Mar 2019
When I was very young, I started to develop an eating disorder.
I was a toddler. My parent's first child and I went mental when they tried to serve me vegetables.
I would discard them in the radiator and sooner than later a technician was called.
And my parent's were appalled when they realized the reason was that their child refused to eat what she was served.
This continued into early childhood.
I lived with my grandmother who I've called Grandy forever.
She made the same three dishes every week. Macaroni Pie, Rice, or Potatoes.
On the odd occasion, I would get pizza or pasta.
Macaroni and Cheese, or something else that pleased my taste buds.
I quickly tired of this pattern and a disgust for these meals arose.
I could no longer eat them without wanting to *****.
When I was no older that four years old, my parents tried to feed me a few days or a week old alphageti. That was the first time I ever gaged on a meal.
But those moments came more often than I would like as I grew.
I filled up on chocolates and candy, slices of pepperoni so I wouldn't have to eat the **** I din't like.
This distaste of my Grandy's food turned into a fear of food itself.
I couldn't be experimental, I hated having to eat.
I wished I could just take a pill and defeat the hunger that haunted me.
For years I became anorexic. And not because I wanted too, but because for all that time food was my enemy.
When I was in daycare, I hated sweets of any kind and had never had a sip of soda. But once night when my parents were late to pick me up.
All Dee had was marshmellows and seven up.
I hated the sweet treats that would burn my teeth and the soda that would burn my tongue.
But I was young and no one cared.
I didn't allow myself to eat for several years until I ended up falling in love with a girl who cares.
But some nights when I am drunk and to lazy too cook,
I find myself in the kitchen eating an uncooked hot dog,
and I remember where it all came from.
I still hate sweets and soda to this day.
But at least now,
I eat.
I was a toddler. My parent's first child and I went mental when they tried to serve me vegetables.
I would discard them in the radiator and sooner than later a technician was called.
And my parent's were appalled when they realized the reason was that their child refused to eat what she was served.
This continued into early childhood.
I lived with my grandmother who I've called Grandy forever.
She made the same three dishes every week. Macaroni Pie, Rice, or Potatoes.
On the odd occasion, I would get pizza or pasta.
Macaroni and Cheese, or something else that pleased my taste buds.
I quickly tired of this pattern and a disgust for these meals arose.
I could no longer eat them without wanting to *****.
When I was no older that four years old, my parents tried to feed me a few days or a week old alphageti. That was the first time I ever gaged on a meal.
But those moments came more often than I would like as I grew.
I filled up on chocolates and candy, slices of pepperoni so I wouldn't have to eat the **** I din't like.
This distaste of my Grandy's food turned into a fear of food itself.
I couldn't be experimental, I hated having to eat.
I wished I could just take a pill and defeat the hunger that haunted me.
For years I became anorexic. And not because I wanted too, but because for all that time food was my enemy.
When I was in daycare, I hated sweets of any kind and had never had a sip of soda. But once night when my parents were late to pick me up.
All Dee had was marshmellows and seven up.
I hated the sweet treats that would burn my teeth and the soda that would burn my tongue.
But I was young and no one cared.
I didn't allow myself to eat for several years until I ended up falling in love with a girl who cares.
But some nights when I am drunk and to lazy too cook,
I find myself in the kitchen eating an uncooked hot dog,
and I remember where it all came from.
I still hate sweets and soda to this day.
But at least now,
I eat.
I've recovered. But boy was it a time. I've never put this into words before.
