For far too long, I have carried physical pain in my body, perhaps my whole life.
I attributed much of my pain to the emotional sufferings I endured and witnessed as a child.
I didn’t make that connection until I was hospitalized for an eating disorder many years ago.
Perhaps developing a love/hate relationship with food distracted me from the insignificance and filth I felt when looking inside myself.
Or, because I was so young when the bad touches started, I didn’t realize I had a problem with eating until I got older and felt my size revealed how big my pain was on the inside.
Somehow I correlated my weight and appearance with how much of myself I was revealing to the world around me.
If I was tiny and out of the way then I could isolate easily and starve my body of attention that would only get me into trouble.
But then men liked small, petite girls and I loathed their alluring eyes.
Thank God I was tall because that intimidated half of the male population and allowed me to gain extra weight without enticing any of their affections.
I took risks with consumption to prove I could conquer turning off the switch at my leisure.
Eventually it caught up with me while feelings entangled all that my body remembered when it was being violated.
Yet, all along my binges, cravings and starvings were ways of screaming out for help from my own prison that I had no words for.
I had to surrender the control because my heart was fading.
I needed something else to believe in besides food for comfort.