partly), or I could just be honest and say that it is hard to write about.

It is hard to write about.

Writing is one of my most favorite things to do.  When I was younger, I would write short stories endlessly.  And in a bit of a cliché manner, most of my stories involved some sort of family heartache with triumph in the end.  There always needed to be a triumph.

I recognize now, as an adult, that I was exercising one of the very few outlets I had to get out my emotions, my anger, and my pain.  But to me, back then, it was just writing.  I could pick up a pen and write in my journal or on pages of loose leaf.  When I was tired of writing, I stopped.  There was no audience.  No readers.  I wrote for myself.

I realize now, that while I AM writing for myself still, I am now sharing this journey with others.  So it isn’t necessarily fair to take so long to finish the story that I started.  There is an ending.  But it is hard to write about.  It is emotionally draining.  But I know that this truly is the least of my problems nowadays, so I am forcing myself to “pick up the pen”, so to speak.

The loss of Jerry was tremendously hard.  The only healing that has come, has come from time.  I was a teenager when that happened and it rocked my entire world.  I have learned to cope with it, as we all must cope with loss in some way.  But it wasn’t easy at the time.

I remember I was starting my junior year of high school and the last place I had wanted to be was in school.  I felt separate from everyone else.  When friends were talking about boys and parties over the summer, I thought of Jerry.  And again, I talked to no one.  Only one friend at my school knew about Jerry, and so, I withdrew further.

Oddly enough, with all of my family issues, we were a close knit bunch.  I spent a lot of time with my family.  The boyfriend I had, at the time, lived down the street and he spent a lot of time with my family.  So despite (or in spite) of all of the issues, we were all close.  While I had lots of friends and outside sources of comfort in elementary and junior high, I did not have that in high school.  Part of that comes from me simply pushing people away because I did not want anyone to know.  But that only furthered my isolation and it really lead to nothing good.

Now might be the time that I make the connection for you in regards to my comfort with food.  It is very simple, yet incredibly powerful.  To me it is powerful.

Most often when my mom was “normal” she cooked dinner.  She cooked big, large meals that were more than enough food for five people and my grandmother living next door.  A family of four might peel 4-6 potatoes for a side with dinner.  My mom peeled the whole bag.  I don’t know why, but everything was in mass proportion.

Also, usually before some sort of large holiday or family gathering there would be a BIG slip up.  She would usually overdose when she had been doing very well for some time.  Or, to be blunt, she would get drunk.  The drama of the situation always caused concern about the upcoming holiday.  But, to my memory, she was always able to pull off the holiday in full form.  Full dinner, full everything despite being high days beforehand.  So holidays were remembered with joy.  With comfort.  With normal.  With hope.

I can almost remember my own thoughts back then.  My silent prayers of “This is it!  She has decided to change!  It will be better.  SHE will be better.  It ALL has to be better.”

And then.

Better never came.

Not really.

Family dinners equaled comfort.  Safety.  Family.  NORMAL.

And then, when there was no family dinner, there was always food.  Chips, pizza, corn dogs.  Every possible processed food you could think of.

And then, when there was no family dinner, sometimes there was pizza night.  Or Chinese night. Or fish and ribs night.  Or pizza night.

My family loved pizza.

And then, there was always Grandma.

My grandma.  My rock.  Truly, my rock, throughout my entire life.  My one continuous support that I knew would never leave me, would never overdose on anything, and would always be there to comfort me.  She was right next door.  Always.

She always had food too.  It was in that loving sweet grandma way—the way that you always know that grandma will have warm home baked cookies (and she did, a lot of the time), and hugs, and words of wisdom about life.

And food.

Food.  Comfort.  Safety. NORMAL.

That is where it begins and that is where I connected the dots.  In my circumstance there is no grand formula and there is no magical ONE thing that happened.  It all came down to comfort and a craving for being normal.  I wanted to be normal more than anything at that time in my life.  So even though I know I started gaining weight at a rapid pace between my sophomore and junior year (and during) it really didn’t matter because I didn’t understand the connection at that moment in time.

I just did not see it.

But I started eating.

A lot.

My grandma, Sam, Sabrina and I at her 90th birthday in July 2013.

My grandma, Sam, Sabrina and I at her 90th birthday in July 2013.

Comments

  1. Xoxo

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