Food: A Link between Discomfort and Dysfunction

Many disorders are born out of dysfunction.

I grew up in a highly dysfunctional family. I'm sure you've heard stories like this before. I was trapped in the middle of my father's absolute control and my mother's need for perfection. An illusion forced upon the meek. On the other side of the door was our audience. No one knew the happenings behind the closed door. No one except a cousin who occasionally saw more than she bargained for.

My parents were entrepreneurs. They owned a barber shop and a convenience store. Dad worked and mom was a homemaker. We had two cars, but only one worked at any given time. My mom in her eternal quest for perfection, would wash and shine both cars so they looked brand new. It didn't matter that her car wasn't drivable as long as it looked good. It was perfectly acceptable that there was no leaving the house without permission. Mom would lobby for cab fair whenever she needed to run errands. She was allotted a small of time to get everything done. There was always a mad dash to clean the house, which was never dirty, run the errands and have dinner ready before dad came home...and then we'd wait. Dinner was never to be served before dad's arrival. Sometimes we'd have to wait for hours.

In the beginning...

Around the age of ten life took another terrible turn. It was at a routine well check where I was deemed obese. A word I had never heard before, but knew it was something bad. I weighed in at 101 pounds. Nothing much was said that day. A few days later a new routine was set. Get up, get ready for school, step on the scale and then breakfast. If a pound or two was gained that potentially earned me a beating before school. If that was the case, mom would apply alcohol and salves to the whelps and cuts, then have me change into long sleeves if necessary.

Meal portions were dramatically shrunken. I was always being hungry. Every evening, my parents would enjoy having desert after dinner. For obvious reasons, I was denied this privilege, but had to remain seated at the table until dinner was done. On weekends dad would bring candy, soda, cakes and chips home from our store. It was a welcomed treat.

An opportunity has arisen. My parent's room was right next to mine. On Saturday nights they'd close the door. Late night in the quiet of dark I'd sneak to the kitchen to steal treats. I had to be fast and always have an alternate plan should one of my parents come out of their room unexpected. There were many areas between the kitchen and my room where I could quickly stash the goods and act as if I had gotten up for a glass of water. Sometimes I'd say a quick prayer in hopes that they not find my wares before going back to bed. A binging hoarder in the making and my hoard...food.

My focus on the consumption food became one of the links between heightened levels of discomfort and dysfunction.

Food is now my enemy and my friend...my fixation.