A while ago on this blog post, I mentioned a comedy sketch done by Rosanne Barr I recalled from years ago.  I am now viewing what she said through a new lens.  Many 80’s moms were influenced (in part) by the diet culture in the greater North American society around them.  And they were influenced by their own mothers.  The result was many of them passed onto their daughters (and sons too) dysfunctional scripts around food. Yes, I have identified I have some messed up thoughts around food, which started with my mom giving me different foods (low calorie alternatives) than what she gave to my brother.  But I am done blaming her for the messages I created around that, that I was somehow less than, not good enough, or not worthy, or that I had to change myself (get thinner) to be worthy of love and approval.  

That was the story I just told myself.

But that is not the real story.

The real story is different, especially when I step back and look at with the benefit of different points of view.  The stories I assumed about others were far different than I thought.  Having some deep conversations with women this past weekend has taught me a lot.

Back to Roseanne Barr (I am paraphrasing from memory): “When you’re sad, fat moms are so much better than skinny moms—because do you want to know my advice?  Here, eat this whole cake, and when you wake up from your sugar coma, it will be a whole new week.”

I met a gal over this past weekend who went on binges with her mother just like Rosanne was suggesting.  Her mom specifically took her through drive-thrus or the store to buy her a bunch of treats.  But then her mother would turn around and pay for her to go to Weight Watchers, saying “Your dad says you’re getting fat.”  Upon hearing her story, I was heart broken on her behalf.  Her mother contributed to both sides of the equation.  First, by providing and encouraging her to eat excess foods.  And then second, by communicating to her she was not good enough just the way she was, basically confirming her dad’s opinion that she was “fat,” by then paying for her to go to Weight Watchers.

I have decided right now to stop complaining about my mother, and what she did (or did not do) for me in terms of my food consumption.

And it’s about time.

It’s not like I ever thought I had it so terrible, or worse than anyone else.  This blog is my story, my point of view, and I really only ever compared myself to myself.  So for me, I wish for my younger self that I had felt that I was on equal footing with my brother, as to whether or not I was lovable in my current form.  I wish my younger self had not thought that the different foods or different presents (chocolate for him, non-edible stuffed bunny toy for me) meant I had to change something about my body to be worthy of love.  Because that is just the story I told myself at the time.  

And now it’s finally time to change the story.

And because I usually go inward, comparing myself to myself, only knowing my own experience with my own mother, I had not thought about the other possible stories around food that other girls experienced with their mothers.  And I had not thought about their fathers either.  I knew they had a story, but it was easy to assume their story was similar to my story.  Thanks to some shared vulnerability over the weekend in a large group of women, I know that all our stories are wildly different, even if the very same struggle was the same.  We all grew up thinking we had to be constantly aware of our diet.

My dad never, to my knowledge, ever said anything about my weight.   My experience was he was a neutral party, completing unaware of whether or not I was eating anything different than my brother.  I don’t think he was monitoring my plate and what I ate at all.  And I until I heard this gal’s heartbreaking story this weekend, I had not imagined walking a mile in someone else’s shoes where the message coming from both her parents, (and a mixed messages at that with her mother providing and encouraging overconsumption), was that she needed to change her weight to be worthy and/or lovable.  Brutal.

I truly believe my mom only gave me diet foods and different gifts because of a simple truth: excess calories that we don’t otherwise burn off through our daily activity, will put excess weight on our bodies.  I believe my mom was body shamed when she was young.  First, she was body shamed for being too skinny, which in her experience in the 1950’s implied something shameful and negative, namely poverty.  Second, she was body shamed for an unplanned pregnancy, and told to not come back (from her exile) having gained any weight whatsoever, “You better not come back ever looking like you may have had a baby, because we are going to keep that a secret for the rest of your life!”  And then third, after marriage and two planned pregnancies, diet culture shamed her for not losing all the baby weight, and/or for “letting herself go” and becoming a frumpy housewife.  Thus, she joined her first Weight Watchers meeting, and started a cycle of yo-yo dieting, eventually achieving a lifetime membership, but never achieving peace around food or her body.

I believe when my mom tried to limit my calories, she was simply trying to spare me her own heart aches around her own body that she herself experienced.  She had no idea how I was internalizing the message.  And I don’t think she realized (nor did I) that I was in part being driven by undiagnosed Celiac disease, which drove a certain amount of the desire to overeat because of nutrient malabsorption.  I was overfed and undernourished, (and years later I have the resulting poor bone density to prove it).  All she could see was my desire to overfeed, which led her to try some gentle restricting.  She was never cruel, and instead provided all the low calorie substitutes I could want.  But I snuck the foods that I was not otherwise “allowed” to eat, and got pretty messed up in my thinking around food.  I was not naturally slender (like my brother), so with the extra foods I snuck, I gained weight.  And yes, my mom paid for me to go to Weight Watchers when I was 15 years old.  She was trying to help me learn how to shed the little bit of excess weight I could never seem to shake.

I have had a good amount of messed up thinking about food that I have written about on this blog.  But I have to face the truth.  At this stage of my life, none of my overeating to soothe emotions is my mom’s fault, or society’s fault, or even my fault, for that matter.  

Because it’s not about fault.  

It’s about choice.  

I have simply chosen to eat foods, at times, for the wrong reasons, and it has led to weight gain, and subsequent dieting to loss excess weight, a constant yo-yo that has to stop.  And I may still occasionally choose the wrong foods moving forward.  I am not perfect, or perfectly intentioned, with every single morsel I put in my mouth.  But I have decided right now to stop complaining about my mother, and what she did (or did not do) for me in terms of my food consumption.

And it’s about time.

Another gal, a childhood friend I’ve known my whole life, who was naturally slender and so was her mom, shared her experience also.  I never knew her mom projected onto her a whole bunch of different messed up thoughts around foods.  Sure, she never outwardly had a “weight problem,” but that was because she was constantly monitored and denied her own share of treats.  She was expected to be the “perfect” daughter, and perfect daughters never gain weight in the first place.  She said she was the only girl in her dorm at university who was sent there with a bathroom scale, so that she could closely monitor herself to ensure she did NOT gain the “Freshman 15.”  She said word got around she had a scale, and random girls (no doubt with their own forms of disordered eating) would come and knock on her door and ask if they could come in and weigh themselves.

When I heard that, my heart broke for her too.  Broke for anybody who ever thought they were not good enough the way they were, or that they were only good enough just as long as they never changed.  An impossible standard on both fronts.

I have decided right now to stop complaining about my mother, and what she did (or did not do) for me in terms of my food consumption.

And it’s about time.