Eat Up, Dear

I’ve been thinking about my last entry ever since I wrote it. It seems I have forgotten so many things that my chart is invalid, then I wanted to edit it, then I wanted to rewrite it, then I thought I’d just make it a mess. So all in all, I left it like it was with all that is misssing.

Talking about my weekend…oh boy. Every now and then John makes me step onto the scales, just to make sure I have not lost any weight. When I feel stressed, I tend to skip meals or eat only little, because I do not feel hungry at all. That’s even more true in context with PTSD- and abuse-related feelings of stress, anger and self-hatred, but of course we already experience more stress at work with Christmas ahead. So, when I stepped onto the scales, I already knew what they’d say. I’m not stupid, I know how certain trousers should fit and how they actually fit. It turned out, I lost a little more than three kilos. For a normal person, that does not make much difference, but for me many phases of forbidding myself to eat started that way, so that John intervenes immediately.

I always tend to see myself as fat. Too fat, no matter what the scales say or how my clothes fit. I guess that’s the fat guy in me. I haven’t been given regular meals during my childhood, but that grew even worse during puberty as my father did not allow me to eat when I was hungry, telling me I’m not worth the food and I’m ugly and fat (he articulated it in some other way). To be honest, apart from what I know I can eat concerning my health problems, I don’t really know what I like to eat. There are foods that go down easier and other that take a bit more chewing and deciding to eat them, but all in all I always thought I was easy to satisfy. Until I found out that not knowing what I like is a problem, at least for those who like or love me. I regard food as fuel for my body, but I don’t necessarily enjoy refilling my car, and that’s the same with my body. Sometimes it gets late afternoon or evening until I get my first meal. I don’t know what exactly distracts me from eating. On the one hand, I tend to think of myself as a fat pig (hear my father in that) who does not really need something to eat because it easily should be able to survive on his body fat for a while. On the other hand, being asked why I did not eat all day, I’d reply “I was thinking about eating, but did not manage to”. Well, that’s crazy, but nonetheless it’s true.

I have never lived on my own. When I escaped from my father, I lived together with a guy on the street, afterwards I lived with my brother and his fiancé (now wife), in the mental hospital, in an assited living unit and with two friends of mine, before I moved to live with John. There have always been people to look after me and take care for me to have regular meals. I believe living with John helped me a lot, because he is used to four meals a day since childhood and insists to have them no matter what. And meanwhile, I really like to cook for him, but I would not need to eat from every single meal I cook.

That said, I guess it’s no wonder that my husband looks after my eating habits and my weight. Most times he just tells me he realizes I have lost weight and should take care for that, but sometimes he feels he needs and wants to take care of that by himself. There are some different approaches to do so. Often he just encourages me to buy something I would like to eat when we’re doing the shopping or decides it would be good for me to have some crisps or chocolate or whatever. Sometimes he invites me to lunch or brings cake with him when he returns home from work. and sometimes he just feeds me. And my weekend was about feeding.

Feeding makes me feel strange. I feel very closely examined and put under control, and I guess I like that. But I really hate to feel full. The first two or three times John fed me, we both did not know my limits so that I ended up sick and vomiting. That did not make sense, so he adjusted the way he feeds me stuff. First of all, he makes me eat food with more calories such as more fat and more sugar just like in nuts, sweets, sodas and so on. Second, he feeds me several times a day, for example every two to three hours. And third, he increases the amount of food I have to eat in a setting. Well, I don’t really feel sick that way, but always full and definitely not hungry at all! After two or three of these meals my belly begins to grow and I feel stuffed. That’s when he tells me if I had eaten on a regular base, he would not need to take care of me. Right.

Feeding is not only connected with the fat guy, but also with the young boy. He likes to be fed, especially warm and soft food like porridge or babyfood and well, he likes to get some tea from his bottle, too.

Of course I can’t pile on what I have lost on a weekend, but I have gotten a plan for my meals this week and as I write this, I’m still chewing on some dried apricots and walnuts. And apart from really trying to look good for my sweetheart, I like to be under control. I have asked John what he feels about having to make plan for me (not only concerning the meals…) and he always says he likes it. He just likes to have me under his control, to tell me what to do and well, take what he needs as well. I think that’s awesome.



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