Finding my 'food story'

Day 93

It is now three months since I started blogging so it is time to take stock. Have just reviewed my first day blog, and while some things have changed, it is not as many as I had hoped, though probably more than I expected.

For one thing, I can now find more energy, focus and determination than I managed then, despite my illness. I did finish my book, I did send it off to lots of agents and - even if they have now all sent back rejections - it is only the first step. After Christmas I will start targeting publishers, and there are many, many more of them than agents, so that will keep me busy for a while.

As to my health, that isn't much better, but then I haven't been giving it much priority. I was expecting Steve to be back at work by now and I saw that as a time when I could focus just on myself more. There would be less distraction and more space to take things at my own pace, set my own agenda.

I am concerned that I may have been using that as an excuse to over-indulge in foods that disagree with me and hinder my healing. I keep telling myself I will do better at that once he is at work, but wonder if I'm just prolonging the condition by failing to knuckle down and do what is necessary.

I'm lucky in that my favourite foods are reasonably good for my body - I am not a chocoholic - but tiredness plays a big part in defining the meal choices that I make at the moment, and they are often less than good.

Unfortunately, changing those habits does feel like hard work - a punishment, almost - and I need to work through those issues as well, or I suspect my success will be limited. When I look back into my past, I see that my 'food story' is complicated and not very healthy.

As a child, I was emotionally abandoned by my mother very early on. With hindsight, it is probable that she had post-natal depression after my sister was born which developed into the same depressive and mood altering illness that I, in my turn, was struck down by. I was only four at the time, so all I knew was that I got shouted at constantly, and could do absolutely nothing right in her eyes from then on until her death, when I was 23.

My father stopped protecting me from her when I hit teenage, and even took her side against me, though he knew she lied. Worn down by her mood swings and vicious temper, he stopped standing up to her, probably suffering from depression himself.

As a family, we were constantly broke as well, which added extra pressure, and ensured that any scrap of something that was comforting was in short supply. A special treat was a Mars bar split between five, each of us hoping for the extra chocolaty piece from the end.

I used to steal food. I would find where biscuits or cashew nuts were hidden, (note, hidden, not available), and pinch as many as I thought I could get away with. This was the seventies, by the way, not some post war, ration book existence!

So now I find self denial really hard to do. When I have been on strict diets to help my body heal itself, I have felt emotionally distressed and often deeply sad. I think I still identify with that little girl looking for comfort any way she can, and denying myself a glass of wine or even a piece of toast and butter, takes me back to that time at an unconscious, cellular level.

I suspect I am accusing myself of taking up the mantel dropped by my mother, and continuing to treat that little girl badly by denying her what she wants and should be allowed to have. In order to resolve my health issues, I need to deal with these emotional ties - that bind food with love, and make it about comfort and safety, rather than nourishment and health.

This is not so straightforward.

No wonder I have been waiting for Steve to go back to work before tackling it!

And for Christmas to be over, obviously.