*warning this may trigger those with eating disorders*

When I was very young feeding me was a horror. I rarely ate anything other than PB sandwiches, hotdogs, and sunnyside-up eggs (but just the yolk on my toast). Every meal was an opportunity to terrorize me. Vegetables were the stuff of nightmares. Just thinking about putting a veggie on my tongue made me want to hurl.

I have no memories of eating prior to the divorce, aside from my dad telling me that my spaghetti was monkey brains. It’s a fun memory though. Dad made things fun that other grownup were just mean about.

Eating became the center of my universe when I moved in with gramma. She always had something cooking, some new desert to try, or a batter beater to lick. She was so happy to feed me, and I loved making my gramma happy. Her macaroni and cheese couldn’t be beat. Throw some buttery mashed potatoes on there with a couple of cans of pepsi and we had ourselves a party.

Whenever I had something to celebrate gramma would take me out for a McDonald’s milkshake, or Arby’s roast beef, or pizza hut, or burger king. And I loved it. Where was my mom? I don’t know. That’s a good question.

I didn’t know I was getting heavy until mom started making comments. She made me come upstairs to give me a “present”. I was all excited until I saw it: a desk ornament of a fat pig holding a sign that said: Don’t Pig Out. She explained that looking at this every day would help me develop better eating habits. I wanted to cry so bad, but she never gives me anything and if I were to get upset she might leave me forever. So I forced myself to smile and thank her.

End part 1