I remember the exact moment my relationship with food was f-ed up.
I was 12 and one of my favourite relatives was due at our house for dinner that night. I was so excited to see her that I ran up to her as soon as she arrived, not even waiting until she has made it all the way up our driveway, before I gave her a big hug and a kiss.
She stepped away from me with a furrowed brow, looked me up and down and with a look of repulsion on her face said, “You’ve put on weight. You all have.”
At least in my 12-year-old brain she looked repulsed, or disgusted, or even just disappointed. She was always so happy to see me, so affectionate and complimentary.
I was devastated.
The saddest part about the whole thing was that I didn’t even question her reaction. I believed her. I had put on weight and as a result, I was disgusting.
Weight = being disgusting.
I’ve had a fractured relationship with food ever since.